Summerhall had been built around a fortified castle which had been extensively used by King Daeron in his youth. New wings had spread out from the core, converting the Marcher castle into a palatial residence – which together with the surrounding estates had been the king’s wedding gift at Maekar’s marriage to Lady Dyanna Dayne. Indeed, nestled in the luscious hills north of the Red Mountains, the vine-covered slopes make for an idyllic refuge. From its cypress lined paths and fecund fields went out a declaration. Wishing to celebrate the end of Summer and the end Daeron’s infancy (Maekar and Dyanna’s son), a grand tourney was to be held. A troupe of royalty and half-royalty were to attend, marking Summerhall’s Tourney as the event of the season. Not in the least because with so many opposing factions present there was bound to be drama.

The rules were simple: any knight may enter, provided they adhere to custom that if defeated his mount and suit of armour must be ransomed back from the victor. Fights may continue until either party yielded or was incapacitated. Altercations off the tourney fields were strictly forbidden and would result in heavy fines and disqualification. This was Ser Alyn Horpe’s duty, serving as Maekar’s castellan. The man’s temper had frayed due to the amount of contestants flooding Summerhall’s fields.

The ringing of hammers had been heard for weeks, as carpenters nailed together jousting barriers, raised lofty viewing stands, and erected fences, shacks and stables. Spectator boxes divided the tourney grounds into sections, rank and capital determining which competition one would witness. After the call had gone out, lords great and small had descended upon Summerhall. They brought with them a cavalcade of courtiers, servants, and footloose tagalongs. Errant knights, musicians, merchants, charlatans, artists, and artisans all came to ply their trade and sell their wares, as did whores and thieves and cutpurses. Like flies to dung they were drawn to the assembly of tourney participants and audience.

Prince Maekar’s days were filled patrolling the hubbub and imposing order, leading knights and guards to and fro to dispense rough justice. The first man caught stealing had lost his hand, and been made to travel the tourney grounds with it dangling from his neck. He was soon followed by another, and then another. A man who had raped a serving girl had found himself in a similar situation, though the lifeless appendage had been his scrotum instead. When a mouthy murderer was brought in front of the Prince, the man in utter disregard of death had japed about what limb or piece would be removed for that. Maekar removed his tongue for the insolence and placed a noose around his neck. Prior to hanging the man, he dragged him behind his horse when he next did his rounds, until they reached the roadside gallows. Henceforth, incidents occurred few and far between.

In the meantime, over fourscore pavilions had sprouted from the green fields around Summerhall, like so many colourful blooms. Some were small, others large, and a very few were huge; cathedrals of cloth and canvas. Banners streamed over them in colours even brighter. In other times, the grounds served as a common grazing area but with the arrival of the Realm’s high and low society it had been transformed into bustling city of coloured canvas. Hundreds of merchants and peddlers had set up shop beside the road and the edge of the fields reserved for the highborn, selling furs and fruits, felts and belts, leatherware and pewterware and ironware and earthenware. Wares of every kind and origin. The smell of spices, food and drink tried its hardest to blunt the odorous fumes a mass of humanity produced. The Redwyne delegation with their famed vintages were particularly popular and seemed sure to make a killing.

No less than three lists for the hastilude there were. Two lesser ones for the knights and squires lacking reputation or reference, and the main range reserved for those who had proven themselves through blood or feat. There was also to be a major mêlée at the end, after the days of jousting were concluded. It remained to be seen which knights would enter after the toll of the lists and evening celebrations. In the morning, before the afternoon tilts, marksmen might try their arrows’ luck in the archery contest. The latter had been a hard requirement by Lady Dyanna, a consummate markswoman herself. Given that was how their relationship had first started (by her beating Maekar’s aim), not having it had not been an option. Indeed, the winner of the contest stood to win as much as the ten last standing in the mêlée. One of those rare grins flickered on Prince Maekar’s rugged face as he thought back fondly on how his lady wife had reacted to his suggestion she be the queen of love and beauty. Dyanna, three and twenty, had said with her customary sardonicism she was “an old woman and mother of two. Surely there are young pretty things needing such a title and acclaim.” Remembering, he almost dared chuckle at what might have happened had he commented thus. No, she had declared herself queen of bow and arrow instead.

The sun beat down, tempered just barely by a cool breeze. It was blessedly quiet, a few moments of peace before the entire realm would descend on Summerhall; not unlike locusts to a field of wheat. A tourney was a fine thing, yet it would bring with it the crushing reality of the chaotic world outside their walls. She’d need to see fit to act as was only expected of a Targaryen’s wife. There would be no escaping having to sit with the other ladies of the realm, listen to their woes, sidestep the favors that would be sought. At least she would keep the tradition of competing in the archery contest. There had been no denying her, and Maekar’s support had been enough to quickly dissuade their advisers from pushing otherwise.

Dyanna tried to not take for granted the years of happiness she had been given at Summerhall. They had built this place to be their own. They had crafted pieces of Dorne throughout the Stormlands castle. Pools and heady gardens, even a vineyard grown from cuttings from House Dayne. It was not producing yet, but seemed primed to within a few more years. And now they would open it to the realm. Yet something seemed different, a vague and amorphous dark cloud that hung over their preparations. In the weeks leading up to their tourney, news had filtered in through missives and hushed tones. There was an unease, discontent even. Her own family had sent notice that only her father, Eldon, and Arron would be in attendance. Her eldest brother and heir to the Starfall would stay home, undoubtedly sulking.

And so the Lady of Summerhall escaped from the palace’s halls and fled to fields to center herself. Without thinking, she guided herself to her secret sanctuary on the outskirts where open fields would give way to ancient groves. There was a giant tree with a large hollow, large enough for even a grown man to stand in. Dyanna crawled in, spreading her skirts beneath her and leaned back, her roughly plaited hair further mussed by the roughness of the tree. She just needed some time to think, and closed her lavender eyes in contemplation. She had wanted nothing more than to seek out her husband, yet with so much left to accomplish, she knew that his mind would be elsewhere. Better to be alone with her thoughts than to be just another item requiring his attention. Sharing, at least as far as Maekar was concerned, was not her strong suit, she thought with a smirk.

Besides, she did not know for certain that she had news to share with him. She would not know, did not want to know, until the tourney had ended. Sweet precocious Daeron, and bright little Aerion, sweet summer children both; lost in thought of her children, her hands wandered over her torso, resting atop her stomach, seeking the signs she had felt the other day. Dyanna’s mind wandered, and in the utter quiet, she drifted off to wild dreams.

“By the Seven, Dyanna, wake up!”

A gruff voice stirred her, she slowly blinked open to afternoon sun cast around the figure that now blocked the entrance to her cove. She knew that voice all too well. “Ser Ryon?” She was just half-awake, startled that she had ever been asleep. “Something wrong?” Her senses returned to her, Dyanna rose and dramatically stretched with a long yawn. She returned her poor cousin’s worried gaze with innocent, inquisitive eyes.

“My lady…you…” Ser Ryon sighed, shaking his head he turned sideways to allow her to pass him back into the field. “How many times have I asked that you not wander off alone like this?” He put up a hand as if to stop an argument before it could form on Dyanna’s pressed lips. “Your dagger does not count as a companion, not that it does you much good when you slumber so heavily.” He passed a rough hand over his face, as if to scrub away the fear that had enveloped him. “Perhaps you should aim to actually get rest at night - instead of whatever it is that keeps you up?” His chastising tone cracked, just for a moment.

Dyanna stood with her hands pressed to her hips, a look of feigned shock plastered on. “Ser Ryon, I think you forget yourself!” She hung her head as a throaty chuckle bubbled over. “But as is often the case, you are not wrong - at least about my sleeping habits. Do the servants still whisper or has it at last become old gossip?” She slid her arm through her knight’s gesturing forward with her free hand. The last bit of sleep dispelled, and with it gone, the worry and anxiety that she had fled began to creep back in. Still, Ryon provided a welcome distraction and she would prod for the gossip that her ladies refused to share with her anymore.

“They always seem to have some new tidbit, my lady, but it is good for their morale I think, to have something so scintillating to discuss. I’m afraid, though, that it leaves them with conflicting views on their Prince.” Ser Ryon patted her hand, leading them both back to his horse and hers - Moonlight. “Come, we must get back to the castle, your presence is needed.”

Dyanna laughed again, eyes crinkling in delight. “Oh, Seven knows that it bothers my Prince, but I think that is just an act to maintain his reputation.” She patted the silver beast beneath her, earning her a soft neigh. Moonlight had been another gift from her husband, bred from a line of royal Dornish sandsteeds and the Targaryen’s own equine stock. She was not so fast as the horses Dyanna had always favored, but she was a hardy - and stubborn - beast. A kindred soul in some ways.

She glanced at her cousin atop his horse as they made a slow walk towards the castle path. Ser Ryon had played many roles in her life, a father in her youth, but now that she was wed and a mother he had become her protector, a confidant - even a friend. Truthfully, she did not know what she would do without him. She missed him dearly whenever he was forced to return to Starfall. And it seemed so did her husband, the two had formed a rather unexpected friendship as far as Dyanna was concerned. Ryon had been protective at first, but perhaps that is what allowed the men to bond. Summerhall had also offered new conquests for her cousin. Though he was a soft spoken man, reclusive at times, he did love freely.

“And how about you, it’s been some time since your last lover departed. He wed, did he not? If you’ve recovered from this heartache, perhaps this celebration will bring you fresh love…or maybe you have grown too old for such trifles?” She goaded him but gave him no opportunity to respond as she urged her horse to a cantor and then a gallup - an unfair start to an unannounced race back to Summerhall. For a short time longer, she was free of duty, and free to have the wind whip at her face with joyful abandon.

---

“Arron of Wyl,” came a jubilantly hoarse voice. The greeting was accompanied by a firm clap on the shoulder which all but took Arron’s eyes from the sea and turned him about to face Nycarro Qosaerys, famed Braavosi sellsword, Captain-General of the Brave Companions, and Arron’s commanding officer.

“It seems you have once again found your way to the prow of my ship,” Qosaerys observed, sweeping at Arron’s shoulders and straightening his shirt, as though in an effort to make him presentable for some event. “Or is it the bow?” Qosaerys asked and, seemingly satisfied with the state of Arron’s dress, set his hands to his hips, where they hung with thumbs hooked in the loop of a loose fitting belt.

“I understand the words to have the same meaning, Captain-General,” Arron answered. He stood a head taller than Qosaerys, and stood straight, like his father taught him, but somehow Arron felt smaller in the mercenary captain’s presence. The worn and weathered leather of Qosaerys’s boots and tricorn hat, the tarnished gold of the rings upon his fingers and the chain about his neck, the hard lines on his face, all these and more besides should have provided the image of a man much diminished over the years, but between an unfailingly confident smile and a swaggering gait, Captain-General Qosaerys loomed large in Arron’s view, even as Arron looked down on him now.

“Capital,” Qosaerys returned with a wave, still looming large. “Prow or bow then, whichever you prefer, I find you here once again. Have you spotted land, Arron of Wyl? Finally set sights on home? Do you now see your mother and sisters at a distance, waving from the docks of this town? How did you name it again? Willy Port, was it?”

“That would be the Port of Wyl, Captain, and no, land remains out of sight.”

“Yes, as expected, no?” Qosaerys asked with a laugh. “I believe we were all in accord that it would be some days still until we came into view of the Port of Wyl.” The mercenary pulled a flask from his belt and uncorked it, taking a lazy swallow as he turned his gaze to the horizon where, as Arron had admitted, there was nothing but sea to be seen. “Damnably empty is the ocean, eh?”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Just Captain-General is fine, thank you, Arron of Wyl.” Qosaerys plugged up the flask and returned it to its holster. It was a potent spirit, Arron knew, but the mercenary didn’t show a hint of a grimace as the liquor went down. “Now, Racallio has taken a shit on the deck and in this sun, I tell you, I am not pleased with the creature. The oarsmen are distracted and I fear their strength flags in the face of the goat’s most pungent odor. But I find you here in neglect of your duties, do I not?”

“Aye, Captain-General. I will fetch a mop.”

“Seven Hells,” Qosaerys said, stopping Arron as he made to set off with a hand pressed to the Dornishman’s chest. “There really is no jesting with you eh, Arron? My friend, you are one of my Brave Companions. Cleaning shit off the deck of this ship is below your station.” Qosaerys paused, considering a thought for a moment before continuing. “And if you were planning to use a mop, I say you are likely not the man for the task. You are apt to make it worse, if anything. In my experience, you really need to hold a stiff upper lip and put your hands to work.”

Gods but Arron did not understand this man. “Understood, ser. How may I be of service?”

“You could start by taking a drink, and then following close,” Qosaerys said, offering Arron the flask from his belt as he turned and started back down the deck of the galley. “Gods but I do not understand you, Arron of Wyl. A sober man. Who would choose to live as such, eh?”

“I drink when it pleases me, Captain-General.” Arron, following Qosaerys in step, took the flask, mayhaps reluctantly, and then a swig. It was a spiced rum of some kind, and it burned going down. Arron did his best to keep his face from twisting up at the taste, but he did not think he did well at that.

“That certainly looked like it pleased you,” Qosaerys said with a knowing grin, confirming Arron’s suspicions.

“It did, ser." Arron choked his response out more than he liked and handed the flask back.

“Capital, it pleased me as well.” Qosaerys took another pull from the bottle. “To my quarters then.”

Captain-General Nycarro Qosaerys’s quarters were not much to speak of. The ship, which Qosaerys had named Fair Bitch, was a galley just large enough to cross the shallow waters of the narrow sea. Her half hundred oarsmen made her swift, and her half hundred sellswords made her dangerous. Together, they also made her cramped, and the tight living conditions were reflected here, where there was but a rough driftwood table set up against the cabin’s starboard wall for dining, strategizing and relaxing alike, together with a trio of matching chairs, and a narrow cot set into the cabin’s portside wall.

And there was the goat, Racallio himself, laying next to the cot in what seemed a relaxing pose, a lazy eye half open. The animal was not quite black, but it was a near enough thing to make no difference, and at least a few of the oarsmen had strong notions on this. Arron did not understand well the tongue of Qohor and so did not know the particulars of their complaints, but it seemed a straightforward item – a black goat is a black omen, said the Qohoriks aboard the Fair Bitch, and they would not linger in the animal’s presence long if they could help it. They refused meet its eye, even.

The black goat flipped an ear as it tracked Arron’s steps with that lazy eye. Arron was not a superstitious man, and it seemed harmless enough. No harm had befallen ship or crew on the Fair Bitch’s journey as could be attributed to the beast. That is, aside from the runny shits it tended to leave on the Bitch’s deck. And Qosaerys had asked his Qohorik oars, what would they have him do with the animal? Cut its throat and toss the carcass to the sea? At that, their eyes had gone wide. To take such action would be to only further court disaster, they answered.

A pack of bloody fools, in Arron’s view, what did he know?

Qosaerys, paying Racallio the Goat no mind, eased into one of the chairs. As the mercenary captain flattened a scroll he had left on the table, Arron followed and sat across from him. He examined the paper as Qosaerys pored over it. It was a map of Westeros, or part of it, as far as Arron could tell at this angle.

“So, this is Dorne,” Qosaerys said, indicating broadly at a page which covered far more than Dorne, “and this is Wyl, eh?” Again, he pointed vaguely at the continent’s southern expanse.

“That appears right, ser.” Arron was not one for geography, but he figured it was best to agree, and the Captain-General seemed to have the right of it in a broad sense.

“And you have friends there? Lordly friends, mayhaps? Or wealthy at least?”

“A few.” It was true enough. Arron of Wyl had not set foot in Wyl itself all his life, but he had a landed cousin with whom he was close, and he had fair few relations settled in the Port of Wyl who he thought might open their doors to him should he ask. “Petty lords all, of course, none with more than a speck of a fief to name, but I do know them.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Qosaerys said. “You see, Arron of Wyl, I have been giving our journey some thought, and I daresay arriving with a company of Myrish sellswords may not give the impression we are hoping to convey.”

Qosaerys had spent precious few words on informing his crew of the plan, and nearly none on Arron specifically. They had sailed from Pentos shortly after he made his mark on the slip of paper Black Drazenka had placed in front him. A letter of engagement, she’d called it. Once he’d made the mark, she told him he’d signed and that his sword was now sworn to the company. In exchange for gold, of course, and she had given him a coin purse heavy with Westerosi, Lyseni and Pentoshi coinage right then and there.

He had gone through it quick enough with a few of the other lads who had signed on at the same time. Drink and women. He was happy to have half of it left when they set off on the sea. Had he indulged in the whores he imagined he’d have even less, but Arron wasn’t one for whores. It was far better to receive a gift freely given than to pay for the pleasure, he thought. It saved him the trouble of the cock-rot too, at that, which he understood certain of his fellow brave companions had been unfortunate enough to encounter as a result of their bawdy efforts.

“What I am looking for,” Qosaerys continued, drawing Arron’s thoughts back from sex and cock-rot, “is a stout line of Dornish spears. I had a few, you know, with the Maiden’s Men. Near a hundred of them. I can’t tell you the kind of confidence a line of Dornish spears gives an employer, and I believe we are well-positioned to take on a crew of them while we have the chance.”

“Of course, Dornish spearmen are the best in the world,” Arron said, straightening in his seat and returning to the conversation, even with a bit of pride creeping into his voice as he spoke of home.

“Eh,” Qosaerys said with a wave, “spearmen are much the same wherever you go, but Dornish spearmen do have the reputation, it must be said. Can you help me? I don’t want this batch of recruits to be some rabble we scrape off the streets – the way we found you, if you recall. Though I do not mean to cast aspersions on the quality of your character and service, as I rather like you, Arron of Wyl.”

“Thank you, ser, I would be happy to help. But I’ve never recruited for a sellsword company before. I haven’t even been part of one for more than a few fortnites.”

“Of course, of course,” Qosaerys demurred, “but think of how I must have judged your character to conclude you are the man to succeed at a task for which your experiences have ill-equipped you. Surely you see that to be a resounding endorsement of your talent, eh?”

Arron did not feel talented. Hells, he oft only followed Qosaerys’s twisting, honeyed words half-way through a sentence before getting lost in them. “I would be happy to make introductions,” he ventured, “and to speak on your behalf to my relations, but what would I tell them?”

“Fret not, my lad, your Captain-General would not send his soldiers into battle unarmed,” said the Captain-General who had indeed sent soldiers into battle unarmed on more than one occasion, Arron had heard. “I have the letter of engagement by which I hired those hundred spears from the House of Martell,” he continued, producing a rolled parchment from inside his jacket. “I will draft a new copy, with some light changes to the terms and conditions of the engagement, with the intention of hiring some number of the spears your dear relations may raise by virtue of their landed status.”

“And I will take that to my cousins?”

“Just so,” Qosaerys confirmed. “You may have noticed we have scant room for more sellswords on the Bitch, but Drazenka follows close behind with room to spare on her ship. I dare say we can take on a half hundred spears.”

“I am sure we can raise that many and more,” Arron said, thinking.

“Can we truly?”

Arron nodded. “My people – the Wyls of the Boneway – they are reavers and raiders all. My ancestors have a long and bloody history with the Stormlanders. As of late, though, we are at peace. These past fifteen years Dorne has been under the yoke of the Iron Throne. Many of my cousins chafe at that. House Wyl has always its spears to hand, but now with no one to fight,” he shrugged, “I daresay more than a few would be happy to put their arms to good use in your employ. Spears and Dornish knights alike, mayhaps. It may be we find more recruits to answer the call than you expect.”

“Ah, peace, the bane of men of action,” Qosaerys observed with that vulture’s grin, “and I daresay a woman or two of action among them as well. Never know what to do when peace breaks out, eh? Well, I am happy to be the beneficiary of the Iron Throne’s good politics.”

Qosaerys leaned back in his chair, scratching at his scabby neck and evaluating the results under his fingernail. “I say,” he continued, “if you bring me a host of Dornish knights and spears, I would have half a mind to put you at their head. A captain of my Companions.”

Arron blinked. “Captain-General, I have never led men before as such, and as I said I have only been with your company but for a short while.”

“You protest too much, Arron of Wyl,” Qosaerys said, vulture grin flashing again. “I congratulate you on your meteoric ascent, and fear not, leading men is not so hard. Do as I do between the fighting, and during the fighting, well, you’ll find there’s not much any one man can do then. Things tend to run their course once the battle lines come together.”

“Right, then,” Arron said, unsure how to proceed with this conversation. Qosaerys slid the flask across the table to him. He took it. “To your good health?”

“And then on to Summerhall,” Qosaerys confirmed, “where we might make ourselves useful to the noble lords of Westeros.”

Arron nodded and took a long pull at the spiced rum. As he did so, his eye flicked to the side. The black goat Racallio was looking at him now, and their eyes locked. The Captain-General’s animal companion gave a soft bleat, as if to acknowledge him.

Arron Sand, Captain of the Brave Companions, flying a black goat banner on the far flung battlefields of the Disputed Lands, Arron thought. What would his mother think of that?

Collab with @Vanq
Art by Byzwa Dher



It had been a long journey to Summerhall. Shiera had been at odds with Brynden - yet another proposal, another denial, another bout of sulking flashed with jealousy. She stoked the jealousy and had sought comfort in the arms of a pretty bard with soft brown eyes and silky bronze hair. For days he sang to her sweetly of her beauty and inspiration. And then he left; she was alone again. Brynden had welcomed her back, he always welcomed her back.

His love could be suffocating at times, even if she considered letting it consume her. Perhaps then she would know peace. She could marry him, bear his children, perhaps they would flee to Lys and start anew. Yet every time she considered it, something stopped her. There had to be more. There had to be. She could not be his everything for surely he was not hers.

He welcomed her back but not unconditionally. Shiera could not stomach it so soon and she lashed out. Perhaps it is Aegor I should have gone to. Finding comfort in the arms of another man wounded Brynden, but invoking his half-brother’s name would incite a flaming jealousy. This time, it seemed it had been too much even for her sweet Bloodraven. He turned her away. She was not welcome in his bed, nor his home. That had not happened before, and Shiera had no plans on where to actually go.

So she made good on her threat and traveled to Stone Hedge. As the Seven - or the old gods - seemed fit to punish her, Aegor had taken leave to travel to the Vale. Yet Barba Bracken had welcomed her regardless. The two women spent some weeks in confidence. Aegor’s mother was sure of his return and of his intention to travel to the Summerhall Tourney. Barba had encouraged Shiera to stay as long as she wanted - to stay until her son returned. Perhaps, though Aegor held not the ephemeral beauty as Bloodraven, perhaps Shiera could see his strengths at last.

Broken and rudderless, Shiera waited.

Aegor had little love for Stone Hedge, even if he had spent more of his life there than any other seat in the Seven Kingdoms. His childhood in the Riverlands had been next to exile, and the place itself was a reminder of that failure. A failure he had known all his life, yet made before he was even aware of his own name. Still, on this occasion, there was a certain elation to the homecoming. It was not the untamed land of the craggy rocks he had spent the previous moon within and the men, a score fewer than had set out, returned with purpose. Autumn was well and truly set in, the dreams of Summer long behind, and so the Crown wished to bring the realm together before Winter would make such things a scarcity. It was a perfect opportunity.

“The men will need a day or two to prepare, before we ride so quickly.” Raylon spoke as they rode abreast, the pair at the front of the small procession returning home to the lands of House Bracken. Both men had seen a great deal of fighting in their short stay in the Vale, and the ravages of travel left them in a somewhat worn state. They, along with the men, had paused to wash as best they could in one of the many fords of the Trident before the homestretch, but it was nothing that would quite scrub away until they were home.

“We can give them a week.” Aegor spoke in response, his eyes on the terrain rather than his uncle. He had always been watchful, but the Vale had him especially ready to read danger behind every rock and tree, even if he gave off no sense of unease. Bittersteel was the hunter, his enemies were simply unaware. “Let them value their success before we march them down to the Reach.” There was no warmth to the offer of kindness he gave, but simply an understanding, a martial brotherhood that Aegor managed well, for all his lack of care for the more fickle bonds of court.

“Can ‘we’ now? There I was, thinking these were my lands.” Raylon spoke in their usual sardonic jest, but the words came with a pat of Aegor’s shoulder, quickly withdrawn, but still a sign of familiarity Aegor did not share with many often closer in blood than his uncle. “But I agree, a week, then we ride, and see what the future has promised us.”

“Nothing is promised, it is what we take.” Any furtherance of the conversation was interrupted by the blast of horn which signaled them drawing closer to the Keep, louder than even a hunting horn, from one of the men further down the small train of mounted men-at-arms and their baggage carts. With a sense of sudden impatience, Aegor stirred his steed into a faster pace, drawing him ever closer to the walls of Stone Hedge, towering above its moat formed from the flowing water of the Red Fork. It was hardly a surge forwards, but it meant the Royal Bastard arrived several minutes before the remainder of the party, the great bridge of the gatehouse slamming down before him, to permit entry over and into the castle. As was proper, a gathering of servants awaited him already, a paige to accept his horse as he swung down from the saddle, a maid with a cup of wine which was claimed immediately and drunk, and a messenger.

“Your mother offers her wishes that the journey was not too trying, My Lord, and requests you meet her in the Solar when you are able.” The young man spoke even as Aegon handed the empty cup back to the maid wordlessly, his dark purple eyes studying the man with his usual intensity. He had a deal of height over the youth, which no doubt added to the scale of the man’s intimidation.

“I have just arrived from a month fighting in the Vale and half that again in the saddle, what is so pressing she calls me so quickly?” There was no outright venom to Aegor’s words, but nor was there any warmth. Every word was a test, an evaluation of the man with the grim promise of what could befall those who did not meet Bittersteel’s standards. It was a wonder the servant only had to pause once to gulp.

“I uh…My Lord, she was quite insistent that it was a matter of importance.”

With an impatient grunt, Aegor began removing the straps of his plated gauntlets even as the servant was speaking, thrusting the empty armour upon the man as soon as he had finished. “See that it is tended to.” Aegor simply strode passed the servants, awaiting the others of the party now arriving over the drawbridge. He continued to shrug off his armour as he moved, simply allowing the plain steel to fall to the ground, confident it would be reclaimed by someone with more time than him in short order.

The solar of Stone Hedge lacked much of the grandeur of several he had seen, notable those at court, but it was still a pleasant space for a house of good standing, situated close to both the kitchens and the library, yet allowing a private space for House Bracken and any guests they deemed to invite away from any feasting in the hall. Furnishings in the style of the Riverlands, interposed by spatterings of local tended plants, and lit well, as suited the name. Bittersteel strode in with enough prompt force that it scrambled several servants, moving out of the way of the swinging doorways, before they attempted to recover to announce him, dismissed already by a wave from the man. His first words were not for them, however. Aegor stood in the light cloth of his riding undershirt, the padded material clinging to his muscular but lean frame, the grit of the road intermingled with the cloth.

“What need is there for my attention to be demanded so soon after -” His words cut off, however, as his eyes settled on the woman in the room, not the one he was expecting, and one that he had not seen at Stone Hedge since their first meeting, when they were both children of an indolent king. “Shierra.” The name was practically a breath, the half-whisper at odds with his defiant nature, but it slipped from him all the same.

What a devious woman the Lady Bracken was. She had called Shiera to the solar over an hour ago and had not seen fit to join her. Still, the room held a small, yet interesting, collection of books. The Seastar had contented herself with browsing them haphazardly. Lost in thought over a passage, the voice startled her. Yet she knew it instantly. The rough rumble, she could see what he looked like before she even turned around, delicate hands softly replacing her book on the desk.

Two eyes, one sparkling green and one deep blue, took in his form. He had truly not been expecting her - sweaty and caked in dirt from the road. A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips, blissful innocence across her face when she exclaimed, “Aegor!” She was dressed in her standard fare, a dress simple in cut but of exquisite fabric and white as a summer cloud. Paying no heed to that, she glided across the floor to him, arms outstretched to embrace. “I have not seen you in too long - off hunting mountain bandits I hear?” Her voice was a purr, soft and enticing without effort. “Have you missed me?”

It was a foolish question to an answer she knew. The superstition around Aegor was that the man had never smiled. He could be courteous when he wished to be, but never gave off any warmth. The rumors weren't true, but the exceptions were rare, and the truest smile he had ever given was a fleeting one returned to a young girl as she waved in greeting from the Royal carriage arriving into Stone Hedge. But even that had come to be tainted by the hateful taste of failure.

He stepped forwards as if to meet her embrace, but his arms never moved and when his head descended as if to kiss her cheek in familiar greeting, he stopped short, his lips close to her ear as he spoke in clipped tones to her. "Why are you here?" He'd allowed the weakness of his feeling for her to break through upon seeing her, the light dancing through her hair and the smile across the lips he had longed to claim, but in the next moment he saw her for the threat she was. Matters with Daemon were so close to fruition, had Bryden heard a little whisper from one of his birds and sent his honey pot rushing to confirm such fears? Or did they both simply wish to harm him in what way they could? All concerns, but far more powerful than those fears, was the sting of the last time they had been alone together, when she had made herself another prize he could not claim. For all that though, for all his tension and venom, still his heart thunder at her proximity, and he could not bring himself to pull away.

“Ah.” She sighed in acknowledgement, his possessive nature was different. How she had forgotten that his way was to be distantly icy against Brynden’s suffocating heat. Shiera took one step back, her face cocked as she mused on her response. Tears threatened to well up in her eyes but she quickly blinked them away; they would not help her with this one. “I have missed you.” Her fingers wound through a tendril of her hair, silver-gold swirling through her hand; a nervous habit. “But also…I was cruel to you.” She leaned her weight to one leg, the silk and lace of her skirts were fluid at her slightest movement, swirling before they rested again against the line from her hip to the floor. “I had to see you, I could not let us stay parted on such terms. I am sorry for what happened - for what I did.”

Her eyes sparked with a genuine earnestness, her forehead creased. She had wrapped her arms around her during her apology, natural acts, but also ones to accentuate the things that men - that Aegor - would appreciate or want to hear. Aegor had never been her choice, and yet, he had always been there. When separated, as they often were, he lingered like a dream that would not dissipate in the light of day. Perhaps, she had never truly given him a chance. Barba’s courser advice echoed still as well. His mother had not been wrong, but Shiera’s desires were not so base as a kept life. Did she not already have that? “This tourney - in Summerhall with our princely nephew,” her words were ever so slightly a bite at the mention of Makear, “we could travel together.” Left unsaid, but perhaps clear in her tone, was a plea to not turn her out.

Aegor was not so green that he did not know of the games she played, despite the true emotion that seemed to flow from her. Knowledge did not make him immune, however, the cold violet of his own eyes tracing the fluidity of her movement, the shine of her hair and the softness of her form that called to him. He did not settle into simply gazing upon her though, his hands connecting behind his back as he took steady steps, circling her almost, not allowing his or her position to stagnate. If she controlled all the angles, she might as well control him.

“Am I to be watched? To be shepherded around our cousins’ realm for fear of me? Does Maekar fear that I might get lost on the way? Does Bloodraven wish to keep his crow’s eyes on me? Are you my gilded cage, Seastar?” His voice remained a low whisper, but there was a more calculated menace to it, a return to his usual confidence now that her presence wasn’t so surprising. She still disarmed him, not that anyone who did not know him could tell, not that the smell of her didn’t make his blood rush, or the sight brought back memories of precious moments where the bitterness had faded. For all her stunning beauty, that was what she was to him. An escape from the mundanity of the reality he inhabited. “They should fear not, I know these lands better than they, I ride them while they play in court, I do not require a guide.”

Shiera’s face crinkled in annoyance, she had sparked something but not what she had intended. Perhaps coming here had been a mistake. She had too easily forgotten the way that Aegor clung to slights. “He wouldn’t.” She quietly mustered in defense before realizing the error that was. She believed it - Brynden would surely never use her in that way, not without her agreement. But defending Bryden, instinctually, was not wise. Her eyes squeezed shut though she could imagine him seething around her. “And I am not here to spy nor cage you. I am also not here to beg, sweet Aegor.”

How they both managed to infuriate her so, yet leave her paralayzed at the thought of never seeing them again, was a constant source of anguish. She had spent weeks considering her course of action upon his return. Had considered leaving before he returned, but Barba had convinced her otherwise. “If this is how I am to be treated, I will take my leave.” Shiera made an attempt at returning the coldness in his tone, but it was not in her nature. She was hurt and it seeped into her voice. She made for the door, undecided on whether it was to seek the screaming silence of her chambers or to the uncertain refuge with Barba.

She had been right that tears alone would not move him, he had never found the sorrow of others to bring about anything but ambivalence. It was a weakness, and he despised it even in those scant few he cared for. It was instead how she tried to hid it, to mirror the steel of him that weakened his resolve. Perhaps a part of him still believed she was acting, but in truth, he simply wanted that to not be so. Then she turned from him, and his hand moved before he could even realise.

The coarse hold of his hand pulled around her wrist, calluses from three decades of swordplay and almost as many of campaigning met the pristine and unblemished texture of her, tightly enough that even without pulling she was dragged some of the way back to him. It was the first time they had touched since the sting of her refusal had lanced him. For a long moment he hadn’t words to say, he hadn’t intended to halt her. Let her run off, as she no doubt would in the end anyway.

“You’re the only one who would ever say that.” It was hardly poetry which finally slipped from his lips, an expression that was almost, but not quite, the ghost of a smile. Anyone else and he’d presumed it was said mockingly, but that had always been part of her magnetism to him. She saw some capacity for warmth the rest of the world was blind to. “I remember, when you first came here, you wouldn’t stop talking about the stories you’d read of Stone Hedge.” She’d been a child, and he almost a man grown by that point, but they’d been expected to spend some time together, no doubt while the whole procession pretended Aegon hadn’t used the suggestion of a visit to one of his sons to enjoy one of his previous conquests again. “You made it somewhere I wasn’t ashamed of, for once. But then you left, and it was all so grey again.” His words trailed off as his eyes held her’s again. “Perhaps I would like to see more of the world as you do.” He spoke, finally regaining a little more volume, in reference to her suggestion they travel together.

His strength had stopped her midstep, relief and fear flooded her in response. She turned as she was pulled off balance, to face him again. She waited, eyes darting along his face as if she could divine his mood before he could speak. Shiera remembered that year, the year her father had insisted she travel with them. She remembered begging not to go, she had wanted to be left alone to bother the maesters with her endless questions. Yet, her mood had shifted the closer they drew to the Bracken’s hold. She would see a place whose stories she had only read about it in books. It had been awakening in many ways. Aegor, her elder half-brother not yet a man and already he had seen so much of the world that she had been kept caged from.

“Seeing you like this now, I am reminded of that boy. The one who tolerated me endlessly.” Her lips lifted in a small, knowing smile. “The one who told me wild stories of adventure.” She had not resisted or pulled back against the hold he had on her, it would have been pointless, and the warmth of his hand on her had become comforting. With her free hand she again reached out to him, prepared for him to flinch, but brushed her fingers ever so lightly against his face. “The world is grey, my winged steed.” How often had Shiera been left despondent by everything around her? “I see it no differently except perhaps to hope for color. But it does not need to be lonely.”

“I’m sure there were one or two questions I could have done without.” The noise which escaped Aegor’s lips was perilously close to a laugh. Even then, she had been a delightful trial, but where others had encountered a girl who simply wouldn’t stop talking, Aegor had found someone who would speak to him about something other than the failed expectations of his youth. It was an easy trade. “Maybe so, Shiera, I agree now and the pain eases, but then the time comes at you return from where you’ve came and I stand in solitude once more.” It was the part of her statement he could answer, but not that he wished. In that moment he came so very close to uttering that he would remake their grey world, in the ways of their lineage, in Fire and Blood. But while he could trust her now, he could not trust her forever. He could bare his soul to her, but not his ambitions.

All the while, his fingers continued to ring her wrist, more gently brushing over her skin even as she stroked his face. There was an urge to not resist, to plunge into their shared intimacy, but they had done that before, and the spark had burned for all of a few moments before reality had thrust back upon their minds. He would prefer a slower dalliance in the realm of fantasy this time, even if it meant having to resist her. “We won’t ride for a week, perhaps you’ll have time to come up with a tale of this place I haven’t yet heard.”

Danelle sat her dark mare, the creak of the carriage’s wheels echoing through the singing of songbirds that fluttered through the King’s Wood. It was idyllic and the time was better spent riding than letting Elayne prattle about how lovely a day it was. The girl’s head was flying higher than even the Targaryen dragons had only a century ago. She could hear the muffled voices of Septa Bessa and Elayne from the carriage, the former patient and well used to the latter’s frivolous chatter. Glancing with a practiced eye over the train of soldiers that escorted them with her father sitting on his bay at the head dressed in white and yellow with slashes of black that did nothing to compliment his appearance. Elayne, bless the girl, did have a head for fashion and given a chance she would have him out of the buffoonery and into something that would not draw shame to the family. She suspected that particular tunic had been acquired while she was still just a shadow beside Benjicot. Her face tightened with hatred as she remembered her bastard brother.

Heeling the mare, Danelle Lothston sent the horse trotting up the line. Uncaring of the fact it was not what a proper lady would do. A ‘proper lady’ would be in the carriage and have the same dreams as Elayne. Dreams far from what Danelle had in mind. Hers involved Elayne and a husband, but one that would produce heirs for their House. Heirs she could tutor once they were of the age that they would no longer leave messes about and were competent, before then she would see that Elayne had all the wondrous joys of motherhood that Septa Bessa droned on about when teaching them their letters and needlepoint. The mere thought of babes sent Danelle to wanting retch over a privy. She had seen the small folk with their squalling brats. Taking a breath of the clean forest air, she steadied herself and checked that her face was in that cold impassive mask. As heir to Harrenhal, it was her father’s precognitive that she has an heir and spare for their house if he did not produce one himself before the Stranger took him.

"You do not have any choice but to attend. A tournament housed by a son, even the fourth son, of a Targaryen King? If you keep looking for power there are those who will be interested in bargaining there." The woman leaning in the crooked window looked out over the rolling fields of Harrenhal, her red-gold hair streaked with strands of silver and curled about a delicately pale neck. Still a beauty despite the years that gently touched her, Jeyne Lothston lounged against the cold stone in a gown of thick wool. Once she would have worn silk, her husband had always clothed her in it. Danelle could remember her mother sometimes slipping away with her youngest child to talk to the woman. Years later, after her mother's death, she had learned they were talking of herbs and men.

Draped across the chair that was lined with furs and silks and not at all feeling like a lady, Danelle stared at the chess board before her. Pieces scattered about in disarray as she shoved her curling red hair from her face. "The Blackwoods are hardly any help. They are solidly behind Daeron. Father still whispers with the other Riverlords and sulks. The old whisper that the Good King is nothing more than the Dragon Knight's bastard with Queen Naerys." Setting a pawn of black on a map of the Riverlands, Danelle studied the white pawn that hung over the Brackens. She still was unsure of what that particular House believed. The grand niece of a Blackwood Lord she saw little reason to risk sticking her hand into that bramble patch. "Elayne's marriage must be to the advantage."

Jeyne looked away from the fields she would never walk in. Her Lord brother had forbidden her from leaving Harrenhal, since the day she had been shipped back after her husband's death. Trading silks for wool and her subtle arts for those in the darkest of shadows. Of course, there had been some benefits. With three daughters and a commoner wife, the children would learn little of Court or how a woman of station was to be. So she had taught them. Danelle had been an apt pupil, just as much as her elder sister. The Heir to Harrenhal stamped on the thought of Alysanne. The wretched child she had been was little more than a nuisance and her disappearance had been advantageous. Being second in line, Danelle had no doubt her father would have had her promised off to a lord and Alysanne would be with her first child already. Spying her aunt's concerned look, Danelle forced her rage-filled face to the usual mask of blankness again.

A hand still free of time and graceful, though looking worn for having to take the task of a ladies' maid, ran over Danelle's shoulders. "Do not fret. My brother is not in the best of health and his eyesight is poor. Stir the tides correctly, let his anger ride the currents, and win or lose you might find yourself with what you want if you are not foolish."

"If." The word tasted vile on her tongue. "I do not play the game of battering my eyelashes."

"You are a woman, like it or no." Danelle's head jerked back as she felt the sharp nails of Jeyne, a self-proclaimed Targaryen bastard among certain circles, prick the back of her neck. The other’s voice was as cold as ice. "I taught you how to appeal to both men and women. We are women in a world where men get to weigh the gold and decide what is balanced. We play the Great Game."

Her husky voice snarled back in equal threat. "You lost your round, and Grandmother Falena as well." Jeyne glared at her niece and gave her a sweet smile that bared teeth.

"We lost, but we still live."

"Valar Morghulis." Danelle sighed the words more to herself, consciously stopping her hand from rubbing the back of her neck. Jeyne had been correct. Alliances had to be formed never mind what her father intended. Manfryd had never cared for his sister and Danelle could understand why. The scorn and shame, the further blackening of the name when they sat as owners of the land that was rich but well thought of as cursed. Sometimes she even had to wander it herself. Leaning back in the saddle she let the horse choose its own pace. There were plans to lay if she was going to hasten her Lord Father's meeting with the Stranger.



“Oh, I do hope to meet a lord of some note.” The wistful voice belonged to a woman young and in love with the idea of romance. A novice to the realities of the world and on her way to the first of the tournaments and gatherings where she would be presented a prize. A broodmare for sale, Elayne thought critically. Though she quickly swept the nonsense aside. There was not a thing she could do in brooding about a future she had no chance to control. Already she was silently copying Septa Bessa, a wisened old woman, for the reply she knew by rote.

“You will marry a man of standing and to the advantage of your father and sister so that she might marry to continue the legacy of House Lothston. It would do you well to remember that child.” Child, she was a woman newly grown. The whole world was full of delights she was sure, the beauty of the Vale with its towering mountains, the fields of golden harvest that was spoken of the Reach, and even the icy chill of the North had to have some beauty. Privately she hoped her father would not send her to a Dornish husband, a place of sand and dust and savages with strange customs and not a faithful man among them. Leaning against the side of the carriage she watched Danelle, dark and fearsome Danelle, heel her horse after their father. She was free to ride, the heir. If Elayne had been free to do the same she would be pleading with her father to change his choice of outfit for the trip. White and yellow were their house colors, but let them be against the black, subtle. Not the overwhelming scheme that made the eyes water and him look ill!

” A faithful man!” Danelle laughed harshly as Elayne looked over at her sister at the worn desk she had taken from the small library. “There is no such thing and you would do well to remember that. Brother, father, or son. All a man wants is the most he can get out of a woman.” Danelle has been wearing a dark silk dress that set her eyes alight with the hatred that constantly burned there. For as long as Elayne could remember Danelle had only a handful of ways to react to things and this suited the scorn she so often wore with servants and the smallfolk.

Elayne gathered her skirts and shifted in the seat next to the window, adjusting the book she had been reading. “Surely all men are not the same, some must be faithful.” Though she had no misgivings that men were, for the most part, unfaithful. Her father had taken a commoner, and most likely his mistress, for his wife. The Harlot, as her stepchildren had proclaimed her, had nearly ruined them financially. For all that Elayne felt pity for the woman’s death only days after Lucas had died, she could not give herself the proper grief for the woman herself. Let alone her half-brother. The boy had been a right terror, breaking things and getting nothing but a ‘he is the heir and should be strong-willed’ from their father.

“Men, dearest sister, are pigs who act as though they are wolves.” That tone filled with patience was a warning for her to drop it. Elayne had only not dropped it once when they were children and she kept pressing Danelle to agree that Alysanne would be a good heir for Harrenhal. Looking down at her book, she stifled a sigh. Recalling it was the only time Danelle had raised a hand to slap her rather than pinch her.

Septa Bessa was prattling on still about her duties to House Lothston and Harrenhal. Elayne let the woman chatter on as she nodded meekly and tried to smile politely. At least she could recall this lecture as well as any other she had been given by Father and Danelle. Each contradicted the other with how she was to attract a man’s interest and whom would be fitting. For Father, he wanted a son of a noble house of note. One that would give a strong alliance to Harrenhal and bring them up in the world while Danelle took a third or fourth son who could take the Lothston name. Even a bastard son would do for Danelle, her father had proclaimed within the woman’s hearing. Elayne could still picture the slight jerk of fury that hand curled Danelle’s hands at that. With Danelle? It was Elayne who would collect the admiration meant for her. Those third or fourth or bastard sons would fall at Elayne’s feet and of her pick, she could have any. So long as they agreed to take House Lothston’s name. That had been delivered each night since the tournament had been announced. “Girl, are you listening?!”

The youngest of the Lothston daughters paused as she looked at the Septa with a sheepish smile. “Yes.” Any more acknowledgment was plowed over as the Septa continued with her lecture. There went her attention slipping away, and the result of it! Now the woman would repeat herself, and this time with comparisons to Danelle and poor Alysanne who must be at the bottom of the God’s Eye!

Alysanne, it had been a while since Elayne had remembered her eldest sister. Her blue eyes burned with slight tears, she missed the kind, willful sister who would gently explain things and teach her small games. Such memories were further away as the years passed, but against Danelle’s firm hand and Father’s gruff approval of her meekness. It would be nice to have someone to laugh with. Letting herself lean back against the seat as the carriage rocked along the road, she recalled that it had been Jaehaerys Targaryen who had carved these grand things into the land. Wistfully she let her gaze wander out to the realm's woods and smiled at the sight of a rabbit watching the procession pass. Such innocence in a world where it was just another piece of meat.



Staring at the road that wound through the Kingswood, the Lord of Harrenhal pointedly ignored his third child, second daughter, and heir to his seat lest he acquires a wife and produce another son. It was something of a sore point of the Lord. He longed for a proper heir for Harrenhal leaving him able to wed off his two remaining children to Houses that would increase their standing and weight. Then perhaps he could more fully secure the future of House Lothston and restore some of the respect his sister and fool mother had lost. Never mind that Harrenhal had been gifted them by King Viserys. Gloved fingers tightened on the reins as his stallion champed at the bit. A land with a wealth of gold to soothe the wound of pride caused by his son, surely Viserys had no idea that his son would take mother and daughter both when they returned to court or the scorn that would follow from those whispers! It had been thus and the Lordship of Harrenhal had fallen to him far too soon when his father had been taken by the Stranger. Burdened with a good wife, a good lordship, and those whispers he had been content til Cerena had died and then his heir. A joke of the Seven that when he had looked for a second wife no other lord had a daughter to spare. “Father,” Danelle’s voice always cold and as hollow as Harrenhal interrupted his thoughts. “Perhaps we should think of camp if we wish Elayne in comfort.”

There was nothing more to be said past that. For his comfort, it was well known that Manfryd cared nothing, but his youngest daughter had been the last child of his beloved wife. Elayne was the jewel of House Lothston though seldom seen outside of the ruins of Harrenhal. Raising a hand, the train of carriages, a few carts, soldiers, and horses turned into a suitable clearing. The ruckus of camping being put up and comforts laid out for their Lord and Lady scaring away any possible game, which was well enough. Manfryd had no wish to hunt. He was a fit man but stress weighed on him and he could feel the soreness that crept into his bones from being in a saddle day in and day out for weeks. Soon, the smell of cooking was filling the clearing and the Lord of Harrenhal was satisfied enough with the arrangement that he retired to his tent.

What he found made him stiffen in insult. Danelle sat behind his writing table, her eyes cold as she looked over documents meant for him. The girl had always been full of herself, of course, she took the responsibility of taking over the Lordship someday seriously. With a pang, he wished she was a son, then there would no longer be hang-ups about marriage, her cold demeanor would be of no matter to any wife who would only look at the riches of Harrenhal. “You will flirt and charm when we reach the Tournament.” The order fell into the stony silence and Danelle’s pale green eyes flickered to meet his own icy blue ones. “You will do this, Danelle. Even if their fathers argue, I shall have a son married to you and taking the Lothston bat for his House before the Tournament is over or I shall find a distant cousin.”

The woman rose from the seat and gave a stiff curtsy that was low and just a hair too deep for sincerity. “As you wish, Father.” Her voice was still that hollow coldness that would send any suitor running rather than fall into her arms. Gritting his teeth, Manfryd gripped the woman’s shoulder. She stood of the same height as him. Tall, how she would make a good son. His grip tightened and still, Danelle showed no sign of discomfort though he could see the hatred in her eyes, or could he? She always seemed so empty.

“I know you whisper with Jeyne, the old bat.” He snarled in an undertone lest a servant or soldier hear him admit to relation to the bastard who posed as a Lothston. “I know she sank her claws into you. Trust me, Danelle. There is nothing that Jeyne will not say to get what she wants. There is nothing she will not do. We must act and improve the standing of our House against the folly she committed. If it were not for that I would-!”

Her own words cut in and Manfryd felt fury boil in him. “You would have a son? No, what house would have ties with a man who thought he whispered so softly yet all the Riverlands can hear his discontent? You are a fool.”

“I am your father and Lord of Harrenhal, when I say toad you jump girl!” His reply was a strangled snarl as he stopped himself from shouting. He wanted to roar at the imputent wench, Jeyne had sunk her claws deep and he thought perhaps too deep. “Look at Elayne, you shall behave as you ought. A lady to charm and wed or I shall find a husband to name my heir and you to marry them. That is my will.”

“As you have said.” Her tone was ever as empty and her eyes bleak. Did the woman have no emotion whatsoever? Releasing her, he hear her walk from the tent and leaned over the writing desk. A blacksmith with a stout build would do her nicely. Someone she could not shove around, he thought. If it came to that. He would prefer a noble husband and a son within the year of their marriage. A grandson to name his heir with Danelle to be the regent for the Lordship.

But there were other reasons to go to the gathering as well. A tournament held by a Prince of the Realm would attract more than suitors and things best kept off of letters could be discussed. Urging that could not be put on paper without it being called treason and that evidence found by Bloodraven. Manfryd sat heavily in a canvas chair, drawing a goblet of wine left poured by some servant for his return to him. A bastard sat on the throne while the rightful heir was called such. King Aegon IV, may he rest in peace, had given Daemon Blackfyre the sword of kings and thus made his will known. That the throne had passed the bastard of his brother and wife? It was appalling enough, made worse by the man marrying a Dornish whore. The Young Dragon had things right, Dorne would need to be conquered and made to kneel, not this business of marrying them into the realm and allowing them to keep their ‘Princes’ and ‘Princesses’ of Dorne. Taking a long drink from the cup, the man studied the surface of the Harrenhal vintage. It was no arbor red, but the drink was good enough for him and it was no Dorne poison that circulated on the roads now!

Snarling to himself, he thought of how perhaps a nice arrow in the right spot would solve the problem of having a Dornish ‘Prince’ and ‘Princess’. Urging Daemon Blackfyre to declare for himself and take his rightful place? The Prince would be grateful for the support, and a position at court might open up to House Lothston once again. Not as Hand, no that position had its own problems. No as Master of Whispers he could depose Bloodraven and make the realm tremble of him instead. Taking another drink, Manfryd smiled at the thought. Lord Manfryd of House Loshston, Lord of Harrenhal, Master of Whisper, and all the realm would be eager to please him as he bowed before King Daemon Blackfyre. Yes, he liked the thought very much.

Two weeks prior...

A knock on the door. "You wanted to see me, Father?" His son's voice resonated from the entrance.

"Enter." Talbert replied curtly, seated at his desk. He looked up from his ledgers, nodding to his son, Samwyle. "Sit. Drink." The lord of Horn Hill gestured to a chair placed in front of his desk, as well as a goblet of wine in front of the seat.

Samwyle did so without delay, reaching for the cup as soon as he sat down. He met his sip of wine with appreciation and a raised eyebrow in question. "Arbor red? What's the occasion, Father?" What went unsaid was how his usual taste of wine in private was far more reserved, typically favoring more local vintages than the finest the Arbor had to offer.

"For you." Talbert said simply, raising his own goblet in a brief toast before taking slow sips. "You've proven yourself as an able combatant, leader of men, and my heir. Were I to die now, I would hold no hesitation in leaving Heartsbane to you." Such praise from the man was rare. Which only served to have Samwyle bracing for the inevitable comedown. "As such, I've taken the liberty of finally arranging a wife for you. Gorlois Redwyne has agreed to have you be betrothed to his youngest daughter, Odette. I'm told she's the fairest of all his daughters, and his favorite. It's a great honor for you." He passed the letter in question that confirmed Lord Gorlois's approval for the match over to Samwyle.

Samwyle stared at his father for a moment in mute silence, with Talbert inwardly waiting for him to get over his shock and get on with the matter. "Father, I..." He stared down at the letter he was given, reading it over for a few moments before looking it back up. "She's fifteen? That's younger than Mina."

Talbert raised an eyebrow. "She is of age. Or would you rather I find you a child bride? Is that what you're saying?" He challenged, to his son's immediate denial.

"Of course not!"

"Then you should have no problems with the matter. Of course, your dalliances will come to an immediate end. I'll not have you dishonoring your wife-to-be, our pending alliances with the Redwynes, and our good name. I tolerated such when you were a bachelor and barely a man. Now that you've matured and have a betrothal, the time for these things is over."

Samwyle looked as if he was going to protest, but thought better of it and nodded. "I...understand. Thank you for your lenience, Father."

Talbert's expression softened in response, but only slightly. To anyone who didn't know him better, it would seem his stoic demeanor hadn't cracked at all. "I understand this is a sudden change, son. But you've proven yourself as a man. I wouldn't have begun making these arrangements for you had you been a disappointment. I did as much as I could to secure a good match for you as well. The girl is reportedly a beauty, and you'll be meeting her soon." Samwyle's head shot up at his father's next words. "You've heard of Prince Maekar's upcoming tourney at Summerhall? We'll be attending."

"You despise these, though." Was Samwyle's only response. "What was it you said the last time I wanted to attend one? 'Wasteful pageantry that ill-prepared men for real battle'? Of course, I didn't understand until after I joined you on campaign."

"It still is. But the Redwynes wish for you and Lady Odette to meet there. Get to know one another. It seems they're as intent for this to be a good match as I am. Which indicates that Lord Gorlois's glowing words of praise about his daughter may not be as empty as I fear. Mina will be coming with us as well. It's about time that a match be made for her, and there will be many lords in attendance. Your mother will remain behind to watch over Victor and manage the day-to-day affairs of Horn Hill." He took another sip of Arbor red, as if to marshal his thoughts.

"Does this mean...?" Samwyle's voice carried hope in its tone, to which Talbert nodded.

"Indeed. You'll compete in the lists. Quite frankly, you care more than I do of your performance in that mummer's farce. But both of us will enter the melee. We both know where your real strengths are, and there's no shame in such. Though I imagine you'll want to impress your bride-to-be, regardless." The ruler of Horn Hill rose from his seat, making his way over to his son and placing a hand on his shoulder. "You will do House Tarly proud. I know this." Samwyle smiled up at him as he finished his wine. "Now, be off with you. I imagine you've your own affairs to take care of before we leave in a few days."

As Samwyle left the solar, Talbert turned his attention to another letter he'd be reading before. This one marked with the seal of House Bracken. Daemon Blackfyre was to be the one to champion their aspirations and grievances, then. Very well. He'd have Maekar's tourney to take the bastard's measure. Talbert rolled the letter up and fed it into the flames of his hearth, unwilling to chance risk of discovery even from otherwise vague and benign words.

One could not say that there was not game to hunt in the Kingswood, but then game had long since grown used to the humans who stalked about with long bows being predators just as deadly as the wolves. Of course, the worst of the hunters dressed in silks with men to beat the brush so that deer and duck might spring from hidning to be a useful target for one to a noble lord to bring his exemplary skill to bear on. Which was utter poppycock. Alys Rivers glared at the distant retreat of a small herd of deer, their tails waving banners as she fingered the long bow that sat across her saddle’s pommel. “If you did not sound as though you were some tinkering merchant’s cart, I could have had us some nice supper and something to trade for coin as well.” The complaint held no edge of anger, but the stout grey mare switched her ears back at the tightened grip of the reins.

Dannel walked his horse gently, his eyes rolling at his partner’s chastisement. It was not the first time Alys had chastised him for his noise - unwarranted as he had corrected her the first dozen times - but now he let it slide. It was the normal rhythm of their travels. Dannel silently letting Alys fill the silence, until eventually he would be prodded enough to return a few words. He had always liked the silence of travel. Yet his years now spent with Alys gave him at least some appreciation of the woman’s quirks. He was, however, hungry, now that she mentioned it. His stomach betrayed his silence with a low rumble.

“Dannel, my boy, we are in desperate need of coin.” Which had run out at the last tavern leaving them to sleeping under elm and oak as they made their way through the Stormlands.

He grunted in response. Alys had a way of remembering things differently. “I believe it was not that it ran out, but that we ran out on it.” There had not been much coin left anyways, but it would have been enough for at least a loaf of bread and maybe even an ale to share. But he preferred sleeping beneath the sky than in the confined taverns they often found themselves in. Dannel never slept much those nights, he’d stay awake to keep watch over his companion and an ear for any disturbances.

Tossing her long braid over a shoulder, the short woman ignored the fact that to even hunt she would have had to dismount her mare, strung her bow and then hope the deer were still there. As long a shot as the chance would be that they were. For all she had the face of the lady, anyone passing the two would find her the oddity. A woman with tanned skin from the constant riding, dressing in a grey tunic with a leather vest trimmed with fox fur about the edges and breeches that were tucked into sturdy, if worn boots. Behind her, the shaggy packhorse looked longingly at a green patch of leaves and began taking the small stop to attempt a midday meal. Watching after where the deer had fled, the woman drummed her fingers on the shaft of the yew bow. Two strings along it’s shaft. One was the bowstring, the other a more durable and stubborn cord. Short as she was, Alys used the latter and a foot to string the bow rather than bending the thing. She was a small woman and for all she could pull any bow, height did not always help in the stringing.

Setting her cap back over her red hair, she cocked her head and gave a far drier comment. “My apologies, ser.” Her voice changed from it’s normally throaty tone to one of a boy’s with a cracking break on the border to manhood. “Ser Knight, might’n we be stoppin’ and winnin’ ye some glory an’ all in a tourney afore we starve of ‘unger?” Leaning back in the saddle, the woman’s lips thinned. She did not like being low on coin and in the middle of nowhere. Fawnton, the seat of House Cafferen, was a pleasant enough place, but it was no large city where she could get lost in the maze of streets with no one the wiser for a few coins missing. Switching back to her normal throaty voice she eyed the distant smoke of a village’s fireplaces. “I could perhaps find a merchant to swindle if we were closer to a town of some worth. Though you having a shield of a House would help.” She remarked more to herself than Dannel, seeming to toy with a plan she had in the works.

“Alys…” It was his turn for admonishment. He gave her a look that he must have given a hundred times before. His brow furrowed, the skin on his cheek pulled at the long scar that ran down it. His stomach rumbled again in contradiction to his tone. “We’re probably only a day or two’s ride from Summerhall.” His voice grated a bit at naming the castle. Damn nobles - and not just nobles - but the Royal Prince himself and his Dayne bitch. A day or two’s ride but they would not last without stopping somewhere as she had so rightly suggested. Her plans usually worked, but Seven help them when they didn’t. “What are you thinking, squire?” Gods, he hoped it wasn’t going to be another swindle where he bore the bruises and she the coin.

Alys waved away his worry with a hand as though shooing away a servant. "Two days to work then." She remarked with a smile that could match that of a fox's in a hen house. Putting her heels to the mare, she urged the grey on while the packhorse mournfully munched the last of his midday. Considering the tournament, she recalled what she knew of Summerhall, Prince Maekar and his lady wife, Dyanna Dayne. The names of such prestigious people were common enough on tongue that spoke of gossip surrounding the royal family and after Aegon IV had declared his Great Bastards legitimate tongue hardly ceased. They spoke of how likely it was that King Daeron the Good was a bastard himself leaving Daemon Blackfyre the true heir. Why else would Aegon have given the bastard, even a Targaryen bastard, the heirloom sword that had been handed from King to Heir since the Conqueror? Personally Alys was of the opinion that King Daeron or Daemon, the matter was hardly of note. The Realm was at peace while nobles bickered as they did.

"A prickly man, I'd not wager for my life to try to swindle Prince Maekar." She agreed, as good as a promise that she would not. Her own small attempt to soothe the hedge knight. "Though the tournament will be filled with others of our sort, good ser and those lofty nobles who wish to curry favor with the Prince. A good of place as any to see if I can swindle some coin come bet or beauty." Nobles were always bragging and she surely would be able to slip into a few tents, slip away a few shiny goblets and they be gone before anyone raised a hue or cry. Though she still thought to turn a deal perhaps posing as the infamous Lady Webber of Coldmoat, doubtful. Though they did say the Redwynes had some redheads among them… It would be a matter of getting a shield for Dannel to pose as a knight escort for a lady.

Even a year ago having her joke at swindling a Targaryen Prince would have given Dannel heart palpitations. But he allowed her to prattle on for she had already known it was no plan. This was the way of things, start at the absurd and Alys would talk herself down to a mostly manageable plan of attack. He picked at dirt beneath his fingers. “Pah, there should be plenty who are drunk enough on their Dornish red for it to be easy pickings.” Drunk nobles and knights, all their attendants; tourneys were always events that offered much for just a little work. And it would be good to put his sword arm to some actual use outside of scaring men in taverns or on the road.

Lost in thought, she paused and looked at the man with a glint in those pale blue eyes. "A good way to show your skills and under the eye of a Prince. My, good Ser, you could rise to some standing." It was also a risk of her losing her bodyguard and muscle. Yet, Alys could not begrudge him. If Dannel wished to move to better things? Then it was his right and she would only encourage him. Of course there was that matter of his dislike for nobles. "But then again, you could never scrape and bow without growling." All the better for the both of them.

He reflexively rolled his shoulders from a shudder that rolled down his back. “Don’t jest, I’ve no desire to rise in their ranks.” He had left House Lyberr, his adoptive home of sorts, having refused to pledge himself to them. He’d at least hope to avoid their tents should they make their way to Summerhall. “Besides, I couldn’t leave you out here on your lonesome. Not when you’ve finally gotten used to my growling.” He tossed her a half smile, from the unscarred side of his face. “But surely I must be a knight of some named place for whatever scheme you are brewing. Who shall I be this time? Perhaps a Knight of House Bushy?” He recalled their standard, a simple pattern to create. He couldn’t quite recall a single striking thing about them, but that was probably for the best. Another small family looking for a son or cousin to win a bit of coin and accolade.

Shaking her head at his attempt of a jest, the woman felt a twinge at amusement at how this man scorned nobles. The circumstances in her life seemed to play this as one of the minor amusements she could always laugh at. "The Bushy? They have enough family, even if you walked among them they would take you for a cousin of a cousin's cousin's, despite the Lord’s current family being small. A rarity." She remarked with dry humor, recalling what Septa Bessa had once said when a refusal of any daughter of that house was given to marry her father. Though there had developed a cease of worry between her brows as she recalled the past.

Dannel could appreciate the moments where they had seemed in step. It had not always been so. But he also knew her mannerisms. “What is it Alys? Don’t think I’m up to snuff to be a cousin’s-cousin’s cousin?” He spoke lightly, but if she fret, he would fret. His hand moved to rest on the hilt of his sword, a comforting act even if it could not dispel whatever had creased her brow.

“House Bushy will do well.” She remarked, shakinging her head which left her long braid flicking low across her horse’s withers. At least one sister would have been married quietly to a commoner who took up as a distant cousin to the Lothstons’. Her father would see to that and that it would be Danelle. Elayne would find a husband in a compliant Riverlord who Manfryd could see to his own use. They would have no reason to go to a tournament with no son to win the joust or melee. Danelle’s husband would be shaking in his boots, terrified to do more than press for a single son with his wife. As quickly as she had considered revealing that to Dannel, Alys dismissed it. It had been the better part of six if not seven years, and she had changed much. From a high brow lady who would carry on the Lothston name to a woman who could wear any face she chose. Of course she was no Faceless Man, but the appeal did carry to her of their legendary skill that her father had talked about in his study on dark nights. Their job as assassins, according to Manfryd Lothston, was what had her recoiling. Killing was never an easy thing, necessary at times but never easy. “I am merely thinking.” She admitted, hedging about the truth. “There are those that I like to avoid.” Which she had done so well, though mostly by staying away from the God’s Eye and Harrenhal. Avoiding the entirety of the Riverlands if she could.

Dannel nodded sharply in agreement, he could understand that all too well. The sellsword shifted in his saddle. It seemed they had decided a course; one that would bring him in proximity to a House that he had nursed a grudge against for over a decade. A familiar pang began behind his eyes. The pain would come and go, and it had been a constant reminder with this scar of what they had done to him - even if he could not remember the details, just flashes. His rough hand massaged at his temples as he gazed ahead of them. “Smoke, but I’m sure you noticed that already - I am always slower than you. Perhaps we can sing for some food and a spot in the stable.” Sing, steal, connive - Alys would have a plan.

“Sing?” The woman was incredulous as she looked at the knight. “I thought you wanted a place to sleep and a small feast, not to be tossed out on our ear so hard that we bounce on the cobbles.” She gave a startled laugh at the mere thought of her singing. “No, I shall not sing. Recite a tale, swindle some folk, I shall ser.” The woman was almost falling out of her saddle with a cackle. “Sing!” Chuckling to herself as she quickly regained control of herself, the woman dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. She had never sung in Dannel’s presence and with good reason, it was nice to know the man did not know everything about her. Drifting back beside the man she let him take a slight lead as she dipped a hand into a pocket and began pinning her long braid into a coil on her head. The chuckles and huffs of her laughter still breaking through at the mere thought of her singing, even as a child she had given it up early. Sing, indeed!

Two months before the tourney...

Barth Blacksword breathed in the fresh air, next to him his little brother Brandon, The Wolf Lord as they called him, to him it was still just Branny, his shit little brother running around hugging to his their mothers leg and watching him train. Now here they were, his brother a famed fighter in the south, respected among the North, and having three loving children he wasn't the little boy who watched warriors return from Dorne exhausted and worn.

They had been out in the Wolfswood hunting together having snuck out when their men weren't able to catch them, both brother's missing the days when they could run and do as they pleased. The crisp wind biting across them as they took shelter under a large ironwood tree in the wood, Brandon producing a flask taking a long drink before passing it to the man next to him as they both sat in the snow wrapped in heavy furs, distant howls of wolves in the distance.

"You are leaving for that big tourney in the south, aye Branny?" Barth asked laying his spear down as he looked out towards the deeper parts of the wood. "Taking all the lads to give them southern knights a good trashing? Remind'em we don't need a sept to turn men into warriors that can knock'em from a horse and bury a blade in their belly." Barthogan smiled turning back towards his brother looking over the younger Stark as he shook his head laughing.

"You act is if I was once some great warrior down their unseating the greatest knights in the seven kingdoms, I'm good Barth... But I'm older now. It's the boys time... This will be Mathias's first big tourney, your boy wants to do you proud." He added looking at Barth who took another long drink.

"I know he does... I love him so much... But I don't want him caught up in our struggles... Gods I wanted to go to the wall but then Jonnel couldn't knock a girl up... So here I sit, now I'm passing Winterfell on to you... Just to keep it out of the hands of our blackheart brother and his inclination to take wed us to the fucking dragons. Our father was a fucking fool to lead our boys south to fight for them, no blonde wench is worth the lives of northern men, the tears of our women, and suffering of the north." He spoke bitter it seemed over a lifetime of losing out on what he wanted. "You, little brother better take damn good care of our home. You killed a dire wolf, walk around wearing it's pelt like a badge of honor Wolf Lord. I don't say it often enough... But you are the right man to take Winterfell, the Lords up here adore you, no one foreign or northern has a bad word to say about Brandon Stark the Wolf Lord you just finally make that old wolf happy." He sighed turning back towards Winterfell thinking on the crypts bellow.

Brandon sighed. "You have years to go before I take this place old man, now... You want to catch that deer or we going back to tell my wife two of us can't find any dinner the forest?" They both laughed, bow and spear in hand they trudged onward into the snow.

One month before the tourney...

Brandon has finished gathering up the horses and wagons ice, beer, furs, and more to bring southward. For company merchants, warriors, and more who wished to test their metal in the south against these knights. Barth meanwhile prepared his men, reports from Skagos were scarce as always but the true concern was that there was silence after stories of the different houses there being united. As the Blacksword prepared his men to ride eastward their host seek aid from the Karstarks to try and get news on what was coming. Winter was at it's end and it meant soon it was time to prepare for another Winter, the smallfolk back in the fields and harder to gather up it's why he had gathered the force now rather than trying to recall them all later.

His children, his wife, and his nephew as well as many others from the Houses of the North young men and women eager to see the sights and hear the music of the new spring in the verdant south. In lands of wine and honey they were no doubt thinking of trysts and trouble they could get themselves into Ashe was testing his bow string as gave Beylee pointers on how to draw it back, Mathias and Gryffith sat side by side discussing battle tactics and other knights they might see at the tourney.

---

Edric meanwhile walked the wall, he had sent letters and at the last family gathering his pleas fell on deaf ears, he would never be lord of Winterfell as long as Barthogan was alive. But with Brandon away and the word of the south begging urges to rebel he had sent letters and lined pockets. His sons were already down south to talk and walk among his potential allies. Cregard and Torrhen would bring his words and offers to Blackfyre, when Barthogan fell the North would belong to the patient.

His sons had orders to secure themselves good marriages he had held back giving them to northern houses where sense of duty and honor might betray following him to war. In the south he had little concern of that, of course House Mormont and Bolton would more than likely back Brandon, The Wolf Lord, the avenger of Lord Cregan of Winterfell few of the houses in the North trusted the old and tired man and even fewer wanted his sons, his fangs to the position after him. Edric didn't care it was his, Winterfell... All of it was to be his, he would fulfill what his father had no stomach for make the north a real power in the seven kingdoms. He was more willing to bring the wall down, to burn the fields, and salt the earth than to let his brother's make a fool of him he who had carried Rickon home, who had studied hard in both north and south, he who had the ambition to be more than a Warden... They were fools and he never could stand a fool.

The Tourney.

The Twin Fang's were present, Torrhen and Cregard had been southward awhile. Cregard had been sitting quietly reading a book on southern knighthoods and their importance to the Seven he'd never pretend to understand the faith here but he could try and at least not mess up around them. His father wanted them to be closer with the south, he'd thought of talking with some of the noble women but honestly he was never the biggest flirt. Better to make your intentions plain and get right to what you wanted to be doing, not dancing and singing for years and weeks on end. Better to warm a bed with your love each night than leave him alone and yearning or her distressed and worrying it was a small wonder Cregard had not taken a bride he'd not found anyone he could handle his direct approach.

Torrhen meanwhile was requesting wine and food as the pair sat in the feasting tent, Torrhen eyed the noble women he needed someone he could really cut loose with not some shriveling maiden scared of a rough and tumble northern lord. He fought like he loved rough, tumble, and smooth. He loved the chase and dance of two people trying to see how they might maneuver and tease one another it was a glorious thing to be part of here and now? This would be an event for the ages perhaps he'd finally meet his match definitely looked better than hairy wenches from bear island or the those boney Boltons up north. Though his father would never approve maybe he could finally try a Dornish girl wouldn't that be a treat?

The Fangs sat together of course, the twins were never to far apart they didn't like it they seemed to naturally work together one tall and strong and the other lean and fast in a fight they were not to be trifled with though they never came to blows with each other. They had both sworn never to end up like Edric had with his brothers.

---

Beylee squealed as jumped off the wagon running through the crowds enamored with the place, as Brandon and his kin rode up ahead of the wagons full of items from up north the most prized of all good pure ice perfect for the hot weather and carefully moved and now needing to be stored. Of course beer and furs from the north as well, many a fine folk would pay good money for the furs of the northern animals to see them through cold nights. The horn resounded as they announced the arrival of the heir of Winterfell, following that announcements for each of Lords or their boys who had come with him southward to see this great tourney and fight in it.

As Beylee darted back to her father's side and took his hand and Ashe slipped out of his saddle already heading towards the jousting grounds eager to see how many shitheads knights he'd have to remind that they weren't anything special. Gryffith rolled his eyes at his brothers departure and Mathias tried to stop Ashe, both followed Brandon as he headed further in off to pay respects to the hosts and thank them for the invitation. The wagons moved to deliver their goods and sell wares as the northerners had arrived in decent number a suprise to be sure but many followed Brandon Stark for he was good man and a honorable one too.

The Bay of Seals was no great distance from the North’s mainland and yet the waters surrounding the isle were rough and treacherous. This held particularly true in autumn, and no sane man - Skagosi or otherwise - would dare to even think of the journey come winter. As it was, Torwynd had marshalled the Skagosi as summer waned and turned to autumn, the cold winds would not have overtaken the bay yet. At least on the way there. Torwynd had made no contingencies for returning to Skagos.

He stood at the hull, an eye on his rowing men. Two thousand men, nearly fifty longships. His Skagosi captains had insisted on bringing their mounts. No matter that the unicorns - suited for the rocky outcrops on their isle - would be of little use on the mainland or against any cavalry. The creatures bleated and called to each other, the noise punctuating the mens’ grunts and huffs as they rowed. It had taken Torwynd over two decades to accomplish this. It was an achievement but a meaningless one if the weapon he had honed missed its mark. Though striking during autumn was a strategic decision, the North could field enough men to crush them without ever having to touch their full strength. At least, that would be the case in open warfare which the Crowsbane had no intention of offering.

Yrsa joined him silently. She painted her face and body in the way of the Skagosi warriors but she fit no exact position within their society. She had been a killer from before she was born, her twin brother dead in the womb, she had the soul of both. She trained and fought but was not recognized as a warrior. She studied beneath the shamans but could never claim that title. She was all things and none. She seemed to understand it, though it still left Torwynd puzzled as to how their society actually worked. It was no matter, he did not need to understand it, only use it.

“This final push will bring us to shore within the day.” He spoke, and received only a nod in answer. Yrsa would not disembark with her father. Where the Skagosi had taught her as one of their own, her father had taught her of Westeros proper. He had taught her what he knew of the houses and rulers. Word traveled slowly, but occasionally the wildings would even have news to pass on. And so it was not the raiding or pillaging that his daughter would undertake, but one of diplomacy. Their men would never be enough to do more than leave a cut too easily healed. No, Torwynd knew that he would need the North to be unbalanced. The best option, unless much had changed since he was exiled, was House Bolton. Yrsa would travel on with three ships and a small contingent of men to The Dreadfort.

---

They had come on land, some weeks back, at a small fishing village. The inhabitants had called it Eyron’s Pier. Small-folk and their imaginative names to seek favor with the ruling men who would just as soon crush them beneath their boots. His men were now scattered along the coast, raiding, pillaging and burning the small settlements and farms they came across. Fields were being harvested and preparations made to dry, store, and preserve the fruits of the summer past. The Skagosi had not seen such bounty and Torwynd had to stop them from burning everything - to last the winter, they would need the stores just as much.

Further inland, no more than three days’ march from Karhold proper, he was certain, Torwynd was encamped with the bulk of his forces. They were one thousand strong, with ten of his mounted captains. Runners kept news going between their smaller camps and further north where a small force kept guard on their vessels. The men had waited long enough and could be denied no longer. Their king gave the signal and preparations were made.

The small outcrop of buildings was known as Wylla’s Eye. The women and men rounded up had been quick to caution that they were under protection of the Karstarks. They called the men wildings, though the Skagosi looked nothing like the free people of beyond-the-wall. They looked nothing like the tall man still dressed in black leathers and furs as if his watch continued yet. Farmers by and large, the warriors had set their fields aflame to draw them out. It was a simple thing to round them up into the hastily made wooden pens that now circled round a roaring bonfire. The air was heavy with smoke and heat. The orange-red glow illuminated and obscured the night sky.

Torwynd Crowsbane, King of Skagos, stood in front of the fire. “Men, the last First Men, you stand upon the lands of your forebears. You stand upon the land taken from your ancestors. The time has come to take it back. Nourish yourselves with the flesh of your enemies, the true fight begins soon enough.” His voice echoed just moments before the assembled men's raucous shouts drowned him out. Screams then filled the air, guttural and visceral as the Skagosi warriors pulled the men out of the pens to be butchered in front of the women and children.

Some pieces of flesh were tossed to the flames to be charred but left raw, organ meat never touched the flame lest the fire burn away its essence. The men passed around skeins of fermented doe milk to wash down the ritual feast. Torwynd stalked the edge of the camp to watch his men partake. He would not deny them their rites - he would never have united them had he tried - but neither did it feed his proclivities. Captain Uthor melted out of the darkness, a short man but broad and heavy, the Skagosi were unexpectedly stealthy. “The women you marked have been pulled out and are ready for you, Crowsbane.” Torwynd grunted, the men respected his rule, but honorifics were not natural to them.

No, he would let the men finish their feast, and partake in his own ritual in solitude as he preferred. A cruel smile, cold and hungry, passed over his face. He licked his lips expectantly. “Good. I’ll not keep them waiting.”

---

Addison dipped her foot in the shallow stream, and the cool water flowed over and between her outstretched toes. Jonquil, her tawny mare, stooped her head to take drink just upriver of her. She was a beautiful horse, Addison’s favorite of all her lord father’s steeds, a slender courser of three years with as sweet a temper as any creature on the Seven’s good earth. She spoke softly to the horse, resting her head to the nape of Jonquil’s neck. It was a quiet, still moment, broken only by the twittering of some bird or another in the trees above and the gentle bubbling of the brook she’d come upon in her riding.

And then there was a shout.

“Lady Addison!” the voice came loudly through the forested eaves behind her. She turned around, hand straying to the small knife she kept to hip, and but a moment later her uncle had pushed through the brush atop his steed and came out onto the clear banks of the stream. Florian, as his courser was named, brother to her own mount, wheeled about toward her. Addison relaxed her grip on the knife’s hilt walked toward him as he approached ahorse.

“I am here, mine uncle,” Addison returned as his eyes found her. “You needn’t worry, I have not met with any harm nor danger in your absence.”

Robb smiled an easy smile. Her septon-uncle was her favorite among her relations, slow to anger and quick to give forgiveness or kindness. He scolded her but out of warm love, and he was good to keep a secret, something she could not say for her snake of a sister or her brat of a brother. “I am glad of that. Seven know I worry for your safety,” he said, as his horse led him past Addison and on to Jonquil. Florian sniffed and brushed at his sister’s neck, a sweet sight.

“Seven know my father is the one who worries for my safety,” Addison returned with a sharp smile, turning to follow her uncle as Florian wandered where the horse pleased. Robb was slow to anger and also slow to concern, as it was. The Seven had blessed him with a cool head and a steady mind. “You have better sense than to wonder whether I have come to harm after but half a moment out of sight.”

“You are a better horseman than me, my lady,” Robb lied, “so I admit I did not fear overmuch. And that knife you bear, I would fear for any man who might cross blades with you, myself included.”

She let her hand drop from the dagger’s hilt, a hint of embarrassment creeping into her cheeks. He smiled at her expense, she knew. She was certainly not a better horseman than Robb Tarbeck, septon resident of Tarbeck Hall, and could certainly not cross any blade with him, long or short. Before he was a septon he was a great knight, one of the finest of the realm, so they said. A Kingsguard to be, mayhaps, though Addison found that difficult to believe. She was but a girl when Robb set down his lance and shield and did not recall much from those years, but she found it strange to reconcile the kindly septon who read to her from the Seven Pointed Star, the gentle man who listened to her confessions and woes, with the daring, dashing, violent knight the stories made him out to be.

He still did look the part, though, tall and handsome as he was, like a knight from the stories she read as a girl. But that was not proper for her to say nor think, and she flushed but a bit at the thought.

“I rather think you may be flattering me, mine uncle,” she said, wiping her wet foot in the soft grasses to dry.

“Never. I have not yet met a woman more comfortable on horseback than you, my lady.”

“Save for my sister?” Addison asked.

“Save for your sister, true, but be fair to yourself. I do wonder if Alyx was fathered by a horse rather than my brother,” Robb japed with a flashing gin, and that brought a laugh from Addison, though the music of it had a bitter tinge. Addison’s younger sister may as well have been born on a saddle, such was her talent at the reins, and Addison hated it so. Addison loved horses, and to see Alyx take to Jonquil better than herself had made Addison wroth with envy. It was not an admirable trait, and the years had softened her attitude toward her sister, but it just seemed so terribly unfair all the same. Still, though Robb loved them both, she knew, she took joy that he was not afraid to commiserate with her against Alyx.

And as it were, Alyx did not like her overmuch either. As the eldest daughter of House Tarbeck, Addison was the first expected to wed, and much and more had been made of her fair looks and womanly figure these past few years. Addison thought her sister fair enough, but Alyx was more girl than woman, and the attention given Addison on the subject had become a sore spot between them. Addison did not understand it. To be a bargaining chip in her lord father’s politics, to be bought and fucked by some lordling or another to House Tarbeck’s advantage, it was not a thing she found flattering at all, and certainly nothing for Alyx to envy.

“How much longer until Summerhall do you think?” she asked, looking to change the subject of their conversation.

“Hard to say, my lady,” Robb answered easily, dismounting as Florian stooped to drink alongside his sister, “but I think us close now. It should be no more than a few days. I reckon we could make it in a day or two if we rode ahead of the procession.”

“I would not wish to rush the journey.”

“No? You mislike the thought of a touney?” Robb asked. “It’s been some years, but when I ran the tilts I could scarcely find a lady who did not love to be and be seen there.”

“You mean you could scarcely find a lady who did not love to be and be seen there with you?”

“I am sure there were a few among them who felt as much,” Robb said, warily almost, and he indicated the white brocade doublet he wore, “but circumstances are long changed since then.” He always wore white these days, during his ministrations and outside them. He did not wear the flowing robes of a septon, though, but rather the fashionable garb of court, and he still cut a good figure. Alyx had told Addison that Robb had been a rake of a man in his day and had put many a young woman to the end of his lance before he took the white. Addison had scolded her something harsh for that wanton gossip, but there was something titillating about it.

“I am sure,” she said, intoning that she was not so sure at all, and she squeezed her drying foot back into her riding boot and made to mount up again.

“You are entirely too bold, my lady,” Robb accused, and she hid a smirk.

“I say it is one of the things I rather like most about myself.”

The procession of House Tarbeck was heralded by a dozen fluttering blue-and-silver banners bearing the seven pointed star, and it stretched quite a distance on the road to Summerhall. Robb traveled light, as a septon should, he said. His possessions took up space in but part of a single carriage. Addison wondered if he might not have been able to take all his possessions with him by horse if he so liked. Her lord father, however, took a dozen carriages and wagons to transport them, family and servants alike, and her lord uncle, Josmyn Breakjaw, least liked of the brothers Tarbeck and ever a bitter, competitive sort, took another dozen.

The Breakjaw’s two sons, each a few years older than her, were the first to greet them. Axell and Arys were wheeling around each other on horse, trading blows with practice steels by the morning light. Arys turned to give them a wave and a shout to meet them as they emerged from the wood, but as he did so, Axell took advantage of his lapse in attention and caught him under the shield with the flat of his blade. It seemed the wind was knocked from Arys then, and the man was still sputtering curses as their bout took a sudden and more violent turn.

“I hear they are to be knighted this tourney,” Addison spoke as they passed. “Your brother the Breakjaw means to have Daemon Blackfyre anoint them himself, so I hear. Pray tell, would you consider them great knights?”

“I am sure they will both serve your lord father well and true, my lady,” Robb said.

“That is not what I asked.”

“I rather think it is, my lady,” Robb answered. “What does it mean to be a great knight? To serve true and well, those are the qualities I would seek in my household knights if I were your father.” He shifted in his saddle, looking over his shoulder to view the two young men all the same. “But to your point, so as not to frustrate you, I find Arys promising, if too eager to hide behind his shield. Axell is cunning and daring but,” he assessed, giving thought to the word, “unfocused. Even reckless, I may say.”

“So you find one to be lacking for caution, and the other to be lacking for lack thereof?” Addison asked. “You seem a hard man to please, mine uncle.”

“Not at all, my lady, it is quite easy to have to too much of one or the other.”

They came then alongside her lady mother’s carriage, and Addison announced her presence with a call. The Lady Tarbeck slid the window of the carriage door open and, finding the resultant window space to be insufficient to revel in the beautiful morning’s light, she pushed the carriage door open entirely and was content to ride with it flung clear. She stood, half hanging out of the carriage now with feet perched on the edge and a hand holding the topmost edge of the frame to keep her from tumbling out and under the wheels, thin, blue-silver nightgown fluttering in the light breeze and making a show of what was a comely body after bearing three children. Addison grimaced, wondering what might become of her body after a child or two.

“My lady Jeyne,” Robb greeted her with a solemn nod. “I do fear for your safety at such a precarious angle.”

“Oh come off it, Robb, you are always fearing for my safety,” she burst with laughter. “I am not so delicate even at my age that I cannot have a bit of fun, am I, dear daughter?” Addison shook her head in answer. “Tell me, Addison mine,” her mother said, reaching out to stroke her cheek as Addison drew close on Jonquil, “where is your sister? I have asked you time and again to help me make a proper lady of that girl and I do not see that she is benefitting from your tutelage at this time.”

“I’m sorry, mother, I have not seen her this morn, but we will find her,” Addison offered, looking to Robb, who nodded in agreement.

“Oh, I daresay she’s slipped away to join the hunt with your lord father, hasn’t she? I was quite content to sew a pillow in my youth,” the Lady Jeyne said, “but with that one it seems she can’t get enough of the blood and guts and gore. Mother guide me, I know not where she gets it, Robb, I do swear.” She pinched at her temples with her free hand, pausing in the midst of her stream of words. Her mother was always like this – she spoke fast and eloquently and was so clever and likable. Addison wished very much to be like her. “Now that I speak of it, Robb, do you have any of that salt pork? Your brother did try to rouse me this morn but I would not have it, and I quite slept through this morning’s meal. I swear, I think I could eat Jonquil here if I wished it.” She brushed the horse’s mane, and Jonquil gave a soft whinny, seemingly unconcerned about such a dire threat to her life.

Robb, chuckling lightly, drew closer on Florian and passed a pouch to her. “There you are lady, all yours. Should I send for Sarella?” she asked, referring to her lady mother’s principal serving woman.

“No, don’t bother her, I can certainly wait until we stop midday. Just needed something to tide me over.” Lady Jeyne set her sights on Addison then. “Now shoo, go find your sister and make a proper maiden out of her, would you?”

A burdensome request, in Addison’s view, but she would do her duty.

The last of the journey was mostly behind them. It had been nothing but heat near the capital, humid in a way country around King’s Landing was not. Ser Silence had been dutiful and very alert, there was little Celena could have argued with except for the fact that he’d spent far too much time minding the luggage and the transportation than she liked. If someone had jumped out at her from the haze of city-dwellers, he would have been late to act.

Instead, she had left Ser Silence in the outer yards of the Red Keep as a servant led Celena away shortly after their arrival into the castle in the late stretch of the morning. She returned to the horses and cart with its luggage and Ser Silence not even hour before twilight. She apologized for the late hour and recommended a nearby inn a member of the Small Council had recommended.

There was someone in the small stable of the inn when they arrived. Seemed more road weary than the average servant, and Celena introduced herself in order to reveal the lad’s name: Dunc, he said, from Flea Bottom. Then he paused, like he was thinking hard on something...like maybe he didn’t have to admit he was from Flea Bottom?

It was a curiously transparent tick from the child, and it seemed to decide it for the Lioness then and there, but she continued the questioning. He said he was a squire to Ser Arlan of Pennytree. Celena left him with a smile and a silver coin, asking him to also look over their wagon while he was occupying the stable. The excitement in the boy’s face shined almost as much as the silver coin in his dirty hand.

The Knight gave her looks, but she professed innocence. Halfway through a meal of peppered meat pies and ale Celena excused herself from the table—not that she went from. She simply moved across the room and started up a conversation with an older man with short-cropped salt and pepper hair, lean but with a look of strength, wearing brown riding leathers. In her simple dulled blue cotton dress with silk sleeves and a dark brown traveler’s cloak, the Lady caught the older man by surprise.

Eventually Celena went back for her ale, but returned to the man, Ser Arlan. The two talked on and on, though it was mostly Ser Arlan that did the talking. Old men love telling tales to pretty faces, it seemed, and Celena wasn’t stopping him. When it was over she bid the man goodnight as he retreated for the night, the innkeeper’s son met her at her table, Ser Markus having had more than a few ales in her absence to pass the time. She paid the son, tipped, and informed Ser Markus of the news:

The kid from the stable? Would be coming with them. Ser Arlan had business pop up with the gold Celena paid him for the boy’s services. She said it, aloud, to Ser Markus that the gold was for a down payment of services rendered. Should the squire’s term of service be ended prematurely, the risk was entirely on Celena, having already paid Ser Arlan.

It was the Braavosi in Celena. It’s not slavery, see? He can leave any time he wants. But we could use the extra hand. Ser Markus seemed too happy with the ale to care, or more likely, was pleased to have someone to tend to the horses and cart and luggage. The rest of the evening was uneventful, and the next morning they left so early they had to wait on the City Watch to open the gate. They took the Kingsroad most the way until Bronzegate, then skirted the southern edge of the Kingswood. By mid-day they weren’t alone, and Celena asked the ten or so years old squire about some of the banners they saw of the noble traveling parties along the way, all of them passing them by as they went much faster with their wheelhouses and horde of escorts moving quickly, giving dangerous side-eyes to every dirty face they passed. Even poor Ser Markus got quite the look.

Suffice it to say, the child the size of most young men was bad at memorizing Westerosi noble houses and their coat-of-arms. When Dunc asked about tents after looking over the cart and what it stored, Celena waved a hand in the air. She’d already arranged and paid for tents. Lady Dondarrion had insisted Celena let her take care of everything, just send the gold. It was a kind offer, the debt forgiveness sought by Blackhaven from the lone Iron Bank Keyholder in Westeros surely, Celena thought, had nothing to do with the kind offer.
Surely.

From city walls to a trip through a forest, getting properly rained on as they went through that forest, to skirting the southern end of the forest and hitting village after little village of hunters and farmers, to the end of the forest beside them and open plain becoming slow rolling hills. Soon enough the road was half-tournament itself as the open plain become narrower valleys between steeper grassy uplands, the Dornish Marches now upon them. As soon as they hit the Marches it was nearly time to branch off and follow the lively crowds of merchant and commonfolk and noble born alike.

Licks of orange and purple threatened the late afternoon sky with evening as they finally made it over the last hill and into the clearing of Summerhall proper, tents of seemingly every size and shape and color laid out before them like a city of cloth. The Free Cities had little parallel to the Great Tournaments, and although Celena hated to attend, she’d promised her cousin. Even Celena of Braavos had to respect where she had come from, and so Lady Lorelai Lannister’s plea was met with a promise that she would be present.

There were two tents, near a small birch tree, and only a few tent rows from the nearest road. One was red, almost Lannister red, but a darker shade that seemed to Celena to give it a bloodier look. She liked it. It was three sections, a large open middle and two small ‘wings’ that could have curtains drawn down over their openings for privacy. Basin, bed, even some tables and chairs thrown in, a small brazier if the autumn mornings and evenings proved too chilly in the shadow of the Red Mountains.

The other was a smaller tent. Large for a tent, but no separated spaces. Ser Markus and the boy, Dunc, would have to grin and bear it. The boy seemed more than happy it, and Ser Markus seemed surprised she had provided him an actual bed, even if a smaller size than he might have preferred. Dunc was happy with his sleeping roll and a corner spot. Each tent was left with a basket of fruits and breads and cheeses, and though Dunc would wander for hours, Celena just seemed to make-do with cheese and fruit for her evening meal.

The next morning she dressed and sought out the chest the two men had left in her tent. For the first time this side of the Narrow Sea, the key was entered and the lock disengaged with a heavy click. The lid was carefully, quietly, lifted and Celena sighed at the blade in it’s scabbard. How Celena Lannister wanted to melee and fight. The sheer reaction she’d get. The looks on the faces of these Westerosi. It was as lovely a thought as it was short-lived. The iron key was placed around her neck with the gold chain, instead, and the trunk was closed and locked again.

Her dreams, her heart were all back in Braavos. All she had in Westeros was business, and suddenly, early as it was, she was in a mood to get straight to it. Let Ser Silence and the tall boy sleep in.

Outside the walls of Summerhall, a small field of crimson and gold was being erected. The host of House Lannister had arrived. Their journey had taken them through the Goldroad, stopping frequently and gaining size as the procession grew larger, with other houses of the Westerlands joining their overlords. Among their banners when they finally reached Summerhall, they counted Lefford, Lydden, Reyne, Brax, Westerling and more. Tytos did not care for the action of tourneys, but the opportunity they provided for gathering together lords of the realm would always make them a valuable occasion. Ravens had been sent to all houses of the Westerlands months prior to the journey, inviting them to join the procession through the Goldroad. An intended display of strength and of unity, made plain for all the realm upon their joint arrival.

Halfway-completed tents were arranged in a rectangular arrangement, allowing naturally for a central walkway that would pass by all tents and lead to what was not only the largest, but also the only presently completed tent. This ‘hub’, composed only of tents for House Lannister, was to serve as the central location for all lords of the Westerlands that had staked their tents nearby, creating in effect a ‘westerlands quarter’ of the tourney-grounds. Crates of fabric were hauled by ox, tent poles carried by servants and household guards alike, furniture moved, and oak planks laid for tent flooring. The grass had already been killed by the trudging of boots, starting to brown and the soil beneath soften. It would turn to mud, soon enough.

Outside the completed tent, two posted guards maintained a quiet vigil, an island of calm amidst the chaos of busywork elsewhere. The tent was divided into four compartments - a large middle-section intended for audiences, with smaller and more private extensions to the left, right and rear, their interiors concealed by hanging curtains at the entrances. There could be no doubt of who the tent belonged to. Miniature golden lions rampant against the crimson fabric of the tent, golden frills adorning the corners and two sigils of House Lannister planted firmly in the ground by either side of the tent opening. This, for the coming days, was to be the seat of Lord Tytos Lannister.

Within, the furnishings were a touch more modest, but comfortable. Rugs laid across the wooden floorings, cushioned chairs, basins, golden braziers and storage trunks created a homely environment in the main tent. One item that particularly commanded attention was the display of Tytos’ personal armour. Plate of darkened steel over a crimson gambeson, the black cuirass had a design of golden lions and floral arrangements. The face of proud lions sat on each pauldron, and a belt of red leather was tied across the waist, supporting the sheath of a blade. A bolt of crimson cloth lay across the left-side of the armour, tucked underneath the leather belt and draping down to cover the armoured legplates. It was a display of wealth, and of skilled craftsmanship.

The other central furnishing in the middle section of the tent, was a large square table of dark oak. Bowls of fresh fruit, five-armed candle holders, and golden decanters with matching wine cups cluttered the table. Around the table, a gathering of lords made a toast.

There was the small, podgy lord of the Golden Tooth and the only man present who enjoyed the colour gold more than the Lannisters. The young patriarch of House Westerling, brother to the wife of Tytos’ own son and heir. The black-haired lord of Turnberry, adorned in his house colours of green and red. Other lords among them included those of Reyne, Brax and Lefford. Only one man stood without a cup, at the head of the table. Golden hair that had begun to turn silver was brushed neatly back, flowing behind his ears. His beard was well-groomed, though streaks of white were most noticeable around his chin and mustache. His face - of sharp cheekbones, and a straight nose - held a quiet intensity, and he stood proudly with a straight back, and tall. There was no mistaking that this was Tytos Lannister, patriarch of the house and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. In contrast to his lavish surroundings, the clothes he wore were simple, and practical. A long jacket of black leather, with plain trousers and leather boots, both also black. A red neckscarf around his neck, and the golden brooch of a roaring lion on his left shoulder.

Some closing remarks were said to the assembled lords, who began to file out of the tent thereafter, leaving only three men present.

“She has been seen.” He had waited until all others were out of earshot before beginning the conversation. Raynald Garner, the red-haired second son of a minor house, had made good standing in the Westerlands. He acted as the most trusted adviser to Lord Tytos, and was said to maintain a network of informants throughout the Westerlands - and beyond. “Celena Lannister. The lost daughter.”

Tytos moved to warm his hands by a brazier. He was always first to feel the cold. “And we are still in the dark. We do not know her motive, where she has been, why she is here.”, a pause. “If it even is her, and not some falsehood.”

“A beggar, here to lay claim to Lannisport.”, offered Ser Vikary. A stocky, well-built master-at-arms with lips creased in a near-permanent frown. If Raynald was the adviser, Vikary was the enforcer.

Raynald threw a hand dismissively. “If that was her intent, we would know by now.”

“Then why else come here? A gathering of all great lords in the realm? She’s here to stake claim. She’s after the city.”, Vikary retorted. The men continued to bicker a while longer, before words from Tytos silenced the pair.

“There is but one way to know for certain, and it is not by gossiping as fish wives.”, his pale green eyes rose from the brazier to Vikary. “Take some men, and seek her. I doubt a golden-haired Lannister will be beyond your means to find. Bring her here.”, his attention returned to the brazier. “I will find the truth of this myself.”

---

Loreon rode at the head of a small group as they approached the foothills of Red Mountains, and the palace of Summerhall. His black destrier - Midnight - felt tense. “Easy, boy.”, he said with a firm pat against the neck. It was unlikely the horse had been spooked by anything in particular. More likely, was that the steed could feel the tension of his rider. It was not the upcoming tourney that filled the young lion with apprehension, no, he had fought in a half-dozen this past season alone. Nor was it the royal audience in attendance. Instead, this was to be the first reunion with his family in near two winters. He had missed them, in truth, and written to his favored sibling - Leona - to tell tales of his travels, but she had never been able to return correspondence. After all, he could not remember the last time he had stayed idle in one spot for more than a week or two, at most. Perhaps, from this tourney, he would not go so long without visiting the Rock.

“Nervous, aren’t you.” Jon Heddle, a knight of very minor nobility, if it could even be called such, was one of the few competitors Loreon had befriended. The two had even become traveling companions, and had been for three winters now. If Loreon remembered properly, Jon’s family owned a popular crossroads inn, and that was the extent of their land. Smallfolk, in all but name, but he didn’t mind. Jon was better company than most.

Loreon offered no reply to the jest.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your sister.”, Jon continued.

That did provoke a reaction. Loreon twisted in his saddle to look back at the dirt-covered knight. Cleanliness with such constant travel was, admittedly, difficult. His eyes of deep green met the blue of Jon in a silent stare, that was soonafter broken by an amused huff from the lion. He returned his attention forward.

“Good luck.”, Loreon offered in a pointed tease. His sister had always been, in his mind, the most dangerous of the three siblings.

The group continued to trot comfortably forward to the tourney grounds, a few other knights alongside Ser Jon. They were engaged in energetic discussion, and Loreon caught pieces of it here and there. Who would best who, which lady they would crown the queen of love and beauty, and who they would bed. The usual.

Loreon had won more tourneys than the rest of his companions combined - though Ser Jon had bested him once or twice. He had built a reputation, and with it came expectation. Loreon did not intend to disappoint the House of Lannister, nor the Princess Nyla Martell, who’s favour he would surely carry. The pair had only fleeting encounters, though it had become something of a tradition between the two that she would grant him her favour. Perhaps this was to be the tourney that would bring him a victory under her favour, for the first time.

Starting to move through the tourney grounds proper, the makeshift roads and paths became busier and their progress slowed. Knights and squires, servants constructing tents, carts with materials, smallfolk peddling goods. He enjoyed the chaos of it - and, more than this, Loreon enjoyed the attention afforded to him. His armor had always turned heads.

A suit of plated steel, enameled with pure gold and constrasted by a heavy cloak of crimson. There could be no doubt to any who saw him, that this was a Lannister of the Rock. Even the hilt of his blade was gilded. Beneath the plate, visible at the joints of his arms and neck, was the black gambeson he wore underneath. His helmet, hanging by the side of his horse, was the mouth of a roaring lion with two pronounced teeth at the roof of the mouth. Unlike the rest of his troupe, Loreon took care in the polishing and cleaning of his armor - and the sheen of his plate glittered like a thousand stars in the reflection of the sun. The clasps of his plate were also gilded - but no ordinary clasps. They were fashioned as miniature lions, prepared to pounce. His belt of crimson leather was bejeweled with rubies.

Yes, the Lion of Lannister had arrived at Summerhall, and he made for the tents of his family.

---

---

From a roll of bone, rose a raucous roar, followed by a drunken curse. A short ride from Summerhall, the castle town’s inns hosted a great number of expectant knights and tourney attendees, packing the taverns full to bursting. Ale flowed free, and gambling ran hot as men tested their fortunes on games of dice and tiles. Here, amidst the rough folk, far afield from the suffocating mask of the castle grounds, famed hero Ser Quentyn Ball, oft named Fireball bounced a half-dressed tavern maid on his knee. Wielding a rapidly draining tankard of best brown ale in his four fingered left hand, he tossed carven bone di in his other, all drunken mirth and wild as a youthful buck. A distant picture of the chivalrous knight ladies dreamed of from the fables, Fireball demonstrated himself more than willing to fraternize with these men, and banter with the best of them. Surrounded by over a score of hedge knights and squires he played a competitive game, finding many to be far more a match than those he faced in the Targaryen court. Losing a particularly costly round he tossed away his unlucky bones reaching for his tankard and downing the half pint in one go, letting the alcohol carry away the worries of lost silver lining the pockets of more skilled players. The comfortable atmosphere helped him relax, relieving the dark thoughts that had plagued his mind these past years. The scent of roasted pork, the cheery repartee of good company, and the gentle warmth of a beautiful woman occupying his lap. All worked to loosen his tongue and share tales of his youth, not that it took much loosening.

“Where was I? Oh aye. There I was, in the midst of that Dornish ambush near abouts Kingsgrave, a few leagues south of the marches. Naught but a broken lance in hand and a dirk in my belt. A boy of ten and four, and lost in the moment of it all. Never seen anything quite like it. There were near two hundred Dornish riders, all dressed up in orange and green and purple, fast as deer and fierce as lions. Part of Lord Yronwood’s vanguard. They snuck around our outriders and fell on our flanks, scattering the footmen reserves to the winds, leaving none but the three Kingsguard and ten knights to defend the King. His honor guard, and all that was left to see him through that fateful hour. What a day for the songs it was. Every man there fought like the Warrior himself, all while the greater battle raged below the ridge. I remember Ser Grell wielding his mace in a bloody dance. Ser Swann, whose axe alone claimed three Dornishmen, and whose horse slew a fourth. I was squiring for Ser Farman of the Kingsguard, and no greater man could a boy hope to squire for. He was a blur of blade and cloak, soon more red than white. The seven hells were packed in the evening hours, and many met the Stranger with the name Farman on their lips. He slew six Dornishmen and his lance had shattered on the last. He rode to me and demanded another, and he rode out again. Not hesitating or fearing death for a moment.” Fireball’s eyes were distant, lost in the memory of a battle long passed. He drew again from his drink, watching as his opponent rolled dice, once and again. Knowing he was keeping the eager spectators in suspense he continued his tale, his voice growing ever more somber. Fireball could weave an excellent yarn, and his deep baritone wielded an inviting tone that drew the listener in. The men about him were hushed, enamored by this retelling. Leaning forward they hung onto every word as if it were gospel from the High Septon himself. “He met his fate with the seventh man he faced… Baleysh the Vast they called him, descended of giants they said and I would believe it. Dornishmen should not grow that tall and strong, but he did. And he felled brave Ser Farman in a single blow, cleaving the white helm in twain. I cried out as my knight perished, whether of fear or anger I remember not. The good knight must have been dead before he struck the ground so deep set was the giant’s axe. When Ser Farman died the line was broken not but for a second, closed again by the whirling melee, yet it was enough for the giant to slip through and advance upon the King himself. Aegon, fearless noble Aegon would not be intimidated, but even a dragon proved little match for such a foe. He was knocked from his horse and disarmed. Baleysh was on him in a heartbeat, to capture or kill I cannot say. Perhaps he fancied himself a king slayer, mayhap all he desired was the glory of forcing the King to yield. Whatever his intentions, it was not his day for such a prize.”

“What happened next?” A squire asked, utterly enraptured by the narrative. No doubt he already knew, this one was a popular story for young lordlings eager to imagine themselves on a distant battlefield, the last line of defense for the King himself. Such were the childhood fantasies of young men, whose minds were all of battle and blood. To hear it from Fireball himself though who lived those very acts of valor, that was worthy of its own story and Fireball was more than happy to oblige them, eventually.

“I intervened.” He said with a grin. Ignoring the impatient groans of his audience he tapped a copper coin on the table calling for another drink. “Storytelling is thirsty work.” He protested as a few of the rowdier patrons jostled him to continue.

“Best save your coin.” One of his dice opponents chuckled as he rolled well once again. “You’ll owe it all to me soon enough.”

Waving their protests and jabs away Fireball tortured them for a minute more until his tankard was filled and the maid was paid. “Alright, alright let’s see… I recall it well, the lance Ser Farman handed me had shattered in such a way that it left a jagged point. Even as the king fell from his steed, I forgot all reason of self-preservation and ran the giant’s horse through. Straight into its hearts. I was strong, even as a boy and the wood bit deep. What a powerful destrier it must have been, a shame it had to die. It launched the giant up into the air, away, away with its death throes and he fell. I swear upon the Father it caused the earth itself to tremble when he crashed upon the dirt. Up he came with a roar like a lion, barely a heartbeat after he fell as if it hadn’t happened at all. He rose in a fury unmatched and raised his axe to do me in. I tell you true, I had no desire to die. I drew my dirk and made as if to parry his blow, and what a fool I was to think I could. The power that man possessed… Like the strike of a bear, it cut through the steel of my knife’s guard and took my finger, near enough my entire sword hand.” Fireball lifted his left hand to show all present, where a terrible scar remained. Unseemly white skin pulled taunt over where his left pointer once resided. The wound cast a spell over the audience, as all present gapped at it, trying to imagine the terrible scene in their mind’s eye. The desperation and ferocity of the mismatched fight, as a boy made his final stand against a terrifying foe. The evidence made it all seem more real. Fireball wasn’t done, not here and not in the story. His pitch grew louder, more intense and triumphant as the tale drew towards its glorious conclusion.

“I collapsed; my own blade driven into my helmet by the force of it. My knees simply could not hold me upright under enduring his wrath. He must have thought he had done me the same as Ser Farman, because he stepped right over me. Not a second glance towards the boy who had killed his mount. A word of advice lads, this is why you always ensure the man you face is dead or done. Underestimate no foe, no matter how small for death resides in carelessness. I freed my knife and cut straight through his breeches as he passed. A cock the size of my arm fell from him, and a spray of blood blinded me, and oh you should have heard him scream. You see, the thing about Dornishmen is, they love their fighting as much as they love their fucking. And when they aren’t fighting their fucking, and I had just made a great many women down in Sunspear very sad. For the giant was now a eunuch and bleeding like a stuck pig. Not that it slowed him down, or weakened him. A wound that would cut the fight from most men just made him angrier. He picked me up by the throat as if I weighed no more than a feather, intending to snap my neck with a twist of his hand. The Mother smiled on me that day, for after six buckets of blood drained from his sliced groin the strength faded from his arms, and I thrust my dirk beneath his helmet, straight unto his dark eyes. He died then, at long last and the day was won. The Dornishmen routed by a charge of Vale knights and the giant lay slain at my feet.” His tale concluded Fireball grabbed the girl upon his lap and kissed her and the men cheered raising their tankards in salute they drank deeply.

“To dead Dornishmen and soiled Dornishwomen!” One knight called to a roar of approval.

Watch your tongues, lest the Prince cut them out.” Cautioned another who had witnessed Maekar's justice.

“Wait… I heard you used Blackfyre to slay the giant.” A squire protested when the ruckus died down and Fireball broke away from his woman. “You took up the King’s sword and defended him, lopping off the monster’s head in a single blow.” A few murmurs rose up as men considered their own favorite retellings of that day.

“I lopped off a head of his with a single blow,” Fireball jested into his drink, foam clinging to his red beard as he rumbled a laugh at the lad’s disappointed face. The boy’s version did sound more worthy of the songs, but rarely did Fireball exaggerate. He never needed to; others would do that for him. “Just not that one, and not with the King’s sword. Nay, I castrated Baleysh and he bled out. Near crushed me when he collapsed, but King Aegon pulled me out from under the corpse. Gave me a knighthood that very day before all the army, but I didn’t feel much the knight.”

“No? You had saved the King. Such an act is worthy of knighthood most would say.” Came the inquiry.

“Aye, that I did.” Fireball’s dice opponent was waiting expectantly. He shook the cubes, raising his clenched fist for the woman in his lap to blow upon them. The roll was followed by the expectant moan as Fireball’s terrible luck continued. He mused for a moment, listening to the crackling of the fire and the excitable conversation all around. The truth of it was rarely as pretty as the singers claimed. Luck more than skill had brought him alive through that day, fortune he should never have possessed. After all the retellings, with the events of the battle still burned into his memory and dreams, he could not fathom how he managed to survive. He could still recall the terrible strength, as the fingers closed tight around him throat. Blinded by the giant’s blood he kicked and fought to no avail. The desperate slashing of his knife scraping uselessly off the steel helm as he squirmed helpless like a mouse caught in a lion’s jaws. The wash of relief when his blade sank home, and the power in those arms suddenly receded like the tide as they fell in a heap of blood and metal. He shook the memory away like dog drying itself from a swim, a wry grin on his lips. “The truth of it is, while the King charged me to be brave in the name of the Warrior, I still stank of mine own piss.”

The unexpected line brought a peal of drunken laughter as the men and boys rolled about on the dirt floor, unable to contain themselves at the thought of the legendary figure pissing himself out of terror. That would be a story to share with their grandchildren. It was no loss to him, and one day they might find encouragement in the knowledge that even heroes felt fear in those crucial moments. Fireball joined in on the banter as a few other experienced warriors shared the stories of their first battle. None of course could top slaying the giant of Dorne and saving the king, but that is what separated the wheat from the chaff. The ability to seize opportunity when it came, and Fireball did not waste a moment. Cheering for victories of all the men around him, no matter how small. Raising spirits and building rapport and memorizing names, he had always been good at that. He never forgot a face and the name attached. When the hours grew long, and Fireball deep into his cups felt his purse grow worryingly light he called off his game conceding defeat to the better players. “Away with you robbers, or I shall have no coin left for the lists. I exhausted all my luck years ago clearly.” He threw away the dice and took one last draw of his empty tankard, catching a few stray drops on his tongue.

One man, a younger and cocksure fellow counted out his winnings, smug in his victory he bantered boldly with the elder warrior. “Say, my Lord Fireball, should I bet these on you in the joust? I assume your lance is better than your di.”

“I am no lord, merely a knight such as yourself. However, on that final point you can be certain pup. My lance never misses its mark.” Fireball stood and stretched; his muscular arms crossed behind his head until the old joints popped to his satisfaction. He had lost track of the hour, and his family would be arriving soon at the height of the afternoon sun. Summerhall was a good half hour ride away and he wouldn’t want to miss them. “Save your coin for another, lad, I intend to allow some other champion a chance at victory this time. I cannot win every tourney, or else the bets grow stale don’t you know? No, these next few days I intend to relax and spend some time with my kinfolk, whom I rarely see these days. I’ve swung enough swords and lances in my day to sate my lust for such activity. Though I wish you all good fortune, and the Warrior’s courage and Father’s strength.” There were other reasons he would not be participating, namely he did not have the time. There were a great many conversations to be had, lords to meet, hedge knights to rally, but that he left unsaid. He leaned close, his voice lowering so that he only spoke to those present, the dozen or so still listening. His words lost their slur, and though his breath stank of alcohol his voice held a certainty you would not hear from a drunk. He turned his emerald gaze on each in turn, making them feel known and respected. “Lads, if you do want someone upon which to risk everything, I would wager every last copper on Blackfyre. You can take that, as the word of Fireball.”

Straightening he adjusted his sword and kissed the maid one last time before swaggering from the tavern, steady and straight as an arrow, as if he hadn’t drank a single drop.

Marching, Markus could handle. He had done it much the last decade, and he would likely march until a blade cut his life short one day. As it were, he did not mind being paid to do it. And so he and the lady Lannister had made great haste to the tourney, with a new companion in tow. A hulk of a lad with a dumb expression and a willingness to please. Could be worse, Markus knew. Could be one of Celena's cousins. Truth be told, he had never liked Lannisters. From his admittedly short exposure to them over the years, they had always seemed too golden for his liking. Undeniably arrogant with nothing to back it up save money, and something about the way they spoke made him feel like he was covered in sword oil.

Celena was an exception, however. A pleasant surprise to the sellsword. She was an outcast just as he was, and though she had the same money as other Lannisters, she had deigned to give him a bit of it which helped his opinion of her immensely. So far it had been a relatively easy job as well. A lot of walking, a lot of standing in front of doors while she made secret deals, a lot of drinking, even sometimes together. He found he enjoyed her presence, which was the last thing he had expected. They hadn't bandied many words, but Markus had never been one for long conversations unless he was with an old friend or lover, and Celena was neither. But a business relationship suited them, he thought.

Now they found themselves in Summerhall of all places, at the tourney grounds where plump lords and simpering courtiers watched as the more daring of their lot shed money and paid in blood. Markus had not yet decided on his bet for the jousting, but once their tents were set up and he had grabbed a good night's rest, he'd find a drink and some beef and get to that. As it were, the sellsword groaned in bed, and thanked the seven Celena had provided him one. The bloody Red Keep was certainly new to him, but a bed being provided on road was something he could get used to. Sliding out from under the covers, he passed the snoring Dunc and opened the flap, letting the daylight of the early morn filter in as he stepped over behind a tree, dropping his trousers.

Markus was a rugged, well built and lean man with a stubble and a mane of dark hair that caught a few maidens eyes, but he never really had a penchant for dressing up or capitalizing on it. He relieved himself beside the tree and sighed contentedly. As his luck demanded, a courtier galloped by on a mare, likely carrying an unimportant message but treating it with the importance of a royal death. He dropped his jaw when he saw Markus's bare front, his face betraying his thoughts of telling him to be decent or to simply leave and gossip of it later.

"Jealousy does not become you," Markus grumbled wryly, and with a huff the fellow in red livery galloped away contemptuously. Yawning, the mercenary pulled his trousers up and went into the tent to gather his normal apparel and weapon, strapping it all on with practiced efficiency. They weren't hauling anything, so Dunc's position needn't be amended. Rather, Markus didn't want to wake the boy up, glad to pretend the tent was private for the moment. A scant minute passed, and he stepped out into the world, the lumbering beast he had been when arousing had been replaced with a panther-like grace as he strode towards Celena's tent, intent on finding out the schedule for the day.

Rather than step in, however, he merely took his position at the front of her quarters. The paymaster would come out when she was ready, and even if it would be a pretty sight, he had no intention of drawing her ire by walking into her tent while she was indecent. He also found he respected her too much for that, as well. Instead, he gazed wolfishly out at the tourney grounds and the myriad of retainers hustling past them as if their lives depended on it. Considering all of the pompous charlatans and their delicate tempers, some of them just might have their lives threatened by the end of the day.

---

Arron had not presumed to understand the world he lived in, but he found the depths of his ignorance deeper than expected on their arrival at Wyl. Not only was House Wyl willing to listen to Qosaerys’s offer, they were eager. Arron had expected an audience at one of his cousins’ holdfasts, to secure a small but strong line of spears for the Brave Companions and their Captain-General. On stepping to dry land at the Port of Wyl, though, they were received by an honor guard which welcomed them and escorted them directly to Lord Wyl’s audience chamber. Arron did none of the talking – Qosaerys, met with the opportunity to bring his tongue to bear, gave quite the presentation to the lord and his advisors.

They walked out of Wyl with a commitment for two hundred spears and twenty Dornish knights drawn from Wyl’s holdings.

The bulk of this new force remained behind at the Port of Wyl, organizing the raising of the spears and knights under the leadership of Ser Qyle Wyl, second son to Lord Wyl. Qosaerys, with some sort of mercenary business to conduct at Summerhall, left the Brave Companions at port under Black Drazenka’s command and brought his captains, Arron and a few of the Dornish knights immediately available with him on the journey. Arron had little and less in common with his new mercenary associates, but Qosaerys gave him his pick of the knights to accompany them, and he found some old friends among the Brave Companions’ new sell-knights, as Qosaerys had come to call them.

First among those was Ser Gerold Manwoody, one of Lord Wyl’s household knights and sworn swords. He was the oldest of them, ten years Arron’s senior, and in years past had mentored the would-be knights of Lord Wyl’s court in the use of sword and spear. He was, as ever, an unsmiling, humorless man, but he was dutiful and loyal and, as Arron could attest, was good to knock a man down if it came to it. He was shorter than Arron, who had grown like a weed in the long years since he spent time at Wyl, but Gerold was broader, heavier, stouter, harder. He was not a man Arron with whom would wish to cross swords.

Second was Ryon Sand, who men called the White Hawk of Skyreach. Ryon was not a knight, but he was the best sword and spear among them all the same. Quick as a viper with a blade and more vicious still, Ryon Sand was a dangerous man who had won no less than eight duels before Arron departed for the Free Cities and two more since then. Half of those were to defend the honor of his trueborn half-sister, Jynessa Fowler, who, as Arron understood it, had kept her honor more for Ryon’s skill with a sword than for her own choices. Though Arron was a Wyl, one could confuse them for brothers. They had both been towheaded boys in their youth, and when they had sparred in the yards there had been scarce a man who could tell them apart. Arron had since grown a short and unkempt beard of wiry, sandy blonde, while Ryon seemed incapable of growing a hair below his brow, and Arron’s time at sea and east had tanned his fair skin to a coppery bronze, but they still looked alike. Arron lacked for Ryon’s easy confidence, though, and might well have smiled as often as unsmiling Ser Gerold in comparison to the White Hawk’s oft flashed grin.

Last of the three freeriders who joined Arron was Ser Ulrick Uller, an unlanded knight from Hellholt who had found employ as a household guard to Arron’s relations at the Port of Wyl. Darker in complexion than the other freeriders, which bespoke his southern Dornish heritage, he was marked with vicious scars to his face, one of which had robbed him of his left eye. Ulrick One-Eye, as men called him behind his back, had a fearsome countenance for it. Rather than wearing an eyepatch, a ball of gilded steel had been set in the empty socket. He was, to say the least, discomforting to look upon. Contrary to appearances, though, Ser Ulrick was the most likable of the group. Ser Gerold was a man of few words and Ryon was quick tempered, unforgiving and unpredictable, but Ser Ulrick, in spite of the ill turns life had taken for him, was friendly, jovial, and quick to make a good joke, and he held little against anyone.

Unless it was about his eye.

Altogether, Arron and his freeriders were a bevy of second sons, bastards and distant relations, all of them unlanded but ambitious and talented.

Arron and his new Dornish freeriders made up a third of the Brave Companions’ delegation to Summerhall, not counting a dozen servants and attendants they’d brought along. Captain-General Nycarro Qosaerys rode just behind his standard bearer, who flew the black goat flag of the Brave Companions at the procession’s head, and Jon of Hull, a Westerosi hedge knight and the First Sword of the Brave Companions. His captains rode with him – there was Orratis, the captain of the Companions’ Myrish crossbow component, who Arron had never seen without a plug of sourleaf between his teeth, and beside him Votys, who hailed from Norvos and led the Brave Companions’ infantry with his great bearded axe in hand. Each of them was accompanied by their own men, one or two apiece. Yezdhan zo Yaggaz, the Yunkishman, and Oranasio, a man of Braavos, were sergeants under Votys, and Arron thought Orratis’s man was named Thoroq, but he didn’t know much more than that.

Then there was Donnor Greyiron, the grizzled seafaring veteran who claimed descent from that extinct line of ironborn kings, who was captain of the Salt Wolf, one of Qosaerys’s sellsail ships. Calder Pyke, Greyiron’s second, captained the Salt Wolf’s sister ship, Blackcap, and rode in step with him. Orratis and Votys were not unlike Qosaerys, though they did not have the same boisterous personality, but these two stood in stark contrast to the gallant sellsword captain-general. They were hard men, killers, as were their sellsail crews.

On the whole, the Brave Companions were an ugly, dirty, uncouth, hardscrabble lot, and the Dornishmen were only mildly better. At least Arron’s freeriders bore heraldry in the Westerosi style, with names and sigils of houses that carried weight in this part of the world. On the whole, it was not an easy thing to marry these men to the gallantry on display as they crested a hill and came upon the Summerhall tourney grounds.

The grounds, still at a distance, were ablaze with color and life. Flags bore lions and wolves (or maybe dogs?) and boars and other animals besides, and they flashed every color under the sun. Beneath those flags were hundreds, maybe thousands, of people milling about here and there as they made preparations, erected tents and made ready for the tourney. Arron spied what looked like the frames of a jousting arena in the works.

“Quite the show here, isn’t it?” Ryon’s voice came from behind him. “Maybe we’ll take a turn at the tilts, aye Gerold?” Gerold gave a grunt, as was typically the sum of his conversational input.

“We are not here to play at fighting,” Arron answered him, but he regretted the reproach. Was his answer too cool? Ryon Sand was a man quick to take offense, and leading men is a hard thing if the men to be led mislike the man leading them, Arron thought.

“I disagree,” Qosaerys interjected, pulling Arron from his thoughts as the Captain-General pulled on his reins so as to take into step with the Dornishmen. “I daresay we are not here, as we are not anywhere, to fight at all if we can help it.”

“So that’s the work of an honorable sellsword, is it?” Ser Ulrick asked. “To be paid to fight and then shirk from the fighting?”

“While you will find that fighting is, from time to time, unavoidable in this line of work, I would say that is the trick of it,” Qosaerys returned. “What good is gold if you are too dead to spend it, eh, Ser Uller?”

“Seems dishonorable to me,” Ser Gerold commented, looking to Arron. His face was stoic as ever, but the look made Arron uncomfortable. Ser Gerold was not a voluntary recruit to this endeavor. Where Ryon and Ulrick had come to the Brave Companions as eager recruits, Ryon for glory and danger and Ulrick for coin, Ser Gerold had been tasked with advising Arron on his leadership of the Brave Companions’ new Dornish contingent. He was Lord Wyl’s man, through and through, and as the lord’s brother Anders Wyl aged it seemed to be clear that Ser Gerold would take his position as master-at-arms of Wyl. To consort with sellswords was not his way, but again, he was dutiful and loyal, just the sort of second Arron felt he needed, if he were to be a captain of this crew. In that moment, though, Arron wondered if the knight wasn’t disappointed in him for the company he kept.

“Honor will neither fuck you nor feed you, Ser Gerold, but I do take your meaning and I salute your morality,” Qosaerys said, and Ryon barked with laughter.

“I like this company, Arron, I think I should have made for Essos with you when you left,” the White Hawk said. Arron could not say Ryon would not have made a poor sellsword, from what he had seen. He was certainly more like the Captain-General than himself.

“You would have been sorely missed at home, brother,” came a woman’s voice then. It was the voice of Jynessa Fowler, Ryon’s trueborn half-sister. She was a great beauty, blonde as a Lannister and fairer than any woman Arron had laid eyes on, he thought. She was young, a year or two Arron’s junior, but unwed still. A willful woman, she was recently estranged from her lord father’s court for refusing yet another match, as Arron had heard it, and had for the time being taken up with her bastard brother at Lord Wyl’s court while the Lord Fowler’s temper cooled.

“I am sorely missed wherever I am not. I am sure you would carry on in my absence, sister. I daresay you could quick replace me as your champion if you had need of one.”

“I like this one,” Qosaerys said of Ryon. “You’re the one they call White Hawk, eh?”

“They do.” Ryon leaned back in his sand steed’s saddle to make more prominent the hawk emblazoned on his tabard. It was not quite the symbol of House Fowler. The colors were reversed, a silver-white hawk on blue, and rather than being hooded, the hawk’s wings were fanned to suggest flight. “All across Dorne men know me as the White Hawk of Skyreach.” Arron thought he caught a smirk touch Jynessa’s lips, together with a roll of her eyes.

“Very nice,” Qosaerys complimented the White Hawk, and looked to Arron. “We need a name for you, eh? Arron Sand lacks a certain,” and he made to wave a hand, “sense of bravado to it, eh? You need a name to build a reputation around. Something with a dash of brio, if you will. Redsand, maybe, for all the blood you’ve spilled in the sandy fighting pits of Meereen. How’s that sound?”

“I’ve never been to Meereen,” Arron said, dumbly, he thought no sooner had the words left his mouth.

“Irrelevant details, my friend. Who is to say where you have or have not been, eh?” Qosaerys gave another airy wave. “I’ll make a proper sellsword of you yet, I promise.”

The Captain-General returned his eyes to the tourney grounds then, which loomed larger as they continued their approach. He was looking far into the distance, searching, Arron thought. And then he seemed to spy what he was looking for.

“Orratis, Votys, you lot make your camp on that side there, and take the banner” he directed, somewhere vaguely to the right. “Greyiron, you and yours are with me. You too, Arron, together with our new Dornish compatriots.”

Qosaerys took the lead then, and the Captain-General led his selected companions to the thicket of tents and flags that marked the Westerlanders’ place in the field. Banners of red and gold dominated the town of tents that had sprung up before Summerhall’s fortified walls, together with the banners of their sworn houses. Blues and greens and yellows fluttered about, together with a notable set of blue-and-silver flags, each adorned with a similarly colored seven pointed star. Qosaerys made a point to seek those tents out, and they made their camp not twenty strides from the most southerly of them.

As the servants made to set up the Brave Companions' tents, the black goat flag conspicuously absent. Instead, at Qosaerys's instruction they flew Lady Jynessa's banner, the blue hooded hawk of House Fowler on silver. A curious choice, Arron thought. What was the Captain-General's angle here?

“We’re in some kind of fucking Westerland sector!” growled Kennet Nash in his accustomed gruff tone. The grizzled Master-at-arms was five and fifty and the decades had only served to make him grumpier and ever more cantankerous.
Jon pressed his fingertips to his temples. The last day’s ride has been through squalid autumn rains and after weeks of journeying and long leagues of irritable familial tensions, tempers were frayed and the Knight of Ninestar’s head was pounding.

“Alright! Ken, then we’ll back up and circle around.” The Master at arms had the right of it though; the splendid awnings and pavilions of Lannister-sworn houses: Brax’s purple unicorn, The resplendent white and blue star of House Tarbeck and in the centre, dominant and imposing, the crimson and gold sea of the Lannister encampment itself.

Kennet grumbled some more and the Templeton column had to turn and go back on themselves, the cumbersome carts and ragged columns had to about turn and file back to the outskirts of the sprawling encampment of Summerhall again.

“Why are we turning around?” Asked Harold Stone, Jon’s bastard nephew as they followed the entourage of a modest 150 leal men of Ninestars. Jon would have been happy to bring a third of that number but his late brother’s widow had urged a greater strength. 150 was around a tenth of the strength House Templeton could likely summon but Jon was wary of expecting too much of their generous hosts.

“I think this area’s reserved for Westerland houses.” Jon tacitly admitted as they ducked under a banner boasting the red lion of House Reyne. Certainly the disgruntled glances they were attracting supported the notion that they were somewhat out of place. Nonetheless, Jon laughed off the odd jibe about being lost and made the laboured retreat as good-naturedly as he could. By then, his uncle Gawarth had acquired a queer sort of guide. A little dwarf girl, no more than two feet tall and with hair as white and brittle as a crone’s claimed to know where the Vale Houses were camped and Jon led his ragged retinue round the vast encampment.

“How do you know this place so well, child?” Jon asked the girl as they walked, him leading his destrier by the bridle and taking one stride to the dwarf’s four. As she turned to answer he noticed her unsettling red eyes, blood orbs in a face the colour of milk.
“I know lots of things. Summerhall is beautiful but this is a place of sadness.” She replied enigmatically. By the time they could see tall Arryn banners, Jon turned to thank the odd child but found she had disappeared. Just how tired was he?

A place of sadness Jon mused. He hoped not; he sought advancement for his House at this tourney. For over a decade since Ronnel’s death House Templeton had done precisely nothing. They were in danger of becoming the forgotten House of the Vale and it was past time Jon changed that narrative. At long last, a space was secured between the red sun of House Donniger and the cyan wave of House Upcliff; Jon made a point of greeting his neighbours personally whilst not staying long enough to be drawn into lengthy conversation. He was pleased that much of his camp had already taken shape by the time he returned.

“No sign of any of the Sisters, Jon.” His Uncle admitted. House Sunderland had been compelled to send a child to Ninestars to foster thirteen years past by Donnel Arryn and had never even written to the girl since. Birgitte was a maiden flowered and passing comely, by all accounts (Jon looked on her as an uncle should a niece) and he’d hoped the Tourney would at least grant the girl an opportunity to meet her family even if only to put a face to their names. Birgitte was practically the adoptive daughter of Jon’s sister-in-law, Allayne. Formerly a Waxley, Allayne had insisted they stay at Wickenden two nights en-route to Summerhall. The hospitality had been generous for their daughter and her family but Jon couldn’t help feeling the delay had cost them more time than he’s have liked. Albeit he hadn’t complained when his brother’s widow had writhed like a cat beneath him in those Wickenden nights…

That was another reason he’d be glad once the tilts began, the woman had spent long years urging him to take her to wife. Many younger brothers did so, it was true. But Allayne was clearly barren and Templeton needed an heir. Jon was over thirty now and if he could impress with sword and lance, he might catch an approving eye from the daughter of a Lordly House. Besides, with all the gossip and scandal abroad about rival claims in the Targaryen household, war was a whisper away from everyone’s lips and war brought its own opportunities.

“Uncle, did you see where Lady Allayne and Birgitte went?” He mused. But for those lust-filled trysts at Wickenden, Jon had seldom spoken to Allayne throughout their journey but had little doubt she’d have her own motivations for attending the tourney. Machinations that, doubtless, were already underway…

---

“Sorry about the rabbit,” Alyx huffed. Finally.

“It’s fine,” Addison huffed in return, keeping her frown even as a sense of satisfaction bloomed in her chest and urged her to smile at this small victory. It was the first words they had spoken to each other in days, and Addison was pleased she was not first to break the tense silence that had fallen between them.

After speaking with her mother those few days back, Addison and her uncle had tracked down her lord father’s hunting party, where they found them just finished and making ready the prizes they’d taken from the woods. Alyx had taken a rabbit herself, shooting it through with an arrow from horseback. It was all the talk of the party as they made ready to return to the procession, and Addison, mindful of her lady mother’s request to make a lady out of her sister, had thought it the wrong message.

She scolded Alyx. Hunting was unladylike, and handling a dead animal was doubly so and also disgusting, she instructed. Alyx, who had slung the dead rabbit over the back of her horse as one would a deer, seized it up and thrust the dead thing in Addison’s face. Addison screamed, Alyx laughed, Addison called Alyx a cunt, Alyx told Addison that such language was unladylike, and Addison would have slapped that stupid smile off Alyx's face if their father hadn’t seized her by the wrist and led her away for an undeserved scolding of her own.

It would have ended there, if Alyx had not slipped the dead rabbit under Addison’s pillow later that evening.

“I’m sorry too,” Addison said, even though she wasn’t. The rabbit’s blood had soaked through the pillow and ruined it, and it had been her favorite.

“For what?” Alyx asked.

“For calling you that word.”

“What word?”

Addison exhaled sharply. Alyx was always teasing and ever difficult. “You know what word,” she urged, loathe to repeat it. It was an unladylike word to call someone, as Alyx had said, even if she’d only said it to make fun of her.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Addison said, feeling suddenly hot around the collar. Then, after a long moment, she said very quietly, “cunt.”

“Oh. That word.” As if Alyx hadn’t known it all along.

Addison said nothing and folded her arms deeper than they already were folded. She made an effort to change the topic, after a moment. Take control of the conversation. That was how it was done. “Who are they?” she asked, nodding to the odd collection of travelers who had made their encampment just south of House Tarbeck’s tents. House Tarbeck had arrived at Summerhall yesterday, and their lord father and his men had set up the tented encampment they would call home during the tourney in the midst of those of the other Westerland houses. They had raised the Tarbeck colors and greeted their fellow Lannister bannerman with good humor. It was a pleasure to see many of those lords again for the first time in months, if not years.

But this morning they found themselves joined by a newly arrived and curious collection of neighbors.

“I’m not sure,” Alyx answered, considering the banner fluttering above the largest tent. A blue bird on silver, a falcon or a hawk of some kind, Addison thought. She knew her heraldry, could name any house in the Westerlands, but this wasn’t a Westerlands house that she knew of, even if they had set up camp in their midst. And then there were the people making camp there, who were an odder sight still than the hooded bird on the banner.

Dark and olive skinned, shouting at and calling to each other in a language Addison didn’t understand, if it even was a single language. Were they from the Free Cities then? She saw that one of them, an older man with a full moustache and a colorful waist-length cape, wore a long, slender blade at his hip, a sword like nothing Addison had seen before. But the two men he spoke to looked not just like Westerlanders, but like Lannisters, one with golden blonde hair, the other sandy.

They weren’t Westerlanders, though, she could tell. They had rougher, sharper features, and one looked like he’d spent half a year on the docks baking in the sun. He had a wiry scrabble of sandy facial hair, not a well maintained and styled beard but rough and coarse. His eyes were fair and gentle, his jaw was sharp and hard, and he was tall as anything, taller than any man in her father’s court, she thought. He was listening attentively to Slender Sword with an intensely thoughtful look to his face, lean arms folded. Corded muscle worked under the skin of a forearm as he flexed idly through the conversation’s course.

“You’re staring, Addison Tarbeck,” Alyx interrupted with an accusatory jeer, and the tingle in Addison’s cheeks turned hot.

“And who are you to blame her, Alyx Tarbeck?” It was a crisp interjection, and the two sisters turned around in time with one another to find their lady mother, hands on her hips and wearing an all-too-satisfied smirk on her face. “I suppose I now know just the sort of thing that brings you two to talking again,” she observed, eyes flitting in the direction of the two blonde men.

“I apologized,” Alyx defended herself.

“I did too,” Addison defended herself harder, not to be outdone.

“Always a competition, the two of you. I would tell the both of you to settle it at the tilts if I wasn’t half-scared you might give it an honest try,” Lady Jeyne answered, and Addison felt the tension melt away into an honest smile she very much didn’t want to show her sister. “But I am glad to hear it. I need a word with your sister, Alyx. Run along and find something to make yourself useful, and keep away from the pillows in my absence.”

Alyx did so with a haughty huff, and Addison was left alone with her mother.

Alone was maybe not the word for it. High noon in the shadow of Summerhall was busy as a city to Addison’s eyes. The sheer number of people going about their days was astonishing. Addison had gone with her father to Lannisport a few times, and King’s Landing once when she was a girl, but much of her time and more was spent in the country. Tarbeck Hall had its residents, and the largest towns that fell within her father’s fief were no small affairs, but Addison was surely not used to such crowded company. Alyx was like to find it exciting, but it filled Addison with a constant, harrying sense of unease, almost as though the milieu was like to a wasp hovering by her ear.

“Walk with me, darling.” Lady Jeyne offered her hands to Addison, palms facing up. Addison took them and allowed herself to be led.

“What is it, mother?” Addison asked as they walked. Lady Jeyne was leading her away from the Tarbecks’ queer new neighbors and toward Summerhall, and Addison’s eyes were everywhere but her mother, even as she spoke to her. All around them the crowds continued to press. There was ever someone selling something, someone calling for someone, one child chasing another, a man with wandering eyes, a distant relation with whom she wished to avoid speaking, and more, all of them less than a stride or two away, if not in arm’s length. And as she looked up she found even the sky to be crowded. Everywhere were the banners, the lion of Lannister, the boar of Crakehall, that yellow point the Leffords intended to be a mountain but which Addison thought looked more like a triangle than anything. She was vaguely aware her mother was saying something even as her thoughts wandered.

“…and there’s the Lefford boy, just a few years your senior. I saw him this morning when I spoke with Lord Lefford, and if you liked the look of that Dornishman I think you might take kindly to him.”

“A Dornishman?” Addison asked, interests suddenly piqued. She’d never met a Dornishman. She’d met her mother’s maidservant Sarella, of course, who was Dornish, but she wasn’t from Dorne in the proper sense, merely born of a distant Tarbeck cousin who’d made some unladylike decisions while touring the Stormlands.

Lady Jeyne pursed her lips, but Addison saw a hint of a smile in it. “Addison Tarbeck,” she said, using Addison’s full name as she was wont to do in the course of a reproachment, “I am overjoyed that Dorne has joined the Seven Kingdoms and I am confident Lord Fowler and his kin are loyal subjects of the crown, but please do not expect to marry one of them until I am long dead and buried.”

“That is not what I meant, mother,” Addison answered, but she wasn’t sure what she did or didn’t mean, if she were honest. “I was just curious.”

“And why can you never be curious about what I have on offer? You are my daughter and my dearest friend, Addison, and I can tell whenever we discuss it the prospects barely interest you.” They walked on in silence, and Addison looked down for a change, rather than all around all at once as she was wont. She could hear the frustration in her mother’s voice, and it was not the frustrated note of an exasperated mother, but of a person. Of someone not unlike herself. She felt a wave of self-consciousness roll through her then. It must be hard, she imagined, being a mother. Especially being a mother to one girl who shoots rabbits from horseback and another who takes no interest in her marriage prospects. She felt suddenly small.

“I am sorry, mother. You must think me ungrateful.”

“No, not ungrateful.” Addison’s mother sighed, and a pregnant pause settled between them as she seemed to find the words. “I daresay” she continued, the words coming slow as that bawdy smile crept back onto her face, “you will understand it better when you are the one trying to convince your daughter to marry the ugly son of a bloody idiot like Jon Lefford.”

“Mother!” Addison said, a note of mirthful shock in her voice, and she leaned in close to her lady mother Tarbeck.

“What?” Addison’s mother asked, all innocence as she drew Addison in with an arm and kissed her forehead. “What kind of mother lies to her daughter? As if Lord Lefford’s son looks half so good as that Dornishman, I’m ashamed I even suggested it. The boy looks like Alyx’s rabbit.”

They were both laughing then. “I promise,” Lady Jeyne said, “we will find you a match that suits you. Truly.”

The Redwynes.

My Hider [+]

Honora.

The section of tents that always was bustling with life and excitement was the so called Pavillion.
The Redwynes managed to impress the local crowds and other noble delegations with their lavish spread of the 3 F’s: Food, Feasting and Filling up on whatever drink you could manage to hold down.
With their cluster of grapes flying high from above the Feasting Tent, it was hard to miss and often was used for point of reference as a gathering spot as the Feasting Tent was the largest tent of them all.
One of an impressive size, intent on housing a great number of people, with tables and benches set up both inside and a few outside as well.
It also held a small stage for the travelling bard to perform, provided of course they gained permission by the Redwynes.
The family themselves we set up at slightly raised, with their table always prepared and set up, the dark blue table cloths embroidered with their purple sigil with shiny golden thread.
The chairs that were set up behind the table were decorated accordingly with vines and leaves of the wine ranks. Three extra chairs were placed at the table for their invited special guests, the Tarly’s.
They were spread out, so each would be flanked by the Redwynes. Honora thought it wise to place the potential troublemakers at the ends, they needed this to be a success not have Lord Tarly be instantly insulted by either Arystide or horrified by the Twins. She had set him up with in between Lord Domenic and herself, figuring they would be able to keep the man pleasantly engaged, whilst she had put his son next to his intended and next to Arnaud, so he might, should the awkward silence fall, always be able to discuss the ongoings and opponents of the Tournament. The lady in question she had put next to her aunt Lady Cyra and Armand, with Nadiya closeby to potentially jump in and to keep an eye on the twins as well.
They had send out word beforehand to the town for those who sought to make some extra coin. The Redwynes would pay handsomely for their aid. Strong young men to help build and set the tents up and young women who were willing to serve out drinks…usually this particular job; the selecting of the wenches was done by Arystide and Finnegan as they considered themselves connaisseurs on that particular matter.
Honora let them be and told them to not get distracted and get the required number, no more, no less, lest they wanted to be servants themselves. That instantly set the right type of motivation, though Honora wasn’t sure how long it would be remembered.
Usually getting help was no issue. The Redwynes were well liked by the smallfolk, perhaps it was a trait belong to the Reach, Honora doubted this tournament would give them any troubles.
She and Lady Cyra had been quite busy all day coordinating the set up and overseeing the distribution of the brought wares such as the wine caskets, barrels with ale and crates filled with food.
Tournaments were costly, but they always meant a good profit.
Whether one was High- or Lowborn, everyone got hungry or thirsty at some point.
And who better to provide than the winemakers themselves, not something that happened regularly as the Redwynes did not cross over the waters to the mainland all that often.
Still there would be something for everyone whether they purse was filled or practically empty.
It wasn’t for nothing that the Redwynes were jokingly named the ‘Businessmen’ of the nobles.
Proverbs such as: ‘A Redwyne loves making money, just as much as drinking wine.’ or ‘Where the Lannister shits gold, the Redwyne pisses wine.’
They could hardly feel insulted by them as they enjoyed a bountiful life of plenty. The Arbor might not be as impressive as High Garden, but it was a true horn of Cornucopia and the Redwynes were more than willing to share their good bounty, for a price.

As slowly they started finishing up on setting up the last tents Honora walked around the grounds board and quill in hand ready to check things off her list as she watched the others aid their hired help.
The young lords and Lord Domenic helped out with the actual labour.
Domenic being a man of practicality would not allow the boys to sit idle so had ordered them to help with unloading the barrels and crates of food. And whilst some grumbled more than others it was clear that despite all the protests they made good time.
The twins had been no use at all and thus Honora had decided that she could make the most of them by letting them do exactly what they wanted to do; which was snoop around and check out the other nobles. Knowing those two, she figured they could go out and be her eyes and ears for the moment.
That left her younger sisters, Nadiya and Odette, whom she had left in the capable hands of Septa Sybilla, their chaperone.

Slowly bit by bit the cluster of tents grew and formed their known Pavillion. Games and betting stalls were the last to be finished. Also the always popular ‘Applebobbin’ & ‘Gingerbites’ were favourites for young and old, but Honora was most curious who would be able to get to the large ham this year.
According to their butcher he had worked on the recipe of the grease coating, the pole would be extra slippery this year or so he had promised her.
He and his hands would be working the MeatMen stall again. Working the sweltering cooking fires, seasoning the meat and grilling the food. His wife and other women worked the ‘sides’ stall. Which proved to bring in proper coppers last season, the sides of caramelized onions, baked tomato’s and hot potatoes had been such a crowd favourite that they had sold out before the tourney had been over.
Wherever they went money flowed and hopefully that part of their reputation would serve them well into finding spouses.

As Honora allowed herself to sit down again for a moment to overview their handiwork she could only be pleased with the sight.
It should prove an impressive display for the Tarly’s.
They needed to make a good impression. For Odette’s sake.
She allowed her thoughts to turn to a few weeks prior, when her father had called her into his study.
Whilst it wasn’t unusual for her to be summoned to her father’s study, the atmosphere this time had been ’pressing’.
Ever since her mother had passed she had stepped up and proudly took on the tasks. She had never complained as she had considered it her duty to aid her father and family.
Gorlois had come to trust her even more than he had before. Sharing his thoughts on certain business ventures or his grief over the loss of their mother.
This time she had sensed a great tiredness in her father, one that was slowly sinking in and dragging its claws.
“Nene.” He had spoken half dazed. “We need to look to the future of our House.” He had said cryptically.
She had raised an eyebrow at that.
What was he referring to? Was he concerned over his children or the business side of things…she could never quite tell.
Before she could ask whatever it was, Gorlois handed her his seal, pressing it into her hands.
“You will write to Lord Talbert Tarly, tell him I accept his proposal. Better it be his son than those other Reach lords.” He uttered, giving Honora slightly more of an inkling what this could be about.
“All those years the Tarly family has been praised for their Loyalty, what better gift to offer a daughter? What better than a loyal man?” Gorlois stated as he looked at his eldest.
Ah, there it was, so it was a marriage he was referring to.
“I am certain he will be pleasing when you have such faith in the man.” She spoke diplomatically. “Forgive me papa, I hadn’t expected such news, but I will do everything I can to bring honour to our family.”
Gorlois looked up at her in confusion before he poured himself a drink.
“Ah I am sorry Honora, but it isn’t you whom I am promising.”
His words literally felt like someone drenched her with cold water.
“I.if not I…then who?” She asked now more warily, wondering not for the first time what he was up to.
“My pearl, our Odette.” He answered with an unnerving level of calm that scared even Honora.
“Odette is 15!” She retorted in horror. “She is the youngest of us!” She shook her head in disbelief.
“Of all your children you thought it wise to betrothed her first?! What about the rest of us?!” She thrust back as her blood boiled.
“I needed to have her set up first.”
Honora had rolled her eyes at that. Of course…
“Yes we all know she is your favourite! We’re all weak when it comes to her. But have you ever considered what kind of message you’re sending out to the rest of Westeros? To have your youngest married before the rest? Did we even factor in here? What about securing a match for your own heir or for Nadiya? Or Hell even the twins!”
Gorlois eyed her sharply.
“Envy is unbecoming Honora.” He reminded her sternly.
She gritted teeth retorting. “I am not envious of Odette!”
“But you are upset, upset perhaps because you expected to be the one that would be set up first…” Gorlois calmly reasoned, watching his eldest daughter huff in frustration.
“I couldn’t care less, but what I do care about is our reputation, this promise will send signals all over Westeros, the other Lords must be thinking something is wrong with the rest of us!” She threw her hands up in the air in resignation.
“The Tarly-boy isn’t meant for you.” He spoke with such certainty that Honora didn’t even dare doubt her father’s judgement any further.
“Fine…but I am not the one going to tell her…you can do that yourself! Gods…Odette wouldn’t even know what exactly would be expected of her! When is the meeting of them going to take place?”
“At the upcoming Tournament at Summerhall.”
“Summerhall? That’s quite the trip she’s never been off the island…” Honora had reminded him.
“That is why you all will go with her. So she won’t be completely alone and friendless during their introduction. I asked your Uncle and Aunt to go as well. Domenic will take on the role of protector of our house, with you and your aunt bearing the responsibility for your brothers and sisters.”
Another heavy sigh followed.
“Do you think it is wise to bring the twins? They already don’t listen to a word I tell them and frankly I can see them run off with some lecherous hedge knight or seedy bard.”
Her father laughed at that, but there was little warmth in it anymore.
“Honora, I am sure it is not as bad as all that, you can steer them towards more appropriate waters.” He said with a rather cold upturned smile.
“I make no promises papa, you grossly overestimate my ability to rein those two in. With the whole family going I will need to grow eyes in the back of my head.”
And how true that last statement had been.
Arystide and Finnegan already were a pain to deal with, Nadiya now started to rebel against her as well, but the Twins…
If you asked Honora she would tell you they were the spawn of the Maiden and the Stranger.
For all their flirting and leading men on it was a wonder they both weren’t with child yet. Honestly, they would soil the good name of their house if they would get a to bed all the handsome men of Westeros and beyond.
She was pulled from her thoughts as a servant approached her handing her a cup with watered down wine.
“Milady must be thirsty…please have a care.” The woman said motheringly, receiving a warm smile from Honora.
“Thank you for your concern. Please bring some to the other workers as well. We all can use a refreshment.” Honora requested before her attention was drawn by a couple of riders that trotted in with laughter and merriment.
Honora felt another sigh escape her as she instantly recognised the familiar voices and saw wild free flowing familiar red locks.
Crossing her arms over each other she shook her head at the appearance of the both of them.
“Heavens look at the state of you! Septa Sybilla will have a proper fit.” She said as the twins halted their horses and easily slid down to the ground.
“Oh Nene, you’re such a spoilsport. We have been on our best behaviour, honest!” Rowanne immediately retorted as she patted the side of her brown mare.
“We did cross the field twice, you wouldn’t say so at first glance, but there are a lot of lords present.” Serenei immediately reported. “No sign of the Tarly boy yet, however we have seen their tents.”
“So we can’t tell Odette for sure whether he is handsome or not.” Rowanne smirked.
“So they are here…well that is a promising start I suppose.” Honora mumbled more to herself than to her sisters, before asking.
“Anyone of note?”
“Well, we saw the banners of Ball, Lannister, Stark, Arryn, Lothstone, Templeton, I think also Mormont and Baratheon oh and the Dragon of course. Rumours go as rumours go, but all in all this is going to be quite a tournament if the setup of the lists is any indication.” Serenei drummed up from memory.
Honora frowned she only hoped Arnaud would be careful during all of this. Tournaments made her uneasy, though she trusted her brother could handle himself, there always were characters who’s honour was questionable at best and more than often non-existent as they sought to win.
“All right, get the horses back to their meadow and clean yourselves up. And if the Tarly’s do show up at least try to make a good impression…” She pleaded rather seriously, only to be met with smirks and a mirthful shake of the head.
“Don’t worry Nene, we’ll be on our ‘best’ behaviour…” they promised, before they walked off laughing and pulling the horses along, making sure to be seen and heard every step of the way. They passed by the Feasting Tent casting a glance inside at potential people of interest, before giggling their way along.
“That is what I am afraid off…” moaned Honora with a shake of her head. Seven help her…their family was doomed.

---

Arron and his freeriders had taken to practicing at arms in the early hours. The Westerlanders amongst whom Qosaerys had made their camp had proved a curious lot. They kept their distance, but the prying eyes and unsubtle whispers were less than welcoming.

“I think they may mislike us,” Ulrick had observed, and as short and simple a statement as it was it did seem to capture it. It was no mystery as to why. Dorne had long been the Iron Throne’s stubborn enemy, a thorn in the foot of the Seven Kingdoms for nigh on two hundred years. Yers had passed since House Martell had agreed to join the realm, but time passed had returned not one man from the dead. Arron did not doubt he stood among men and women who had lost fathers and sons over the long and bloody history of the south. To kill one foe was to make a dozen, it seemed.

Arron put it out of mind as best he could. It was a grey morning, and Ryon was the only one among them who had risen for the occasion. The White Hawk was a shadow of himself, it seemed, and as they traded thrusts with their spears, lethal heads removed, Arron found his sparring partner slow on his feet and slower at arms. Arron batted away Ryon’s efforts with easy blocks, his shield turning shaft away time and again. In sharp contrast, Ryon struggled to keep Arron at bay, gave a stride’s worth of ground each time Arron brought his spear to bear on him and then, when Arron relented and gave him space, he doubled over as if to vomit.

“Late night, was it?” Arron asked. Ryon, seemingly unable to empty the contents of his stomach, settled for spitting a thick wad of phlegm instead.

“It’s a tourney, no? I thought we were meant to have fun, eh?” Ryon answered, voice ragged and still bent over, but as Arron drew close, he sprung at him. Quicker, but not nearly quick enough, and it was nothing Arron wasn’t expecting. Arron knew better than to mistake the White Hawk for an honorable fighter.

He batted the spear aside with his shield, this time with enough force to wrench it from Ryon’s hand. Arron drove his own spear at him hard, his weight behind it. Ryon caught it on his shield, but his footing was unsound, and the force was more than enough to drive him to the ground. He tumbled back and skidded in the grass, which had been made wet and slippery by the morning dew.

“You,” Arron said, drawing over him and offering a hand to help him up, “are meant to stay sharp, like I ordered.”

“Seven hells, for what?” Ryon got to his feet, dusting himself off with his free hand. That, Arron did not know. Qosaerys had given the order to him, and he’d given the order to his freeriders in turn, but Qosaerys kept tight lipped on their purpose here. Arron hadn’t a notion as to what they might be staying sharp for, but after some months of observation he knew one thing to be true – Nycarro Qosaerys was not a man who took joy in staying sharp. If Qosaerys felt the need for as much, Arron figured there must be a bloody serious need for it. He didn’t take it for a convincing argument, though, true or not.

“We are four Dornishmen in the midst of a thousand northerners who’ve known us as the enemy for nigh on two hundred years,” Arron tried instead. “It might have been before our time, but I think it unlikely their thoughts on the matter have changed much in the past fifteen. If one of them gets it in his head to settle a score, we best be sharp enough to settle it in our favor, no? And if he brings a few friends, we all best be sharp enough to keep it even.” Ryon nodded, seeming to see the sense of it. “We stay sharp,” Arron finished. “All of us.”

“I take your meaning.”

“Good. Back to your place.”

Ryon took up his spear and they carried on, now with a bit more spirit in him. Still, some good words on staying sharp wouldn’t do much to make him sharp now, and they called it early. Ryon stalked back to their tents, as unsteady from his new bruises as he was from the drink, and Arron collected his things. It was early morning still, and the Westerlanders were slow to rise. There were but a few of them about, and none of them seemed to pay him much mind. Save for one, that is.

“Good morn, ser,” she greeted, approaching him as he took a long pull of water from his skin. She wore a dress, light blue in color, long sleeved and hemmed just short enough so that it did not drag in the dewy grass. She was older than him, but not old, and her soft features and the tumble of dark, gently curling hair caught his eye. He gave her a small nod in acknowledgment as he returned the skin to his belt, unsure of her and uncertain as to what he should say. “My daughter finds you very handsome.”

He was doubly uncertain as to what he should say to that. “You are kind,” he tried, the words coming out clumsy. “I think you flatter me twice. I am not a knight.”

“Is that so? My lord husband brought twenty of his knights with us, but I think I would trade half of them for you and your friend.”

She was a noblewoman then. “Forgive me, my lady, I mistook you,” Arron said, bowing his head in an effort at respectful deference. He was not a courtly man, but he caught his error quick enough and knew it proper to address it direct. She laughed, a sweet sound.

“You are too courteous,” she said. “Do not worry of it. I took you for a knight and you took me for a woman. Which I am, even if I have a title. Jeyne Tarbeck, of Tarbeck Hall.” She offered her hand to him, offered it up, as it were, as he stood quite tall over her now that they were close.

Arron took it, and, knowing not what she expected him to do with it, held it. “Arron Sand. Of Dorne.” He held her hand for another moment and then let it drop, entirely unsure as to how badly he was embarrassing himself in the process. In Dorne men might lock arms to greet each other, and it was proper to plant a kiss on a noblewoman’s hand if she offered it. In Pentos you might kiss a woman’s hand with your lips, or you might purse your lips first before the kiss, or you might kiss her ring instead, all according to social customs he found especially confusing. As to the customs of the Westerlands, on that front he was entirely ignorant.

“As you may have guessed, my lady, I am not a man of court,” he attempted to excuse himself.

“Is that so, Arron Sand? You do come here in the company of a courtly woman,” she said, looking to the Fowler banner. “I understand you are Lady Jynessa’s man?”

“I am head of Lady Fowler’s sworn spears, my lady,” Arron lied, just as Qosaerys had instructed.

“So, you are mayhaps not a courtly man, but a leader and a protector?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, I think my daughter may have better taste than I expected,” Lady Jeyne said. He made to say that she was flattering him, but she carried on, keeping the pace of their conversation brisk. “I had the pleasure of making Lady Fowler’s acquaintance yesterday eve, as it happens. She’s a lovely woman, very friendly.”

“She is,” Arron agreed. He found Jynessa Fowler to be as cold and dismissive as she was beautiful, if he was honest, but he needn’t mention that. “I’ve known her most my life, my lady.”

“Is that so?”

Arron scratched at his beard, thinking it over. “I’d say so, from my time at Skyreach. But I’ve known her brother longer,” he said, looking to the Fowler tents, in which direction his sparring partner had stalked off. “We were fostered together for a time there, and at Wyl.”

“Her brother? That was your partner this morning? I heard he has quite the reputation in Dorne.”

“The White Hawk of Skyreach, he’s called. Or so he calls himself, anyway.” She smirked at that. “I can’t say I know a better man with a spear, or a man quicker to use one for that matter.”

“The White Hawk? That is quite a name. I wouldn’t presume overmuch, but he seemed,” Lady Jeyne said, pausing as she seemed to search for the words, “a bit less than his reputation this morning, I thought.”

“You are charitable, my lady. I rather think you saw the man could barely stand,” Arron said with a grin. A jape at Ryon’s expense was within the bounds of comfortable conversation for him. And she laughed at it, light and polite, but an honest laugh still. “He’s had better days, still. He’s won ten duels in his time. Half of them on behalf of Lady Jynessa, as it were. Sleights against her honor and the sort.” Sleights and less, really, and he’d killed a few of those men. Another thing he needn’t mention.

“Ten duels?” Lady Jeyne asked, impressed in earnest at that, Arron thought. “I was a fair maiden in my day, I like to think, but I can’t say I’ve had a single duel fought for my honor, let alone ten.”

“Could be your knights are less gallant than my Dornishmen, my lady,” Arron suggested, “or it could be you didn’t give cause for men to challenge your honor five times over.”

“Oh, I am not so sure of that,” she said laughing. “I am my father’s youngest daughter, Arron Sand. If you ever have girls of your own, you’ll find the youngest are the most difficult by a league.”

“I’ll try for boys then, if I get to it.” Another laugh, light and sweet.

“I take it you are unwed, then?” she asked. “No beautiful woman to duel for?”

“Only Lady Fowler, my lady.” And wasn’t that true enough? When had he last been with a woman? The only other woman he’d spoken more than a few words to in a month was Black Drazenka, Qosaerys’s Captain-Admiral, and she was harder than even the ironborn sellsails.

“Well, she is quite a beautiful woman, don’t you think?” Lady Tarbeck suggested.

Another unexpected turn, but the conversation had been a list of unexpected turns, and another was no surprise. “She is considered a great beauty in Dorne.” He wasn’t sure whether he itched to leave the woman behind or to say more. She was an easy partner in conversation, even as Arron struggled to keep his tongue appropriately gracious for her, and she had such an easy manner to her it was hard to think her nobility. He was saying much, he knew, maybe too much, but when had he last had an unexpected conversation with a charming woman? And an attractive one, no less.

“And what do you think?” the noblewoman pressed on. “Is she?”

“Do I think Lady Fowler beautiful?” Arron thought it would be inappropriate to say either way. Call her beautiful but say it poorly and she might take it for a bastard’s wanton interest, but deny it and she’d think him either a liar or discourteous. And to add to it, what she getting at here? Like Ryon this morning, he found himself on entirely unsound footing.

“I think,” Arron started, and he found some carefully picked words as he thought of Jynessa’s golden head of hair, “I am more partial to darker haired women.” That seemed a way around it. The best path forward for a man faced with two poor choices was to find a third, after all.

Lady Jeyne Tarbeck, who was particularly dark of hair and noticeably so, considered him now with eyebrows raised, and there seemed something new behind her smile. Curiosity? Surprise? Surprised at his forwardness, he guessed, as he realized how she must have taken it. That third choice may have been the worst of them, it seemed. “If you don’t mind, Arron Sand,” she said, breaking what was to Arron a tense silence, “I think I’ll tell my daughter you prefer blondes.”

She stepped away then, holding his eyes for another moment more before turning entirely and walking toward the blue-and-silver pavilions of her house. He hadn’t meant it that way, surely she knew that? Still, as she walked away, he could not help but notice the shapely curve of her ass in that dress.



That evening, as he had each evening, he took his place in Lady Fowler’s tent. It was another of Qosaerys’s unexplained orders. Each of the Captain-General, Donnor Greyiron, Arron and Jynessa Fowler arrived at Jynessa’s tent at dusk, where they sat, talked a bit, drank more and, whenever Qosaerys decided, retired to their tents for the night. When he had asked, Qosaerys had evaded explaining himself. “How can we call ourselves Brave Companions without indulging in some measure of companionship, eh?” had been his answer. It did not satisfy him, but Arron didn’t pry.

Arron was early that night, as was typical, but not by much, and he pushed into the tent without thinking much of it. He was first to arrive, as usual.

Lady Fowler’s tent was the largest of the Companions’ encampment and well appointed. The tent itself was heavy canvas, treated to keep the rain out and warmth in during the cool autumn nights, and each side of square was adorned with hung tapestries, most of scenic landscapes and one bearing the sigil of House Fowler. There was a full canopied bed, which looked almost absurd inside the tent, a small but still full wardrobe and chests, and a round table of polished wood that could seat six. Jynessa Fowler, if estranged from her lordly father, was certainly not estranged from her lordly father’s wealth.

In the midst of the luxurious trappings, he found that he was not quite the first to arrive after all. Jynessa herself stood there in the company of one her maids, unblinking and but only halfway in her evening dress. He averted his eyes and turned about, but too late.

“Lady Jynessa. I will come back,” he said, trying – and obviously failing – to make nothing of it.

“Don’t bother, I’m done.” Arron waited until her maid had shuffled past him and out the tent, just to be sure, and then turned. He found her clothed and already pouring herself a glass of golden wine. “Are you so unmanned at the sight of a woman’s body, Arron?” she asked as she poured a second glass. “I fear for your wife, if you ever take one.”

She handed him the cup. “Not by your body,” he said. “Unmanned by your brother, maybe.” She favored him with a thin smile at that.

“I doubt it. I heard you unmanned him this morning.”

“He woke unwell,” Arron offered the excuse up.

“He woke still drunk, more like,” Jynessa retorted with a cool sharpness. Arron didn’t deny it. “I love my brother, but he is an arrogant fool. I admit I had my reservations when Lord Wyl put him in your charge, but I’ve warmed to the idea. He could use lessons in discipline and humility. It seems to me you be you might be the man for it.”

Discipline maybe, but humility was as foreign as Pentos to Ryon Sand, in Arron’s view, and entirely beyond his ability to teach. “I will do my best, my lady.” What else could he promise?

He was saved from further talk, quite suddenly, by the entrance of Captain-General Nycarro Qosaerys. He was colorfully dressed, as always, blue silk cape over his left shoulder and garbed in a blood red shirt. Behind him loomed Donnor Greyiron, the grizzled ironborn dressed dourly as ever.

“I see we have already started on the wine,” he greeted them. “Is that the Arbor Gold? Let’s have that all around, please, my lady.” It was an instruction he carried out himself, and before long the four of them were sitting, drinking and hearing out Qosaerys’s war stories.

That was how it went each night. Arron was not much of a talker, Jynessa was cool and reserved, and Darron Greyiron had less interest in talk and more interest in sharpening his axe, which he did at each of these meetings. And so Arron and Jynessa, and maybe Donnor, heard Qosaerys out as he spoke over the keen scraping of Greyiron’s whetstone, providing enough comment from time to time to keep it going, though the Captain-General needed little assistance there. He seemed entirely unable to shut his mouth, in fact. Qosaerys could talk a man’s ear off and keep him at least half-entertained the whole time.

“Now, Tolhys, that was an entirely different affair,” he opined as Jynessa and Arron listened, each of them several cups in by then. “I was not six months in the captain-general’s chair with the Maiden’s Men when we laid siege to that castle, and it was a hell of a task. Tolhys is a damned fortress, walls forty feet high. For every man you put inside you need a dozen to root him out, and Braghar had four hundred men in there. We spent damn near a year outside the walls, and we launched so many stones over them we ran out. We had to start bringing rocks in by ship to keep the siege going.”

He had been just about to continue when the tent flaps opened, and in stepped two men, each one cloaked and hooded, each one dripping from the light showers that had started earlier that evening. Arron, drunk as shit, if he were being honest, searched for the hilt of his sword, and finding it absent, settled to rest a hand on his dagger instead. He eased, though, as the hoods came down and Qosaerys stood to greet them. Jynessa stood as well, and Arron after her, if unsteady in his haze, but he noticed the ironborn stayed seated, content to continue applying whetstone to edge.

“Lord Tarbeck, at long last,” Qosaerys said in greeting, and Arron blinked. Surely this was not the man whose wife upon whom he had earlier made an unintended advance. “Please, I beg you join us. We were just having a thrilling conversation about my exploits across the narrow sea” Qosaerys said, indicating one of the empty chairs with one of his airy waves.

“Lord Tarbeck is my brother,” the older of the two men said, his voice like gravel. He had a light scrap of beard that poorly hid a lopsided jaw, which Arron thought looked to have been broken once or thrice. It gave the impression that he was biting down on something on the one side of his mouth, and the thicket of scars around it cut grooves in his beard, not to mention his face. If he’d ever been a handsome man, he wasn’t now, Arron guessed. “I am Ser Tarbeck, and this is my son, Axell.” He made no move to sit. Neither did his son, Axell.

“I beg your forgiveness, I am a long-standing stranger to Westerosi formalities and stylings. May I not just call you Josmyn?"

The broken jawed knight said nothing to that, instead fixing Arron with his glare. “Who are these?”

“Ah, introductions, of course. How rude of me,” Qosaerys corrected himself, unflagging in the face of someone so unreceptive to his manner. “That one is Arron Sand, captain of the Brave Companions’ new Dornish contingent.” Arron gave Tarbeck half a nod. “The mean-looking chap with the axe is Donnor Greyiron, one of my sellsail captains.” Donnor did not so much as look up. “And of course, this beautiful young woman is our host, Jynessa Fowler.” She gave an appropriate curtsy to end it on a high note. “They are my most trusted,” he said, rounding about and clapping Arron on the shoulder, “and loyal compatriots in arms.”

Ser Tarbeck didn’t respond, but gave a nod to his son, who stepped out from the tent, seemingly to leave his father to whatever his business was with a sellsword company’s leadership. Ser Tarbeck sat down then, and they followed suit. Qosaerys poured the knight a glass of Arbor Gold from the crystal carafe at the center of the table and then shifted his chair around such that, broadly speaking, Ser Tarbeck sat on one side of the table, and the Brave Companions on the other.

The knight, not lord, reached into his cloak and withdrew a small rectangular package. He placed it gently on the table before them and unwrapped it, revealing a stacked set of golden rectangles. Ingots of gold, Arron realized, trying to keep his face from showing any sense of surprise or shock. A small fortune had been set directly in front of him. Tarbeck splayed them out before them, showing there to be six.

“Three hundred dragons. As agreed.”

None of them spoke. Arron hadn’t the faintest idea what to say, and deferred, he presumed, to Qosaerys. This didn’t seem Jynessa’s line of business and Donnor never said anything, after all. “Ser Tarbeck,” Qosaerys took the lead, as expected, stroking his moustache pensively, “I do not mean to give you the impression of ingratitude, but when I say that the Brave Companions fight for gold, I fear I do not mean it quite this literally.”

Ser Tarbeck did not move a muscle in his face, but Arron felt there was a likelihood that he had, indeed, taken it as ungracious. “Is my gold no good to you?”

“Oh no, of course not! You mistake me, ser. I merely mean to say that, as we continue our business relationship, we would appreciate it if future payments could be made in a form a bit more, what is the word for it? Liquid? It does wonders for a sellsword’s morale to be able to spend his hard earned wage, and I think it unlikely I could bring this,” Qosaerys said, lifting one of the ingots in hand as if to demonstrate the impracticability of it, “down to the brothel. Make no mistake, though, we are settled up in terms of your advance on our services.”

“Good. I will hear your report now.” Clearly, this was not a man for talking.

“Right, of course, of course. Our report,” Qosaerys said, and, after spending some time with the man, Arron could well see that the Captain-General had as little a sense as to what report Ser Tarbeck was expecting as Arron did. “We have much to discuss and more. In the interest of keeping this conversation efficient, perhaps you could lead the discussion? As we are in your employ and service, we would like to be sure we are focused first and most foremostly on your most pertinent interests.”

Arron didn’t think the man so easily taken for a fool, but Tarbeck didn’t show it. “Are the Dornish spears in place?”

“I would say they are, ser. Lord Wyl has charged twenty of his knights to the Brave Companions, and, aside from the four that accompany me here today, they are currently engaged in the raising and readying of the spears at Wyl as we speak now.”

The implacable man now showed some shadow of emotion. His eyes narrowed, and he could see that he had taken to grinding his teeth as Qosaerys spoke. Arron could tell that was not the answer Ser Tarbeck was expecting. He thought it likely Qosaerys could see it as well, but the Captain-General did not let his smile flag in the face of it.

“They are,” intoned Tarbeck, slowly, “engaged in raising the spears?” Each word dripped anger, and Arron felt very aware of the dagger at his hip.

“Quite so.”

“You were meant to bring two hundred Dornish spears to lie in wait until the appointed hour, at which time they would be put to very good and critically timed use,” Tarbeck growled, violence in his voice. “This is more than unacceptable.”

If Qosaerys hadn’t expected this turn to the conversation, he did not show it. He turned it back on Tarbeck with characteristic deftness, skipping not a beat as he took a draught of Arbor Gold down and sallied forth. “Ser Tarbeck, I entreat you, I fully expected to arrive at the Port of Wyl with two hundred spears ready to be brought to bear on behalf of you and yours. Unfortunately, I found instead that Lord Wyl had not even begun to prepare them, much to my shock and dismay.”

This lie did not appear to mollify Tarbeck. “So, the responsibility is not yours, but Lord Wyl’s?”

“It is entirely Lord Wyl’s responsibility and fault,” Qosaerys agreed, seemingly more than happy to shift the blame to a party very much not present to defend himself. “I am a leader of sellswords who finds himself entirely bereft of them. You cannot believe there is a man or woman here this evening who takes greater umbrage with Lord Wyl’s failure in this matter than myself.”

Ser Tarbeck appeared to take greater umbrage than Qosaerys, Arron thought, with both Lord Wyl and the Captain-General alike. “You have put us at a considerable disadvantage and even greater danger, sellsword,” he nearly spat, grinding his teeth even more violently than before.

Qosaerys, with his usual flick of the wrist, waived the concern away. “If I may attempt to rehabilitate your view of our situation, I rather think that this inconvenience may be to our advantage.”

“And how could that possibly be?”

“We are, all of us, deep behind what are very soon to be the lines of the enemy. To our east is Grandview, to our west Harvest Hall, Fawnton to the north and Blackhaven to the south. That’s Grandison, Selmy, Cafferen and Dondarrion, if I know them rightly,” Qosaerys explained, and Arron raised his eyebrows at that. He didn’t think he could name them with that certainty. “Then, closer still than all those, are the holdfasts and keeps held by landed knights sworn to each of those houses. To put it mildly, we are surrounded, which, in my long experience as a soldier, is a rather poor place for any army.”

Tarbeck said nothing. Qosaerys clapped Arron on the shoulder then. “Ser Tarbeck, I ask that you consider thinking of my good Captain Arron’s men as not late to the party, but rather held in reserve, ready to be deployed by land or sea at your command to whichever theater suits you. These are tremendously uncertain times, as you well know, and we must bend with the flow of the river. To have that flexibility I offer you now is very much to your advantage.”

There was a long silence as Tarbeck considered the Captain-General. Whether he meant to stab him or agree with him, Arron couldn’t say. Wordlessly, he gathered the ingots up and made to stand.

“Ah,” Qosaerys interrupted him, and the knight froze, his face hardened as if to stone. “I am afraid I must ask that you leave those with us.”

“You must be mad,” Tarbeck nearly snarled, “if you think I will pay you a groat before I see a thicket of Dornish spears in my service.”

Qosaerys offered his raised hands, palms turned upward as if to showcase his defenseless earnestness. “I do not mean to be difficult, but I fear the nature of your payment was an advance, if I understood rightly. As in to say, it is paid in advance of services provided.”

Tarbeck, now red in the face with anger, seemed about ready to burst. He laid three of the ingots back down. Qosaerys’s face twisted most apologetically. “I must apologize, but I will need the full advance,” he said, emphasis on ‘full’. “Lord Wyl was as forthcoming with his payment for our service as he was with his soldiers, I fear, and so I find myself quite behind on paying the boys.” Lord Wyl had in fact paid quite handsomely and upfront, not that Arron had seen a silver stag of it.

“This is a farce.”

“Would that it were,” Qosaerys returned, and he gestured to Donnor. “Donnor is my numbers man,” he said, “and I invite you to take it up with him, but we have a pressing need for every dragon you placed on the table this evening, liquid or not.” Donnor, who did not look like the sort of man to know what a number was, had stopped sharpening his axe, and now stared intently at Tarbeck, shaft held in a white knuckled grip. Jynessa, who sat beside him, looked less than comfortable with his change in demeanor.

Ser Josmyn Tarbeck all but slammed the ingots down on the table and stormed out of the tent.

Qosaerys, unbothered, took another pull of Arbor Gold from his glass. “I think that went rather well,” he said, and he took up one of the six golden slates and pressed it into Arron’s hand. “For your valuable contribution this evening, you have my thanks and my gold.”

Arron, who had said nothing, took it from him. Being generously compensated for doing nothing was the way the Brave Companions did business, after all, and he was feeling more and more like one of them every day.

---

Finally. I was a hair's breadth away from either pulling all Beylee's hair out or throwing myself off the horse for some peace. That child. Gwendolyn thought as she dismounted her stallion. She smirked as he nosed her with enough force to make a grown man stagger. Expecting it since it was a game they played Gwendolyn was ready for it. Moving with the stallion she was not bowled over. "Still trying that old trick Mentyr."

Stroking Mentyr's soft nose Gwendolyn grinned as she heard familiar grumbles of stable hands. "Demon steed…" it was well known that Mentyr was a one woman horse. He bit, kicked, shoved and generally lived up to his nickname in any way he could. He only behaved if she was near. Hence why she had to tend to the beast. Not that she minded.

"Come Mentyr." Gwendolyn commanded softly and walked to where servants were setting up the tents. She had walked past Ashe who was headed to the lists. Sizing up the competition already with no care for his horse. Gwendolyn rolled her eyes as Mathias went after Ashe. Beylee had made it back to Uncle Brandon's side with Gryffith in his wake. Glancing back she saw Mentyr was being his normal obedient self following in her wake.

Leading Mentyr to the stables Gwendolyn started to free him from his tack. As Gwendolyn pulled off his saddle, Mentyr flicked his ears at the passersby. "Do not even think about lashing out at anyone, Mentyr. I will relegate you to pulling a wagon. You'll be the most pompous draft horse in Westeros."

Mentyr snorted as if to say "You wouldn't dare. You love me too much."

Looking over at him Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow. "Test me."

"You speak to that beast as if you were carrying on a conversation with a child." A dark haired woman with jade green eyes stated. Gwendolyn turned smiling at her Aunt Quinn. "Gwennie, are you sure that he will stay in the confines of the stall? He looks like he'd easily crash through it."

Gwendolyn turned toward the stall. "Positive unless he thinks I'm in danger. If I am then just stand back and let him have his head. Also he claims me as much as I claim him. I raised him so…"

"You're going to stink of horse until you get a bath. Luci and I are headed to an inn to freshen up and Beylee and you are coming with us." Gwendolyn stopped rubbing down Mentyr and had started to open her mouth to protest but was cut off. "Not a word. March."

Gwendolyn knew when Quinn got that look in her eye there was nothing you could do but what she wanted. Quinn was sweet but persistent. "Good luck getting Beylee. And you're only two years older than me, you tart."

Quinn's eyes narrowed. "You did not just call me that. Luci! Gwendolyn just called me a… a-"

"Tart." Gwendolyn finished smirking at Quinn as Luci came around the corner.

"Gwendolyn Carmyne what would Grandmother say?" Luci was the peacemaker of the family. Sweet demure and soft spoken, she never seemed to get upset.

Gwendolyn sighed. "I'm sorry I called you a tart Aunt Quinn. Can we go now?" She nodded to the maid who picked out a teal and crimson dress from a suspicious trunk. "Aunt Quinn, did you have Uncle Tobias pay for gowns for me? How many are there?!"

Quinn didn't even look phased; she just shrugged. "I didn't trust that the cousins wouldn't put you in winter wear. Deliver the trunks to the inn please Roze."

"I have my own mind! I'm eight and ten, not eight!" Gwendolyn raised her voice about to launch into a hissy fit.

"I had them include breeches and thin tunics like the lads wear."

Gwendolyn's attitude did an about face. "Did I mention that I love you?"

Quinn smirked. "I know. Let's go."

The ladies and their maids trailing them converged on an inn called The Green Man. It wasn't overly expensive and they intended on haggling, Luci and Quinn putting on a good show. They mentioned if not them the next person who could very likely smell like they knew sheep. Intimately.

They were set up with a room and a bath was ordered. As the bath was drawn and Gwendolyn bathed all three girls had a reunion of sorts.

“And Tobias really had no problem with Luci and I having gowns made for you since you're representing us along with the cousins.” Quinn was finishing off a pear as she was speaking to Gwendolyn.

Luci raised an eyebrow. “After you pestered him for a month I’d imagine he’d attempt to give you the Moon if you asked. Not to mention you involved Grandmother.”

Smirking, Quinn wiped her mouth delicately. “Yes well I can’t exactly get her back so I’ll spoil her when I do see her.”

Gwendolyn, done with her bath, wrung out her hair and looked over at her Aunts. “So however did you get my measurements?”

Quinn looked like a cat that got into the cream. “A lady never tells.”

Shrugging Gwendolyn pulled on the outfit. It was a rich teal with deep crimson lining the square neckline and was echoed along her hemline. The embroidered flowers and vines on the hands were painstakingly sewn into it. The vines were a deep green, the roses echoed the crimson trim, the thistles in a deep violet color, gold wheat heads and blue forget me nots. It was exquisite and the stitches so small that Gwendolyn knew right away this was Luci's part. Gwendolyn traced the embroidery softly and looked up as Luci said, "I did that one but Mya outdid me. There's a snow white dress that is astonishing. I honestly don't know how she talked Tobias into the thread on that one." Gwendolyn was about to question Luci who saw and held her hand up to stop interruptions. "You will have to see that dress to believe it. It… well it's indescribable. And we've already promised her that you'd wear it later, not right now." Luci giggled. "Janyce practiced her embroidery on your tunics. It is rather adorable and definitely not something a man would wear so that mollified Tobias. Very… fairytale inspired. Jarren pronounced them insultingly womanly. He is in that phase. You just have a lot of presents we are sending back to Winterfell. Now turn round so I can lace you. Then we will go get some wine and do some betting. Introduce you to some young men."

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. "Uncle put you up to this."

Quinn and Luci both laughed. "Actually it was Grandmother." They both answered. "Betting was Tobias. Collectively we are supposed to pick people that we think will win."

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow. "Fair of face doesn't mean he'll win, Quinn."

"I know that but it also doesn't mean he won't." Quinn snapped. "If you're done dawdling we can go."

The three women walked back to the area where the seven kingdoms' houses were setting up. They chatted as they walked around. What they conversed about was unimportant. What was important was that they were seen. Walking about alone without a chaperone was impossible, however the three of them together was a bit more acceptable, a little daring and in some circles still unacceptable.

They were free with their smiles at the young men that they ran across; Gwendolyn's hair and height were very distinctive. There was no way that you could miss them as they trekked the grounds pointing out people in the houses as they passed and sharing the names of those residing in that they were aware of. Starting off with familial ties they went down the list of who they were aware of and what their ages were, if they were betrothed or had married recently or sadly had died. The subject mostly consisted of the men of the houses that were bachelors and looking, or in some cases not.

They laughed and joked with one another like sisters even after not seeing one another for ten years. The girls had kept in contact with each other by raven frequently and so knew each other as if they had been raised in the same house.

Gwendolyn bit her lip in worry. She knew that the cousins and Brandon would be upset with her at the very least, most likely all of them. Northmen were a protective bunch. Not that Uncle Tobias wasn't, he was just not from the North so things were… different. She just knew that her Uncle wouldn't be as angry as the others would be. She was about to say something to that effect but was distracted by a colorful intricate display. The excitement over rode the knot of fear as Gwendolyn watched with wide eyes the games and people drinking freely. Not that she had never seen people enjoy themselves but there was just more of a free spirit than she was used to. Joy was not scarce in the North, for this was joy just not in what her sheltered life had beheld.

While Gwendolyn was not overly shy she was a bit overwhelmed and tried to take it all in to understand the situation and where she would fit in. What exactly did one do in this situation? What did one not do?

Suddenly her Aunt Luci tapped Gwendolyn on the shoulder. Gwendolyn blinked and looked down at her Aunts. “Clear your shock Gwennie you look five and ten. That look will get us in more trouble than people not realizing that we left the maids behind.”

A warning bell peeled through Gwendolyn and she cleared her expression as her Aunts pulled her over to the place where they were selling wine. Arbor gold, next to other whites, reds and an interesting assortment of blushes. Gwendolyn had a feeling that she better enjoy herself because when the cousins found them she was gonna be in a whole world of trouble. It was bad enough when I was flirting with the boy’s friends… this will probably be worse. The women paid for their wine and looked around at what else they could enjoy before their cousins lowered the boom.