Power was as much posturing as it was abstract. One could not hold it, yet one must be seen wielding it. Tourneys, such as Maekar now organised, came close to that, Brynden Rivers knew. An event as high profile as that required his attention, personal touch. There were strings to be pulled, leashes to be tightened, and collars to be fixed. And thus, the red-eyed white dragon had alighted on Summerhall accompanied by a score of his Raven’s Teeth. They had hung back as part of Prince Baelor Breakspear’s suite, letting King Daeron’s heir and Hand soak in the plaudits and praises of the people. A star-studded assembly the tourney was – with celebrities and infamous rogues alike attending. And none were more infamous than Bloodraven.
Daemon and Aegor were built like true warriors, but Brynden was gaunt. Not that he had to be ashamed of his prowess as a swordsman, the fruit of his stubbornness not to be outdone. None could shoot as well as him. Instead of his brawn he had grown up relying on his wits and cunning, and had sharpened his mind so it had a murderous edge. Though he had spent his life working not to be put in the shadows, it was where he thrived. He even dressed in the colours of smoke and coal, forever watching with his crimson eyes. Already his half-brother the King and his Small Council depended on his particular skillset to remain informed. Things were going his way, were it not for the disappearance of his most beloved. None of his watchful ravens had reported on her whereabouts, though Bloodraven had his suspicions as to where she had gone. Thus, over the weeks his mood had grown as dark as reputation.
Black-clad, with the weirwood longbow unstrung across his back, one of his guard brought him news dreadful and cold as midwinter. Brynden had remained seated behind the desk in the room provided him, begrudgingly, by his royal cousin. There were no expletives or curses vile enough to fathom his anger and regret. Yes, Shiera was not the most loyal of lovers, nor was he especially possessive. Aware of her straying, and mindful of his own jealousy, Bloodraven had worked hard at developing a way to allow her her liberties and make peace with it. Being envious, let alone displaying it, only encouraged her appetites. But this? This was no straying, no fad, no craving. This was betrayal and an insult. He spent agonising moments, which seemed to stretch out like prisoners on the rack, pondering her motivations. Why would she do this to him? In Bracken livery no less… Did she understand nothing? There were better ways of asking for attention. Had she finally taken leave of her senses? I ought to have never indulged her interests into the arcane and occult.
“Fine,” he grated out with all the feeling of a millstone. His red eyes rested on covered cage. Slowly, Bloodraven stood up from the high-backed chair and made his way over to it, his guardsman staying put in the doorway. He knew better than to leave without dismissal. “She is not the only one capable of employing symbolism.” Pulling back the cloth revealed a tall construction of mahogany and ivory, and silver bars. Colourful shades flitted inside, like bursts of dye, and erupted into song. Deft movements of practiced hands unlocked the little door as Brynden uttered soothing noises. Ever so gently, he wrapped his long fingers around one of the fine-feathered creatures. There were two of them: one red and white speckled with black, the other blue and green. They represented everything Shiera loved about the Summer Islands, whence they hailed. There, they were used to harvest feathers for those famous cloaks, or erotic ceremonies which so captured his lover’s imagination. Bloodraven squeezed, and the red and white little bird popped and cracked, then dropped lifeless to the bottom of the cage. The other one, the survivor, let out a plaintive and sorrowful flurry of notes. When Brynden had removed his hand from the birdcage, it flew down to hop around the crushed corpse. The captain of the swan ship Brynden had acquired them from had told him they mated for life. “Gift this to My Lady Seastar and tell her to set the living one free.”
By the time the Raven’s Tooth had collected the cage, Brynden was already sat behind the desk again, going through reports about happenings in Sunspear and the Planky Town. “Oh,” he said, just before the longbowman shut the door, “and find the oldest most decrepit stallion to carry it. Make sure to wish joy of it. She shall be easy to find, soldier. Simply follow the smell of horse shit.”
Shiera was alone in the tent, or near enough to being alone. Aegor, much as he had since they arrived, was at their brother's beck and call. She knew to not expect him until well after she would crawl into their bed, alone. She would surely wake to him already gone again. This had not been what she had planned when she first went to Stone Hedge. She had thought to travel with Aegor, yes, but she had planned to leave his side immediately. She had expected to be received differently.
Arriving with Aegor, in his family’s sigil, she had felt the eyes on her - eyes who recognized her on sight or by rumor. There had been desire from men who thought themselves worthy of her for a night, judgment from men and women alike, hatred and distrust. She had been at court long to know how others viewed her, or at least she had known it when she had been by Brynden’s side. This was markedly different. With great disappointment she was again forced to face the truth that her value was dependent on whose bed she claimed.
Yet it was not the return to solitude nor depressing truths that overwhelmed her now. Pathetic cries had filled the tent for the past hour. Her gift from Brynden. Shiera stood in front of the cage, arms folded across her chest, her gaze flickering between anger and despair. This was not what she had anticipated. Her poor little bird flung itself against the cage, its song full of sorrow for its dead mate. She had avoided looking at the crumpled body, yet her eyes could not help but dart towards before she again turned her head away. A cruel fate, and yet it was Brynden's bird that lay dead while hers cried for its passing. How much easier it would have been to fully turn on her love had it been hers that lay unmoving on the bottom of the cage.
Had she wounded him so much? Did he think his own pain would hurt her, as if hers hurt him? She hugged herself, uncertain of her own response. Part of her desired nothing but to take to Summerhall immediately, throw herself before him in an act of absolution, beg to feel his suffocating embrace again. Perhaps she would even promise to never leave him again, to make herself his wife at last. But she stood unmoving instead, the bird’s cries dimmed from exhaustion. She recalled telling Brynden of the first time Aegor had stated his desire for her. It is only his jealousy that desires you. She had believed it at the time, had rejected Aegor cruelly. Yet their journey together, born of her own despair, had shown a glimmer of more. Had that been an outright lie, or had Brynden been blinded by his own hatred? It clouded her mind with uncertainty.
They hated each other equally, perhaps the only thing they could both agree on other than a love for her. Could they not learn to accept the other for that alone? Foolish thoughts, she chided herself. It was an impossible situation and yet, she realized with panic rising in her throat, the first time she had recognized what was always there. She would have both or she would have neither. Perhaps it would be better to abandon them both before fate forced her hand, for they would never choose to set aside hatred over love.
The tent was suddenly silent, the din outside as if it was miles away. Her ears rang with the sound of blood rushing through her veins, she gasped for a breath, her fingers dug into her arms seeking a steadiness she did not have. Her mismatched eyes darted back to the cage, the silence was complete. Her little bird had given all it had and joined its mate; two lifeless forms huddled in death.
Their hatred was greater than their love.
At last her resolve broke and she fell to her knees, her hands steadied her for a moment before she had no choice but to cup her face behind them as tears welled up and spilled over. Her shoulders shook with each despairing sob that wracked her body. She had not intended to need them both, Brynden had been her world, though one she had needed to stray from. How long had she avoided Aegor? Perhaps she had always known it was a line once crossed she could never return from again.
She knew, in the end, she would have to abandon both of them. She felt hollow at the thought. Though it was the only course left for her, in a moment of pure denial, Shiera dried her tears. Perhaps after the tourney she could flee to Lys. Maybe she would be wrong and they would join her. Maybe she was wrong about herself and she did not need them both. It was tenuous hope, but it was hope. She could confront the truth again, when all of this was over.
Jeyne had entered to find Shiera still on the ground, staring emptily at the quiet cage. Before the maid could ask any questions, her lady was ready with instructions. "Burn the birds and have the cage returned empty to Summerhall. Have a message delivered with it. One could not live without the other." She was not sure what he would make of it, but she hoped she was wrong about her own fate.
Bloodraven finds out that Shiera has arrived and sends a message/sad gift to his lover. Shiera responds in typical dramatic fashion.
Summerhall was overwhelming with the masses that had converged ahead of the tourney start. Dannel had not passed through this part of the Stormlands before, but he knew it was as close to Dorne that he had come since he had been left for dead and near enough taken by the Stranger. He had been quieter the closer the pair drew to Summerhall.
Great tents and pavilions greeted them, the actual castle of Summerhall, seemingly tiny in the distance. Dannel had offered to go do an initial bit of groundwork, a review of what he could see for opportunity of coin, or things that may interest Alys. It would be better, he kept to himself, if he had an idea of what they would be walking into.
There were plenty of calls for women servants, though how many of those were truly as maids and not as bed-warmers was impossible to tell. Dannel ignored those, he’d never hear the end of it if he suggested such a thing to Alys. There were calls for men to help build the structures still going up in preparation of the tourney start. Hard-work, likely shit pay, but it would be a bit of honest work; work that was just as likely to cause injury as the melee.
There was indeed plenty of opportunity to make more than a few coppers - and plenty of opportunity to swing for it. He heard talk of the quick justice the Prince of this castle deployed. Yet another bit of hypocrisy, for surely the Prince should hold his own household responsible for their crimes, or the crimes of their family. Dannel’s scar prickled, his jaw locked up at the thought. No point agonizing over it, there was nothing to be done other than nurse that anger, and that was better done over ale.
He made his way back through the crowds, to Alys. “You’ll want to be more careful here, it seems our Princely host doesn’t take kindly to petty crime.” A lopsided grin flicked across his lips, she was not likely to listen to him no matter what.
If one was to call this a grand tournament, they would be most right and proper about it. Perhaps years of travel and her acquaintance with large crowds and many dwellings being of better use to her, but Alys preferred such over open countryside. A change from her youth. Then she had liked nothing better than riding her pony across the fields, learning how she was to be a lady. Days long past, now she wore the garb of a squire with her red braid tucked and pinned deftly under her cap. Gripping the two horses as Dannel returned, the squired arched a brow. Her voice having that cracking squeak of a boy just coming into manhood and by her face, only just. “I hadn’t noticed.” She remarked pointedly, sliding pale eyes off in the direction of the gallows. Men already hung there, and a woman could just as easily hang as well. A Targaryen’s word was as good as law in Westeros and on his own land that was doubly so.
“Aye.” Dannel followed her eyes, the gallows were meant to be a statement and a warning. “But I thought it worthwhile to say it aloud nonetheless.” Dannel picked at the saddle bag strapped to his horse. “Perhaps more to the point, we’re quite close to the grounds House Redwyne claimed.” His stomach rumbled in remembrance of what had actually smelled tantalizing. “Wine, grilled meat, and a lot of drunken louts from what I could see.”
Stroking the nose of her stout horse, she studied the tents in the near distance with the Redwyne flag flapping along with so many others. From the Dornish sands to the Vale. Her lips thinned, Manfryd would not come to a tourney and especially not one hosted by a Targaryen. Her father had no love of them, he had railed of them after Benjicot’s death. No, Manfryd would have no Targaryen loving heir to take his place and he certainly would not grace a one of the Princes’ tournaments without a direct invitation, which surely no Prince would give! “Redwynes.” Alys could recall them for a family grown rich from wine, boats and being of note within the Reach. A prosperous bit of merchanting if what Septa Bessa had taught her rang true. “Wine and grilled meat, you say Ser? How could we turn down such!” But the suspicious and cunning though was more to the mind of those drunken louts. “You goin’ ter be offerin’ yer service to them Ser? Heard more than one man walk by talking about some Lords hiring knights.” Oh, she would dance on a barrel if she could get a Redwyne shield snatched into her pack. A signet ring would be even better, but it was best as to not be so greedy. Things that could get lost and not noticed were the best things to take. Looking to the side she narrowed her eyes towards a more distant flag. “Ser Dannel, what’s the mark of a blue hawk on silver?”
“House Fowler I believe, of Skyreach.” He spoke without a moment’s thought, unsure of when he had learned the houses of Dorne, yet he did know them all. “As for offering my services, the Redwynes were indeed looking for men. Hard labor it seemed. Perhaps it would be better work for a surly squire to take on?” He chuckled as he closed up the saddle bag, a small bite of dried meat to quell his hunger for a moment. “I’ll stand guard for some foolish lord but I’d rather not break my back for them. First though, should I go claim a bit of land for us?”
She had not seen that particular banner, nor could she place it. Perhaps it was from far South in Dorne? It was a curiosity, and she longed to slip among those tents and see what bits they, in particular, would not miss. Self preservation held her back, a tent was needed. A place to turn from squire to lady and back again just in case someone came looking. “Once you're settled into a tent Ser, I’ll see what’s what. Heard tell there’s an archery competition!” Her voice squeaked in excitement that was very really. She could not resist a challenge such as that and even if there was half a garrison of troops searching for her? Alys would find her way to where her skill with the bow could be appreciated.
“I thought you may have heard of that already. It seems that the Lady of Summerhall herself will enter into it.” He ran a calloused hand through the short curls of his hair. “You’ll enter the lists of course. I’d bet good coin we don’t have yet that you best at least a few of them.” He grinned, though it didn’t fully reach his eyes. The scar tugged and pulled at his skin with a wince.
In a lower voice she took a sideways glance at Dannel. “Your scar is tight enough that you might split it open, what is wrong Ser?” Though lowering her voice, she kept the ‘squire’ voice.
Dannel ran two fingers over the scar. He was unsettled, and that always seemed to push the pain and discomfort to the front of his mind. “You ever get the feeling something bad is coming?” He stared off for a moment, watching the masses scurry. “Of course you do, you always have a sense for when a plan is about to sour. I’m just fretting for the both of us again, don’t you worry about me, boy.”
Alys had to duck against her mare's side to hide the wicked grin that broke her facade. It was so enjoyable to play the game with Dannel, though she sobered as she realized the truth was that she was worried to. Accidents could happen in the list and she had no wish for Dannel to befall one. The lie she told herself was that he was too useful, but she had grown found of his company and life was harder alone than with a knight to play the squire to. "Not at all, Ser. I shall mind the business of tending horse and armor." She agreed with a slight squeak. Eagerly following to see where this ten would be set at. "And I'd suggest away from the Blackwoods, no need to have Brackens side-eyeing Ser. Which they might if they think ye court the favor of Lord Quentyn." In truth she did not wish for the man to recognize her. “How about near the Redwynes? They’ve got wine and feasting. Easy enough to keep us both pleased.” She offered, though she did really want to try and snatch a Redwyne shield!
Dannel agreed quickly enough, a short nod of the head and he was off to claim the small bit of land and set to work. Bracken, Blackwoods, he knew their names and he knew they caused nothing but trouble. That was good enough reason to avoid that lot. For such a small task it took no time to have something at least serviceable. He left Alys to manage whatever womanly things she needed to manage, and begged his leave. He’d find a way to make a quick bit of coin and come back with food and drink.
— —
“Further back now!” A light voice called out to the sound of laughter. A woman stood, bow in hand, her other waving at a man in the distance. He dragged a target a few feet back, stopped, and looked to the woman for any further instruction. “I said further back, good man. Further back now!” Another tittering of laughter spread in the crowd that had gathered. A few minutes passed before at last the woman was satisfied with the distance. “Now get out of the way!”
She lifted the bow, and in one smooth movement drew back the string. For a moment, time seemed to pause. She felt the soft autumn breeze rustle loose tendrils of hair and took a deep, centering breath. Her muscles pulled at the tension of her draw and she released. The arrow shot clear and true to the target. A smile grew across her face, genuine and kind. She turned to her audience and offered a small bow before walking off to the fencing to receive a cup of watered down wine. Her nose wrinkled at the taste, alas, it was for the best.
Sauntering through the crowd, using elbows as much as a wicked remark to make a path. Alys Rivers stared with absolute glee at the field before her. An archery contest where she would not have to dress as a squire! Some relief that was, she was fond of the dark green gown that clung to a shapely frame she used to distract the eye from what her hands did. Already her own purse had grown slightly over the course of her walk. Men were free with their gaze and drink. A laugh, smile, wink and they never noticed fingers slipping where they should not! Leaning on the fence, she watched the woman take the shot. An impressive distance, but it was hardly a moving target. A well dressed woman who looked as though she might be a noble’s daughter come for the tournament and to look for prospective husbands. Though she was a bit old not to have been wed yet. Unhooking her own skin freshly filled she thrust it across the fence to the woman, studying the lavender eyes and blonde hair. Perhaps a bastard of dragon seed?
“Take it, I just filled it and it will taste better than what is in that cup.” She offered lightly in her rough tone, flicking her braid over her shoulder. Propping her head on her hand she studied the target and chuckled a low, rich sound. “Not a bad shot at all, though that target is hardly on the run.”
Pale lavender eyes took in the form that had appeared rather brusquely before her. With a quick glance and a small wave, she stopped her maidservant from interfering or calling for any of the palace men. It had been hard enough to get away and she didn’t need anyone alerting her cousin or husband to her location. Still, she waved away the offered skin. “I’m afraid I’m on strict orders to drink this mix.” The woman offered a small chuckle, “much as it leaves a poor taste in my mouth.”
The woman before her was a pretty thing, and, Dyanna was sure, she knew it. She had an ease not often found. “I’ve been told it’s bad form to shoot at moving targets on a tourney field. I wouldn’t want to give the men more reason to be uppity about a woman encroaching on their sport. At least, these northern men seem to find it an odd thing.” Again a gentle smile crept across her lips as she cocked her head in thought. “You speak as if you know a thing or two about it - you must be here to sign up as well? The attendants should know to turn away no woman.”
There was a wince of commiseration on the red head’s face, medicine was never something one sought out. Especially when it came to drink the vile brews. Looking over the grounds with a keen eyes, as she listened to the noble woman prattle on. “If the menfolk wish to be uppity, then I say it only gives reason to have them carry the targets while the women shoot.” She commented with a wicked grin. Let any man get between her and the bow! She had started it simply to enjoy more time with Benji, but later it had become a mementomori for her dead twin. A way to work out problems and focus, then survival had hinged on her skill with the bow.
“Aye, I am. You might learn a thing or two if you watch closely.” There was real pride in Alys’s voice but no menace. A friendly competition jab towards another who enjoyed archery. Of course, she could risk offending the woman, but women were often more sensible then men and not so keen to draw steel over honor. Of course, Alys considered as a darkness flickered in her mind, some women were more vicious in melted towers and haunted halls. “Which means, I need to hunt down an attendant.” She still eyed the field and her hand stroked her braid. “Oh, this will be utterly delightful. A clever thing to allow women to shoot as well.” She chuckled in her throaty tone. “The Prince chose well in his choice of wife.”
“There is always so much for us to learn - especially from one another I think.” Dyanna responded genuinely. What an odd creature, yet she felt an immediate kinship. She had not dressed the part of Maekar’s wife, or at least, had not dressed as many expected a Targaryen Prince’s wife to dress, so perhaps this was to be expected even if it surprised her.
“Prince Maekar?” Had affection crept into her voice? “Yes, some say his choice in wife is the best decision he ever made. Otherwise, he casts such a brooding figure. Best to avoid him, or so they say.” A glint of joy sparked in her eyes. She smoothed the top of her brown skirts and adjusted the leather surcoat over her stomach. “Why don’t I join you, I’ve been listed already so I know just who we can approach for you.” She offered the crook of her arm as she rounded the fence to join the woman’s side. Behind her, Dyanna was certain she heard a muffled sigh.
“You would put me in your debt for such aid.” The mock shock in her voice was filled with amusement and Alys took the offered arm. “But yes, from what I’ve heard? Best to avoid all men who grumble so loudly. I have one in my own family, unfortunately.” Manfryd had grumbled loud enough to drown out the trouble about Danelle, and the Harlot. “And whom do you have in mind?” She cocked her head curiously. A good bit taller than she, was this mysterious archer. Absently she remembered she had forgotten to introduce herself but the conversation was rather relaxed and enjoyable. It would be a shamer to interrupt the flow with belated manners.
Dyanna patted the girl’s hand briefly. She thought her a girl, though truthfully they could not be that different in age. “I think we all have at least one like that. My eldest brother is prone to grumbling and anger.” Another bit of truth, Vorian vexed her greatly, particularly with the most recent news that had finally reached her ears, much as Ryon had tried to hide it.
“Just a bit around this path. The man is a serious sort of course, but he was quick and courteous with me and so it should be for you.” Dyanna led them a few more feet forward before spying the attendant in the distance. It was not entirely untruthful. The man had been put in charge of coordinating various entries. And he had been given very explicit instructions about how to respond to any other women entrants. Done so at her behest of course.
“Lady D-” He began in greeting, a look of surprise across his face.
“Now, now. You’ve already accepted my entrance request. I’ve found another friend who’d like to enter the archery lists as well. Please add…” Dyanna paused with a firm glance to the attendant who had half-recovered. “I’m afraid we’ve broken all sorts of courtly etiquette. What is your name, my friend?”
Unable to do anything but follow along, Alys nodded in agreement and chuckled at the thought of men speaking so. They were usually quick and courteous when they wanted something done and out of their hair and thought you a lady. Pausing in midstep as they came upon the man, Alys raised a brow upon the notice of her companion. ’Lady D-’ left several questions and there was a inkling of suspicion that made her pause completely and study the woman closer with a more speculative expression. A sly smile of amusement sliding across her lips. “Courtly etiquette, broken? How horrible, I fear we shall have to go before the Mother for penance.” She remarked lightly, and arched a red brow that matched slightly redden cheeks as she realized exactly whom she was addressing so. “Alys Rivers, I am. I do believe I address Lady Dyanna Targaryen? My, we have made a right mess of things, have we not?”
A broad grin broke across Dyanna’s face, she held the woman’s arm loosely in her hand. “Roderick, please add Alys Rivers to the lists, in my grouping please. And see to it that we have a steward made available to Alys for anything her and her party may need ahead of the contest.” Dyanna gave a curt nod to the man who now seemed more perplexed but did his best to keep his face smooth.
“Of course, my Lady.” He bowed his head and motioned for some of his assistants to join them. They waited until Dyanna was finished with her conversation.
She turned towards the lady, pleased that Alys had pieced it together herself. “I am sorry, it was nice to be unrecognized for a bit. I have not completely grown accustomed to being...me.” Dyanna folded her hands over her stomach with a small shrug. “So, perhaps you could see fit to give these men where you’re located in the tourney grounds. And I must ask that you join me for dinner tonight. I’m afraid my husband is likely to be busy with other matters.” Her eyes glanced up and over Alys’ head at a tell-tale sight and sound. Except, perhaps her husband had been made aware that she had slipped out. That man worried too much, even if it made her blush in appreciation. “Unless you’d like to meet him now, I’ll have one of those men escort you up to Summerhall this evening.” A mischievous glint sparked again, Maekar would surely be his normal public self - brooding and grim - and it was probably best to not actually frighten the girl so.
There were few things that knocked Alysanne Lothstone sideways, but she could hardly help the smile at the acceptance given by the pretty woman. A mark in her favor and that she was a sensible sort. “I’ve no need of a steward, though I thank you for the offer My Lady.” She protested firmly, though there was another reason. Dannel would not appreciate a man coming into their small camp and she would appreciate it even less to have her own ruse discovered. Though her eyes dance at the perplexed folk around them, it was always good to knock other people’s legs from under them, mentally at least. “My Ser Knight would not appreciate it in the slightest and grumbling men…”
She glanced over her shoulder as she pretended to straighten her dress, noticing Dyanna’s attention being moved to a disturbance. An offer to dinner from the Lady of the Tournament? She could hardly refuse! What was worse, however, was that Alys did not wish to refuse. She found Lady Dyanna Targaryen a charming woman of intellect that did not dim when a mere bastard woman of little to no renown was before it. ”Admit it, old girl. You like this young woman.” She chided herself, though her husband was another matter. “I am camped with Ser Dannel of House Bushy near the Redwyne encampment. He or his squire can easily find me, My Lady.” She dipped a low curtsy and cocked a brow. “You honor me, My Lady. I shall be glad to attend only send a time.Your conversation is most enjoyable.” With that she slipped into the crowd, weaving through the bodies of people and she considered exactly who had invited her to sup.
Dannel was going to be spitting nails, and Alys did not care a wit. That was the most enjoyable conversation she had had in months. Sighing, she skirted about two carters arguing over collided wagons. A purse went into her own and she sighed utter delight. Oh, this was a very delightful tournament. Now, so long as Dannel did not spit nails into her! A giggle at the thought burst from her lips. Oh, who would have thought this was the way the wind would blow! But she would be collected, calm. Perfectly courteous. Even if she was seven years out of practice.
Dannel takes a look around the grounds where houses great and small are setting up. Alys and he come up with an initial plan of what to do. Alys wanders off and accidentally meets the Lady of Summerhall where she's invited to dine.
Appearance: Ser Hogg is an ultimate specimen of a man. So tall and broad, he can do naught but loom over all. His body appears to have been carved and sculpted, every angle exact, every muscle carefully laid to place. His eyes sparkle like sunrises, his smile can turn from warm friendship to slow burning desire with just a flick of his lips. Few can resist his charms and none want to.
Description & biography: Though from a small house of landed knights, he has gained recognition and renown over the past three decades. He has never wed nor even sought marriage. He does not pursue women, but does not deny any who pursue him. Men have challenged him, none have bested him. He travels alone, yet always ends his nights surrounded by friends. He is recognizable on sight, and whispered about long after he has left.
He is the most interesting man in Westeros. He is Ser Baekyn Hogg.
Stranger take them all! Vorian was in a foul mood, skulking about his private library. He picked up items only to slam them down, angrily shuffled the piles of parchments that had taken over his desk. His face was a deep set scowl, his neatly trimmed beard even seemed to stand on end as a wave of anger roiled. The parchment contained some translation to complete a set he had been working on for nearly a year now. He had just looked at it the night before, before he had succumbed to restless sleep.
His lady wife, Nymella, had approached, likely drawn by the noise that had sent the servants scattering. They knew better than to be nearby in his moments of rage. She said nothing, as she stood in the doorway, she watched him intently, but knew he needed no prodding. It seemed his friends had retired already for the night. They told Vorian whatever he wanted to hear, and left her to do the real work.
Vorian returned her gaze, his eyes frantic. His tongue worked in his mouth, delayed to finding his words and pushing the frenzied thoughts to coherence. “We are the blood of an ancient and mighty empire. The last descendants, we are meant to be a bulwark of day against the death of night.” Spittle flew from his mouth as the texts converged together in his mind. “Instead we scrape our knees to the Rhoynish invaders of Sunspear. And they in turn force the heavy weight of tainted Valyrian bastards upon our backs. My own father sold my sister to them. And she has already whelped for him twice!” He wiped his chin with his arm but carried on with a crazed look coming to his dark violet eyes. “It is they who should bow to us. We brought the world from the brink of extinction and extermination into a glorious dawn. Yet these bastards and their simpering great houses ignore their duty to us and the world, so that they may instead play at war and peace with each other rather than prepare for true threat.” He was sweating profusely, his dark hair slick as rivulets trickled down his face. Anger, exhaustion, lingering drunkenness mixed into a volatility that the Dayne household had become too familiar with.
His lady wife looked back at him thoughtfully, and though she cared not for whatever it was he found in his parchments while in his cups, it was a useful thing after all. “My lord husband, if it is as you say - and I’ve no reason to doubt you though such matters are beyond me - what do you do now?” She spoke flatly, certainly her family held no love for the Targaryens, but words were wind; she had to know if he could be molded for more.
"Pah! They travel to Summerhall to celebrate the end of summer. As if that is some cause for celebration. The Starks are an insufferable lot but at least they half-remember." Vorian was losing himself to a tangent, but he caught himself. "Now is the time. With so many eyes elsewhere, we may make moves without being perturbed." He turned back to his desk and searched for missives he had hastily scrawled. “Now is the time, before that asshole cousin of mine can usurp what will be mine when father dies. You will help me contact the other houses who at least remember that the Iron Throne does not rule in Dorne. I will lead them, as soon as Ryon is dead and Dawn returned rightfully to my hands.”
Vorian slumped against the desk, exhaustion overtaking the rage of mere moments ago. His wife approached at last to take the missives from his hand and the rest off his desk. She had work to do, though her husband need not know of it. “Go rest, I will do as you bid.” Before she could walk away, his hand grasped her arm, and she bristled coldly.
“Ryon will be dead before that tourney ends.” Vorian twisted her wrist in his hand, watching the pain flicker across her eyes though she remained stoic as always. “You will bring your relations to heel.”
The heir to Starfall watched as his wife walked away to deal with sending out his calls. He had paid good coin for a man to slit his cousin’s throat. Now he needed only to wait.
This was short, go read it.
Fine...the heir to Starfall has come to believe in an absurd consspiracy theory and has plotted the death of his cousin so that he may claim the sword, Dawn.
The Bay of Seals was no great distance from the North’s mainland and yet the waters surrounding the isle were rough and treacherous. This held particularly true in autumn, and no sane man - Skagosi or otherwise - would dare to even think of the journey come winter. As it was, Torwynd had marshalled the Skagosi as summer waned and turned to autumn, the cold winds would not have overtaken the bay yet. At least on the way there. Torwynd had made no contingencies for returning to Skagos.
He stood at the hull, an eye on his rowing men. Two thousand men, nearly fifty longships. His Skagosi captains had insisted on bringing their mounts. No matter that the unicorns - suited for the rocky outcrops on their isle - would be of little use on the mainland or against any cavalry. The creatures bleated and called to each other, the noise punctuating the mens’ grunts and huffs as they rowed. It had taken Torwynd over two decades to accomplish this. It was an achievement but a meaningless one if the weapon he had honed missed its mark. Though striking during autumn was a strategic decision, the North could field enough men to crush them without ever having to touch their full strength. At least, that would be the case in open warfare which the Crowsbane had no intention of offering.
Yrsa joined him silently. She painted her face and body in the way of the Skagosi warriors but she fit no exact position within their society. She had been a killer from before she was born, her twin brother dead in the womb, she had the soul of both. She trained and fought but was not recognized as a warrior. She studied beneath the shamans but could never claim that title. She was all things and none. She seemed to understand it, though it still left Torwynd puzzled as to how their society actually worked. It was no matter, he did not need to understand it, only use it.
“This final push will bring us to shore within the day.” He spoke, and received only a nod in answer. Yrsa would not disembark with her father. Where the Skagosi had taught her as one of their own, her father had taught her of Westeros proper. He had taught her what he knew of the houses and rulers. Word traveled slowly, but occasionally the wildings would even have news to pass on. And so it was not the raiding or pillaging that his daughter would undertake, but one of diplomacy. Their men would never be enough to do more than leave a cut too easily healed. No, Torwynd knew that he would need the North to be unbalanced. The best option, unless much had changed since he was exiled, was House Bolton. Yrsa would travel on with three ships and a small contingent of men to The Dreadfort.
They had come on land, some weeks back, at a small fishing village. The inhabitants had called it Eyron’s Pier. Small-folk and their imaginative names to seek favor with the ruling men who would just as soon crush them beneath their boots. His men were now scattered along the coast, raiding, pillaging and burning the small settlements and farms they came across. Fields were being harvested and preparations made to dry, store, and preserve the fruits of the summer past. The Skagosi had not seen such bounty and Torwynd had to stop them from burning everything - to last the winter, they would need the stores just as much.
Further inland, no more than three days’ march from Karhold proper, he was certain, Torwynd was encamped with the bulk of his forces. They were one thousand strong, with ten of his mounted captains. Runners kept news going between their smaller camps and further north where a small force kept guard on their vessels. The men had waited long enough and could be denied no longer. Their king gave the signal and preparations were made.
The small outcrop of buildings was known as Wylla’s Eye. The women and men rounded up had been quick to caution that they were under protection of the Karstarks. They called the men wildings, though the Skagosi looked nothing like the free people of beyond-the-wall. They looked nothing like the tall man still dressed in black leathers and furs as if his watch continued yet. Farmers by and large, the warriors had set their fields aflame to draw them out. It was a simple thing to round them up into the hastily made wooden pens that now circled round a roaring bonfire. The air was heavy with smoke and heat. The orange-red glow illuminated and obscured the night sky.
Torwynd Crowsbane, King of Skagos, stood in front of the fire. “Men, the last First Men, you stand upon the lands of your forebears. You stand upon the land taken from your ancestors. The time has come to take it back. Nourish yourselves with the flesh of your enemies, the true fight begins soon enough.” His voice echoed just moments before the assembled men's raucous shouts drowned him out. Screams then filled the air, guttural and visceral as the Skagosi warriors pulled the men out of the pens to be butchered in front of the women and children.
Some pieces of flesh were tossed to the flames to be charred but left raw, organ meat never touched the flame lest the fire burn away its essence. The men passed around skeins of fermented doe milk to wash down the ritual feast. Torwynd stalked the edge of the camp to watch his men partake. He would not deny them their rites - he would never have united them had he tried - but neither did it feed his proclivities. Captain Uthor melted out of the darkness, a short man but broad and heavy, the Skagosi were unexpectedly stealthy. “The women you marked have been pulled out and are ready for you, Crowsbane.” Torwynd grunted, the men respected his rule, but honorifics were not natural to them.
No, he would let the men finish their feast, and partake in his own ritual in solitude as he preferred. A cruel smile, cold and hungry, passed over his face. He licked his lips expectantly. “Good. I’ll not keep them waiting.”
Some time prior to the start of the tourney, the Stoneborn host arrives on the mainland. They burn and pillage their way south and inland towards Karhold.
The majority of the host remains with Torwynd where they set upon a small farming village and slaughter the men in a cannibalistic ritual. Torwynd has other plans with the women captured.
Yrsa has continued on with a much smaller contingent (~100), sailing to The Dreadfort.
Alys Rivers & Dannel Flowers Somewhere near Fawnton - Seat of House Cafferen Vanq & @LadyRunic
One could not say that there was not game to hunt in the Kingswood, but then game had long since grown used to the humans who stalked about with long bows being predators just as deadly as the wolves. Of course, the worst of the hunters dressed in silks with men to beat the brush so that deer and duck might spring from hidning to be a useful target for one to a noble lord to bring his exemplary skill to bear on. Which was utter poppycock. Alys Rivers glared at the distant retreat of a small herd of deer, their tails waving banners as she fingered the long bow that sat across her saddle’s pommel. “If you did not sound as though you were some tinkering merchant’s cart, I could have had us some nice supper and something to trade for coin as well.” The complaint held no edge of anger, but the stout grey mare switched her ears back at the tightened grip of the reins.
Dannel walked his horse gently, his eyes rolling at his partner’s chastisement. It was not the first time Alys had chastised him for his noise - unwarranted as he had corrected her the first dozen times - but now he let it slide. It was the normal rhythm of their travels. Dannel silently letting Alys fill the silence, until eventually he would be prodded enough to return a few words. He had always liked the silence of travel. Yet his years now spent with Alys gave him at least some appreciation of the woman’s quirks. He was, however, hungry, now that she mentioned it. His stomach betrayed his silence with a low rumble.
“Dannel, my boy, we are in desperate need of coin.” Which had run out at the last tavern leaving them to sleeping under elm and oak as they made their way through the Stormlands.
He grunted in response. Alys had a way of remembering things differently. “I believe it was not that it ran out, but that we ran out on it.” There had not been much coin left anyways, but it would have been enough for at least a loaf of bread and maybe even an ale to share. But he preferred sleeping beneath the sky than in the confined taverns they often found themselves in. Dannel never slept much those nights, he’d stay awake to keep watch over his companion and an ear for any disturbances.
Tossing her long braid over a shoulder, the short woman ignored the fact that to even hunt she would have had to dismount her mare, strung her bow and then hope the deer were still there. As long a shot as the chance would be that they were. For all she had the face of the lady, anyone passing the two would find her the oddity. A woman with tanned skin from the constant riding, dressing in a grey tunic with a leather vest trimmed with fox fur about the edges and breeches that were tucked into sturdy, if worn boots. Behind her, the shaggy packhorse looked longingly at a green patch of leaves and began taking the small stop to attempt a midday meal. Watching after where the deer had fled, the woman drummed her fingers on the shaft of the yew bow. Two strings along it’s shaft. One was the bowstring, the other a more durable and stubborn cord. Short as she was, Alys used the latter and a foot to string the bow rather than bending the thing. She was a small woman and for all she could pull any bow, height did not always help in the stringing.
Setting her cap back over her red hair, she cocked her head and gave a far drier comment. “My apologies, ser.” Her voice changed from it’s normally throaty tone to one of a boy’s with a cracking break on the border to manhood. “Ser Knight, might’n we be stoppin’ and winnin’ ye some glory an’ all in a tourney afore we starve of ‘unger?” Leaning back in the saddle, the woman’s lips thinned. She did not like being low on coin and in the middle of nowhere. Fawnton, the seat of House Cafferen, was a pleasant enough place, but it was no large city where she could get lost in the maze of streets with no one the wiser for a few coins missing. Switching back to her normal throaty voice she eyed the distant smoke of a village’s fireplaces. “I could perhaps find a merchant to swindle if we were closer to a town of some worth. Though you having a shield of a House would help.” She remarked more to herself than Dannel, seeming to toy with a plan she had in the works.
“Alys…” It was his turn for admonishment. He gave her a look that he must have given a hundred times before. His brow furrowed, the skin on his cheek pulled at the long scar that ran down it. His stomach rumbled again in contradiction to his tone. “We’re probably only a day or two’s ride from Summerhall.” His voice grated a bit at naming the castle. Damn nobles - and not just nobles - but the Royal Prince himself and his Dayne bitch. A day or two’s ride but they would not last without stopping somewhere as she had so rightly suggested. Her plans usually worked, but Seven help them when they didn’t. “What are you thinking, squire?” Gods, he hoped it wasn’t going to be another swindle where he bore the bruises and she the coin.
Alys waved away his worry with a hand as though shooing away a servant. "Two days to work then." She remarked with a smile that could match that of a fox's in a hen house. Putting her heels to the mare, she urged the grey on while the packhorse mournfully munched the last of his midday. Considering the tournament, she recalled what she knew of Summerhall, Prince Maekar and his lady wife, Dyanna Dayne. The names of such prestigious people were common enough on tongue that spoke of gossip surrounding the royal family and after Aegon IV had declared his Great Bastards legitimate tongue hardly ceased. They spoke of how likely it was that King Daeron the Good was a bastard himself leaving Daemon Blackfyre the true heir. Why else would Aegon have given the bastard, even a Targaryen bastard, the heirloom sword that had been handed from King to Heir since the Conqueror? Personally Alys was of the opinion that King Daeron or Daemon, the matter was hardly of note. The Realm was at peace while nobles bickered as they did.
"A prickly man, I'd not wager for my life to try to swindle Prince Maekar." She agreed, as good as a promise that she would not. Her own small attempt to soothe the hedge knight. "Though the tournament will be filled with others of our sort, good ser and those lofty nobles who wish to curry favor with the Prince. A good of place as any to see if I can swindle some coin come bet or beauty." Nobles were always bragging and she surely would be able to slip into a few tents, slip away a few shiny goblets and they be gone before anyone raised a hue or cry. Though she still thought to turn a deal perhaps posing as the infamous Lady Webber of Coldmoat, doubtful. Though they did say the Redwynes had some redheads among them… It would be a matter of getting a shield for Dannel to pose as a knight escort for a lady.
Even a year ago having her joke at swindling a Targaryen Prince would have given Dannel heart palpitations. But he allowed her to prattle on for she had already known it was no plan. This was the way of things, start at the absurd and Alys would talk herself down to a mostly manageable plan of attack. He picked at dirt beneath his fingers. “Pah, there should be plenty who are drunk enough on their Dornish red for it to be easy pickings.” Drunk nobles and knights, all their attendants; tourneys were always events that offered much for just a little work. And it would be good to put his sword arm to some actual use outside of scaring men in taverns or on the road.
Lost in thought, she paused and looked at the man with a glint in those pale blue eyes. "A good way to show your skills and under the eye of a Prince. My, good Ser, you could rise to some standing." It was also a risk of her losing her bodyguard and muscle. Yet, Alys could not begrudge him. If Dannel wished to move to better things? Then it was his right and she would only encourage him. Of course there was that matter of his dislike for nobles. "But then again, you could never scrape and bow without growling." All the better for the both of them.
He reflexively rolled his shoulders from a shudder that rolled down his back. “Don’t jest, I’ve no desire to rise in their ranks.” He had left House Lyberr, his adoptive home of sorts, having refused to pledge himself to them. He’d at least hope to avoid their tents should they make their way to Summerhall. “Besides, I couldn’t leave you out here on your lonesome. Not when you’ve finally gotten used to my growling.” He tossed her a half smile, from the unscarred side of his face. “But surely I must be a knight of some named place for whatever scheme you are brewing. Who shall I be this time? Perhaps a Knight of House Bushy?” He recalled their standard, a simple pattern to create. He couldn’t quite recall a single striking thing about them, but that was probably for the best. Another small family looking for a son or cousin to win a bit of coin and accolade.
Shaking her head at his attempt of a jest, the woman felt a twinge at amusement at how this man scorned nobles. The circumstances in her life seemed to play this as one of the minor amusements she could always laugh at. "The Bushy? They have enough family, even if you walked among them they would take you for a cousin of a cousin's cousin's, despite the Lord’s current family being small. A rarity." She remarked with dry humor, recalling what Septa Bessa had once said when a refusal of any daughter of that house was given to marry her father. Though there had developed a cease of worry between her brows as she recalled the past.
Dannel could appreciate the moments where they had seemed in step. It had not always been so. But he also knew her mannerisms. “What is it Alys? Don’t think I’m up to snuff to be a cousin’s-cousin’s cousin?” He spoke lightly, but if she fret, he would fret. His hand moved to rest on the hilt of his sword, a comforting act even if it could not dispel whatever had creased her brow.
“House Bushy will do well.” She remarked, shakinging her head which left her long braid flicking low across her horse’s withers. At least one sister would have been married quietly to a commoner who took up as a distant cousin to the Lothstons’. Her father would see to that and that it would be Danelle. Elayne would find a husband in a compliant Riverlord who Manfryd could see to his own use. They would have no reason to go to a tournament with no son to win the joust or melee. Danelle’s husband would be shaking in his boots, terrified to do more than press for a single son with his wife. As quickly as she had considered revealing that to Dannel, Alys dismissed it. It had been the better part of six if not seven years, and she had changed much. From a high brow lady who would carry on the Lothston name to a woman who could wear any face she chose. Of course she was no Faceless Man, but the appeal did carry to her of their legendary skill that her father had talked about in his study on dark nights. Their job as assassins, according to Manfryd Lothston, was what had her recoiling. Killing was never an easy thing, necessary at times but never easy. “I am merely thinking.” She admitted, hedging about the truth. “There are those that I like to avoid.” Which she had done so well, though mostly by staying away from the God’s Eye and Harrenhal. Avoiding the entirety of the Riverlands if she could.
Dannel nodded sharply in agreement, he could understand that all too well. The sellsword shifted in his saddle. It seemed they had decided a course; one that would bring him in proximity to a House that he had nursed a grudge against for over a decade. A familiar pang began behind his eyes. The pain would come and go, and it had been a constant reminder with this scar of what they had done to him - even if he could not remember the details, just flashes. His rough hand massaged at his temples as he gazed ahead of them. “Smoke, but I’m sure you noticed that already - I am always slower than you. Perhaps we can sing for some food and a spot in the stable.” Sing, steal, connive - Alys would have a plan.
“Sing?” The woman was incredulous as she looked at the knight. “I thought you wanted a place to sleep and a small feast, not to be tossed out on our ear so hard that we bounce on the cobbles.” She gave a startled laugh at the mere thought of her singing. “No, I shall not sing. Recite a tale, swindle some folk, I shall ser.” The woman was almost falling out of her saddle with a cackle. “Sing!” Chuckling to herself as she quickly regained control of herself, the woman dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. She had never sung in Dannel’s presence and with good reason, it was nice to know the man did not know everything about her. Drifting back beside the man she let him take a slight lead as she dipped a hand into a pocket and began pinning her long braid into a coil on her head. The chuckles and huffs of her laughter still breaking through at the mere thought of her singing, even as a child she had given it up early. Sing, indeed!
Alys and Dannel are out of coin and banter about how best to get some more. Going to the tournament is a good plan, Dannel decides on pretending to be a knight from House Bushy. Both have apprehensions about running into people they know at the tourney but neither are completely honest about why.
And Alys makes fun of Dannel a lot - the poor bastard.
The sun beat down, tempered just barely by a cool breeze. It was blessedly quiet, a few moments of peace before the entire realm would descend on Summerhall; not unlike locusts to a field of wheat. A tourney was a fine thing, yet it would bring with it the crushing reality of the chaotic world outside their walls. She’d need to see fit to act as was only expected of a Targaryen’s wife. There would be no escaping having to sit with the other ladies of the realm, listen to their woes, sidestep the favors that would be sought. At least she would keep the tradition of competing in the archery contest. There had been no denying her, and Maekar’s support had been enough to quickly dissuade their advisers from pushing otherwise.
Dyanna tried to not take for granted the years of happiness she had been given at Summerhall. They had built this place to be their own. They had crafted pieces of Dorne throughout the Stormlands castle. Pools and heady gardens, even a vineyard grown from cuttings from House Dayne. It was not producing yet, but seemed primed to within a few more years. And now they would open it to the realm. Yet something seemed different, a vague and amorphous dark cloud that hung over their preparations. In the weeks leading up to their tourney, news had filtered in through missives and hushed tones. There was an unease, discontent even. Her own family had sent notice that only her father, Eldon, and Arron would be in attendance. Her eldest brother and heir to the Starfall would stay home, undoubtedly sulking.
And so the Lady of Summerhall escaped from the palace’s halls and fled to fields to center herself. Without thinking, she guided herself to her secret sanctuary on the outskirts where open fields would give way to ancient groves. There was a giant tree with a large hollow, large enough for even a grown man to stand in. Dyanna crawled in, spreading her skirts beneath her and leaned back, her roughly plaited hair further mussed by the roughness of the tree. She just needed some time to think, and closed her lavender eyes in contemplation. She had wanted nothing more than to seek out her husband, yet with so much left to accomplish, she knew that his mind would be elsewhere. Better to be alone with her thoughts than to be just another item requiring his attention. Sharing, at least as far as Maekar was concerned, was not her strong suit, she thought with a smirk.
Besides, she did not know for certain that she had news to share with him. She would not know, did not want to know, until the tourney had ended. Sweet precocious Daeron, and bright little Aerion, sweet summer children both; lost in thought of her children, her hands wandered over her torso, resting atop her stomach, seeking the signs she had felt the other day. Dyanna’s mind wandered, and in the utter quiet, she drifted off to wild dreams.
“By the Seven, Dyanna, wake up!”
A gruff voice stirred her, she slowly blinked open to afternoon sun cast around the figure that now blocked the entrance to her cove. She knew that voice all too well. “Ser Ryon?” She was just half-awake, startled that she had ever been asleep. “Something wrong?” Her senses returned to her, Dyanna rose and dramatically stretched with a long yawn. She returned her poor cousin’s worried gaze with innocent, inquisitive eyes.
“My lady…you…” Ser Ryon sighed, shaking his head he turned sideways to allow her to pass him back into the field. “How many times have I asked that you not wander off alone like this?” He put up a hand as if to stop an argument before it could form on Dyanna’s pressed lips. “Your dagger does not count as a companion, not that it does you much good when you slumber so heavily.” He passed a rough hand over his face, as if to scrub away the fear that had enveloped him. “Perhaps you should aim to actually get rest at night - instead of whatever it is that keeps you up?” His chastising tone cracked, just for a moment.
Dyanna stood with her hands pressed to her hips, a look of feigned shock plastered on. “Ser Ryon, I think you forget yourself!” She hung her head as a throaty chuckle bubbled over. “But as is often the case, you are not wrong - at least about my sleeping habits. Do the servants still whisper or has it at last become old gossip?” She slid her arm through her knight’s gesturing forward with her free hand. The last bit of sleep dispelled, and with it gone, the worry and anxiety that she had fled began to creep back in. Still, Ryon provided a welcome distraction and she would prod for the gossip that her ladies refused to share with her anymore.
“They always seem to have some new tidbit, my lady, but it is good for their morale I think, to have something so scintillating to discuss. I’m afraid, though, that it leaves them with conflicting views on their Prince.” Ser Ryon patted her hand, leading them both back to his horse and hers - Moonlight. “Come, we must get back to the castle, your presence is needed.”
Dyanna laughed again, eyes crinkling in delight. “Oh, Seven knows that it bothers my Prince, but I think that is just an act to maintain his reputation.” She patted the silver beast beneath her, earning her a soft neigh. Moonlight had been another gift from her husband, bred from a line of royal Dornish sandsteeds and the Targaryen’s own equine stock. She was not so fast as the horses Dyanna had always favored, but she was a hardy - and stubborn - beast. A kindred soul in some ways.
She glanced at her cousin atop his horse as they made a slow walk towards the castle path. Ser Ryon had played many roles in her life, a father in her youth, but now that she was wed and a mother he had become her protector, a confidant - even a friend. Truthfully, she did not know what she would do without him. She missed him dearly whenever he was forced to return to Starfall. And it seemed so did her husband, the two had formed a rather unexpected friendship as far as Dyanna was concerned. Ryon had been protective at first, but perhaps that is what allowed the men to bond. Summerhall had also offered new conquests for her cousin. Though he was a soft spoken man, reclusive at times, he did love freely.
“And how about you, it’s been some time since your last lover departed. He wed, did he not? If you’ve recovered from this heartache, perhaps this celebration will bring you fresh love…or maybe you have grown too old for such trifles?” She goaded him but gave him no opportunity to respond as she urged her horse to a cantor and then a gallup - an unfair start to an unannounced race back to Summerhall. For a short time longer, she was free of duty, and free to have the wind whip at her face with joyful abandon.
While finishing up preparations for the tourney, Dyanna runs away for some peace of mind and quiet. She thinks she's pregnant with baby dragon #3. Her cousin - Ryon, the Dayne Sword of the Morning, finds her and chastises her for just wondering off alone and then falling asleep. They poke fun at each other and head back to Summerhall.
Snow King of the Stoneborn, Last of the True First Men
Age: 46 (born 156 AC)
Appearance:
Description & biography:
Torwynd had been born to a young serving woman at Karhold; his father, a Karstark boy of barely 17. While The babe was not quite raised as one of the family, he was recognized as a bastard and became Torwynd Snow. Nearing his sixth nameday, he was made a page to the household and began his martial training. He showed promise, a quick study. Even as an awkward child, there also seemed a darkness that plagued the boy, The Karstark master-of-arms was certain that could be beaten out and routinely employed the rod.
The darkness and anger would not be beaten out, only forged into a weapon. It started when the boy formed a small gang of castle urchins at just 9 years old. At first they committed just petty crimes. Eventually they escalated to poaching on the castle grounds. Though the Karstark family was aware that something was awry, Torwynd was skilled at deflecting and covering his tracks. Things ended a few years later when one of the boys was found beaten to death in a stable. Torwynd had become a squire by that time, and he gave gods-sworn testimony that it was another of his group that had beaten the boy - a dispute over a small bit of coin that ended in death. The other boy, son of a blacksmith, was put to the sword. Torwynd's gang however was splintered over what had occurred. As the bastard boy excelled in his studies and was given greater notice by the Lord, their lot would see no improvement.
Torwynd, now outcast from the group he had formed yet also spurned by those of his station, lost the bit of control he had maintained over his true nature. He lashed out, his half-sister the target. The girl was just fourteen, her broken body was found in the godswood, the weirwood stained with her blood.
A bastard. A kinslayer. The depravity of the crime and kinship had Lord Karstark send notice to Winterfell to pass judgement. Rather than risk any taint of additional kinslaying, Torwynd was sent to the Wall. Originally assigned to the Rangers, he was transferred within a few months to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
According to the Night's Watch, a ship was lost at sea; Torwynd Snow among those whose watch had ended. There had been many dead, but Torwynd was not one of them. Nor had the ship been lost. Not all of the crew had agreed to his plan, but enough had for the mutiny to be a success. They sailed on to Skagos. A few years later stories began to spread of the crows who lived amongst the cannibals. Whispers of a Skagos clan raiding and trading with the wildings of Hardhome began to spread.
Torwynd took a wilding woman as a bed warmer. Fire-haired, she was supposed to be bring him luck. She grew heavy with child, and died in childbirth. The woman gave him a daughter and stillborn son. The Skagos said the daughter was blessed - having killed her brother in the womb as well as her mother. From the daughter's birth, Torwynd's reputation grew. Though he could be rash and violent, he could also mold men to his will.
By 199 AC he had unified a majority of the three Skagossi houses beneath the Stane banner. Those who resisted, the splintered houses, were hunted. Torywnd sought revenge and he frenzied the Stoneborn to his cause. They would sail to the mainland, they would teach the Starks - all of them - what it meant to be men of the north.
YrsaCrowsbane
Age: 22 (born 190 AC)
Appearance: Strawberry hair, knotted and adorned with bone beads, she has a willowy strength. Prefers layers of tanned leathers and furs, wears a large horn - a unicorn talisman - around her neck. She carries an obsidian axe into battle.
Description & biography:
Yrsa is said to have two souls, a rare thing and rarer still to be born as a woman. But the shamans on Skagos read the signs and saw her birth. There could be no doubt to what she was. From the time she came shrieking into the world, she was destined for greatness.
Her status offered no respite from the harshness of the island or its inhabitants. The Stoneborn saw need to test her all the more, to prove her continued worth. Her father used her to his own ends, and though she knew it, she knew no other way of life. She did not rebel, she reveled in their way of life. Yrsa would earn her place over and over again. She joined her father in his war to unite the houses of Skagos, and has taken her place at his side in leading them across the Bay of Seals. The men worship her and fear her. But it is a tenuous thing, and the Skagossi are not a people dispositioned to unity.
Regarded as a great beauty and seductress, she has Targaryen silver-gold hair. Unlike her father's blood, her eyes are mismatched —one dark blue, the other bright green. Although a "defect", many consider to increase her beauty. She prefers ivory and lace and cloth-of-silver, and scorns gold - too vulgar for her tastes.
Biography:
At twenty-four, Shiera is well regarded for the shape of her body, her delicate face, and feared for practicing dark arts. Yet it is her mind for which she wishes she was known. She first learned to read as barely more than babe at three name days. She has learned seven languages fluently. She has amassed a vast collection of tomes and treatises from across both Westeros and Essos.
As a child budding into womanhood she had requested to be sent to Oldtown, to learn with the Maesters. Denied, she had gone to Oldtown directly herself to beg entrance. Denied again - it was no place for a woman - not even a Great Bastard. The girl quickly learned what men valued and wanted of her. Beauty. Grace. Desire. If that was all they would see in her, then she would give it to them. She would allow them to chase and think themselves lucky or skilled or - whatever lies men told themselves - when they caught her.
Men were simple creatures by and large, yet even she could not escape the pull of love, the thrill of the chase. Brynden loved her - and she, him - in their own way. She had thought he would understand, and instead he offered her the same as any other man, a desire to own her. Perhaps more than any other, her flirtation with Aegor was the most dangerous game she played. At first, it had been simply to enrage sweet Brynden, yet perhaps Shiera had underestimated the bitter brother. She was caught now, between two forces, two loves, and she would give up neither for the other.
Snow King of the Stoneborn, Last of the True First Men
Age: 46 (born 156 AC)
Appearance:
Description & biography:
Torwynd had been born to a young serving woman at Karhold; his father, a Karstark boy of barely 17. While The babe was not quite raised as one of the family, he was recognized as a bastard and became Torwynd Snow. Nearing his sixth nameday, he was made a page to the household and began his martial training. He showed promise, a quick study. Even as an awkward child, there also seemed a darkness that plagued the boy, The Karstark master-of-arms was certain that could be beaten out and routinely employed the rod.
The darkness and anger would not be beaten out, only forged into a weapon. It started when the boy formed a small gang of castle urchins at just 9 years old. At first they committed just petty crimes. Eventually they escalated to poaching on the castle grounds. Though the Karstark family was aware that something was awry, Torwynd was skilled at deflecting and covering his tracks. Things ended a few years later when one of the boys was found beaten to death in a stable. Torwynd had become a squire by that time, and he gave gods-sworn testimony that it was another of his group that had beaten the boy - a dispute over a small bit of coin that ended in death. The other boy, son of a blacksmith, was put to the sword. Torwynd's gang however was splintered over what had occurred. As the bastard boy excelled in his studies and was given greater notice by the Lord, their lot would see no improvement.
Torwynd, now outcast from the group he had formed yet also spurned by those of his station, lost the bit of control he had maintained over his true nature. He lashed out, his half-sister the target. The girl was just fourteen, her broken body was found in the godswood, the weirwood stained with her blood.
A bastard. A kinslayer. The depravity of the crime and kinship had Lord Karstark send notice to Winterfell to pass judgement. Rather than risk any taint of additional kinslaying, Torwynd was sent to the Wall. Originally assigned to the Rangers, he was transferred within a few months to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
According to the Night's Watch, a ship was lost at sea; Torwynd Snow among those whose watch had ended. There had been many dead, but Torwynd was not one of them. Nor had the ship been lost. Not all of the crew had agreed to his plan, but enough had for the mutiny to be a success. They sailed on to Skagos. A few years later stories began to spread of the crows who lived amongst the cannibals. Whispers of a Skagos clan raiding and trading with the wildings of Hardhome began to spread.
Torwynd took a wilding woman as a bed warmer. Fire-haired, she was supposed to be bring him luck. She grew heavy with child, and died in childbirth. The woman gave him a daughter and stillborn son. The Skagos said the daughter was blessed - having killed her brother in the womb as well as her mother. From the daughter's birth, Torwynd's reputation grew. Though he could be rash and violent, he could also mold men to his will.
By 199 AC he had unified a majority of the three Skagossi houses beneath the Stane banner. Those who resisted, the splintered houses, were hunted. Torywnd sought revenge and he frenzied the Stoneborn to his cause. They would sail to the mainland, they would teach the Starks - all of them - what it meant to be men of the north.
YrsaCrowsbane
Age: 22 (born 190 AC)
Appearance: Strawberry hair, knotted and adorned with bone beads, she has a willowy strength. Prefers layers of tanned leathers and furs, wears a large horn - a unicorn talisman - around her neck. She carries an obsidian axe into battle.
Description & biography:
Yrsa is said to have two souls, a rare thing and rarer still to be born as a woman. But the shamans on Skagos read the signs and saw her birth. There could be no doubt to what she was. From the time she came shrieking into the world, she was destined for greatness.
Her status offered no respite from the harshness of the island or its inhabitants. The Stoneborn saw need to test her all the more, to prove her continued worth. Her father used her to his own ends, and though she knew it, she knew no other way of life. She did not rebel, she reveled in their way of life. Yrsa would earn her place over and over again. She joined her father in his war to unite the houses of Skagos, and has taken her place at his side in leading them across the Bay of Seals. The men worship her and fear her. But it is a tenuous thing, and the Skagossi are not a people dispositioned to unity.
Regarded as a great beauty and seductress, she has Targaryen silver-gold hair. Unlike her father's blood, her eyes are mismatched —one dark blue, the other bright green. Although a "defect", many consider to increase her beauty. She prefers ivory and lace and cloth-of-silver, and scorns gold - too vulgar for her tastes.
Biography:
At twenty-two, Shiera is well regarded for the shape of her body, her delicate face, and feared for practicing dark arts. Yet it is her mind for which she wishes she was known. She first learned to read as barely more than babe at three name days. She has learned seven languages fluently. She has amassed a vast collection of tomes and treatises from across both Westeros and Essos.
As a child budding into womanhood she had requested to be sent to Oldtown, to learn with the Maesters. Denied, she had gone to Oldtown directly herself to beg entrance. Denied again - it was no place for a woman - not even a Great Bastard. The girl quickly learned what men valued and wanted of her. Beauty. Grace. Desire. If that was all they would see in her, then she would give it to them. She would allow them to chase and think themselves lucky or skilled or - whatever lies men told themselves - when they caught her.
Men were simple creatures by and large, yet even she could not escape the pull of love, the thrill of the chase. Brynden loved her - and she, him - in their own way. She had thought he would understand, and instead he offered her the same as any other man, a desire to own her. Perhaps more than any other, her flirtation with Aegor was the most dangerous game she played. At first, it had been simply to enrage sweet Brynden, yet perhaps Shiera had underestimated the bitter brother. She was caught now, between two forces, two loves, and she would give up neither for the other.
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