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.
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