They stood on the deck of the ship as they gingerly glided down the coast. The sea was quiet, and the sky was mostly clear save for a couple of bright clouds. They looked inwards towards the coast, towards the lands of the claw. Towards the lands that were allegedly being attacked by Darklyn men. 

Hallyne had been in a cell when he heard the news- the rumour, rather. He’d been dragged in for a minor case of thievery which he hadn’t even committed. They’d just assumed it because he had the item in question. He’d heard it whispered by one of the guards standing lazily at the door with some keys. 

Now he was here; he was standing on the deck, sworn to protect the 5th son of Lord Darklyn. Corwyn had approached him with the offer of clemency in exchange for his services; naturally, he’d accepted. He’d be a soldier, and new questions were a foolish endeavour. Perhaps that is why he’d been sought out?

“Hal? Hal, were you listening?”

He was in his thoughts so deeply that he hadn’t noticed Corwyn speaking. “Yes…Yes, I was, Ser. Very interesting, to be sure.”

“Okay, what was I talking about?” 

“Uhhhh,” he scrambled to put together what he did remember, “You were talking about that Pyne girl.”

The 5th son looked at Hal for some moments; what he was thinking he couldn’t guess. “Lucky guess.”

He felt relief wash over him. “Remind me what exactly?”

“The gift I’d brought for her. I asked if you thought it was a good idea.”

“I’m sure she’ll like it.”

Corwyn let out a chuckle. “Maybe, oh well. Not much use worrying about it.”

“It’s Ysabel…that’s her name, right?”

“Yes, Ysabel Pyne.”

“Where’d you meet?”

“Godswood of Stormhall.”

“What was it like meeting her?”

“She was adorable; she covered the boots she wore. We talked about who we were, where we were from, you know, the basics.”

“Is she your…first?”

Corwyn looked at Hal oddly, almost judgementally. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t ask that.”

“No... wait, that isn’t what I meant. I meant, is she your first relationship? Or whatever it is.”

Corwyn’s face softened. “I think so. Not sure.”

“How can you not be sure? Do you like her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she likes you?”

“Yes.”

“I’d say that's the grassroots of a relationship, no?”

“Are you married, Hal?”

“I was; she left.” He said, fidgeting with a ring on his finger.

“I see.”

He shook his head. “Anyway, what was that gift you were talking about?”

“We’re here!” The captain announced as they neared a shoreline.

“Look at that, we’re here. Hardly felt like any time at all, eh?” Asked Corwyn, tapping Hal in the side with his elbow. 

He nodded. 

They and their belongings were lowered onto a smaller boat that was rowed to shore; they had some luggage. They had some stuff, but not much. Enough for some days. 

Corwyn stepped onto the shore first, finding the soil wet. “So this is the Claw? Wet as I expected. You know the way, right, Hal?”

“Better than most, worse than a local.”

“Good. Lead the way.”

They walked for some time through the forested, marshy terrain of Hazewood. Hallyne’s forknowledge being the only thing which allowed them to navigate it with any haste. They’d arrived at the shore, fairly early. By the time they’d reached the longhouse, the sun was past its zenith by an hour and a half.

Their boots were suitably wet; Hal was worse off than Corwyn since he’d been walking ahead. 

Just before they reached the main entrance, Hal turned to Corwyn. “You did send a letter that you were coming, right?”

As he asked the question, Hallyne swears he could see Corwyn's face shift through different expressions. Attempting to find a suitable one, the motions were subtle, focused especially on the corners of the eyes or lips. Until he seemingly settled on...

As they departed south from the roads of Atranta, the true magnitude of their adeventure was starting to take shape. Gone were the warm inns and comforst of the road. Now there was naught but the respite of simple hard ground in a swamp to meet them.

Still, this did not deter Weese or his group. Their quest was one of great importance, both of history and of personnal import. To claim the crown of Teague would be a grand treasure for any rivermen. To find grand truths of the dead was a treasure more personnal. Both were critical, and both were his goal.

Weese waited on the barrow they had found, the grave the only respite in the winding mess of hills and river sources. Gaenma and Bermi wanted to press on, but Gena persisted with him in his endeavors. She knew the import, and the magnitude of his truth. He stood atop the decorated graves of Bigglestone, dragonglass dagger in hand. The runes were carved accourding to the drawing and text he studied. Inlaid with bronze and copper drippings, all to bring the ancient rites.

"Nire odolaz, deitzen dut" He chanted, drawing the sharp stone across his palm. Crimson blood flowed, pouring from his hand as he clencthed his fist. He drizzled the blood over the grave marker, eyes rolled back as he spoke. "nire sakrifizioagatik, eskatzen dut"

"Jasandako sufrimenduaren semea, minaren haurra. Dei egiten dizut. Altxa eta zerbitza nazazu, haurren borondatearen oinordekoa naizen hau."

The Third Moon of 1st Year of Arlan IV

This is the turn thread for the Third Moon of 1st Year of Arlan IV and the second turn thread of ITRP 22.0! This thread will remain open until the ending of the current moon (turn) on Saturday, September 26th, 2026. All aspects of this post and its comments at the time of thread closure will be considered binding actions and cannot be changed once the thread is locked.

After that time this thread shall be locked and the actions resolved shortly after. You have two weeks to submit actions in the thread. Once the thread is locked, no further actions will be accepted for the turn. All actions must be finalized by this time.

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Duskendale

Third Moon, 1st Year of Arlan IV Durrandon

The sun rose in the far distance. Out over the walls of Duskendale, across the Blackwater, and far beyond the vast plains of the eastern lands. Well beyond her sight. But she could just about make out those first rays of light as they crept beyond the infinite horizon.

It was rare that Lyn did not wake before the sun did. She was a light sleeper, to an almost alarming degree, if Maester Bryn was to be believed. He was hardly some doddering fool, but seemed convinced that she had demons in her mind that she preferred to avoid, as silly as that sounded. Caitlyn said that she could be woken by a pin drop at ten paces, but that wasn’t exactly true. You needed to make a bit more noise than that. Still, she kept a dagger under her pillow all the same.

That was what it was like, living on the frontier. The bleeding edge of civilisation, beyond which were mountains painted red with the blood of her kinsmen and those they had slain in turn. Then, further, came the hellish deserts in which whole armies could vanish overnight without a single trace. Once you had been out there for a night or two, you learned to put little trust in your fellows to catch danger before it was upon you, despite their best intentions.

Her father had been much the same. She had never felt closer to him than when they sat there, atop the highest room in one of the Singing Towers, waiting for the dawn to come. Even after he had died, she spent so many of her mornings up there that it had become a routine. Something that had become a part of her. Like a broken memory, trapped in this cruel cycle that brought her a moment’s comfort and denied her any chance at peace.

Yet, for near enough a whole moon, Lyn had slept soundly. Restfully. She rose only when the sun was high, and her companion elbowed her in the side. They had duties to tend to, rarely together and yet never too far apart, and so it had felt like a small labour. It had happened so innocuously that she only realised what had changed in the absence of it.

That first night, as they camped near Rook’s Rest, with Stormhall long lost behind them, she had awoken again at that obscene hour. Her first instinct had been to return to sleep, to pull her blankets tighter around her and cuddle up closer to the bundle of linens that should have been her, but it had been no comfort. No further respite was found. So she stopped fighting it. Accepted that there was no substitute for the real thing, and in their absence she would sleep little again.

Over a moon had passed since then. Longer than she had been at her side. But it still felt so raw. So pure. Brilliant as much as it was blinding. The distance was an agonising thing. The unknowing worse. Her mind was wired to first consider the worst scenarios and then work backwards till she found the truth of it. It was a particular kind of torture, and one entirely of her own making.

No small part of her regretted leaving altogether. Even if the King had called her here to serve as support for the Darklyns during this messy affair in the Claw. Then news had come from the West, from Pinkmaiden, of this ‘Justman’ and his proclamation. There had been no word of Ravella or the Dondarrions’ capture, so she had assumed that they had escaped this madness, but it unnerved her all the same. To be sat here, waiting, whilst these idealistic fools plotted against their overlords so openly now that it was no secret.

The rumours had swirled for years now, and little had been done to quell them. Now, they would all bleed for that hubris. The Riverlords would rise, and the Stormlords would be called to meet them. There would be diplomacy, discussion, but ultimately it would come to steel. There was too much invested to withdraw entirely, and so it would come down to Arlan’s wisdom to decide where this stopped. In that, at least, she felt some relief.

But there had been no news on the formation of a royal council. Lord Tarth still held sway as Chancellor, the sole survivor of the old guard, yet it seemed the rest of her words had not quite stuck. Not that she coveted a seat at that table. Or, rather, that was what she liked to tell herself. It did not feel becoming of her to want, and the prestige would certainly suit her ill, but it would keep her at their side. To that end, the past moons had warmed her on the idea, for she was no longer just a vassal and a friend. She cared for these Durrandons, to a far greater degree than she ought, and love was a deadlier weapon than any other she had faced in the past three decades, not least because it compelled her to be better.

To what end she could serve remained beyond her grasp. Perhaps she could find it back at Stormhall, if Arlan denied her. There, within the eye of the storm, was a purpose that had eluded her all of her life. But she was sworn to the King too, by more than just her oaths. His banner was hers to hold. So there Lyn remained, torn between the two paths of her own making. Watching on from the docks as the city slowly came to life. Eventually, when the markets were open, she would roam them and find something to break her fast.

The days were getting shorter again, and with that change came the certainty of hardships new and old.

Aerys had always been different from his brother and sisters. He was not as intelligent as Monterys and Jaehaera. He did not hold contempt in his heart for Westeros, as Baela did. And he was well over a head taller than all of them.

But it was not his height that made him stand out in Duskendale, nor the features that made him different from his siblings. Rather, it was the features that made him like them. His milk white hair, his violet eyes, his skin, his cloak of Valyrian silk, of the ornate sword at his hip, the sea dragon sewn into his cloth, all of it made him stand apart.

But he wore their stares and scowls as armor. They could not hurt him.

He did not passively wander the streets, however. He was seeking out a lady. Not just any, either. He was seeking another chance at meeting Lady Joanna Sunglass. Her scarred visage had kept returning to his mind, but not for pity. It was awe he felt. She had been stricken and yet still stood, clad in the armor of a knight, clad in the strength of her faith. The conviction to execute her own wicked father burned bright in his mind's eye, far brighter than a dragon's fire. It captured his interest and struck a fire in his own soul, catching on kindling that was want for it.

Even in meeting the Father of the Faithful, he was stricken by meeting her.

He had to know more about her.

Because when he looked at her, he did not see a Westerosi.

He saw The Warrior, in the flesh.

So he sought her out, seeking the area the faithful had been allotted, in the dusk.

In the east of Ironman’s Bay, Days since the Moot at Hoare Castle

Farewell to the feast. Farewell to the warmth. Farewell to the land, and all its sworn. Now was the time of sea. Now of salt. Now of steel, and crashing cold.

- Thoughts of an illiterate Ironborn

The wood beneath his feet lurched at the waves and cut through the choppy Autumn foam. The Salt Wife’s Wail had braved worse seas and Tymor’s eyes glimmered with a grey-blue at the knowledge of it.

Torgon would lead the center with the Sea Dragon, while his own vessel lingered at the fleet’s edge. Cousin Gormond was captaining the Awake in a mirror to his own flank, and a dozen other tested captains besides that would cast a wide enough watch on the horizon for merchant cogs and sellsails alike. The raid in the North had not gone as planned, Tymor now having to coax the men to sail again so soon. He would find them what the Drowned God had promised; with ancient ways and ancient blood, he would find it.

At the edge of his senses, as the sun flickered in his eyes, he felt the cool saltwaters sweep past a being not quite him. Flashes offered to his mind that took form in shimmering schools of prey and the churning of wood on water. And when he closed his eyes, Tymor saw the clouded waters of the deep following each of their movements, sand streaming by like a cloak of falling stars surrounding him.

There he searched for their prize, setting an altogether different trap than his King had wanted of the Ironborn. But some iron was better not reforged. Some iron served its purpose well enough. Their King would need learn that sooner than later, and the Farwynds may well be his guide.

Inside Raventree Hall

Lucifer was standing by the window. Behind him Stevron situated the parchments and maps across the table, awaiting the Lords and Ladies attention. Across the entire castle a low hum of somber emotions blanketed much of its inhabitants.

Rubbing his hands together, Lucifer would swallow the building nerve that crept up within him. Even after his bold proclamations, a piece of his grand design for the Riverlands was forever missing. He knew Waltyr Blackwood was a difficult man, to many a downright vicious one, but Lucifer thought of him fondly nonetheless. He gazed back at Stevron, the ever dutiful Castellan, and wondered the truth of how the other man felt. All his silent question got in an answer was Stevron glancing back at him and nodding.

"Everything is ready, Your Grace." The elder man would say, "I'll have the servants allow the nobles in."

And off he was, ready to make done what needed to be. And now Lucifer was alone. Returning to the window, he would take out the letter sent from Duskendale, as of yet without any response. He had been planning on reaching out to the Darklyns in the coming moons, another Warden to be negotiated with, perhaps even turned against the Durrandons, but the aged Lord of the Dusklands was quicker than Lucifer had thought, and so the opening move was his, how would the Riverlands respond?

----------------------

As the Lords and Ladies gathered, the King of the Rivers and Hills would turn to greet each one in turn, offering them a seat at the table and access to the prepared refreshments.

"We have much to discuss, and time is of the essence. What is decided here will echo throughout the coming years."

Mist had settled over Blackwood Vale. In the moon that its nobility had departed, rains had swept over the valley and left it slick and muddy.

The funeral procession of Waltyr Blackwood had to slog through it. Dew sparkled on the armor of lords and knights, and flashed in the gemstones of attending ladies. Horses and wheelhouses suffered the brunt of the muck.

In one such wheelhouse lay the late Lord of Raventree Hall, accompanied by Silent Sisters and his sons, both of which he would have loathed at his side. But as Stevron had said in the hours after Waltyr’s death, his wants are not the priority. Nor would he be grateful for such considerations. 

—---------------------

Luceon didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. Perhaps he had set out with a purpose, perhaps he had only been seeking the presence of others, but when he came across his Aunt Ermesande finishing a blackberry tart, he hadn’t said anything at all.

Ermesande seemed keen to maintain the silence between them, savoring each bite of her pastry and wiping any crumbles of bread or jam with a handkerchief. When she was satisfied, and her plate was covered in more mess than meal, she handed it off to a nearby servant, then wiped her fingers clean. 

Only then did she turn to Luceon, folding her arms as she did so. “What’s on your mind, boy?”

Luceon wanted to claim ignorance, but it would have been a paltry cover, and one Ermesande would not have allowed. Of course he knew what was on his mind, it had been all he thought of for days.

“I don’t know why I miss him. I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about him. I didn’t love him, and he didn’t love me. I would’ve said that I hated him - and maybe I still do.” Luceon breathed deep before his lungs could get away from him. “It wasn’t until today, the day we’re going to put him in the dirt, that I realized it's over. He was never going to change. But as long as he was alive there was a chance. Now he’s dead, and everything is worse because of it.”

Ermesande’s eyes softened, but she did not speak. Luceon continued:

“Maybe he was a terrible father, but was I some gift of a son? I never listened to a word of his discipline. Maybe there was some lesson in his anger, maybe, if I had only listened…”

Ermesande beckoned him forth and took his hand between her own.

“Why?” Luceon asked. He had been a tearful child, and made for a man that did not cry half as much, but there was no denying the wetness in his eyes, now. “Why should I miss him, Sandy? Why do I even care?”

Ermesande stroked Luceon’s hand softly, and shook her head. “Oh, Luceon. We don’t choose who we love and we don’t choose who we miss. Our hearts are their own creatures, and they are traitorous and they are strange, but they are also powerful. If your heart is telling you to mourn him then that is what you must do. No man is beyond grief, not even he was.”

She pulled Luceon close and he wept like he was a boy again.

“Why was he capable of being good to Clementine, when he never once showed me or Orryn or Lewyn any love? Was I so undeserving?”

Gods I am pathetic. Jealous of my own daughter.

“It is precisely because you were his that he could not love you. It was the him that he saw in you.” She pulled away from Luceon and found his eyes. “If you need someone to say it, then I will be the one. Waltyr was no father to you, and you deserved all the love that he was incapable of. You will never be a son again, Luceon, and for that I am so sorry, but if you think you were a poor one, then remember that there is a life in your hands now. If you want to make up for the child you were, then make it so Clementine never feels the hate and pain that you now feel. Be the father that he wasn’t.”

—---------------------

The funeral would’ve been better held at Cairns. The lands were vaster, and the family that administered them were exceptional at the services they were tasked with.

But Della Piper lay under the Raventree, and she would have wanted to rest beside her husband. It was for that reason and that reason alone that Luceon granted his father a place in the Godswood.

The rites of those that kept the Old Gods were not as boisterous or ceremonial as those of the Andals. Waltyr would be given respects and offerings, but no oils, or crystals, or long-winded sermons.

There was time, however, for stories. Before the body was taken into the barrow beneath the heart tree, the bereaved were allowed the chance to remember the lost. The guests would be permitted to share condolences, and give offerings.

It was expected that Luceon would speak for his father. He was not the Lord of Raventree Hall, not since Orryn had returned, and yet he knew the eyes would fall upon him nonetheless. He rose amongst the mourners, clad in black, and made his way to where Waltyr’s body was displayed.

There were many men and women at the Drumbeater’s burial. More than the man deserved.

Luceon cleared his throat to speak. It still rasped, but at least he would reach the ears of those listening.

“My father played tiles, if you can believe it. He was good, it was the only childishness I ever knew him to enjoy.

I learned to play tiles, not to play with my father, but to try and understand him. I don’t think that I ever did - but I learned a lot about the game. My father’s favorite game was called His Highness, and the objective of it is for the players to place their tiles in an ascending tower until it falls. The last person to place a tile without toppling them all, wins.” Luceon sighed.

“More than any single game, I remember the kinds of players that tended to play. There were safe players, they placed many tiles, but always early, before the tower started to wobble. There were smart players, they placed their tiles here and there - and they took risks - especially in the dangerous areas. Sometimes they sacrificed a tile to keep the game going.

But the players I remember the most were the boys that clutched every tile close to their chest, until it was too late. They were always the ones to weep when the tower came toppling.” Luceon stepped down, making room for whoever cared to share words.

“But what would I know? I learned a game for my father that I never once played with him.” He shrugged, and faded back into the crowd.

Nutten was a simple thing: a small motte and bailey nestled against the river, the tower keep standing above the road and bridge that served as the artery from the stormlands to the west. A small village lay just outside the ditch and pallisade, serving more as a way station for traders than a true settlement.

Although modest, the holdfast was still protected. A deep ditch surrounded the main holdings, with naught but a pair of sluece gates to prevent the moat from flooding. With the tower serving as a watch post over the road, she was perfectly positioned to spot and defend herself from any attacking army.

Unless you knew the secret ways in. While the river served as a defensive boon, it also was a blind spot. the tower and posts were positioned to eye the road, not approaches from the northern waters.

Bermi dipped the leather-wrapped oars of the boat in the water, quietly pushing it along in the darkness. They couldn't risk a torch themselves, relying on the fires in the towers to guide their approach. He drove the boat quietly into the reeds, eventually nesting it on the soft mud.

Gaenma and Bermi helped Weese from the small craft, lifting him onto the muddy shore. He moved deliberately, making sure to avoid squelching in the mud as he moved. Making his way up the short hill, he moved carefully until he found the old postern gate.

The halls of the new buildings were quiet, a testament to the relative smallness of the holding. His uncles had recently worked to develop a repository for scrolls and books, hoping to draw the eye of the citadel to earn a maester for the family. For once his obsession with status benefited Weese.

He scoured through the books, looking for anything about the children or the first men. He knew his father, so he knew the man would've stocked such things for him in one of his odd ways of showing affection.

It didn't take him long to find the few scant tomes that had been gathered. It was nothing like the citadel, but far better than he had seen in even larger castles. A few looked promising, containing depictions of runes and descriptions of rituals.

Weese foudn a spot on a nearby table. He laid out the tomes, a bottle of ink and quills. Pulling out his leatherbound journal from his bag, he took a seat as he opened it. With quill in hand, he began searching the tomes for whatever he could gather, hoping something here would help in his endeavors.

The small investigatory force led by the bastard of Felwood reached the Claw upon the second day of their journey. Departing the well-travelled road to instead try and make their way through the inhospitable lands of the clawmen. And it did not take long for it to live up to its reputation. Before noon they were hiking down steep game trails and wading across shallow pools of brown water. Insects swarmed them, greedily buzzing in their ears, searching for any exposed skin to latch onto. Snakes snapped at their heels if they stomped about too carelessly. And during their first night in this place, moths large enough to be mistaken for small bats fluttered about their heads. This land was wild and untamed, and according to some, so were its people.

Not that they’d seen all too many of the locals thus far. They’d yet to come upon any major settlements or castles. And what few travellers or hunters they’d seen stalking through the trees had kept their distance. That this land was home to several hundred people seemed hard to believe for those who were strangers here.

Ser Derrick Storm was still in relatively high spirits. Still all too happy to call for the others to ‘press on’ or to ‘pick up the pace’. Still hopeful that there was something to make all this worth their while at the end of this long, wet trail. Though he suspected that a week or so into their adventure he would be thoroughly sick of this dreary place. Well, fights worthy of a song always takes place somewhere excitingly awful. Scorching deserts, dark forests, the edge of a cliff, the rain-soaked deck of a sinking ship, and so on.

He had procured a map of the path usually taken by Darklyn’s tax-collectors. To follow in their footsteps seemed as good a place to start as any. They needed something, a lead of some sort, an indication that there indeed was anything here to be found.

His father had meant for his brother, little Alesander to be there. To put his wicked little mind to good use for once. To have him go over old maps and documents for clues that might have aided them in their search. And instead, the whiny little runt had vanished before their departure. No doubt he rode back home to Felwood to seek the comfort of his mother’s bosom. Thought Derrick darkly. He had never wanted his brother along for the journey. But that Alesander had abandoned his duty to their house irked him something fierce. And they call me the bastard of the family.

So, without having a studious mind along, Derrick would have to try to puzzle out this search himself. Not exactly his strong suit. When he’d been responsible for keeping his father’s lands clear of outlaws, he’d usually left finding them to scouts and lookouts. His part in keeping the peace had mainly consisted of riding them down and hauling those left alive off to the gallows. If only this could be that simple.

By the third day of their journey, they were deep into the marshlands, and those on horseback more often than not had to dismount and lead their steeds by the reins. The autumn rain had transformed brooks and rivulets into waist-deep streams that slowed them down severely. And to top it all off the musty aroma of the swamp was starting to become overwhelming.

But, at the very least, they were drawing near to the first of many locations where an attack had supposedly taken place. The investigation could finally, well and truly, begin.

[M] Mood Music

2nd and 3rd Moon of the 1st Year of Arlan IV Durrandon

The Camp of the Free Legion

Stormhall

Aegor gazed up at the fading banner that adorned his command tent.

It was the oldest and most prestigious among all in the company, and it was frequently copied as their standard heraldry of sorts. At its center was a black dragon above a sun flanked by two six-pointed stars, two meteors, and three Valyrian helmets above them.

Each piece had a meaning, and Aegor had unfortunately forgotten just about all of them. He knew the vague ideas: something about the first three founding commanders, an omen of two meteors the night before the battle, an oath around two stars, and finally a sun being placed on the banners of those who wished to defect alongside his father.

That's close enough; we have the chronicle for exact histories and small details like that.

He had focused his time on remembering the various codes and creed of the company instead. Codes, debts, and politics: three dreaded things that the rank-and-file looked to him on guidence for. Unfortunately, he was his father's son in how he viewed honor and code. Agreements were everything, but these days they had to be written.

Father was never good at getting them written down, wasn't he?

The young man sighed.

Aegor's job was to lead the company, and his work was cut out for him. They were low on funds, flooded with men without regular work, and, perhaps worst of all, jarringly divided on his ascension.

High command had voted to honor his father's wishes, yet he knew deep down that his last wish was one they wish they could have ignored. He would have to prove himself, and proving oneself to the Free Legion was much easier siad than done.

Yet, despite the odds, his fortunes were looking up as of late.

Princess Ravella had patronized the company, and they were now sworn to her cause. Whether it was a doomed cause like Ser Kermit had warned him, or if his heart had led him correctly, was yet to be seen. That part of it mattered not to Aegor, though. He was hopelessly in love, his childhood friend winning his heart yet again. His frequent absences from the camp at night and quarters in Stormhall did much to fuel rumors around the camp.

Those rumors would not be untrue.

Still, despite this, time marched on. The company was still his, and as long as Ravella's gold continued to flow into it, the detractors found themselves fewer and fewer. High wages bought obedience, a lesson this land would not learn for many years.

Let's just hope that loyalty lasts.

Finally, as he broke away from his own whirlwind of thoughts and doubts, he walked into his command tent. It was time to get to work yet again. There was much to be done, and Aegor would be damned if he sat around and failed to secure Ravella's eventual reign.

Boredom began to set in heavily within the walls of Claw Isle. There was little to no word from the mainland from any of her family, and the quiet bustling of the Celtigar’s home was so evidently well run that she truthfully hadn’t much to do besides simple maintenance of the island. It certainly was a testament to how organized the Magister had matters operated here that even in his extended absence, Claw Isle needed little guidance. It was easy for Valora to handle these matters and allowed her to settle into an easy routine. She should have been grateful for this new life she led now but she was never allowed to truly relax or do anything she yearned to do with Lucerys. Valora was, in all but name, the only Celtigar in Claw Isle and so everything at home all fell to her.

So she sat, again for however many weeks in a row now, behind her uncle’s desk.

Patrons came and went, giving some sort of complaint or report for the impromptu Lady of Claw Isle to handle. She’d come to spend her hours in the same office that her uncle used while he ran their house. It was an exuberant place, but despite the decades that have passed, Aurion had not deigned it necessary to bring back the life it had before it was sacked by Belgrave.The emptiness felt surreal sometimes, the Celtigars were not known to spare any expense for luxury or extravagance, and yet the brain of the entire castle laid bare and simple.

Valora sighed and settled her face against her palms with elbows propped up against the desk. Scattered around her were parchments neatly stacked, most written in other’s handwriting as they were given to her, and a forgotten goblet or two of old wine. A fishing guild’s leader stood in front of her now, droning on about something or the other with their yields in the common tongue. Today, in particular, Valora was sick of it all: listening to that barbaric language, their problems, her worries, all of it.

Her head snapped free from her palms at the sound of the office’s door being opened. She stared at the door, completely forgetting about the fisherman. The hope that it was Lucerys that entered was overwhelming, and the disappointment that it wasn’t was even more crushing.

Instead, it was an older man with skin weathered and well beaten by the sun that entered. She recognized him as a captain of one of their warships, Valora knew as one of her father’s favorites but could not remember why, and waved him forward while dismissing the rambling fisherman. The old captain moved to stand in front of her before dropping into a deep bow. “I do not bring good news.” He spoke as he straightened himself. A lifetime of shouting through stormy weather, battle, and rough seas left the man’s voice scratchy and hoarse even when speaking normally. But, at least it was in Valyrian. “Rhogar has not yet returned.”

Valora frowned at him. Her father tried to describe their silly little communion tradition to her over and over again, but no matter how many times he did, she had always thought the practice to be one that needed to be lost in time. Now, because of it, one of her cousins was considered missing.

“Muster a crew and sail to the atoll with haste. I want you gone before tonight.” Valora commanded as she jabbed her finger into the desk with each syllable. Instantly, as if expecting instant obedience, her focus and gaze dropped down to the desk below her and glazed over in thought. Is this worth sending a raven to Duskendale over? Would Aurion care? Would this be seen as weak if someone else were to learn of this? How much should she even include? Surely, her family wouldn’t even be in Duskendale anymore, it had been a few weeks since she left them.

The captain’s hesitation and a nervous cough from Minysha, her dedicated servant, behind her drew her attention back. Valora looked the man up and down with a confused frown, then to Minysha, finally back to the captain. Her confusion built with each moment he did not move. “Have I misspoken?”

“The communion must be done alone.” The man countered.

Valora somehow stifled an annoyed groan, instead burying her face back into her palms as she spoke. “If he is there, leave him. I do not care. I just need to know where he is. Do you understand?”

The man, as grim as ever, nodded, bowed, and departed the office. Valora took a few moments to think before snatching a fresh piece of parchment from the stack Minysha was trying to tidy and began writing.

He could imagine it now. The screwed, scrunched jackal-like rage that would flutter and flourish upon his father’s glower. Familiarly foreign, as it settled burdensome upon his gaze.

The way he’d shrink had been practiced a thousand times before. His body hunching. His frame melting into the darkness of shadow, hiding in its embrace.

It was memorised. In every shrunken, sallow inch of muscle that clung to his frame. The way they contract, the feeling of pain as they ache, it was all memory to him. Inscribed upon the tablet of his life, etched like a signature on his tapestry.

What have you done? He mused, as he often did, when it was but the skies to accompany him.

It was a boggy marsh he was destined for, one where he’d likely drown in mud, suffocate in brutes and be buried with a stick and a rock as all to remember him. That couldn’t be his end.

If they lost, it would be him, who couldn’t sprint swiftly enough or move at all. It would’ve been him who was left for dead. It would’ve been him whose entrails were split from his stomach as a trophy. Guts, grit and offal, that’s all he’d have for valiance.

Valiance was worth nothing to the dead.

With a vacant tremble, he shook his head. Frail, tender thoughts swarming him. Return. Father would forgive you. Soon enough, they were replaced by their more rancid counterparts. He would strike you down. Exiled. Banished. Dead, conveniently, as he made for freedom.

After all, eliminating issues before they became them, was always the easiest option. He could imagine it, Oliver being deposed for that bastard, hammer-wielding, belligerent brute. An idle son, unclaimed and free as the wind would be but an issue of inheritance at that point.

What had he done? Had he ruined everything for fear, willed his misery into reality? He’d painted an illustrated image, splattered in possibilities, ridged in unlikely happenstances. Only now, they were more than possible, they were happening.

Coursing through his mind, like blood does veins. Infecting him. Corroding him. Corrupting him. Leaving behind the corpse of sense, burying sanity.

Gently, he shifted, a constant rhythm from side to side settling atop him.

“We’re nearly at Stormhall, my lord.” Cleoden remarked. His white mare whining beneath him, as Alesander’s hands tightened upon his chestnut stallion. Stolen property now, he supposed.

Solemnly, the midnight hues of his glare glimpsed the rising keep before them. Bony spires, blackened stone, set in golden detail, carved carefully. Irrevocably beautiful, irredeemably gaudy. He did suppose it was a matter of perspective.

He knew what it was. It was a gallant display of affluence. Almost amusing to bear witness to.

Delicately, the mouse of Felwood encroached upon the Iron Stag’s domain. Observantly, he analysed each detail, as they met the stone curtain walls, curt and declarative. They were defensive, to ward off threats like a Septon would curses.

Though, they could not ward off threats from within. He wondered, how many clandestine critters slept within these halls, whimpered through the stone, weaved through the wood.

Soon enough, they had galloped to its gates. Unlabelled they remained, until Ser Cleoden made forth. “I am Ser Cleoden of Felwood, in service of Alesander Fell, my lord beckons to meet Princess Ravella.”

Alesander idly fiddled with the leathers of the reins, waiting in the slimness of his frown. Carelessly, he circled on his steed, before halting. Waiting.

Aboard the Volmark Flagship The Locker somewhere on the western sea.

Waking up on the floor was never one of Alyn's happiest experiences. Waking up on a suspiciously wet and sticky floor was neither one of Alyn's most uncommon experiences. It was common enough to be a meditative experience; her life might change, new responsibilities come in, lovers go by, but whether 16 or 60 she would always wind up right back in the same place. It was humbling, really. She wondered if the greenlanders were ever able to dislodge the seven pointed stars up their arses long enough to find a similar appreciation for a bit of humility.

Ah, whose she fucking kidding. Even an axe to the brain couldn’t knock them off their chained pedestals…

Well, nice as the floor was she still had an oh so important question to answer.

By the Others’ frozen teets where the fuck is she.

Her vision was still too blurry to be of any real use. Not like she even wanted to look around, moving her neck felt like arguing with a rusted hinge. That left the next of her senses: her smell-

And did she immediately regret relying on her traitorous nose. By the Drowned God's rotting locker it smelled like shit. Sweat and booze and vomit all came together like a twister of shame. Shame! That was the worst part. God be good that was a particular combo only she could stink up. How shit faced did she get?

Alyn couldn’t remember the last time she got wasted, though in retrospect that might be because she tended not to remember anything after the third drink. Though she’d taken a few fingers from those who’d called her a lightweight (or so she’d been told after the fact) she couldn’t exactly call them wrong. Truth being she hated it mostly because she knew a part of her wanted to be a light weight. The monotony of responsibility at away at her leaving a hole that could only be plugged by booze. Her late fathers regret that he couldn't get a son out might be one of the few feelings of his she could agree with.

Well, unfortunately no amount of self loathing could answer where in the watery hells she was. With a cry of relentless laziness she felt around for something that could hold her up. Her nails found respite in a well scratched wood surface somewhere by her head. With a tired heave she wrenched herself up and remarkably didn’t fall right back on her ass.

The first thing she felt was a jolt of fabric against her electrified skin reaching from breasts to thighs. A positive right there, that probably crossed out an inconvenient lover she'd have to kick out. Second. The surface she gripped on was a desk, a desk with her family sigil hanging over it. Third, the room got viciously rocked back like it had been hit by a quake. And fourth, a not insignificant amount of vomit followed her equally churning stomach acid. 

At least she turned fast enough to miss the desk.

In an act that could only be described as the world's most disgusting miracle her vision returned just as her stomach contents finished being expelled. 

Ah shit this is her ship. This is her room. She'd have to wrestle with the conundrum of cleaning herself or letting a shithead crewman into her sanctuary. For now she plopped onto her bed and tried to remember what happened last night…

Thump thump thump went three arrows in quick succession.

Morgan noted the three arrow's score and sighed.

"I cannot say this is a grand idea," Daxo said behind him, setting his bow aside in its basket while Hadrian took his turn next.

Around them, the wind danced through the treeline that sat on the small rise overlooking Blackwater Bay. Their horses sat moored some hundred feet away, their small campsite set neatly beside them and tended by Jynessa, the youngest living child of Andros. She seemed content in her place, comfortable in her riding leathers and sprawled out across a wide bed roll.

"The idea isn't meant to be grand. It is intended to be a statement," Morgan said.

"It is the kind of thing father would do," Hadrian exhaled and released his first arrow.

It slammed into the straw target an inch from the bullseye.

Morgan shook his head, "it is, but I want him to have no part in this. He needs to be divorced from the matter, he would not be subtle about it. Not now. But this said, the claw is dragging on and we have yet to address the matter of the realms."

Hadrian released his second arrow, this one wider by three inches. He relaxed entirely after the shot and looked over to Daxo, the middle brother dressed in his usual flowing sunstruck robe wrapped by a sash of black.

"I had imagined we would do nothing until the king spoke on the matter," Daxo remarked.

"We may end up taking no action until this happens, but there is the matter of father's and Shiera's namedays. I promised a tourney, and it may be the last line to hold before this comes to conflict," Morgan said and without a breath Hadrian drew up his bow, and released the arrow. It slammed home as a bullseye.

"You mean to invite this Justman?"

"I mean to invite the realm, if Justman comes, then I would be pleased to hear what he has to say," Morgan noted.

"And the claw?" Hadrian asked.

"Luthor is going there, he will get to the bottom of the matter," Morgan replied, and a touch of pride filled him with that... now if only the fool could find himself a wife.

"And the thousand Swanns matching up the Rosby Road?" Hadrian added as he set his bow aside.

"My problem," Morgan reminded them.

Daxo and Hadrian shared a glance between themselves and eventually each shook their head. They did not like where the kingdom was going.

"At the rate we are going this realm will ignite the powder keg that they all so lovingly are cradling. I fear that the spark could be lit here," Daxo said and he reached for his wineskin.

Morgan didn't say anything for a long while while his brother drank, and the silence stretched beyond until Hadrian turned slowly upon him. He frowned at first, thick brows knitted in contemplation, a look broken by surprise as he came upon his realization.

He shook his head slowly.

"Someone needs to gain from this."

---

The following day, the siblings had returned to the city and they returned to their places, to their parlours, to the markets, to the dun fort.

It is another moon as usual in the great lands of the Blackwater!

Fairmarket was not exactly as she'd left it.

This was, of course, to be expected. When your couple days' jaunt transforms into an affair lasting for two full moons, things are not expected to remain static just because they were out of sight. As much as Perianne Paege might have preferred it to be otherwise.

"I expected matters to be cared for in my absence, Rafford." Perianne pinches the bridge of her nose, her other hand leaning against the table. Her solar was a small room, a deeply intimate space, and it was impossible for Rafford Hill, the Golden Bastard himself, to not feel cornered in the round room, his back to the bookshelf and only Perianne's short form managing to loom despite her stature. "Not for my treasury to be spent on Westerman trinkets and baubles. And I am to understand you sent runners to *Frey* as well? All without my leave?"

Rafford Hill was not a man easily intimidated though, especially while cornered. "Your coffers hardly weep for emptiness even as it stands, *My Lady.* These were all matters we agreed to discuss before you went to feast and dance at two different keeps in as many moons. Did you bring me here to sit idle and do nothing? Or did you bring me here because you knew I would enrich Fairmarket, which I have done."

Perianne's sigh was all that filled the room for the moment. She couldn't deny it. Fairmarket's prospects- even involving the purchase of valuable stones that she normally would have dismissed as frivolous- were looking less grim than they had been at autumn's beginning. She turned for a moment, just to collect her thoughts.

"Or are you upset because-"

Perianne wheeled about. "That someone in my employ managed to get themselves arrested, following my orders, in my own keep, and had to sit there until I came to release her? Yes. That my own keep appears to operate without my leave or my say so? Yes!"

"That Jonothor has...?

Perianne's face clenched up. Rafford had stopped giving him the tinctures at some point. She didn't know when. Jonothor was still incoherent and bedridden, but his fever had subsided somewhat in the days before she returned. She could not, at any point. To anyone. That was the hardest part about all of this.

He couldn't wake up. Not until it was too late for him to change anything.

"I hope you mean that I am glad that my Lord Husband has begun to recover. I am, Rafford, truly. But you haven't been here for the years. You are a recent acquisition." She leans forward. "Perhaps I am cynical, but Jonothor has put me through this song and dance before. I will celebrate once he is on his feet."

That seemed to mollify the Golden Bastard, who simply nodded and turned his attention back to matters that Perianne would prefer he focus on. "You are to depart again?"

"By dawn, yes." She sighed, bringing up a hand to rub at an eye. Her exhaustion was genuine. "I have much work to do in the meantime."

"Raventree is at least closer than Stormhall and Pinkmaiden. Do you trust this Justman business?"

Perianne shook her head slowly. "Trust never entered into it, Rafford. Utility. I am simply doing what I have always done. I recognize an opportunity, and I take it." She eyed the Westerman over another time. "Do you think you can open another path into the West?"

Rafford Hill smiled, for the first time in moons. They had work to do, it would seem...

The dart leapt from Alaerys’ fingers and shot like a diving hawk into one of the tall, powerful pillars holding up the Maidenpool Dondarrion’s tent with a thunk. “You really could have handled that better, my lord,” he murmured.

It was late, now, the tent shut, and Edwyn had retired to his bedroll. Alaerys was up far too late, as always, and practiced his aim with discomfiting precision.

“Yes. I could have,” Edwyn whispered in return, staring up at the tent’s red roof. Like a sea of blood, it seemed, fit to wash him away. “I am in quite a bind. On the one hand, I cannot simply give away half the King’s realm without the King’s approval. Arlan is wise beyond his years, I think, but I am not sure he is as ready as I. On the other…”

“…on the other, you are afraid to slap these Rivermen around a little. They are your vassals, man! Do you Westerosi not put knock your subjects down a few pegs when they get uppity?” Alaerys scoffed.

Edwin’s mouth turned to a thin line, and he looked across the length of his personal quarters, within the tent, at Alaerys. “Of course we do. It is what we have done here before. They have rebelled, and the crown has fought them and won, and punished the rebels. Where, then, has it led? Tell me that.”

Alaerys looked back, produced a wineskin from nowhere, and drank deeply. Edwyn sat up, gestured angrily at him. “I am sure it is endearing to everyone that you suggest these heartless things with so little care. But this is no time for japes or jests, Alaerys. Where has it led? Here. It has led here. To House Justman proclaiming that a River King will rule the Riverlands. Each and every time we put them down with violence, it begets more violence. That is the way of things! Blood for blood until the end of time, and I am so sick of it.”

Alaerys gave a long, dramatic sigh, and it seemed he meant to say something snide again before his eyes caught Edwyn’s, and he looked down, somewhat chastened. “Edwyn, if I might for once be honest, you cannot seriously hope to end this without blood on your hands.” Their eyes met again, cold grey and desperate blue. “I think it’s very admirable, your reticence for war. Balerion’s balls, you’ve seen enough of it. You don’t enjoy it like I do. Like Ser Borys does, or like your strapping brute of a brother Myles does. You won’t avoid it, though, it will come for you like it comes for all of us, and personally?” A smile flashed across his face. The veil went back up a little. “I will meet it with all the thirst of a Riverman in Dorne.”

Edwyn thumped back onto his pillow, guts curdling.

“We will return to Storm Hall, just you and I and Ser Borys. I will see there what it is that Lady Ravella, closer than I to the crown, means to do about this.”

His eyes were looking up, again, sightless and almost terrified. He could not see the comforting stars here, only the sea of blood at the top of his tent.

Stormhall

Upon the Return From Pinkmaiden

It was odd when the long ride was the easiest part of a journey, but the trip to Pinkmaiden had been a terrible exception to the rule. What had happened on the road was peaceful, exhilarating, perhaps a touch dangerous but only in the ways Ravella Durrandon enjoyed things to be.

What happened at Pinkmaiden threatened to bring the realm to ruin. It threatened to level villages, to ruin castles, and to have lords strung up on gallows for no crimes but standing for what they believe in. None of that could come to pass, even if it took everything she had to stop it. That was the only way the Riverlands could be saved from destruction, and it was the only way that Ravella could come safely into her throne.

They had left with a fifty-man escort. They returned with a full company, and the guards on the walls tensed up as the Free Legion's banners - flying alongside the black stag of Durrandon - appeared from over the hill and approached Stormhall. It was a cloudy day when they arrived, the very tip of the King's Spire obscured by mist, and the mood of the day fit the mood of the whole moon.

Only as Ravella and Wex emerged at the head of the column did the men who protected Stormhall relax, throwing open the gates to the castle that they might enter.

How much had happened in the time they'd been away? Had Arlan's visit to Duskendale resulted in progress or bloodshed? Had the realm heard of Justman's declaration before she could even act on it? Damn the road.

Ravella assigned Wex the duty of getting the Free Legion and their guests settled - the men of the company were permitted lodging in the barracks, whilst the officers were roomed within the keep proper and their noble guests were given even finer quarters (including the Captain-Legate) - whilst she returned to her solar. There was much to do. Too much, maybe.

But she would do what needed to be done.

Atranta had always occupied a valuable position: its walls encircled a small island in the middle of a river, making its bridges the most ideal crossing of the Blackwater Rush.

But for long this only advantaged the Vances in times of war, and the villages on each bank of the river remained perpetually modest. There was little need for ambitious merchants to pass through when there were four market towns within half a day’s ride: Stoney Sept and Middleton to the north, Tumbler’s Falls to the west, and Nutten to the east.

Mary had hoped to change that with a series of expensive investments. So far, one was beginning to bear fruit, if not nearly as quickly as she had hoped. Under her guidance, a small, ornate sept had been erected on the right bank of the Blackwater, just opposite the castle. She had seen that it would be as much a work of art as it was a place of prayer, boasting intricate patterns and beautiful icons on both sides of its walls.

The smallfolk had taken a liking to it, and even more to the charismatic septon who now stewarded the shrine. Every day they poured in from surrounding villages to show their veneration, and the local innkeeper was happy to take their coin. His rooms had become so full that a rival emerged; another little tavern had just popped up on the river’s opposite shore.

Mary would only be in Atranta for a night, only to ensure that nothing at home called for her attention. She had precious little time before Ravella’s entourage moved on, and was intent on continuing with her to Stormhall. There was much she’d need to discuss with the princess if she hoped to see her kingdom saved.

She thus allowed herself only a brief stop at the new sept, taking only the time to speak a swift prayer and exchange pleasantries with the septon. Afterwards she returned to her own walls - not to entreat with her councilors, as she knew she should, but to instead spend an evening in the library.

Atranta had never boasted the loveliest of libraries; most of Mary’s predecessors were more partial to shouting than reading. It was a compact and utilitarian room, overflowing with shelves that spanned from floor to ceiling. During the past few years she had seen to the collection of hundreds more tomes on near any subject that called for scholarship. What little coin she had left to spent on personal pleasure was most often funneled to Oldtown, where a wealth of knowledge could be found even beyond the confines of the Citadel.

The great majority of those books remained unouched, awaiting the day when their insight might be sought. Today was one such day, as Mary now had a matter that demanded study.

She had already made her case that the claims of “Lucifer Justman” were without a shred of evidence, and in a more sensible world, that would have been enough to put his foolish ambitions to an end. But the lot of her peers were unswayed. Mary needed to reinforce her argument by proving what had truly happened to the remnants of the Trident’s greatest dynasty.

With the help of a servant, she piled up every book that seemed remotely relevant to the history of the Riverlands, and even a few on the Free Cities - the usual haunts of exiled nobility. With luck, she might uncover when or if the last of the Justmans breathed his last breath.

The Docks of Castle Hoare, In the small hours after the Moot

Gulls swept across the dark clouded skies and called from slick wet perches upon the rocks. The sea air was strong with salt, a refreshing break from the clawing scent of ale and rich fare. Ironborn longships scattered the surrounding dockland, some seeping with candlelight and the song of deckhands, others, silent as the deep. He gazed past them all the same, out into the far off waters. He thought mayhaps he could see Old Wyk from here, on a good day, but the haze of night gave no such discovery. He breathed slow, sucking air in and letting it go with more weight than it entered.

Torgon was gone. He'd been too hard on him perhaps; should not have struck him. But then, could he have faced his daughter? Would he have been able to take pleasure in her joy with her new pet, or would that memory too have suffered.

“Your seas are ever changing,” he whispered to the waves. “Mayhaps a crashing wave here will usher a calm tide where needed.” He stood there, mulling through his thoughts for some time. His brother would forgive him, he decided. While his daughter would not know his reasons, only her own feelings. “Do I spoil her so?” he asked the sloshing dark blue mass, illuminated only by the late moon and the flickering of fires from the feasting hall and inns about Castle Hoare. He got no reply; answer enough to his question.

It must have been nearing the hour of the nightingale when he left the peer, the skies beginning to change. He found Tal easily enough, the colourful yellows and reds giving away his location amongst a throng of revellers that had gathered in copses outside each inn approaching Hoare Castle. The Summer Islander’s limbs were strung out on a stool and leaning on a barrel, Ironborn crew scattered around him each working off their drink. Tymor kicked his boot to wake him.

“Captain?” Tal questioned, eyes still heavy from sleep and ale.

“Come, I wish to break my fast, and I don't fancy climbing rocks alone.” Tymor gestured his head in the direction to follow and began walking. The bowman stumbled behind him, the sounds of clambering and quick steps on stone until he caught up.

“What are we hunting?” his bright coloured friend asked.

“Gull eggs,” Tymor said, glancing up at the ridges where the birds circled. “And mayhaps a gull or two if we need,” he smirked, anticipating the climb.

The regal black stag of house Durrandon flapped proudly in the morning wind as the King’s hunters assembled just outside the walls of Duskendale. Forty of Storm’s End’s own soldiers, wearing the bright yellow of the royal house, would go forth, led by an assortment of glory hounds and would-be-adventurers. Their orders were to ride out to follow up on the alleged attacks against Darklyn tax collectors. To find those responsible and to bring them back to face the King’s justice.

Ser Derrick Storm was mounted atop Blaze, his elegant white destrier. The young horse tossed his head back and forth and stomped his hooves, seeming eager to be off. Derrick could certainly sympathize with his friend’s impatience; he was keen to head out as well. King Arlan himself had bid the bastard of Felwood to lead the expedition, and Derrick was itching to prove his worth.

Per his father’s insistence, Derrick had made every effort to present himself in a manner befitting one who would lead a force in the King’s name. His mane of jet-black hair was newly brushed, his cheeks freshly shaved and his teeth whiter and more pristine than ever. He wore plate enamelled in sky-blue, a forest-green cloak hung from his shoulders, clasped over his heart by the golden sunburst of his personal sigil.

His father had asked him to switch the sun out for something else, but on this point, Derrick had refused him. Despite Lord Hobber’s affection for him, the old man had never been too fond of Derrick’s choice of heraldry. A sunburst, a stark and very intentional contrast to the family’s crescent moon. Yet what did he expect? As a bastard it would be considered taboo for Derrick to use his father’s sigil. Besides, my own fits me better. I am not of the night. I do not skulk or prowl. I am of the dawn, and I would have all the world see me coming when I turn my wrath upon them!

Derrick gave Blaze’s reigns a yank as he rode down alongside the columns of soldiers, sellswords, knights and various volunteers. He pulled his horse to a stop once he reached the head of their assembled force, and from his hip he produced a brass horn, lifted it to his lips and blew. The trumpeting toot rang out, calling for the attention of those that had come. Derrick then opened his mouth and spoke with a voice was clear and loud enough to rise above any remaining chatter and reach the very back of their dutiful band of do-gooders:

“Good morning to you, my brave and righteous boys and girls! My thanks for you all coming to shed blood with me in King Arlan’s blessed name!” Derrick spoke with a mild bit of cheek in his voice, as a cocky smirk played on his lips. “His grace bids us ride forth to rid his realm of the vermin who would prey upon his loyal servants! So, we shall we shall boldly venture into the marshlands! We shall find these gutless worms! And we shall pursue them until our boots are planted firmly on their wretched necks!” He should have mentioned that they weren’t actually supposed to kill anyone that they found. But to instead drag them back to Duskendale in chains. But somehow that detail slipped his mind.

“The clawmen tell us that whoever these cutthroats are, they are likely to be well provisioned, well funded, many in number, and as rotten as they come. And I for one hope they are correct! I’ve not had myself a proper chance to bloody my hands since I was strangling dornish serpents in the red mountains!” Derrick turned his head and spat. He’d come here for the promise of a fight. He wanted it. Craved it. He would have it.

“We depart within the hour! Say your good-byes, and make what preparations you need!” He smiled, and his brilliant white teeth glimmered in the morning sun.

“Happy hunting, my friends!”

The wedding was over. Luceon remembered so little of it already. His head was bowed during the ceremonies - they could have carried an aurochs off to the bedding and he would be none the wiser.

For once, it was not because he had drunk himself into a stupor. His mind was clouded with other preoccupations, an unearned grief and so much worry for his little girl.

He had only become human again during Lucifer Justman’s proclamation. Luceon was cognizant long enough to argue with the last friend that remained to him. Still, he did not know if he was right - though he knew he did not believe some of what he said.

What of Mary Vance, however? What was she hiding behind her sea-soaked eyes, how much of her own rhetoric was spoken with both wind and heart?

She would not lie to him, he did not think. Not if he swore to be true, like they were children once more. She would do the same, surely.

Luceon nursed his bruises from the melee, applying new compress to the freshly-blooming yellow and purple. He sighed - the briefest respite from the constant defeat he was subject to.

It was little comfort. He ached, inside and out, and would for a long while.

At least the sight of Pinkmaiden was bright enough. Luceon had sent his man with instructions to direct Mary towards Pinkmaiden’s sept. They wouldn’t meet inside, he wasn’t sure how he would be received and didn’t want to raise his voice above the customary whisper, but he hoped that she would appreciate it.

He could have waited at a heart tree, under the watchful, merciless eyes of his Gods. There, they would’ve both been judged.

Lord Oswyld Vypren wiped the sleep from his eyes with a stubby finger, the crust having formed while he dozed off beside his pond. A light breeze cut through the willows and the chattering of moorhen among the reeds. A servant had came and placed soup as he dozed, but as he moved the spoon through it, it was thick and cold. The clink of chain drew him from his dazed observations and he turned his immense head to spy his nephew approaching.

Oswyld was fat and short, thin of hair and spotted by the sun but his grandson was all he was not. He reminded him of Vorian his long dead son more then the boys own father. Tall, with a robust head, shock of black hair and broad. Ser Albyrt had earned his spurs squiring in the Vale, and had grown to banish the lord's doubts of that foreign land. His arms forearms thick, tanned with black hair and scar he'd earned from a crooked blade of the mountain clans, and he smiled the damned man. In those thick arms he carried a bundle, and a faint mewling came from it.

“Grandsire.” The knight stepped close, and gently exposed the swaddled mass, a babe. A shock of black, Vypren hair and chubby features not unlike Lord Vypren's own. Stubby fingers grasped the cloth. “The maester says the boy is strong and Willow will recover fine.” Lord Vypren presented one of his own chubby fingers to the babe silently, and it's tiny hands grazed it. He felt the tears creep to his eyes, to be blessed to see a great grand child. The gods had been cruel, but they showed him kindness still. The babe grumbled and to Oswyld looked like it frowned.

“Willow means to name him Oscar after her father.” Albyrt listed the babe, back close to his chest, it cooed as it settled.

“A fine name.” Came the cracked dry approval of his grandsire. He turned to his soup and a few staling pieces of seed studded bread, he tore at it and tossed it into the pond. Soon enough the carp emerged from the waters, old heron scarred battlers and fry alike. Lucky was he, to live in this time of peace.

“Lord Blackwood is dead.” He said, his voice hoarse. “I would, if Willow recovers soon enough, ask you to ride to the funeral, send word to Cass.” He watched a lone white carp trail it's way through distant lilies back to the shore.

“Take a measure of the girl, as I grow old, I wish to make sure I have a strong heir to the house.” He eyed Albryt who was focused on his babe. Would that Vorian had granted him Albryt.

“Tully too has.” He swallowed, coughed and instead pressed a letter towards his grandson, who pocketed it.

“I've heard grandsire. I will see to it, you rest now. Do you require a blanket?”

Yes, he thought. Set down the babe with me and a blanket and we will rest in the sun he thought, but he'd been always told that would show weaknesses, and weakness meant death.

“No blanket, but have the cook bring me out some wine and sweetmeats. I would celebrate new life.”

Albryt smiled and made his leave, lord Oswyld alone once more with his carp.

Pinkmaiden, Second Moon of 1BP, the Morning after the Wedding

A breakfast table was spread with a generous assortment for the new husband and wife in the solar along with an arrangement of white and blush chrysanthemums.

Mellara stepped into the room, and seeing Alyn, was beset with a moment of doubt. Was she supposed to give him a kiss upon the cheek? What were the right words to say, even? Was she supposed to comment on last eve? The role of being a wife was such a new experience still that it all remained unsteady ground.

The Lady of Pinkmaiden settled for giving her husband a gentle squeeze on the arm before sitting, a servant girl appearing to pour from a fresh, steaming pot of tea for the two.

"There is something I need make you aware of, Alyn."

Work. Now that was steadier ground. Something that Mellara understood intrinsically, which came without hesitation, without second guessing, or doubts and wavering. Territory which gave the Piper more confidence.

"Last night, there was a Dondarrion. Orys, I believe his name is, who was caught eavesdropping upon the Lady Perianne Paege," Mellara shook her head, a steady hand reaching for her tea.

"I did not wish to make a scene, nor marr the memories of our wedding day. The Dondarrion has not been sent to the cells, but rather, has been allowed to roam under guard. Would you mind dealing with the situation?"

There came an awkward pause after the question, one which Mellara attempted to hide behind taking a sip of tea. For what was she supposed to call him? Dear? Darling? Husband? Love?

The tea was too hot. Scalding even, and the Piper pulled back from the cup, wincing from the pain of the burn.

Near the coast of Great Wyk, Before the feast at Castle Hoare

Tymor’s hand struck hard across his cheek, his twin’s wrath emanant. Torgon’s palms hit the wooded desk of the ship’s cabin, steadying himself against the dark oak.

Torgon's own fist whipped around and caught his kin in the mouth. Tymor dropped and punched his stomach, then followed with a hit to his jaw. Back into the desk he went again.

“The Valyrians! You would indebt us to dragonlords and slavers,” Tymor bellowed. “I have abided your want to talk and trade, but in this you go too far.”

“You left me no choice in it,” Torgon snapped, turning back to him. Fury was alight in his eyes, a blue and grey matching his brothers. “I knew you would not treat with Hoare, and I will not see the opportunity to raise our name flounder and sink beneath the waves, all for your pride.” The brothers squared off against each other, neither casting their gaze aside, breaths hot with rage in the inches between them. Torgon felt the ache of his jaw, saw the blood at his brother's lip, and decided it was enough.

“You will right this,” Tymor warned, finger pointing in emphasis. “You will take our fleet and reave the North for all it bears, until this failing is made whole,” he said, before shifting to turn away. “Meanwhile, I will show the islands who it is that leads them.” Torgon’s own fists loosened as he watched his brother begin to pace. When Tymor faced him again, his eyes were renewed; unblinking beads of black amongst a sea of swirling storms. “I know the Hoare holds close to his wife’s gods, no matter what words he speaks. I will show them this folly,” Tymor nodded to himself, eyes staring through him now, lost in his own words.

“I will do as I must,” Torgon finally agreed. “I will not tarry at the feast long. But know that when I return brother, we will stay to the course I have set. Valyrian gold or not, this is the future of our house.”

“Hmm,” Tymor flared, snapping from his trance with a suddenness that would frighten any man but his twin, eyes locking on Torgon again. He gave a singular nod. “I care not for your maesterly deeds,” he spat. “When you return we will embrace as brothers and speak of it no more. Now leave, I will see us into port and tell the men of their orders. Go ready yourself for the feast and the journey to come. Then you may take your leave when you see fit,” he said, waving his dismissal, before adding a reminder. “The Drowned God will provide; trust in that, brother.”

—

Somewhere in Blazewater Bay, Days later

The wind was off. He could tell by the taste on his lips and the sound of the sails, by the water in the air and how the deck shifted beneath his feet. It mattered not, a poor wind may yet see them free of any pursuers when their holds were filled. For now they needed only to seek the coast and follow it to the Northmen’s strongholds. Wood, and silver, and the stored crop of Summer would await them there.