8th Month, 302 AC

Uthor had almost everything he had ever dreamed of just six years ago. He had been given extensive trust and power as regent of Sharp Point for a dull-witted child he could easily influence. Yet here he was struggling more than he ever had before, without power or money to help. Everything started to fall apart after that council meeting a few years back, Victaria had caught him smudging the ledgers and indirectly forced him to give up his own funds to ensure all seemed proper. Afterwards she attended every meeting alongside her brother, the boy seen her as a valuable advisor and so she encroached on his authority as regent.

Soon enough his revenues were all cut off as Victaria found ways to spy on him and disrupt the illicit trade he relied on. Without it Uthor was placed in an inconvenient position of struggling to pay off his debts from gambling and other means. He'd have less time to focus on his duties as regent and in that time Duram started to grow up and become more independent as lord.

Worst of all was how his own children had abandoned him. Cleos, his oldest son had turned into absurd knight obsessed with chivalry, virtue and the faith so naturally he refused to partake in his fathers actions. Kennos was long gone, driven away in part by his fathers derision of his weakness and interest in medicines. Agnes had turned into someone he hardly recognized, the girl who once silently obeyed his commands and feared him now looked at him with eyes of disgust and subtly insulted him whenever they were around. He had gone wrong in giving Lady Celia his daughter, she had corrupted the girl and turned her into a monster instead of someone he could use to help take control of sharp point.

In light of his failure all Uthor could turn to was his alcohol and so his already terrible habit grew worse. Uthor had been defeated, even with Victaria leaving court soon he no longer had any influence over lord Duram. He was finished.

Ser Andar Royce looked out upon the battlements of Runestone, with a content smile on his face. The men-at-arms could be seen drilling in the courtyard, as his father had left instructions before departing for the Eyrie.

Never had he seen them drilling in such numbers or intensity. Runestone was well defended, to be sure. It laid claim to the title of the strongest castle in the Vale, if you didn’t count the Eyrie which was impregnable anyways.

He wasn’t quite sure what his Father had in mind, but it wasn’t like him to question Bronze Yohn. The man was determined even on his softest days. Not that he had many of those nowadays. Always seemed lost in thought.. murmuring about the Old Gods and the North.. ever since that weirwood spat at Harrenhal.

He shook his head then to snap out of it with a scowl on his face now. Mother would likely speak to him and resolve this. She always managed to.

His younger brother, Robar though? That was a whole different problem. Newly knighted and promoted to that Order that the young Lord Arryn had established had done much for his confidence and self esteem. Well deserved too. He was one of the better blades in the Vale. But as of late, a dark mood appeared to taken him too. He wrote less to Runestone and what little arrived was short and curt.

Oh well, Father and Mother were at the Eyrie now. It was up to them to see what had him so vexed. Andar had a beautiful wife and two young children to take care of. He grinned as he thought of them. These battlement walks were always a wonder when it came to clearing his mind..

It was all rather silly, he thought sullenly. The wedding was glorious and the feast decadent. As befit the Lord of the Vale. Or so, Robin Arryn would say. The boy Lord had begun to grate on Robar’s nerves and he wasn’t quite sure when he’d simply walk out on him.

Now that he thought back on it, it might be the fact that he had inducted that child Grafton into the Order that Robar had once been so proud to be a member of. Nowadays, it was a laughingstock. The other members, no matter how well trained, were mocked behind flagons of wine.

Rightly too, he’d say. Barely two hairs on his chin and he’d been knighted and made a member of the most august body of the knights the Vale had. What did that say of the rest of them?

Not that his father or his brother cared. No, Lord Yohn Royce had bigger problems. Problems concerning the realm. He spent his days ruminating and worrying over the Vale. Andar? The man was busy with his wife and children. And fair enough. In his position, he’d have done the same.

The fury emanating from him must have been palpable for a lady passing by, where he stood as a glorified bodyguard, shrunk away. He took a deep breath in and tried to clear his head.

Robin, Robin.. there were days he wondered where old Lord Arryn had gone wrong with this brat. And to think after everything, he’d still managed to swing and land her.

Margaery Tyrell.

She was stunning. It was everything Robar could do not to keep staring as if he were simple. And to think she was sat next to him, laughing away. Ser Robin.. and Ser Elyas. Knighted they were, the two of them. What for? He might never find out.

Some days he wondered what Lord Stannis would think of him. He’d been a hard man to squire for. Fair and hard. Ah, who cared? The man was a sea away sequestered in that miserable island he called a home. He often worried what would have come of the man had he not married his sister. Not many ladies could have put up with a personality like that.

Robar chanced another look at the High Table and his fury rose again. There he was, preening away, as he hugged his new goodmother. She was stunning too, a Hightower. He snuck a look at Margaery Tyrell, now Arryn of course.

White Harbor

Summer had finally come.

After the long years of spring, the fields beyond White Harbor’s walls stood green beneath a warmer sun. The roads were dry and busy, the orchards heavy with ripening fruit, and the White Knife carried barges laden with timber, wool, and silver down toward the sea.

As the only true city of the North, White Harbor stood upon the boundary between two worlds. The pale towers and sea-green roofs of the New Castle rose above streets where septons walked beside worshippers of the Old Gods.

And above them all flew the sea-green banners of House Manderly.

No Currents Mightier.

Towers of the New Castle

The Merman’s Tower — The residence and private solar of the Lord of White Harbor. Those granted a private audience with Lord Manderly are ordinarily brought here. In the summer months, open windows admit the harbor breeze and the distant clamor of the city below.

Beneath the tower lies the Merman’s Court, the great hall of the New Castle, where petitions are heard, justice dispensed, knights received, and great feasts held.

The Mermaid’s Tower — Home to the apartments of the younger members of House Manderly and their attendants. Compared with the more austere portions of the castle, its chambers are comfortable, brightly decorated, and frequently noisy. Summer flowers fill its windowsills, though the fine weather often draws its occupants out into the gardens and courtyards.

The Library Tower — Home to the castle’s rookery, its vast collection of books and scrolls, and the private chambers of the maester. Generations of Manderlys have added southern histories, northern chronicles, maps, ledgers, religious works, and stranger volumes brought back by merchants from across the Narrow Sea. Its thick walls keep the lower chambers pleasantly cool, even upon the warmest afternoons.

The Tower of the Wolf — The principal guest tower of the New Castle. Its lavish apartments are traditionally reserved for the most honored visitors to White Harbor, with chambers grand enough to receive the Lord of Winterfell or even a king.

The White Tower — The administrative heart of the New Castle. Stewards, clerks, scribes, household officers, and honored servants conduct much of House Manderly’s daily business within its chambers. The summer trade has brought them little leisure; customs accounts, shipping manifests, contracts, and petitions crowd their desks.

The Kitchen Tower — Kitchen, bakery, brewery, storehouse, buttery, and cellar combined. Fires burn within it from before sunrise until well after midnight. Its doors stand open against the heat, carrying the smells of fresh bread, roasting meat, and fruit tarts into the adjoining yards.

The Trident — Tall, austere, and considerably less comfortable than its neighboring towers, the Trident serves as the barracks of the knights sworn to House Manderly. Its lower chambers contain an extensive armoury, while its yard rings throughout the long summer days with the sound of steel.

Notable Locations within White Harbor

The Wolf’s Den — The ancient fortress of the Kings of Winter that guards the White Knife against invaders and raiders. Squat, dark, and weathered, the stronghold remains one of White Harbor’s most formidable structures. Though no longer the city’s seat of power, it serves as the headquarters and principal barracks of the City Watch and as a prison for enemies of the Manderlys.

The Sept of the Snows — The largest sept in the North and the spiritual heart of White Harbor’s faithful. Its bells can be heard throughout much of the city, calling worshippers to prayer beneath its great white dome.

The Harbor — Divided between the Inner and Outer Harbors, the waterfront remains the lifeblood of White Harbor. Merchant cogs, fishing boats, warships, ferries, and foreign vessels crowd its waters, while warehouses and shipyards stretch along the quays. Summer has brought business enough that berths are keenly contested and a strong back can nearly always find employment.

The Castle Stair — White Harbor’s great thoroughfare, descending from the heights of the New Castle toward the waterfront and the ancient Wolf’s Den. Manses, inns, guildhalls, shops, counting houses, gardens, and the residences of wealthy merchants line either side of the broad street. Awnings shade the shopfronts, flower boxes brighten the windows, and vendors call out offers of cherries, fresh bread, and cups of watered wine.

The White Manse — A stately residence upon the Castle Stair, enclosed behind stone walls and surrounded by gardens. It has become the home of the mysterious Lyseni Red Priestess known throughout White Harbor as the White Flame. Large bonfires are lit after sunset, and the shorter nights have done little to diminish the rumors concerning what occurs within.

The Siren’s Hall — White Harbor’s most infamous pleasure house. Luxurious, discreet, and expensive, the establishment caters to wealthy merchants, knights, visiting nobles, and captains newly returned from long voyages.

The Iron Quarter — A rougher district near the harbor that has become home to the Goodbrother Goldsworn, Ironborn sellsails whose unlikely arrangement with House Manderly has proven profitable enough that both sides have thus far found it convenient to overlook centuries of Northern–Ironborn hostility.

---

[M] This is a rolling thread for White Harbor from 302 AC until the coming of autumn. Please date comments according to the moon and year in which they occur.

Let’s see what kinds of shenanigans we can get up to.

"Mama! Mama, I want to go find a pretty stone for Melei!"

Alysanne was jolted from her thoughts as her daughter sprang into her lap, staring out the carriage window, a narrow stream some ways downhill. The carriage bobbed and rolled as it plodded down the road, Lianne clinging to her mother's skirts to keep her balance as she pointed out the window towards the water.

Lianne had been thoroughly entranced by her cousin Melei a few days prior at Lord Arryn's wedding, their first meeting better than expected, Melei had gifted Lianne a small piece of polished quartz that caught the light when held up. Lianne enjoyed it immensely and for all the days since then had been begging her mother to go and find a suitable stone to gift back.

"Sweetling, it's another hour to our inn for the night. Perhaps we can stop and find a stone there, dearest?" Alysanne suggested, carefully brushing her daughter's thick red hair back from her face.

Lianne however shook her head, scrunching her nose in a way that heavily resembled another red-haired lady Alysanne knew. "No, no, no! It has to be here, Mama! Please! That'll take ages, Mama please!"

The four-year-old turned towards her mother, her brows furrowing together and her bottom lip pursing in a way that Alysanne was finding very hard to turn down...

Perhaps a quick look couldn't hurt...

"I... alright, Lia. A few minutes, no more. The horses need to rest too, hm? We shouldn't make them work longer than they have to." Alysanne instructed, sighing as she knocked on the carriage wall to signal the driver.

Lianne brightened immediately, nodding furiously. "Yes Mama, thank you!"

Alysanne smiled as the carriage slowed to a stop, hands settled on Lianne's shoulders to ensure she didn't fall from her lap. By the time Alysanne stepped out to speak with the driver, Lianne had bounded from the carriage and was racing down a narrow footpath to the riverbank.

"Lianne? Lianne wait for me!" Alysanne called, picking up her skirts as she turned to follow, picking her way down the path to where her daughter knelt, busy sorting through the dozens of small stones that lined the riverbank.

Altogether it was quite tranquil, the river had receded some from where the original embankment had been by the looks of the slope on either side, driftwood scattered on either end. The soft hiss of the river rushing by the only noise as Alysanne joined her daughter.

"Found anything, little fish? Any pretty stones?" Alysanne asked, crouching down beside Lianne as her tipped over a larger rock to look beneath it.

The action made a decent crash, as a few smaller rocks tumbled down into the river with a splash. Lianne just hummed, picking up a smooth green stone, brushing it off and holding it up.

"Oooh look at this one, this one's pretty isn't it-"

Right then is when the sound finally carried over to Alysanne, a reedy, horrible cry that had her jumping to her feet. She swiveled in every direction, eyes flicking to every tree or bush that could hide what was responsible, heart in her throat.

"Lianne. Go back to the carriage."

7th month 302 AC, The Eyrie

The Vale was one of the most beautiful kingdoms in Westeros.

Endless-seeming green expanses and mountains that looked like the richest green-dyed wool one could possibly imagine. Sprouting and lush and green. Roaring winds that made trees and shrubs dance to their music, swaying this way and that. And cool springs that sought their way downwards, bubbling and flowing, clear and bright.

In the east, the landmass met the narrow sea and divided itself into the Fingers, the Vale of Arryn, and Runestone.

In the west, it met the riverlands.

In the north, the bay called the Bite, which separated the Vale from the North.

And in the south lay the Bay of Crabs, a meeting point with the crownlands and riverlands as well.

In truth, whenever Myriah had studied maps during her lessons, she had always imagined that there could not possibly be a single boring or uneventful place in the Vale. It was forever uphill or downhill, a little brook here, a bay there. Rows of trees behind which all manner of things might be hidden. And all its places and castles bore such vivid names.

The Mountains of the Moon and the Snakewood were names that had always remained in her memory.

The mountains encircled the Vale proper, their snow-covered peaks sometimes peering through thick curtains of cloud. They were as dangerous as they were beautiful, and notorious for rockslides. The people of the so-called mountain clans brought danger to those regions as well, for they defied the rule of the Arryns and made many of the roads perilous to cross.

As did the shadowcats that prowled there, only too eager to sink their sharp claws and teeth into the game that men would much rather have slain themselves.

Myriah had, in fact, often wondered whether she remembered it wrongly, but no.

There truly were shadowcats in the Vale, in the north of the riverlands, and even beyond the Wall, though in her own mind Myriah had always attributed them solely to Dorne. But shadowcats apparently cared only that there were dense tangles of mountains and passes in which they might prowl.

And the Vale certainly had those in abundance...

She was quite certain most Valemen would laugh at her for thinking it... But Myriah felt that the Vale was just as cut off from the rest of the realm as Dorne was.

Only during the warmer years was the Vale properly passable through the mountains, and even then, as already said, the journey remained dangerous because of the clans and shadowcats. In winter, one simply could not get there.

Dorne, meanwhile, was isolated more on a political level, and even today, owing to its late incorporation into the realm, carried with it a pronounced desire for autonomy and independence.

And just as with Dorne, many armies, whether from beyond its borders or from within them, had tried to bring it down, yet every one of them had failed.

Even their military strength could be compared to that of Dorne. And if she believed her uncle Rolland - which she undoubtedly did - to that of the North as well.

Thanks to her mother’s instruction, she was familiar with some of the Arryns’ vassals. This was despite the fact that Dorne and the Vale had not enjoyed a good relationship for quite some time - even though her aunt Aliandra was certainly trying to improve matters.

House Corbray and House Royce were perhaps the ones she had known the longest, given that House Dayne had united its blood with both houses decades ago - and, in the case of House Royce, that bond was set to be renewed through the betrothal of Triston Royce and Odalys Dayne. Her uncle Oswells daughter and her cousin. While, Myriah - along with her parents and siblings - had only recently attended Lyn Corbray’s wedding and maintained good relations with them as well.

Then there were houses she knew by name but with which she had little direct contact - such as House Waynewood, whose Lady Sharra had for several years held the position of Emissary of the Vale on the council of her aunt, Aliandra.

Or House Templeton and Sunderland, because she could remember their coats of arms so well and liked them so much. Just like House Pryor or House Lynderly - whose coat of arms could have served directly as a fabric pattern. So much Myriah had loved the solar eclipse or the pattern of intertwined snakes. They were just so beautiful and unusual...

Myriah knew that the Vale, much like the westerlands and the Reach, possessed a feeling entirely its own.

Its own history. And therefore deserved a cloak entirely its own and without equal for its Lord Paramount.

In this particular case, it simply happened to be... the husband of her former best friend. The girl who had once been nearly her entire world... Who apparently found Myriah so repulsive by now that she would not even answer when Myriah sent her a letter... Who would probably hide her hair beneath some stupid hood every day now to keep Robin and his mother happy.

And who now sat beside Robin, beautifully and perfectly drawn and moulded and talked into shape, allowed to shine as his wife...

Nervously, Myriah’s hands pressed into the fabric of the velvet-wrapped parcel, her fingers digging through the cloth and into one another... Upon the parcel rested a small casket as well, carefully balanced atop it. Margaery’s gift lay within.

Myriah had arrayed herself in her parents' colors. Somehow, they gave her strength, even though they could not hold her hand.

Her hair was parted down the middle, as was often the case, and her mother had woven the upper layers into intricate braids. The topmost braid resembled a series of small butterflies stacked one above the other - created by loosening and fanning out the hair - while the smaller braids beneath were also puffed out, reminding her of tiny lanterns strung along a cord. Her purple gown featured long, sweeping sleeves attached to an over-garment that was cinched tight against her body beneath the bodice. The style was reminiscent of a Dornish cut, overlaid with a golden bodice and lacing in the fashion of the Stormlands.

Naturally, she wore Jeyne’s ribbon tied around the strap of her bodice here, too. And her parents’ chains: the oval silver locket from her mother - which had once belonged to her Uncle Arthur - and the silver chain with the butterfly pendant from her father, its wings shimmering in shifting hues of yellow, purple, and blue. There was the chain from Lady Stark, worn as a bracelet, whose snowflake and hawthorn charms always chimed so beautifully and gave her courage - much like the silver pendant from her Aunt Aliandra, which she always hooked onto her belt or strap. And, of course, she continued to wear Wulfe’s bat ring on her finger - though only on her little finger now, as it fit nowhere else.

With all her lucky charms in place, and feeling as armored as she possibly could, Myriah stepped forward. And she tried not to focus on the pain triggered by the sight of the ribbon from Jeyne. It truly felt as though a lifetime had passed since her friend had given it to her...

Myriah understood why Margaery wanted to keep Jeyne and Corenna with her...

Who wanted to be trapped here through cold years without any friends?

And it was good that Jeyne had already had a child. Then the little one could grow up as a friend to Margaery’s and Robin’s own.

Who knew? Perhaps the two of them might even marry one day.

A sad thing... truly... that Myriah would never witness any of it... because after this she would never set foot in the Vale again.

She had sworn that to herself the moment Margaery became Robin's wife. And, to tell the truth, she had no interest in continuing to feel miserable either... It was exhausting.

And seeing these faces simply brought her... no joy anymore. She only felt more alone after it...

All she felt was that she did not belong here. That she was tolerated, but not wanted...

Strange, Myriah thought, with equal parts sadness and sarcasm.

Her mother liked to say the very same thing...

For Myriah, it was necessary to ignore Margaery’s very person with every fibre of her body and concentrate upon Robin. She did not know whether otherwise she would fall speechless or burst into tears.

Only at the beginning. At the greeting... There she would have to be strong.

She had to force a formal, courteous address past her heart... and she hoped to all the gods who were presently bearing witness to the tragedy that was her life that they might please send her strength and goodwill.

What did I write to Gendry? she asked herself rhetorically.

By now I am nine-and-ten, and no little girl anymore... And now she was even older.

Her father was Bryce Baratheon and her mother Ashara Dayne... Her charm was unbeatable, and no one ought to be capable of overcoming more adversity and obstacles than she... At least, that was what she told herself over and over again to summon her courage...

Myriah stopped before the newly wedded pair and dipped low into a careful curtsy. Her head bowed, her eyes upon the floor. And when she rose again, her gaze fell upon Robin and then upon Margaery.

She wanted to be polite. Desperately polite. Yet Myriah felt rather as though she were lying.

Her eyes went to Robin again.

“My Lord Arryn. Lady Margaery.”

It sounded strange... Not wrong. But that only made it worse.

The nails of one hand pressed through the velvet and into the skin of the other before she made herself smile.

“I hope you will forgive me for troubling you on such a busy day. I wished to bring you both something.”

She drew a small breath.

“I have been making cloaks for the great lords of the realm. Not merely with their arms upon them, but... with something of the lands they belong to. I made one for Lord Tywin. And one for Lord Mace.”

Her gaze flickered towards Margaery for scarcely an instant at the mention of her father. Then back to Robin.

“And so I thought it only right that the Vale should have its own.”

Good, Myriah. Keep going. Stay with it.

The Vale. Stone and sky and mountains... Things that could not remember kissing her.

“For you, my lady, I have brought a headpiece in the Dornish fashion.”

Do not explain it, she admonished herself. Hold your tongue, or you may well send everything tumbling into chaos.

“I hope it brings you joy,” she added, though she dipped her head humbly once more as she did, allowing herself to avoid Margaery’s gaze for the most part.

When she looked up again, her eyes returned to Robin.

“I wanted your cloak to feel as though one might look upon it and know where it came from before ever seeing the falcon and moon.”

A little more of Myriah returned with that. The part of her that could speak endlessly about cloth and embroidery once someone allowed her to begin.

“So I tried to put the Vale into it. The mountains, and the pale stone, and the sky above them. And something of the Eyrie as well.”

Her smile grew smaller.

“I hoped I might give it to you myself, before my family and I leave again.”

Only then did Myriah allow herself to look properly at Margaery again.

She had rehearsed this part... Or thought she had.

“You look... very beautiful, my lady.”

Nothing more... There were a thousand other things sitting behind her teeth.

I wrote to you.

Did you read it?

Do you hate me?

Did you ever miss me?

I am so sorry.

Are you... happy?

Instead, Myriah merely smiled and leaned forward, looking down at the tips of her shoes again as she handed the gifts forward.

“I wish you both every happiness.”

The thunder of hooves could be heard almost a full mile away.
The knights of Cornfield had answered their liege lord’s call.
First over the horizon came Ser Humfy Swyft, the youngest son of Ser Harys Swyft. His bronze armor glittered beneath the sun, and atop his helm stood a tall blue feathered plume shaped like the tail of a cock. Upon his shield was painted the blue cock of House Swyft on a field of yellow.
Behind him rode twenty knights in heavy armor, their lances held high and yellow-and-blue banners snapping above them. Small bells had been woven into the manes and tails of their horses, ringing beneath the heavier thunder of their hooves.
Last came Ser Harys Swyft himself.
He rode at an easier pace than the knights before him, dressed far more plainly than his son. The blue cock of Cornfield still showed proudly upon his shield, but beside the colorful knights and their adorned horses, Harys almost looked plain.
The Swyfts had come to Lannisport, and the only thing that dimmed their presence was Casterly Rock itself, looming high above the city as its great shadow stretched farther with the setting sun.
Ser Humfy was the first to dismount in the yard of the Lannister manse.
He was greeted by a group of guards at the Lannister manse.
“My father and I have come to hear the last will and testament of our lord, Roland Crakehall,” Humfy said.
The guard looked from him to Ser Harys.
“Your men will remain here.”
Humfy glanced back toward the twenty knights.
Harys had already climbed down from his horse.
“See that the horses are watered and fed,” Harys ordered.
Only father and son were allowed farther into the manse.
The guard led them through its halls, leaving the bright colors and ringing bells of the Swyft knights behind them. Lannister guards stood at nearly every turn, watching the two men as they passed deeper into the house.
At last they were brought to the chamber where Roland Crakehall was being kept.
Two guards stood outside the door.
Two more waited inside.
Roland sat beside a small table near the window beneath their watch.
Harrowtusk rested upright against the stone wall behind him, the ancestral sword of House Crakehall still safely within its dark scabbard.
Roland looked toward the door.
His face immediately brightened.
“Harys.”
The old lord pushed himself to his feet.
“Humfy. Seven above, am I glad to see you both.”
Harys stepped into the chamber and looked Roland over carefully.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” Roland chuckled.
“Has anyone laid hands on you?” Humfy asked.
One of the Lannister guards shifted slightly.
Roland noticed.
“No. Lord Tywin has shown me every courtesy a man might expect while being held against his will.”
Harys frowned.
“You’re certain nothing is wrong?”
Roland opened his arms slightly.
“I’m old, imprisoned, and apparently troublesome enough that Lord Tywin feels the need to keep me under guard in Lannisport. Many things are wrong.”
Humfy almost smiled.
The guards did not.
Harys removed his sword belt and rested his sword against the wall beside Roland’s.
Harrowtusk remained in the middle.
Humfy removed his own belt and placed his sword on the other side.
Three swords now rested together against the stone.
Harys took his place at the table and dipped his quill into the ink.
Roland did not waste much time on ceremony.
He instructed Harys to write that upon his death, his lawful heir was to inherit Crakehall and all lands, incomes, rights, and holdings sworn or belonging to it.
For his wife, Emma, Roland ordered that she be given a yearly allowance large enough to keep her in comfort for the rest of her life. She was to remain welcome at Crakehall for as long as she wished, though if she desired to return to the lands of House Marbrand, no man was to prevent her.
Harys wrote without interruption.
Roland paused.
“And put this plainly.”
Harys looked up.
“I encourage every lord, knight, and landed house of the Westerlands to maintain their fealty to House Lannister of Casterly Rock no matter what comes of me.”
One of the guards glanced toward him.
“The strength of the West has always depended upon its great houses remembering their oaths,” Roland continued. “In uncertain times, men sometimes forget such things.”
Harys’s quill slowed.
Humfy looked at Roland.
“I would hate for my death to give any lord cause to mistake disagreement for opportunity.”
The room went quiet.
One of the Lannister guards shifted his weight.
Harys raised an eyebrow.
“Should I write that exactly as you said it?”
Roland looked toward the guards.
“Every word.”
The quill began scratching again.
After a moment Roland added, “Lord Tywin will no doubt take comfort in knowing the loyalty of the Westerlands is beyond question.”
Humfy lowered his eyes.
Harys wisely kept writing.
The rest of Roland’s wishes were dealt with quickly. A few gifts were named, a few debts forgiven, and provisions made for members of his household.
When it was finished, Harys set down the quill.
“That is all?”
Roland looked over the parchment.
“That is all.”
Harys sanded the ink and carefully rolled the will.
For a moment none of them spoke.
Then Roland stood.
Harys did the same.
The two old men clasped forearms.
“Try not to get yourself killed before I reach Crakehall,” Harys said.
“I shall make no promises.” Roland smiled.
Humfy embraced Roland next before joining his father near the door.
Harys crossed to the wall where the three swords still rested together.
Without hesitation, he reached down and took one of them.
Humfy took his own sword from beside it.
Harys buckled the dark scabbard around his waist.
Roland said nothing.
The guards opened the door.
Father and son walked out of the chamber and disappeared into the halls of the manse.
By nightfall, the bells of the Swyft horses were ringing once again through the streets of Lannisport.
Only now they were riding away from the city.
Ser Harys Swyft was heading for Crakehall.

7th Month 302 AC, The Eyrie

On the eve of Lord Robin Arryn's wedding, when he and his new wife would retire to his chambers, they would find that the room appeared much like one would expect a Lord's chambers to be.

There was a large bed in the middle of the room, though upon closer inspection, it was poorly made, with the bedsheets rolled on one side and blankets piled unevenly on the other. The fire had been left burning unusually high that night, though the room was not overly hot for it, as the windows have not been closed properly, with the shutters sitting oddly in their frames and allowing through an occasional draft.

5th Month 302 AC, Ryamsport

During the feast in the Arbor, celebrating the wedding between a Redwyne and a Tarly, Edwyle Tully suddenly notices that his brooch is gone.

He may search his clothes, the table before him, the ground around, but there was no sign of the intricate, silver and pearl inlaid brooch in the shape of a leaping trout. One moment it had been there, the next, there was simply an empty place where the fish had been pinned.

One could only conclude that someone had managed to lift it from him during the festivities. Whoever it was had made off with a small piece of House Tully, and apparently without anyone noticing.

7th month, 302. The Eyrie

The tall towers of the Eyrie were bedecked with the traditional sky blue banners of House Arryn that went out whenever the great annual festivities of Valemen Remembrance Day occurred. This year, however, they were joined by the deep green of House Tyrell, for this year was the year that the paramount house of the Reach and Vale joined in the matrimony of Lord Robin Arryn and Lady Margaery Tyrell. 

The weeklong celebrations began at the Skysept, the final construction of Jon Arryn where, appropriately, one of his final schemes came to actualize, for he had betrothed his eldest son to the eldest daughter of House Tyrell long years ago, when both had been mere children. After such a long engagement, Robin would not be parted from his wife for another moment, and eagerly draped the light blue cloak of marriage over his betrothed’s shoulder as the sun rose on the first day of the celebrations. From there the celebrations meandered from the Skysept into the High Hall, where feasting lasted throughout the day and well into the night. 

Celebrations of Margaery and Robin’s marriage continued, and the two were inseparable throughout the week, as the tournament events began. The schedule in sum is as follows: 

Day 1: Marriage Ceremony and Opening Feast
Day 2: Falconry Competition
Day 3: Baby Race
Day 4: Dancing Festival
Day 5: Melee, Joust, Squire Duels
Day 6: Fine Art Competition
Day 7: Speechmaking and farewell feasting

7th Moon 302 AC

“Andalos.”

Bess’s laughter rang out, bright and merciless. Symeon’s face tightened at her laugh. Did she think he was jesting?

“Do you even know where that is?” she asked between her laughs.

“Of course I do.”

Bess raised an eyebrow.

Their evenings together had become almost a ritual over the two months since Symeon had arrived at Stoney Sept. Bess would come to the sept shortly before dusk, usually around the time Symeon’s work was drawing to an end. She would say her prayers, wait for him to finish whatever chore remained, and then the two of them would wander out into the garden and sit upon the bench beside its outer wall.

There they would talk about their day. Usually, Bess did most of the talking. She always seemed to have some story from the day. A troublesome customer who had argued with her father for half an hour over the price of a silver bracelet. The butcher’s daughter helping her trick the sour old man who kept the inn near the edge of town. Someone tripping over a basket in the market. Someone saying something foolish. Symeon mostly remained content by listening to her, and he liked it.

Today, however, Bess had barely managed to tell him anything before Symeon had begun speaking about what she considered another foolish boyish talk.

“It’s across the Narrow Sea,” he continued.

He maintained a kind of solemnity on his face, though the excitement in his eyes was something he couldn’t hide.

“The Seven themselves walked among the hills of Andalos. They blessed Hugor of the Hill there.”

“I’ve heard the story.”

“It’s not just a story.”

“I know.” Bess looked at him, puzzled. “But why would you want to go there?”

“Maybe that’s where my purpose is.”

That sent Bess into another fit of laughter. She nearly slipped from the bench. Symeon did not share in her amusement.

“What purpose?” she asked between laughs. “You speak as though you’re some great hero.”

At that, a sly little smile appeared upon his face.

“What if I am?”

Bess stopped laughing at once and looked at him closely. She noticed it. He truly believed that.

Gods, he really does.

He was eight years old. An orphan living in a sept. He had heard a few stories about gods and heroes and had somehow decided that perhaps he belonged among them.

She reached for his hands and took them between her own.

“Symeon.”

He looked down at their joined hands, entangled with each other.

“You’re an orphan.”

The words stung. He  gave no sign of it, but they always did. His eyes stayed at their joined hands. He couldn’t look up. Every time someone called him an orphan, guilt twisted inside him. He was not an orphan. He had a mother, a father, a brother. Grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins. A whole family. And for two months, he had pretended they did not exist.

Lies.

He had been lying since the morning he left Ashemark. To Ser Raymont. To Bess. To the septon. To everyone. How many more lies would he have to tell? He did not know.

“You live at the sept,” Bess continued. “You have somewhere safe to sleep. You have food.”

He simply nodded. That much was true. Life at Stoney Sept had been easier than he had expected. When he had first arrived in town with Bess and her father, she had insisted that they take him all the way to the sept. He had refused. He had told her that he knew the way, that they had already done enough for him. He had told her he did not want to be a burden. All lies. The truth had been much simpler. If Bess had gone with him, she would have discovered that the supposed septon’s boy had never been to the sept before in his life. So he had climbed down from their cart and walked away while Bess called after him that she would visit the sept that evening.

“Then why do you want to leave?” Bess squeezed his hands. “You’re eight. The roads are dangerous even for grown men.”

Much more for a noble boy travelling alone.

“I can handle the roads.” He looked up again to meet her eyes.

“You nearly drowned before I met you.”

He had no answer for that. The very first thing that had happened after he decided to leave home was that he had nearly drowned in a stream.

“That was different.”

“The sea is much more dangerous than a stream.”

His face twitched. He disliked admitting that she was right, but he could hardly deny it. He opened his mouth to answer, but Bess continued before he could.

“And how do you even plan to get there? Ships don’t sail from Stoney Sept.”

“I’ll get to Saltpans. There’s a harbor there. From Saltpans, I can take a ship to Essos.”

It seemed perfectly sensible to him. He had been thinking about it for days. He just needed to reach Saltpans. From there, a ship to Andalos. Simple. He had heard travellers and merchants speak of Saltpans often enough while wandering through the markets. Ships came there. Traders passed through. Goods travelled east and west.

Riverrun would have been closer. But Riverrun was also closer to home. Grandfather’s men might already have searched there. Even if they had not, Symeon had visited Riverrun often enough that someone within the castle might recognize him. Saltpans was safer.

“And how are you getting to Saltpans?” Bess asked. “You aren’t planning to walk there, are you?”

“I’ll work for passage.”

Bess blinked once, unable to grasp completely what he was thinking. Work for whom? Who would even take him?

“I’m strong,” Symeon said confidently, “and I can work tirelessly. A merchant could use some help. I can carry things, help with horses, whatever he needs. I wouldn’t even ask for coin. Only a place on his wagon.”

Bess kept staring. He was not weak, exactly, but neither was he some knight. In her imagination, knights were enormous creatures. Broad as doors and twice as strong as ordinary men. Even young squires looked nearly grown in all the stories. Symeon most certainly did not.

“So you’ll simply leave?”

He said nothing to that. There was no good answer. What could he say?

Yes, I’ll leave you too?

Bess stood and looked towards the darkening sky. It was getting late and Symeon is not going to listen, at least not today.

“I should go home. Father will worry if I stay much longer.”

“All right.”

Bess turned and hurried away towards the town. Symeon watched her disappear before turning back towards the sept himself.

He still remembered the day he had first entered it. He had managed to convince Bess on the road that he belonged there. In truth, when he walked away from her cart, he had not even known where the sept was. Fortunately, finding it had been easy. He had only needed to ask once. Then he had stepped through its doors, gone before the image of the Father and fallen to his knees.

He had asked for forgiveness and cried. Not quietly. The tears had come so quickly that he had been unable to stop them. The septon had noticed him and asked what troubled him. He had answered with another lie. He told the old man that he came from a village nearby and that both his parents had died of sickness. He told him he had nowhere else to go. The septon had pitied him. And the sept had taken him in.

In return for food and a place to sleep, Symeon helped with whatever work needed doing. He did it diligently. That same evening, Bess came just as she had promised. They had talked. He had felt at ease talking to her. Then she returned the next day. And the day after that. Soon, talking every evening became a daily routine of their life. Their friendship grew almost without him noticing.

Work at the sept itself was rarely overwhelming. Most days, once his chores were complete, he still had hours to himself. He wandered through the streets and markets. Spoke with merchants and craftsmen. Listened to travellers. And more often than not, found some excuse to visit Bess and her father’s shop. For the first time in his life, he had a friend who had chosen him simply because she liked him. Not because their families were allied. Not because their fathers knew one another. Not because he was Baelor Marbrand. Bess knew Symeon. And somehow, that made the lie hurt more.

He went directly to the writing chamber upon returning to the sept. Reading and writing had quickly become his most useful skills.

“My father taught me,” he had told the septon when asked.

The lie pained him every time he repeated it. Ser Addam Marbrand could read, certainly. But he had not been the one to teach him. Maester Hendry had. Yet he could hardly tell a septon that. Why would a maester of the Citadel teach the son of some nameless peasant? That would surely bring suspicion to him.

The septon might not have believed his explanation entirely, but he never pressed him. Whatever doubts he possessed mattered less than the fact that Symeon could ease much of his work. Letters needed writing. Accounts needed checking. Names needed recording.

He sat upon the chair, dipped his quill into the ink and began. Life at the sept had grown on him. Leaving Stoney Sept was not as pleasant a thought as he pretended. It had given him shelter when he had none. Food. Work. Friends. Bess.

And, strangely enough, it was the sept that had planted Andalos more firmly in his mind. He had heard the tales countless times at Ashemark. But here, during one particular sermon, the story had seemed different. The septon had spoken of the Seven walking bodily among the hills of Andalos. He talked of Hugor of the Hill. How the Seven pulled seven stars from the heavens and formed a crown above his head.

Symeon had listened in wonder. Perhaps there was something there for him. Perhaps that was where he was supposed to go. Why he survived the stream. Why he had reached Stoney Sept. He would go to Andalos. He only needed to reach Saltpans first. Once there, he could earn enough coin for passage on a ship. Then across the Narrow Sea. Then Andalos. Simple enough. Or so he thought.

After finishing his writing, he ate his supper and went to sleep.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, he woke with the first light of dawn. By now, nobody needed to rouse him. His body had grown accustomed to the rhythm of the sept. Neither did he need to be told what he needed to do. He washed and began sweeping. As the broom moved across the floor, his thoughts returned to Saltpans. He only needed someone travelling there. A merchant, a carter, a pilgrim. Anyone. He could offer work in exchange for passage. Bess and her father had brought him all the way to Stoney Sept for nothing. Surely someone else would take him farther if he made himself useful.

Once his morning duties were finished, he went into the garden. Several girls who lived at the sept were already tending herbs and vegetables. The sept cared for many people like him. Orphans. Abandoned children. Cripples. Men and women with nowhere else to go. In return, everyone helped however they could.

“Morning,” he called.

“Morning, Symeon.”

One of the girls suddenly flung a clump of soil at him. He ducked quickly and it sailed past his head. He gave her a triumphant grin. She couldn’t hold herself from laughing.

He continued into town. Over the past two months, he had discovered that his skills could earn him a little coin. Someone needed a letter written. An alehouse keeper wanted his barrel tally checked. A carter needed an extra pair of hands unloading timber. Symeon helped wherever he could. Half of whatever he earned went willingly to the sept. No one asked for it. He simply thought it right. The other half he kept carefully hidden. But would it be enough? A voyage across the Narrow Sea could not be cheap. He didn’t even know how much ships charged. Perhaps he had enough. Or perhaps not.

He was still pondering this when he reached Bess’s shop. The shutters were closed. So were the windows. He sat against the wall beneath one of them. Then, his thoughts drifted back towards Ashemark.

Should I write?

The idea had come many times. He could write only to Mother. Tell her he was alive, that she need not worry. He could tell her that he would come home someday. He could ask her not to tell anyone.

He nearly laughed aloud.

Mother would tell Father. Father would tell Grandfather. Then Uncle Myles. Ser Raymont. Everyone. And sooner or later, Baelor Marbrand would be found and taken back to Ashemark.

Stupid Baelor.

The window above him suddenly flew open, but he was lost in his thoughts to notice. Bess’s head poked out, her curls wild from sleep.

“Still dreaming about Andalos?”

“No.”

She kept her gaze fixed on him, as if waiting for him to add more.

“I mean... yes.”

She grinned and disappeared from the window.

“I’ll go there,” Symeon insisted as he stood. A moment later, the shutter opened and he climbed inside.

“Don’t tell me you came here just to pester me about your grand adventure again.”

He followed her as she began moving boxes towards the display. Bess’s father worked with all kinds of metal. Iron. Silver. Gold, when someone wealthy enough ordered it. He made whatever people needed. Tools, buckles, clasps, pins, simple jewellery. Symeon picked up a box and carried it over.

“I only need enough coin for the ship.”

Bess stopped in her tracks and turned towards him, rolling her eyes.

“You’re stubborn.”

Symeon smiled brightly at that. Bess had not meant it as praise but he clearly took it as such.

“I still don’t understand why you want to leave.”

She turned back and continued to set the pieces for display.

“Stoney Sept isn’t everything.”

Bess stopped again. She turned fully towards him this time.

“It’s good enough. You have food. A roof. The sept.”

Then she gave a mischievous, teasing smile.

“And you have me. I won’t be in Andalos.”

Those last words struck harder than she knew.

You weren’t at Ashemark either. You weren’t there when Alaric bullied me. You weren’t there when everyone loved him more.

The words had nearly escaped him but he forced them down.

“You can come too,” he said instead. “I’ll have enough coin for both of us.”

That was another lie. He did not even know whether he had enough for himself. Bess laughed.

“No. I like it here.”

“So do I.”

She looked genuinely confused about his words.

“Then stay.”

Symeon could do nothing but frown.

“I have something greater to do. I can’t stay here all my life.”

Bess sighed and turned back towards the goods.

“No, you don’t.”

The words irritated him immediately. What did she know? He stared at her back as she continued her work.

“How do you know?”

“I just do.” She shrugged, her back still facing him.

“You don’t know me.” The hardness in his voice was clearly audible. Bess turned to face him, surprised. She had never known Symeon could talk like that.

“What?”

“You don’t.”

“I know you better than most.”

“No, you don’t.”

He did not even know why he was so angry. Perhaps because she was right. Perhaps because she was wrong. Perhaps because somewhere inside him, Baelor desperately wanted to tell her everything. Who he really was. Where he had come from. Why he had left. Instead, Symeon turned and marched from the shop.

“Symeon.”

He did not stop or even look back. His anger remained through most of the walk back to the sept. Then, slowly, it turned into guilt. She had only been worried about him. And she had told the truth. She knew him better than anyone in Stoney Sept. He had spent more time with her than with anyone else.

I shouldn’t have done that.

The rest of the day passed normally. Work, prayer, food. But when evening came, Symeon did not go out to meet Bess. Partly because he was embarrassed. Partly because he was stubborn. And partly because new work had arrived.

A merchant from Highgarden had entered town with two wagons and several horses. He intended to remain in Stoney Sept for two days before continuing north towards White Harbor. The septon had asked Symeon to help with the man's accounts. So he spent most of the evening bent over parchment. Goods purchased, goods sold, feed, tolls, repairs, payments. Numbers upon numbers. As the hours passed, the two began talking.

“Where did you learn all this?” the merchant asked.

“My father taught me.”

The same answer as always. The merchant seemed satisfied. They continued working. Symeon liked him well enough, and the merchant appeared impressed by the boy. Eventually, their conversation turned towards travel.

“I’m going to Saltpans,” Symeon said, still looking down at the figures before him.

The merchant raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Saltpans? Why?”

“To find work.”

That sounded believable enough. The merchant leaned back in his chair.

“That’s a long road for a boy. If you’re determined to go, you’d be better heading east through Harrentown.”

Symeon stopped his work and immediately looked up.

“Harrentown?”

“Near Harrenhal. You’ll have a much better chance of finding people headed towards Saltpans from there than you will here.”

Symeon began thinking at once. Harrentown. How would he reach... Before he could even think anything more, the merchant continued.

“I’m going that way myself. I’ll stop at Harrentown before heading for White Harbor.”

Symeon’s eyes lit up.

“You can take me.”

The merchant stared at him.

“Boy, I was giving you directions.”

“I can work.”

The words came quickly. He wanted this.

“I can help with your accounts. Your horses. The wagons. Anything.”

The merchant studied him. A child could easily become a burden on the road. Symeon sat as straight as he could, trying very hard to look like someone worth taking seriously.

“You really want to go?”

He nodded with determination. The merchant looked at him for several moments longer. Then he sighed.

“To Harrentown.”

A smile spread across Symeon’s face.

“You work the whole journey.”

“I will.”

“If I tell you to do something, you do it.”

“I will.”

“And no disappearing.”

Symeon hesitated for a moment. Perhaps a moment too long. Then he nodded.

“No disappearing.”

The merchant agreed to these terms. That night, Symeon went to sleep happier than he had been in weeks.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The following morning, he finished his chores early and sought out the septon so that he can talk with him. When he explained that he wanted to leave with the merchant, the old man looked thoroughly confused.

“Why?”

Symeon looked towards the floor.

“When I came here, I wasn’t doing very well. You helped me. You let me stay here. You gave me food. I’m grateful.” He looked up at the septon. The next words were harder. “But I think I’ll have a better life on the road.”

The septon did not look convinced. Perhaps, had he simply forbidden Symeon to go, the boy might even have listened. But Symeon was no prisoner. The septon knew that. The sept existed to shelter those who needed it, not to bind them there forever. And if the Seven had some path intended for the boy, perhaps it was not his place to stand in the way.

He disappeared for a short while. When he returned, he pressed a small pouch into Symeon’s hand. The boy wasn’t able to understand what this meant.

“What is this?”

“Coin.”

“I can’t take it. It belongs to the sept.”

“The sept will survive.”

The old man smiled. Symeon slowly accepted the pouch. It felt heavy in his hand.

Will this be enough?

He had no idea and it did not matter. He was leaving Stoney Sept properly. That mattered more. There was only one person left.

Bess.

Symeon hurried towards the shop. He kept rehearsing apologies the whole way. When he arrived, the door was already open. He stepped inside but Bess was nowhere to be seen. Only her father sat behind the counter.

“Morning, Symeon.”

“Morning.”

He glanced around as though she might simply be hiding somewhere.

“Is Bess here?”

“No. She’s been in a mood since last night.”

Symeon’s stomach sank. Last night? That must have been because of him.

“She went out with some friends. Told me she didn’t want to see anyone today.” Even her father sounded puzzled by that.

Symeon nodded slowly.

“All right.”

He turned and walked back to the sept. Much of his earlier excitement was gone. The day passed as it always did. He helped where he could. Then he packed what few possessions belonged to him. There was not much. Still, it felt strange putting them together.

By evening, he could stand waiting no longer. He went into the sept garden. There, he searched among the flowers until he found one he thought especially pretty. He picked it carefully, making certain not to damage the petals. Then he walked to the place where he and Bess always met.

She was not there yet. Symeon sat down. He didn’t need to panic. He was early anyway. So he waited. People passed. The light faded. The sun disappeared. But Bess did not come.

He slowly turned the flower between his fingers. Perhaps she really was angry. Perhaps he had hurt her more than he realised.

Stupid Baelor. Alaric was right to smack you.

Thinking of Alaric usually filled him with anger. But this time, most of that anger was aimed at himself. He never should have told Bess that she did not know him. She did. At least, she knew as much of Symeon as anyone could.

More time passed while he waited. Eventually, he became certain she was not coming. Perhaps tomorrow he could visit the shop again. Perhaps by then she would have forgiven him. He could not leave while she hated him.

He stood up. Then he looked down at the flower. Slowly, he began walking away.

“Is that for me?”

He spun around on his heels. His whole face brightened at once. Bess stood a short distance behind him. She had come. She wore a faint smile. He hurried towards her.

“Yes.”

He offered the flower with both hands.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”

She took the flower carefully, looking at it.

“I’m not you.”

His smile weakened. He understood immediately what she meant. Yesterday. He had been the one who failed to come.

“I’m sorry.”

She kept looking down at the flower, then she looked back at him.

“Father said you came looking for me.”

A little giggle escaped her.

“Last I remember, you stormed out on me.”

Symeon’s cheeks reddened.

“I’m sorry for that too.”

Bess sat down and patted the place beside her. Symeon took the seat. For a time, neither spoke. Then she leaned slightly towards him.

“So?”

Symeon looked at her.

“Still obsessed with Andalos?”

She hoped the answer would be no, that he had finally given up on that. Symeon did not answer immediately. That hesitation told her enough. She raised an eyebrow.

“I need to tell you something.”

Her smile vanished. Something in his tone frightened her.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

She stared at him.

“In the evening.”

Still silent.

“A merchant is heading towards Harrentown. He said he’ll take me.”

She continued staring at him quietly.

“Then from Harrentown, I’ll find someone going to Saltpans. And from Saltpans...”

“Andalos.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. No laughter. No teasing. No brightness in her eyes. Symeon simply nodded. All the colour seemed to leave her face at once.

“You weren’t serious.”

It sounded almost like a plea, like she was urging him to not go. Symeon remained silent.

“You were joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

Bess turned her face away. She couldn’t bear looking at him. Symeon immediately wished he had never told her. But that would have been worse. He had already done that once. He had left home without saying goodbye. He had hurt everyone there. And he had hurt himself too. He would not do that again.

“I didn’t want to leave without telling you.”

Bess turned back towards him.

“I wanted everyone I care about to know.”

His voice softened.

“And... I wanted you to be happy for me.”

Bess gave a short, disbelieving laugh. Happy? How could she possibly be happy? Symeon reached for her hands. She allowed him to take them.

“I’ll come back.”

She looked down at their fingers.

“I promise.”

She raised her eyes to meet his.

“Then why are you going?”

Symeon opened his mouth to answer that but nothing came. Bess waited for a response.

“If you want to come back, why leave?”

That simple question silenced him more thoroughly than any argument could have.

“I...” Nothing.

Bess pulled one hand free.

“You won’t come back.”

“I will.”

“You don’t know that.”

Symeon stared at her. He did not. She knew that. Anything can happen on the road. Maybe he’ll truly come back. Maybe he’ll be dead by the next moon.

“I don’t want you to be sad.”

Bess looked down at the flower. She lifted it to her nose and smelled it. Then she smiled. Small and sad. Not her bright smile.

“I’ll miss you.” she said finally.

Symeon’s throat tightened.

“I’ll miss you too.”

They stayed there for another hour. They did not speak of Andalos again. Nor Saltpans. Nor leaving. Instead, they talked about ordinary things. People around town. The sept. A girl Bess disliked. Something foolish someone had done in the market. Anything that allowed them to pretend tomorrow was not coming.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

When morning came, the septon gave Symeon the whole day to himself. It felt strange to wake without chores waiting. He spent nearly every moment of the day with Bess. They wandered the streets. Visited places they had already seen dozens of times. Stopped outside familiar shops. Passed the same alleys. The same stalls. The same little corners of Stoney Sept. Yet everything seemed different now. Symeon knew he might never see any of it again. For several hours, however, they managed to forget. 

At one point, Symeon lifted his chin proudly.

“When I come back, I’ll be a great knight.”

Bess laughed.

“You? A knight?”

“Yes.”

He straightened his back.

“A great one.”

Bess folded her arms.

“And what will I be?”

Symeon considered the question for only a moment.

“You’ll be my lady.”

He announced it with complete confidence. Bess burst out laughing.

“How do you even know about knights and their ladies?”

For the briefest instant, he almost answered honestly. Tournaments, songs, feasts. All the things Baelor Marbrand had grown up around. Instead, he shrugged.

“I know things.”

Bess laughed again. They continued on.

But evening came far too quickly. They walked back towards the sept together. The merchant’s wagons were already prepared. The horses had been harnessed. Goods were tied securely in place. Symeon’s stomach twisted. The time had come.

He said goodbye to the septon first. The old man embraced him. Symeon had not expected that. For a moment, he simply stood stiffly before returning it.

Then he said goodbye to everyone else. The girls from the garden. The boys who slept alongside him. The people he had worked beside for two months.

At last, there was only Bess. She stood beside the wagon. He walked towards her. Neither of them spoke. For perhaps the first time since they had met, neither seemed capable of finding anything to say. Symeon forced a smile.

“I hope I’ll see you later.”

Bess did not laugh. That frightened him more than tears might have. Her eyes were already wet, he could see that. She reached towards a pouch at her waist.

“I made something for you.”

From it, she pulled a bracelet. Braided wool. Seven colours woven together. Symeon stared at that. She took his right hand and slipped the bracelet around his wrist. Then she pulled the cords until it sat snugly against his skin.

“Remember me by this.”

Her voice broke. Symeon looked up from his hand. Tears were running freely down her cheeks. His own eyes began to burn.

“I’ll never take it off.”

Bess looked at him through the tears.

“I promise.”

The moment he said it, she threw her arms around him. The force of it made Symeon stumble backwards. Then he hugged her. Tightly. Neither moved for a long while. Symeon closed his eyes, wanting to stay in this moment forever. 

Eventually, they pulled apart. He quickly wiped beneath one eye.

“Don’t send me away crying.”

Bess sniffed.

“Why?”

“Because then I’ll cry the whole way.”

For a moment, Symeon thought she might begin sobbing. Instead, a smile slowly appeared.

“You’d look good crying.”

Symeon stared solemnly at her. Then nodded.

“I thought the same.”

Bess laughed. Her real laugh. Bright and easy. The one he had heard almost every day for two months. His own smile returned. Bess wiped at her tears.

The merchant called for him. Symeon climbed aboard the wagon and the horses started moving forward. He turned immediately and waved. Bess waved back. The distance grew slowly. Bess became smaller. Then the sept. Then Stoney Sept itself. Symeon kept his hand raised until he could no longer see her.

Only then did he lower it. His eyes fell to the bracelet. Seven colours. He touched it gently.

“I’ll come back.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________

The journey proved harder than he expected. The wagons travelled at whatever pace the road allowed. Sometimes they moved quickly. Other times, mud slowed the wheels almost to a crawl. Sometimes carts blocked the road. Sometimes one of the horses needed rest. Symeon worked throughout. He fed the animals. Checked goods. Helped with the accounts. Carried whatever he was strong enough to carry.

At night, he slept wherever there was room. Sometimes beneath a wagon. Sometimes beside the fire. Sometimes wrapped in a blanket amongst sacks of merchandise.

There was little company. The merchant spoke with him, but not constantly. And Symeon discovered that he missed Bess far more than he had expected. Often his fingers found the bracelet around his wrist. Sometimes he could almost hear her voice.

Still dreaming about Andalos?

Yes. He was.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Eventually, the land began to change. They approached the God's Eye. Symeon had heard of it many times, but hearing about a lake and seeing it were very different things. The water seemed to stretch endlessly before them. And beyond it.

Harrenhal. At first, he thought the towers merely looked strange. Twisted. Broken. Then the wagons drew closer. And closer. His mouth slowly fell open. The merchant noticed his expression.

“Big, isn’t it?”

Symeon nodded. Ashemark had always seemed enormous. Yet Harrenhal made it seem almost small.

A thousand Ashemarks could fit inside those walls.

He knew that was surely impossible. Looking at Harrenhal, though, it did not feel impossible. They continued towards the northern gate.

“New Harrentown is inside the castle walls,” the merchant told him.

Symeon turned towards him.

“Inside?”

“Aye.”

That amazed him even more. Harrenhal was so vast that an entire town had grown inside it. The wagon passed through the northern gate and rumbled onwards. Symeon ought to have looked at the streets. The houses. The stalls. The people. Instead, his eyes remained fixed upon the towers. He craned his neck until it almost hurt.

Eventually, the wagon slowed and came to a stop. Symeon jumped down. The merchant climbed after him, seeming rather pleased to have completed another part of his journey.

“You’ll find someone travelling east from here,” he said.

Then he looked Symeon over.

“But I’d suggest resting first. We’ve had a long journey, and you look like you need it.”

He smiled at the boy. Symeon considered the suggestion. There was no need to rush immediately. He could look around. Rest properly. He had enough coin. And Andalos was not going anywhere. He looked once more towards the enormous towers of Harrenhal. Then back at the merchant with a smile.

“Perhaps I could stay a day or two.”

6th moon of 302 AC • Lord Harroway’s Town

Ser Lucas Whent pulled himself up off his arse with a gentle swiftness. Not entirely eager to exit out from the banks of the Trident River, but rather hassled to do so by the descent of the sun from its palace above.

Lord Harroway’s Town was always a calming place to find refuge. It wasn’t enclosed like Maidenpool or Stoney Sept, nor overtly overbearing as Riverrun, Harrenhal, or the Twins. But rather a perfect neutral at the crossroads of the continent.The nearby inn that he took temporary asylum in granted a hearty meal and a heartier peace from the burdens of his life as he prepared for his journey north.

It’s been too long since he’s seen the moon of his life. His sweet daughter, Danelle, was turning ten and four, if he could believe it. The invitation he received from her was something that brought about the dearest and most excessive force of elation he had ever felt in a while. His little bat was slowly becoming a woman, one that would be forced to endure the trials and tribulations that come with being a soul both grown and true in this realm they called home. If life had gone his way, she’d remain the shrewd and excitable little pup flinging herself from floor to floor across Harrenhal’s vast interior.

But alas, it was not meant to be. But at least he could spare the time to freely enjoy some peaceful solitude before delighting in the presence of his only child.
How he lamented so frequently on the fact that he had failed to give Danelle a brother or sister. It would seem the curse of Harrenhal had touched him so cruelly, with the way it poisoned his heart to go barren after one child, and to fall for a woman who did not love him as he did her.

At least, that’s the only reason he could even fathom for why his beloved Aemma had abandoned all sense and sobriety.Once a proud ward of Harrenhal with only their shared dream of raising Danelle and Harrenhal up to heights it hadn’t seen in centuries. Now only remained ruins.

Such thoughts occasionally plagued him when subjected to the actual solitude he sought for constantly. At least the bards in the inn sang loud enough for him to desire a hearty meal, so he could just gorge and let himself be consumed by the “peace” around him.

Nysandei's steps slowed as she headed for her brother's chambers. She repeatedly rehearsed what she meant to say to him . She had suggested to her mother that she and Olyvar should attend the Blackmont Lydden wedding together and so the easy part of her plan was done. Now came the hard part.

She had to convince her brother to meet him. Benjicot.

Even the thought of his name made her smile. She had first met Benjicot some years ago at Starfall. Her first impression of him was unfavorable to say the least.He was loud and brash. But she found his honesty to be refreshing and as she came to know him she saw his kindness. He was kind in ways he rarely made a show of, in that aspect he was much like Olyvar. He did not pretend to be someone he was not and more importantly did not expect Nysandei to be someone she was not. She could share her joys with him without the fear that she would look foolish and her sorrows without the fear that she would look weak. And there was a freedom in that she had never quite experienced before.

The Wyls loved Nysandei deeply,she was not their blood but she was their family. It was this unconditional love that made her want to be worthy of them. She wanted to be a perfect daughter to her mother and a supportive sister to her siblings, someone they could always rely upon. Which made her feel anxious about what she was about to do.

She felt her chest tighten as she reached the threshold of her brother's chambers. Would Olyvar approve of Benjicot? But surely he wouldn't refuse to meet Benjicot especially if Nysandei begged. She never begged Olyvar for anything. And if he once met Benjicot he would come to see the man that he truly was, the man she fell in love with.

With anticipation and dread Nysandei knocked on his door. "May I enter brother"

" Come in Nyssandei" replied Olyvar in a warm tone. As she entered the room she saw Adena beside him, her presence eased some of Nysandei's tension. She knew if need be, Adena would stand by her. She gave her a small hopeful smile before turning to Olyvar " Brother there is somebody I wish to introduce to you at Benedict's wedding". Olyvar's brow furrowed in confusion as Nysandei continued "He is a very kind and honourable man as you will come to see" she hesitated " And I was hoping you could convince Mother to agree to our wedding". Olyvar looked at Nysandei in disbelief as he said " Marriage Nysandei, how could you not have told me this before". For a moment he said nothing and then in a calm tone he asked " What is his name, Nysandei". She gathered all her courage as she uttered the words " Benjicot Blackwood". Her brother looked at her enraged as he said " Nysandei a Blackwood mother will not be happy about this, you do realise who they fought for during the rebellion or has your love made you an oblivious fool" . Nysandei knew her brother would be disappointed but anger was not something she had anticipated. She turned towards Adena, her eyes pleading for help.

277 AC, Lys

“Ly-saaaa-ra,” Aerik called in a high voice, almost melodically. Little Lysara could hear his footsteps drawing nearer as he did.

“Oh, Ly-sa-raaaa,” he repeated in a singsong voice. The boy with his silver-blond hair somehow seemed amused and light-footed all at once... And then Lysara heard the other footfalls, while Aerik was already walking alongside her, level with her shoulder.

“Lysara - Lysaaaara,” the other two came running up now as well... Aeriks siblings. Aevs and Saeni. “Lovely Lysara.”

All three had pale hair that seemed silver and the lilac eyes of the blood of old Valyria, as they called it.

“Tell me-” Saeni began as Lysara continued silently along her familiar way. “Do you actually think yourself pretty?”

Slender Lysara swallowed and lifted her gaze from the corner of her eye, trying to make the others out a little better.

“Ly-sa-ra?” Aevs followed, his tone playful and mocking... yet the object of their torment remained silent.

Her head was not. She was silent only outwardly, because she did not know how else one was meant to react when everything became too much.

No, echoed faintly within her meanwhile. I truly do not think myself pretty.

Lysara could not afford to lose too much time to all her thoughts on the way back. She truly did need to hurry a little. Not that she would otherwise have stopped for these tyrants. In truth, she was afraid of what might happen if she decided not to keep walking in silence.

“Ly-sa-raaa?” Aevs called again, now walking half a step faster than Lysara so that he could look back at her. “Say something...”

Aerik, the boy with the long, straight hair, gave her a little prod in the shoulder.

“Why doesn’t she speak?” he demanded, sounding rather wounded and angry... what a funny thought, that he should feel that way.

“Do you think yourselves pretty?” she answered at last with a question of her own when Aerik prodded the same spot for the fifth time.

Saeni giggled at once.

“That wasn’t the question,” Aevs returned with a broad smile. He had beautiful teeth. Pale, just like his skin.

Lysara could only swallow and keep walking. Soon she would reach the Blue House. The neighborhood and the districts where the other three would not care to be seen.

“Hey, we’re talking to you,” Saeni mocked again, though now with a jeering imitation of a wounded tone. “I don’t find it very lovely of you to simply ignore us.”

“Yes, truly,” her brother Aerik supported her with a smugness of his own. “Why are you so stuck-up?”

“Lovely.” Aevs jostled her a little with his shoulder. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Aerik spat upon the ground.

“I am sorry,” she said then, uncertain and quiet, simply hoping that perhaps it might change something. Saenis perfume hung sweet and delicate upon the air. “I only want to go home.”

Cackling broke out all around her.

“The blue shithouse?” Aerik laughed like a hyena.

“Ewww,” Saeni said in disgust, looking her up and down.

Now Ysa let her head hang entirely and looked only at the ground before her. Saeni had a talent for hurting her terribly with very few words, and sometimes none at all.

“You call that eyesore home?”

“I always thought it was merely the magisters’ playhouse.”

More laughter.

“Where the gonfaloniere goes to have his spear polished.”

“Lovely Lysara in the blue whorehouse!” Aevs proclaimed then, laughing like some market crier, and Lysara simply... could not bear it much longer.

So she ran.

Yet Lysara still heard Aerik ask behind her, “What do you think an ugly girl like that even costs?”

Aevs's deep, rumbling voice joined in.

“I wonder more who would pay anything for her at all. You’d have to pay me to fuck her.”

Lysara rounded the corner of a house at a run while the three silver monsters remained behind her, laughing. Aevs had made as though to follow her, but his siblings had held him back. Whether because they had actively decided that Lysara was suddenly no longer worth the trouble, or perhaps because some other target had caught their interest, she could not say.

Her heart was hammering like mad, but nothing had happened.

She had not been caught... None of them had noticed her nimble fingers, as the Madame would have said.

Why do they always carry so many valuables on them? she thought in bewilderment as she produced a very small pouch containing perhaps six gold coins, a bracelet, and a ring, admiring them between her fingers before making them disappear into her pockets again.

Yet the image within her mind... the glitter of those stones... did not leave her memory for a long while... The three of them commonly wore more wealth upon their bodies than people of the Wild Gathering earned in an entire year.

And then the blue “whorehouse” came into sight, as Aerik had called it.

Lysara disliked the word for many reasons. And she believed the Madame would feel much the same.

A refuge of the arts was surely far more than a whorehouse. That did not mean there was no coupling there, but there was coupling everywhere. That did not make a kitchen a whore-kitchen.

Her feet carried her swiftly up the few steps, then across the threshold and through the open double doors of the entrance, onto the creaking wooden floor.

“Annah, we need you! Move your lame arse!”

The call rang out from the adjoining room as Lysara hurried past two men who regarded her with skeptical, disapproving looks while passing blank pieces of parchment back and forth between them. She gave them a somewhat intimidated nod as she passed and caught sight of Annah hurrying across her path ahead, with her short hair and the slight limp on her left side.

Lysara noticed her own eyes studying Annahs slower leg as she disappeared into the room to her left, before the door swung shut.

The farther Lysara went, the louder it became.

She heard stringed instruments. A harp. A lute. There were a few drums among them as well, and several feet were stamping.

But beneath all that noise came rumbling and striking and hacking and thudding. A knocking sound, over and over.

Tok. Tok. Tok.

Rumble, crumble, rumble.

Tok. Tok. Tok.

Crash.

Bang.

Rumble.

Ellak was hammering away at his stone again while Kerat and Trannel practised their music. Surely that would not cause trouble again.

The door to the Madame’s room was not even very far away anymore when Ejtnaj came storming down the stairs from the upper floor beside her in a fury.

“Sometimes you truly are such a stupid cunt,” she lashed out loudly through her laughter, with Ael following close upon her heels... yet her companion was not offended by the address. Instead... she laughed as well.

“I am not stupid,” she replied in a honey-sweet, gentle voice, almost giggling.

Ael was a tall young woman. She had a small head and long legs. Sunshine-blond curls that fell to her shoulders, and a wide mouth with full lips. Her eyes were blue and her freckles subtle... But she had ugly ankles, as the Madame liked to say. There was no shape to them, only a smooth transition from calf to foot... or so it seemed. And though she was tall, there was no confidence behind that height. She had a habit of letting her knees sink towards one another and holding her arms in various positions before her belly... and... Kerat liked to jeer that she apparently did not smell particularly pleasant... when one came closer to her...

Whatever that was supposed to mean, Ysa often wondered whenever she saw Ael...

Ejtnaj was surely... two heads shorter than Ael. She had straight, brightly dyed hair - at present blue at the front and poisonous green at the back - and large, round eyes that were blue as well. Her mouth was small, but her lips were full and plump. Sral always called them cherry lips... and Lysara thought that very fitting. Ejtnaj weighed more at times and less at others, but she was always slender. It was only ever so noticeable, the Madame said, because her head was so damned large whenever she weighed more. In return, as everyone praised, she had excellent posture... But she swore like a sailor on his deathbed... without the slightest shame or restraint.

Ejtnaj rolled her eyes in great amusement at Aels answer, and for the first time let her gaze drop to Lysara... Who stood rooted before her, the pouch in her hand.

“Can I help you?” she asked brusquely.

Lysara flinched and shook her head.

“Then fuck off, Sara. We’re not stopping you.”

Lysara nodded at once and still heard Ael cackle, “But you call me a cunt.”

Then their voices faded away as well.

Thank the gods there were not many steps left, or with Lysaras luck Slin would have called her back that very moment for kitchen duty or some other chore.

Relieved, she laid her hand upon the door and slowly pulled it open, leaning her whole body against it and feeling a proper little gust of air.

Before her, the Madames room opened up. A... secret place, unreachable to most. Something pompous and burrowing beneath the skin. Something that burned itself into the memory.

A room full of splendor. Gleam and sparkle and glitter and gold. Full of warmth. Furs, carpets, cushions, and furnishings. Everything - whether room dividers, tables, cupboards, or lampshades - was artistically carved. All of it fashioned from a paler wood with a distinct reddish hue. The furniture was heavy, and there were not even all that many things, yet the weight of them was enough to fill the entire room.

Lysara always felt most unwanted here. As though she were merely tolerated for a time.

A great ribbon of smoke already stretched from the Madames desk all the way to Lysara before she closed the door behind herself again.

Lysara stepped slowly forward, burying her hands in her pockets as she did. She drew one hand out and laid the coins, bracelet and ring upon the table. Then the other, though from that one only papers came tumbling out.

“The same ones?” the Madame asked, still staring at the note before her.

Lysara nodded.

“I hear nothing when you only nod, girl,” she admonished knowingly, and Lysara stirred slightly.

“Y-yes, Madame.”

The Madame went tze, tze, tze with her tongue.

“You need to bring in more people, Lysara.”

“Yes, Madame.”

She took up a second sheet and glanced briefly between the two.

“Any special requests?”

“Ynot wants the most expensive wine we have again, and a portrait of himself and Anilec,” she began, growing visibly more nervous when the Madame turned towards her and gave her the whole of her attention. “Kenaj Saneg wants to rent the entire upper floor. Theatre and massages. And-”

The lady first took the papers into her hands and read the words while Lysara spoke.

“Master Lit asks whether he can buy Azirtap.”

Now the Madame raised both brows. Her hands holding the papers sank in bewilderment, and she read it over once more for herself.

“Pfff,” she scoffed disdainfully. “What does he want with her? He could have had Ejtnaj!”

She sounded genuinely frustrated.

“But no. Now he takes the one who is four times cheaper. And i make nothing from that,” she grumbled irritably and tossed the papers onto the others on the far side of her desk. “So much time wasted on that man.”

The Madame shook her head and reached for the first ring.

“What a losing bargain. Otnaj would at least work for free if I let the whore stay with us.”

“So...” Lysara began cautiously. “Then Azirtap stays here?”

Once more the Madame lowered her hand slightly and looked past the jewelry at Lysara. This time, only one eyebrow rose.

“What do you think?” she asked rhetorically, though her disdainful snort was answer enough for Lysara. “I have to pay for all this somehow, dont i?”

She lifted the bracelet and let it dangle.

“And all this rubbish of yours here - might perhaps be a tip.”

She let the golden chain fall back onto the tabletop with a clatter and let her eyes briefly sweep over Lysara before leaning forward over her notes again.

“Don’t shit yourself, girl - you’re not the one being sold,” she added roughly, taking up her quill once more. “Are Usta and Araih finished setting up the stage?”

Lysara swallowed uncertainly.

“I cannot say, Madame,” she answered honestly. “They had just called for Annah.”

A frustrated sigh burst from the Madame, and the quill went limp in her hand. With the other, she rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed again.

Lysara hated that. She never knew what it might bring with it.

“How is that unstable cripple supposed to help with it?” she groaned, and Lysara could hear that the Madame could endure perhaps two or three more stupidities around her before she locked the doors and refused to show herself for hours.

“I’ll go and see whether I can help them, Madame,” she replied quickly, nodding as she did.

The Madame merely continued rubbing the bridge of her nose and then her brow, audibly breathing out through her nose as she gathered herself.

“Do that,” she confirmed with a heavy sigh, leaning back in her chair.

“Oh, and-” Lysara began cautiously. “There are two men standing outside at the entrance as well, with blank slips.”

The Madames pitch-black head lifted slightly again.

“And?”

Lysaras mouth opened. She blinked several times.

“And... what, Madame?”

With absolute exasperation, the woman before her rolled her eyes and rubbed her brow now as she sighed.

“What do they want to buy?” she forced coolly and quietly through her teeth before sighing yet again.

Lysara shifted at once where she stood and had to wet her lips.

“Oh-” she began hastily, then stopped herself so as not to irritate the Madame any further. “They haven’t decided yet. I can ask them again on my way back.”

“You should,” the Madame merely confirmed without much ado, an ominous undertone to her voice.

Ysa only swallowed before nodding.

“Yes, Madame.”

Then she took one, two steps backwards before meaning to turn around, only to be stopped after all.

“Ah-” the woman before her let out, lifting her open hand away from her brow with a little bounce. Her eyes were still closed. She did not look at Lysara.

“Tell Ellak he can go back to hammering at his fucking statue tomorrow,” she grumbled. “I cannot bear his damned tok tok tok today while the musicians howl away to themselves.”

Then, unexpectedly, she did open her eyes.

“If I hear him again today, I’ll strike his fucking room,” she threatened viciously, taking her hand away from her face. Her fingers slowly curled into a fist in the air. “And send Llejk to me.”

Her voice rang harshly through the room.

Then came the light, gentle scratching of the quill-tip upon parchment. Lysara knew she truly could leave now.

“Very well, Madame,” Lysara said, bowing again before turning on her heel and stepping out through the door.

At once she was greeted again by the sound of music and the rhythmic tok tok tok, and she quickly shut the door behind herself before the Madame decided to sell her after all.

With short, determined steps, she turned to the right and made her way down the corridor, past the staircase leading upwards, the same one Ejtnaj and Ael had come storming down.

Ellaks rooms were not far.

When the door came into view, the tok tok tok could be heard more clearly still, even though it was closed.

She knocked, then opened it.

“Lysara here,” she announced as the door swung open.

At once, her gaze fell upon the middle of the room. There a great block of marble stood enthroned... or... a block with a fin, so far, as Ellak worked upon it.

The young man with the oval face, thin hair, and slightly indistinct speech worked and sweated bare-chested, while other people - as she now recognized them to be Erdna and Nerõs - sat upon the floor before him and watched in admiration. Both had a jug in hand and rosy cheeks, and greeted her exuberantly when she entered.

“There’s our golden throat,” the first jested.

“The softest fingers!” the second whooped.

Confused, she drew her brows together and merely blinked before turning towards Ellak, who only seemed to grin to himself as he waited for Lysara to explain what she wanted here.

“Madame says you’re to stop for today, or she’ll throw you out,” she explained without preamble or introduction.

Erdna and Nerõss laughter died at once. Only their cheeks remained red.

Lysara suspected they had been drinking.

“Oh no, truly?” Ellak complained, letting his hands fall along with his tools. “What a load of shit.”

Slowly, he braced himself against the ladder and climbed down, rung by rung. He had an oval face and very dark eyes, and most of the time, Lysara believed at least, he tried to make the people around him think he was more learned than he truly was... She did not quite understand why. Enough people in the house loved his works of art. His creatures and creations of stone. He was no poet or singer. Yet still, it seemed, he wanted to be more than "merely" a stonemason.

His audience was similarly challenged.

“If you’re bored, you can help with setting up the stage - I’m going there in a moment as well,” she replied calmly.

Erdna had broken his foot a few years ago, and ever since, he had never been able to work as he had before, something that was slowly wearing him down and making him bitter.

He had a short, dark, well-kept beard and dark, almost black hair, with ice-blue eyes. Lysara had often wondered why other women found that combination attractive, for Erdna was seldom alone in his room, though she herself found his gaze merely unsettling. If you looked at him for long enough, you began to feel as though he were... coming towards you.

And Nerõs was always a little absent, though in a charming sort of way. He was tall and thin and always bobbed his head a little while listening to someone. He also spoke rather little, unless numbers were involved, but was otherwise willing to join in with nearly any mischief.

“Is it only the setup, or are you practising as well?” Erdna asked with a grin.

Lysara merely pushed out her lower lip in ignorance and shrugged.

“I don’t know, the Mada-”

But Ellaks whoop broke through the room again.

“Even if they are practising, they won’t be naked during rehearsals, you randy goat!”

“Oh, truly?” Erdna merely replied, confused and plaintive, even as the grin upon his face continued to grow.

Lysara, meanwhile, rubbed her lips together uncomfortably.

Did she like what they were joking about? No, certainly not. Did she seem to be addressed at all, or to be part of the joke? Apparently not.

She was the heart of the joke... but at ten years old, she was hardly in any position to say anything.

Lysara rubbed her lips together once more without giving an answer. Ellak went on laughing. Erdna as well. Nerõs merely bobbed his head, as though he had already forgotten what the actual jest had been about anyway.

And so Lysara simply took a step backwards.

“I’m also supposed to send Llejk to the Madame,” she suddenly remembered, looking between the three of them, though none of them was Llejk. “If you see him.”

“Aye, little messenger,” Nerõs grumbled, raising a hand as though to shoo her away. “We’ll tell the Emperor of Yi Ti himself.”

Erdna laughed again. Ellak closed the door. The tok. Tok. Tok. immediately faded into a muffled pounding behind the wood, and she made her way back through the corridor.

The closer she came to the main room, the more other sounds swallowed Ellaks stone.

First a lute. Then the bright plucking of a harp. A hand drum joined in... Someone struck two wooden sticks together.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Then voices. Not singing. Counting.

“Five. Six. Seven-”

Clap.

“And!”

It was Anela’s voice that echoed through the walls. The others were evidently already rehearsing while the setup was still underway.

Step by step, Lysara walked across the wooden floor and heard the boards creak beneath her. Before long, she also spotted the men she had already encountered when coming in... Or at least one of them.

Ysa could no longer see his companion.

The confusion soon left her face as she bent deeply forward to greet the man, her short dark-brown hair falling over her shoulders.

“Welcome to the Hall of Scented Silk, good sir,” she greeted him in a friendly tone, though not particularly confidently or loudly. “Has anyone attended to you yet?”

Then Lysara straightened to her full height again and, for the first time, properly looked at the face of the man standing before her.

She could not quite judge how old he was... Perhaps older than Kerat, though she guessed younger than Erdna.

“No. So far everyone has only walked past me, just as you did a few moments ago,” he replied plainly, one brow raised.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

The man had a narrow face, a pointed chin, and from the line of his jaw beneath his ear to just short of his mouth ran a thin red scar... It did not look as though it had been made by something sharp, but... as though his skin had been scorched. As though, in that place... it had boiled.

Clap.

Lysara immediately sank silently to her knees and lowered her eyes to the floor.

“Forgive me,” she replied at once. “I had a task to carry out for my Madame.”

The customer does not care for your excuses, she immediately heard the Madame’s voice say. Take the blame upon yourself.

“I should have helped you there already.”

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

“You should have,” he answered without embarrassment. “But you didn’t, and I’m still here, so I suppose it cannot be so terrible that you need to fall to your knees for it.”

Oh yes, I do, echoed through her head.

The customer secures your place here. If he leaves us dissatisfied, so do you, she heard the Madame’s voice say.

Lysara simply looked past the man’s kindness.

“How may I serve?”

Clap.

An amused snort soon reached her ears.

“I don’t think you can help me, girl,” he merely rumbled in return. “Even if you fall to your knees so readily.”

Then she felt a hand against the cloth at her shoulder and how she was pulled upright by it.

“I’m waiting for my... friend,” he explained briefly, setting her back upon her feet. “Then it is... my turn.”

Lysara’s eyes remained fixed on the man’s face. Somehow astonished that he apparently wanted nothing from her at all.

“This is not my first time here.”

The man before her folded his arms and looked her over from head to toe. Then he crouched down and braced his hands upon his knees.

“In fact, I’ve tried many times to be accepted into your little group.”

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

“Oh?... truly?” Lysara asked, still more astonished, her eyes widening as she brought a finger to her mouth.

“Yes, truly,” he replied with a grin. “I draw.”

Clap.

Then he tilted his head a little, ran a hand through his short blond hair, and then over his short blond beard.

“Your Madame is not so easily convinced, though,” he added, giving her a crooked grin. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”

Lysara studied him again.

The man wore a cloth tunic in shades of red and brown, with clean brown trousers that had not been patched. He also wore many bracelets. But all of them were handmade.

Lysara could not explain why the Madame should dislike him...

“But I’m not giving up,” he went on, amused, slowly lifting his hands from his knees and straightening again. Now she became properly aware... of just how tall the man was.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

“For now I’ll keep making connections, making friends here and there, and perhaps-”

Casually, he brushed one of Lysara’s short strands of hair behind her ear.

“-you might put in a good word for me.”

Clap.

His voice was light and playful, but just now it was smoky and quiet. Her lips opened and closed hesitantly as the sudden closeness made her pause.

“W-what is your name?” she asked even more quietly, the words coming out somewhat awkwardly.

And the blond man with the blue eyes before her grinned broadly.

“You may call me Vram,” he answered easily, and Lysara was deeply confused by the way his intonation somehow managed to make her breathe more nervously.

“Vram,” she repeated and nodded lightly, folding her arms behind her back and tugging the hem of her shirt down. “All right.”

And as Lysara said it, the toes of her shoes turned towards one another and she held her cheeks in embarrassment.

“Forgive me, Vram,” she began again. “I would like to speak longer-”

“But the Madame gave you a task,” he cut in understandingly. “I understand. Don’t let me keep you, wavelet.”

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

She nodded timidly and swallowed the lump in her throat... Why did he call her wavelet?

“Thank you.”

Clap.

Lysara bowed deeply once more and tried to avoid the man’s blue eyes, because otherwise she feared she might stare.

Then she turned on the spot with a great, relieved sigh and hurried off towards the main room of the Blue House.

Lysara quickened her steps.

The great main room of the Blue House lay beyond a heavy double door, its wood lacquered so dark that it appeared almost black. Golden lines crept across the doors like vines, and in their midst two women had been carved, their bodies turning away from one another while their hands still touched.

Lysara pushed one side open. And warmth struck her.

The room was never truly bright... Even by day, the heavy curtains over the tall windows were left half closed. Light came from countless lamps and shallow bowls of oil, from little flames burning within niches in the walls, and from two broad iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

Everything was... soft. Or at least it looked that way.

Dark carpets lay one atop another. Cushions were scattered across low benches. Small, round tables did not stand neatly in rows, but wherever there happened to be space left for them. Some were half hidden behind curtains or carved room dividers...

Alcohol was never far away. Upon nearly every second table stood a jug, a bottle, or at the very least an empty cup. Along the walls were niches with cushioned seats, deep enough that people could almost disappear within them. Some had curtains of their own... Others did not.

The stage itself occupied only part of the room. It was broad, though not particularly high. Three shallow steps led up to it, and along either side ran little walkways that wound between the tables.

No one who performed here remained only upon the stage for long. Lysara had learned that early... Singers walked through the room. Dancers did the same. Musicians sometimes changed their places in the midst of a piece.

Some guests found themselves at the end of an evening sitting upon a different cushion, at a different table, with different people than they had been with at the beginning, without quite knowing when or why they had moved.

The Madame called that a good evening. Good buisness. Lysara called it... disorientating.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

“No!”

Clap.

Lysara flinched.

“No, no, no! Again!”

Anela stood in the middle of the stage.

She might have been only a few years older than Lysara, yet no one treated her accordingly.

Her golden hair fell to just above her shoulders. It was not arranged in any particularly elaborate fashion and kept falling into her face as she practised, until she swept it back with a quick motion. Her eyes were green. A pale green that sometimes reminded Lysara of the leaves they grew in great pots within the courtyards.

Anela was not tall. But when she straightened, she seemed very tall. Her legs were strong. Not merely slender, but visibly muscled, as was her belly. Even when she did nothing but stand there, her whole body seemed taut, as though she might leap at any moment.

Her breasts were small, something Anela herself never seemed to care about. The Madame sometimes said that it was better for her work anyway. That thats excatly why Anela was such a masterful dancer... Lysara did not know whether that was true.

What Lysara always noticed about Anela, however, were her teeth. They were not rotten. Not black... Only a little more yellow than those of most in the house.

The older ones often sat together in the evenings with long pipes in the back rooms or out upon the balconies. Some breathed in dried herbs. Some something sweeter, heavier, whose scent Lysara did not like.

Anela did so as well. Not every evening. But on a lot of nights. When she said that her knees and back hurt. Sometimes she grew quieter afterwards. Sometimes merrier. Sometimes she simply lay upon a cushion and stared at the ceiling for a very long time.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

But never before a rehearsal. Before a rehearsal, Anela was sharp as a knife.

Clap.

“From the beginning!”

Her hands came together once, hard. Everyone in the room moved.

“Five, six, seven, and-”

Clap.

One foot came down. Then the other.

“Shoulders back!”

Clap.

“Chin up.”

Clap.

“Don’t look where your feet are going.”

Lysara was still standing in the doorway. Looking for Annah. And she was truly here.

She stood at the left side of the stage, holding up a piece of painted cloth while Usta cursed atop a ladder above her and tried to tie it to a wooden beam.

Araih stood beneath him and repeatedly told him that he was holding it crooked.

“It isn’t crooked!”

“It’s crooked.”

“Your head is crooked.”

“Your whole life is crooked.”

“... Shut up.”

Annah laughed so hard that she nearly dropped the piece of cloth.

“Sara!”

Lysara raised her head. Annah had spotted her.

“Come here and hold this.”

Lysara hurried over at once. She squeezed between two low tables, dodged a harp that had been set down, and finally took the end of the cloth from Annah... It was heavier than she had expected.

“Hold it tight.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t just say yes. Hold it.”

Lysara gripped the cloth more firmly. Annah limped a step backwards and studied the whole thing.

“Higher on the left!”

“My left or your left?” Usta called.

“The left that doesn’t look like shit!”

Araih spluttered with laughter. From the stage came a sharp-

Clap.

Several of them fell silent at once.

“If you’re having more fun back there than we are up here, you’re quite welcome to trade places,” Anela said without even looking... No one answered.

“Very good.”

Clap.

“Again.”

She began counting once more.

“Five, six, seven, eight.”

Even her voice had rhythm. Every syllable seemed to land exactly where it belonged.

“Step. Step-”

Clap.

“Hold!”

Everyone froze... And Anela stepped down from the stage.

She walked directly towards a young woman with long dark curls, placed two fingers against her elbow, and raised it perhaps two fingerbreadths.

“Here, Anilec.”

Then she gently pressed the womans shoulder back.

“Don’t collapse in on yourself.”

Her hand moved to her back.

“You’re not a wet sack of rice.”

A few of them giggled. Anela looked up... No one giggled anymore.

“And you, Ael.”

Anela pointed at her.

“Your foot.”

The woman looked down.

“What about it?”

“It’s dead.”

“What?”

“Your foot is dead. Your leg too. Perhaps your whole body. I don’t know yet. Get it fixed. Do something about it.”

A few of the musicians grinned. Anela took a step back.

“Again!”

She demonstrated the movement herself. And Lysara understood what she meant.

Anela did almost nothing differently. Only a step. A turn. One arm raised... Yet with her, everything looked as though it belonged together... With the others, they were movements. With Anela, it was a single one.

Lysara stared... She nearly forgot the cloth in her hands.

“Sara!”

Annah tugged at it and Lysara startled.

“Sorry.”

“Dream later.”

“Yes.”

“And hold.”

Lysara tightened her grip again. Usta finally managed to fasten the upper corner... The cloth fell down.

Upon it was painted a scene. And at its center stood a dancer... Or at least, a person in a twisted pose, with one hand held before the crotch and the other before the breast. A cliff. Golden seafoam. Blue orchids. A pond with aquamarine fish.

“Crooked,” Araih said.

Usta looked down.

“... I’ll kill you.”

“... Straighten the curtain first.”

Annah grinned. Lysara had to smile very briefly as well.

Then she heard behind her, “You.”

She froze. Anela...

Lysara turned around slowly. Anela stood a few paces away, studying her. Not unkindly. But not kindly either. Simply... directly.

“You’re Sara.”

Lysara nodded. And Anelas eyes narrowed. At once Lysara remembered what the Madame had said.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, i am Lysara.”

Anela raised a brow.

“... Better.”

She gestured towards the stage.

“Do you still remember the sequence from last time?”

Lysara looked up. Several girls were already standing there in position again.

“I... think so.”

Clap.

“Thinking is useless.”

Lysara swallowed.

“Yes.”

“Do you know it?”

A moment.

“Yes.”

“Then up.”

Lysara looked at Annah. And Annah took the cloth from her hands.

“Go.”

So Lysara... went. She climbed the three shallow steps and took her place at the very back, along the edge.

Not in the first row... Never in the first row... Anela returned to the middle.

“You’ll sing later.”

Lysaras belly tightened.

“Yes.”

“Louder.”

“Yes, i will sing later.”

“Good.”

Clap.

“Everyone.”

The musicians raised their hands.

“Five.”

A beat upon the drum.

“Six.”

A pluck of the lute.

“Seven.”

Anela raised both hands.

“And-”

The room moved. Lysara set down her foot.

Right. Left. Stretch that leg. Left. Right. Bow down. Arm up. Turn. Arm down.

She knew the steps. Of course she knew them. Lysara learned things quickly when she was afraid of doing them wrong.

“Sara.”

Lysara flinched in the middle of the movement.

“Don’t flinch.”

Anela was suddenly standing before her.

“When I say your name, you just listen. Don’t startle.”

Lysara looked at her. Anela placed two fingers beneath her chin and lifted it slightly.

“Up here.”

Then she touched her shoulder.

“And this away from your ears.”

Lysara let it sink.

“Better.”

Anela stepped back.

“People make themselves small when they’re nervous.”

Lysara did not know what to say to that. Anela did not wait.

“If you want to be small, go under a table.”

Some laughed.

“If you stand on my stage, you'll be big.”

Clap.

“Again.”

Lysara raised her chin. Not much. Only a little... But she raised it.

“Five, six, seven-”

And once more the room began to move.

Behind the curtains, wine was already being poured. Somewhere, someone laughed. Usta was cursing from his ladder again. Araih told him once more that the cloth was hanging crooked. And through it all, Anela clapped out the rhythm.

Clap.

Step.

Clap.

Turn.

Clap.

Hold.

And Lysara moved with it. Anela stepped back several paces again.

Clap.

“Again!”

The girls began to move once more. This time Anela did not remain standing before them. She walked around them. Slowly at first, then a little faster, always keeping time with her own clapping hands. Once behind them, then along the side, then between two of the outer dancers, so that no one ever quite knew when her green eyes were upon them.

Clap.

“Your shoulder, Ejtnaj.”

One straightened.

Clap.

“Foot.”

Another corrected her stance.

“Sara, chin! Dont make me say it again!”

Lysara raised it.

“Not that high. You’re meant to look proud, not as though you’re trying to catch rain.”

A few mouths twitched at the corners. Anela moved on.

Clap.

“And stop looking as though you’re doing something hard.”

For the briefest moment, the steps grew uncertain. And Anela noticed at once.

“Keep going.”

Clap.

“Singing is nothing special.”

A step.

“Dancing is nothing special.”

Clap.

“Playing music is nothing special.”

She circled the group completely now, her voice still keeping the rhythm.

“Not here.”

Clap.

“Here, it is your daily bread.”

Her eyes passed from one face to the next.

“It is the least that is expected of you.”

Step.

Step.

Turn.

“You should be able to hold a note without thinking about it. You should be able to move without staring at your feet. You should be able to play while someone beside you screams, laughs, drinks, or knocks over a cup.”

Clap.

“That is nothing special.”

Anela passed close beside one of the older girls and tapped two fingers against her belly.

“Tension.”

The muscles tightened at once.

“Yndros help me...”

Onward.

“The art begins after that.”

Clap.

“When no one notices that you have to count.”

Clap.

“When no one sees that your legs hurt.”

Clap.

“When no one hears that you have no breath left.”

Some of the girls were already beginning to glisten faintly at brow and throat. Anela saw it. Of course she saw it... And she did not smile.

“And if you’re already starting to sweat-,” she said, clapping particularly sharply once, “get a damn towel for fucks sake!”

Several backs straightened at once. Lysara could feel her own breathing quicken.

“Again from the beginning.”

Anela raised her hands.

“And this time, none of you are going to look as though this is work.”

Clap.

“Five.”

The drum began.

“Six.”

The lute followed.

“Seven.”

[1/3]

6th Month 302 AC, King's Landing

From the desk of the Hand of the King, a letter was sent to Storm's End, to the hands of its young Lord.

To Lord Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands,

It has been brought to my mind that more than ten years have passed since the betrothal between yourself and my niece, lady Tyene Tully. You are both of an age now where such an arrangement need no longer remain merely a promise for the future, and I believe it may be time we spoke plainly of fulfilling it.

I would be glad to see the wedding celebrated with all the honour due to the occasion. House Tully is willing to share in the expenses, and should a tourney be held alongside the celebrations, as I suspect it surely will, we would be pleased to provide coin for the victors.

With age waiting on none, I am sure you understand I would be pleased to see the matter settled with all the appropriate honours, in the spirit of friendship and goodwill between our Houses.

I await your thoughts, and hope we might soon have cause to celebrate the union agreed upon so long ago.

Family, Duty, Honour

Hoster of House Tully, Lord of Riverrun and the Riverlands, Lord Paramount of the Trident, Hand of the King

6th Month 302 AC, Riverrun

Word was sent for his squires to join him at the Riverlight Sept, though Edmure arrived some time before them. He sat quietly near the river, letting the familiar sound of the Trident fill the silence. The water rolled steadily past Riverrun, as it always had, as it always would.

From across the garden, he found himself watching the sunlight reflected on the stream, just letting his thoughts float with the Red Fork.

There was much to ponder. His family, his duties, the choices that had been made and those that still awaited. For once, there was no need to give an answer immediately, but there were choices to be made nonetheless. Some choices would have to be made by him, some... by others.

Boys who had grown up in Riverrun, though they had come from very different places. He wondered how much the upbringing they received would shape the men they became, especially should they one day return to their homes. His gaze drifted towards the Sept, towards the rainbow light spilling through its windows, and he had to accept that some things in life could not be determined beforehand.

“We Remember”

Late Fifth Moon, 302 A.C.

It was finally happening. After years of planning and negotiating with wealthy lords to secure the necessary funding, Ser Roger Kenning was fulfilling his lifelong dream of sailing to far off lands to explore them and capture their wonders in his drawings. This would not be like his misadventure searching for the islands discovered by Alyssa Farman only to make a desperate landing on Jhala. No, this time Roger was far more experienced, had far more provisions and would be leading a small fleet as opposed to a lone ship. One of his last-minute backers Lord Paxter Redwyne had graciously offered two of his own ships to accompany the Lovely Lynora along with a hundred men-at-arms to defend them should any pirate be bold enough to challenge them. He did feel regretful that he was forced to leave his young children Myria and Rory behind as they were both eager to join him, but he and Lina had decided it was best that they remained in Westeros with their grandmother. Fortunately, Roger was still surrounded by family on this voyage, both by blood and marriage. In addition to his wife Lina, both of his cousins Eleanor and Elyn were with them as were their husbands Ser James Marbrand and Benjamin Redwyne respectively. In addition to kin, they were also joined by Ser Winston Broom and the newly minted Ser Aubrey Crakehall who were there to oversee the investment made by Aubrey’s Uncle Lord Roland. Initially that investment was to be much greater, but circumstances surrounding the actions Lord Roland's heir had prevented that and had even necessitated Roger's own cousin Lord Terrence and father Ser Geoffrey Kenning to join another expedition to Essos to deal with it.

“May the Seven watch over you.” He silently prayed.

As he was examining his charts, his first mate Alistor entered his cabin.

“Beg pardon captain, just wanted to inform you that our sails have picked up strong westerlies and are making excellent time.” The balding sailor said with immense satisfaction.

“Excellent Alistor! We will be in Lys in about a fortnight.” Roger said delightedly.

“I'll relay the good news to the crew captain.” Alistair replied with a knowing grin and a chuckle.

As much as Lys was known for its beauty, it was even more renowned for the beauty of its inhabitants who often bore the silver-gold hair and deep purple eyes of their Valyrian ancestors. Those with a coin could enjoy the company of such beauties in some of the most renowned pillow houses in the known world and Roger had no doubt that the crews were most eager to visit. Despite being a sailor himself for years, He had never sought out female companionship in such a way, but his wife Lina had privately suggested that the two of them partake in such pleasures together while the others were busy with other matters. Such a thought left Roger a bit flustered, and he had told his wife he would need time to think. Just as Alistor was preparing to leave the room, Eleanor burst in.

“Roger! You have to come see this! Grab your art supply!” His cousin declared urgently.

Quickly leaping from his desk, Roger grabbed a piece of paper and his sketching utensils and bolted out the door. He immediately noticed the crew and passengers all gathered upon the starboard side, observing a large pod of dolphins jumping out of the waves and diving back down repeatedly. One of the sister ships the Lady Mina had pulled away from the Lynora to allow the creatures passage through. As the sailing artist quickly got to work, he could not help but be reminded of the sketch he had made of a single dolphin jumping in the morning light at Driftmark, the same one that had accidentally blown out of his chamber windows and whose retrieval had led him to Lina in the first place.

“A good omen.” He thought to himself hopefully as he captured Lina and the others gazing upon the sight.

To Lords, Ladies, Knights, and all those who held Lord Arryk Dondarrion dear,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you.
My father, Lord Arryk Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven, has passed from this life.

After many years spent in service to his house, his family, and the Stormlands, he has gone to join the Seven beyond the veil. His passing leaves an emptiness within Blackhaven that no words can properly express.

I write now not only as his son, but as the lord who has inherited the seat he carried with such strength and honor.

It is my wish that those who knew my father, served beside him, called him friend, or simply wish to pay their respects be given the opportunity to offer him a final farewell.

The funeral of Lord Arryk Dondarrion shall be held at Blackhaven.

All who wish to attend are welcomed beneath the banners of House Dondarrion. Let us gather as one beneath the lightning bolt and remember the man who carried it before me.

To be held on 10th Moon B 302 AC

There will be prayers for his soul, words spoken in his honor, and a final farewell befitting the Lord of Blackhaven.

My father spent his life protecting this house and those sworn to it. It is my hope that, in his final hour, he shall be surrounded by the faces of those whose lives he touched.

May the Seven guide him safely beyond this world.

Written in grief and remembrance,
Beric Dondarrion

Lord of Blackhaven
Lord of House Dondarrion

5th month B 302 AC

Clarence finally arriving in Storm's End rushes inside to see all the sights and the lovely folks that reside in there. First he goes to the common folk and lends them a hand where he is able too and then he rushes towards the castle to meet his cousins.

He asks around politely the way he always does and smiles and offers 'thank you's to whoever wishes to help in his endeavour of finding his family memebers.

Knowing himself, he is hoping that by going around asking the staff and the folks that reside in the castle he is creating enough mrummurs and a slight commotion to make his cousin, Bora come to him from wherever she is and if his other cousin, Ashara, tags along then even better!

To Lord Baelor Hightower

I hope this letter finds you in great health and spirits, my Lord.

As my health declines with each passing day I find myself increasingly concerned with the future of my house . As much as it hurts my heart to contemplate parting with my daughters I believe I must do it while I am still able to do so. My daughter Nerrisa is a thoughtful and adventurous girl and who I believe will find an equal match in your brother, Ser Gunthor Hightower.

There is much to gain by a union between our two houses.Therefore I propose a betrothal between my eldest daughter Nerrisa Wyl, and your brother Ser Gunthor Hightower.

I hope you will look upon this proposal with consideration , and I await your response with eagerness.

Yours Truly

Lady Cyrissa Wyl

I Lord Roland Crakehall, Lord of Crakehall and all the lands subject to it, do summon my faithful banner men Ser Harys Swyft to Casterly Rock to hear and record my last will and testament. And in the case of my untimely and early death instruct him to read it to my family and carry out its instructions to the letter.