Vanq

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Ashford

_{Collab with @Ezekiel}

Eventually, Ellyn had been moved from the room. No matter that a bond of sorts had formed with her one-time captors, she was initially relieved when the Warrior’s Son appeared and beckoned her out. It was a short-lived hope though. She was escorted, roughly, to another room somehow even less well appointed than the one she had briefly shared with the Baratheon lordling and his few men.

It was small, cold, and smelled of rotting hay and piss. The toothy grin the knight gave her as he shoved her was dark, a shiver of deep terror took hold of her body. Whatever the Faith Militant had planned here, it was not in service to the Seven. That it was Lady Dayne’s immediate thought caused her brow to furrow. When had this happened, how?

The Dornish knight leaned against a wall and sunk down, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. She rested her head atop her legs. Years of wrongs, of slights, of pity, and of hatred spilled out in wracking sobs. By the time she fell asleep, her chest ached and it hurt to breathe. Sleep offered no relief, she dreamed of failure and death. She dreamed of blood on her hands, caused by each wrong and awful choice she made.

When she woke, it was to shouting outside her room. Ellyn stood slowly and peered out the narrow slit that passed for a window. She couldn’t see much other than a flurry of activity and the sound of men screaming orders. It sounded disorganized, not the put together order that the Warrior’s Sons demanded. No matter that she felt she could sleep for another day or that her body ached as she paced the small space, she knew she needed to act.

Beneath the layer of action was the desire to curl back up on the floor and let the Stranger take his due. The knightly lady ignored it, pushed it down, buried it. She didn’t have Dawn, and that became her need, her reason.

She leaned against the door, her ear pressed against it but heard nothing. No shuffling feet, no quiet talking. Her eyebrows raised up as she mulled over whether or not she was sane. But her hands pulled at the door anyways, testing it, and to her greater surprise, felt it move. She yanked harder but it gave no further. A guttural sigh came out of her throat; it wouldn’t be that easy. Instead she turned back to the room and began looking for anything that would give her leverage to wedge the door open.

A few weeks ago she would have thanked the Crone for what she uncovered. Now though, she suppressed a triumphant yell. The room they had sequestered her in had once been a servant’s, or perhaps a storage area to quickly bring supplies to the lords and ladies under their charge. Against the short wall, she felt a breeze and with a little bit of work, found the hidden handle that easily slid open a door into a long corridor. It was empty but not dirty, obviously having been in frequent use.

She gave the small room one last look before heading down the long corridor.

It seemed to connect to several rooms in this wing of the castle but she ignored them all, unsure of what she would find inside. For now, she was alone and safe. The corridor ended quickly though, another door and from the breeze, she was certain it led outside. But to where? It was a few seconds of contemplation, and then action.

She opened the door a crack and peered out to see that it was a courtyard. There was noise in the distance, not far, but it was the same din of orders and men rushing about that she had heard from her room. Ellyn took a tentative step out, head held down, her mussed hair over her face to try and hide her eyes. It was not empty here, but it was thinned out. No one seemed to notice her and so she made her way around the building, in the shadows and in the opposite direction of where the noise came from.

Where would they have taken Dawn though? That bastard probably had claimed it as his. The irony of the rage that built in her wasn’t lost on her. No matter the fear in her gut at it, she turned and began to follow, at a distance, where the crowd went.

The sight in the distance caused her throat to constrict and her stomach turned. A scaffold had been erected and it was not empty. She blinked a few times as she ducked in and out of the crowd. Her hope that it was meant for some other hostages or criminals evaporated as she drew close enough to see Rogar held off to the side. She imagined that his hands were bound. Her mind formed the darkest thoughts and saw him pushed down to his knees and a sword swung down. She saw his head roll, dead eyes that would bore into her. Ellyn shook her head and cleared the unwanted images.

What did it matter, war had been bubbling and threatening for years now. It was coming to a head just as she thought and had hoped for. The dragon’s kin was guilty by association and she needed her sword. She needed to get it and escape, she needed to live, no matter how low she had fallen in the night.

Her body betrayed her, her subconscious betrayed her, and she moved off to the side to think through how to get to him unnoticed. Chaos erupted around her before she had decided on anything. Lady Dayne didn’t know what had occurred, but she thanked the Seven. Men yelled again and the pending execution stalled.

“Damn it.” Stalled, but for how long? Men cleared out just as quickly as they had filled this space and Ellyn caught sight of Rogar and some of his men being roughly shoved back towards where they must have been held before this. She had no weapons, but as she moved she saw a discarded sword, it was rough and cheap but she grabbed it and kept moving, following at a distance.

The Warrior’s Son knight locked a door, looked around, and seemed disappointed at needed to say there and not run off to where the rest of his men had run. Ellyn allowed one final moment to second guess her decision.

She moved, choosing a path that took her out of line of sight of the knight and around the building. Once again she was met with disappointment at there being no other obvious point of entry to the stone outbuilding. She crept back around to the front. The knight would need to die. She couldn’t risk him rousing to alert the others too quickly. He hadn’t been dressed in full armor, the only saving grace for her she thought.

With a deep breath to steady herself, she briefly closed her eyes and muttered a desperate plea that the Warrior would see the justice in this. When her eyes opened again, they were cold and determined. She charged but without a sound or cry.

Ellyn caught the knight off guard, though he was larger than her by a good deal, surprising him would only benefit her for the briefest moment. It was all she needed though. Ellyn avoided his attempt to shove back against her, ducking down and a quick step out of his reach. She’d hit him in her initial attack, an annoying wound and nothing more. But it made her smile to see him wince when he lifted his sword arm. She drew into him again, from the side, and drew the sword against his leg. He hissed angrily and stumbled. As she drew back to her full height, she plunged the sword into his armor-less side. The sword didn’t come free, but it didn’t need to.

Lady Dayne fished the key from his dying body. She spat on him, a hazy anger overtaking her. She opened the door, unsure of what to expect.

“A full pardon for my aid, Lord Rogar?”

The days had not been kind to Rogar, and the fleeting nights of unconsciousness no true reprieve either. The tender mercies of the Faith had turned out not to be tender at all, although they had stopped short of anything that might permanently disfigure the young lord, that was perhaps it. To parade a broken man would have been no victory, but that was all the restraint they had shown. His skin, pale like his grandmother’s rather than the Campaigners’ tan of his grandsire was marked across with bruising, and he couldn’t seem to open one of his eyes as the lock turned, and the door opened.

He wasn’t sure how he had intended to react to her presence again, as several nights had passed he’d rather given up on seeing anyone he might recognise again, although he’d done his best to not show his captors such pessimism of his own fate. Rogar expected that he should be angry, for all her reactions of the day of their capture could have simply been falsehoods but some part of him doubted Ellyn could even tell a lie, let alone put on a murmer’s performance.

Instead he coughed through lungs that burned at the effort of expanding his bruised chest, the exposed upper half of his body a lattice of further marks and minor cuts, and rasped something that held a fraction of his usual easy charm.

“You’ll….have to forgive me…my lady….I am rather indisposed.” Finally, with the presence of someone who might not be here to beat him further, he allowed himself to sag, the defiance flooding his muscles all gone as the chains binding his hands to different walls rattled as he went slack, held up only by the tension in their making. “I wasn’t planning on writing up the charges….anyway.” He slurred a little, his mind going to fire then blissful absolution, if only for a moment, before he gasped and both eyes snapped open, a tremor rushing through his form as something instinctive in him urged him not to give up. She was moving towards him, he was half aware of that, seeking to catch him before he might truly strike the ground. The eye had opened, lashes thick with the juice of torture, was shot through red, but it still met her own with a sudden intensity which suggest the Lord was coming back to himself.

“Help me with the chains and…you have a deal.”

She didn't know what she had expected, but it wasn't this. Her breath in was a hiss, from a distance she hadn't seen the damage done, the pain inflicted. It was a kick in the gut to see him like this and she was frozen for a few moments before her feet carried her forward and into him. Ellyn’s hands caught him against his torso as he sagged, but the fire in his eye gave her hope. She forced a smile, thin and full of concern. “A little worse for wear than from the boar, it seems.” She didn't know what else to say, the levity was uncalled for but it was all that came to mind to fill the silence. Seven…Why had they done this?

The knight let the Lord rest against her as she reached above him to free one hand from his restraints and then the other. She dropped the keys she had pilfered from the dead guard as the Rogar crashed into her with his full weight, no longer restrained. As she helped him find his footing again, her hand briefly ran across his bruised and bloodied face, her voice an angry whisper. “I'm so sorry.”

She led them out, Rogar slumped over her, back into the daylight. The sounds of skirmishes carried over from a distance away and they were left here with only a few souls milling around. Ashford servants, artisans, merchants, who had had little choice but to allow and accept the Faith Militant’s presence. At least for the moment, few seemed to do more than glance at the pair and then scurry away. Armored men were still present but had other issues to contend with it seemed, and Ellyn was able to slowly walk with Rogar's arm slung around her shoulders, half dragging him, towards the set of buildings she had originally approached from.

In the shade of the relatively secluded spot, she propped him against a wall. “I don't think we'll be lucky enough to not need weapons to get away from here.” And go where? The question would need an answer at some point, any direction as long as it was not here would be good enough for now. It stung too, the reminder that Dawn had been lost to her. Not because of her family that she had spent so long running from, but her own decisions and mistakes. Ellyn swallowed hard and pushed away the thoughts. “Rest a little.” She wasn't convinced he had the strength for it, worry lined her face. It was better to have something to do, though, and so even reluctantly, she left him there to find swords for them both, a water skin if there was any luck, a hunk of bread to take away some of the gnawing in her stomach and what she could only imagine of the Baratheon lord's.

Her search, though rushed and leanings towards frantic, was fruitful. She returned to Rogar’s side with a quick study of him. Ellyn’s eyes struggled to not linger on him too long as she rested a sword and an axe against the wall next to him. She slid a small satchel from her shoulder and opened it to pull out a vaguely clean cloth and small wineskin. It smelled nearly of vinegar but was thin and watery. Good enough to take off the edge of thirst but not much more. “Drink some, but try not to taste it.” She offered him the skin with a warning only after wetting the cloth with a bit of it.

If they were going to get out he at least needed to be able to see and it was the only thing she could immediately attend to anyways. When he pulled the wineskin away from his lips, she brought the cloth to his face and wiped away the caked blood and pus. There was a tenderness in the act. “Stay still.” She chided quietly, no matter that he wasn't actually squirming about. “As good as I can do for now. The axe is yours.” She nodded to the weapons and claimed the sword.

Lady Dayne was uncertain of her next steps or of which path carried the least risk. But she didn't want to engage with a force of any size and indicated the alleyways back towards the castle. “It was emptying out already even before whatever has drawn them further away. Ready?”

He couldn’t help but lean on her as they moved, any attempts to take more of his own weight resulted in shards of pain dancing under and across his skin, and even with the assistance, moving was difficult. The pain of his injuries was one thing, but the confines of being forced to hold one position had poisoned his muscles with acid and fatigue, and it was all the fires of the seven hells to move them again. When she finally set him down so that she could hunt for what they would need, it was a shock of relief, finally resting in something close to a position of comfort, his mind once again became a rush of nothing. When she reappeared it felt only a moment after he had been left, losing whole minutes to the ravages of his mind.

Already he felt purpose stirring in his form though, a shudder of needle like sensations across his limbs as they awoke, minutes behind the rest of him but still returning to form. He had a pain fuged memory of her words, and managed another, only slightly broken, smile for her.

“It is alright….Lady Dayne….they didn’t exactly do it in your name.” He coughed and the pain flared once more, but he kept his composure this time, his fingers curling around the shaft of the provided axe with a strength of grip he didn’t truly feel. “Something must be amiss.” He mused, focusing on her with both eyes, thanks to the efforts of her cleaning. “They were probably planning to off me before things went ‘more’ wrong, so thank the Seven for you.” The chuckle he gave, while pained, wasn’t bitter, as he pulled himself to his feet, waving off her support as he finally found the strength to right himself. “May they help us with the rest of it.”

The pathways were nearly as empty as she had hoped, though with each few steps she found herself looking at Rogar to ensure his feet still went one in front of the other. Her breath caught whenever it seemed he might stumble. They couldn’t get out, not with him in this condition. Especially not when those who passed them let their eyes linger on the battered man.

It had taken only a few words to come to an agreement. They were not far from the castle, one of its towers loomed over them. Ellyn led them down a bizarre path of twisting turns. She doubted anyone of worth would be following them, but it was better to be safe. They passed by countless whitewashed houses, but she wasn’t going to tempt fate by seeing what may have been left unoccupied - or if it was - what might be quickly returned to. Time was another enemy though. The reminder wasn’t difficult whenever she looked to her side to see Rogar soldiering on with her.

At last she found something suitable, or that she was then desperate enough to accept the risk of. One of the charming houses with its whitewash nearly bare, the wooden beginning to rot. It would not be pleasant, likely, but just the same she didn’t expect they’d be interrupted. It didn’t disappoint her on her assessment. It was abandoned, domestic detritus strewn about. There was not much to block the door and she had given Rogar a hard look when she told him to sit, again. Ellyn made due with pulling over old wooden crates that sent mice and rats scurrying with the movement to block the door.

Eventually, with not much left to be done, she looked for something to sit on, gave up, and slunk down next to where she had the Baratheon lord to stay. “Get some actual sleep, I’ll wake you after dusk and we can finish getting out then.” If he was going to argue, she didn’t want to hear it. “They didn’t chain me or torture me, you need it more.”

It turned out to only be half the truth. Her eyes were heavy and they had begun to open more slowly and linger shut. Voices outside the house woke her from her near slumber with a start. “Fuck.” Her lips moved even if her voice barely registered. Rogar was still asleep next to her, his head lolled over to the side. She regretted what she had to do, but she could risk him being startled awake. Ellyn covered his mouth firmly with one hand and pushed against his chest with her other. She shook him as softly as she could until his eyes shot open. “Outside.” A whisper in his ear before she dropped her hand from his mouth and slid away from him to grab her sword.

Multiple voices for sure, men. Someone who had seen them and finally found a spare soldier or two, with hopes of a reward? Or maybe just bad luck. She couldn’t make out the full conversation, only bits and pieces. They weren’t yelling, but Lady Dayne wasn’t sure if that was in their favor. She crouched, low, behind where the door would swing open if they pushed hard enough. And they did, eventually, the thud caused her to jump even as she was prepared for it.

One man burst through first, and stumbled over the crates she had used as an obstacle. Ellyn lunged at him with a groan but only managed to elbow the knight in his head. He shook it off easily as he found his feet and another two men entered behind him. The seven really wished to test her now, didn’t they?

Ellyn tried to move out of his path, but was not fast enough in the small and shrinking space of the house. The knight’s fist plowed into her abdomen and she lost her breath, a moment of agony and fear that left her nearly seeing stars. She grimaced, sword brought up in time to ward off his next assault. He had caught the sword in his hand and Ellyn twisted it free, the knight growling in response, his blood dripping down the sword, his hand mangled.

“We’ll keep you alive for a bit of fun, bitch.” He sneered through the pain. The men behind him had taken stock of the situation and seemed to like their odds. Ellyn couldn’t blame them, Rogar was in no state for this. She wasn’t either, no matter what she had told him.

She offered no response other than moving herself between the men and Rogar, slowly. They watched her and spread themselves out. The one with the mangled hand lunged at her first, but it was an obvious move and she avoided him, and drove the pummel down on his back as she moved behind him and out of his way. Perhaps surprised that his fellow knight had managed to bungle it so poorly, the second moved on her as well, the final man moving off towards Rogar. She prayed it was enough of a chance.

Her own luck failed quickly, the second knight caught her coming away from the first. A hard backhand that sent her vision black and her muscles slack even if only for a second. It was enough that her grip on the sword faltered and fell away from her. The man with the mangled hand kicked away with a laugh. He’d gained his footing, again. Ellyn reached, half blind, for anything to stop them. Her hand met metal and she grabbed it, it was heavy and only as she swung it did it register what she had found. An old pan, blackened from years of use in the now dead hearth. It was a desperate swing but the sound she made when it connected with the mangled man’s head was gratifying. A squealing gasp erupted from the man as he crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud.

It was a short-lived victory, the second knight was on her to finish what he had started. He pushed her and she fell back effortlessly. Ellyn hit the ground on her back, the air knocked out of her again, the pain in her temple throbbing, blinding. She brought both arms up over her face and chest, tried to bring her knees up to take the blows and kicks she expected.

Something heavy hit the knight as he moved in to strike at Ellyn.

It wasn’t a charge, the object that struck the knight was entirely dead weight, spurred on by an opposing force that had struck it. In this case, it was the body of the third knight, axe protruding from the crumpled mess of his face plate and shoved back with a strength that spoke more of adrenaline and anger than anything else.

The weapon was buried with enough force that it was fully entrenched both in the metallic plate of the man’s helm and the skull within, and likely far too unwieldy to remove at speed, and so, the whole form had been improvised as a weapon.

As the two knights, one deceased, collapsed to the ground, the savage and beaten form of Rogar Baratheon followed them, pouncing down upon the pile of man and metal without care for the fact his body screamed at him, both in old pain and now in the shock of landing upon such unyielding metallic surfaces. Pinned beneath the sprawling ungainly weight of an armoured corpse, the remaining knight could barely act, pinned beyond us of his own limbs or weaponry. This did not make it a quick affair, Rogar’s weapon had been rendered useless for the moment, and so he fought with the man to claim the dagger at the belt of the dead knight. Rogar had the angle, but his hands were not plated, and every time he had to pull open the man’s grip his already ripped and torn fingers opened back up, nails pulling on segmented plate.

Eventually he took it though, pulling the dagger free and with a series of grim snarls, plunging it again and again into the gaps on the knight’s side, the cries of struggle from said knight steadily becoming gurgles and then ceasing.

Then he collapsed to the side, his world spinning once more as he struck the ground, white noise reclaiming his senses.

It was several moments of near silence, punctuated only by heavy breathing, before Ellyn opened her eyes again with a quiet string of curses. Whatever rest they had managed to steal had been spent, and likely borrowed against, she thought as she turned herself to her side and looked over Rogar.

“Let's call this even now, once and for all?” She struggled to stand and rested a little longer on her hands and knees. The lady knight knew she was in far better shape but this fight had left new welts and bruises. Breathing still caused her entire middle to ache. Still, she had tried for levity no matter that it fell flat as soon as the words were aired.

She wasn't sure how much he heard or paid attention to her, but she spoke anyways as she gathered herself.

“Staying here any longer won't do.” It was still dark, but she thought she spied a hint of light at the horizon. Dawn or fire? Ellyn smelled smoke but couldn't tell if it was from campfires or something more dangerous. “But you're in no shape to walk. More sevens-damned knights showing up and we're dead.” She paced in a small circle through the open room, eyes darting about as she considered their options. A thought clouded her judgement, everything in her told her it would be better to escape, alone if need be.

But she looked at him and couldn't. She couldn't abandon him, not while he still breathed and she could see his chest rise and fall. Could hear his pained breaths. “Stay still a little longer.” A command she doubted she needed to give.

Someone smiled on them, for when Ellyn peered out the doorway she saw a small cart. Meant to be hitched to a donkey, it was small but large enough for her to load Rogar into.

She had to help him bend into fitting the cart. It didn't look comfortable but it was better than trying to have him walk out of this cursed town. A few pilfered blankets later - and a joke muttered under her breath about more theft allegations - and Ellyn gripped the bars that should have held beast of burden to it.

“I don't want to hear a single word from you about me being an ass.” Her last command before tucking her head down like some browbeaten smallfolk trying to go about her business in the middle of the chaos.

It worked well enough, and before dawn had fully broken against the horizon, Ellyn set down the cart, sweaty and exhausted, and roused Rogar once more. “Who do you think we have to thank for this?” She pointed in the distance, to the sight of what very much seemed to be the Faith Militant army fleeing Ashford.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

The Red Keep

_{Collab with @Ezekiel}

The stench of blood was in the air, a rotten sickly smell, not the hot iron of freshly spilled and vital but a stench far too close to rot for comfort.

Fires burned, both to fight back against the smell but also in ritual, a ring of braziers that surrounded the motionless form of the King, laid out before the attendants of this forbidden, forgotten place.

The air was heady with the scent of burning substances as well as that sweet but foul tang of decay, and the low cant of Valyrian only seemed to stir that distorting mix of reality and magic. Visenya stood over the King, unmoving, her arms raised above her as she called to ancient powers, the old gods of Valyria and beyond, any ancient power that might restore Maegor. The only champion, she was certain, that could prevent the Kingdom from slipping into eternal darkness. There were others who ‘could’ but only one who ‘would’ only she had raised the man strong enough to make the choices necessary.

She fought to keep her tone steady, to avoid the overspill of rage and worry that thrummed through her body. She called to the spirits of her siblings, her most treasured, lost years ago. She called to grandsires and great grandsires who had lead her family across the sea at the direction of her forebears, the women of House Targaryen who had always shouldered its greatest burdens, and forged its greatest ambitions.

Aegon and Rhaenys were beside her, she knew it, despite what bad blood had passed between her and their descendents. They would not let the dynasty fall, they would not let the world fall. She had sworn she would do anything to prevent that.

Which explained the presence of the witch, the one who had no grounding in the Valyrian arts of old but instead in darker powers, but if they lent their strength to the return of her son, she would give them everything, forever and a day.

Tyanna had thought that, perhaps, the king's mother would have resisted her aid. Instead, she stood opposite the woman, the once-queen, and was surprised to feel a sickly power envelope the room. Her face did not betray her or show her discomfort, she wore a mask of anger. She seethed, still, that it had come to this and that she had the taste of this Valyrian magic. It felt hot, heavy, a disturbing touch that repulsed her, disgusted her, even as a small bit of respect crept into her that Visenya wielded it at all.

It explained so much, Tyanna mused silently, about Maegor. But now was not the time to try and unravel that tangled mess.

She swallowed roughly to hide a gag at the cloying taste that assaulted her throat. The feeling here in the Red Keep was less oppressive than Dragonstone had been. It helped, and as the Valyrian prayers quieted, the witch spoke at last. Not in Pentoshi Valyrian, but in the common tongue. She would not lend even a small amount of power to that source.

Her hand hovered over the king’s body, moved in the air above him, pulled and pushed at the things unseen. “It is a deep injury, how remarkable.” Tyanna’s voice became barely more than a murmur, commands in an old language, parts of ancient knowledge that had been passed to her.

It rebelled against her and she gasped, her brow furrowing in frustration. It did not like the heat, it did not want this abomination to be alive. It wanted to be used as it was meant to be, for there to be ice and night and death. The witch growled, a momentary lapse in frustration, and cursed it. She felt it push back again, angry at her, a sudden feeling of ice down her spine.

Tyanna muttered an incantation anew, having moved to the king’s head, her pale hands gripping the muscular flesh at his shoulders. And that was it, the battle of wills won, or, at least, at a truce. She felt the power bend to her will, reveled in its obedience to her. It would assist the abomination and her magic. It had to, or it would need to wait for longer for the next opportunity to enter this world again.

“I will give you my strength for this, take what you need.” Her dark red lips pressed tightly together, preparation for how unpleasant she expected this would be. “After, there are tonics and potions we will need to treat him with. You will help me with this?”

“Drink.” The Dowager-Queen commanded, as a dark liquid was presented to Tyanna by one of the attending ritualists. A tonic, or potion as some would say, of Old Valyria, and one which would allow them to combine their strengths for the trial ahead. Visenya took her own, a mirror of the goblet offered to Tyanna, and drank deeply. The taste had been repulsive when she had first been learning the arts of her ruined homeland, but now the bitten, ashen, taste felt almost comforting, the violent retching she had once experienced replaced with a barely observable flinch. Still, it burned all the way down, the fire lighting its way down her as she returned to the chanting, the cloying tones of Valyrian rebounding off stone walls as the ritualists joined her, but a beat behind in the rhythm of her chant.

The shadows cloyed at her vision, as if they gathered around the room at its edges, narrowing and drawing closer to the form of the King before her. Her vision grew hazy, the shadows twisting into images of ancient gods, but she held the chant. Even as they threatened to overwhelm her, to steal back their power, to enact their vengeance and rip her apart, she held the chant. Their power beat heavily in the room, the temperature rising such that it would match the caverns beneath Dragonstone, indeed, it felt like they very well might be there, between the beating cant of the ritual. It was becoming too much, attendants began to waiver and faint at the edges of her vision, but she paid them no heed, she simply needed to draw more from the witch, the vitality and power she offered. She did so freely, even if the feel of her was so very different to the Valyrian origin of the others. She would question, at a more suitable time, why she had found her way to Westeros, but for now, she was simply thankful for the boon.

With a shuddering gasp the last of the ritualists collapsed, frothing at the mouth which seemed to bubble and steam in the cloying air. Visenya stood still, but her arms and legs felt like leaden weights, every part of her body was on the verge of collapse, and part of her knew that a piece of her she would give to this effort she might never recover.

With a snarl that was almost a yell of victory she finished the chant, the last tones of Valyrian rebounding from the stone walls and casting away the cloying shadows. The heat rushed out of the room as if routed by a breeze of frost. leaving Visenya panting, nearly slumped, before the form of her son.

His chest rose stronger than before, but he did not wake, still, she felt convinced their work would prove fruitful.

“Now…yes, I will aid you with the treatment.” She spoke, her voice hoarse with strain and age far greater than before they had started.

It had, she thought, been worth it. Though the magic left her shaking and shaken, a reverberation that echoed through her body and mind. There would be a price to pay, there always was. Only time would tell how great it would be or from whom it would be extracted. The musings kept her grounded and stopped her from spilling the contents of her stomach on the stone floor - just barely. Her dark eyes took in the form of Visenya Targaryen. It had not been easy on her either. Tyanna wanted to smirk, but even if she hadn’t known better, her body was in no mood to cooperate with that effort.

“A few things to keep his body calm and allow your magic to heal him.” The Pentoshi sorceress drew a delicate finger along the king’s body as she approached a long table that held her wares. She had not had the fortune to be born to a bloodline of magic, what she had had needed to be earned. But this? Potions and tonics, things that could soothe or inflame; the maesters at the Citadel only ever shared a fraction of the potential. Tyanna was not and had never been so limited.

She leaned against the structure, her back to Visenya, and allowed her shoulders to slump. “You are powerful, that could not be any more clear.” The witch didn’t wait for a response or even acknowledgement. “This is not the first time such magic touched your son.” Her head turned, harshly, a shadow over her pale face as she chose her next words with caution. “At least now I understand the obstacle to fulfilling my original purpose with the king.” Tyanna shook her head with a thin and strained laugh. “Time will tell if that can be overcome, or what will need to be given to secure your bloodline.” House Targaryen could carry on, with the soft king’s whelps, but not the branch that mattered. “But I am no stranger to difficulty, I will remain until it is done.”

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Ashford - The Reach

_{Collab with @Vanq@Ruby@Ezekiel}

The Baratheon host made good time, for all the veneer of arrogant indolence that Rogar easily portrayed, he kept himself and his men to a tight and well drilled schedule. More accurately, his Steward did, but the young Baratheon knew better than to dismiss the experience of a man who had been fighting wars since before Rogar's father had been born. He would joke and hunt with the men, but anything that endangered their haste or their relatively low profile was dealt with harsh but fair discipline, to the point that such infractions were rare not out of fear of reprisal, but fear of letting your lord and fellows down. Orys and his father had been tougher on their men certainly, for they bore the burden of being the first and the second, always something to prove for any slip could spell an end to all authority. Rogar was the first Baratheon to who such authority was a true birthright, a chance he was determined not to squander.

He had learned much from his grandsire though, some directly but most passed down via his father. The speed was there to prevent their finding, they had little reason to fear true reprisal but little was not none, and Orys Baratheon had always said that any information out of the hands of the enemy was always a boon, even in peacetime. Each morning with the changing of the guard, the camp was disassembled and what efforts could be made to conceal or confuse the passing of hundreds of men were made, and the march beneath the dawn sun began.

The ride and march this morning brought a welcome sight. Ashford was well known for being a town of fair appearance, white stone gleaming in the Sun beneath the triangle shape of their ancestral fortress. When many thought of the Reach they thought of such a picturesque sight. It certainly had a more pleasant smell than some parts of Oldtown, Rogar thought to himself as he watched the town from a hillock. He had been to Ashford once before, several years back. The beautiful market town was surrounded by rolling fields, an ideal location by both reasons for tournaments. One such field had been taken up by a sprawling camp, a gathering of men at arms many times the size of the Baratheon host, no doubt one of the armies marshaling to the call of the Reachlords with the recent unrest sweeping the Kingdom, as opposed to being raised simply to accept the exchange of hostages from one land to another.

Speaking of hostages, Rogar turned his head at the trot of hooves. Despite the official designation that Lady Dayne and all her followers had been under the custody of House Baratheon they had hardly experienced a trying couple of weeks. The Baratheon host did not trust them so much as to assign them watches, but otherwise they had mostly been allowed the run of the camp. When a few of their number had gone missing, scattering into the wilderness, Rogar had only had them followed for a short time, convinced they were scattering home rather than alerting a wider force his scouts had somehow missed. The majority had remained though, loyal to their cause and not mistreated by their captors, it was an easy decision.

The beat of hooves drew closer, both the Lady Dayne and his own accompanying Steward, the older man taking his duty seriously even if few by this point suspected the Dornish woman would attempt something such as an assassination on the Baratheon heir.

“Friends, come spy the fair visage of Ashford, as fine a quaint little town as any you may find across the Reach.” He beckoned to them both, so that the concealed archers that no doubt still watched over him would not feel the need to pepper either with arrows for approaching Rogar without summons. Away from the camp itself, his guardians were often less patient to establish such things.

“It seems Lord Ashford himself awaits our agreed exchange, so our little traipse across the countryside may be at an end.”

It had come to an end, at last. Though as the days had turned to weeks, the eagerness to be free of the Baratheon host had wavered. Not just among her people, who, if she was honest with herself, had been fed and slept better than since even before they left the Reach. But even Lady Dayne had found some semblance of peace in her situation. It rankled to admit it though, and so she would continue to not do so aloud or in earshot of the arrogant lord.

The same one who called to her now, and no matter her thoughts on it, she nudged the horse to pick up its pace and draw up next to the man. His steward never seemed to warm to her, few of his men had. But she had at least been left undisturbed by them as well. Whether it was the harshness of her stares or some word Rogar had put about, she did not know.

“Our Sun Shines Bright.” Ellyn muttered in annoyance. She’d been through Ashford on her way to the Stormlands months ago. “And so does the gold that lines the pockets of all the nobles who visit for the fair view, to spend it on little gifts to bring home, of woven yellow roses or,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial level, “even carved green hands.” The lady-knight could not entirely smother the hint of a grin but kept her eyes facing forward over the idyllic town and castle. There were far more men gathered than when she had first passed through. It should have been a welcome sight, but she shifted in her saddle to suddenly be so close to her freedom.

“Do I need to submit myself to be chained for this exchange?” Her steeliness broke with the whisper of a joke, and she glanced at the Baratheon man to her side before twisting her head more to see if his Steward would crack. The grin widened with a flash of white. “I will be sure that Lord Ashford knows we were treated with all due kindness and respect, of course.” She hoped there would be little of that required of her. Ellyn wanted only long enough to watch for the Baratheon host to depart. Surely with a force this large gathering, she’d be folded into some regiment or another and they’d carry on to King’s Landing, again. “I’ll even tell them of your repentance for waylaying one of the faithful, if you let me keep the horse.” She patted the creature’s neck, it had been nice to have such a luxury again.

“I cannot imagine so, the Reach lords seem far more charitable to roaming bands of faintly murderous faithful folk than we are in the Stormlands.” Rogar caught the grin, and matched it with a less hidden one of his own. He knew a little of the almost conspiratorial nature of the Reachlords, how many still clung to the Hand of Green, but he suspected this minor treason was more to do with parting young and rebellious nobles with their coin than a true effort to fund a rebellion to the old ways. “My grandfather would have probably agreed with you, but he was in one of his moodier years at the time, so of course he would.”

The request for the horse brought a genuine laugh to his features “Bold, to ask a ransom of your captor.” He allowed the silence to hold for a moment, before he broke it with mercy. “We likely do not have enough riders to bring our spares home, consider it on loan, until perhaps you find yourself at Storm's End on your Crusade to rid this land of false piety.” It was a tease, but there was a hint of severity to it. “Although I'd recommend knocking, rather than trying to breach it, that hasn't seemed to go well for those who try.”

With no further words, Rogar began to trot his steed down the gentle slope towards the town, the gleaming buildings drawing closer, as well as the noise of a camp of many, many men. The banners of Ashford fluttered in the gentle reach breeze, and even from a distance he could note the generally well disciplined nature of the camp, set out a respectful distance from the town itself.

It was early morning, so Rogar didn't expect the hustle and bustle of the market day to have begun, but even that considered, as the small number of riders among his party began to move into the town he was surprised by the lack of activity. It wasn't quite abandoned, he could feel the sting of eyes upon him and the honest of the smallfolk still hummed with activity, but seemed to not wish to make themselves known yet.

“Perhaps the rumors about Reachmen indolence are t-” Rogar was speaking when the twang of a crossbow interrupted him. A gurgle of noise followed, as his Steward slumped from his steed and to the ground in clatter of armour and man. Rogar turned to him first, in shock, and grief, but then he was acting, commanding.

“Ambush! Back to the -” He was half way in to the act when the nearest homes burst open. Men in Ashford Arms and armour pouring out into the street on either side. The armour, however, was ill-fitting, and for as many who bore the bright colours of Ashford, among them were those with the stars and stripes of the Warrior Sons. It was not a fight they could win, even survive if they tried. But that was not the aim, the first blow had been to ensure Rogar took them seriously, but the follow up shots never came.

“...Let's hear the terms of your treason then.”

She’d had a quip ready to lob back at him, a sort of truce they’d formed between themselves, after the barbs against one another had eased. Ellyn turned when Rogar did, at the sound of bolt and the unceremonious death of a man, but she was slower to respond. Her horse’s unsteadiness brought her back to her senses.

Anger flared and her eyes narrowed. “What is the meaning of this?” How had they missed this? Did Rogar’s men think her complicit? It wasn’t a difficult theory to come to. Still, she spoke out to the Warrior Sons who pushed through the crowd, until a man she vaguely recognized stood before them with a twisted and toothy smile.

“My, my. It is Lady Ellyn Dayne, the prisoner. You look remarkably well given the ordeal we were told you endured.” Every word dripped with disdain and was spoken with a heavy sneer.

“Ser Darklyn.” She held tightly to the reins, knuckles white with the effort. She looked over to her captor in the long pause, an error.

“Quiet, bitch.” He spat and ran a hand over his jaw. “A woman of the Faith and ardent Star was captured while on holy mission to the capital. Yet here you are, riding beside your supposed captor, with your sword still allowed to you.” He eyed Dawn, sheathed and secured to her horse.

“We were not welcomed to Lord Baratheon’s lands, but why would he mistreat the Seven’s faithful servants? Of course he allowed us-” Another error, her defense of the young lord was not taken well by the crowd beyond Ayden Darklyn.

“I SAID QUIET!” The knight bellowed and Ellyn Dayne winced back. Memories of her encounters in Oldtown resurfaced, of the judgement and mockery endured. “If you have not forsaken the Seven then do your duty now.”

There was a darkness in his eyes that made Ellyn look away again and cringe, fearful of what would come next yet somehow expecting it as well. She dared not look at Rogar or any of his men behind them.

Ser Darklyn turned to men at either side of him. “Strip them of their arms.” He ordered. “And you, Lady Dayne, you will escort Rogar Baratheon to the keep where he will be held until brought forth for judgement.”

Not for trial. A pit in her stomach grew, she couldn’t disregard the order, for many reasons. More surprisingly, she found she wanted to. Under the hateful gaze and suspicion all around her, she warred within. Why did she care what happened to these men? But what good was it to the Faith to manipulate the exchange this way? Her hand spasmed for the tight grip she maintained on the reins. She let go with a sigh, she was out of time, she had to act.

“Of course, ser.” It was not unambiguous in her desire to follow orders, but she kept her face as flat and devoid of emotion as she could manage.

The man cursed. Then he spat. Then he turned this way, that way, and then he cursed again. Kicked a little dirt. He was in agony when he walked to her, and shook his head, hard, “It’s not good. I can’t tell if it’s Ashford or someone else, but they got him.”

“And her?”

He just stared at her. His eyes saying what his mouth would not: The Seven hells did that woman matter? Instead, his heart seemed to slow, and he seemed to calm in the face of her wild grey-green eyes, “Her too, Mari.”

Mariel Wylde sighed, deeply, as she faced away from him and towards the hills they had been hiding behind for most the morning. That the Baratheon party never saw them was no miracle from the Seven. They were no gods. There was no afterlife. There was just alive, and dead, and dealing with where things fell along that line.

She’d known that since the love of her life died. “We have friends out here, yes?”

“…a few.” The older man said it, face red with sun and harder living in earlier years, the look of a hedge septon to him. “Not enough. No one close.”

Her eyes rolled, “That sounds about right at the moment.” She looked at the dozen men assembled around her, her mind running through it like her fingertips ran through the feather fletching of an arrow. “We have to get close enough to make every arrow count. Fucking Reach and its lack of rainwood…Sep, go back, get the wagon.”

The first scout stared, “What you thinking?’

“Load four men into the wagon, robed. Sing the songs of the Seven, approach. Get close. We sneak up in the tall grass. With any luck they’re too focused on your merry band approaching to notice us.”

“We’re saving the Baratheon?” Another man asked, confused.

It wasn’t their style to save high nobles. Today seemed like a twisted, queer, jape of a day. “We save them all. And we hurry up before real Reachmen arrive and they ride every last one of us down. Go get that wagon.”

From where they had been ambushed to the keep was no great distance, though it felt an eternity with Ser Ayden at her left and Rogar pulled off his horse to march at her right. It was obvious, now, how many Warrior Sons and Poor Fellows made up the crowds of the markets. Ellyn tried and failed twice to ask a question of the knight and was rebuffed. She resigned herself instead to silently trying to find a way to be at peace with what was happening. By all accounts, she should have been content with the way their fortunes had changed.

She dismounted with the rest of them when they reached the castle and unstrapped her bag and sword from the horse. It was worth far too much to have been so freely gifted, or at least, her empty coin purse would never have afforded such a beast.

“Come on, you’re not done yet.” One of Ser Darklyn’s men shoved into her. Ellyn’s brow furrowed at it, no matter that her head ducked in surprising deference. The leather bag held little of importance to her except for the tattered rainbow cloak her people had made her. Dawn felt even heavier in hands as she secured it to herself again. To be worthy, to feel worthy of it, seemed even harder now.

She followed behind the Warrior Sons’ leader through the courtyard and into the castle and continued to be surprised at how many fellow faithful filled the corridors. “We’ve been warmly welcomed here. House Ashford did not seem nearly so welcoming when I first passed through.”

Ayden snarled a laughter with no mirth or warmth. “We were persuasive.”

It took time for Ellyn to understand what exactly he meant as he led them through to a wing of private chambers with an increasing number of guards. “And Lord Ashford -” She nearly walked into Ser Darklyn at his sudden stop.

“It does not concern you.” His attention turned to his prized hostage. “Here, Rogar Baratheon. I do hope the room suits a man of your stature and lineage.” One of the other Sons opened the door to chambers that had clearly been sifted through for anything of value.

Ayden’s men jostled Rogar and his men until they were all in the room and pressed back away from the door. Ellyn backed away only to be halted with a rough hand on her shoulder, a grip that dug into her flesh and scraped against bone. She sucked in a sharp breath, at the pain, and at the fear of what would come next. “You too, bitch. Let’s see how friendly you are now with your captor.” He ripped the bag from her shoulder and yanked at the straps that secured Dawn to her.

Lady Dayne’s vision went white with rage. “Don’t.” Was all she could manage even as she felt the weight of the sword fall away from her, felt herself pushed further into the room where she stumbled and fell to her knee. She heard the door slam shut and barred, she knew there were still a dozen men outside the door. Still, she stood and turned and flung herself back at it, her fists beating against it. “No!” Her legacy, her family’s legacy, her only hope, the only remnant of her father, was gone. Because of her.

For the forced walk Rogar hadn’t spoken, his features seemed a mask of cold fury, but his mind raced. His own men were still camped beyond the town, there were certain expectations of what they would do should the Baratheon riding party not return without signal but you could never be sure how quickly that would occur. He hoped they would follow through, to retreat and regroup where they might get a message to the nearest lords but he couldn’t entirely write off that they might attempt something foolish out of loyalty.

He didn’t look at Ellyn as he walked, he believed she had been tricked as much as he, but that didn’t make her blameless. She was associated with these men, in some way, that had already done such substantial damage to the realm. He knew they hated him for his family name and what they represented, he was more than willing to pay them back in full. He had even less time and attention for Ser Darklyn, responding only so much as was needed of him to prevent further violence from falling on his surviving riders. His greatest reaction came when they stripped Ellyn of Dawn, an act that surprised him, and further surprised him with his own unthinking action. He tried to turn to resist alongside her, but shortly found a crushing elbow to his ribs as those handingly him restrained him, and he tumbled back into the humble room that was now their quarters.

“Seven, what a bunch of cunts.” He cursed, as the door was shut, wincing as his breath returned to him, standing straight and holding his hands to the back of his head as he willed more air into his already bruising diaphragm. “This is what comes of treason, a ravening horde that will strip this land of everything worth a damn.”

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Volantis

_{Collab @LadyRunic and Vanq}

A drunkard and a fool. That was how the former pirate thought of Artys Arryn. He had deposited the despot into his rooms, thankfully not the gutter as he deserved. For all that his own manner was rather roguish, he had the wherewithal not to act like some common born plebian in front of those who could offer him some alliance to a great House. The Arryns could still have something great, if only he could get this brainless boy to see it. The lad, Aster, had taken to the maid and she to him. A better match would be hard put to find. That this fool had instead of looking within had found a marriage without. This could be fixed however, it had to be. For his advantage as well as the Arryn’s and Rahl’s.

His black boots clicked across the tiled floor, his clothing light and airy if still in the Westrosi style. A handsome look even if he thought it himself. The sidelong looks from the woman confirmed it. Reaching the tightly closed door, he adjusted the pitcher of water to his other hand and burst through them without care as to how he caught the lad. The heavy door closing behind him as he studied the room and leaned against the barricade to the world outside. His dark eyes considering if he needed to drench the lad to get his attention. If the man was still asleep, he would be awakened to the sudden fall of a great deal of water across him and his bedding. “You have had enough time to draw your head from the wine and pull it from your arse. That being said, I did bring something to help if you have not reached that point quite yet. Or do you wish to make yourself more of a fool to such a powerful and well-connected family as those of your hosts?” It seemed this boy was dense, so Damon took a while to underline the extent of this young idiot’s foolishness.

Time was difficult to gauge or understand. One moment it was songs in a language he didn’t recognize, and then cool marble floors and angry faces, and now some man in his face making his head pound and ache. “I don’t feel good.”

He tried to focus but the room shifted. When had the drink overcome him? Damn the Seven, that cursed cup of wine they’d given him in the room with the water. Why wouldn’t everything just stop moving?

He leaned forward, put his head in his hands and took several deep breaths. Damon, Damon Harroway, thought he could berate him? His fingers dug into his skull, or he wished they did. Artys groaned, in annoyance, in anger, in agony. “Water, please.” The thought both seemed his salvation and completely revolted him.

Fuck this city. He’d do anything to end this agony, they weren’t even supposed to be here. “Fuck, give me whatever you have.”

Damon glared at the man and considered, before pouring some of the water from a pitcher, that he hadn’t thrown over the man, into a goblet and thrusting it into Artys’s hands. “Good, then I’ll give you a piece of my mind then.” His voice was not a roar but a icy chill. “Starting with how you insulted your hosts and infected yourself with the Scratch, to potentially tossing the best damn marriage alliance which would give you access to a House that has good ties with the Baelrys and a happy bride.” He resumed leaning against the pillar of the bed and glared at the man. “Which would you like to start with? Yourself, your aunt, your hosts or your gems- or potential lack thereof?”

He gulped the water, so quickly and so deeply that it took a few seconds to realize the water was gone and he was only gulping air. It had done nothing to end the agony. Instead, it had indeed worsened. Why did he have to yell? Artys had only been trying to finally get something, anything, done on this stupid thing his father had demanded of him. But…his face blanched and his hand unconsciously traveled from kneading at his head to his crotch. “No, I can’t, that’s…” So what if he had five brothers, and at least one uncle who’d probably be married soon enough. The Arryn line was secure but…”I can’t lose my fuckin’ bits!”

He bit his tongue in the exclamation and cursed more under his breath. The rest of what Damon said jostled him even as he despaired that he’d be nineteen and had the last fuck of his life. His family’s piety seemed to laugh at him and his situation. “How was I supposed to know? How?” He managed to stand, unsteadily, and poured himself another cup of water from the pitcher. He was sloppy but at least managed to fill the cup even if the same amount was cast to the floor.Artys gulped it down just as greedily. It vaguely cleared his head. “I need to fix this.” Yes, he did not need anyone back in the Vale learning of anything but of how successful he had been.

“Luckily if it’s just the bugs? You won’t lose them, just the respect of any woman you sleep with and no wife will share your bed willingly. You’ll be a laughing stock. That you scratched your… in front of Lady Rahl?” Damon smiled cruelly. “Though in answer as to how? You should have used your head and not the one you’re too fond of. If you had taken one look you could have seen the two dote upon one another, but you were too busy getting drunk and diseased. Your father will sneer forever more about that fact. Plus, you’ve insulted your hosts by selling your aunt to their rivals. Talk about starting a war in Volantis.” He wondered absently, deciding to beat it into Artys’s head that he was a useless fool.

This time, when he went to fill the cup again, the frustration instead erupted and he threw it - drunkenly ill-aimed - towards Damon. His voice rose, but worse, it cracked as he screamed back. “You’ve been perfectly clear that you think I’m a fucking idiot. Be. Useful. If you’re so sevens’ damned brilliant.”

The cup missed, no where near Damon or where Artys had aimed. But the young man trembled, his fist clenched and unclenched, and the outburst was quickly swallowed up by regret. “Help me.” No matter that he tried to phrase it as a demand, as a future lord paramount ordering about a lesser lord, it could only be heard for what it was. A plea, a cry for aid, at any cost.

Damon sneered and scoffed at the little fool. Thought him a idiot? That was being polite. “First, break the betroval you made with that other house and have your aunt wed to Aster Rahl. Apologize to your hosts and your aunt for it.” Pausing he amended his words. “First? Go see a healer for the Scratch. Then get that taken care of. Your sheets and bed will probably be burned.” He remarked. “After that… Well, you will owe me lest your father learn of how disasteredly you nearly screwed your fortunes.” He wanted to strangle the lad to make his point, but to touch him… Well, Damon did not want the Scratch himself. “Throw another thing at me, Arryn, and you’ll be seeing how nice it is to fly.”

Artys took a few pacing steps in a circle before sinking back into the chair Damon had originally dropped him in. Why was everything so difficult? “Help me end the match peacefully and get the Rahls’…forgiveness.” He stuttered over the word. Why had none of this been his own idea? “And I will owe you whatever you want.” He groaned again, a new wave of nausea upon him. “Go, I'll burn the bed tomorrow.” He wanted to retch and then pass out and maybe when he woke up this would all have been a dream.

“Today, and if you man up enough to end the match and beg forgiveness? I'll make sure no one sticks a knife in your back and your gems stay…. Attatched.” Damon ordered ruthlessly. “Time to learn you are not a Lord Paramount's heir here and I hold far more sway.”

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

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House Dayne

Holders of the Light

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House Overview

House Dayne is one of the most ancient houses in the Seven Kingdoms, claiming First Men ancestry dating back ten thousand years to the dawn of days. The first Dayne is said to have raised Starfall on an island at the mouth of the Torrentine, having tracked a falling star there and found a stone of magical powers. His descendants became Kings of the Torrentine and Lords of Starfall. Along with the Fowlers and Yronwoods, the Daynes were among the most powerful and prestigious houses of ancient Dorne. The Daynes are also famed for Dawn, their ancestral sword made from the fallen star, and the men who wield it, the Swords of the Morning.

The Daynes have taken part in many conflicts between Dorne and the Reach, including battles against House Oakheart. King Samwell Dayne, called the Starfire, once burned Oldtown.

The last Dayne King, Vorian, known as the Sword of the Evening, was defeated in Nymeria's War and sent to the Wall. Afterwards the Daynes supported Nymeria against King Yorick V Yronwood. Nymeria's third husband was Ser Davos Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Nymeria, Princess of Dorne, was later succeeded by her eldest daughter by her first husband, Mors Martell, not her son by Davos.

In 10 AC during the First Dornish War, Ser Joffrey Dayne led a Dornish army to the walls of Oldtown, razing the fields and villages outside it. Queen Visenya Targaryen retaliated by burning Starfall with Vhagar.

Family Tree

Davos Dayne was a young man when Visenay and Vhagar burned Starfall. While the castle and lands were not lost completely, countless lives were lost for those who were not away at war and for those unable to flee in time. His cousin, Joffrey Dayne, had led the attack on Oldtown, the command was his but it was done at Davos’s father’s instruction. Davos’s father perished in the burning, unwilling to leave the castle. Like many of the survivors, although Davos was spared injury, other scars ran deep.

Davos fathered three bastards in the time before he finally married. Both mothers and children were welcomed and recognized in Starfall and remained as such even after marrying Jynessa Blackmont in 22 AC. Childbearing did not come easy to her, and after Clarisse was finally conceived and born, Jynessa lost two more before Davos and her came to an agreement.

No matter that the bastards had been born many years before Clarisse, they always knew their place and became, if not siblings, more of uncles and aunt to the little girl who would one day inherit Starfall. Davos’s brother remained close in Starfall as well, their final brother was also slain in battle against the Targaryens, and countless other extended members of the House.

Within the past year, Davos’s health has begun to fail. Maesters that have been called in believe it to be a tumor and fear that he will not make it through to another nameday. Clarisse, still so young, has been trained as much as she can to lead her house, the first in two generations who has been untouched by war with the Targaryens and their northern neighbors.

Lord Davos Dayne (9BC) and Lady Jynessa nee Blackmont (5AC)

The White Sands

Olyvar Sand (11AC)
Yoren Sand (13AC)
Sylvena Sand (14AC)

Clarisse Dayne (25AC)

Ser Ryon Dayne (4AC)

Lady of Starfall

Lady Clarisse Dayne

Age: 16

Ser Ryon

Ser Ryon Dayne

Age: 37

Ellyn Dayne

Post

The White Sands

Olyvar, Yoren, and Sylvena Sand

Age: 30, 28, 27

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

King's Landing

Trial of the Seven

_{Collab with @Vanq@Ezekiel@LadyRunic@Almalthia@Thayr}

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The arena was one of the older stone buildings within King’s Landing, hardly a prestigious title, but still an example of how important both the martial arts of knighthood and the entertainment of the masses had been to the first dragon’s reign.

The stands surrounding the dust and dirt of the space were no less packed than they would be at the glorious heights of a tournament, but there was more of a somber note that held sway over the crowd. From rich to poor, landed or traveler, each knew that the history of the realm was about to be decided, and that blood was doubtlessly in that future.

It was almost a parody of a tourney, the two camps set up close by to allow the combatants to prepare, but there was none of the obvious jubilation from either side. Sanctimony against grim duty, before the great and terrible deeds were done.

Rhoelle found, for the first time in a while, she truly missed her brother. Rogar would know what to say to steady her nerves. No doubt some joke at her expense involving the suitor she had accidentally collected. Instead, her thoughts were all for her father. He was a bold warrior and still well within health, if not quite prime, but he was fighting alongside the most brutal warrior in all of Westeros, against the greatest blades in the faith. She settled among the comfortable seating of the greater members of court, one hand on the fluttering nerves of her stomach as she beheld the currently empty field of battle.

She tried to manage a prayer for victory, but instead all that passed her lips quietly were the words, “Seven save my father,” Over and over, nothing else mattered. She cared not for any great cause, just that it wouldn’t claim another Baratheon so soon after her grandfather and grandmother had left them. What would even be left?

What would be left if her husband fell? Alys stared across the sea of packed earth and bodies that would be her subjects if her husband and lord won thus day. He would, she thought with a desperate demand of the Seven she once spurned. Maegor could not lose. He was the sword while his brother had been the ineffectual hand of peace and prosperity. This land was still young under the Targaryen rule. It would need time to come to heed the bit of dragon fire.

Her son would see to that, a hand strayed to her womb. Had she caught Maegor’s babe within her? By the grace of the Mother she prayed it was so. A child soon after thus victory would be the favor the realm needed to see. The hand on the arm of the chair turned into a fist as she refused to look away from the dueling grounds. "He will be victorious, no warrior alive could match him. No, alive or dead there is no match for my husband." If he fell… her seat, her life, might well be claimed by the swirling tide of people below. Her lips thinned. "If I do not produce a child soon…" Yes, if not soon then she would give Maegor the witch for his dragon to feast upon. A child and a crown. It was all she needed.

"Bah," came the hewn chuckle of the one outlying warrior. Harlan had a sort of swagger to his step as he strode up, mail clashing against mail with every step as he drew a coif about his head. A smile grew across his face though, as he walked forth over to the King’s camp. Leaning back to one of his sailors who had accompanied him, a tall man from across the Narrow Sea with a hawk's nose and a bowman's limbs, he laughed as he spoke. "Misers, all these dead-faced misers. You'd think they were at a funeral. Whenever did men fight better with such grave natures."

Settling down among that side, or as among them as he could manage, soon enough the Ironborn son set about armoring and arming himself. A sallet soon covered his features, as well as gloves over his hands to match his white haubergeon, before taking up his round shield. The handful of axes stuck in his belt set him apart from the many knights, though his longsword did not. He soon found himself leaning about, waiting for the combat to begin, a glare fixed to the other camp.

The pious on the opposite side of the arena each bowed their heads as the priest intoned a prayer swinging the thurible slowly as the incense inside smoked gently drifting on the breeze. Dickon held his breath glad that the wind picked up. He’d never liked the smell of the stuff that the priests put in, what he considered, to be a waste of good chain and metal. He smirked as he thought of a mace with the stuff in it. Smoking while he swung it at the Ironborn. He might have imagined a few chunks falling into the hair of his opponent and the panic that would incite.

The priests finished with their prayer and seven men rose from kneeling. Seven men chosen for their faith in the belief that the unholy ways of the Targaryens died with Maegor. The thoughts of the pious might not have reflected this sentiment word for word but the gist of that belief was definitely echoed in the thoughts of the Warrior Sons and Faith Militant. They knew this may not have been the first breath that the movement took but they did recognise that win or lose, living or dead, that they made an impression today. Damon clapped Dickon on the back and nodded in camaraderie to the younger man. “Warrior favor your sword brother.”

They watched as Dickon rolled his neck and shoulders and drew his sword and shield. Being a bastard but a highborn one Dickon was lucky that he had found a place with the Warrior Sons. They had not asked much, just his faith in the belief that what was going on was unholy. He couldn’t agree more. Maegor should not be allowed to run through all the noble women to find one that he would be satisfied with. Aegon had already died righteously for marrying his sister as had the late King Aneys for marrying his son and daughter. It was unnatural. Feelings of attraction and wanting to breed a woman should not ever be something you kept in the family that closely.

The clamoring of the crowds and the chanting of the priests came to an end. The knights of the Seven may have knelt in prayer but the King's men had no such obvious uniformity. For many it was a chance for glory, for others a solemn duty, but already as matters approached the tone of commencement the royal party fanned out. Among their number stalked some of the most capable warriors in Westeros, spreading out around the arena. Predators in the water.

As the bells of the Septs tolled, the fighting began. It was not ritualized, but it was not the melee of battle either, not yet. The great and the good of Westeros traded blows in a manner that might have been mistaken for respect, were the stakes not so intolerably high. For all the clamor of piety, however, the faithful were the first to break from knightly tradition, two knights heading for the King, seeking to best the head of the snake swiftly, the decorum of knightly combat be damned. There were few warriors like Maegor, however, and what his assailants may have had in chivalric skill, he matched with pure brutality and athleticism, even as he was pushed back by the flurry of blows his own would turn their strikes aside with great force, each blow buying him half a second to react to the other.

It was the first banner bearer of House Targaryen which came first to the King's aid. The Stag surged to the side of the Dragon, and suddenly the momentum was turned. It was not pretty, but then, Orys had not taught his son to fight pretty. A shield bearing the proud rampant stag crashed into the side of a knight even as he looked to plunge a blow under the King's guard, dismissing the challenge before it could be completed. A grunt of acknowledgement was all that was shared between the two great Lords, before they parted, using the lull in the conflict to pull away from their faithful competitors.

The case of the King resolved, Durran turned to see where next he was needed. He turned the blade of his longsword over and over as he scanned around the dust covered ground on which the trial was occurring.

Osric was close to being down, that much was clear, one of the better blades of the Knights of the Seven seeking an early victory to reduce the numbers stacked against them. Before one of the foes could harry Durran and prevent his aid, he was moving. Surprisingly fast for a bulky man, made bulkier by the design of his armor, he was across the field in a blur of silver, black and yellow. He let out a roar of challenge as he did so, forsaking a split second of surprise in favor of giving his opponent the chivalric opportunity to respond. In the moment that it took, the Knight of the Seven had forced Osric to the ground, but had not yet had a chance to offer the knight to surrender, at least that is what Durran suspected. His eyes widened in shock beneath his helm, however, as the blade of the knight began to swing down towards the stricken figure.

Said blade didn't strike home, for a Baratheon blade interrupted it's path. The knight, so intent on capitalizing on his early victory, was stunned by the intervention, even more so by the slamming force of a shield rim which took him in the side of the helm, and cast him across the floor.

“Try to stay on your feet, our King still has need of us.” Durran spoke in a half teasing tone to Osric as he held a hand down to lift the man from the dirt. “But do not be too ashamed, they are fine blade and honorable m-”

The words the Lord of Storm's End was set to speak were never completed, interrupted by a ghastly sound of steel puncturing flesh, a blade pushed up through the arm pit of his now exposed arm stretched down. The great figure of the man seemed stunned, a shock which passed from the sands to the stands, perhaps even through the opposing Knights of the Seven as well.

The moment hung in the air, before Durran stumbled, his powerful frame fighting to keep itself aloft, before another moment passed, and he fell to the side, the silence broken both by the crashing of his armor and a singular howl of terror and grief from the stands watching the fighting.

The immediate silence seemed to stretch on, dread and shock suffusing the air, broken only by a shout of rage from the King.

“Treason! Kill them all!”

Then chaos broke, and the howling sob from one voice became a roar of noise from all around.

Regret grew around the edges of thoughts, insidious and dangerous as the melee began. His body hurt, every time the faith battered against his shield, every time his sword arm sought contact with an opponent, each time with a more frantic need to gain an advantage. Regret and doubt were killers, this was not Osric’s first melee but it quickly began to feel more like the feverish skirmishes fought against the hill tribes.

He found himself pushed back, pushed down. In that brief moment where suddenly everything around him moved as if through water, he saw Ser Lyle Bracken’s eyes. The knight of the Vale’s mouth grimaced against the assault, his eyes squeezed shut against all training, and he saw his death not submission, until suddenly the force was gone and Lord Baratheon held his hand out. Perhaps he had misjudged the intent, he looked at the Stormlander lord and his lips parted in a smile of relief, of gratitude.

Blood sprayed and it took too many seconds for Osric to understand what had happened. His reflexes betrayed him, his sword arm swung out with a guttural scream before he knew why or what had happened. Durran Baratheon dead before him and Lyle Bracken again pushing forward against Osric, his intent no longer a question. The king’s call to kill them all stirred the Arryn knight, broke him of his confusion.

He ignored the pain now, as if it was a distant memory. Flooded with adrenaline and rage he lunged at the Bracken man. His sword was deflected but his opponent was put off balance and stumbled back. His shield connected and dropped the Seven’s knight to his ass, his knees brought up to try and scramble backwards, now in retreat. It was too late, Osric was on him, slamming the shield blindly into metal and flesh. Blood sprayed again but this time it was a traitor’s.

He breathed heavily, the haze of rage receded and he looked around him at the outright chaos the melee had succumbed to. Osric heard a scream and swung his head around looking for the cause and saw the young, cocky, Harroway boy being pushed to a breaking point. The knight pushed himself off the mangled Bracken and stormed towards the knight intent on killing Horas.

The young Harroway had started strong, vigor and youth. The righteous fury for Lord and land fueled the young squire. Yet now that blood hazed the air, and the clang of the sword felt heavy in his hand the lad found himself distracted by the sudden pause. The hush that clung to the arena. Turning his dark brown hair, sweat beading across his brow, Horas saw the horror that lay across the packed dirt. The great Lord Baratheon was stabbed, a wound that did not look quite right to his young eyes. Yet even as a scream split the air, the King’s words called out in a ringing command.

Kill them. Yes, he could do that. He would do that. Swinging his sword at his opponent, he tried to take the offensive, but the man was far stronger and he found himself hammered back by a knight twice his size. For all his zeal, Horas was only a boy of fourteen years. Eager to prove himself. Blocking again with his shield he did not spy the Ser Osric coming up. So when he thrust his shield to the side, and tried an overhanded blow at the knight. He was unaware of whose path that enemy’s sword went into.

Osric was caught off guard, a tragic error in his approach. His armor took some of the blow but he felt it give way, a searing pain that shook him. He stared, wide-eyed, into the eyes of a boy. That stupid, fucking, boy. His head shook, in confusion or disbelief, he refused to look down to see how bad it was. But he didn’t need to, and as if to spare them the dishonor of falling to their own, Aegon Ambrose had regained his footing and advanced again.

The Arryn knight tried to raise his shield but his arm would not obey. He stumbled away from Horas, into Aegon’s approach. Breathing hurt, moving hurt. He had dropped his sword, too heavy and too slick with blood to grip. He was supposed to be the Warrior, that’s what his brother had always said. His head tilted up, an incoherent prayer on his lips. The Warrior’s son laughed and spit on him as he drove his sword through the gap at his neck and finished what Horas Harroway had begun.

The youth stared in shock as Osric stumbled by him, intent on an enemy still as blood poured from a wound across his chest that let out what should be kept in. Slack jawed in horror and shock, unused to such terrible wounds. The lad barely got his sword up in time through the shock to block The Warrior’s Son’s blow. The metal slammed back into his face. Shrieking in agony, he felt another piercing of steel, then he knew nothing. His body fell to the ground as his head rolled away.

From the stands, no scream came. Sharp cries from Horas’s two sisters. Hanna’s hands clapped over her mouth and Jeyne’s fisted in her gown, her gaze wide in shock as tears began to roll from Hanna’s. Their brother beheaded. Dead. Behind them. Behind them their father stared out into the dusty field, his own thoughts behind a mask of steel. Even as he felt anger against this king who had allowed his son to fight grip his heart.

Dickon shook it off and faced the Ironborn. “What did he promise you that you could fuck all the fish you caught?” He taunted his opponent.

The man laughed his response away, cackling brief before shaking his head nice and slow. This one seemed younger, stupider in a want to taunt so simply, so quickly, yet that was the way of those damnable fools. They taunted without thinking of what would come next. His axe called to him in an easy enough way, to bury it in the Warrior Sons' skull and watch his brains bleed out and away. It would happen, he thought, and it would happen soon enough. "You are funny for a snake. I was promised what was given to me, what is here. Snakes to kill. Do you wish to be first to die by me, boy?"

Dickon stepped up determined to make a stand. “This snake strikes hard with truth to cut out the unholy.” A few feints back and forth to feel out the opposition. As they came together Dickon snarled. “I am not surprised that an Ironborn would back Maegor. You do not have to worry about him running through your women since you have none.”

Harlan stared down at the shorter man, cocking his head slow. Chainmail clashed gently against itself, his shield brought up just a fraction from the mud. When he spoke, the Ironborn twang lacked any of the grand humor which had before marked it, hard and simple as flint, and he spoke an honest statement. “You will be the first, then.”

Tired of all talk and no action, the lack of a witty comeback, among other things. Dickon decided to instead lash out with his sword, a battle cry resounding from him as he swung. It was a steady crescent that was caught by the Ironborn’s shield as they traded blows. It was really only seconds but time seemed to slow for the combatants as it seemed like hours later when Dickon got through the Ironborn’s defense, and in a move born of frustration Dickon lunged.

Success!

Reveling in the feel of the sword glancing off the bone Dickon let his shield drop far enough that he was open to an attack. “Stranger take-!!” There was a gurgle at the end of the yell.

Harlan felt his sword sink into the Seven-worshiper’s jerkin and flesh, his blade thrust into the shallow space under his arm, between the breastplate. A harsh hiss from his lips at the exertion, the Iron Islander’s form compacted like a spring in that action, he suddenly felt supremely dissatisfied at it, at the whole of it. He shouldn’t have been taken by surprise by a damnable mainlander of all things, by a Seven-worshiper of all things, and shouldn’t have let him so close. Fool was he to expect something else, fool, fool, fool.

He looked down at the choked knight through his slit-eye helm, almost considering how to best dispatch him as the man drew his bathed blade out. Jerking his head back with the rim of his shield, exposing the worshiper’s neck, a brutal swing came and went to nearly decapitate the man, his head held on by spine only. A deep breath out at it, Harlan took a step back, sheathing his sword in exchange for an axe. A taunting motion to the next; he would be ready this time.

“Dogs! Come here, dogs! Meet your gods!”

A stocky man trundled forward with a battle ax in hand as well. Harys Horpe, or Death’s Head Harry, looked the Ironborn in the eye since they were of a size. Horpe was not much shorter than the Ironborn. He was barrel chested and held the battle ax like he knew what to do with it. While Dickon was overeager like a pup this man had seen battle before and was silent in the face of conflict. He planted his feet in a stance that allowed him to pivot and move quickly if needed.

Black brows thick and furrowed pulled together over eyes that were the deepest gray of the clouds over the Stormlands. Horpe’s beard was full and trimmed neatly and defined his jawline. He watched the blood run down the Ironborn’s arm showing no emotion besides cold fury as the pair waited. They waited while people pulled away Dickon’s corpse. Horpe rolled his neck as the smear of blood was sprinkled with a mix of sand and wood shavings to soak up the puddle then brushed away with a stiff broom.

Circling Harry sized up the Ironborn and decided to bash with the shield and swing the ax to lop off the arm that Dickon had already injured. It looked like Dickon had hit well since it was steadily, if slowly dripping blood. The shields met with the force of a thunderclap. The fury poured off Harry in waves like a living thing; his emotions seemed to batter his opponent as much as his weapons.

Shifting slightly Harry struck with the ax the same arm that Dickon had injured already. He didn’t have the leverage he wanted to take the arm off in one swing so he hacked at it. The first swing took him just below the original injury and only half way through as he felt the bone splinter under the swing. The second swing landed above the original injury and again Harry didn’t have the leverage to fully take the arm with that swing. However the third time he connected with the injury that Dickon left and the only thing keeping the arm on was a small piece of muscle.

Harlan hissed like steam as he felt his arm go. Hot pain and blood, that’s all there was there, as he pushed back again with his shield to stagger the foe just enough. Letting go of that center hold, his hand found his belt as quick as lightning, drawing out a throwing axe. Wrong hand, that was true enough, but he didn’t have much of a choice. His foe was right there, right there, and he threw the axe with all his body. It was a lank throw, no care on the proper form for it, though his foe was close enough that it didn’t matter anymore. It found his face, right there to cut into, though…he’d seen men walk away from that before. No. No.. His hand found that sheathed longsword, drew it as one draws a dirk with the blade to the earth.

A staggered step forward, then another, as Harry drew out the axe from his face with a free hand, blood pouring out to cover his face before Harlan drunkenly stabbed down into the man, down at his collarbone and just above the breastplate. He heaved it in with all his weight, almost falling into the other, letting go to stagger away. His breath came in a struggle, wheezing under his sallet, wheezing in and out hot against the metal.

The sailor who had accompanied him, the hawk’s nose bowman, surged forward to catch him, letting him lean against as the pair walked off the battlefield.

Dick Bean dropped to his knee with a grunt. No knight, no squire, he’d been nothing. He was alive though, cut and bruised, but alive. In the beginning he’d watched as the Faith’s men had converged on his king and the high-born fighters. Now though, he wasn’t sure who all had died but there were two knights against him and all that had kept him alive so far was backing away again and again until they were distracted by that Ironborn man quitting the field. Dick was beyond angry at the sight of it, but it gave him a moment’s reprieve as both of the knights who’d caught him in their sights paused as if deciding whether or not to pursue the injured man.

He was too far in the distance it seemed, and they were back to him before he could right himself and ready another defense. Suddenly to his right the Lothston knight appeared. He’d lost his helmet and sword, blood stained his chest plate and arms, but he was there. Dick pushed himself to his feet. Beyond him he could see his king, hear his king. Maybe this was nearly decided.

The two men pushed forward together against Aegon Ambrose. Ser Garibald had broken away from his approach, eager to aid the two who had yet to corner Maegor. Ser Ambrose faltered in his first attack, sword meeting nothing but air then the dirt of the ground. It was enough room for Dick Bean to lunge and completely throw him off balance. Aegon brought up his shield and caught Bean against the face. Dick fell back again, profusely bleeding across his face. His hand instinctively groped at it and to his horror he found his cheek pulled away from bone. He screamed even as Ser Guy took the advantage and plunged his sword into the knight. Aegon dropped, a gurgling noise and bubbles of blood from his mouth. Dick stared at him, both men surprised and confused at their circumstance, but it was Aegon who slumped forward, face first to the ground.

It was enough to stop Ser Garibald and send him back towards Maegor’s last two men. Ser Lothston put himself between the injured Dick Bean and the approaching sword. He was no match for the man he came at him with every bit of his strength. Guy deflected the first attack with his sword only to lose the weapon, sent flying from his hand to the dirt some feet away. Garibald smiled an ugly, bloody grin, and brought his sword down to split the knight’s head.

The sword would not give way, no matter how Garibald pulled or twisted. Dick Bean found his last reserve of strength and will to scurry around and attack from the side. He swung wildly, blinded by pain and fatigue but the Seven must surely have been on his side as Garibald screamed with new agony. Dick Bean had found a fleshy gap, a loosened strap on the knight’s breastplate and his sword was there still, plunged into the man’s body. Unthinking, he pulled back, his hands wet with sweat and his own blood.

He crumpled to the ground, his face fire, but with sickening joy attempted a smile at seeing the Warrior’s Son froth bloody at the mouth. He took solace in the crackling, gurgling noise as the man dropped beside him. He closed his eyes never to open again.

Battle and blood, it was not for her though the world demanded it. It fed off the blood that watered crops. Tucking her slim fingers through the folds of her gown Elayne stared at the headless body as she shrank in the shadow of the Lord Balaerys. Horas was dead. Kin to her, and a sickening feeling spread through her belly. Terror. The Lord of Harrenhal would be in a fury. As it was, she could spy the stony look on Alys's face. It was a good thing she had been asked to join Lord Vhandyr Balaerys. Asked, the man was as tall, ferocious and just as set as any Targaryen. Perhaps it was something in the Valyrian blood. Stubbornness that let them ride their dragon. Though he was a kind man, who had spoken to her with words that still touched her though they were most likely naught but passing pleasantries. Still the blood flowed and she felt ill at the thought of returning to their rooms. “Horas….” A fool, but one whose death would bring wrath upon them all.

The scope had narrowed. Now there was just the King and two blades drawn against him. Ser Damon and Ser Willam may have began to the trial as the beacons of piety they were championed to be, but now all three remaining fighters bore the blood and dirt of the quagmire around them. The King had lost his shield, and more pressingly, his helm, ripped free after a glancing blow from a mace had caved in the face plate and rendered him blind had he kept it on. Valyrian blood ran freely from the centre of his face, although not broken, something had certainly burst from the impact within his nose.

The two knights circled him now, prepared to take stock, take their time, wait for the opportunity to strike and kill. The King was a larger man though, with a finer blade, and they were weary of his reach. Maegor’s rage was next to legendary, but for now he did not snarl or yell, he did not lash out. His fury at seeing his loyal swords cut down had simmered into cold fury. Outnumbered, his window to act was shrinking, he didn’t have time for rage.

Perhaps the greatest lie of the great tales and stories was that strength and bulk came at the cost of speed and agility, for when the King struck it was to see a mountain in motion. He had determined that Willam was the more injured of the two, favouring his off-side to step. Before the pair of knights could complete their surrounding of him, Maegor rushed to the Knight’s weak side, hearing the sharp exhalation of pain as he tried to plant on the off-foot to react. He was more than a competent blade, but fractional hesitation was all Maegor needed.

The King collided with Willam’s shield, only half planted on one foot; he didn't have the balance to swing, stab, or even remain standing. Cast to the ground, Willam contacted the bloodied sand with a crash of metal. He barely had the time to recall where he was before Blackfyre plunged through his face plate, traditional steel holding nothing against the Valyrian counterpart. Maegor wrenched the blade forwards, splitting the knight’s skull rather than attempting to wrench it free. It was necessary, for only had he just whirled around and brought Blackfyre up in a crossguard that Damon was upon him, rushing a fraction too late to the aid of his stricken brother.

The ensuring crash of swords was fluid and fierce. If Damon was weakened in a way similar to Willam he was a better warrior for not showing it. Damon, in fact, was likely the best sword to have walked afield this morning. Maegor may have had size, but not by much, and Damon did not have the distractions of Kingdom to contend with. He was a Knight, and this was how a knight fought, unceasing training across decades.

For the first time in the course of the trial, it seemed that Maegor was being pushed back, brutality met martial prowess and began to weaken, to tire. Maegor had barreled, struck and battered his way through all competition but that approach was a tiring one, the King was clearly slowing faster than this opponent. It was fractional, but that’s all it had to be.

Then came the feint, a strike for Maegor’s torso redirected at the last moment, instead bringing the blade into contact with the King’s right gauntlet. Finally, the howl of pain and rage was unleashed as the action threw Maegor’s grip open, and Blackfyre struck the ground. It was all the exhausted King could do to throw himself backwards as it did so, narrowly avoiding the killing strike.

Damon had timed his final sally well. The fighters had pulled clear of where the other stricken fighters lay, no easy weapon or shield to claim from the dirtied sand. The Knight paused his advance, keeping space between himself and the King, blade artfully turning over and over in his hand as he watched Maegor, unwilling to hand the element of surprise back to him even without blade. Shock was once again rippling through the crowd, early signs of jubilation from some, pensive horror in others. This seemed to buoy Damon somewhat, sure enough of victory.

“Surrender, Abomination, and perhaps the Seven will weigh this against your misdeeds when I send you to the Stranger.” One did not have to see the Knight’s helm-covered features to hear the pious arrogance. When the King didn’t reply, enraged eyes simply gazing back, as if they might bore through the helm itself, that is when Damon moved in for the kill.

It was a simple strike, well aimed. It did not have to be anything fancy, the King was unarmed.

Valyrian steel was rare, blades of its make might number in the dozens across Westeros, more exotic weapons even less still. Valyrian Steel armour was all but unknown across Westeros, the manner of its making, even reforging, largely lost to time.

Maegor had fought for Volantis, earned a King’s ransom in tribute from the city that would otherwise have felt the wrath of a Khalasar. He had taken no gold, or slaves. He had taken something priceless. Maegor’s left gauntlet was Valyrian steel.

Had the disarming of the King rippled shock through those watching, the reaction was more audible as the King caught the blade, the ring of steel on steel sounding even louder than the initial clash of force as palm reached up to clasp around the blade. The armour prevented the cutting edge, but the force still almost burst the hand within the gauntlet, but Maegor did not cry out or roar this time, this was no Dothraki wretch seeking a last grasp at glory, this was a foe he had to kill now or die himself.

Damon staggered back, unable to quite comprehend the situation he had found himself in, but the King and Knight were now bound by the shared grip on the blade. Then Maegor acted, wrenching the sword free and casting it aside, even as he was doing so, he arched low, a half crouch before spearing upwards, casting both fighters down on the sand.

The knight recovered some sense, flailing strikes to the King atop him, but one hand was still bound in his shield, and the King’s were both free. One mailed fist cusped under the edge of Damon’s helmet, ripping it free, even as the other struck the knight's punches away.

“Tell your Stranger, if he wants to kill me, to send better men to try.” Maegor spat on the desperate features of Damon as they appeared from behind their metal shell. If the Knight had anything further to say, they were silenced as the same Valyrian steel gauntlet that had doomed the knight plunged into his open mouth, teeth shattering on impact. Muffled noises became obscured screams, as the King pulled. Jaw, bone and tongue came away in the King’s grip, taloned fingers ripping and rending, leaving the gaping pit of what had been Ser Damon’s face behind to choke on the remains of what had been him.

With a heave of effort, Maegor stood. Savagery was written across his features, blood still torrenting from his nose, he staggered away from the convulsing soon-to-be corpse of Damon. Finally, the tide of anger, pain and victory collapsed across the dam of his resolution, and the King let out a roar, a great cry which put all of that and more simply into noise. With the last of his strength, the King heaved the trophy of the traitor’s tongue into the crowd.

What cheers or cries of horror, the King did not notice, for then his strength began to finally fail. Maegor pitched forwards onto his knees, the world swimming around him. He muttered, to no one in particular, as he was sure the talons of death reached up to claim him, his voice barely a whisper.

“Rha…Rhae….Burn them a-” And then King Maegor, First of his name, and winner of his own trial, collapsed into the sand and pain gave away to annihilation.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Casterly Rock

Collab with @Vanq and @Ruby

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In the aftermath of a riot, Rhaena did not believe the rumors at first. It surely was just imagination run wild to say that not just one, but two, dragons were seen approaching the Rock with speed and urgency. Was it Balerion, she had asked quietly, a sudden fear and anxiety that her uncle had come to…to what? Or perhaps it was Vhagar? Her great aunt Visenya come to bring her back to Dragonstone or King’s Landing to be tucked away? No, they would only fly to the Westerlands for something grave, and her brother’s death had not been enough for that, so what could bring them here now? The answer to that only worried her, if the rumors proved true. And they proved true very quickly when she spied them herself from her rooms.

Even at a distance she was certain it was neither Balerion nor Vhagar, she had seen them in flight too many times to mistake them for younger, lesser dragons. Her heart leapt to her throat at the thought that it was Melyssanthi and perhaps Viserys; surely he could have bonded a dragon in her absence

Her feet moved faster than her mind, the decision to leave done without thought or knowing. The disbelief that had grown to fear had instead morphed to reckless, unbridled hope. Behind her she barely registered the disgruntled Ser Darklyn taking long strides to catch up. He yelled out orders to Lannister men as they passed, to assemble a guard. He had seen them too, he knew where the princess ran, he knew there would be no stopping her, only an attempt to protect her.

Had she had time to prepare, she would have worn riding leathers and a tunic rather than the embroidered dress she had donned when the day was intended to be nothing more than endless planning. All forgotten now as she pulled up her skirts upon reaching the stables and finding a horse prepared for…somebody…and pulled herself astride it, no time for propriety. The beast was urged on, through the rocky hall that broke free to sunlight and dust and the roar of dragons. They were still in the distance but her heart beat faster, her legs kicked into the sides of the horse. Faster still, she needed more from the mount. Behind her again, men assembled and gave pursuit, with no small amount of confusion with what to expect or what to do when the princes finally stopped.

At once, it was a shadow over her, a familiar heat and rush of wind of a dragon in flight above her. The horse stopped short, fear quivering in its muscles. Rhaena’s leg swung over and she stumbled the ground, knowing the horse would go no further. It couldn’t be. But it was, there could be no denying that it was her Dreamfyre.

She ran forward, up the rocky path to where the blue scaled beast circled and then landed, her head shaking as if in shared disbelief. Rhaena flung herself against the creature’s snout, tears in her eyes and for the first time in weeks, tears of joy and not of pain. Dreamfyre returned the embrace, as best as she could, head tilted into the tiny princess’s frame, a soft snort of hot air, a quiet growl as if to say, finally.

It was only then, when Rhaena finally let go and opened her eyes again, that she remembered the second dragon she had seen. “Did you bring a friend with you?” She asked quietly. “Who is it, hm?”

Vaera stared, blankly, at the young lady. It was the look of them that shocked her, or, rather, the disparity between them: the Targaryen looked like she rode a dragon, while Vaera, herself, looked like a dragonrider. All leather and chain armor, Valyrian horn, Valyrian steel, and the attitude of those who conquered creation. The Targaryen was all embroidery, finery, with undersilks, and vulnerability.
Vaera had never seen anything more gorgeous in all her life.

“Fuck,” was the only thing that escaped her, a whimper of a whisper caused by blaze inside of her body that threatened to leave every sentinel and landscape of her soul charred. Eyes the shade of purple found in sunsets darted off the south, instead of the westward direction the Targaryen had come from. A single sigh, and the Valyrian atop her dragon turned her back.
The Targaryen was still there.

Vaera still felt she might faint. Fuck. “We became acquainted over the western mountains on the way…” It wasn’t her, the tone she heard. It was sad, wistful, the sound of the last sigh before drifting off to dream about lost days and summer nights spent in courtyards chasing fire flies and temporary flings. It was up to Saeryx to roll its shoulders and roll Vaera’s body, the secret language between dragon and rider unmistakable in its meaning:

Go. Stop hiding.

The dragonrider didn’t bother with another sound while mounted, sliding off the dragon with the casual ease in which most people let their hair down. There was an entire city behind the woman. There was a Knight that she both saw and couldn’t, if she tried, recall a single detail about even as she looked. Before she realized she wasn’t floating, that she’d been walking, Vaera stopped just feet from the scene of the woman and her dragon reunited.

“She looked lost. She looked in need.” Does she realize I’m talking about her and the dragon? Again, Vaera looked away, this time with the longest blink in her life—an excuse to close her eyes and feel, for a moment, something she had no experience with. Vaera stepped forward without even thinking about it first as she looked ahead once more.

“I was compelled to help, I was compelled to…” Her eyes dipped to the ground, her armored arms slowly crossed, in self-defense, her head slowly shaking. “Anyway. Enjoy your dragon, Princess.”

Walk away. Walk away now.

Saerys tilted its head as Vaera Balaerys just began to walk off, alone, towards the city, head spinning and mind stunned.
Rhaena let go of Dreamfyre, looked beyond her, and felt hope die. It was not Melyssanthi. It was not home, it was not anyone who could share her grief. And yet, her mind raced to find any semblance of reason for how or why another dragonrider not of her kin was here and why Dreamfyre had arrived with them. In need?

Her lip trembled, not in anger or even in grief, but in annoyance at trying and failing to parse together the situation that unfolded now. “Where do you think you are going?” The woman made as if to walk by her, nothing to indicate why she had even been flying here in the first place - or - why she was even in Westeros. She bristled, but a nudge from the creature next to her recentered her thoughts.

She is returned to me.

No matter if the woman stopped to answer her original demand, Rhaena stumbled after her and caught her hand, her arm, without thinking, to turn her. To make her answer her question and a thousand more of what else she had seen and heard and knew that hadn’t been filtered through spymasters or censored. But what rose to the top, even without hope, was gratitude, pure and overflowing. Violet eyes betrayed her again, rimmed in red for the threat of fresh tears.

It wasn’t a conscious thought to throw her arms around the woman, little had been a conscious thought since she first caught sight of the dragons in flight. “Thank you.” Her voice croaked against the dragon rider’s wind roughened cheek. She tried to speak more, to explain how much it meant, but the words could not be freed from thoughts, just the warmth of another who she could only hope would understand.

The very sound of the woman made her wince. There was no debate, just her thoughts running their course as instinct resolved her to escape. The casualties of extremes filled her mind and made her body buzz and burn. Purple eyes peeked up, into the sky, upon the horizon, as if some great host of gods may hazard that horizon to save her from herself.

It was some mix of dread and jealousy that filled Vaera’s eyes when she walked by the knight and met his eyes. She had such incredible envy for the man she passed. There wasn’t a word from her pale lips, just escape. But it was there, in the mundane shade of his eyes that she saw it, like the escape of pre-dawn light over a high hill.

She was coming.

Vaera felt like a storm at sea was capsizing her mind, the mast cracking and leaving her stranded. When the hand hit her every part of Vaera froze solid as the Shivering Sea. Nothing scared her. She hadn’t known fear since the day her parents died…and that was coming to a swift, chaotic, change. Vaera had never been more afraid in her life then when the woman turned her, and forced Vaera to face her.

The blow was struck immediately, an unseen part of the plan, the properties of her defenses lowered, with the woman striking at will. The warmth of her, the softness of the way she felt, the smell of her…the very feeling of Vaera getting to hold the creature so dearly, so suddenly and abruptly tightly, desperately and dangerously close. The gentle weight of her head on Vaera’s shoulder…

The taller Balaerys stirred; to shed her gloves behind the beautiful woman’s back and tucked them away, her left anchored upon the woman’s right hip, the hardest moment of her life just leaning back enough to allow her bare right hand rise to the girl’s jaw. To trace her jawline for a fraction of a heartbeat before curling her index finger, and tilting it up just enough to tilt the woman’s face upward so that Vaera might see it. So that she might smile at her, and with her thumb wipe a trail of tear from her cheek.

The sun rose in Vaera’s eyes, light and warmth, radiant and glorious. “You’re not alone anymore. I’ve got you.”

The smile grew, wider, fearless, as Vaera took a step back until her left hand was back to her side, and the right slid like a sigh from the woman’s face, held out for her to take. “C’mon,” was the only word she spoke, even if it felt like Vaera had just said infinitely more.
Rhaena blinked slowly in response, a softest of touches that broke her embrace and a look on the woman’s face that she finally saw who she was speaking to, who Dreeamfyre had found, a name she knew but had never thought twice about. The feeling of being crushed beneath a giant boulder, a feeling that had oppressed her for weeks, felt lifted, just a little at the confident statement. To not be alone, the princess didn’t know why she believed it, but it felt good to believe it, so she did.

She took the offered hand with a small smile of her own. Behind her she heard her dragon grumble, hungry likely, and silently wished her a good hunt. Soon enough, she’d be calling on Dreamfyre for more. It changed everything, and already her mind turned it over, of flying to Oldtown, of the look of the High Septon’s face when she would land and watch him burn…But the hand that encompassed her own, warm and rough and pulling. She was brought back to the present, to reality, and to Ser Darklyn staring at them.

“Princess, it’s not my place to admonish, but -” He had ventured closer than the Lannister men who stood about unsure of what had taken place.

“It’s not. Have someone tell Lord Loreon he has a guest, have rooms readied for her.” She paused, knowing how reclusive the Lannister had been, no matter how well she understood that desire. “And if he does not answer or seem moved, tell Mistress Kinvara. Maybe she will convince him.” Rhaena resisted trusting the woman, but for reasons beyond just dislike of a paramour.

“The riots have only just been completely quelled, it was not safe for you to do this.” Darkrobin looked reticent at saying it in the presence of the visitor, but worry creased his face.

Perhaps it was too many things gone wrong in a short amount of time, but outside of the immediate fear in fleeing the riots, it seemed minor compared to everything else. But how must this sound to Vaera? She glanced to her side, “I’m afraid you are seeing already the distressing times here in Casterly Rock.” Would she turn and run immediately? Rhaena would, she thought, if their roles were reversed. “Lord Lannister’s sister and uncle were murdered. Riots erupted when he announced his…our…engagement.” She swallowed hard at that, a lump in her throat, and her hand squeezed Vaera’s. “It was the Faith -”

“Princess.” Darkrobin spoke again as if to interject and thought better of it halfway through. “Perhaps let us return to safety first?”

Vaera chuckled, behind a dirty grin, “Mistress Kinvara? Hells, I remember when it was just Kinvara.” When she spoke of Loreon, Vaera listened with intent, happy for every word. Until the word became ‘marriage.’ It stopped her where she stood, the wound at her side rearing hot and angry all over again, “Gods…dammit.”

It was the pain of the wound, Vaera told herself, as a sigh the sound of grief emptied from her mouth and nostrils, her body forcing itself to start moving with the Princess once again, processing everything. Murder and riot, marriage. Well, mostly marriage. The sound of it was strange, queer—Vaera rolled it over her tongue once, twice, before speaking it aloud with no lack of amusement. Or bemusement. “’Lord’ Lannister…yes, Loreon and I know each other.”

The woman stopped, and blinked, so Vaera stopped…shifting uncomfortable weight from one foot to the other, looking off to the Knight, her tone loud and irritated, like a waking dragon, “Yes, we heard you, Ser. She’s safer with me than she is with you, anyway…”
The last part she stopped speaking loud enough for him to hear, half-way through it, anyway. But the point seemed to be taken, as he showed them his back, and walked towards the big walls, even if just the wait. Everything irritated her. Everything was sore. The shift was visible…but when her eyes went back to the woman’s eyes, her lips refused to do anything but smile.

“I’ve traveled more of Creation than anyone you’ve ever met. Seen more of Sothoryos than the damned Summer Islanders,” she said, with a snicker, as if she knew how much it would annoy the Summer Islanders, “Bone Mountains, Jade Gates, Shadowlands…Loreon and I adventured together. I’ve saved his life. He’s saved mine. That’s why I came this way…marriage?”

She asked, squinting, for a moment, before she tried to laugh, and instead just squeezed the woman’s hand and, finally, continued walking, announcing to the steel shadow, “WE’RE MOVING TOWARD YOU AGAIN.”

Just to be friendly.

Back at volume only she would hear, Vaera continued, “I’ll look into the deaths. It’s what we adventurers do. I think Dreamfyre and Saeryx will calm the rest of the city down. As for the Faith…I come from Oldtown. I met Lord Tyrell, and his High Marshall, Lady Vittoria. I was going to say goodbye when the Faith ambushed Vitt and some of her Knights in the city,” she said, just ‘Vitt’, a clear indication she knew the Lady, “they shot her with a bolt, close enough range. I was too busy trying to kill the shit that shot her to see if they got her away alive but knowing her like I do…” Vaera just grinned and looked at the walled city that stretched like a man-made horizon in the distance.
Even for an adventurer and dragonrider, Vittoria Tyrell was something to see, “That’s just going to make her stay alive to spite them until she can run them down on the field of battle. Saeryx and I got out just in time. I saw the two hosts when we left the Reach…one of the Faith, one of the Reachmen. Heading east. Nothing east worth a march but King’s Landing.”

There was a pause, as Vaera walked, and tried to imagine just how what came next might sound, “It’s…madness, but I met a man in the mountains. Dark hair, real…cold bastard. Dangerous man. Said Loreon’s sister was his boss. Said the uncle sent someone to kill her. Said the sister sent him to kill the uncle right back. Any of that sound possible?”

She could barely keep up and though there was an annoyance with that, there was something else. An overwhelming familiarity, a warmth, a closeness. It buoyed her above the shit, a chance to breath, to see the sun. It was enough, apparently, to make Rhaena giddy. She resisted it at first, the laughter within that tugged at her lips, begged them to flick upwards. It grew within her until she could contain it no more as this visitor ordered her kingsguard around. Poor Ser Darklyn, she thought, but it did not stop the sound from bursting forth. A giggle, a sweet sound but unladylike and near childish in her glee. She was reminded of being a little girl trying to order about her father’s guard.

“I want, I need, to hear these stories.” A pang of jealousy flared, not of this woman having spent time with her intended, but at the freedom that must have been. “I’d barely seen anything except Dragonstone or King’s Landing before…” As well informed as Vaera was, Rhaena assumed she knew of the rest. She didn’t want to speak it and invite back in the sorrow and pain. “Marriage yes, an army for me and House Lannister can one day claim Valyrian blood into their line.” She couldn’t help the frown. Whatever the long term implications of such a match, it was something far more personal that spurred her hesitance, her fear, her disgust. She hoped not all of that was so easy to read on her face.

“The Faith marches on King’s Landing?” She stopped abruptly, felt her arm pull forward, but would not will herself to move. But beyond that, the allegations that it was Loreon’s uncle? Her frown deepened. “No. No that’s impossible.” She was certain of it to her bones, to her core. “It sounds like you met Lady Lorelai’s guard, Keano. I met him…” What felt like ages ago with how much had happened. “But that can’t be it. The Faith killed Loreon’s wife and uncle as revenge for justice on them for killing my brother.” She was certain of it and her tone said she’d heard enough on the matter. “You’ll investigate, and you’ll take me with you for it. You’ll see I’m right, after what you saw in the Reach, you must see that these men of faith,” the words curdled off her tongue, “are nothing but dogs.” She’d never met Vittoria Tyrell, but she’d heard stories of the woman all the same. If the Faith could turn against the Tyrells, well, surely that would make people see who the real enemy was.

“I need to stop them, I have to stop them. I was going to sail to Oldtown but now…” She glanced behind her towards where Dreamfyre and Saeryx stayed, still watching their riders. “Well, now I have something nearly better than an army.”

She unrooted herself from the ground, eager again to return to the castle. Something devious pricked at her and she gave a sly glance towards Vaera. “I may be in this ridiculous dress.” She pulled at the crimson velvet skirts for effect. “But if we’re quick about it, we’ll be back in Casterly before my white shadow can catch up.” A silver eyebrow shot up with a look of the challenge offered. “Race you?”

Rhaena wouldn’t give Vaera a full chance to reply, she dropped her hand and balled up some fabric of her skirts in her hands to clear them of the ground, and took off, with a wild yell down the dusty, rocky path, to small entry she knew was not made for men on horseback.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Volantis

In the hallways of the Rahl villa

_{Collab with @Almalthia & @Vanq}

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There was one benefit, meager as it was, to the heat. The water that caused her dress to both drag against the floor and twist about her legs was quickly dry as she wandered down corridors and through rooms that she didn’t recognize. Her mind was a blur of anger, of disappointment, of fear, and, most worrying, of regret.

She stopped at last, her feet nearly coming up short beneath her and she rocked on the balls of her feet. Sharra knew she had not been alone in her journey, not just the servants who had tried to delicately catch glimpses or whispered softly to one another. How could her nephew do this to her? Sell her to some unknown family on the opposite end of the world from…from a family she barely felt a part of.

The defiant bird turned to wait for her pursuer to approach, a sign she knew he was there, she hoped he was there and it was not all imagined. She scrubbed her hand quickly across her face, brushing away a few errant tears that fell down her cheeks. Her eyes were reddened, glossy with the tears she blinked back.

“I am sorry for the trouble my nephew and I have now caused for you." She spoke only when he was close enough to hear her soft voice, but still, she took a step back as he approached. “But I will not do it, I will not agree to this match, surely I cannot be forced, it would be…indecent, yes?" She pleaded, her voice pitched upward over the roughness of choked back anger. Her hands fell to her sides and twisted in her dress, the fabric at her thighs twirled through her fingers. She would find passage on her own if she needed to, steal away in the rancid heat of the night aboard a galley. No matter the pirates or storms or…her mind raced through the calamities she’d rather endure.

Softly strolling behind Sharra watching the sway of her hips Aster found himself hypnotized by her fluid movements; like those of the small falcon, Tethris, that Cassie begged their father for when she saw him. Tethris was small but graceful and swift. Sharra reminded Aster of the falcon. Tipping his head with a calm expression on his face he let her retreat and plead her case.

What she didn’t realize was that she wouldn’t have to be forced into the match that her idiot nephew procured like she was some toothless old hag. Aster had been compelled by her beauty at first but that paled in comparison to her mind. She was truly wasted in Westeros. “I, and my family, are in agreement with you. But remember we are Valyarian, Volantine, and Essosi. We do not think like Westeros." He advanced on her, backing her up to the wall and crowding her. His slate blue eyes like the waters farther out deep and intense. He didn’t touch her but leaned over so that his words were spoken directly to her ear. “But my motives are less than heroic. I would prefer that you would want to stay with me. I have become quite attached to the way you defend your point. That fire that sparks in your eyes…”

Leaning back before he did something that really scared his falcon Aster smiled at Sharra. “I would have it be your choice though. As much as it would pain me to watch you sail away I would let you. This I promise you… for a little while at least. I think I would have to come after you. Sad is it not?"

Her heart climbed her throat and threatened to burst out. Each breath worked to steady herself and keep her upright, her hands clenched and twisted the fabric of her dress further. What madness was this? She couldn’t think, the heat enveloped her and suffocated her until she could see only Aster hovered over her. His words echoed, slow and delayed from when his mouth moved to form them. A moment of joy followed by new terror, what was he suggesting to her?

Sharra sighed as he stepped back, relief and regret at once to have space between them. Her heart thudded still in her ears but her vision expanded again. “I…I…” The maiden stuttered, her thoughts incomplete and dueling. A cruel thought took the fore and she frowned. The stories her septa had told her, the warnings from her mother, of the dangers of men - particularly foreign men. “You do not think like Westeros. What happens when you grow tired of me as your plaything, is marriage so easily set aside as marriage alliances here?"

“Marriage alliances here? Plaything? My Lady do you think so dishonorably of me that I would set you aside were I married to you? Rahl marriages are for life." Aster sighed and stepped back farther, dropping his hands smiling sadly. “Where do you get the idea that we set aside women? Is that not what Maegor has done? Seems more a Westrosi tradition than an Essosi tradition." Aster shook his head. “I know not what I said that offended you, I offered you a choice. I will always offer you a choice. That is how I was raised. I can call you a guide back to your rooms if you wish."

The words hadn’t fully fled her mouth for the regret to set in at giving in to the fear. He had been nothing but kind to her. Sharra’s hands released her dress at last and covered her mouth as if to prevent herself from saying any other foolish thing. She shook her head, and croaked out a soft no, muffled behind her fingers. What did she want, a choice in the matter? A choice other than to hide away, a choice other than to remain the Maiden of the Vale?

She didn’t know the answer to her questions or his. “Nothing you’ve said nor done since rescuing us from the docks has been offensive but…” Her words trailed, her hands dropped to her sides, blue eyes searched for anything but his face to focus on, her hands looking for anything to occupy themselves other than to twist again into the fabric of her dress.

Sharra eyes met his, a mistake for the flutter it set off in her stomach. “Don’t send me away, please." She spoke of it in response to his offer of a guide - and in the complex of his home, she was lost - but a deeper meaning lurked under the surface of her words.

“I would sooner send my baby brother to Asshai than send you away if you do not wish it. Perhaps this is all too much right now? Perhaps the friend you've made these weeks merely wishes to let you know he respects you. That he can understand that the road looks rough but he would gladly walk it with you. But ultimately he respects your wishes and needs if you let him know." Aster's voice was soft and husky with emotion. His slate blue eyes intense. “Your friend would do much for you just to see you smile."

Her mind rushed with thoughts, some of which she chided herself for in the moment they flickered into existence. “I have never met anyone like you." She whispered, a soft quiver to her voice, a throatiness she has never heard from herself before. Sharra took a step to close the distance he had given her, and boldly in her own way, searched for his hand with hers. Skin met skin and her fingers pressed between his. Warm and comforting, her lips parted in a bashful smile. “Walk with me now, if it pleases you to see me smile a little longer?"

As she linked their fingers together Aster smiled tenderly. His eyes caressed her face slowly then rested on her own and looked deep into her and replied. “As you wish."

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Casterly Rock

_{Collab with @Apollosarcher}

Old gods or new gods - Rhaena didn't know who to curse or thank for what had unfolded. A widow of barely weeks and she had agreed to wed again. The marriage agreement was a small price to pay…if she ever had to pay it. Meraxes save her, did she even want to return from Oldtown?

The thought sank like a stone, down to her gut. Her ladies had grown distant, even when they joined her in the evening and held her as she sobbed in her sleep. She did not shed tears while awake but at night, in deep unconsciousness, the princess was inconsolable. Come the morning, they scattered to corners of Casterly Rock to prepare and plan for her wedding.

Loreon would announce it at his Triumph, where Rhaena would already be on display. They had scoured her surviving trunks and seamstresses had worked day and night to have a dress for her fitting the occasion. The princess had wanted to wear her ceremonial armor but had, finally, been convinced otherwise.

She stared at herself in the full length looking glass. The gown was beyond compare, though Rhaena could not find joy in it. It was deep crimson silk edged with black lace along the sleeves and neck. The top of it was rigid against her chest and abdomen, made to look like armor but with none of the protection. A farce, a lie, but effective nonetheless. A deep golden cloak was clasped on one shoulder with a golden lion and the other an ebony dragon. She'd had a metal worker fashion a slim crown of dark steel and had it set with a trio of rubies. It was a delicate balance between supporting her uncle’s claim to the throne and reminding the Lords that she was the former king’s eldest child. It was a game she hated being thrust into but she was no child who thought she could win by not playing. She'd bide her time, play this role, and destroy those who had gutted her heart and left her broken.

Or die trying.

It was time to take her place at Loreon’s side in the procession. She wasn't sure what had swayed him to this, nor did she mind that his companion, Kinvara, joined them. Let the woman see to his needs and leave her be. Rhaena did not trust her though, there was a keenness to her eyes that the princess found unsettling. The crowds they passed through were boisterous in the celebration though it was immediately clear not all celebrated. Rhaena could not help but be reminded of the angry eyes and whispers she had suffered with Aegon. It was here too, just below the surface no matter the food and wine and coin that flowed the streets and uplifted lords and smallfolk alike.

The mood turned, Rhaena thought, surely from more of the traitorous Poor Fellows who must have infiltrated the crowds and urged them to violence. When the dam broke, it broke in a fury. Darkrobin whisked her away with no mind to how the Lord Paramount would escape. It was not the kingsguard’s concern. The escape was a blur, he had grabbed her, hard, around the waist, when a man in the crowd below their dais had thrown mud - she told herself it was mud no matter the smell - though it had missed and instead splattered against her slippers and Loreon’s boots. There had been only time enough for her eyes to connect with Loreon’s before she felt herself pulled away. An apathetic fear took hold and Ser Darklyn needed to handle her roughly for her feet to move before he gave up and picked her up. She thought she had heard him apologize. When they were at last safely behind Casterly’s walls she was astonished to see her skirts in shreds. Her slippers were gone, her stockings filthy.

The Mercenaries had arrived at Casterly hours ago, encamping but on alert the Company of the Rose were known to have fought for Dorne, Targaryens, and more over the years. With men and women of all faith in creeds serving side by side in the company they were rarely greeted with open arms in the Kingdoms. With the tension in the air they had set sentries and kept the men on alert, peasants across the countryside had been moving about with Septons preaching to their flocks. Branwyn and Alyswyn were wearing their full regalia as Northern nobles of house Stark here to give condolences. The pair of the oldest Stark children towered above most of the soldiers in full armor with house sigil on their cloaks and the symbol of the Company of the Rose on their tabards Branwyn a few inches taller than his sister but both cut an imposing figure, Alyswyn with her bastard sword at her side and shield on her arm. Branwyn with Ice upon his back as they watched the arriving nobles.

Their arrival had of course foretold but with the events of the day and preparations little notice had been paid to the coming of the mercenaries who had come to pay respects to Rhaena loss while searching for work. While Branwyn had not known them personally it would save his father the trip and of course perhaps help him learn about the coming rulers if he was to one day rule the North. However, upon the sight of Rhaena’s arrival he could frown at how the people here had treated her, leaning towards his sister he spoke softly. “Seems the town is worse than we thought... Throwing shit at Princess... They say we’re barbarians, at least we don’t bother throwing our shit at people, we just hit them.”

Alyswyn turned her head and covered her face a bit at her brother’s joke, flushing herself shaking her head before knocking him in the shoulder. “Don’t be an ass...” She spoke with a soft smile at her brother. “Now let’s get ready to make introductions.” They spoke as they started to move towards the recently arrived Princess, a handful of their officers behind them. Barthor and Artyn had been sent out into the city to learn of the goings on and find them information, spies and scouts were good for that sort of thing not to mention they knew how to play the part of whoever they needed to be to get the information they sought. So long as you reminded them the whoring and drinking came after the fighting.

The Kingsguard had been calling for ladies to see to Rhaena’s health and needs when he saw two figures approaching. He'd known that noble mercenaries had arrived. The Princess would have needed to meet with them had all of this not happened. Now though? While his charge had been spirited back to safety? He trusted no one. Seven, he hated this realm.

“No closer.” He barked out with a mailed hand held up to stop them. No matter their house, no matter who they were, in this situation he'd draw his sword if pressed.

Alyswyn couldn’t help herself. “We are of House Stark,” she gestured at the cloak with the direwolf sigil as if he were blind. “Perhaps you have heard of us? Pray to old gods, beat Southern armies at the neck, smart enough to not fight dragons?” She took another step just to prove she could as she gave a wink at the Kingsguard. “We came to give condolences... Though it seems like you might need our sword arms instead.” Her teasing unending it seemed, she enjoyed riling up knights and nobles few knew how to take a lady in armor seriously.

Branwyn shook his head and pulled his sister back a step, praying they weren’t about to get into more trouble. “Branwyn, heir to Winterfell and that loud mouth is Alyswyn Stark, Ser knight. My sister is correct though I have come offering condolences and if you request it... The services of ten thousand men and women, for the right coin of course.”

He took two steps forward in response, a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Respectfully, my lord and lady, I don't care who you are right now.” He blocked the path towards the Princess and scanned around him for any of the Lannister castle guards. Men had poured out past them in raising a response against the rioters.

Ladies had come running to attend to Rhaena, but she pushed them and their ministrations away. She was alive, still…yet. “See Darklyn, that's enough.” Her voice was hardened but she softly touched his elbow in her approach behind him and peered around him towards the Starks.

What a mess she was, her locks that had been pulled and tousled to nest the crown were wild now. She felt the slim thing slip around and pulled it out, her fingers gripped it at her side. “You and your men are well rested I take it? Here.” She tossed the crown at their feet, it thudded lightly against the ground. “A down payment for your services. Ensure my betrothed is escorted back to safety, quiet the smallfolk, and find me the instigators. They are, undoubtedly, men of the Poor Fellows or septons who encouraged this violence.” She frowned deeply. “I don't think House Lannister men will be much help with finding those men of faith.”

Alyswyn before could finish scooped up the crown and stepped close to her. “We don’t take payment till the work is done. Second, it looks better on you than on the ground.” She stepped enough to place the circlet back in her hand. As Branwyn sighed, turned towards the gate, then his men who had come with him.

“Right you layabouts! Find the Lion Lord and get him home safe. Corwain and Gwain, get your arses back to the camp and get the men together. Show these overdressed and over paid boys in red what professional soldiers can do!” Shouts came up, as the officers and the warriors of Alyswyn’s wolfpack moved to mount their horses.

The lady warrior who had a moments ago handed back the princess her crown gave a whistle a great black charger pulling alongside her even in armor she gripped its neck and threw herself up onto it in a single motion. “You can sort out the Lannisters to pay for this while we get it all under control... It’s why you keep him around right? Reason us ladies with brains and spirits keep these lads around right, do what we want and pay for what we want.” Branwyn tossed her a helmet and pulled on his own.

“Get the damn gates open, Wolfpack to the front!” Branwyn commanded as they watched Branwyn unsheath Ice, a massive hunk of Valyrian steel in the shape of a sword as the mounted mercenaries with Alyswyn at the head took up shields and arms. “We will be back before sundown with the heads to show for it.” He spoke, normally he would bargain but Lannisters were always good for gold and Targaryen’s tended to expect things done when they asked for them.

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—

As evening turned to night and then to dawn, Rhaena received word at last that Loreon had returned safely as well as his lover and his kin. She did not rush to meet him. The riot had been quelled but streets and alleys had run with fire and blood before it was put down. The Princess had not slept, but spent the night pacing her rooms. If only she'd had Dreamfyre. With this much unrest, she grew concerned that the men she had been promised would be pulled back or that she'd be told to wait. There was no time, she needed to act.

She'd argued with Ser Darklyn about the Stark company. He didn't like that she'd paid them to act on the riot, didn't like the idea for her to hire them to go to the Reach. He didn't say it so directly, but his attempts to divert her attention from it or to caution patience told her how he really felt.

It didn't matter, she'd made up her mind. As the morning wore on she sent word to have Branwyn and Alyswyn Stark brought to her in a large study she'd been offered to use for any official capacity. Her eyes were dark from lack of sleep but she'd changed into a simple but fine black gown and had her hair simply plaited with the crown Alyswyn had returned to her. It was not so odd to see a woman geared to war. Not to Rhaena at least, who grew up on the stories of her grandmother and great aunt’s exploits. But it seemed odd to see any other house be so at ease with it. Perhaps the north really were a different sort of people.

She waited for them to arrive, the Darkrobin stationed behind her and just as sleep deprived. More pointedly, she had not notified Loreon, perhaps it would be a first sign of how their marriage would be, but she cared little for that. She should have sent word back to Dragonstone or King’s Landing, but that could wait as well. She played with fire and knew it.

The pair entered in armor still, an evening of violence and a night of hunting had given the company plenty of trouble yet they stood here uninjured though she could tell they had not yet slept. Alyswyn folded her arms as she leaned on the wall, as Branwyn entered and gave a bow. “We have cleared the Poor Fellows out from the mob. Skillfully avoiding a massacre if I do say so, they seemed to form the backbone of the riot. While the Septons were preaching we had to detain and haul them away... They gave little resistance after we smashed their soldiers.Turned them over to the guards to hold in the dungeons... We thought you’d prefer to deal with them yourself.” Branwyn stood upright now coming up from his bow as he looked at the Princess.

“After we cleared the streets and sent most of them home we let the Lannister men take over. Seems they may be good for more than decoration after all.” Alyswyn added as moved to stand beside her brother. “At least fifty dead soldiers of the faith and a couple dozen Septons locked away.” She smirked, clapping her brother on the back.

“And in a moment we will discuss the matter of the bill... And whether this is going to be a continuing contract. We can have it formally written later but for now... I have brought you something. Not as a mercenary... But as someone who knows the weight of the loss of family, and whose family is loyal to your house and name.” He turned and opened the door, two young men entered carrying a vase with blue roses, winter roses had only ever grown in the north. “Barthor and Artyn, my brothers were sent north to fetch these and meet us here when it was done. They are a gift from House Stark... One rose from each member of the family. I wanted to present this first as the reason we came was first and foremost to grieve and pay our respects.” He spoke as the two men, clearly his brothers and even Alyswyn moved forward all four taking a knee before her.

“House Stark, the men and women of the North who Aegon spared when two men showed great wisdom instead of great violence. We all offer our sincere condolences for the death of a good man who ought to have lived.” He spoke slowly and carefully, though she could feel the pain in his voice. “We... We have all known the pain of losing siblings too soon, ones we cherished and loved.” He added before all four rose, she would note tears welled in each sibling's eyes yet they did not shed swallowing it back down.

Rhaena winced at the gesture but quickly regained a more stony expression. It erupted in her mind though, unbidden and unwelcome memories of the attack and of his dying breaths. Aegon, her heart ached, her stomach turned. “You have done well.” She managed at last, her voice squeaking through it to avoid the hitch of emotion. “And I thank you for this gesture.” The princess paused, her youth briefly on display as her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her fingers delicately ran over the flowers, tenderly, a moment longer in thought of what her father would have done and the frown returned.

“Stand.” It was a soft command. “House Stark were loyal and true supporters of my family and I am glad to see that is true still, no matter that you are for hire. You must have heard that my uncle has taken the throne.” She paused, eyes intensely on the four wolves before her, though she lingered over Alyswyn. Brash and bold, perhaps it was necessary for any woman who chose to don armor. “The Faith seeks to destroy us and everything we have built. In the North, you must feel this as well. Their…disdain for your old ways and beliefs. We,” she paused again, as if to second guess speaking for her uncle, her king, but pushed on, “we have need of your services still. Lord Loreon will need his men and some of yours to maintain the peace here a while longer. I will need you and your men for my journey to Oldtown.”

Alyswyn nodded first as she looked at Rhaena a moment before looking at her brother. “I’ll go to Old Town with you. I am a good commander but better fighter, never met a man I couldn’t leave in the dirt bleeding. Branwyn is who you want for thinking and planning things, never had the head for it.” She offered to step closer to Rhaena as she smiled, the girl reminded her of her younger sisters trying to keep it together even when they had not the years to know what all they should do.

Branwyn sighed and nodded. “I can work with Lord Loreon here if that is what you need... However...” He noted the young woman’s exhaustion and he’d caught the pain in face and couldn’t help sighed. “I won’t take advantage of your youth, your exhaustion or your grief by negotiating prices while I have such an advantage. The lowest I can do is thirty-thousand golden dragons enough to resupply my soldiers and pay them enough for what has to be done. As long as you’ll pay that much we can hold these talks when you are rested. For now, our band is yours here in the Westerlands and to travel to the Reach.” Barthor and Artyn stood and grabbed at the brother, thinking it madness but he silenced them with a wave of his hand before they could protest aloud.

“So please, rest well and when you are ready we will discuss terms with both you and Lord Lannister for full payment, terms, length of service, and more.” He paused for a moment and then added. “Should you need more than we could offer, I can reach out to Winterfell, though I would caution it may take time to organize the troops you need.” He explained as he gestured for the others to leave.

As they began to file out, Alyswyn who had been watching Rhaena closely slowly stepped forward to the desk and opened a pouch on her belt drawing out a vial. “Here, Dornish sleeping tincture, used to take a lot of these. The heat was murder trying to sleep in.” She spoke, setting it on the table as she turned to start towards the door. “Call on us any time after... We're paid for now.” She spoke, of course mentally she knew it wasn’t about the heat that she’d need the medicine for... It was to stop the nightmares, over ten years of fighting and traveling she had seen things she might never forget, sometimes that tonic was the only thing that kept her from awakening dagger in hand.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

House Tully

House Tully

Family. Duty. Honor.

House Description:

• Coat of arms: A leaping silver trout on a field of blue and red
  (Paly wavy azure and gules, a trout embowed argent)
• Seat: Riverrun
• Head: Lord Tully
• Region: Riverlands
• Titles: Lord of Riverrun; Lord Paramount of the Trident

Recent History:

Pre-Conquest Era

House Tully is an old noble house of First Men origin, dating back to the Age of Heroes. Ser Edmure Tully and his sons were allies of Tristifer IV Mudd, the King of the Rivers and the Hills, but the Tullys knelt to the Andal conqueror Armistead Vance after Tristifer's death. Edmure's son, Axel Tully, received land at the confluence of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, where he constructed Riverrun.

Unlike many Great Houses, the Tullys never ruled as kings, but held Riverrun for at least a thousand years as powerful vassals of those who did. They often defended the Trident from the Kings of the Rock. Lord Elston Tully died supporting Lord Roderick Blackwood against King Humfrey I Teague. Lord Tommen Tully futilely supported Lady Agnes Blackwood against Harwyn Hoare, King of the Iron Islands, and Tommen's natural son Samwell Rivers was slain at the Tumblestone.

Post-Conquest

House Tully rose to prominence during Aegon's Conquest, when Lord Edmyn Tully led the rebel riverlords who deserted Harren Hoare, King of the Isles and the Rivers, and instead supported House Targaryen. Following the burning of Harrenhal, Edmyn was rewarded with dominion over the riverlands by Aegon I Targaryen as the first Lord Paramount of the Trident. Despite being their new liege lords, the Tullys fielded smaller armies than the Blackwoods, Brackens, Freys, and Vances. House Tully was also not as wealthy as the Mootons, nor considered as prestigious as the Mallisters.

One of Edmyn's daughters married Lord Quenton Qoherys of Harrenhal, while Edmyn himself served two years as Hand of the King to Aegon the Conqueror, the first King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. King Aenys I Targaryen relied on the Tullys during the rebellion of Harren the Red most recently.

(taken from House Tully

Family Members: A Tree

• Lord Rhobyn Tully - Father
• Lady Gewlia Tully - Mother
• Prentys Tully - Heir
• Raulf Tully - Second Son
• Abigael Tully - First Daughter
• Janys Tully - Second Daughter
• Twin 1 - Third son
• Twin 2 - Fourth son
• Bensen Tully - Cousin

PCs

The Heir by Runic

Prentys Tully

Age: 30 (born 12 AC)

Description and Biography

The son and heir that is expected of him. Prentys was raised from birth to be the sort of man who could control and rule over the fractious Riverlands. Born shortly after the conquest, his father knew the sort of challenges that Prentys would face. Lords who would think themselves better suited to control the Riverlands and old rivalries that would not be solved in the span of Aegon's Conquest for all that the lords of the Trident had come together to cast down Harren the Black. A large lad, brawny and tall. The young Prentys was sent to foster under the Lord of House Broome. It was a two-fold arrangement. As he learned the skills of a Lord and a knight the young man also found courtship with Lucinda Broome as she grew into a young woman, the daughter of the Lord. A match that was carefully arranged by their parents.

Yet for the softness between the betrothed pair, Prentys found that the Broome were too pious for his character. Yes, there was a place for the Seven and it was proper that their ways be followed. Yet, the young man kept to his own council for all his devotion to the gods of Westeros. For there was also might to follow. A man can speak loudly of religion and be proper and true, yet it would not stop the blow of a sword or axe. Miracles were rare things, and the gods' anger was fickle in most cases. So when the realm hummed with hushed whispers about the marriage of Aeny's two children. Prentys held his peace. The Targaryen, despite this flaw, had brought peace to the realm and they had a weapon no army could match, for they rode dragons.

The man busied himself with the words of House Tully- Family, Duty, and Honor. By the vows his forefather swore, he was to serve the Targaryens as Lord Paramount in his time. His duty was to uphold the rights and expectations of both the law of the land and of the Seven for his own lords and smallfolk. If his own lords overlooked their due? He was not going to tempt the fate of Harren the Black or act on impulse while a vast flame coild about the Iron Throne. A skilled swordsman and his father’s right hand? He had read his history and though his family’s station was fairly new? Risking upsetting the balance was a walk across the God’s Eye without getting one’s feet wet. Impossible. Sides would have to be taken, yet he wished to see the full picture before making up his mind.

As for family? He was quickly realizing to his dismay that Lucinda was not as quick to bear a child as he would hope. The woman was only five years younger than him, and for the fact they had been wed young and were oft together in Riverrun, no child had blessed their union though the Maester had confirmed that Lucinda had conceived several times. It drew a hardship upon the pair and Lucinda questioned if perhaps the Seven had their reasons, asking why did Prentys as the heir to the Lord Paramount did not speak against the act of wedding brother to sister. She did not care for his answer and found it impossible that he would go against the teachings of the Seven to support demons where they sat above men and, according to her as she saw the minds of the Targaryens, above gods.

Prentys found the notion foolish and more to the point dangerous. Lucinda was pregnant once more and for all her words were spoken to her husband and in private? They were not wise ones to speak in a shout. The couple though still caring and dutiful to each other found a fracture. Another of the rivers that divided their realm this time wedging between them.

The Spare by Vanq

Raulf Arryn

Age: 26 Born 15 AC

Description and Biography

Raulf is of average height and slimmer but solid build. He keeps his hair cut shorter as it tends to unmanageable curls when allowed to grow out, much like his sister. He keeps his beard neat, if only to hide the childish baby-face when he is clean-shaven. Raulf has an easy and disarming smile, with a loose and relaxed demeanor that makes him approachable to most.

Family, duty, and honor - his house’s words - are nearly a prison to the young lordling. In combination they keep him trapped to his family’s lands, unable to pursue his idealistic dreams, forever restless in a land full of strife and pain.

His youth was normal enough, no matter that his family’s fortunes and station were unexpected. He spent his time in service to House Mallister as page and squire, though he had little natural aptitude for any martial training. He worked hard at it, but never seemingly for the right reasons. It was other squires or young knights who caught his eye and for whom he put on displays of prowess, such as they were. He saw Prince Aenys on one his first royal progress tours, a stirring moment for the young man who swore himself to his training so that one day he could serve the ephemeral prince as a kingsguard. It was not to be, and Raulf was never knighted, nor caught the attention of the prince beyond shallow pleasantries.

He was, however, well-read and well-spoken. While some would call him cunning or even devious, he proved an excellent mediator. Charming and warm, he was able to get himself out of trouble even when he was the cause of it. His father saw promise in those traits and sought to make a good match to secure the Tully hold of the Riverlands. First to a Frey, though the girl died of an illness before any agreements could be finalized. Second to a Vance, though it publicly fell apart due to scandal. Few in his family or highest advisors had glimpses of the truth. The match was offered only has a way to break an unfavorable (to House Tully) match between houses Vance and Mooton. Raulf, conniving indeed, laid the groundwork for a scandal that ended the hopeful match between any of their parties. Lady Vance was discredited and the agreements between Vance and Mooton little more than hushed whispers of what could have been. None were the wiser to Raulf's role in any of it.

Lord Rhobyn however, has raised the issue yet again. The kingdom was not stable, cracks that had never filled in completely threatened to widen, and House Tully needed stability and security to survive whatever came next. Raulf cannot disagree with the state of the world and his family words compel him to comply, but he wishes for anything but that.

The Daughter by Alma

Name: Abigael Tully

Age: 18 Born 23 AC

Appearance: Abigael is very feminine and refined. Her lack of height evokes protective feelings from others. Her figure is lush but not overly so. Her complexion is flawless and as pale as snow. Her eyes are a clear blue gray like the rivers that run in the Riverlands with sooty, thick dark lashes. Her bone structure borders on sharp but is softened to refined and classical. She has a full luscious mouth and white straight teeth. Her face is very expressive and she uses this to her advantage. Her hair seems to have a mind of its own and curls in a mass of ringlets that spill around her and down her back to her waist. They constantly escape confinement and give her a softer yet wilder edge. She constantly weaves in flowers to her hair and it is rare to see her without a flower in her hair. Most of her clothes are fashioned in her house colors of red, blue and silver. She prefers to wear well made clothing over flashy jewel encrusted clothes. She does love to embroider her own clothing and is excellent at it.

Description & biography: Abigael is the oldest daughter and middle child of House Tully and at eighteen is ready for more. She was born easily to her mother on a bright fine spring day. She has the red hair and blue eyes of the Tullys and has grown up knowing that the Tully women are the secret weapon of the house.

The Tullys are a Riverlands house that has seen battle over and over and over again and again. This house has learned to be adaptable and like the trout on its standard goes with the flow. They are skilled negotiators and have used their words and wits to get them out of a bind more than once. While the house is known for their strong emotions and are in touch with their emotions they can easily tap into their versatile nature and incite a riot or raise the morale of an army. Tullys have used their women to secure various alliances and in their own way have made their house what it is off those Tully women.

Abigael is no different. She is a charming girl who loves to embroider, ride her horse, dance and play the harp. She is fond of reading and tending a lady’s garden. She is a consummate actress; meek and humble when she needs to be or opinionated and witty. She can be sweet and innocent or seductive and tempting. She took the Tully way of being adaptable and made it all her own. Unfortunately for her this also means that she still has yet to really find out who she is; which she has started to struggle with.

She is very young still and while she has been exposed to court life her parents have kept the attention light. They want her to find her own feet and swim but want to support her the best they can while she does it. She has grown up knowing that her marriage will need to be a solid foundation for an alliance within the Riverlands. She has expected that she will likely marry within the Riverland houses but she could marry outside the Riverlands.

The Cousin by Thayr

Name

Bensen Tully
Age: 17 (24 AC)
Appearance:

At but 5’ tall, perhaps even a bit less, Bensen seems to lack the strong frame of a Tully in most regards. Curling, black hair parts down to his shoulders, a halo for his long nose and softer jaw, though his fair skin and bright bluebonnet eyes do mark him in his ancestry. The young Tully’s hands are worn enough from honest work, dirt forever underneath his fingernails, and he almost makes it a point to keep it so. As far as clothing, Bensen prefers to wear blacks and reds, though in a muted color. In most ways, it would be easy to mistake him for a common peasant anywhere else than the Riverlands.

Description & Biography:

Born from Lord Tully’s brother, Karkan Tully, and a Blackwood noblewoman, Olira, Bensen grew up split between Riverrun and Raventree Hall. As the eldest son of the couple, he bore the black hair of his mother’s house, endearing many of her cousins and earning the suspicion of some at Riverrun. They spoke of mistakes, for Olira was married further into her years, of unfound maidenheads and stableboy lovers, though Karkan was headstrong against the whole of it and his elder brother forbade such hated talk. Bensen would grow to be a tolerable hunter from that young age, preferring to tend to hawks and hunting hounds about Raventree Hall, and took up fishing often at his young age. The boy tended to falter at his knowledge of houses though, near and far, the colors and names and words seeming to blend together often.

His mother would become laden some few years after his sixth name-day, when he had finally gotten his first puppy to raise into a hound, and it was explained just three times to him on what precisely it meant. Bensen had a younger brother or sister, and they were coming soon. Seven months later though, his father off to Riverrun for family business, a dam broke with blood too, and both her and child were lost despite the Maester’s best efforts. The burial was held soon after, in Blackwood fashion, buried under the dead weirwood tree, and Bensen was as numb as could be to all of it. One day she was there, as vibrant as could be, and the next…the Maester didn’t let him see her, as still as she was. He’d only heard the screams, calls for help, the rush of servants here and there. Bensen had hid away with his pup during it, he had no idea really what had been.

The death broke Karkan, though. He grew to drink heavily, confess sins to holy brothers and Maesters, never to Septons, take long walks along the river with a bundle of stones in a pack. He didn’t speak to Bensen, long gone were his smiles and laughter. Eventually, the man did speak to the Maester at Raventree Hall, having Bensen sent to live with his brother. Karkan traveled north, though, far north to the wall to take on the Black.

Bensen still didn’t understand, though Lord Tully took pains to explain it. He would soon be distracted by the careful machinations of that new protector, hunting dogs, hawks, fishing supplied alike. The young boy would be embraced by his older cousin, Abigael, as she in some ways adopted him while shielding him against the fool rumors that had begun to surround Bensen. Some of the worst repute in Riverrun called him an ill-omen, marked as he was by his black hair, one who had driven a proud Tully to run off and a Blackwood to die, though Bensen rarely noticed such as the talk notably died-down whenever he and Abigael were about. Worried as they were for the actions of her father against such, and for the actions of the Lord Tully’s daughter, such fools were loath to risk their necks.

Bensen meanwhile would grow to continue to be an even better hunter than before, a good enough hawker, and well-beloved by his hunting hounds, even taking up riding in more than a cursory fashion by virtue of long-running competitions with Abigael. Young, still incapable at the strangeness of court life, still incapable at the cruelty of court politics, he remains delightfully oblivious to many of those issues which are sure to trouble him in the future. His singular connection to the probable entrance of court life would be a strong bond with his cousin, Abigael, which continues still as the pair do at times read together.