[IC] Blood Reigns Over Westeros: A Song of Ice & Fire Story (Accepting Player Proposals)

[mickilennial]

The Tourney at Gulltown

“It is with great pride that I announce that I, Lord Paramount of the Vale, Robert Arryn, will be hosting a grand tournament outside of Gulltown to celebrate the anniversary of my birth and the eve of eighty years where I have served dutifully to protect the realm. There will be great prizes and even greater celebrations for those who honor me with their presence. I anticipate your attendance and hope only the best of Westeros honor us with the best presentation of skill and grace.”

_{-- Robert Arryn, Several Weeks Ago}

[Supermaxx]

House Stark

Theon I

---

The sun beat down on the backs of the sailors aboard the Father's Vigilance like a cudgel borne in the fist of the Long Summer. They'd been assailed in such a fashion since the day they left White Harbor, only for it to grow more intense the further south they traveled. To make matters worse the winds were all but dead for most of the voyage, forcing the oarmen to carry the burden of bringing them down the Narrow Sea to the Bay of Crabs. Venerable though the flagship's crew was, even they were not immune to discomfort- they complained, surely, but they never allowed it to impair their work.

They were good, loyal Northmen. Theon only wished they had the power to make the sea less fucking choppy.

His stomach churning in time with the sea, the Lord of Winterfell found himself perched over the edge of the war galley. He'd already expelled chunks of his lunch into the water lurking below, and it didn't take a maester's mind to know it would happen again in the near future.

"Gods be good this damned heat will dry you up before the tourney's end and I won't have to suffer you again on the way back." He snarled down at the sea, wiping the spittle from his wild mess of a beard with the corner of his tunic's sleeve as he did.

"Your father was never one for sailing either," A familiar voice called out from behind him, carrying with it a warmth that Theon would never tire of.

He turned to face Lady Leona Stark and found his lips splaying upward before he even realized it. She flashed a smile just the same, just as charismatic and beautiful as the day Jon married her. The silver that had overtaken her golden braids years ago and the many lines that dotted her rounded features had done little to diminish either quality. There was a youthfulness to her eyes that no amount of physical frailty could hope to snuff out.

"S'pose I'm more wolf than merman." Theon japed, leading his mother by the arm to join him in looking out over the sea. He did his best to shift the conversation away from that, hoping he could hold himself together long enough to have one, decent conversation. "Must be good to be back on the open waves after so long pent up in our dark, dreary castles, eh?"

Leona gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. "Mayhaps." She lifted a hand up above her eyes to keep the sun's blinding light away, giving her a better view of that vast spread of salt water. Some said it ran in her veins, only turning to blood the moment it touched the air- that was why the Manderlys had so dominated the waves for a thousand years. A silly story, she was sure, but it was hard to deny the swelling in her breast as she stared off into the disappearing horizon.

"Do you ever wish you could go back?" Theon muttered, his voice quiet and subdued. "Home, I mean."

"Not for a second." She was quick to reply, her voice like the wind on a spring morn. "Home isn't a holdfast or a city or any of that nonsense; those are just buildings, no matter how splendid they might be. No, my home is with my family. First Jon, then you and Jeyne...and now all those little scamps you've got running around Winterfell."

"I don't like leavin' 'em behind." He admitted. "Seven hells, I can't imagine what trouble Edrick's getting up to."

"Alys can handle him, you know that. That woman's tougher than weirwood."

"And what of Sara? She must be sobbing her pretty little head off-"

"-She's eight, Theon, not two." Leona laid a hand on her son's arm, squeezing it tight. "Everything's going to be alright, you know that. You're acting as if you've never left them before."

"Course I have," he scoffed, his body sinking forward as he rested his arms up against the deck's rail. He kept his eyes trained on where the vast, blue stretch met the sky. "Just not since..."

Silence hung between them like a morning fog. The past year had been difficult for all of the Starks. None of them had dealt with Jon's passing well. Leona had found herself retreating into the sept more and more often, complaining of foul dreams and pain in her head. Willam had left the North long before that, but he was fraught with guilt the day he returned for Jon's funeral, furious with himself for not being by his brother's side when he died. But Theon...Theon had taken it the hardest of all of them.

"It'll be good to see Harlon again." He stood back up and coughed, shifting the conversation once again. "He's, what, two-and-ten now? Walys must've made a fine knight of my boy in all this time. Won't be surprised if he could unseat some'o those pompous, southron bastards in this tourney-"

"Theon!" Leona gasped, trying and failing to hide her smirk. "We're here to celebrate Lord Arryn's nameday, so it may be wise to hold your tongue while we're in Gulltown. You're liable to have one of those 'pompous, southron' knights challenge you to a duel if they hear you saying such things. They'll think you've besmirched their honor."

"They should, because I have." He chuckled. "It's all a mummer's farce! They prance around on their show horses, all dressed up in their colorful costumes while they hit each other with sticks. It's a children's game that kills a few men every time. Madness, the whole of it, I tell ya."

"It's supposed to be fun." Leona countered.

"They're playing at war! War isn't meant to be fun."

"Tell that to your uncle. I don't know what he likes the most: drinking, fighting, or when he can do both at once."

The two broke out into shared laughter that carried across the wind, memories of uncle Willam showing up to melees unable to walk straight yet still winning handily popped into both of their minds. It went on for a little while longer than either would've wanted, but they couldn't help it; there was infectiousness to the merriment that neither could deny. It felt like it'd been centuries since the two had truly been able to enjoy one another's company.

Their fit only came to an end when another, louder sound drowned it out, drawing their eyes down the deck of the Father's Vigilance. The sound was the collective voices of the sailors and crewmen crying out a joyous song in broken union. Off to Gulltown rang like thunder up and down the galley, spreading like wildfire. It didn't take long for Theon to see why it had started when he turned his gaze to the other side of the ship, a sprawling city appearing, resting inside a natural harbor in what Theon could only assume was the Bay of Crabs.

They'd finally made it.

He could see other ships docked in port already, many of them just as large or larger than the flagship of the Manderly fleet. They carried with them a wide array of flags and banners flapping in the wind, announcing proudly the name of the House that owned them. Theon recognized most of them, though he had to admit the maester's heraldry lessons had never been his favorite.

"Seems all of Westeros has come to wish Robert a happy name day!" Theon shouted, making swiftly for the other side of the ship so he could get a better look at the breathtaking display. It wasn't often a gathering of this size was had. Something like this was usually left for royal events, though Robert Arryn was old and respected enough that he may as well have been king to many people.

"You may wish to get dressed before meeting all of Westeros. We'll be making landfall soon." Leona gently reminded him.

Theon turned to her incredulously. "What do you mean? I am dressed." He answered, glancing down at the woolen tunic, gray mantle and simple breeches he dared call 'clothes.'

"You've spent too much time with that Red Priest of yours," she shook her head and clicked her tongue. "Head down below, my hand maids will pick from the best of your wardrobe for you. And you'd best heed their advice, or I'm throwing you overboard myself."

[Heat]

House Greyjoy

The seagulls screeched as waves slammed against the colossal approaching Ironborn warship, galloping through the waters at a determined pace. The imposing seafaring ship was flanked by a sleeker longship on each side. The aptly named Iron Leviathan led the trio of vessels, as the sun shined brightly upon its blackened wood decks. The wind roared against the towering sails, carrying it across the sea towards the port of Gulltown. The gusts seemed to sing songs of the Drowned God on the day of the tournament. Embroiled on the black sails was the legendary sigil of the Greyjoys, a golden kraken. It seem as if the kraken's eyes were set upon Gulltown as the trio of Ironborn ships approached. Glaring with desire and hunger for glory as the vessels made their approach. For generations the sight of Ironborn ships approaching the coast was a terrifying prospect for the land dwelling denizens, a certain sign of impending pillaging and raiding. This trio came with only peaceful intentions, as the young Lord Eldred Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands gazed upon Gulltown with wonder from his position on the deck aboard the Iron Leviathan. Around him his crewmen walked and worked, lobbying playful insults at each other as they pulled closer to their destination.

"My lord, it appears we're arriving just in time." The familiar voice of Uller Goodbrother stated, the elder Ironborn lord standing firm with a slight smile etched on his weathered features. He wiped the sweat from his thick grey mustache then motioned for the crewmen behind them to slow in their approach. As Eldred turned his head to reply a detachment of the crew scrambled to control the sails, adjusting their approach accordingly. Their boots echoed hard against the sturdy floors of the warship.

"I know, don't you see all the banners flying in the harbor? This tournament is gonna be far grander than I expected it to be." Eldred replied as he tried to hide the nervousness in his words. Apart from the visiting ships from around the realm, there were a multitude of other vessels. Merchants from across the narrow sea, travelers from Essos and who knew wherever else. It was what he dreamed to make Pyke to be like, a center of trade.

"Do you see Lannister red and gold, my lord? Maybe your lion bride is here. Maybe she'll give you a big wet kiss when she sees you." Uller stated, the words followed with a wider smile as he patted Eldred on the shoulder.

"You're hilarious, Uller. The funniest man in the Iron Islands." Eldred smirked, shaking his head slightly. Lord Uller was an old friend of his father's, every hair on his head was greyed but his wit was still sharp. Someone that Eldred had gone to in the past for advice, in addition to being one of the most powerful lords in the Iron Islands under the Greyjoy banner.

"That's not saying much though." Uller added as Eldred moved to the side, raising his arm up towards the Ironborn longship to his left. He met the gaze of his younger sister Ryka, as the proud Ironborn beauty issued a nod in reply. Clad in a clean set of leather armor, the kraken branded on her right breastplate, Ryka looked more fit for battle than socializing. Behind her, the crewmen of Grey Retribution roared as they rowed, pushing through the tides.

Ryka was his heir, headstrong and standoffish but carried that brilliant Ironborn determination. Part of him wished that she would find a potential groom during this tournament. But he would never pressure her, she knew her what her duty was. Eldred almost pitied her future husband, the thought of some stuffy lord having to deal with her never-ending boldness. He never hoped he would end up like that, some fat stuffy lord with only oodles of gold and a reputable family name to back otherwise unwarranted pride. As Eldred walked to the other side of the Iron Leviathan his eyes once more caught side of the approaching Bay of Crabs. It caused him to momentarily pause in his stride as he stared at the momentous mountains in the distance. They had no sights like that in the Iron Islands. He pulled himself away to attend to the other longship where his uncle Harren stood at the helm.

The bald Greyjoy hollered orders to the men of Balon's Fury rowing fiercely behind him, too focused to lock eyes with Eldred. His uncle may have been the toughest man in the family. He was a natural inclusion for their journey across the seas to Gulltown, he knew that Harren would keep the Ironborn in line once they docked. Though Eldred had soundly laid out the law beforehand as a proper lord always did. He didn't need one of his people getting into a brawl and cause a commotion among his fellow lords. A clear mind was necessary for this type of event, even though Eldred did not plan to participate in the jousting. His gameplan today was diplomacy and building friendships. As the Iron Leviathan pulled into the docks Eldred walked from the main deck, followed by Lord Uller.

"Hope you brought your manners today." Eldred stated as his eyes followed some finely dressed noblemen walking across the busy streets of the port. He wasn't nearly as dressed up as they were, Ironborn weren't known for flowing gowns of silk. He wore a simple but eye-pleasing set of dark grey clothes befitting an Ironborn lord, his sword in its sheath on his belt. Uller had opted for a set of armor, as did many of the other Ironborn.

"Always. But you're the one doing the charming today, my lord. I have faith in you, all of the Iron Islands does. You can even use some of my jokes if you want, I know a great one involving a Valeman and a goat." The veteran Ironborn lord stated with a laugh and a nod as the anchor dropped. Eldred was the first man off the ship, flanked by Uller.

"I think I'm good on that end." The young lord said with a laugh as he stood on the docks, having turned once more to the sea. The waves crashed into each other as Eldred took a deep breath, composing himself. He would make his father proud today if the man could see it, he'd make his people even prouder. He was pulled from his moment of self affirmation by a firm hand on his back courtesy of his sister.

"Lets go, you can't spend all day on the docks." Ryka teased, then followed her brother as they left the comfortable confines of their ships behind.

[Aufklarung]

The Gods Eye was always watching, always waiting, and it always made its presence known to those who approached. A thick fog welcomed the son of Harrenhal like a portent of things to come, swallowing the morning light and weakening the glow of the lamps. The blue-green waters of the Gods River provided the small fleet of painted poleboats and sailboats with a gentle current, a kindness which the Blackwater had lacked, but the glass-like shimmering of the surface he remembered was nowhere to be seen.

Sombre sights for a sombre day. Perhaps the land itself mourned like its people did. Perhaps the Old Gods grieved for the dead too. Or perhaps it meant nothing, and the Gods Eye cared not for those who lived in it. Perhaps a single death did not matter in the eyes of the world.

Even with the fire of the lamp beside him, the blue in Mychel Mudd's eyes could not regain its natural vividness as the fog reflected on them. He gazed upon the darkened green of the land beyond the waters, tried to see if he could remember the shapes of the trees and the cottages that stood near the margins. It had not been so long. Most should still be there, lost in the fog, greeting his return like old friends.

A few birds, mostly sparrows it seemed, dared to sing for the passing of the boats. Their sound elicited a warmth within him, however short-lived, which far surpassed that which his doublet could provide. He let himself be carried away by the sensations, if only for a little while.

“Milord”, said a sweet, timid little voice, the reluctance to speak almost tangible in its sound. “Would you please sing another song, milord?”

The daydream ended with the interruption, though Mychel would not have called it an intolerable one. He turned to the sailor’s son and answered his expectant look on his pale face with a small smile of his own.

The boy was small. Could not be older than five. He had probably been a babe when Mychel left the Riverlands, but it was evident that the years since had made him insatiably curious. That his father carried all manner of people up and down the Gods River and the Blackwater had probably fanned those flames. He did not care to ask about Harrenhal or his family, for he saw it almost every day, even in the distance. From his father’s current guest, all he wanted was tales from the Stormlands and songs that no singer had yet sung in the Gods Eye. He had even prodded Mychel on the red priests that were said to roam about the land and their strange rituals.

Mychel had indulged him every day of their journey and had no intention of stopping now. But just as he was about to grant the boy’s request, his father, the sailor, interjected.

“Do not bother Lord Mudd, Aegon”, he said, not taking his eyes off the waters before him, hands firm on his paddle as he guided their vote northwards. “The journey has been long and his lordship must be tired.”

“It is no bother, Ben”, Mychel told the man softly and leaned back against the short mast. As he got comfortable, his long black mane cascaded down his shoulder and parted on either side. He breathed in the damp air, filled his chest with it, and sang the first few verses of an old walking song. He had learned it from a squat, hospitable farmer from the green meadows of Tarth who loved to travel almost as much as he loved to write about his quaint adventures.

“The road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began”, he sang the words delicately. A pleasant, harmonious sound that contained in it tinges of a longing. “Now far ahead the road has gone, and I must follow if I can, pursuing it with eager feet, until it joins some larger way where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say.”

Aegon watched and listened intently, his eyes opened wide with delight. It made Mychel’s smile grow for a fickle instant, before he lost himself in the act and forgot where he was and where he was going.

By the time his song ended, they had reached the mouth of the Gods River, and the vast stillness of the Gods Eye awaited before them. The air was too still for sails, so all but their lordly guest began to row forward, further north.

It was a slow, quiet endeavour. They were not close enough to the shores to see or hear the people in the surrounding towns and villages. Their homes were vague shapes in the foggy distance, easily confused with the forests and rocky hills between them. The fertile fields were entirely invisible and only the top of the holdfast called Briarwhite stood out. Ben and his fellow sailors tried to stay as far away from the Isle of Faces as possible, though even from the distance Mychel could recognise the white and red of its weirwoods.

All the while, Mychel sang and Aegon listened, the two enraptured by the dreams contained in the verses and sentiments that the melody imbued them with.

The fog began to clear as they approached Harrenton, and with its retreat came the first signs of the life Mychel had left behind. There was a growing muttering of voices far away, followed by the appearance of the town itself, long since rebuilt. The charred ruin that the War of the Five Kings had left behind was now a lively community built on sturdy stone where vines and moss grew unrestrained along the walls. The sailors exchanged greetings with the people near the shore, and those who saw the colours of House Mudd hanging from Ben’s mast shouted their blessings to the returning Mychel.

Yet the town, as full of life as it was, could not hope to keep on itself the eyes of those sailing through the shimmering green and blue waters of the Gods Eye. Something far greater awaited beyond it.

There was a great shadow looming over them all. As high as a mountain and as black as night, its tallest parts reached upwards like the five long fingers of a godly hand. And even its lowest parts, which seemed to stretch from one end of the horizon to the other, looked like one terrible wave of pure liquid darkness in a raging sea ready to pounce their measly navy and plunge it into the depths of the lake.

The walls of Harrenhal revealed their true selves long before the towers did. Indeed, the towers remained cloaked behind the silvery veil of the fog as they came closer to the walls and the massive portcullis of the riverside gate. Great banners with a red-brown field and golden crown hung from the walls, looking miniscule by comparison. The moss and ivy had had far more success in conquering the walls over the decades, unrestrained by expense or the ability of seamstresses.

A guard dressed in his house’s colours hailed the approaching retinue from behind the portcullis, but did not address Mychel himself at first glance. In fact, none of the guards, neither there nor atop the walls, neither young nor old, appeared to know who he was.

“Where is our lord, sailors?” Asked the guard.

The young boy with the blue eyes and black hair quietly rose to his feet. He made no proclamations, no demands. Just let himself be seen and awaited their reaction. The group of guards at the gate had began to transform into a small crowd.

“Is it you, milord?” Asked the one guard. The helmet concealed the look in his eyes, but not his tone. Incredulity and judgement. If he was their lord, he was an odd one. One who looked very little like his mother and wore another house’s colours.

“Aye, that is our boy!” shouted someone from behind the guards. Someone whose voice had not changed at all. “Welcome, nephew!”

As he stepped forward, Mychel saw that his looks had changed little as well. A man of stocky build, brown eyes and hair, who kept his curls and beard trimmed but never shorn. A man who wore his mother’s colours with pride and always carried a weirwood spear with him.

“Uncle Brynden!” He shouted back, feeling almost ready to jump down from the boat and swim all the way to him if need be. Had he missed him so much? Would he yearn to run to his lady mother like he yearned to run to him?

Their shared outburst was confirmation enough, and so the boats were allowed to pass through. The docks within the great castle received them with little pomp, although a few more guards had formed a line at the end of the stairs which led to the Flowstone Yard. His cousin Garrett was with them, looking as proud and strong as his father in his armour, carrying with him House Mudd’s banner.

Mychel climbed down from his boat without any trouble. He made sure to give both Ben and Aegon a warm farewell, as well as a piece of gold and a piece of copper, respectively, before he left them. Ben smiled, which he had done sparsely through their journey, and Aegon attempted to hug him, much to his father’s chagrin.

The hug Mychel did receive came from Brynden. It was a hard embrace, pained. This was not the reunion that the older Mudd had envisioned for them, Mychel thought. Where there might have been pure joy on his uncle’s part, and maybe some contentment on Mychel’s, instead there was grief and the need to hide its unseemly, unmanly manifestations.

They parted just as sternly as they had held each other, and that was the extent of the comfort they could and would give to each other. No more. It was not in their blood to wallow in misery, to shed tears in front of others.

“Come, boy”, said Brynden. “Your lady mother will want to see you at once, and you must be seen around the castle.”

Mychel followed his uncle around the large yard, through the long corridors and great halls, and he saw that Harrenhal had changed much but not enough. The green of the plants continued to invade every corner where the black and grey of the stone had once reigned. More had been built, because more was always being built in Harrenhal. Perhaps the castle was doomed to always being built upon, never quite complete. To walk within its walls was to walk within a half-empty, slightly downtrodden city where every yard was on the verge of becoming a garden. The brown and gold of their house’s colours dominated wherever the vegetation did not, and the golden crown of Mudd reminded Mychel over and over that this was real. He had returned at last, and this was his home, his family, his heritage.

Every step of the way, Garrett and the guards followed at a distance. His cousin made a few comments here and there, told him some of the events he had missed. But the bulk of the storytelling fell upon Brynden’s shoulders, and Brynden was no minstrel or mummer.

“Your lady mother has not neglected her duties”, said Brynden as they walked into the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, which was now closer to fitting its name than it had in centuries. “Which my siblings think to be a sign of her recovery.”

Mychel gazed at his uncle with a questioning look, ignoring the clutter of the servants desperately trying to prepare the enormous hall for a feast that would only occupy a portion of it. “But you know better.”

“She personally beheaded almost forty men just last month”, said Garrett as they reached the dais, already richly decorated for the occasion. “And sent thirty more to the Night’s Watch. Conspiracy against the realm, sedition, banditry, murder, rape, theft, whoring, adultery, buggery...”

Mychel stopped their walk and stared at his cousin. “Buggery? That’s not a crime here. We don’t follow the Seven-Pointed Star.”

“Some guard boy got caught abed with a stablehand when he was supposed to be watching over the main gate”, said Brynden, his expression not giving away anything but his determination to speak plainly. “Your mother sent them both to Castle Black. The guard boy for abandoning his post and the stablehand for being an accomplice to it. But we all knew the true reason and I think she did too. She looked like she regretted her decision the moment she made it.”

“Father said nothing in his letters”, commented Mychel, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear, trying to make his voice sound colder, trying not to think too much, to feel too much. “To hear him tell it, she mourned for a week and then moved on. Threw away her black dresses, put a statue on Lyra’s grave, and started wearing our house’s colours again.”

“Catelyn never moves on”, said Brynden. “Not when she feels that somebody is being unjust. And right now, she probably feels that fate itself is being unjust. She does not visit your sister’s grave, of course. Not when she used to reprimand you for visiting Jacelyn’s every day. But she is mourning and it is taking its toll.”

“I’m sorry, uncle”, said Mychel, taking ahold of his arm. “I will do what I can to help.”

“You can start by speaking to her”, said the other. “Remind her that she has a living son and that he has come home. I will go find your father so he can greet you as well.”

“Where is she?”

“The bathhouse.”

Mychel’s steps were brisk as he left the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, though even a horse would have made the journey to the bathhouse long. A great stretch of the castle separated him from it, and though he had grown up in it, he knew it was still easy to lose one’s way in its labyrinthian passages. Harren the Black’s boundless ambition had far exceeded his good sense, and the result was a monstrosity that was unwieldy to rule and to traverse if you had not known it since birth.

The distance gave him the time he needed to contemplate, to take in the sights around him, the faces both old and new, and to consider what was about to happen. He allowed himself to press his hand against the black walls and the thick vines he had tried to climb as a child. He picked up one of the golden flowers that grew in the mossy cracks between the massive cobbles of the yards, took in its perfume, then gave it away to the first serving girl he came upon. He saw some of his younger second cousins playing with wooden swords, and he exchanged courteous waves with them as he passed them by. He watched Lysaro, one of the silver-haired descendants of Lorimas, ride in through the east gate, looking handsome with his leather armour and sun-kissed skin.

He passed close to the godswood and felt the temptation to enter, to look for his brother’s grave and speak to him, like he used to. But he resisted, and carried on as he thought about his mother and his sister.

Childbirth. Lyra had always been strong, healthy. How could childbirth kill her, when weaker women had lived through it? Why her? She had been the only of her mother’s children who wanted to rule the Gods Eye. The only one of them who shared her temperament and her vision.

Catelyn Mudd had never been a woman to have favourites, yet Mychel had known for years that she saw something in Lyra that she did not see in him, something worth her undivided attention. Something worth sending him away for. And now here they were, four years later. Now, Catelyn Mudd had only one child left. The one she had not groomed for rulership. The one she had sent away. The one she had left to his own devices. The one who wore another house’s colours, who jousted in tourneys and sang songs about death. The one she probably did not love.

He could not have predicted her state of mind, but he could have imagined many possibilities. Few of them were encouraging, and he was about to discover which one, if any, was right.

There was only one entrance to the bathhouse and soon, though not soon enough, he was facing it. The thick wooden door had been left unguarded, almost certainly by his mother’s orders. No cause for delay, nothing to preserve him from facing the inevitable and the long overdue. The circle that had begun years before, with his departure, was about to close.

He opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit corridor, and the sounds of his movements echoed through the damp air.

The castle’s baths could have comfortably served many dozens within its stone tubs, but only the Mudd children had ever taken advantage of that. Most of the time, only one person would use them at a time. Two, if some lord or lady was feeling adventurous and was not afraid of Catelyn Mudd’s disapproval.

Today, there was only one other person in the baths, sitting in the largest one, facing the sunlight that came in through a still broken wall. A woman much shorter than him, with dark brown hair and freckled, sun-kissed shoulders. She did not move at all as he reached the bottom of the steps, or say anything as he came near her. It was only when Mychel had walked around the tub and faced his mother for the first time in four years that she acknowledged him. Her brown eyes, which used to pierce through the soul, greeted him with a stare that no longer had that terrifying fire of old, but was instead empty.

Catelyn Mudd, Marshall of the Gods Eye, Guardian of the Rivers and Hills and Lady of Harrenhal, had lost. Her first true defeat, one from which she could not regroup. That was what that emptiness said, or so Mychel thought. She looked a decade older.

“Mother”, he whispered, bowing his head, paying no thought to her nakedness. She did not seem to think much of it either. She gave his clothes a cursory glance, then turned back to the sky above the walls of the bathhouse.

“The blue and rose of your Tarth father do suit you better than mine own brown and gold”, she said, holding some fragrant water between her calloused hands and pouring it on her plain face. “You look like a proper young lord now.”

That was her way of welcoming him. Had he been younger, had he cared more for her as he had years before, it would have hurt. He might have demanded that she said more, that she reminded him of the love they shared as mother and son. But he was not that little boy any longer, and she was not the woman he had left behind.

He merely watched and waited.

He saw then that there were tendrils of red in the water.

“Are you bleeding, mother?” He asked her, kneeling beside her.

“It’s not mine”, she said. “I went hunting. Hadn’t gone hunting in months. I could have beheaded a thousand men if necessary because it’s my duty, but hunting? Killing for pleasure? It felt wrong at first.”

She shook her head, splashed some water on her face again and rubbed it in.

“But your sister had always enjoyed it”, she said, spreading the water into her hair, soaking its roots until they looked black. “I had a weirwood bow made for her as her wedding gift. Killed a boar in her first outing with it. Caught it in the neck.”

“Did you kill something?”

She was silent for a moment and gazed sideways. In time, she nodded.

“A doe”, she said, washing the rest of her hair. “She was beautiful. Appeared just in the right moment and in the right place. I used your sister’s bow and struck her in the neck, just like the boar.”

Mychel said nothing, but she turned to him all the same, and the emptiness in her became haunting.

“She was with child”, she said, and there was a hardening of her tone. “The fawn in her belly was almost fully formed. A beautiful doe, just like her mother.”

Silence once more, though not for long.

“I’m sorry I was not here when Lyra passed away, mother”, said Mychel.

“You are here now”, she retorted without softening her tone. “It’s what I wanted and what I expected of you. No more, no less.”

“What of her husband?” He asked.

“Gawen?” She scoffed. “The boy returned to his father in the North as soon as my daughter and granddaughter were cold in the ground underneath the heart tree.”

“Did he not love her?”

“He respected her”, she answered. “And she found him pleasant to talk to and a tolerable lover. They might have learned to love one another, had she lived.”

She died bearing the child of a lesser man who did not care, was what her words implied. His mother would never say it aloud, but Mychel knew her. A man you forced her to marry.

Lyra had died fulfilling her duty and abiding by her heritage as a Mudd. She had died doing what she had learned from her mother, who had not married for duty or heritage.

You unwittingly killed your own daughter and heir, thought Mychel. And I’m your punishment. The son you gave up on.

Perhaps she saw it in his eyes, his pity for her, because her expression changed as she looked into them in silence. And when she spoke, a spark of the woman she once had been showed itself rekindled.

“How fares your lady aunt?”

“She is well”, he said. “As are my cousins. They send their regards and their prayers.”

“You love them, do you not?” She asked, though it was clearly a rhetorical gesture as she continued. “You love Evenfall Hall too. More than you love your true home, I presume. Your father is too kind to say it, to let me know of it, but his good nature betrays his sweet lies when he receives your letters.”

He did not respond. He just sat there, breathing, listening and thinking.

“Your lady aunt says you’ve performed well in the lists”, she carried on. “That you’re capable with that sword you carry, but also with the lance when you ride. She means to knight you, I can imagine.”

“She has said nothing of the sort”, said Mychel unflinching, not breaking away from their shared look. “She would never slight you like that. She understands our ways.”

“And who told you that I would consider it a slight?” Asked her, seemingly tempted to chuckle as the corners of her mouth curled upwards for the blink of an eye. “To be knighted is an honour, even if it’s not a rare one.”

She paused. She lifted herself out of the water, sat on the edge of the stone tub, and reached for a cotton mantle with which she dried herself. In her nakedness, Catelyn Mudd’s robust physique was plain to see. A lifetime of fighting, hunting, riding and enacting justice had made her who she was: an intimidating paragon whose severity in looks and behaviour reminded Mychel of the statue of the Father Above in Evenfall Hall’s sept.

“I would not take offense to it”, she said as the cotton soaked up the water in her hair. “But you are right in one regard. It would be against our ways, the ways of our gods. I could not allow my only son, and the heir to Harrenhal, to be anointed in the eyes of somebody else’s gods and lead a life foreign to our own.”

You would have before, thought Mychel. When Lyra was alive.

“I can no longer afford to let you stray from the path of our ancestors”, she said with the mantle wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak, covering her. The shadows ran deep in the creases in her face, much more so than he remembered them, but the bone and muscle beneath the skin were strong.

“I know that you would much rather spend your days idling around Tarth, singing your songs and writing your plays. Don’t you deny it. Had I a choice, I would allow it. I would let you take your father’s name if you wanted to as well, and give you my leave to live however you pleased. However, I do not have that choice any longer. You are the last of my line and I need you here, by my side. I need my blood to sit on my chair when I’m gone, to protect our family’s legacy and hold the emerging shadows in the realm at bay.”

“You want me to stay”, said Mychel, carefully crafting himself a mask of stern nonchalance, keeping much within. “For good.”

“For good”, said his mother, nodding. “I want you to sit in my councils, to study for command under your uncle Brynden and his lieutenants, and to pray in the godswood with the rest of us. I want you to rule the castle when I’m away, to be the Mudd in Harrenhal. I want you to be a proper Mudd, to wear our colours even if they’re ill-fitting, to wield a weirwood bow and hunt with it. And I want you to speak as if, through you, the voices of our ancestors could be heard.”

He looked at her without his face giving away his thoughts, but the blue in his eyes now held an inquisitive light, and she must have known that he would notice. That he would take note of her restraint, of how she appeared to be holding something back, one last demand which she would not articulate. One final matter which threatened her tranquil dominance of their conversation.

“You want me to marry”, he stated, without questioning, without any tinges of doubt. “You even have a likely bride in mind, I reckon.”

“Mychel…”

“No”, he said simply and stood up. “I came for Lyra’s sake, out of love for father and out of respect for you. I did not come to be dragged into your plans, mother. That time passed long ago.”

She stood as well, and while he was much taller than her, she still stood over him by the visible strength of her will as she faced him. There was no hesitance to her. There never was. Nor was there ever any room for dissent.

“You have an obligation, Mychel”, she said, her lips a thin, tight line in the pauses. “Your blood is as bound to this castle as mine is. Your role in the days to come is not negotiable, it is not disputable and it is not yours to neglect on a childish whim. You are the future Marshall of the Gods Eye, Guardian of the Rivers and Hills and Lord of Harrenhal.”

“You still have plenty of siblings”, he said. “And many more nieces and nephews to choose from, if you want a successor so badly. Any of them would be glad to serve you and the realm, but you choose me.”

“Because you’re my son!” She growled.

There it was. The truth hidden in the melody and rhythm, beneath the lyrics. “Because you don’t trust the rest.”

She was quiet then. She only glared at him, forced him to feel the scorching heat of her discontent. The closest he had ever seen her to confessing her true sentiment.

“You are alone”, he said. “Alone with them, and they are not your allies. They don’t share your intent, they don’t care for your aspirations and they have no respect for the reputation you’ve built for yourself and your house.”

He took a step back, pursing his lips, and leaned on the damp, moss-covered stone wall behind him. With his arms crossed over his chest, he let the silence hang between them, hoping she would admit it. That she would finally prove that she still thought of him as her son and trust him with the truth of her thoughts.

“You cannot force me to marry, mother”, he told her. “I am a man grown.”

“No, you are not”, she retorted. “As far as I’m concerned, you are still a child, impetuous and in need of proper guidance. I refuse to indulge you and your susceptibility like your lady aunt has. Not when our family is in peril.”

“My susceptibility?” He asked pointedly. “I was mourning. I had lost my brother.”

“I let you mourn for as long as was appropriate”, she said, inflexible. “You chose to mourn still, to drift through life like a living corpse, so I sent you to a place where I thought you would be happier.”

“Because it served your purposes”, said Mychel.

“Because I dreaded the thought of my son jumping from the top of the Kingspyre Tower at the age of one and ten”, she said. Maybe it was a half truth, from the look in her eyes.

“And what else did you dread?” He asked, his voice lower now, closer to a whisper. It barely echoed through the damp chamber.

She sighed. He had not heard her sigh since he and Jacelyn were five.

“I despise suggestive questions”, she answered. “Speak plainly.”

“We are Mudds”, he half jested, trying not to sound bitter. “We never speak plainly.”

She clearly understood nevertheless.

“I’m not disappointed in you”, she said. “Not entirely. Your open preference for your Tarth kin, your wearing of southron finery, your notorious penchant for frivolous interests like your songs and mummer’s farces… They vex me, but they do not trouble me. From what I hear, the Andal lords enjoy those things and, thus, they enjoy you. Maybe, when your time comes, you will provide our house with plenty of welcome friends beyond the Riverlands.”

“So what does disappoint you about me?”

It was uncommon for Catelyn Mudd to hesitate. Either she spoke or she did not. There was never any doubt, confusion or dithering on her part. Everyone who knew her understood that about her.

Yet she was clearly hesitating to speak now, though she hid it better than most.

“Jacelyn was always a brash little thing”, she said at last. “At the age of ten he was already boasting about all the girls he would kiss when he became a man. And he was beating your cousins with such ease and such glee long before that. He loved the things most boys of our kind do.”

“But not me”, said Mychel.

“No”, she said, taking a step towards him. “Not you. You were skillful with the sword, of course. Your cousins could never defeat you either. But you never boasted like he did. You enjoyed your stories and songs and poems for the beauty of their words and the virtue of the handsome heroes, not for all the blood spilt in them.”

Delicate, thought Mychel. I was the delicate one, the one who liked pretty things and was always kind and understanding, where most of the children were headstrong and selfish. But that was not what worried you.

She turned away from him, let her mantle fall to the wet floor and began to dress in her house’s colours. A tunic with a brown leather chest, the gilded crown of Mudd on it glittering in the feeble light that came through the ruined wall.

“When a vague and rather unbelievable little whisper of your behavior reaches Harrenhal”, she said as she finished strapping on her belt. “What do you imagine is being said aloud about you in the Stormlands?”

“I imagine nothing more scandalous than what is whispered about a hundred young lords and ladies”, he said, approaching her again with his arms by his side, not letting much show in his demeanour.

Not that there is much to show in the first place, he thought. Or much to whisper about.

“None of those young lords and ladies carry my name and stand to inherit my lands”, she said. There was no genuine disapproval in her tone or in her face as she glimpsed him through her thick brown locks, and that was not a mask. She did not care. Not truly. “Our name is old, but not so our lordship. We still have a long path to tread ahead of us. I know, beyond any doubt, that I don’t inspire respect because I’m my father’s daughter, but because I’ve done what was right and all that was necessary to preserve the queen’s peace and enforce her justice. I stand on my own foundations, Mychel, and I need to believe that those foundations will outlive me, that justice will not be forsaken by this house the moment I’m buried under our heart tree.”

“Whatever you’ve heard”, said Mychel as he came closer to her, “it matters not. It’s not a part of your own legacy or our family’s. It is a part of me and it’s mine alone. Whispers will not shame me into lying, hiding in the shadows or playing a mummer’s farce before the whole realm.”

“I am not ashamed and neither should you be, Mychel”, she interjected harshly, teeth gritted, “but whispers like those killed my father. He spent his life indulging in his every selfish, frivolous whim. He became so infatuated with the exotic, the luxurious, that he forgot who he truly was, whose blood flowed through his veins. And this world punished him for it.”

“I am not like him”, said Mychel.

“No”, she agreed. “If I’m right, you have not changed so much that you’ve lost what good sense you had and he lacked. If I’m right, you’ll know better than he did, act accordingly, and live a long and admirable life.”

She moved to hold his face between her two hands. They were pale, small and cold, but strong like the rest of her. They held his jaw firmly, though her thumbs did caress his cheeks with surprising gentleness.

“My son”, she muttered, “my fair son, you do have too much sapphire in you. I only hope that that sapphire gave you a sense of honour and duty as well. I love your sweetness like I love your father’s, but I do not need it and neither does Harrenhal. The castle demands more than your compassion and sorrow and songs.”

They parted then and a loneliness struck Mychel. Even at her softest, the woman before him had no loving warmth within her. All of her words, even the most tender of them, had a purpose greater than clearing the air between a mother and her only son.

“You were wrong, however”, she said suddenly. “I did not have a likely suitor in mind for you. Not yet. Once I might have encouraged you to marry within the family. Perhaps one of your second cousins. But as you said, I do not trust the rest of us. Not even for that.”

“What then?” He asked as she began to walk away, towards the stairs that led to the world outside of the bathhouse.

“Gulltown”, she answered, loud enough for the word to echo. “The tourney. Someone must represent our house during the tourney for Lord Arryn’s nameday, and I refuse to let anyone else do it. Your uncle Brynden and your cousin Garrett might do well in the melee, but they are not adept at playing the courtly games of the other lords and neither am I.”

“And you expect me to find myself a bride there”, said Mychel, not following her. “If you are right about the rumours about me, why do you think any lady there present would accept?”

She stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked at him. “For the same reason I know you will not embarrass our house when you speak to the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms or when you ride forth in the lists.”

“Because I am your son”, he said in a single breath, with a furrowed brow.

“Because you are my son”, she said, nodded, and left him without further word. Her every step resonated until they all faded into silence, and he was all alone in the cavernous chamber. The steam had left his skin covered in little droplets which fell to the stone below while he stared at the wall and thought of the song he had sung in the fog, and how he yearned to sing again.

[Aufklarung]

The calm of the warm summer’s day laid bare the dark greens and blues beneath the surface, colours which reminded Mychel that he was no longer in the Sapphire Isle or the Gods Eye. The waves were little more than stunted, feeble ripples with pearly white foam on the rims, clashing quietly against the dark wood of their ship and watering the mostly dead mass of barnacles which covered the hull.

Lord Mooton, ever the generous man, had given their retinue his finest vessel for their short voyage. It was an old, modest, but seasoned thing, with a matching crew and more than enough oars to carry them across the Bay of Crabs with or without wind in their sails. They had left the port of Maidenpool on a starry night, and they had awakened to find that the shores of the Vale were now a thin dark line on the horizon, drawing closer with every passing hour.

The sailors were hardworking, but they did not lack for good manners or camaraderie. They had been glad to share their bread and wine with their lord’s guests, to listen to the tall blue-eyed lordling sing sweet songs of the sea, and to share a jest or two as they watched him play cyvasse with his stern-looking cousin. Mychel had won all but one game thus far, much to Garrett’s increasing annoyance.

Now the heir to Harrenhal stood on the deck alone, facing the sea which glittered in the sunlight and watching seagulls approach from the nearing land to the north-east, where their destination awaited them. His first tourney, not as Carolei Tarth’s squire, but as Catelyn Mudd’s heir.

His days in Harrenhal had been few but not as lonely as he had anticipated. After his conversation with his mother, Mychel was left to aimlessly roam his childhood home, to try to acquaint himself with those who had never met him before and to share memories of years past with those he had left behind long ago. His father held him tight against his chest upon seeing him again, at long last, and the two shared many words of comfort and idle talk. Endrew Tarth had aged just as much as his lady wife had, though he hid it well with his bright smile.

A grand feast and quiet night of solitude had followed their loving reunion. His mother gave an austere but concise speech welcoming him home. His many cousins and second cousins became deafeningly boisterous after their eighth or ninth cups of wine. His uncle Brynden tried to engage him in conversations about swordfighting and cyvasse, which some of his mother’s guests participated in. Half a dozen minstrels, who were visiting the castle to play for the Marshall of the Gods Eye and her family, played and sang proudly among the crowd. Almost a hundred people, including lords, ladies, knights and servants, filled as much of the expanse of the Hall of the Hundred Hearths as they could, which was not much. Mychel ended up singing a song of his own as the feast died down and many retired to their chambers, one which his mother listened to dutifully but without showing much genuine interest in, which was not the case with some of his unmarried second cousins. Many were moved to tears.

When shadows had begun to spread through the great hall, and his mother and father left for bed, Mychel finally went to the godswood to visit Jacelyn.

His twin’s final resting place under the heart tree was too small, or so it had always felt to him. Easily lost among the bushes and flowers and fallen red leaves. The polished brown stone which covered it was itself a modest thing with no name, and the bronze bust of him paled in comparison to the finer marble ones he had seen in cities, castles and septs beyond the Gods Eye. The expression on its boyish face was vague, unreadable, and it looked nothing like anything he had ever seen on his brother’s true face. He should have been smiling triumphantly, grinning from ear to ear like he used to after his sparring lessons.

You should have lived, not me. The cruel, painful thought had stabbed its way into the fore of his mind, and his hand rested on the face that looked so much like his own once had. His fingers caressed the cold metal cheekbones and nose and lips. He did not cry, but perhaps tears would have been better than the deep, oppressive, dark sensation that spread through his core. A sensation that never truly left him, despite the ebb and flow of his mood.

As he returned his attention to where he was now, Mychel found that the sound of the sea was not too different from the sound of the leaves of Harrenhal’s heart tree rustling in the wind. The salty moisture in the air, however, reminded him of Tarth, and that alleviated him. The fog of his darker thoughts cleared somewhat as he remembered that his aunt and cousins awaited him in Gulltown, along with many other storm lords he knew. People who had embraced him and given him a home in their land. How he yearned to see and hear them again.

“And all the light, will be, will be”, he sang with the softest of voices, barely audible even with only the seagulls, the waves and the rowing below to accompany his sound. “And all the future prophecy. And all the waves, the sea, the sea. And on the road are you and me.”

He hummed when there were no words to sing, lacking an instrument to play the gentle melody of this lullaby of the straits. Leaning on the wooden railing, his hair forming a great curtain of black silk which framed the colours of the world before him. He breathed that sea air, drank deeply from it and sighed contently, feeling almost home again. Then he continued to sing, louder now, until Garrett’s unsubtle coughing brought him to a reluctant halt.

“What is the matter, cousin?” He asked the older Mudd, granting him a small but welcoming smile. Garrett took the invitation and moved to stand beside him, also leaning on the railing. He looked pale, paler than usual, and sickly. Most Mudds were accustomed to rivers and lakes, but not the seas.

“I’m curious”, said Garrett, sighing a bit too hard, like a great exhalation would cleanse his body of its nausea. “Father won’t tell me much. He disdains politics and strategy, and thinks me too thick to understand such matters as well.”

“By the way you play cyvasse”, said Mychel, “I know that is not the case.”

His cousin smiled.

“You have seen more of the Seven Kingdoms than most of us”, he said as he turned to face Mychel. “You have spoken to more people outside the Riverlands. So I ask you, cousin, where do we stand now?”

Mychel gazed into his cousin’s brown eyes, searched for the meaning that imbued his words, and thought he had found it.

“We serve House Tully”, he answered eventually, “we protect the Gods Eye and we owe a debt of gratitude to our queen. Nothing ever changes where our house is concerned, I reckon.”

“We used to be kings”, said Garrett. “Or so I was told, though I’m sure you know the tales and songs better than I do. But one day we weren’t kings anymore. There is no Kingdom of the Rivers and Hills now. So what becomes of this kingdom that we now serve when Daenerys Targaryen dies?”

Mychel had not been educated for intrigue, and most of the knowledge he held pertained to matters that had little to do with the affairs of the realm, with how the smallfolk fared in these times or how the nobility grappled with the impending possibility of a succession. Yet he had his imagination, and he knew the characters of many who would play a role in the coming days.

“Perhaps there will be a great change”, he said. “New laws, new titles, new ways of ruling. The only other alternatives I can think of spell trouble.”

“Don’t let your lady mother hear you say that”, said Garrett, maybe half-jesting. “She has complained about her fellow river lords disrespecting the Princess Serenei. She is quite adamant about her succeeding the queen.”

“A lot of lords will have something to say about it”, said Mychel.

“Lot of ungrateful, treasonous cunts, more like.”

Mychel had to scoff at that.

“You disagree?” Asked his cousin.

“I’m not sure it matters”, he answered. “Not truly. Either way, someone will scheme and the common people will bleed for it, like every other time a king grew old and the lords around him became ravenous, snapping at each other over the scraps.”

“Lords have their duties and so do the smallfolk”, said his cousin, although his tone possessed the artifice of lifelong repetition. Someone had taught him to say that. “Smallfolk live to toil in peacetime and wartime, and we live to lead them and ensure the common good.”

“My mother’s words, I presume”, said Mychel. “Does she speak to the smallfolk often?”

“She does attend their festivals after every harvest”, said Garrett. “But mostly she judges them, and lets aunt Alyssa and Leslyn deal with the pleasantries and charity. They do respect her, nonetheless.”

“Respect is not love”, said Mychel, mostly to himself. “I’ve seen smallfolk who loved their lords and ladies. I’ve spoken to them, even befriended them. And the eldest among them love Daenerys Targaryen, specially those with the blood of those she freed in them.”

“So you wish to be loved?” Asked Garrett. “When you become Lord of Harrenhal?”

Mychel did not respond. Not aloud at least.

Instead, he pushed himself away from the railing, lifted his face to the horizon and let the sunlight wash over him. He had missed this heat in Harrenhal. The summer here was warm, full of life, but it was not so there, within those gargantuan walls.

In the distance, with half-lidded eyes, he saw the the city of Gulltown take shape, surrounded by the verdant highlands of the peninsula it stood on. He saw how dozens of ships now appeared beside their own, flocking to the same destination in search for glory and much more, their sails carrying the colours of many houses from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

They approached the port slowly, giving him and Garrett ample time to identify many of the sigils there present. The Ironborn were already there, boasting a trio of intimidating warships, as was House Stark. No sight of any storm lords yet. No quartered yellow suns and white crescents from Tarth or crowned black stags from Storm’s End, which left Mychel with a sinking feeling in his chest.

“And all the dust will drift away”, he began to sing. The same lullaby as before, and his mind drifted from his troubled thoughts and emotions as he imagined himself swimming under the striking blue seas of the Sapphire Isle again. “And all the nights and all the days, and all the heavens go their way, and only change is here to stay…”

[Abefroeman]

Gulltown Blues

A nondescript sailing vessel tacked its way back and forth, gently cruising in from the open ocean to the protected harbor of Gulltown. She flew the colors of Pentos, worn and beginning to fray, with her wood and sails sun beaten from long stretches spent at sea. A crew numbering five and sixty, the "Cheese Gull" plyed the waves as a regular merchant vessel would. Slow and steady, the small chop lapping against her hull, stood a woman at the helm, hair pulled back and neatly braided, guiding the ship to berth. A small smile plied across her lips, the whites of her teeth barely visible. 'What luck, to stumble across Gulltown at the height of trade season, and it's hosting a festival of some sort.' Her magenta eyes hungrily scanned the numerous vessels already docked, the larger ships moored out farther, taking note of what could be easy prey should that time come.

"Make ready mooring lines, furling crews to the rigging, port and shore leave coming fast." Her voice bellowed out over the cries of passing gulls, the surf, and the creaking of the ship. 'Two months at sea, our holds are full, our food boring, and our purses light. Uncle will be happy to get these lost goods back.' She thought to herself. The helm felt good under her feet, the ships wheel warm againsther hands. A cool breeze played across her face, followed by the scent of cinnamon. Her sister, a radiant beauty, made her way to the helm, taking her place beside the wheel. Aquamarine eyes stared at her, gazing with sisterly love and respect.

"You are quite the mariner sister, I think even better than father... Though best we don't tell him. How long do you plan on staying here? If you don't mind, I'd love to go ashore and eat some real food again, and feel the earth beneath my feet." Her voice was one of warm melodic beauty, silky smooth and tinged with innocent desire. She placed a hand upon her sister's shoulder, awaiting a response.

"Rhae... And remember, use that name when ashore, we'll be here for a few days at least. The ship needs a few repairs, and as I've shown you from our 'trade stops' we need to sell off the cargo. I'll take you around Gulltown, show you the sights and best places to eat." She paused, barking out orders again as the ship gently touched the dock on the far end of the harbor. Satisfied with her work, she turned to Rhae, her elder sister. "Remember as well, I'm called Daella, we hail from Volantis, but live in Pentos. We are sisters, and our father is a simple merchant broker, sending us to Gulltown to sell off a load of consignments." Her tone was serious, but relaxed.

"Rhae, you and I together, we'll have a night out on the town, and enjoy this little adventure away from home. Now let's get our ledgers and manifests together, and prepare for the inspection. I'm in the mood for fried lamb and grilled greens. My treat, as well." 'Daella' smiled, watching her sister 'Rhae' take a spot by the railing, as the final preparations to go ashore were made. Quietly, in thoughts to herself, she spoke what only her and the crew knew. 'Five ships in two months, one close call, and only two small summer squalls. Not bad, for two Exiles. Father would be furious if he ever finds out, but thankfully, he is busy plotting his next move. Rhaenyra and I needed a break from home, two sisters just getting into trouble and having fun. The crew will drink and whore, while I'll eat, drink, and bring home shiny gold for the cause. Dad won't be able to say my name without feeling pride. Baela, my daughter, you are twice the mariner as your brother was...' Smiling, she turned to her sister, and together, they made their way to the docksb and their duties.

[agentmanatee]

Aemon Velaryon

The horse whickered loudly as it crested the hill, light brown hair foaming with sweat after hours of riding. All the same, it broke from its gallop to a steady trot, its rider giving the animal some small time to rest. The rider looked weathered like his horse, travel clothes damp with morning dew and a thick cloak disordered on his back. The garment was mildly overlarge for the rider but they seemed to care little as it helped with the morning chill present in the Vale of Arryn. From his hip swung an arming sword, sheathed, and on the other side he wore a well-wrought hunting horn of ivory. Almost as an afterthought, a bow was strung over his back haphazardly where it swung loosely with its owner's motions. The hood the rider wore was damp with the rest of his clothing cloyingly clung to their hair and forehead. With an annoyed sigh, it was yanked off revealing ruffled silver-blonde hair like spun gold. His eyes flashed a deep violet in the morning sun and his breath wet the cloak before his mouth.

Aemon was peering over the tourney ground less than half a league away. He allowed himself a smile at how close they were now. It seemed mere days ago they would never reach the place, a mirage that existed only in the words of Brus Baratheon and his father. It was for this reason the young squire had ridden his horse so hard this morning. Hearing they were close had spurred rare foolishness in the normally cold boy and he had taken off at a gallop as soon as his duties were done for Brus. It was worth it to finally see the fluttering banners and tents being lifted. The grounds were nearly completed and Aemon could see the lists from where he was on the hill. Looking to the fluttering banners he tried to guess all the sigils he could.

The Old man of Banefort, the tree of Blackwood and stallion of Bracken. The Ninestars of Templeton and the Bells of Strongsong. Many houses great and small were already here... including the two that made his chest squeeze around his lungs and shorten his breath. The golden Kraken of House Greyjoy was hung menacingly over a clustered of black and gold tents. The last time Aemon could remember seeing them was the last day he saw Bloodstone before sailing to Storm's end, but that was not the strongest memory he had of that banner. The other was a more complex response as he peered over the lists and found the Silver Seahorse of House Velaryon, his kinsmen were here. Aemon nervously shifted on his mount as he thought of seeing Lord Aerion or his sons. The troubling thoughts were pushed from his mind as he turned his horse about and began the long trot back to Lord Lyonel's camp.

As he rode back and was quickly overtaken by the thick woods of the Vale he mused on how he had arrived before the rest. At first, he and Brus had been riding with the Royal caravan alongside Lord Lyonel but not long into the ride Lord Lyonel had changed things. In the middle of the night, he had awoken Brus and his squire and invited them to a ride but a quick lad like Aemon quickly realized what was really happening. The night prior a rider in the Green of House Tyrell had arrived to inform the Royal party that the Lady Paramount Alys Tyrell would be joining them. By the time Brus and Aemon had packed Lyonel and his small band of Outriders was departing. They had ridden hard to outpace the Party behind them. The lengths to which Lyonel would dodge the Master of Coin were endlessly amusing to Aemon, Lyonel was practically running from a woman. They had ridden day after day and now it would be perhaps a few days between their arrival and the arrival of the Royal party. Aemon's pace picked up as he heard rough laughter down the road and the familiar sound of Brus Baratheon after a good joke. He smiled as his horse thundered down the road, Brus would be more elated than his squire knowing just how little time there was before he had a lance in his hand.

[Abefroeman]

The air felt... heavy, the young man thought, as he crawled through the underbrush. All around him, the morning fog clung like an oppressive sodden blanket, seeming to choke out any light and warmth the early morning sun sought to bring. Out there, somewhere in the thickets, rivulets, bracken, and other matter of underbrush, slunk the loathsome beasts that had continued to terrorize the Riverlands for decades. Laying on his gut, he notched the heavy barbed bolt into the groove, nestling it firmly against the release mechanism, siting the deadly menace downrange. The beast stood still, nose perked high as it sniffed out some far-off prey, before the oiled clink of metal resounded, followed by the dull thump and snarled tone of a death rattle, then silence. He sighed, exhaling the pent-up breath within, the heated vapor turning to almost a fog in the cool morning air. A small victory, he allowed himself to think, knowing that the dead beast was one of many that continued to haunt the land.

Lord Edmyn Tully broke his mind away from that far flung memory, the moment of reverie replaced with the present. His right hand absently stroked the fur of the beast he’d killed, still soft as the day it had died. The horse below him trotted along the well-maintained road, smoothly making its way on the final leg of a long winding journey to the Grand Birthday Tournament of Lord Robin Arryn. The weather was pleasant, warm yet not oppressive, a thankful lack of humidity that would help alleviate unnecessary perspiration. His clean-shaven face felt a gentle breeze coming off the ocean, a cool caress that brought a content smile. Exhaling softly, he tugged the reins of his horse gently, urging the creature onward with a bit of renewed excitement.

His eyes scanned the numberless banners, both lords large and small, great and mighty, the small and nearly forgotten. Among them were the flowing gold and black of the Greyjoys, the white and blues of the Arryns, the green and brown of the Mudds, the Roses of House Tyrell, the Stag of House Baratheon, and on the banners went. With a tensing of his heels, Lord Edmyn beckoned his horse through wagons, oxen, horses, the throngs of people happily making their way to the ever-growing festivities. Closely followed by his retinue, the Riverlanders made their way further into the settlement, and onwards towards the tournament grounds. Tents and pavilions lined the central trampled dirt road, until Edmyn arrived at an empty area that had been reserved for his retinue.

A perfect spot, near the end, and on the seaward side. Edmyn smiled, before wheeling his horse around once more, turning to head back towards the sea, and dismounted from his horse. His feet impacted the ground lightly, with a small swirl of dust kicking up, before making his way over to look intently at the sea. “It’s been too long since I last lay my eyes upon the endless waters of the Narrow Sea.” Letting out a content sigh, he set about helping his retinue set up their tents and campsite, cooking fires and pits, latrines, tethering lines, a site fit for fifty men and all the gear they could bring to last the duration of the festival. Such actions took the better part of the afternoon, afterwards, Lord Edmyn made his way to the sea, enjoying a refreshing swim to clean the toils of sweat from his body, and to clear his mind for the times to come.
Camp now set, clean fresh clothes upon his back, Edmyn first made his way to the pavilion of his host and first cousin once removed, though often simplified to being uncle due to their age difference. Lord Robin Arryn, a venerable and respectable man, family in the grand scheme of things, though time and territorial disputes had soured their relationships. Hopefully, here and now, these two powerful families could forever bury their animosity and become friends and allies once more. Making his way over to the Arryn campsite, Lord Edmyn made his introductions to the guards, and the steward that was there who was currently overseeing the site. Lord Arryn was not there yet unfortunately, though he would be arriving soon, and he would be informed of Lord Edmyn’s request for an audience and the gifts that Lord Edmyn wished to give to Lord Arryn would be delivered.

“Thank you for your time, kind Ser. I truly appreciate your help, and I look forward to meeting with Lord Arryn when he has arrived and is ready for guests. Send him my warmest regards and wishes, along with this personal gift from my family to his.” Edmyn finished, before handing to the Steward a beautiful and velvety smooth fur blanket, the silken strands glistening brightly in the late afternoon sun, the bold colors of white, brown, gray, and black contrasting to elicit a beautiful sight for all to see. “This blanket was collected from the great wolves that roam the Riverlands, large and fierce. May it keep Lord Arryn warm against the cold and coming winter, and may their strength and ferocity protect him against all those who would dare stand against House Arryn in anger. Seven bless you all, friends. I hope to enjoy a meal and a drink with you all in the company of Lord Robin Arryn.” Satisfied, Lord Edmyn bowed his head respectfully, before turning about face and heading into the greater festival grounds.

Women and man danced and drank, music played loud and boisterously, the very air itself was alive, as Lord Edmyn meandered about the tournament grounds, greeting nobility and small folk alike, partaking in dancing, drinking, eating, and signing all in equal measure, simply enjoying the world for all it had to offer. The light breeze blew through his hair, and caressed his face, while the smells of food, salt, and life whirled all about, exhilarating to say the least. Soon, Lord Edmyn found himself enjoying a kabob, perfectly seared meat and vegetables paired delectably, a smile playing across his face as he listened to one of his knights telling the story of his adventures in the Stepstones, when he spotted a familiar sigil. Laughing aloud, before waving his free arm in the direction of this new face, Lord Edmyn called out in a hearty voice, “SAPPHIRE!!! Mychel Mudd, come hither my friend, join us in drink and food, about time I see another proper Riverlander here. These kabobs are phenomenal.” He chuckled again, smiling brightly at seeing one of his chief vassal’s kin here, a chance to see what Lady Catelyn was up to these days.