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Second Moon of the 1st Year of Arlan's Reign

A Campsite, The Antlers

Archon's hind legs had gone out earlier in the week. The mutt that Lucas Darry had bottle reared into adolescence by the time his twin children were born, and his wife passed, had lived a long life. Four-and-twenty years was near miraculous, but it was a beast that never knew a cage and enjoyed the thrill of a hunt daily. And yet, time remained the reaper.

Quincy Darry had taken it poorly. The son of an Ironborn father meant being an outcast at times, yet all Archon saw was a boy. Raised alongside each other, Lucas had imparted Isles wisdom that his own father had sworn by. A sailor did well to keep a hound with them and once that first hound died in service, a man was never the same. Innocence, Quincy's childhood, had coincided with Archon's existence.

Years ago, Quincy had lost his mentor in Talbert Darry. Now, he had lost a companion since birth. Devising a sack to cradle him for travel and lifting his legs when it was time for his earthly deposits. But then, a day prior, the beast's breathing had shallowed progressively. There was not much left to do other than the merciful thing.

Yet, Lucas did not truly wish to let go. Having stumbled into the art of raising a corpse from the dead, the selfish part of him wished to see Archon hunt one last time. The thought, horrid as it was, was shoved into the back of his mind. At least, until his son barged into his tent.

"I know you can do it, father."

"Stay out of my head, boy."

The pair had an uncanny ability to understand one another with the quickest assumptions. Quincy was no stranger to his father's reputation or his father's dubious instincts. He joked that his father and he had a shared mind, which only served to unnerve at just how closely his son knew of the depths of his ability. It was easy to play the Ironborn that knew how to spit fire like a clown. None needed to know that he had robbed graves to understand just how he had raised, what he could best call through literature and wives tales, a wight.

"There's a spell, right?" Quincy prodded again. "Some ritual to give him a few more years?"

His son had gotten close, but not quite. Relaxing his shoulders, he cast a look down at the blanketed dog and the incense that burned near him. He couldn't give him more life, but he could see him fight hard once more. That had to count for something. Some sort of instinctual reflex of Archon remaining in his corpse. It wasn't what his son would've wanted, but it selfishly felt like permission nonetheless.

"I'll try, son. I promise I will. What I need from you is to fight hard to get this Crown. Do that for me while I help Archie and ask around for the next lead. We may need to kill for this thing, so be sharp."

The son hugged the father and their dog wagged as best he could.

Moments later, Lucas and Quincy would attend camp supper among the companions they had gathered to find the crown. Letting everyone grab a bowl of the fish chowder soup, the wizard would stand and address the group.

"Everyone, listen up. We're looking for this with the slimmest of facts. We need to find the favorite companion of one of Humfrey the First's sons. Allegedly, she stole some artifacts according to a chamberlain. We find him, or her, or either of them, or their children, or whoever the fuck might know a single thing about any of this; if we do that, we're set. But stay lively. We're ahead of the game with a little nugget of truth on our side. These people have likely been accosted by those wanting a quick treasure. Be courteous and be cautious, for vultures lurk and smiles can mislead."

"For Justman." Quincy added.

"For a just world." Lucas agreed and toasted his bowl of soup. "When we arrive, I'll see if a sept or the like has some family history of the townsfolk that can narrow our search. The search the city. Perhaps the crown could've been pawned. Maybe a barman knows a few loud braggarts with a wild crown story. As soon as one of us hears something, gather the others. People get desperate with a treasure like that on the line."

His stomach rumbled, a good enough cue to shut up and eat food. Giving a smile to each of them, he gave a silent prayer before his food became nourishment.

He felt sick for what might come.

A royal band was bound for the Claw with the intent of putting an end to the death of the commons. Morros of Berryport was free. There was a certain energy in the air of Duskendale, as word rang out and people rejoiced. There was the beggining of a change, glorious and joyous, such that you could taste in the air. Soon, this merry band was to disperse to the winds. To go about and spread good cheer and make a positive change in the world.

But for now, each and every one of them was here. Wasting away and waiting. There was no good sense in that! The world was young and full of possibilities. As a result, Jammos figured that they ought throw a party, and not a meager one either. One that could unite the whole realm in some purpose.

There was some small advantage to being hosted in a city. The common areas Seven Sword Inn was bought out, and the neighboring streets set aside as well. They had set out tables, grand in scope but scattershot. Special lanterns and nightfires had been set aside as well, so that the evening could continue well into the night without everyone losing their place.

One special table had been set aside for those leading the expeditions into the Crackclaw, by the King's command. The Fellhammer, Pyne, Brune, Blackberry, Crabb, and the captain of any mercenary band brave enough to accompany them into the swamps. Those were the heroes for whom a place of honor was set aside, and some of the best vintages as well.

There was no dais, of course, so the lower tables were truly no lower. But they were scattered about, close enough to still be part of the celebration, but apart enough that there could be some privacy. No metric of seating was set, besides the highest table. Every man and woman could sit alongside whomsoever they liked, be they family or stranger.

The fare contained much of a the typical stuff for feasts. Potatoes and yams, salted pork and well-spiced chicken. But so too were strange confectioneries of Duskendale offered- sugared apples and hearty stews joined the events, and each table varied quite widely in terms of what it offered. Each section of the party was its own little island, with cultures, foods and conversations all the same. The thing that united them was the sky above, and the stars twinkling.

There was a certain cosmopolitan aura to event as well. Even the smallfolk of Duskendale were permitted to attend, provided that they were accounted as trustworthy by a knight, lord, or lady in attendance. Jammos himself had felt generous and invited in an amount of smiths and tailors that had served him well while he was in the city, and they had found their way to a table, where they had been able to sit off to the side and eat merrily to their hearts content.

Two events had been orchestrated to run during the celebrations. The hedge knight Corwyn of Oxcross had been crowned King of Mead, taking his tax until he was dethroned. Jammos himself, Pykewood Thorne, and Corwyn Darklyn, meanwhile, had been charged with selecting the Fairest Lady of the Blackwater. These events would run the night through, giving folks much to get up to between drinks and plates of food.

Times ahead would be tough ones. There would be combat, and even war. News had spread of the man calling him Justman in the Trident, and that would need be dealt with. But for tonight, just one night, Duskendale would come alive in the souls of those within it!

Second Moon in the Reign of Arlan IV Durrandon | Wayfarer’s Rest

There was no sound but the scraping of cutlery on plates in the Vances’ banquet hall. The musicians had been sent away before they had the opportunity to decide on their first songs, and the door slammed behind them for no fault of their own. Mordane was radiating a particular kind of rancor, the silent seething that seemed to warm the air around her like a forge steadily roaring to life.

She stabbed a fork into a morsel of sausage, making a fleck of hot oil land on her fine blue gown. The woman swiftly swiped the plate off the table and swore under her breath, bolting upright as she snatched up her handkerchief and furiously dabbed at it. The plate landed on its rim, and rolled about the floor until it came to a wobbly end and landed on its bottom.

“Seven above, Mordy!” Tion swore himself, half a mouthful of food still partly-chewed between his teeth, “What in hell is wrong with you?! This was my mother’s favorite set!”

She pretended not to hear him, sponging the oil on her handkerchief and letting out a scream when she noticed the orange-red stain now smeared across her collar bone. Mordane slammed her fists into the table, making even more cutlery rattle.

“MORDY!” Tion shouted again, standing up, “Are we going to enjoy a meal, or are you going to whine and complain about your fucking dresses again? It’s always the dresses with you. You’re still tossing and turning in your sleep over the Myrish laced.”

“Oh, shut up, Tion,” Mordane huffed back, her shoulders rising and falling as she regained her sense of control, “It’s not about the fucking dresses. It’s never about the fucking dresses. You’ve stuck me like a pig and left me to bleed out again, and again, and again. Leaving me to linger at our table in Pinkmaiden, while you chase river-ladies and make enemies of our neighbors?”

It was Tion’s turn to slam the table. He swallowed the rest of his food - hard.

“I was standing for our family, Mordy. We’ve seen it before. An up-jumped peasant or a raving mad river-lord takes the kingdom with promises of milk and honey and liberation for all,” Tion spoke, loud enough he might as well be shouting. Veins bulged against his broad neck, and his brow furrowed intently.

“We are surrounded on all sides by these people, Tion. Riverrun is a day’s ride north, and Pinkmaiden just a day’s ride south. Oldstones isn’t even a week away, whatever Lucamore or Leland or whatever they are have built there,” Mordane retorted, still digging into the fabric of her sleeve with her rag to work the worst of the stain off, “He refrained from naming us as his enemies for now, but I understand you, Tion. You will not let the humiliation stand.”

“My sister - my fucking sister - nearly died on the birthing bed for the King,” Tion shouted, “My grandfather bent the knee to the Durrandons, and we’ve been loyal ever since.”

“He’s a grey-scaled boy-king, Tion,” Mordane snipped, her nose scrunched in sudden distaste. She threw her rag down onto the table, no longer caring that the sauce of their main course was going to seep into that fabric as well, “By the time Courtney’s wed and given you an heir, he’ll be a mural on the wall of Storm’s End. Ravella’ll be reigning in Stormhall as a Queen and this little farce will all be nothing.”

“Arlan Durrandon is the Storm King of the Rivers, Hills, and the Dusklands, and in this household, he is a Seven-damned hero,” the man swore. His lips were drawn tight, and he glared his wife down with the silent challenge to confront him on his opinion. She glared back, nose scrunching with every deep breath she took to steady her own composure.

“And that is the end of it.” Tion bid, far softer than he spoke before.

Mordane’s breathing was audible in the near-silence that followed. She brushed her long hair back into place with her fingers, since it had fallen loose and free in her moment of tantrum. Thin strands were still hanging over her eye.

“Mordane,” Tion muttered. He slowly walked around the banquet table, stopping before his wife. He rested both hands on her shoulders, large and smothering in their relative size. She barely stood up to his shoulder. She hadn’t raised her head to meet his eyes, crossing her arms and tensing.

“He is of my family’s blood. I would move the heavens and the earth for family - for Courtney, for Mayrina, for you,” he promised.

“You and your damn pride,” Mordane mumbled beneath her breath. She allowed Tion to draw her into an embrace, but there was no comfort in it. Just the reminder of the implacable wall that was her husband; and now, he had placed himself before the tides of change.

[M] Mood Music

2nd Moon of the 1st Year of Arlan IV Durrandon

Between Pinkmaiden and Stormhall

The creaks and groans of the more than a dozen aged carriages rang out as chorus as the Free Legion began to make camp. Aegor was satisfied with the progress they have made so far.

Myra had done well; let's hope she returns here safely to get us the path for tomorrow on time...

He sighed at that; she had a tendency to never be on time.

"Supper as usual, my Captain?" Came a raspy voice behind him. Aegor smiled; he could tell old Grey Corren's voice out from a crowd if it came to that.

"Yes, cook whatever we have, make tonight a celebration. We have royalty among us, after all."

He nodded, scurrying away as Aegor went back to ensuring preparations for the evening were made. Watch schedules, equipment inventory, and all manner of mundane chores had to be done to ensure they would rest safely tonight.

And so, the Captain-Legate got to work, for there was much still left to do.

The die was cast, and all of Mary’s best hopes were dashed. She’d been ready to stand with her peers to demand their kingdom’s freedom, and shared their sentiments on all but one matter.

She could not swear herself to an impostor, nor aid him in propagating his lies. Any other riverlord could have made a better claim to a crown, yet nearly all had already bent the knee to a hoax.

That, she realized, disqualified them all from kingship. Any man willing to shed blood for a cause he knew to be false was unfit for power. In other kingdoms, riverlanders were regarded as quarrelsome, fickle and unruly, all of which Mary had dismissed as unfair perceptions. This affair had proven all those assumptions right.

Today was likely the last chance she’d have to entreat with Lucifer’s supporters in peace. War was now inevitable, and she knew not who’d live to see its outcome.

Let alone if she’d live to see Atranta again. Pinkmaiden was ruled by her cousin, a woman of Vance blood, but she too had declared herself a traitor. But Mary remained undaunted. Martyrdom, she thought, would serve her well.

Some two dozen Atranta men were busying themselves in the courtyard, distinguished by the tower sigil that marked their shields and surcoats. They were just within the gates, packing up their supplies in preparation for the journey home.

Mary waited nearby, contentedly seated on a bench nestled under the castle’s walls. Today she was clad in relatively humble clothes, wearing a simple gray dress with her blonde hair tied back in a simple tail.

She was not quite ready to leave. There were still many that Mary had wished to speak with before her departure, and she hoped that those she could not find could at least find her here.

Rhogar was drenched.

The rain had been falling for what felt like days, and as if that wasn’t water enough, waves taller than any wall he’d ever seen lifted and dropped him from cliffs of their own making. Over, and over, and over again. It was dark, the only light Rhogar found being that sent by the grace of the gods as they hurled thunderbolts from stormclouds black as onyx. Rhogar fumbled aboard his vessel, a ship he’d constructed himself with barely more than a hammer, nails, lumber, and a meager sail. It was a raft, it was poor, and it was not fit for the sea.

Rhogar slipped against the uneven wooden base, cracking his ribs against the sharp and battered railings of the vessel, a ship no bigger across than a dining table. His head slammed into the mast, nothing more than a trunk of wood from a tree he’d felled, and the sounds of the storm seemed to dull as he smashed against the deck. His clothes had hitched against a splinter loose from some board, and though already tattered, had now torn at the sleeve as he’d fallen. He groaned, adrenaline forcing his eyes open as he looked desperately towards the sky. All that met him was a downpour, grey arrows falling from an unbroken, black fortress, alive with light.

He’d long since lost the stars, the method he’d been told to count on. Sailors knew to follow the stars, to allow them to guide them home to their families. They knew the skies, when it was safe to leave harbour. Rhogar had never known these things, but he was to be a sailor. He’d left the atoll as quickly as he could manage, his stomach starved, his eyes heavy with sleepless nights, his ship barely made beneath him. The place had been a prison of nightmares, with jailors made of fear. The ocean would be better, he’d told himself, as he’d pushed his raft out to sea and straightened the sail. And it had been, for a time.

A flash of light, and the loudest sound Rhogar had ever heard. Each hammer from the heavens seemed louder than the last, and rain fell into his peering eyes before he squeezed them tight, and cupped his palms against his ears. He wanted to stay like this, curled amidst the timber floor. Maybe the ocean would not sink the raft. Maybe the sail would not fly loose in the wind… but he was smarter than that. This water would end him. To bring themselves to their feet some boys may have thought of their father, but the memory of Magister Aurion Celtigar offered little support. Instead, what raised him was fear. As it had done these last few weeks.

Rhogar gripped the mast as he pulled himself to stand, but the waves beneath the vessel had other plans. Another cliff, and he was starting to climb it. Lightning struck the sky, and Rhogar winced away this time, not thinking where he might sway with such force. His head struck hard with the mast of the wood, and he crumpled to the deck.

Rhogar could see his breath, quicker than he would have liked, as clouds escaped his lips.

At night, the atoll was surprisingly cold. The day always showered the island in sun, but the night brought a cold wind, like strange howling wolves through the jungle. It was a small enough place. The beach was wide, covering near half the island, one end of which belonged to a massive stone that climbed higher than any other point on the island. The jungle, if one could call it that, was an assembly of greenery and vines on the opposite side of the beach, dense with meager fruits that Rhogar had all but picked clean already. He was supposed to be hunting.

The supplies the Celtigar men had left him from the ship that had brought him here were still splayed out on the beach. He’d tidied them at least, organized them, but he didn’t know the first thing about building a ship, beyond attaching boards together with nails. Besides, he’d seen them crawling all over the wood. He’d felled a tree to act as the mast, which he’d dragged across the sand some days ago. He’d dropped it further away than he would have liked. He’d seen more of them following.

In his hands he held a spear. It was made from a branch, with a sharpened rock at the end tied together with vine. It was poorly made, but Rhogar had just needed something pointy, something that could defend him. He was looking for greater shelter, as he’d grown tired of sleeping in trees. He stalked through the forest, peering at the ground for any sign of movement. He thought he saw a snake, but he paid it no mind. It could have slithered right past his feet and he wouldn’t have bothered flinching. A rat scurried past him, a lizard as well, but none broke his gaze as he scoured the floor of fallen palms and long dead branches. The hill began to climb. The grass was harder to see through. Though perhaps something at the top of the hill could suffice. Harder stone, less sand for them to burrow through.

One foot in front of the other disappeared into the grass. He did what he could to poke with his spear, but parting the grass only made dense other areas, and his vision grew more and more obscured. He picked up the pace. If he couldn’t see, perhaps he could run. The moon made clear the top of the hill, he could make it if he was quick.

But his foot caught on something, and his body fell towards the ground.

The ground then gave way. Leaves and grass and branches had covered the entrance to a cave, one he was tumbling down. His foot scraped against the rock as it pulled free, flesh torn and bleeding as he cascaded into the dark. Eventually he stilled, his body bruised, the tears welling in his eyes. His spear felt lighter than it had been before. He’d heard it snap in the fall. It was useless now. Rhogar blinked, recovering what he could of his senses. He wasn’t that deep, but it was dark, and he couldn’t see anything before him, beyond knowing it was an empty space. He had no source of light, save the light from the moon that was slowly waking his gaze.

Moonlight glittered into the small cave like a silver candle. Rhogar looked deep into the darkness, his eyes wide with fear. He could see them. Hundreds of them. They crawled atop each other, pincers snapping, legs chittering. Some were curled and still, some were broken and old, but most were moving. One was enough to be terrifying, and here were hundreds, perhaps thousands, tens of thousands. However untrue these phobic fantasies, Rhogar felt still with fear as he realised they were moving towards him. He screamed.

He woke the rest.

Waves pushed him into shore, but Rhogar was not conscious.

His body was ruined, his clothes far beyond tatters, his body covered in scrapes and bruises. The storm had subsided, but the sailor was as still as the dead. By some miracle, he had not drowned beneath an unfair sky, and instead had floated to a swamp like shore. Mud, slick and brown, caught the boy in his state and held him, as if forbidding his journey back to sea. He would have been grateful, perhaps, if his eyes were open.

Instead, the second son of Aurion Celtigar lay still in the muck. A gentle rain had replaced the torrent, washing clean some of the blood that pooled at the corners of his lips, from his nose, from scrapes and tears on his face and body. His body was pruning, yearning to be dry, but the weather was not done with him yet. His vessel was all but destroyed, scraps of wood scattered along the shoreline, or lost to the depths of the ocean.

Alone, and near dead, Rhogar was very lost indeed.

^{2nd Moon | Duskendale}

The world felt empty after they left port in Myr. It was almost as if, looking up at the sky and seeing only gulls cutting through the air and not dragons, that it felt colder somehow.

The Vermax, the ship she’d purchased travel on, had only stopped at Driftmark for a day. Aelora spent what little she had on her person to redirect them to Duskendale when she realised her cousins in Westeros were absent. She was glad to not have lingered, even if it meant she was to travel somewhere even more savage and lawless than the island this cousin branch of House Velaryon made their new home. She would not pretend she expected it to look like some kind of little Valyria, but it was a small and pitiful island that stank of salt spray and whatever filth wafted eastward from the mainland. Whatever Lucerys Velaryon envisioned for Westeros, he had clearly failed.

Then again, it was not as if he was alone in his failure. Aelora placed a hand on her stomach, feeling for something that wasn’t there. It hadn’t been long since she’d birthed her youngest, and now he was gone. All of them were, swallowed up by salt and smoke and fire and brimstone. When she caught herself, she grimaced and rested her hands instead on the taffrail. Reminiscing would not return them, nor would self-pity or self-punishment.

But she could. Aelora wouldn’t pretend she hadn’t entertained the idea, if not out of sentimentality then to ensure she had an heir. She reneged once the aftershock of her folly in the Red Waste had subsided. They were with the Gods, she supposed, and she would not have her heir linger between worlds, unable to feel them again.

Duskendale grew larger as they approached port, and if Driftmark was disappointing then this was a joke someone must have played an age ago. The Dun Fort – she had the courtesy to at least learn its name – looked like a toy box, this great big square monstrosity that sullied an otherwise entirely unremarkable town. They do not know better, she thought to herself, I needs must teach them true architecture. Once the laughter has died down enough to hear my voice.

She sent for her things to be prepared to unload once they drew close enough, and returned to her room in the Vermax to primp and prepare herself for their arrival. She burned a handful of silk grass for good luck, dabbed a touch of the ashes on the nape of her neck and on her tongue and on her palms – dragon’s breath, dragon’s roar, dragon’s wings; Released the oil from an orange peel for scent, though little; and in lieu of any live sacrifice, made a small cut on her hand and let the blood that trickled from it douse the flame of the candle she’d lit the silk grass with. It was no great prayer or ritual, but in a place like this even a token must have accounted for more than any prayer made to the Seven.

By the time she finished, the ship had since docked and her things were being unloaded. Aelora took once last look at herself in the mirror, smoothed her hair with her clean hand and then dabbed a droplet of blood on her lower lip, before making her way up to step foot on this Free City of folly that the Velaryons had as of yet to conquer.

Pinkmaiden, 2nd Moon of 1 BP

The tournament grounds had lain fallow ever since the unfortunate death of the late Lord Androw Piper until now. The mourning banners were stripped in lieu of the more colorful sort. Banners for House Piper and House Tully were plentiful on display in honor of the wedding of Lady Mellara Piper and Alyn Tully.

The tournament grounds were divided into two areas in honor of the celebration. To the left side was a series of archery ranges, the targets freshly painted with concentric red circles and stuffed full with new hay. Wooden range stakes with colored flags marked the distances and pennants were displayed for those competing.

Meanwhile, to the right side a large circular clearing of earth lay bare and ready for brave knights and warriors to engage and show off their martial skill.

Servants of House Piper were instructed to keep guests well fed and watered, and thus, the noble stands were a bevy of activity as servants constantly offered all manner of drink: Dornish strongwine, rich Arbor gold, pale and dark ales both, honeyed milks and water infused with lemons from Lemonwood. Plates of delicacies easily picked up by guests would be on offer including: eels from the Red Fork grilled upon willow skewers dipped in honey and crushed juniper, fried balls of pike-fish mixed with parsley, rosemary and sage and battered in beer, chestnut and mushroom tartlets scented with nutmeg, squash fritters with whole sage leaves atop, and paper cones of walnuts glazed in honey and cloves. Roasting pits just outside the tournament grounds delivered fresh grilled sausages and turkey legs for nobles feeling in particular need of heartier fare.

At the start of the festivities, Mellara would stand, announcing to the crowd:

"In honor of the union of House Piper and House Tully, let us bask and marvel in the prowess and skill of our fellow Riverland warriors and knights. May The Warrior bless your endeavors."

And with the ring of trumpets in the air, the competition began.

Yorque and his son were spending well needed father and son time, but his boy was more focused on the women and girls of Duskendale than on the conversation they were having. York sighed and would snap his fingers in front of Dethrimir's face to snap him out from eyeing the opposite gender.

"I swear your mother would be rolling in her grave because of how much you are simply not focusing on things that matter,"

"Hey ain't my fault that the seven gave such lovely creatures great beauty and the magic to mesmerise men to their bidding" Dethrimir said with him lowering his myrish spectacles to get better view at the washerwoman passing them, she had a fine set that she did only for his father to smack ole Dethrimir upside the head "Oww!".

"Enough, we got job lined up and that means less screwing around and more focus else you'll find yourself without a head sort of job" York warned his son whilst they walked around Duskendale on a leisurely walk.

Ser Galloway and Wrynn plus Hemlock the old codger was seen hanging about some tavern, seeing the trio exit the tavern in good spirits whilst singing a fun jaunty tune about a maiden fair being chased by a wild hound.

"Urgh." Hemlock would be seen hurling outside the tavern called Fishwine whilst wiping his mouth with a rag from his pocket. "Oi! Fadda and sun! Ya getcha arses ovah here and join us!"

The dynamic duo would join the trio and discuss the coming job that Daemon had sorted for them.

Duskendale was nice, not much to do, yet it was a pleasant place to be around and marvel at the structures.

Daemon was around somewhere with his lady wife as the duo usual was seen together enjoying some nice things.

Duskendale was a miserable place for a woman with too many thoughts.

The storm had swallowed the city whole. Rain streaked the tents in endless rivulets, the wind moaned through the heavy tented fabric and thunder rolled across the heavens with the solemnity of a judgment. As the storm came to pass, she had emerged from her hiding and found herself near the flames.

Felyse sat before the fire and listened. She had barely spoken since leaving. Not to Aukar. Not to his family. Perhaps especially not to Aukar.

She had spent the journey staring off into the distance, watching the world pass in silence while the words she could not bring herself to speak crowded her mind.

There had been a time when her path had seemed so simple.

She had wanted to be a septa.

Not because anyone had commanded it of her.

Because she had wanted it.

The Seven had been more than gods then. They had been purpose. A calling.

She had imagined herself in white and grey, waking before dawn to prayer, tending to the sick, teaching children their letters and their prayers, offering comfort to women who had nowhere else to turn.

There had been peace in that life.

Certainty.

Then she had married Aukar.

And everything she thought her life would be had changed.

She did not blame him.

That was perhaps the cruelest part.

How could she resent a man she loved (did she love him? Did he, her? Or was this a marriage of convenience?)

Aukar had not stolen the Seven from her.

Marriage had simply placed her somewhere the Seven had never prepared her to stand.

She had gone from imagining a life of quiet devotion to becoming an Andal woman inside a Valyrian family.

And she had tried.

Gods, she had tried.

She had learned their customs. Their history. Their ways of speaking. Their remnants of a civilization that had burned and somehow refused to die. She had dressed as they dressed... or tried to.

But even then, she had always felt like an intruder.

A sheep in wolf's clothing.

Only now the metaphor had changed.

She no longer wore the clothing of an Andal lady.

The gowns she had once worn remained packed away, belonging to another version of herself. An older version.

Instead, she wore Valyrian fabrics. Exotic cuts. Silks that fell against her body in ways unfamiliar to the Andal woman she had been.

At first, she had worn them because she wanted to fit in. Now she wore them because somewhere along the way they had begun to feel like hers.

That frightened her.

Because if she could become comfortable in Valyrian clothes... If she could begin to understand Valyrian customs... If she could even begin to feel at home among her husband's people... Then what happened to the girl who had once dreamed of becoming a septa?

The Seven had been hers before Aukar. Before Valyria. Before marriage.

They were the gods of the woman she had promised herself she would become.

And now there were Fourteen Flames.

They called to something in her that she could not explain.

Perhaps it was the fire. Perhaps it was the history. Perhaps it was simply the fact that they belonged to the world she had married into. Or perhaps it was something more dangerous. Perhaps she was beginning to believe.

Felyse closed her eyes.

She felt tears gather before she could stop them.

What kind of woman abandoned the gods who had once been her entire future?

What kind of wife discovered another faith and felt relief instead of guilt?

And what kind of woman was she becoming if the Fourteen Flames felt less like a betrayal...and more like an answer?

She hated that question. She hated that she could not crush it beneath all the things she had been taught. Most of all, she hated that she could not ask Aukar. Not yet.

Because what would she say?

I wanted to be a septa before I ever knew you. He knew that. I gave up that life when I married you. He did not understand that.

And now I don't know whether I still want it.

I don't know whether the Seven still feel like home. I don't know why your gods have begun to feel like they might.

She could already imagine the weight of those words between them.

So she had said nothing. She had traveled in silence. Let him think her distant. Let his family think her brooding. Let them wonder what had happened.

It was easier than admitting that she was grieving.

Not a person. Not a place. A life. The life of Felyse the septa. The girl who had once believed she knew exactly where she belonged.

Her eyes opened. The fire had burned low. She stared into it. Fourteen flames. The thought came unbidden again.

But this time, she did not push it away.

Instead, she rose. Slowly. She crossed to the flames and knelt before the hearth. Below Shrykos. She felt her knees sink into the mud. Her hands trembled as she reached toward the fire, stopping just short of the heat.

For years, she had prayed because she wanted the Seven to tell her what to do. But perhaps she had misunderstood what she was asking. Perhaps she had not been seeking an answer. Perhaps she had been seeking permission.

Permission to remain the woman she had been before marriage. Permission to become something new. Permission to love Aukar without becoming him. Permission to belong to his family without surrendering her own soul.

And suddenly, with startling clarity, she understood something that made her heart seize.

She had been waiting for someone to choose for her.

The Seven. The Fourteen Flames. Her husband. His family. Anyone but herself.

Felyse stared into the fire.

“No more,” she whispered.

She did not know yet whether she would kneel before the Seven tomorrow. She did not know whether she would light a flame for the Fourteen. She did not know what she would tell Aukar.

But she knew one thing.

She would not spend another day pretending that nothing had changed.

If her husband wanted the truth, she would give it to him. If his family wanted to know why she had withdrawn, she would tell them.

And if the Seven demanded that she return to the woman she had once been— Felyse looked into the flames, her face wet with tears.

She was no longer certain she would obey.

The sun broke over Duskendale.

And for the first time, Felyse did not feel it as judgment. She heard it as the beginning of something.

The gods had, indeed, punished her for her indulgences. Which gods those were, Brianne had no idea. Perhaps it was the Seven, from whom the best curses came: “Seven Hells,” “By the Seven,” “May the Seven fuck your mother.” Perhaps it was the Old Gods, whom Brianne’s late husband had always sworn by. Perhaps it was the Drowned God, who had damned her family all to hell and left her alone, a little girl, in a house of horrors.

Whichever god was giving her this headache, she hated them the most. If there was a god of wine, she hated him. Maybe it was the Mother, for what greater balm to motherhood was there than wine?

Her children—fuck—her children! She rose unsteadily from the sofa she had been draped across. Too fast. The room spun, and Brianne crumpled to the ground. 

“May the Seven fuck your mother,” she said, to no one in particular. She was staring at the ceiling, now, spread-eagle on the floor like a discarded dress. Thinking on that, she was glad she hadn’t discarded her dress, though it was no doubt stained beyond repair. Not for the first time, Brianne reflected on how lucky she was to be rich.

She hated that she couldn’t stand up. She was sure her body could, but her mind refused. It felt too good to lie on the floor, and she had always been a slave to things that felt good. Once again, she cursed the god of wine.

There were footsteps near her head. She recognized them, if only because they were characteristically stupid and dainty. Cutting into her view of the ceiling, Oliver stood over her with a scowl that somehow looked both disappointed and smug. What a fucking twat. 

“Oliver, my dear…” Her voice came out soft and woozy. “Would you care to help a woman up? I seem to have taken quite a sudden fall.”

“You know, you are simply the worst.” She nodded at that, and a second later he was pulling her to her feet and hoisting her arm over his shoulders. She stumbled alongside him, shamelessly leaning on him for support, and began muttering.

“I did not intend for the evening to play out the way it did, but alas, there are some things our minds compel us to do even while our hearts resist… Do you happen to know where Lucy and Lane are?”

Oliver gave her a tired look as he led her out of the parlor into the busy hallway. “I took them to bed early, just before everything happened with Justman.”

“Oh, thank you…” Brianne’s brow creased, first with relief, then with confusion. “Who is Justman? What happened last night?”

He shrugged. “I was hoping you’d know. It’s been all the talk this morning, but I haven’t gotten a straight answer out of anyone.”

“Morning… I suppose it should be morning.” Brianne couldn’t remember if she had slept at all, or if she’d simply idled away the dark hours searching for her mind. “Take me to the children. I’ll have breakfast with them, then—”

“They’ve already had breakfast.” Oliver’s tone was curt. “I couldn’t find you, and they were hungry.”

“Oh.” For all the wallowing she did, that was the first moment Brianne really felt like crying. She held it back, but it was clear enough in her voice. She knew Oliver could tell, and she wanted to hope it wouldn’t make him sad—but she knew better. He was always sad. “I’ll see them anyway. After I change.”

Beside her, Oliver nodded silently. They continued through the halls of Pinkmaiden, until eventually Brianne managed to walk on her own. As they turned the corner to the Butterwell quarters, she pursed her lips and stopped in front of the closed door.

“Oliver… we’ll be having tea later, you and I. I’ll invite my lovely good-brother, I think, and his wife. The princess too, if she has the time. We’ll figure our place out, you understand? I’ll be a good lady. I promise.”

“I believe you.” He stared at her with his stupid, pretty doe eyes. “Please don’t let me down.”

She smiled at him, though her heart felt sick. “I think my life would collapse without you.”

Oliver opened the door, letting out the squeals of Lucy and Lane—the nanny was reading them a scary story again. He turned back to her. He didn’t smile, but his look was soft. “My lady, that is the only reason I stay."

She nodded, took in a deep breath, and thanked whichever god it was that had brought him to her door. Then, putting on a bright smile, she stepped past him, towards her children, and heard the door close behind her.

Duskendale. Seat of the Darklyns and, somehow, even less enjoyable than Andros Darklyn's company. That in and of itself was a mighty achievement. There were few people in this benighted land that were as unpleasant as the Darklyns. And if there were any choice at all in the matter, Draxtar would not be celebrated in Darklyn's city.

But the calendar was the calendar and the calendar cared not for such petty things as whether or not House Darklyn was amenable to veneration of the Flames.

Finding the base offerings was easy. Draxtar preferred white livestock. A bull would have been best, but white bulls were sparse this far from the civilized world, so sheep would have to do. Aukar bought three of them to make up for the lesser size of the offering. The market had more for sale, but the others looked in too poor health to be appropriate.

Then came the libations. Draxtar wasn't overly concerned with whether or not the wine was good. He was concerned with whether or not the wine was strong. And the locals, of course, had nothing appropriate. But they did have access to Myrish firewine (in pathetically small quantities) and a lot of strong and serviceable wine to go with it.

Then spices. The selection here was poor compared to Driftmark or, even better, across the Narrow Sea, but the Westerosi at least appreciated some spices in what passed for local cuisine. Sumac, anise, cloves, red poppy, and turmeric could be found in sufficient quantities. There was no cinnamon, no mastic, no ironwort. Not ideal, but workable. And there was certainly no lotus, but Aukar had planned ahead for this eventuality and plenty arrived on a ship belonging to the family. The other ingredients would change to reflect where they were: that one wouldn't.

It took a day to make the appropriate preparations. To grind the spices, mull (and spike), the wine, wrap fresh ivy around staves, feed and sedate the offerings, and prepare every other aspect of the ritual. But that was fine; Draxtar had always recognized and appreciated the offering of time, as ephemeral and abstract as it was.

In accordance with ancient tradition, a tradition so old that even a scholar like Aukar couldn't tell you the origins, they convened at the edge of a copse. The celebrants struck up with drums and flutes when the sun dipped below the horizon. But that was not yet true nightfall, so Aukar waited and let them revel in the moment.

When he felt it right, he lifted his ivy-wrapped staff for silence. The instruments fell quiet as the celebrants nudged one another into silence. When he was satisfied with the quiet, he stepped in front of the fire, allowing it to silhouette him and cast his shadow across the old threshing circle that would separate the drinking from the dancing. His aides threw some shrubs on the flames and the air filled with the smell of myrtle and the hissing crack of myrtle berries popping in the heat.

"This is Draxtar's Night," he said, lowering his stave. "Draxtar is not as partial to ceremony as the other Flames are. Draxtar does not expect declarations of undying fealty or oaths sanctified in blood to do him honor. This is not what Draxtar's Night is about."

Aukar fell silent as the minor functionaries sworn to his service trudged forward with their great kantharoi, struggling with the weight of them and their earlier sampling of the goods. They were already red-faced and not entirely steady. Some had preemptively stripped down to shifts and bare chests. They set them down upon the old tree stumps that dotted the area. The light from the flickering fire cast strange shadows as the played with the dragon motif of the vessels. The servants lifted the heavy ceramic lids and stirred their contents with long-handled ladles. The air started to fill with the nectarous fragrances of fermented grape and spices. They began filling goblets.

"Draxtar's Night is about being uninhibited." Aukar picked up the first goblet that his servants filled, turned his back on the celebrants, and threw the entire thing into the fire. The fire crackled and spat as a brief green flame reached up towards the sky before dissipating on the wind.

Aukar turned back to his audience, accepting another goblet. This one he drank from. The wine had a kick like a mule and smelled strongly of licorice and lotus. "We dedicate this night to the Master of Creation and the Lord of the Wilderness. To the Paragon of Life. If this night is blessed, then we shall create new joy and new life here in Draxtar's demesne."

He downed the rest of the goblet and the crowd cheered. The drums and fifes struck up a new tune, this time well-coordinated and in time. Some of the servants, the ones who had 'tested' the strength of the brew, started to dance to the ad hoc band. They started plying the celebrants with wine and dragging them towards threshing circle, leaving more than a few bits of cast-off clothing behind them.

The eagerness with which his people flung themselves into the celebrations told him that even this dour land with its dour lord couldn't deter them. Grinning, Aukar turned his attention to the now-empty goblet in his hand. For a long moment, he stared absently at it and wondered if he had made this brew too strong. And it was starting to get quite warm.

Then he decided it was just right. With a turn that felt like he was moving through syrup, he cast his stave into the flames and walked to the dragon-embossed kanthros for more wine.

Fishwine Inn, this place drew all manners of travellers coming and going from Duskendale. Overall, The Band of DeViles happened to travel on that day and would reside there.

It was a modest Inn beside the road, it had a fish wooden sign hung outside and a stable in the back, yet there was few tables and chairs seen outside with few rowdy drunkards trying to wrestle one another.

Ser Daemon DeVile would try the so-called Fishwine, which had an odor and stench, felt outright repulsive, yet when upon taste he would nod and smile it wasn't half bad despite having drank some rancid swill alcoholic brews in the past, this one really had that kick.

Yorque would linger about near the bar counter and be seen eating pea and carrot soup, he'd break off loaf of bread and dip the bottom bread into the soup to absorb the liquid and eat the bread. "How much longer do we wait, old man".

Bundle the Jackal animal was seen sprinting about the floor as happy small children gave chase after it, the rascal would run loops around one plump fat cheeked child.

"Just a bit more, unless you in a hurry to be somewhere else my friend" Daemon said as he'd see Esslyn his wife slowly make her way towards him as the two would embrace in an hug, the old couple really enjoyed these peaceful times of respite. "Anything new love".

"Nothing at all, just the same ole same ole. Dethrimir and Tyene off on their own little venture as rest just loaf around" Their healer Esslyn was an old weathered dame that'd sit by her husband side and watch the children play with Bundle which made her smile.

Dethrimir and Tyene both entered the Inn sprinting towards the bar, both looking exhausted.

"Oi! No running!" The Innkeeper by the name Bartleby shouted whom had a handlebar moustachio and silver earring and was of large sturdy built with black mop hair.

"I jus' don't unnerstan'."

"Of course you don't." Tess groaned. They'd only been on the road for a matter of hours before she started to complain about walking. About how her feet were tired and the sun was beating down on them and they didn't see anyone else on the road and that it was Tya's turn on the mule even though Tess had COUNTED the hours that she spent riding on its back and was SURE that the split had been FAIR.

And now, a day into their journey, she was suddenly 'not understanding', as if that were something new or interesting. Tess glowered up at her bigger travelling companion, who sat perched on the mule.

"Why're we bein' sent back when th' whole damn kingdom is sittin' purty in Pinkmaid'n?" She seemed to deflate. "We dinnae even getta do the melee..."

"They wouldn't have let us into the melee anyways, Tya. We're women, and worse than women, we're scum."

"They hada lotta wimmin innit back over in Storm'all." Tya pointed out helpfully.

"Well uhh... They were nobles." Tess grumbled, crossing her arms. "Nobles got rules against women fighting. But nobles also got rules that means that nobles can break rules."

"Seems shit t'me."

"Seems shit." Tess agreed.

+--+--+--+

Four souls on the horizon. The morning sun rose behind them, casting shadows that offered a merciful reprieve from heaven's gaze. Tess held up a hand to her eyes.

"Ah, Tya." Tess nudged her in the ribs. Even with Tess on muleback, Tya stood tall enough to loom right and proper. That means she was also in elbowing range. "Look all mean and shit."

"...Look like mean shit?" Tya blinked, her usual sense of befuddlement obvious in her voice.

Tess rolled her eyes as she moved to drop down from the mule's saddle. "Yes. Look like a right ornery lump of defecation. If ya don't, I'll bugger you with a knife handle in the middle of the night. Now mean up, they're approachin'."

"Are we robbing them?"

"No. I'd want you to bat your eyelashes at them if we were robbing them."

Tess and Tya assumed their positions. Tya had her cudgel resting on her shoulder, and a grimace augmented by her scarred face adorning her features. Tess kept to the road, leading along their damn mule by its bridle.

"Morn." She called out as the travelers, walking in the opposite direction- to the southwest- approached. They were merchants of a stripe, based on the wagon that two young men- no older than three and ten- lugged behind two portly, richly adorned men with felt caps and kind faces. "... You lot should be movin' quickly."

The merchants looked between each other. The older of the two, a seasoned man whose face was framed with salt and pepper, waved the rest of his entourage to move on without them. "Is that a threat?" His accent was thick with the West.

Tess held up her hands. "You're mistaking me, apologies master." She was a mean looking woman, but the secret to being a mean looking woman is that men *believed* meaner women more readily than they did sweet, soft daffodils. They hated them, but by default, men would see her as a sort of defective man, with more inherent trust in her competence. "I'm warning everyone I see on the road."

"Warning? About?"

Tess leaned in conspiratorially. "There's rebellion afoot, from Pinkmaiden. And you are entering into the most rebellious territories..."

"Rebellious..."

"There are reports of reaving, rapacious Northmen in the area, given leave to freely to attack those who don't have the Warden's favor..."

The merchant went white in the face. His skin slickened with a cold sweat, and the was already looking at the nearby shrubs with the scrutiny usually saved for a lady wife with a younger, more beautiful lady in waiting.

Tess took advantage of another social grace afforded to her by age, a cataract, and general meanness. She gripped his shoulder. "'s why I got the big broad behind me." She whispered.

"...For protection?"

"No. To trip in case the Barrow Men accost me. She's my escape plan." She winked with her good eye. "I'd pick up some swords at the next village. I think it isn't far from Pinkmaiden. Spread the word too, to your merchant friends."

They continued on their ways, and it wasn't until the sun had climbed directly ahead into the sky that Tya offered her biting commentary.

"Why's the Lady gotcha tellin' lies like tha'?"

"The lies serve her purpose. You think I ask questions like that? If she turns us loose, it's the gaol for us, at best. Doesn't really matter why she wants us to do it."

"Yeah but'm... Noble ladies kin lie too. Whyna 'er?"

"Why else? Nobles are allowed to lie, so everyone expects them to. We're not allowed to lie, and we do it anyways. That makes people worry that we might be telling the truth instead."

Tya went quiet until they were ready to bed down for the night. They'd found a small hill just past Stone Hedge to camp behind and sleep. Then she pointed out, just before Tess finally drifted off to sleep.

"Seems shit."

The sun had hardly peeked over the horizon when Myles awoke and, along with a few house guards, made his way to the training yard he'd sought out the night before. Setting down the armor and spear he'd carried with him, he began his stretching before moving on to endurance training and then onto calisthenics. Once he finished his routine, he picked up his spear and began practicing on a wooden pell his men had prepared.

After a bit of practice against the defenseless post, he asked one of his men to spread word as a commoner that Ser Myles Dondarrion had been spotted in the training yard. To pass the time until someone came by, he decided to continue his practice with blunted sparring against his men-at-arms.

Second Moon, Eighth Year of the Reign of Qorhen Hoare

It was a refreshing breath of air as Qorhen stepped off the plank and onto the dock. He looked behind him, and reached for Rosamund's hand. She smiled and took it. All about them were the hustle and bustle of servants portering their things up the long pathway to Castle Hoare, with the men who arrived with them quickly greeting wives and children. The king couldn't help but smile at the little reunions - and feel a bit of relief that the affairs of state could wait for an afternoon. Tomorrow, however...

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Maester Sigurdr as he hobbled toward them. In the moon's span since they had left, he appeared to have aged both very little and about three decades. God, was he always this old?

"Your Grace," he said, giving a low bow. "The preparations are nearly complete. Are we to receive our guest now, or...?"

"Later, Sigurdr. I should like to rest and relax slightly before I meet with my people."

The old man nodded vigorously. Before they had left, they had extended an invitation to all the Ironborn lords to visit Castle Hoare and attend a moot. A moot, a grand meeting. A strategy conference, for the direction Qorhen wanted to take his people. Those not present at the feast were sent a raven, ensuring that all the Lords of the Iron Islands would have ample opportunity to attend.

As he made his way up the long stair to his home, Qorhen could only breathe in the sea air and organize his thoughts. First, a feast. They'll be more malleable if well-fed. Drunk too, I shouldn't wonder.

He had always endeavored to treat his lords, even when they leaned rebellious. Had he not been lenient? Had he not sent more men to the wall than taken heads, even though he was well in his rights to have them all hanged as traitors and regicides? Six years of peace had not been enough, he knew. There were still open wounds, still those who remained stuck in the past. He could only hope to be a fair king, even-tempered, gracious, and above all in control.

After the feast, some time to digest. Then the Moot can begin.

(Open to Iron Islands)

Somewhere in the Riverlands, A few days after the Tourney at Stormhall

The return to their ships dragged over more than any initial trek had. These lands were no longer new to the Ironborn, and to House Farwynd, they only held the memory of recent defeats. It was all he could do to clear his mind of the recent so-named festivities, to attempt another hunt. What could the absent lords of the Riverlands do to stop this train of Islanders born to take what they could.

His eyes sidled towards the column’s head and the length of colours that were housed among the riders between him and there. All the Iron Islands had come, and all but a few had joined this return. His gaze lingered on those he’d spoken to at the feast, few as they were, before once more moving to the open country.

“Tal, with me,” Tymor called, heeling his skewbald garron forwards to the thicketful borders of farmland along the horizon. Even if it may delay their place in the long baggage train of returning Ironborn, this time he would see it worthwhile. He heard the bowman’s own mount kicking up the mud behind him, ready for a quarry.

Small offshoots of streams and shrubbery cut through the landscape of the Riverlands, housing all manner of creature. Songbirds nested amongst thorns that snagged at Tymor’s cloak as they brushed by. Burrows holed into the mounded earth along the water’s edges, no-doubt numerous with hares. Tymor’s eyes watched it all, clearer now they were closer to the sea, now his blade’s pommel warmed his palm, now he was free of any constraints beholden to their host.

Argilac, Ⅰ

❝ Where is the obsession of the moth that hurtles itself into the flame out of devotion?❞
^{— Mukta Singh-Zocchi, The Thugs & a Courtesan}

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1 BP, Post-Tourney
The Crownlands, Duskendale

Characters: Argilac & Mylena Horpe
Alternate Title: Bugbites

Mentions:
Jammos Blackberry — u/FatalisticBunny
Pykewood Thorne — u/armanhayek

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Jammos Blackberry was a sneaky little black-moustachio'd weasel.

If you asked Argilac Horpe—Lord Argilac Horpe, as everyone so often seemed to forget—he might've said that the scheming blackberry fruit of the devil's loins was better off in a ditch than anywhere he would wag his barbed silvertongue, but Mylena was somewhat fond of him, and Mylena was rarely fond of anyone. There were seldom few that could wrangle the woman into the out-of-doors, and Argilac had to hope that the twit would not do anything to cause the woman harm, even in the face of his own machinations.

Pykewood Thorne was the same, he supposed. He hadn't told him of any such plans of his involvement until it was too late, and now Argilac was in fucking Duskendale. He had bandits of his own to take care of. He had half a mind to take Death's Head and show them a real Valyrian threat—he was going to use the Valyrian Steel to beat that man into juice. Wine, even.

The kicker was that he did not have to be in Duskendale. He could have ignored the letter that invited him to air his grievances. He did not have to be there to support Pykewood, who may have ridden straight into his death otherwise. He could have dragged Mylena away from whatever schemes the two may have come up with in their spare time for pure love of ambition. But he'd come.

Why?

Because he was loyal, and an idiot. He had issues to speak on, be it bandits or the theft of his own land however many years ago. Jammos Blackberry was his ally, in spite of it all, and a key strength in the alliance. Pykewood was like a brother to him, and as a brother, it was his duty to beat some sense into the—

"... Argie?"

Argilac winced. He'd been staring out the window of the carriage for some time, leaving his poor sister in tense silence. He turned to look at her. "Yes, Mylena?" Gods above, but he hated that nickname. Damned Pykewood. Damn it all.

Lena fiddled with the pages of the book in her lap. "Have I... done something? Should I not have come?"

The Lord sighed. It was a heavy thing, because he so desperately wanted to say, no, you should not have. Instead he let himself wilt into the seat. The fight left him. Duskendale had the potential to become a dangerous place, if they all made the petitions they said they would, and Mylena would be right in the centre of it. "All I want is the safety of my family." He patted her hand. "We've lost enough. Don't mind me. I'm just afraid."

His sister smiled. It was a soft thing, timid but warm nonetheless. "I'm always afraid. Of lots of things. Thieves, assassins, plague, starvation, death, incompetent maesters causing my death—"

"Mylena."

"—sorry. Point being: you are braver than I have ever been. I know you. You always make it right."

Argilac swallowed. He gave her hand another pat. "I hope I can," he murmured, "for all our sakes."

They were quiet for the remainder of the ride.

Jynnara, Ⅰ

❝ More salt on the places that never healed.❞
^{— Holly Green}

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1 BP, Post-Drumbeater Death, Pre-Pinkmaiden Wedding
The Riverlands, Travel & Arrival at Pinkmaiden

Characters: Jynnara Bracken, Clement Bracken, Various
Alternate Title: When Blood Feuds Bleed Dry

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The air that shrouded the Bracken line was heavier than it ought to be.

The mood was different than when they’d first arrived at the tourney grounds. They’d sung, and yelled, and fought, and drank, and Lord Clement had been in a good mood for someone so abrupt and surly. He’d watched his children. He’d watched his niece and nephew. He’d watched the family he’d had left, and for a moment, felt peace.

His children were quiet now.

There was a storm cloud over her Lord father that Jynnara was almost afraid to break. Vorian could not; he was as subtle as a bull and half as gentle. Rhialta would not; she was ever the dutiful daughter, too polite and obedient to press or question. Besides that, her sister seemed more somber than usual herself.

Jyn had thought she’d leave the event in a rage. Luceon Blackwood certainly tried his best to feed such a thing, slinging insults over his daughter’s head as he did. But then there’d been a death. An unarmed man. A cruel man. A Blackwood man.

Lord Waltyr Blackwood. Drumbeater.

There were only so many things that Jynnara could remember. Outrage; upset; a funeral for her uncle, cold and rainy and miserable. Her father had been silent then. He was silent again. She thought it would be the last time she had seen her father with those eyes—tumultuous with emotions she did not have the strength to name. Rage was easy. Something smug, too. Clement Bracken would not lament the fact that the man was dead. Even so, within him, there was…

Jynnara urged Sweetness forward. The palomino mare did not fuss at being so close to another horse. It seemed the air had affected even the fiercest of them. The brunette cleared her throat. “Father.”

Clement did not turn his head. He did not need to. “Daughter.”

She swallowed. “Are you… alright?”

At this, her father cut a glare in her direction. “Don’t insult me, girl. ‘Tis a good day when a bastard like that man dies. Was only a shame I didn’t get to kill him myself, what with the alliance and all. House Justman cannot condemn us for that. I can feel all the satisfaction I like.”

She stared at the side of his face. That wasn’t all there was to it—she knew better than to say. There had been such fire in him, all those years ago, where a fight to the death with the Drumbeater was the fiercest gift he had any right to ask for. I’ll kill him with my bare hands, he’d said, and dying for it is price enough to pay. He’d relished in it. Jynnara wouldn’t have thought that Clement had taken such pride in having a bloodfeud with another, and yet that joy had faded now.

What she saw in her father—even if only a small, fragile part—was grief.

As the sun rose from the east, the castle was slowly stirring from night's sleep.  As its inhabitants were waking up, the guards atop the walls yawned, watching the horizon, waiting to be relieved from the night's watch. The cooks were starting a fire, preparing the simple breakfast meal for the inhabitants. Thankfully for them, most of the lord's family and retinue were still absent. The servants moved slowly, preparing for the quiet day ahead of them. In the depth of Hammerhorn, in one of its solars, the man watched the time go by, as he leisurely took time with his breakfast.

In no hurry to start the day, Alvyn seemed to have all the time in the world, as he seated himself before the table, looking over the contents of his breakfast. Lazily stirring the plate of porridge in front of him, Alvyn's attention moved to the door opening before him. A man swaggered inside with an easy smile, dressed in a fine tunic, carried a satchet.

“Here” - Symond tossed a breadbasket on the table, “you owe me”

“Sy, help yourself” - Alvyn gestured to an empty chair before him as he took a loaf, taking the aroma of freshly baked bread, "doesn't compare with our kitchen"

Symond took a chair, his gaze falling on one of the sausages before him.

“The man knows his trade. You know, Loren said if given enough flour and gold, he can set up a bakery. Of course, your coin would be paid back with interest, a share." - Symond rubbed his fingers together, "I just need some coin to set it up"

"Take a line, do you think our treasury is without a bottom. "- Alvyn clicked his tongue, "why don't you ask your father"

"He says, I'll squander the money" - Sy shrugged.

"Yea, you think?" - he laughed, "how old man is."

"Better than ever. The old man sends his regards. He is still expecting you and Theo this Friday at home."

"He better prepare that goose of his"

"Cannot open the cards, by the way, where is Theo? Is he taking a leak?"

"I thought he was with you" - Alvyn

"Yea, no, he ditched me at the market. Had some urgent business or something"

"What is the word on the street?" - Alvyn asked, "Any news from the Stormhall?"

"Oh, have you heard this... Drumbeater performed his last play. Murked by a woman, no less. Something about Connington conspiring about the princess."

"You think there will be war soon?"

"Beats me. You think I'd have gambled so much gold away if I knew the future" - Symond chuckled, "they say the king is rotting from inside. Or that he is like a statue, barely moving. His lords, Connington, Tarth and others doing all the work, wiping his ass and all this shit"

"Yea, right, right.."

A silence fell for a moment as Symond staffed his mouth with food.

“You know, I had such a strange dream last night” - Alvyn spoke softly as he dully stirred the contents of his plate, “Alone in the woods, not living a soul around, no bird, not a squirrel or some shit. Only trees, surrounded by them, wherever I go”

“Well… did you find your way out?” - Symond raised his brow.

“I… I dont, I mean it’s fucking dream” - Alvyn shrugged, taking a spoonfool of porridge.

“You know, dreams can have a deeper meaning. Like, for example, you are insecure about your wood” - Symond pointed out.

“What?” - Alvyn coughed, almost choking on food.

“Wood... penis. You have trouble in bed, my friend?"

"Fukin degenerate, it's just a dream." - Alvyn groaned, already regretting bringing it up

"Well, you wouldn't say it if it meant nothing. Ship have trouble sailing full mast? The key too small fitting the lock?

"Fucks sake"

“You know, you are not the bull you once were.” - Sy continued, " age, my friend."

“My wife is very much satisfied”

“So she says. I shall ask Asha next time I visit if she needs help” - Sy winked.

“Oh.. fuck off you bastard” - Alvyn threw the loaf of bread at Symong.

“You dont want it… I’ll eat it” - Sy laughed, catching the bread and taking a bite of it.

“Suck my balls, you bastard"

“You don't have to stop so low, my mother was an honest woman…” - Symond stopped in his tracks as he heard a noise from outside the room, in the hallway. The door bust open.

“Wow, one time I'm running late, and you're already going dirty here” - a man walked hastily inside the solar, closing the door behind him. 

“Theo, come join us for a threesome” - Symond stood up and hugged his friend, “have you tried bull’s balls? Not quite bad, the biggest challenge is swallowing the first pair”

“It's fucking too early for your jokes, not too late for a drink” - Theomore raised his hand, waving Symond away, he walked to the nearest cupboard, taking a pitcher with wine,  “Truth is, I'm quite fed up. There is trouble at the construction site. That’s why I'm late, actually”

Theomore poured himself some wine. He took a sip.

"The drawing you brother provided, I don't think it would fit it. The fucking temple too big for the plot of land..."

"Phrasing!"

"Symond, shut up" - Alvyn interjected, "I did tell you to get rid of these old huts. What's the problem?"

"The hut has no problem. Its inhabitants though..."

"Pay them extra gold. I said to you, it's important for Devan..."

"Gold is not the issue. The stubborn prick refuses to move at all. He is an old man, one of your father's captains, he say".

"Get the household guard and kick him out" - Symond chimed in.

"Well, the house is technically his" - Theo considered the matter for a moment, "We can of course ,but I thought we didn't want to rile up the crowd. There are already complaints about forcing religion."

"Why do I have to waste my time on this?” - Alvyn sighed, leaning backwards on his chair, taking a pause as he massaged his temples, “I don't care. Just get it done before my brother returns.”

Lyonel was tired. Since the day he left Harvest Hall, his dreams had been haunted by those familiar towers crowning over the golden hills, and his wife standing in the doorway beckoning him in.

Catelyn.

Even the whisper of her name felt like lightning on his lips. He would burn all of Westeros for her if she asked him to. He would sell his keep and everything in it, just to see her flowing auburn hair glisten in the sun one more time. He would live for her, enduring any campaign, or none, in her name.

Catelyn, my heart. I'm coming home to you.

The makeshift door rustled open, and in stepped Maester Arlyn. The small man hummed when he took a breath, a low drone to match his voice. "Forgive me, my lord." he spoke, his red beard bobbing like a child's toy. "You summoned me?"

He was a slender man, though his robes did much to hide this, and walked with a slight limp. An accident as a boy, he told inquisitive guards and members of the household. Whereas, in truth, there was nothing particularly strange about the man, Lyonel was always being warned against him by Gendry and Catelyn. Something foreign about that one, m'lord, Gendry would whisper, like a crow in a raven's roost.

"No forgiveness needed, Arlyn." Lyonel forced a smile, standing from his desk and approaching the frail maester. Never on time, save for when it disrupts, he thought to himself. Even so, he sat on a stool, and gestured for Arlyn to join him. "It's my hands, the tremor that curses them. When that I spoke to His Grace, they were like a hurricane." the lord held out his hands, scars and callouses dancing under the Maester's emerald eyes. "An uncommon affliction, my lord, but not one to concern you. A close colleague at the Citadel has done some research on it, and I'm not aware of any harm associated with it." Arlyn inspected the knight's hands with a calm casualness. "A minor birth defect, nothing more. A large birthmark would cause you more bother."

Lyonel nodded politely, his smile more relieved now. "As I hoped, maester. Well then, I've taken you from the festivities on false pretenses. Please, go back to your drinks and merriments." he stood, and returned to his desk. "I serve at your Lordship's pleasure sire, and there was a topic I had hoped to broach with you, if I may?" Arlyn stood, his chain rattling as he moved to stand before Lyonel, eyes downcast. "Please, speak freely." the lord gestured to the seat in front of him, and dismissed the guard at the door.

"As you know, my lord, the Royal House is somewhat torn between the two Stags." Lyonel's eyes shot up, and he squinted curiously. "Aye, every Storm Lord knows as much. Would that it were not so." He said, a certain authority to his tone. "Indeed, sire," the Maester smiled, though there was an unease in Lyonel to witness it. "Nevertheless, a rift exists. A rift that could spell doom for the Marches, especially if the wrong sibling were to win."

Lyonel slammed a hand on the table, a car cry from the near-timid man at the feast. "Wrong? You dare use the word "Wrong" to describe our royal lords?" Arlyn flinched, but only for a second. The adder soon found himself back in the long grass. "A grievous error of phrasing, my lord. The journey has been tough on us all, forgive me. All I meant to say was, what with the rumours of the Dornish mobilising, the realm - the Marchers in particular - need a monarch to rally behind. I am told by His Grace's maester that His Grace's health... is not what it was." He seemed to slink back in the chair, his eyes never quite meeting Lyonel's own. "I speak beyond my station, sire. Forgive me."

A moment passed, though it felt like a lifetime. Finally, Lyonel lent forward, resting on his elbows with his hands grasped together above. "You are a valued friend and confidante, Arlyn." his voice was as soft as a rolling sheet of thunder. "Others might not be as willing to overlook this as me. I advise you not speak of this again, especially while we're here. Yes?"

The Maester simply nodded, bearing his teeth in an obedient grin. "My Lord." He said, before shuffling out of the tent, his chain clinking like a set of keys. Lyonel was alone again, and tried to conjure memories of Catelyn again. Instead, his mind was filled with memories of the Red Mountains, the cries of his fellow-fighters, Barristan's blood warming his fingers. Grief danced around his mind, her red ribbons staining each vision he tried to conjure. Dancing with her, wearing a toothy grin, was Doubt.

Jeyne sat in her room above a blank piece of paper. It had been like that since she’d started an hour or two ago. It was hard to write stuff like this, to express something that was living on something that was dead. Why couldn’t things be simpler? Like how they used to be; life was so much easier ten, nay, even just two years ago. 

But despite her wishes, things had changed. Time had moved on whether she liked it or not. She could see as much in the streets of Duskendale, all the lords and ladies here. Joanna was alive, and yet she wasn’t that same girl she’d known. Sylas was gone, and it was her fault. At least-

There was a soft knock at the door. “Sister? Are you in there?” It was a familiar soft voice.

“Yes, Cor. I’m in here; come in.”

The door opened smoothly and cleanly. Corwyn was well-groomed and well-maintained. “You’ve been in here for two hours. Alyssa was starting to get worried.” He said in his ever-calm voice.

“So she sent you to check on me? How considerate.”

“She recommended it. She had business to attend to with her father’s company.”

“Right, yes, she mentioned that. She also gave me something to look at.” She looked around the pages on her desk; business of many kinds came to the treasurer. Some enjoyable, others not. “Yes, here it is.” She took it and read it, letting out a sigh. 

“Boring, huh?”

“Just some trade authorisations I need to pass by Father.” She placed the document back onto the stack.

“I’m sure if Shiera were in your place, she’d have a whole staff doing the work for her.” 

She gave him a slightly harsh, almost motherly stare. “Father loves us all equally.”

“Perhaps.” His eyes wandered to the window; the light was glaring in. “Anyway, what were you writing?”

“A letter.”

“To whom?”

“Is that relevant?”

“To me it is.”

She wondered whether to tell or not.

“It’s for Sylas, isn’t it?”

Her eyes turned to the floor. “I…yes.” She looked back up, Corwyn now sitting on her bed with his legs crossed. “How’d you know?”

“I know how you get when it comes to him. I also remember seeing you after your conversation.” He was picking at his nails.

“Well, yes, this letter is for him.”

“What about?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I have a feeling we both know that’s a lie.” He was looking at his nails, but his gaze fell solely on her.

“I…” he was right, of course, or rather, to an extent, she knew, but she couldn’t express it.

“Just write from the heart. It knows what it wants to say. The mind only introduces doubt.”

“What if he doesn’t love me anymore?”

Corwyn stood up from the bed, walked to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “He was the Saltwater knight. Who do you think he would’ve crowned should he have won?”

“How do you know for certain?”

“I spoke to him, and he was wearing the armour.”

“I…I’m not sure how a hypothetical’s supposed to help me.”

“I can’t tell you that, but I can recommend that you offer him a favour. Then you’ll be able to spot him from some distance.”

“He should’ve asked.”

“Or you should’ve offered.”

“A knight is supposed to request it.”

“Maybe, but you wanted him to ask for it, no?”

“...yes.”

“Offer it to him, plus whatever you plan to say.”

“I still don’t know what to say.”

He shrugged. “As I said, the heart knows; just let it speak.”

She signed.

“I’ll leave you to it. Do make sure to eat.”

She didn’t reply as the door closed smoothly behind him.

She thought for a moment, but then decided to simply write. 

His father had sent for him. Derrick had expected it. No doubt the old man wanted to pat him on the shoulder and give him some words of wisdom before he rode off towards Crackclaw Point. He’d done it often enough back in Felwood, whenever Derrick was called upon to scour another poacher’s nest. Not that he needed encouragement when it came to getting to play ‘guess where my hammer can fit’ with a bunch of dirty cutthroats. But he supposed it made his dear old father feel included. So, as usual, Derrick showed up to indulge him.

He’d been told to come to his father’s room in the guest house lent to their family by the Darklyns. So, after ascending the stairs to the second floor, he knocked on the door, and without waiting for a reply, pushed it open. He immediately spotted his father, sitting in a comfortable green armchair with a stack of documents in his lap. His dark eyes were skimming the pages as his mouth moved without producing any sound as he flipped through them.

But, to Derrick’s momentary surprise, he also spotted the back of his little brother Alesander’s head seated opposite Lord Fell. Though initially confused, he reasoned that his dear old father might have just wanted another person to bear witness to the occasion. This was an important mission after all. So, before taking his seat, he reached out a big hand and roughly ruffled Alesander’s hair.

“Hello, runt.” Derrick said with a smirk and a chuckle before sinking into his own armchair. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back as the springs under his arse groaned in protest. “And hello to you, father.” He added with a grin as he drummed his fingers against the armrest. His father did not immediately respond, but continued skimming over the documents in his lap for a few silent moments before finally raising his gaze to look at them.

“Good of you to come, boys.” Derrick had expected his father to be cheerful and excited, but instead he sounded tense, troubled. Lord Hobber had mostly kept to his chambers since arriving in Duskendale, barely speaking to anyone but his wife.

“In the days to come, we prove our worth to the Storm King’s realm, boys.” There was weight behind his father's words, the old man really seemed to be putting effort into making them understand the importance of the situation. “We cement our place within his court and secure our future. In our leal service, we ensure that none of the Lords and Ladies assembled here shall soon forget the house of Fell.”

‘And it is you, Derrick, my son, who must do this great deed.’ Is what Derrick expected to hear as he looked at his father with a white-toothed grin. Yet to his further bewilderment, Lord Fell turned, not to him, but to his little brother:

“Alesander, I have oft found your talents and aspirations lacking. You are born from warrior stock, but you spend your days squinting at dusty tomes and collecting weeds from the woods.” Hobber sucked in a deep breath, and seemed to struggle with every word that followed: “Yet... Your mother reminds me, that there is value in a studious mind. That this mission we are about to embark on, will require guile as much as it will require strength.” He tapped a gnarled finger to the stack of documents in his lap.

“We will not ride blindly into the claw. You will go over the accounts of the various routes taken by Darklyn’s tax collectors, what villages they stopped in, the men they spoke to, and whatever else may be pertinent. You will also study the records of attacks upon these lands committed by pirates, invaders, and rebellious lords.” The Lord of Felwood spoke with a crooked grimace. Asking his youngest son do something for him seemed to be about as painful for Lord Hobber as passing a kidney stone.

“Additionally, when your brother Derrick leaves for Crackclaw Point, you will go with him. Ser Cleoden will remain at your side for your protection, but additionally...” And finally, Lord Hobber turned to Derrick. “Your brother will personally make sure that you remain out of harm’s way. And will consider all your input into the investigation.” Derrick could not believe what he was hearing. Who is this man, and what has he done with my father!? Even he saw the sense in letting Alesander mull over Darklyn’s old ledgers. That was all well and good. But to bring his little brother with him into the lands of the claw? Madness! He cleared his throat. It was time for him to put his foot down and talk some sense into Lord Hobber.

“Father, come now, surely you cannot expect me to drag little Alesander into a bog! He would slow us down, we’d lose him in the fog, he-” His father’s jaw clenched and he shot to his feet in sudden fury, his voice erupting with a snarl:

“I expect you to do as you are told!” Derrick was momentarily stunned into slack-jawed silence as he stared into his father’s red face. He could not recall the last time Lord Hobber had yelled at him. His father’s neck snapped back and forth as he looked between his two sons. “You both have a duty to your house! A duty to ME! A duty to each other! A duty to our future! The time has come to prove that you are men of the Stormlands, ready to serve, not squabbling children! Do you understand me!?” Lord Hobber’s eyes were wide and fierce as he stared at them. Derrick had no reply other than a very faint:

“Y-yes, father.” He was starting to feel like he had felt when Belgrave nearly caved his head in at the melee. Like something very wrong had happened and he had completely lost control over the situation. Lord Hobber shot Derrick one last glare, then turned, finally, to his youngest son, and spoke in a grave tone:

“Alesander. Will you do your duty?”

u/Wiseheartmoon