[IC] Game of Thrones

[Ruby]

Lord Robert Arryn (written by Sini)/Lady Celena Lannister (written by Ruby)
Gulltown after the Trial by Combat
Over a month ago

He would live, or so the Grafton’s Maester claimed. Should gangrene set in, Robert would make sure to leave explicit instructions tending to the Maester’s demise. The wound was washed with boiled wine, rinsed with vinegar and dressed accordingly. His shoulder felt swollen, but the blade had not bitten into any bones that would hamper healing. Under Robert’s gaze – who had firmly refused the offered Milk of the Poppy – the Maester’s hands almost trembled. Almost.

A missive had reached the Lord of the Vale, secretly arriving by one of his own agents. A back-channel supposedly only known to Robert and those he trusted. Not that he – once the letter was unsealed and deciphered – was surprised who had managed to identify one of the veiled threads with which he kept an ear to the ground. His personal contacts had grown into his network of intelligence, nothing comparable to anything the masters of intrigue boasted of (or well, not boasted of) but sufficient for his means and designs.

The woman, for as he read the delicate handwriting he became certain, could be counted among said spymasters. She belonged to a breed of men and women that traded secrets in the dark, cultivated favours and handled knives at night. There was no shame in his Pentoshi spy’s discovery at the hands of the paradoxically famed woman. He would not have to be admonished, not eliminated. His cover remained intact, and he was more a merchant if anything else. Besides, there was work for the Pentoshi agent to be done.

And so, bandaged, his arm constricted and wrapped against his chest, Lord Robert Arryn descended from the Grafton Keep hooded, cloaked in black, towards the bustling harbour town below. Three men accompanied him, knowing how much his… visitor appreciated privacy. He hoped she would understand him not coming all on his own. He also hoped she would see his hearing of her request and indeed meeting her at the waterfront as the gesture of good faith that it was.

Robert wondered if she considered him to be a friend, then dismissed the thought. She was what she was and had perhaps foresworn friends altogether – matter what history lay between them. His mind wandered – blessedly clear though, the meeting part of why he had refused the Milk of the Poppy – to moments shared in the past, hushed words, whispers and sad promises made. Vanity and hubris of youth, thinking he could handle the world and her.

His Arryn guards kept pace, swords and knives at their sides. It was clear from how they walked that they were armed and trained in their use. Gulltown had an underground society, people would mistake them for criminals, cutthroats or smugglers making their way to some dark transaction. Robert himself only had a small knife, wounded as he was fighting would be out of the question. He would have to trust in his men, which he did. Not that he despaired, this was no trap.

The street was lined with timber shacks and teetering hovels, a seedy part of town, the Cock and Bulls tavern their destination. One of the Arryn men went first, cleared a path to the room on the first floor. They were ordered to stay outside, one of them covering the stairs the other two flanking the door to the designated room.

Climbing the stairs he had had to suppress wincing, his ribcage groaning under the strain. Ser Gerold Egen had battered his chest thoroughly, and breathing came difficult. Once on the first floor, he needed a moment to steady himself and catch his breath. He was tired from walking here.

Robert knocked with his free hand, thrice, then pushed open the rickety door. It was heavier than he expected. Inside, he saw a large window with open shutters through which moonlight shone, the bay beyond. A figure stood between him and said window. He knew that was because she wanted that way out, likely had two alternative routes or strategies to quickly make an exit.

Looking at her, Robert’s throat went dry before he remembered he was Lord of the Vale now. He had to keep that in mind, act in the interest of his position and people. Even in the pale light there was no mistaking the golden hue of the woman’s hair, the smouldering green of her eyes.

He did not know whether he hated, or loved that woman.

Tackling the memories, he discovered he was grinning. “How long have you been here, Celena?” At the very least one had to admire her skills. Robert came clean right off the bat. “There’s three men outside the door, no one else. We both know how much you value discretion.” He had taken them as protection against Gulltown’s denizens now with his temporary indisposition, not her. She was smart enough to figure that out.

"Last I recall, you valued my discrection, too."

The words were smiled at Lord Arryn, instead of smirked, as they likely should have been. Her body moved across the room instantly, passing Robert, and pushing the door to an immediate and secure close. As for the note of men, Celena ignored it--at best she would be out and gone before any of them could move an inch if it came to it. At worst, she'd be in a cell.

That was best and worst case for him, for Lord Arryn, not her. Celena Lannister was long past any best case scenarios. When she turned from the door to peer upon him, her smile returned to her ruby lips.

"Lord Robert."

Where did she start? It was hard for Celena to decide; to warn him? No. He wouldn't take such a strange warning well, and she wasn't in the business of warning people about the coming storm to Westeros. At least, not yet. He may have been a man she cared for, long ago and far away, but she had deeper committments now.

Quickly, after studying him, her smile melted into a tiny frown. "Gerold Egen?" Of course she knew. "Sit on the bed." She was prepared for him to argue; somehow, he did not. He made small steps to the bed, turned his body, and sat his ass upon the mattress. "Not as bad as the first time we met?"

She gave him a pirate's grin, but it passed as quicky as a smile became a frown, concern on her face as her body hovered over his. Inspecting for long moments, until she was upright, hands on her hips in the scarlet satin gown that was conservatively cut to keep her bust in check. "Maester did good work. You didn't threaten him, did you?"

She stared at him for a few beats of her heart, before simply dismissing the notion and moving on--her normal tact of conversation with him. Of course he threatened the Maester. She knew it plainly as she stood before him now, looking as at ease and comfortable as ever, as any true dancer would be. Green eyes flashing amusement, but allowing precious else to be read.

"Speaking of Maesters--they say Spring has arrived. Just in time for one King to die and another to to be crowned. Warm as it is--"and warm it was, even in the Vale, "I still wonder if it's a bit convenient, don't you?"

She may have said it like a village peasant remarking on the weather, with a tone a touch too casual, but Robert knew her better. At least, part of her hoped he knew her better. A woman asking questions she already knew the answers to. But, she thought, should she ask questions she had no answers to....Lord Robert would know too much, too soon.

And right now she was still hoping on the best outcome for him. Even for his Vale. It was pretty, afterall.

After a quick trip to the bottle of her favorite golden vintage from a small island in the Jade Sea, she returned with two glasses, extending one of them to him. "Drink. This one bottle is worth half the wine in your cellars, so drink like you're thirsty."

For exaggeration, her index finger tipped the bottom of his glass just-barely-upward, only enough to cover his lower lip, not spill. A tease completed with a smile she never actually allowed as she moved one of the chairs away from the table in the center of the room to face the bed, and him.

Even the act of sitting in a chair like a proper Westerosi lady looked overly easy to Celena; back stiff, knees together, one hand in her lap, the other busying itself with the glass--a glass she immediately drank from, as not to give him any wrong ideas.

He could be paranoid, she knew.

"So. Shall I be seeing you in King's Landing for Daeron's coronation? Exciting, isn't it? A new dragon King, without dragons."

Robert's mouth was tugged into a wry grin. "Of course I did. Maesters need the proper encouragement, and seeing as they're all cowards threats do the trick." He knew it wasn't true, but this witty quipping was part of the game between them. She was close enough for him to notice the subtle perfume she wore, the perfume he remembered from Braavos. Looking at Celena he could not help but think her attire was remarkably chaste for her tastes. Was he disappointed? A stranger and a lover both, he had to come to terms with her being just somebody he used to know. But still, despite his better judgement and knowledge about the workings of the world, the doubt was there.

He shrugged his shoulder, winced at the pain in his left one. Had to keep his mind on sparing it exercise for now. Her suggestion sounded aloof, but it was far from it - hinting at regicide. He engaged the question. As ever, the death of a monarch could be explained as beneficial for several individuals or factions. Thus more than one suspect came to mind. Convenient truly was the word, eliciting another sardonic smile from the new Lord Arryn.

Repressing a sigh, Robert watched her go about the room, no movement wasted. Everything composed and measured with the skilful grace of an acrobat. He had been privy to said flexibility and elegance once, no longer. Like the exclusive wine, his mood was heavy-headed. Not wont to drink, Celena's presence still acted as a sort of balm making it acceptable. "An ironic present, but one I can manage to appreciate," he murmured, still able to concede the wine was indeed excellent. It was an... allowance for himself. Robert had to steel his will not to be entranced by the heady cocktail of wine, privacy and woman.

"Lord Grafton has been so kind as to provide an escort to the Brine Falcon, a fifty-oar vessel of my local kinsman. So yes, I will be present at this convenient coronation." Yes, he had noted her allusion. "As to how exciting it is... I had enough excitement for now." He had come close to dying earlier that day. Thinking about the elevation of a boy-king could be postponed for now. "I wager you will be in the capital as well, though I have no idea in what capacity." She was a chameleon after all. "Can I... be of assistance somehow, or is this a visit to an old friend?"

A bad moon is on the horizon, Rob. Be careful. Be very, very, careful. Call your banners and play defense.

In her mind, she heard herself say it, and say it instantly. And mean it. But aloud, nothing was ever spoken, the words stayed on her tongue. Instead, she forced herself into another smile. False and pretty, like nearly every noble woman in Lannisport. It was a skill Celena had in abundance, from her earliest days as the only child of the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock.

"Just wanted to know if you were going," the lie came easier than it ever should have, like silk through her fingers. There was no catching herself, no stopping. Not this far down into the darkness. "I'll see you there."

A quick stand, and a single step forward, and her warm lips kissed the pale Vale Lord's forehead. A few steps later and she was walking out the door; if it was all the same to Robert, she figured she'd save the window for another time.

Only once did she ever look back, and that was just outside the door--to yell back into the room.

"Don't worry, I'll find you."

[Sini]

The Vale, Gulltown, a little over a month ago (OOC: a few hours before the post above)
Lord Robert Arryn

Tournaments in Westeros and duels performed in the Vale under the presence of women were under the aegis of the Queen of Love and Beauty. A relatively recent custom, ever since Lady Jeyne Arryn had been crowned thus shortly after coming into her majority. It was Alyse Arryn, therefore, who was responsible for supervising the formalities attendant upon the challenge issued between her recently returned kinsman Robert Arryn and Gerold Egen.

This had been coming for a long time now, Alyse knew. Robert’s return had been far from welcomed by all. Only the Grafton and the Arryns of Gulltown had openly supported him from the first day, quickly joined by House Royce – a maternal relation, for Robert’s mother had been a sister to their lord. Those that had orbited around Lord Donnel had formed a faction, ever eager to bristle against Robert’s reign. Headed by a scion of House Egen, they were quick to criticise the new Lord of the Eyrie and his more… direct approach of ruling. Like stallions that have been given too much rein, Alyse thought, the boisterous confidants of Donnel had to be broken in once more.

Donnel, and his father Jon before him, had kept their youthful wildness focused on a plethora of tourneys. Instead, no tournaments were being held this year, as Robert had ordered them to train their lances on the Mountain Clans that had grown bold of late. Already he had ridden out, while the snows had still lain on the mountainside to check their raiding. She had spoken with him when he returned, still smelling of blood, mud and leather, and asked. Asked him why he had ordered his bannermen to tackle the Clansmen.

“They have been too long unchecked,” he had said, looking at her with an intensity that most men lacked.

“The Clansmen?” She had heard herself asking incredulously. Those savages had always been unchecked, stubbornly refusing to give up their primitive way of life and welcome civilisation. Alyse had also heard her distant cousin laugh, with a lace of scorn in his voice that never seemed to leave.

“Not them. Well, them too. I meant these pompous petty lordlings and knights. They have become accustomed to their freedoms, while it is their place to serve. They owe me their allegiance, and I intend to demand it from them if not freely given.” Robert had shrugged his broad shoulders then, and scoffed. “Besides, I have no use for striplings and untried lads. Better to send the meat to the borders, have it bloodied and then take it back when it’s seasoned.”

They had played at war for too long, and concluded knighthood meant fancy feasts, warm women and titillating tourneys. Robert had robbed them of that fantasy.

Ser Gerold Egen had been most vocal in his protests and uttered a challenge against his new bannerlord, questioning his mettle. Robert had shunned tournaments in his youth, and only participated in a handful later, in spite of them being a large part of the Vale’s culture. Aside from that accusation, Ser Gerold had called his Lord Robin. Robin. The room had gone very quiet, then, as Robert’s chair slowly scraped across the floor. Standing tall and upright he had glowered down Gerold and plainly stated that “the time for ‘Robin’ is over, Ser. I shall see you in a fortnight at Gulltown.” He had sighed and added that Gerold should “lay off the wine. We shall both feel better for it.”

Nevertheless, Alyse still had to stifle a chuckle when she remembered her kinsman calmly accepting Gerold’s challenge. Loud Gerold, arrogant Gerold. Perhaps part of it hailed from her scorning his advances.

Nevertheless, Alyse Arryn had dismissed the notion as a foolish one. A sitting lord accepting a challenge was… risky. It was not unheard of, but it was the sort of thing that made or broke a man. Should Robert lose, he would lose everything. It was not unthinkable for him to be forced to abdicate in favour of a more ‘suitable’ candidate. While he had won over most of the Vale’s houses, the knighthood in itself still had a way to go adapting to his authority.

What had surprised Alyse, was that Robert had sought her out the evening of the challenge to ask her about Ser Gerold. As ever when in a room with him, she felt unsettled, aware he was observing everything. Robert noticed things. He noticed a great deal, a truth the court had come to acknowledge quickly the past year. “I have no idea,” she had said in response to her prognostic, reclining prettily on an upholstered divan in a room overlooking the valley. “I cannot decide because I do not know how well you fight. I do know that Gerold would not be speaking for that ruffian clique if he would not be very good indeed.”

Ser Raymar Royce, one of Robert’s maternal cousins and childhood friend, had also been present, contributing that, “Gerold? He is good.” He poured an early glass of wine, which – considering Robert’s opinion on such a habit because of his own brother’s history – was perhaps unwise. “So is Robert.”

“What weapons shall I allow?” Alyse, in her formal capacity could set some rules. “I could easily-”

Robert had interrupted her, shaking his head quickly. “No point. He uses what he wants, so do I. He thinks he is playing a game, no matter what arms he will learn ‘t is not.”

“There… is a point to all this, I hope?” Alyse had brazenly forayed, eliciting a laugh from Raymar. She had seen Robert engaging the question in his mind, formulating an answer. Perhaps he was surprised this was coming from her, from a woman, but Alyse well-remembered his sister, her own kinswoman Sharra. He had said she reminded him of her, he had. That was perhaps the reason why he allowed her brashness.

“This whole affair is about how we are seen in the eyes of the world. I lose too much if I am thought to be afraid of him or to be arranging things to my obvious advantage. Grateful for your concern, dear cousin, but there is no point in going through with Gerold’s challenge if I manipulate it.”

And that had been the end of it.

---

“He will try to cut downwards on the angle and then back across low for your knees,” Raymar said as he was tightening the drawstrings and sets of straps on his lord’s armour. These words of advice were born from concern. A concern Robert had known himself often enough.

Robert was not really concentrating though, either on the warnings or the increasing level of sound he could hear from the pavilions. When he and Ser Gerold were ready to emerge from their tents the sounds would rise to an anticipating crescendo and then fall for the ceremony of introduction – a few words of Alyse in this case –, before beginning again on a different note when the fight began. It was the same the world over. He had seen it all over Westeros, all over the Free Cities.

“He’ll have a knife in his belt and one behind his left calf,” Raymar murmured. “Beware his thrusts, they’re a diversion. He’s known for that. Keep your shield up.”

Robert really was not paying close attention, even though they meant him a world of good. The Lord of the Vale’s mind wandered shortly before battle, drifting along unexpected pathways across the years. It kept him calm, even when he remembered Sharra and all the bad blood between himself and the rest of his family. It kept him calm, until the moment before the fight began, when the feeling was akin to a muffling curtain pulled swiftly aside and he would feel all his senses converge like arrows upon the battleground.

Just now he was remembering how he had shook Donnel after Sharra’s death. How his father had merely nodded, ignoring Donnel’s blatant guilt. Robert wasn’t sure why his thoughts revisited that instance. Maybe as he grew older, saw more of the world and partook in its interactions, he was coming to understand the degree to which the Arryn men had poisoned each other.

Through a gap in the tent flap behind the heads of his squires attending on him, Robert could see the glare of sunlight, a glimpse of the dazzling colours of the pavilions and the green grass where he would be fighting soon.

He stood up, Raymar reached around his waist and buckled on the long dagger in a plain soldier’s scabbard. From the table he hefted the winged helmet and set it on his head. He then offered the round shield that would be strapped to his left forearm. Moon and falcon were painted upon it.

Robert came out into the sunshine and the green grass of the battleground, a short ride from the Gates of the Moon. Gerold Egen was the first person he saw, standing at the entrance of his own tent on the far side of the field. His house’s banner was flying behind him: a yellow sun, white crescent moon, and silver star on a blue chief, above a white field. Gerold’s shield was polished, gilded in places. Robert glanced east to check and remember the angle of the sun; that shield could blind him if his challenger used it to catch and throw back the rays of light.

Trumpets sounded, briefly, and both men turned towards the central stand as the Alyse, the Queen of Love and Beauty from the last tournament, stepped forward. “To my left,” cried she at last, her silver voice carrying over the grass and the densely packed stages, “stands Ser Gerold of House Egen, prepared to lay his life before the Seven in this matter of his honour and that of his family.” Alyse turned toward Robert. “To my other hand,” she proclaimed, poised in spite of her young age, “equally prepared to defend the honour of his name, stands Ser Robert Arryn, Lord of the Vale, answering the challenge and to prove his right of lordship before the assembled audience and upon this field where the Seven are judges of strength and worth.” Alyse took a moment’s pause, then continued. “Lord Robert has also declared that this combat freely entered into by him against Ser Gerold shall serve as a warrant for the worth of his claim. He willingly lays his life at hazard before you all in this moment of asserting his right to title and lands.”

The noise, the screams were deafening afterwards. Robert knew how to quell that sound. To bring the pavilions and stands back, like hunting dogs to heel, to what lay ahead of them now on this green grass beneath the morning sun. He wheeled the horseman’s pick around in his gauntlet and shook loose his shoulders.

The ceremony was over, the pomp dispensed with. Words were wind.

Ser Gerold drew his sword, pulled upon a clasp and let his belt drop to the ground from where it was quickly collected by an industrious squire. He was smiling before he clicked shut his helmet. The knight moved forward, light on his feet as a tumbler for all his size, for all his armour, and Robert, watching closely, saw that his first steps carried a little west. Just as he had expected. Gerold was a tall man, quick and brave. A dandy perhaps but still a trained fighter with a longing to humiliate his liege.

Moving forward himself, Robert found what he was looking for. His small round shield resting on his left forearm allowed his fingers to be fee. Thus, he held his weapon with his left hand, stooped and hurled a lump of earth squarely at Ser Gerold. At the gleaming shield in particular. The knight stopped, surprised, leaving enough time to rattle another dulling handful of dirt against the shield before Robert straightened and took proper hold of his war hammer.

Ser Gerold Egen was no longer smiling. It was Robert who grinned maliciously now. “Too shiny a toy, Ser. By Day or Night,” he said in mockery of the Egen words. “I’ll have it cleaned afterwards, but tell me. How many men have you blinded with it like the coward you are?”

“I wonder,” said Ser Gerold after a short silence, his voice thickened by passion, “if you have any idea of how much pleasure your humiliating defeat will bring me.”

“I probably do. Now use that blade you carry.”

Ser Gerold was good indeed. More than able, sorely provoked. The first strike, as Raymar had predicted, was a downward angled slash on his backhand. Robert parried smoothly, guiding it short of his body but then was only barely quick enough – even with the anticipation – to block the vicious return sweep. The impact of arms was enough to numb his wrist. Ser Gerold was strong, and his reactions were even quicker than Robert had guessed they would be.

Robert twisted, dropped and parried trusting his reflexes and instinct, the skills he had painstakingly acquired over the years during combat. Still, Ser Gerold pressed on, pushed him back and managed to slide his blade past Robert’s defence. He deflected most of it with his small round shield, but was cut.

He felt a searing pain in his left shoulder, where Gerold’s swordpoint had pierced the mail. The crowd howled deep and low. “Now that is pretty. Throw some mud on it like the peasant you are. You seem to enjoy digging in the ground.”

Ser Gerold Egen had offended not only him, but his house. With all its shortcomings, House Arryn was still one of the noblest ones in existence. Robert thought of the long lineage he was a part of, and with that his anger was upon him. The old, familiar, frightening demon that could come to him in battle or the bedroom.

“Spare your breath,” he said thickly and surged up to engage the other man. There were no words then, not any more. No space for words, no breath, only the rapid chittering and clattering of metal on metal, the heavy clangs when sword or pick hit shield. Gerold’s thigh was gashed, but so was Robert’s calf. So far he had not been crippled by any blow, still on his feet. By then it had become clear to Gerold and Robert. Ceremony had truly gone. The shadow of death was here, the Stranger’s breath in their necks.

Some things about fighting Robert had had to teach himself, or learn from his brother at those rare intervals when he was not out and would consent to give him a lesson. He had learned quite a few years later than most young men in the Vale, after the fire. The greater part of his martial education had come in the field, in Essos, in war and fighting the Clansmen. The life of a wartime knight, of a sword-for-hire was dangerous and he had been far too green, too callow to expect to walk away alive. It had been his way of escaping Sharra’s death and his family’s stifling presence.

He had enough scars as badges of remembrance, each lessons learned in the craft of killing and surviving. In any case, Robert proceeded to force Gerold to use his shield again and again, to lift it high against forehand blows aimed towards shoulder and head. With each warded blow in upward defence, Ser Gerold’s wound would be forced open more and his battered arm and side would grow weaker. It was straightforward, routine.

But he was fooled. Gerold brought to bear his reserves of speed and strength, tackled his lord and almost threw him to the ground. Then he bashed Robert with his shield, teeth-jarring hard. Thrusting his sword, Gerold succeeded in tipping over Lord Arryn and wanted to come in for the kill. Robert though, had no intention of dying easily and flung his round shield like a disk at his opponent’s shins. It bounced of the plates, but allowed for enough time for him to draw the poniard from his scabbard and jam it into Gerold’s sword arm. He went limp, and Robert followed up with another stab in the side, where the plate showed chainmail underneath. Two quick jabs in the ribs, swift punches with steel at the end.

“Yield,” Ser Gerold Egen gurgled. “I Yield! I Yield!” He started screeching but it devolved quickly into just wet sounds. “Y-y-y…”

---

An unfortunate death, but not unnecessary. Unexpected, definitely but not unacceptable or dishonourable. So passed Ser Gerold Egen, as a message, as proof. Mortality had been made harshly manifest that day with a man broken and bleeding on that green patch of grass. He had paid for his defiance, for his cock-sureness and served as a stamp of Lord Robert’s willingness to go to all lengths. There were some who would claim it was murder, but it was not. A fight to the death was hardly new, and tested a man’s courage and the powers behind him.

Robert would later put the battered, dented armour on display in the throne room of the Eyrie. It lined the round wall together with other suits, but those were meticulous, pristine. At times, mostly in the waking hours, he came there to look at it. To trace his fingers along the edge of the hole where his horseman’s pick had punctured the thick steel. To remind himself as much as to remind his bannermen and subjects.

[Vor]

Symon Rivers, in service to House Hightower
King's Landing, present day

“Does Lord Hightower regard House Florent so poorly that he sends a bastard to treat with me?”

Symon was disappointed, but not surprised. It had started out well enough, Lord Florent had agreed to meet and listened calmly as Symon made his proposal. And so, he had spent the last couple of minutes extolling the virtues of House Hightower and carefully presenting the benefits a marriage between the two Houses would provide. He had prepared the speech and all his arguments the night before, but after Lord Florent’s remark he suspected that it had all been in vain.

None of that showed on his face, however, as he calmly replied:

“Lord Hightower means no offense, my lord. He trusts that his dignified lineage and the prestige of his House lend enough weight to his seal.” He paused to gesture at the signet ring positioned on the table between them, wrought of the finest gold as befits a Hightower, before continuing. “I beg forgiveness if my presence offends, but the words I speak are those of Lord Otho himself and they have merit – even spoken by one such as I.”

“Save your flowery talk for the whores, Rivers.” Lord Florent waved a hand to silence him “Your words have merit, aye, but my answer is clear – no.”

The head of House Florent let the words hang in the air, perhaps trying to provoke a reaction from Symon, though he would have to try harder than that. He took a sip of his wine, still keeping his eyes on his guest. Symon couldn’t shake the feeling that he was sitting face to face with House Florent’s sigil and not a man, such was the lord’s resemblance to the animal. With his prominent ears and narrow face, he was the very image of a fox. He was as sly as one too – he’d quite purposefully left Symon talk to get his hopes up, only to dash them with a single sentence. Bastard…

“There’s also the matter with the attacks on our traders…” Symon decided to change the topic, knowing that he would get nothing if he continued pursuing that avenue.

“What….? The merchants?” Lord Florent shrugged, making it clear what he thought of that. “I have no time for such things, discuss it with my seneschal.” He nodded at a man standing nearby, before giving Symon one last look “You have my message, now take it to your lord.”

Symon knew a dismissal when he heard one, so he got to his feet, pocketed his lord’s seal and bowed respectfully before leaving Lord Florent’s presence. Accompanying him were two Florent men, as well as Luthor Serry, the so-called seneschal. They walked through the manse’s hallways in silence, giving Symon plenty of time to gather his thoughts.

It was a lavish residence, well-decorated and spacious – the Reach had many wealthy Houses and they weren’t afraid of flaunting their wealth when they came to the capital. Nevertheless, Symon noticed a few cracks in the walls here and there, blemishes on the wood, the smaller number of servants. Try as they might to hide it, the Dance had taken a heavy toll on House Tyrell’s bannermen. Though a generation had come and gone, the conflict still left its mark and few Houses could boast of having recovered completely.

They halted on a small balcony overlooking the busy street below. The Florent residence was located on the hill of Rhaenys, which provided a spectacular view of this part of the city. He could see the gold cloaks manning the Old Gate in the distance, the flow of people going up and down the Street of Silk even at this early hour – from up here, even the stench that permeated everything wasn’t as detectable and the city could almost be called beautiful. Almost.

Leaning on the stone railing, Luthor Serry turned to face him, doing little to hide his smug expression.

“As I already told Lord Florent-“ Symon began.

Serry raised a hand to stop him. “Please, Lord Rivers, I was present and heard your account, there is no need to go over it again.”

The way he said “Lord Rivers” made it plainly obvious it was spoken in mockery, but this was yet another thing Symon was used to. These arrogant nobles thought that by constantly reminding others of their rank it somehow made them better or smarter than him. A mistake they would often regret.

“In that case, I will reiterate Lord Hightower’s request – these attacks on our transports must stop. Trade between our two Houses has flowed freely in the past and I doubt Lord Florent would wish it to stop now. As Lord of Brightwater Keep, it is his duty to keep the roads safe for travellers.”

In truth, it was a trivial matter, one that could be solved by a knight with a few seasoned men. A number of caravans from Oldtown had been attacked in Florent lands, near their border with House Hightower. Symon doubted that the brigands were affiliated with the Florents in any way, but the House’s continuous toleration of this nuisance was reason enough for Lord Otho to bring the matter up.

“Surely you do not expect Lord Florent to concern himself with a few cutthroats harassing traders and money-lenders? My lord is a busy man and he has greater matters to attend to.”

Symon expected that reply, he had hoped for it, in fact.

“Aye, our lords must concern themselves with the important affairs of the realm. I do not expect men of such high standing to express interest in the day-to-day activities of their demense. After all, that is why they have servants like us.”

Serry smiled, but said nothing. He was regal in appearance, tall and muscled, with a pleasant face and features that would make most women swoon. He seemed perfectly in control of the situation, feeling he had the upper hand in this exchange.

“Of course, being free of such lofty duties allows one to notice minute details, which a busier man might overlook.” Now it was Symon’s turn to smile, the corner of his mouth twisting ever so slightly. “Take for example a certain brothel in Oldtown, near the docks. Now, a perceptive man might notice that you have a tendency to frequent it during your visits to our city.”

For the first time since their meeting, Luthor Serry’s ingratiating smile slipped from his face. He attempted to open his mouth, but Symon didn’t let him speak. Now I have you, you pathetic cunt.

“Now, now, Lord Serry,” he patted him on the shoulder, leaning in conspiratorially, “As a man, I perfectly understand the desire to unwind after a long day of doing business for your lord. And what better way than in the warm embrace of a girl?” Symon lowered his voice, until it became almost a whisper. “However, there is something unusual about this brothel in particular. All of the whores there are male, as is the entire clientele.”

Even if he had achieved nothing else, the colour draining from Serry’s face was reward enough. Symon took a step back, but kept his eyes on the other man. He let the silence stretch, knowing that a man’s worst fears were his own thoughts. Well, that was the main reason, but he couldn’t deny that watching Serry squirm was the most enjoyable thing he had seen all week. When a few more moments had passed, he decided it was time to end this.

“I’m just a bastard, as your lord rightfully pointed out, so who am I to judge?” Symon finally looked away, turning his eyes to the city and the fields beyond it. “However, a pious man such as yourself,” he tsked, “what would the septons say? And what of your wife? I am told she is a beautiful woman and a cousin to Lord Florent himself! No…it would not do for your little secret to come out, not at all.”

“You filthy, up-jumped son of a whore…” to say that Serry’s voice had taken on an edge would be an understatement, the malice dripping from it could almost be heard. His hand unconsciously went to the dagger at his belt, but Symon wasn’t afraid. The Florent guards nearby would not allow an emissary of the Hightowers to be killed under their lord’s roof and even if they did, Serry would have to explain his violent outburst.

“You wound me, my lord. My mother was a seamstress and she earned her coin honestly, unlike some people. Now, I trust the matter is settled and no more brigands will plague the northern roads?”

“I will personally see to it that they are hanged,” Serry spoke in a flat voice, “now be gone from my sight. You breathe a word of this to anyone and I swear on the Seven I’ll see you dead, even if it’s the last thing I do.” He gestured at his guards and they moved in to escort Symon.

“Have a pleasant day, my lord.”

---

A few moments later he was already out in the street and walking away from the Florent manse. This was the second prominent House in the Reach that had refused Lord Otho’s offer of marriage. Symon’s task had seemed easy enough at first, after all who wouldn’t want to marry Orthos Hightower, heir to the Hightower and Oldtown? This was one of the rare cases in which Symon had grossly underestimated the situation.

Though he knew little of his lord’s plans, he had an inkling as to what these marriages meant for the Reach. Unfortunately, so did the other lords and they were scared, as they should be. The Good Lady Merry had spies everywhere and she kept a particularly watchful gaze on her son’s most powerful bannermen. Symon shuddered, if she wanted to, she could probably destroy his entire network of contacts with a few letters. There was no shame in admitting it - he was good, but there were always bigger fish in the pond.

However, there was no point in worrying over eventualities and he still had much to do before his return to the Red Keep. Drawing the hood of his cloak up, Symon turned in the direction of Flea Bottom and began making his way to that sinking shithole. It was always an unpleasant experience, but he had a favour to return…

[FourtyTwo]

The Reach, Westeros,

Highgarden was among the most magnificent of the many castles of the Seven Kingdoms. True to its name, it was a garden as much as a fortress, a monument to beauty striding atop the endless, verdant plains of the Reach. The castle's grounds were meticulously manicured, dressed up with blooming flowers of all kinds that filled the air with a measured cocktail of pleasant scents. As guests and residents rode along the paved pathways leading to Highgarden's elegantly crafted gates, they could watch as the sun shone off of the castle's white stone walls, imbuing the entire stronghold in a brilliant glow. Even the guards and servants of Highgarden were attenatively decorated, dressed in fine, richly coloured fabrics and doused in as much perfume each day as the North consumed in a year. Highgarden was the epitome of beauty and grace, and all within its walls were expected to exemplify this image of poise.

The clashing of steel was distinct, within those walls, and it could be quickly seen that this was a spar indeed, with Ser Garland Tyrell, Castellan of Highgarden, and his squire, Merlin Flowers. Garland's squire was dressed simply, the bastard squire with a green and white-coloured leather jerkin, whilst Garland had simply opted for just his chestplate, taken from his suit of armour, just something that felt comfortable to him even in a spar like this, a comfortable green and golden tunic beneath it. The sun beat down into the sparring yard, out of the shade of the white walls that felt relatively cool to the touch, even with the pleasant heat that came in.

Garland adjusted his position, as Merlin, a boy of ten and three, came in quick, Garland using the blunted steel to quickly parry, and gently swipe against his side. The Ser chuckled, Garland's face beaming, his beard like a lion's mane, gently wrapping around his chin, his long hair blowing a little into the breeze, the fragrance of roses even in this spar, in the air from his person. Merlin on the other hand, was short haired, and even at his young age, looked like he wasn't going to really develop a mane of hair, not like the Knight that he was squiring for. Being knocked back, Merlin sighed, as Garland chuckled.

"Lad, you're close. But you aren't defending." Garland said, his voice holding stern, suiting his pleasant appearance, as Merlin shrugged, looking up.

"I know, but I'm just not as big as you, how can I stop your blade?" The young squire replied exasperated, as Garland chuckled, shaking his head.

"Size doesn't matter. Use it to your advantage, let your opponent come to you, pick him up." Garland readied again, as did Merlin, the boy of course, shorter than Garland's tall stance, but tall for his age. Perhaps he was talking himself down a little, yet Garland knew he was going to help the boy, and make sure he knew how to swing a bloody sword.

Going again as Merlin took his sword to hand, Garland moved forwards, as Merlin began to defend, clinking, as Garland pushed on, wanting to see if Merlin could hold it. And he did, for a time. That was before Garland let him tire a bit more, then just pushed on, no strength required, and jabbed him with the pointy end of the blunt blade, into his leather jerkin.

The two chuckled, knowing that Merlin had learned something it seemed, yet....well, maybe forgotten a few other things. Like fatigue in a fight, and the other things.

Alerie watched on, the burgandy-haired Lady looking across at him, at the sparring. How men enjoyed being boys sometimes, she reminded herself, playing with swords and pretending at being warriors for a little time. Even if Garland had a duty to his squire, it seemed to her that it was a little too much bravado that men like him showed off.

"Hello there, Ser Pale." Garland immediately turned, looking over at Alerie, chuckling.

"I thought you wouldn't be here yet?" The reply was fast, as Alerie reached up to Garland's tall frame, almost having to jump on him, kissing him on the cheek.

"Well, I thought I would be headed out a little longer to the gardens, but I got bored, what can I say. And you do seem rather dashing." Garland's pale face only blushed a little, Alerie smirking as she knew the sarcasm had come full well through and through, to really tell Garland of what she thought of it all.

"Anyway, how is young Merlin getting on?" She added, as the young squire looked up at Lady Alerie, looking at the boy, who looked on almost as meekly as Garland's tall frame did.

"He's well." The Ser replied, as Alerie tutted, looking down at the boy, not Garland.

"Come on now, there's not a thorn in his mouth now, is there?" Alerie laughed a little again, Merlin put the sword back onto a rack behind him as he approached in front of Alerie.

"Ser Garland is good, my Lady! He's been teaching me to defend!" He exitedly said, as Alerie chuckled, a grin on her face. She did love teasing her older brother, it was practically a sport at this rate.

"When he doesn't know himself?! Look at him, he blushes in front of any woman you put him in front of!" Garland even had to laugh a little, Alerie looking down at Merlin closely.

"Oh, brother. He knows, but I suppose it's for the better." She turned back to Garland, taking his hand, as Merlin took the rest of his fighting equipment aside, as Alerie took her brother's hand. He took hers in return, leading her towards the exit of the sparring courtyard, Garland's simple nod to Merlin speaking a thousand words.

They headed away from the yard, but stopped short, before they left it entirely, Garland stopping her.
"What was it you needed ,anyway?" Garland asked, as Alerie looked up at her tall brother, knowing he'd probably remember now, as he leaned against the white wall, the sight of other Knights, squires and other men-at-arms in the yard visible from this part of the court, the noise of distant clanking audible.

"Oh, nothing important. I suppose I just wanted to see what you were up to, given that the gardens were a bit more boring than I thought they would be." She replied, as she sighed, Garland guessing she had more on her mind than that.

"Seven Hells, you don't listen in on people there, do you? Like a bloody spider, you are." Garland replied, a little too frank in his opinion, as Alerie giggled in response.

"I do like the roses, what can I say. But you never know what you get really." She added, as Garland shook his head. Sometimes, he could tell he wasn't entirely right, nor wrong either.

"Don't we all. I suppose it's our bloody sigil's flower after all. And it's "Growing Strong" written beneath it." Garland mused, as Alerie looked up at her brother, standing close by his side, leaning in by the wall.

"Oh, come on, there are scarier words to use, even for a Rose. Roses have sharp thorns that can go through the finest Knight's armour if you know where to put them, vines that can trip them up, scents that can attract them to pain....it's more than just a flower, Garland. And we are just 'Growing Strong'? Pah." Garland nodded at his sister's comment, knowing it could only grow from one person's tutoring, and it wasn't even his own cynicsm or barb.

The sweet sound of the Lady of Highgarden's voice echoed through Highgarden's walls, reaching out into the courtyard where Garland and Alerie dwelled. She did not speak her words, but sing them, in perfect melody and tone; only the slightest remains of her Stormlands accent could be heard, a slight and well burried grit that lied underneath each syllable. Lady Jocelyn had adapted to Highgarden quite well—better than some who were born in it.

"Ser Garland?" the Lady's words whispered from afar, growing louder as she drew closer to the courtyard, the scent of roses guiding her to Highgarden's Castellan. Her dress, a fine garnment of white and gold, came into the siblings' view as she spoke again. "Ser Garland! There you are, and with your lovely sister." Jocelyn smiled at Alerie warmly, nodding her head ever-so-slightly to delicately suggest that the woman depart. "I have need of your brother, if his absence would not inconvenience you?"

"No, my Lady." Alerie responded purposely, reading into Jocelyn quickly, as she knew Garland did have bigger issues to deal with. Garland looked over at Alerie quickly, then back at Lady Jocelyn Tyrell herself.

"She won't mind. What is it, Lady Jocelyn?" Garland stepped away from the wall, paying attention to what the Lady of Higharden would say next.

"I am afraid it is not I that have need of you, Ser Garland, but that Highgarden does. In my husband's absence you are the man in charge of this household's exchequer, and there is an expense to be attended to: a lowborn artisan, a poet from the Marches. The young Artran of Nightsong." Lady Jocelyn seemed to grin more widely as she began to speak of him, her eyes lost in memory of his work. "Though common, he is well acquainted with how to speak and dress, and especially with the written word. The Septons would spite me for this, but the man weaves the words of the Seven, I would say! The most brilliant poetry you or I have ever heard. In any case, he intends to compose a piece dedicated to my marriage with your adventurous cousin, our Lord. Something about using the Marches as a metaphor for Lord Lyonel and myself, and the union of our houses. I'm unconvinced of the artistic merit of the idea myself, but the man could not fail in what ever he writes! He has just arrived at the gates, and I had already promised him my patronage for his work. Surely there is room in the books for another fine work of art?"

Garland internally sighed. Another?
"I will have to review the books, my Lady. But I shall look into it. And attend his audience, of course. We can't turn him away." He replied, his tone stoic, not entirely letting on what he felt inside. Jocelyn was charitable, as he and his sister were, but she took it to another degree entirely, the Ser personally felt it wrong just how much of Lyonel's coffers she dug into. Though suggesting otherwise was a poor judgement, even if it were wrong.

"Shall we head to the Hall if we are to listen to him?" Garland suggested, nodding to Alerie himself, as she headed through the corridor to her quarters, a subtle nod back at Garland suggesting she almost understood this altogether. The Castellan knew it wouldn't be easy to get through, but chances were, it was another cut-rate bard with a fancy tongue he had picked up somewhere.

"Of course!" Lady Jocelyn replied, jubilant. "Being as he is lowborn, there is no need for ceremony. We can greet him directly at the gates. I am sure you will find him as charming as I do."

Garland nodded, a wry smile on his face, knowing full well that it was another thing to write in the castle's logbook of expenses. One that was mounting, fast. He followed her close, standing tall as he usually did. As charitable as he was, when it came to handling money and people in the castle, a Castellan served to be selective, careful and precise. Doing the opposite was contrary to his task, after all.
"Certainly, my Lady." And with that, Garland followed Jocelyn, eagerly going ahead of the Knight.

Descending from a chestnut palfrey outside Highgarden's main gate was the Tyrells' awaited guest: Artran of Nightsong. The man looked to be in his 20's, with curly blond hair and tanned skin, covered by the garb of a merchant, dyed black and grey. His features—and his eyes, bright green—would seem to fit a man of the Westerlands better than a Stormlander of Nightsong, and his dark clothes definitely stuck out in a colourful place like Highgarden. The poet had scarcely finished dismounting his steed before Jocelyn called out to him, skipping past the guards at the gate to greet him personally.

"Artran! So pleasant to see you. Always right on time!" she chimed, cheerily.

The man gave a small smile and a short bow, his eyes darting past Lady Jocelyn for just a second to inspect Ser Garland, following close behind her. He was well acquainted with Jocelyn, but unfamiliar with her company. After his gaze had returned to the Lady, Artran coyly replied, "Of course, my Lady. I am nothing if not punctual. For men in my profession, a keen sense of timing is essential. A poet cannot be seen to have lost track of his rhyme and metre."

Garland looked on at the bard, or poet, or whatever he was, for a moment their eyes locked.
"Most certainly, it is good to be punctual. I am Ser Garland Tyrell, Castellan of Highgarden. It appears the Lady Tyrell has a liking to your words, I take it?" He asked Artran, the poet clearly richer than most, clothed and presented as if he was of money, not of a lowborn caste. He took it in good jest, but the logical part of his mind reminded him, money was being spent. Not his own, but his family's, so it might as well have been.

Artran gave a second short bow, this time to the Castellan of Highgarden. He did not suspect that he would be an issue, but he had not come this far in his career from neglecting to be careful. "Indeed she has, Ser, as many across the Seven Kingdoms have, from my home in the Stormlands all the way to White Harbour. I might dare to say that the name 'Artran of Nightsong' is better known to the realm than some of Westeros' lesser nobility! But, that is not strictly my doing." The poet paused then, giving the sort of gesture and humbleness and modesty that only the most self-confident and conceited can muster. "I am but a vessel for the artistic energy and talent that flows through me. The riverbed, on which the unassailable torrent of beauty and creativity flows."

Lady Jocelyn smirked, turning her gaze to Ser Garland with a wide smile, and opening her lips to speak. Though her words were directed at Artran, it was clear they were spoken more for Garland's benefit. The Castellan was castellan only at the Lady's pleasure. "It would be bereft of we the privileged caste of these Seven Kingdoms not to sponsor the great, inspired works of those beneath us. Would it not, Ser Garland?"

Garland gritted his teeth for a split-second, but looked only back at Jocelyn, knowing full well that there was only one response that could be made. The corrections could be made later, that much he guessed right now.

"Aye, it would be most fine. We can make it so...you would make a fine sponsorship, Artran of Nightsong." Garland simply said, his approval coming through, as plain as could be. It was not a biting acceptance, but he knew that if it kept Jocelyn happy, it would be fine, until Lyonel came back and had a look at the books himself. Or so Garland liked to think to himself. That wasn't happening any time soon.

"I would imagine that under our patronage, you would do rather finely, Artran." Garland did have some emotion in his voice, that much was clear, perhaps it came through enough to suggest he was without qualm about this, but deep down, he knew what Jocelyn was doing. He sounded confident, with sufficient belief to Jocelyn to accept, perhaps.

Internally, Garland knew that it was something that had to be accepted, though perhaps to the excess that it was, and the fraud that he could already see through, felt uneasy with the long-haired Tyrell. Perhaps he could have diplomatically settled it, turned him away in the long run, but even then, the complications would be too difficult to deal with, he reminded himself. One wrong slip of the tongue, and it could be even worse. Garland could understand full well that there was no point fighting an uneasy patronage. And the man was a lowborn after all, perhaps he would live up to his expense indeed.

"Excellent," the poet began, grinning ear to ear as he fixed his hair with his hands and prepared a monologue, "the long ride from the Marches was not for nought, then! It will bless that battle-scarred land greatly to hear my words, Ser Garland, I assure you. Since before the Conquest, the Dornish Marches have been the battleground of petty kings and pettier lords. The sacred union of Lord Lyonel and Lady Jocelyn is a beautiful metaphor, and symbol, for the end of a conflict in that most conflicted of Westeros' lands. I hope that my humble work, and your Lord cousin's dearest love for the now Lady of Highgarden, may be written in the history books as the final stitch that mended a dispute allowed to fester for far too long."

The white and gold dress of Lady Jocelyn shone in the sunlight as she beckoned the poet inside Highgarden's gates, a finely dressed servant taking his horse to be cared for in the stables. As he entered the stronghold of House Tyrell, Artran walked with a confidence that was most unfitting for a lowborn enterting the halls of one of the mightiest Houses in Westeros. The poethad visited noble's keeps before, of course, to meet with his ever generous patrons, but he seemed slightly more comfortable in Highgarden than he should be—relaxed, and collected, in a way that no one of low birth ever was in the home of a Lord. Garland looked past it; the man was probably happy to have gotten his coin.

Collab with @The Nexerus

[HeySeuss]

He could feel the cold even through the fur wrapped around his boots, the crunch of the snow under-foot. The winter chill cut through the air, so cold that it burned exposed skin, the wind finding its way through every gap in his clothing. His chest heaved but his throat burned with the dry, frozen air that rasped through his throat.

The coast of Bear Island was as it always was, stormy and gray-blue against pine and rock. There was little here of worth but fish and wood, but that was plenty enough for wildlings fleeing the winter in search of food and warmth. Foam and chunks of ice rolled up against the shore. Here were the boats and the raiders, the boats themselves hit the shore with a scrape against the snow. Wildlings came to raid Bear Island, it was a way of life, but that didn't mean that Bear Island rolled over for the raiders. Wildling or Ironman, it made little difference. There was the bitter cold.

Wildlings climbed over the gunwales and jumped off the craft, boats more so than ships, and shambled ashore through the ice and snow accumulated on the beach. The raiders were clad in the shaggy furs and carried an array of weapons; stone, bone, old iron, crudely wrought weapon with the gleam of good steel here and there. There were no sers up here, and there were no fainting maidens or fluttering banners. This was not the stuff of song, though it was the stuff of story in the North.

Steffon and the other men and women of Bear Island alongside him were clad similarly, in fur and wrappings over what armor they might have. It made them look massive, when it was really a shivering wretch beneath all that. The wind was an icy razor, and it only seemed to be picking up more of an edge as the sun started to sink. They stood in a loose line, ready to meet the raiders with weapons in hand. Here, on the edge of the world, there was no Lannisport pike lines or Marcher bowmen or reach knights. There were a bunch of hardy Bear Island smallfolk with harpoons, spears, billhooks and wood axes. Steffon had a battle axe, with a steel-reinforced handle and a counterweight, but he was one of the few. He'd grown too quickly and didn't have plate armor that fit anymore; what he had was a ringmail shirt like some of the other more experienced fighters.

With the dying of the light, as the raiders struggled for a foothold in the icy sand and snow, Steffon's eyes went up; he was jarred. There was only one bird in the air, not a gull or anything of the sort, but a single raven. It didn't caw out. The crash of the waves was drowned out by the howling of the wind and the sudden sepulchral chill that permeated everything. Even with gloves on, he could feel the chill on the ring mail under the fur and through the tunic beneath that.

It was the space of a couple breaths and then the enemy was upon them; a particularly large and brutal specimen of wildling with a crude shield hewn from some ancient tree trunk. He could feel his breath creating moisture in the scarf over his face as he huffed out his breaths from the exertion of the clash. Sweat rolled down his body beneath the layers of fur and wool, despite the chill in the air.

His axe, the wildling's sword. He was not as large as the wildling, but he was strapping and fierce, just come into his youth's full flower. His blood sang and he felt the surge of loose, confidence strength move through his limbs as he parried, dodged and kept swinging at that damned knotty oak-stump of a shield that his foe brandished. It felt like an hour of trading blows, of hacking the shield down with his axe, with his arms feeling numb from the exertion, before he felt the axe crunch into the wildling's head, shearing the helmet.

The man did not go down. Instead, two blue eyes bored into him, staring balefully, as Steffon tried to get the axe out in time, even as his foe swung his club, forcing him to relinquish the axe and fumble for his knife. As he backpedaled, he felt pure cold cutting into his side. He staggered and felt his knees give out from under him as his life's blood gushed into the cold, steaming. He saw the sight of the blood freezing upon a thin blade of ice, and a black hand that held it. He pulled his axe free and tried to swing with the last of his strength, but his attacker was too nimble and too graceful; cold blue eyes. The blade sheared through his axe's haft cleanly and bit into him again. He saw the terrible beauty of his assailant even as his vision faded.

Behind him, he felt the sting of terrible fire, the flames licking his back. Overhead, he could hear the raven's caw.

But this isn't how it actually happened, he heard his own voice protest, disembodied, disassociated.

This isn't about what was, it is about what will be, a voice from above replied.

--

He awoke with the lingering impressions of cold and heat, the sweat of the night and the need to forget the night's dream. The house was a drafty old manor in King's Landing, built by Orys during the years of Aegon the Conqueror's reign. It was essentially a manor keep near Aegon's Hill that allowed the Baratheons to stay in King's Landing when needs must dictate their presence there. The place was built timber as things were in the early days of Aegon's reign, before the Red Keep was completed and it never really was updated. There were, of course, more impressive manors owned by families that came later, but it was the Baratheons that fought alongside Aegon from the start and were, indeed, rumored to be related through the blood of Aerion, Aegon's father. The family took pride in the house's modest construction as one might in a tapestry or a Valyrian steel blade. Set near Aegon's hill, it faced the Dragonpit on Rhaenys's Hill...which was to say, Flea Bottom.

He enjoyed that particular view and he enjoyed the manor. It was an unpretentious sort of house, and he always liked that about the place. It had character, even if it was peeling paint and old boards that creaked at times. The furniture was fancy enough, though the house itself was not designed to hold as many people as had come with him to King's Landing. The city itself was a bit of a festering pit, one that his father never liked, but he'd always appreciated the vitality of the place, the ability to find interesting new people and get into trouble. They'd ridden in the day before and, of course, had gotten the mocking cheers of the jaded Kingslanders, including the whores, the carters and the others. When they gave their mouth-farts and mock-applause, he gave them a big grin and a wave when others would pucker up in the saddle, or perhaps, if particularly odious, set a man at arms on a particularly offensive example.

He cast off the furs from the bed and the night's concerns; it was early spring, and there was a slight chill to the air that prickled his skin, though it was nothing like the chill that he'd woken up with. Here in the South, it was warm compared to Bear Island, where he'd fostered with his mother's family. The creaking of the floorboards gave warning to his rise, though it was possible that the house's servants, used to a lax standard of tending to the house without inhabitants, were hoping that the new Lord Baratheon would stay abed longer in the morning, especially after arriving through the King's Gate only the previous afternoon.

Little did they know of Steffon. He'd come through the King's Gate alright, with a small procession of mounted warriors and squires, boar and deer taken in the hunt strapped across the backs of packhorses, after a long and winding tour on horseback of the Stormlands, starting with Nightsong and the Marches. They subdued bandits, they cleaned out jails and they rounded up a procession, behind them, of men to be consigned to the Night's Watch, an escort for his cousin, Rickard, on his way north. They traded the hunt's bounty for the wares of the farmers, that they might have cabbage and carrots and onions to go with their deer liver and other meats, or butter to sear their fish with. It was a rugged sort of way to live and hold court, having the couriers chase them down, and sending them back out with business, but it allowed him a good sense of what was going on in his Stormlands while enjoying life away from the confines of walls.

They lived rough, they enjoyed the company of hedge knights. They helped smallfolk dig their ditches with a laugh. They drank in the taverns along the way. There were some houses too noble to shit, but that wasn't the Baratheon way at all. Open hands and open demeanors, loud voices that spoke the truth, rather than the dainty and silken ways of a more preoccupied sort of nobility that didn't know their balls from their chins. Tall and built large as his family was wont to be, he had little patience for the niceties. There was more to a Lord's work than prancing in silk and farting on cushions. There was, in the essence, the duty to wage war and give justice, to provide stewardship. To ensure that the lands were being run properly, that they would be prosperous. Attending the coronation gave him the excuse to leave matters in the hands of his seneschal, maester and mother and to venture out. It wasn't an abrogation of duty, but rather the essence. The Stormlands were smaller and poorer than the other kingdoms, and its smallfolk, doughty and hard-headed, weren't the sort to just follow someone because His Lordship said so. They had to have a reason to follow.

The first order of business in the morning was a good sweat. And so the morning's repast was prepared by the squires themselves, who knew well enough how to cook an egg, rather than the house servants that were unused to the disruption of their live. The knights got right to it, stretching limbs, getting the blood flowing. Exercises, drill, practice. Right in the courtyard of the manor house, which was given over to weapons and straw men on posts, hastily assembled, and a clear area for men to train. Part of the reason there were so many damned hedge knights was the offer that Steffon made in every alehouse and along the road; beat him in the yard, take a reward. Fight well, and be considered for service. He wanted to stay sharp against tough men, not merely beat on courtiers intent on kissing his backside. He wanted a real fight, not some scripted farce.

And so it was a mixed group out in that yard; sons of noble houses and hedge knights, grizzled men-at-arms and squires caught up in the chaos of Lord Steffon's morning routines with gusto. The yard, the clash of weapons, the exhilaration of a good sweat in the morning. Some were sweating out the last evening's drink, but there was little mercy for that habit. He'd learned, in fighting during the winter, that real battle rarely gave a tinker's damn if a man was feeling perfectly well or not when the foe came knocking. Axe, sword, polearms, he preferred the variety of weapons in his hands and in the hands of those he met in the yard.

It was easy enough, in the course of squaring off against his cousin Rickard, to lose track of the time, even to lose track of the small bruises that the wooden weapons raised. There was, of course, the opportunity to fight, later, with tourney weapons and to train with live steel against the straw men, but that was generally after the breakfast was done. The sweat from the morning's duels made them easy targets for the dust and clay of the courtyard to cling to them, and so Steffon was dumping water over himself when the servant arrived with the message. He didn't bother to pull a tunic back on.

He raised an eyebrow at the color of the message, in rose hue with a scent to it, but opened it all the same, even as he strode toward a brazier. He read and he walked, managing not to trip, but once he arrived at the brazier, he dropped the note in the flame.

"What's that?" Rickard asked him. Stockier and slightly shorter, there was still a family resemblance on the Mormont side. The man was stockier, barrel-chested and built low to the ground, deceptively fast for a man that looked like he could take a Crakehall on in a wrestling match and win.

"A bit of business."

"What sort?"

"Nothing to worry over. Best we cut off the morning routine early, we'll need to dress to present at court," he told his cousin gruffly as he carefully replaced his practice weapon to its place.

That, of course, hadn't been the plan before he'd gotten the note. But plans changed.

[bloonewb]

"Please uncle, just one more game," Lindsay whined. Frados rubbed his sore eyes, trying through muddled thought to guess how long until the sun came up.

"No, you made a promise," Frados mumbled. There was so much to do, even after he's put his ridiculously persistent niece to bed. Unfortunately, the Circle will have to wait a little longer for his attention. Well, he was tired, and not just of being repeatedly defeated by a little girl.

"Aww, you never let me have any fun." Lindsay pouted, but finally climbed into her bed. Frados stumbled to the door and closed it behind him. Now, to see to his Circle.

He rushed down the hall and opened his meeting hall door. The people assembled, judging by their sympathetic or shocked expressions, they must know that he's severely fatigued. Frados gave them all a dark look.

"Well? What news do you have today?" He just wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, so he can perhaps get a few winks of sleep before the morning. The others shuffled nervously, and slowly began to procure papers, stone tablets, and various other bits of writing. Ser Haraway Falhen was the first to speak.

"My lord," began Haraway. He held up a page for Frados to take. "My scouts have informed me that a new figure has joined the court of our liege. An entertainer, he says. However, there is something off about him. I suggest you grant my contacts a little extra gold, so that we may pry into this further."

Frados waved away the sheet. "I do not have money to spend on a court fool," he growled. If Ser Falhen was just going to waste his time, then perhaps he should have found a better whisperer for his Circle. "Maester, please tell me you have something better to say than we should spend money we don't have on music."

Maester Saruman nodded gravely. He offered no paper to his lord. "Mine tell me the castle of Wythers has never looked weaker. If this continues, they will soon have no army left. Then, taking it will be almost too easy." He smiled, an unfriendly smile at that, and stroked his long, white beard.

"Excellent," Frados said. It has been a long time since he has received good news from his Circle. "I shall take the time to ponder this. For now, I'm cutting the meeting short. Disband, we shall speak again in the following fortnight." The others quietly exited the room, all except Maester Saruman. "What do you want?" Frados demanded.

Saruman just shook his head, his eyes piercing into Frados' less intense ones. "My colleagues in the Citadel have been conducting a few insights into the phenomenon of sleep. They say that a lack of it will make a man lose focus, thinking, and eventually die. I fear early stages have crept into you. Do take care of yourself, is all."

Frados stared grimly back. "If only I could, if only I could." Then, he too left to catch those winks of sleep.