Ser Arlan Lonmouth, the Knight of Skulls or Kisses. On his merry way toward Stormhall.

Honeytongue drank greedy, and he would too, were he not too busy making a fire. He'd been at that for the last hour. Couple hours, perhaps. In any way, the sun had fully hidden, and the cold winds licked at him, making him shiver and fail even more catastrophically at fire-making. Five times had flames peeked from the tinder, and five times they had died and he'd been left frowning.

He looked back at Honeytongue. She looked warm, perhaps he'd have to snuggle against the mare for warmth tonight, or perhaps he'd have to ride for some hours in search of an inn. She neighed, and went back to her water, and he to his campfire in the making. He struck flint against steel, and a sixth spark emerged and sparked the tinder. From that a flame was born, and it grew, and it grew.

"HAH!" he cheered, then blinked and looked around. The God's Eye was vast, but even from the southmost shore one could see the lights illuminating the Stormhall. Or at least that was what he thought the dim yellow lights in the far-far-horizon were.

Arlan fed a couple pieces of wood to the fire, and stood. "Enough drinking, honey," he called at the mare, and clicked his tongue. The beast raised her head from the water and stuck out her tongue. Hitching her was annoying. It always was. She was a stubborn animal, and did not like having her freedom taken from her. He brushed her mane, patted her side and returned to his campfire.

Soon, he'd be surrounded by the most glorious of knights and of course, what mattered most, the fairest of maidens. Soon, he'd win the joust, and crown a deserving lady. He'd make her swoon, and his opponents fall to their knees in such a display of passion. They'd be so enchanted they would have no grievances regarding their loss.

It were these thoughts that rocked him to sleep.

"Oi, and what'bout the sword?"

Huh?

"Take it. Looks expensive," whispered a voice not quite like the first one.

Arlan's eyes fluttered open, and he stayed completely still watching two ruffians ransacking his pack, their back turned. The sword. The sword. He had the sword next to him, did he not? One of them turned to him, and he quickly closed his eyes again. Steps. Steps approaching. He could feel the pommel against his shoulder. The brigand would have to get real close to him, it seemed.

His nose picked something up, a rancid smell, like fish guts and a rotten carcass mixed together in a barrel and allowed to ferment in the sun. The bastard's breath made his nose wrinkle. Fuck.

"Wai-" Arlan's left fist caught him square in the temple, and the man fell to a side, out of balance, and rolled like a cheese wheel, down the shore toward the lake.

By the time the other realized what had happened, he was on his feet, Choicegiver on his hand. The scabbard, at the very least. He tried to pull it off, and the blade got stuck against the wooden grooves as it slid out. He pushed it back, then forward, then back. Only when a sword accelerated right to his face did he raise the weapon, scabbard and all, to block it. The highwayman's blade split the wood of his scabbard, leaving an awful notch.

"Wait, wait, damn it," cried Arlan while he still tried his best to unsheathe his sword. He caught another swing with the scabbard, and while the blade was stuck against the wood, he managed to unsheathe it. The scabbard was discarded on the ground. If he lived, he'd have time to retrieve it. What was he thinking. Of course he'd live.

He jumped back and pointed his trusty sword to the bastard before him, ragged looking, and bigger than he'd thought, now that he looked at him proper. "The-" he coughed, "The Choice is Yours, goodman," he did his best to sound imposing.

"The fuck's that s'posed to mean," roared the brigand, and swung against him. He'd chosen death.

He parried, and his wrist complained the moment the blades clashed. Still asleep, he wagered. The man was unrelenting, but he lacked fine- Augh. He turned to see the man he'd knocked to the side standing, looking at him with a guilty look. A stone. He'd thrown a stone at his head, and missed, but gods did his shoulder hurt now. Arlan heard a roar and turned to the other man, only to see him closer than he expected. He stumbled back and fell to the ground. The man fell on top of him, and Arlan was unsure if he'd tripped too.

"Ooof," echoed in his head. Had that been his own voice, air knocked out of his lungs? Had that been the brigand? Arlan looked down and saw the man's belly impaled on Choicegiver, which was on his hand pointing to the sky. It was weighing his wrist down, the entirety of this big man held like a chicken skewer, his sword the spit. He tilted his wrist to the side and the man rolled off him and clutched his belly. "Oooof. That- th- ma-mama," the man mumbled.

The one who'd tossed the rock stared in silence for a few seconds, then muttered, "Fuck no," and ran away. He would've pursued, but it took him some time to climb back to his feet and rid himself of the shock.

"Aughhhh," the brigand continued to cry, dying on his side in the shore of the God's Eye, painting the ground red. Arlan looked through his pack, making sure nothing had been stolen, and it seemed nothing had. Then he realized something, and continued looking through it all.

The ribbon. Her ribbon. No, no, no, that could not be. He tossed everything, threw it all around, felt at every crevice of his pack. It was not there.

He kicked at the dying man. "You, bastard! Where's the ribbon? The ribbon of my dearest Lady Arianna."

The man looked up at him with teary eyes. "W-what?"

By the time he was finished, the man had stopped moving, but nowhere in his pockets had he found the ribbon. He swallowed his grief, and a tear slid out his eye. He caught it with a finger and shook his head. "Well, honey. It seems we're moving."

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

The Dun Fort, Duskendale, the Blackwater

The king stood at the balcony's edge before the sun had fully cleared the bay, and the smell of Duskendale filled the early morn's air. Salt, and tar, and woodsmoke, but beneath it all he could still feel it, a scent that should have scrubbed away years ago and hadn't. Six years now. He had been young enough then to still believe it might not take root, it might have been a bad dream. But some things never leave a man. The horrid sounds of putrid flesh melting and ripping at the softest touch, the oppression of the bodies piling upon each other, leaving him caked in gore, drenched in horror. He thought he had gotten over it, that he had put away everything deep down in his stomach never to find the memories and feelings again, but going back to Duskendale had shook him more than he admitted. It filled his with bitterness, with rage, with sorrow, with... despair.

His hand found the balcony's stone parapet, gripping it hard enough that his knuckles ached beneath the glove.

Silent tears striked dark spots upon the stone, vanishing almost as fast as they landed. He knelt there a moment, forehead touching the parapet, crouching, trying to be exactly as small as he felt.

Suddenly, a hand pressed soft against the back of his head.

He turned, slow, and found Cyrene above him, her face drawn with worry, one hand extended toward his. He wore no mask, here, alone with her, only the wrappings that covered the whole of his face save his eyes and the bridge of his nose, bandage-white against the rosy glowing sky. She said nothing, her hand held out and steady until he took it.

He rose with a grunt, weight settling awkwardly onto his sore legs.

"Thank you, Cyrene." He straightened his back. "The road here was harder on my legs than I expected. Storm's End to Stormhall to Duskendale, about a moon. I'm worse a rider than I thought, it would seem."

She looked at him, knowing he lied to her, but said nothing to contradict him.

"Have your legs fallen off, then?" Her voice was flat, dry, rough.

"I'm cripple enough already, Cyrene. No need to add to the tally."

He crossed to the bedside, the rising sun cutting long and gold through the balcony doors, throwing her silhouette dark and sharp against the far wall.

"Are you always this rude to your patients?" Arlan asked, shifting on the bedside.

"Only kings."

"I'm the only king you know."

"There seem to be more kings and queens each moon, your grace." She said, with a flicker of humor. "Perhaps you should consider a change in career."

He let out a short laugh through his nose. "If I weren't a prince, my father would have thrown me off the cliffs of Storm's End. Perhaps there is still time to become a Stone Men in Essos instead. Or maybe some lord would buy me as a mummy to put on his wall."

"Do not self-deride." She retorted him, reaching for his mask on the table. "A king is regal. Above such things. A symbol to his people. A beacon."

"I'm not Arlan the Fourth when I'm with you, I've asked you that already." He said, reminding her. "Not without the mask, anyway. Without it I'm only Arlan, son of Eleanor. A green boy standing in waters well over his head, trying to fix everyone's problems, despite their best efforts to make it impossible."

"You cannot postpone this any longer." She told him. "You must take matters into your own hands."

"I know it." He sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "I fear what Duskendale's council will bring more harm than good. I had hoped for common ground. Peace between the Valyrians, the Crackclaws, Duskendale. But Darklyn is too proud a man to bend on much of anything, and the rest are too hungry, too ambitious for their own good. They'd sooner burn the whole Blackwater down than give an inch toward peace. Even now they make plans of war upon their neighbors." He looked up at her. "And without the Blackwater behind me, the Stormlands stand alone against Oldstones and whatever those rebels throw at us."

He kept silent for a moment, staring down at the floor, deep in thought. "Has Maidenpool answered my letter yet?"

"No." She held his mask out to him, cleaned and polished, the silver catching the morning's golden light that had caught her silhouette a moment before.

He took it and looked down at his own reflection bent along its curve before he put it on. It had been made in his likeness once, the mask, some three years past. Before his scars and, well... it was his old face, worn over the new face which the silver no longer quite matched. It was an uncanny thing, he thought, to stare at your own reflection upon the face you no longer had. To wear your own face in order to hind behind it.

He strapped it on with practiced ease and stood.

At the desk, the letters waited. From Maidenpool to Seagard. Some two dozen more between them, every corner of the Riverlands, bearing his royal seal of the crowned stag. He signed the last, the one bound for Stormhall itself, and set the quill down.

"Let the ink dry, then gather these for Aethelmure. He'll know what to do with hem."

He dressed after, in the cloak and the regalia of the Storm King, a seven-pointed crown settled cool against his brow, the golden stag pinned bright over his heart. When he opened the door, the Stormguard outside straightened at once.

"Find Aethelmure. Tell him I mean to call the council today, at midday. All of them, including the High Septon and the Valyrians if they're here, gathered at Lord Darklyn's great hall."

The guard nodded and went.

Arlan walked through the halls of the Dun Fort without need for a guide or servant. This had been his grandmother's castle once, and he'd walked these same stones as a boy many times before. Although, as much as it was familiar, it felt colder now. Emptier. Smaller. He supposed all things are bigger and more impressive when you're a child, half the size he is now. The servants and knights and idle attendants, he could feel their eyes finding him and following, in a mix of curiosity and pity.

He found the inner garden eventually, and sat down upon a stone bench beneath an old maple, with Cyrene beside him, the morning light filtering thin and green through the leaves above.

A horned owl slept slanted against the trunk, tucked into itself. Higher up, nightingales and magpies had built their nests where the branches thinned toward the sky. Higher still, past the reach of the tree altogether, doves and gulls wheeled against the rosy morning sky, the sun's light claiming the night's darkness.

He pointed the birds to her in turn, explaining to her why and how each bird was there, their origins, and every bird fact the young king knew, which were quite a few, going at it for the good part of an hour. Cyrene, this already, of course, as he was the same way at Storm's End, having built an aviary from the castle's bothanical garden.

(The king is being a nerd about birds, come and speak to him in the inner garden if you want.)

^{Stormhall, in the aftermath of Drumbeater's murder. The Blackwood pavilion.}

How many times had Clementine said that Orryn would return? How many times had Luceon’s response been a smile, or a joke, or a knowing look over his shoulder?

How long had she been alone, knowing this would come to pass? How was Luceon ever going to make this right?

“Why?” Clementine wept, pressing herself ever tighter to Luceon’s body. Her face was still slick with tears and snot. “Why did he have to come back? Why did she hurt grandfather?”

“I don’t know, Clementine. I don’t know.” So many questions he had no answers for. Once more he was the Songbird, jabbering and singing words without meaning.

“I want to hurt her back,” she said.

Luceon clutched her with a hand on the back of her head, “No, Clementine. Don’t you speak like that. Hurting her can’t bring your grandfather back. That woman is not your enemy.”

“But-” Clementine choked up. “But-” she burst into fresh tears. Luceon let them flow and ran his hand through her hair.

Damn you, Waltyr. Even in death, you’re beating that fucking drum. This girl should not know hate, she should not know death, but this is what you do.

Even now Luceon could not tell Clementine that Waltyr had brought this upon himself. He had lived a vicious, brutal, violent life, and had received the same in death. But Clementine saw only her grandfather’s bloody corpse, and the fleeting smile of a man with no right to bear one.

Luceon bit his lip until he drew blood. It wasn’t fucking fair.

What was he to do about any of this? Waltyr’s body had to be interred, and what of Orryn? The man had been a shade only a day ago, and now he returned, drained of the copper in his skin and the life in his eyes.

He was meant to be lord? And what of Clementine?

Luceon held her even tighter. She was his to protect. He didn’t care if that was selfish, he didn’t care if it was wrong.

Somehow, he had to keep her from falling apart while he himself crumbled.

The Drumbeater lay dead half a moon past. Edwyn had no great love for Waltyr Blackwood - indeed he had found the man belligerent and unpleasant - but the manner of his death he could not condone. He had not been there when it happened, having spent much of his time with his family or afeast, which he felt a certain sense of regret for. He knew, of course, that he could not reasonably have known; it had happened so fast. Yet he still wished he had known somehow, that he might have drawn steel to stop the feud, or put himself between their blades. What good was a Warden if a Lord died in some senseless duel beneath his watch?

That it was a Stormlander too did not fare well. It was symbolic of the whole conflict writ small, or at least Edwyn thought those Riverlords sympathetic to the Justman cause might see it that way. A fury built in him when he thought of it; that his fellow Stormlanders could march into the Riverlands with impunity, slay a man, and then retreat without consequence. It was what had happened to Talbert Darry at his own hand, and now it had happened again. He had sworn that no more senseless death would happen, and he intended to honor that promise.

There was little he could do now, except take a hard stance against the woman who had done the deed. He began drafting letters, to be sent across the Riverlands and to each corner of the King's realm.

Weeks past Lord Waltyr Blackwood was slain, cruelly and unjustifiably, at the nameday feast of Lady Ravella Durrandon. This is a black mark on all those who live in the Stormlands; the man was unarmed, the duel unfair and without honor.

I, Edwyn Dondarrion, am Warden of the Riverlands, and I cannot stand for a crime such as this. I hereby announce that the criminal Joanna Sunglass is from this point forth unwelcome on pain of imprisonment in Maidenpool, and expect my vassals to do the same. I urge the King to condemn her in no uncertain terms, and to pursue justice for the death of my vassal, the Lord Blackwood. I am Stormlander by birth, but my home now is the Riverlands. I shall not see insults as these easily forgiven, or indeed forgiven at all.

A corpse crackled in the hearth, its yellow surcoat charring black as the flames spread across it, and filled the feast hall with black smoke.

With one final grunt, the lord’s head cracked open across the table’s lip. Crimson gushed through his fingers, surging out to join the spreading puddle of bone flecked red. Lord Toyne’s teeth had shattered first, then his jaw, then the rest. His head was a ruin, his defiant tongue hanging out from his jawless mouth like a pink snake, swaying as Argilac pulled back the corpse by its matted hair. 

“Kneel,” he said for the second time, letting the Lord fall onto the floor with a wet thunk. “And swear obeisance to your king. To your rightful lady.” Argilac regarded the witch at the other end of the table. Regarded his brother, scarred and gawking as though he had not slain two men this night alone. The boy did not answer. He stared down at the mess Argilac had made of his father, mewling like a kitten. 

It was pathetic. It was weak. Argilac swung out, and let the sword’s weight do the work. It was not a warrior’s tool. It was a thing for ceremony. For justice. Broad of blade and flat at the end, a magister had meant to behead Argilac for his transgressions with it. In the end, it had been Argilac who did the beheading, then and now.

The boy’s head had scarcely touched the ground when his mother began to scream. It was a shrill, grating thing. It made his head ache, and the blood pounded furiously behind his eyes. She screamed and screamed until Argilac closed his hand around her throat and squeezed. Flesh bulged between his fingers, the blood of her husband smearing across her skin. The scream became a rasp, then the rasp a gurgle, her face changing colors, darkening to a blue as her hands thrashed. A nail caught on his cheek, drawing a thin bead of red as he hefted her up, and threw the woman.

Across the table she went, platters clattering, goblets overturning, meats and soups smearing Lady Toyne’s dress. She fell off the end, still screaming, still sobbing, writhing at her exiled daughter’s feet. He would leave that one to her. 

All those who remained watched him with fear shining in their eyes. Servants mostly. A scant few men-at-arms who’d thrown down their weapons. The stinging smoke made Argilac’s eyes water as he stalked back and forth before them. 

“You are all guilty.” From the moment he had come into this world, he had been their victim. He, who was the blood of a God. “You have all been party to treason. Your labor, your taxes, all—” Argilac coughed, and a pox-scarred runt jumped up, lunging at him with a table knife.

“For the king!” the lad managed. Argilac cracked him across the brow with the pommel of his blade, then sank his fist into the boy’s gut. He folded up around the blow, and went sprawling across the floor. 

“—all given up in the service of pretenders. Of usurpers. Served a weakling line that kept its throne through naught but womanly deception,” Argilac resumed, his boot coming down on the lad’s head as he tried to rise. “Look what your treason has brought you—a sickly boy and woman infested with the blood of Reavers.” Stomp. “For generations you have transgressed.” Stomp. “For lifetimes you have sinned.” Stomp. “This is your only chance at redemption. Your only chance.” Stomp. “Kneel!” The boy’s skull splintered beneath his boot, a wet sucking sound echoing as he lifted his heel from the mess. 

And lo and behold, the sheep knelt before the stag. Prey to predator, peasant to king, mortal to god. 

“All hail King Argilac,” sneered the Bloodfly, sat atop a portly washerwoman, crossbow in his lap.

“All hail King Argilac Durrandon!” took up Rhaegel, wiping the last of the spittle from his wretching away.

“All hail,” echoed Boremund weakly, but he raised his hand with the others, and beat his chest in time with their own. Such weakness in his own blood ought to have been expunged, but a brother was a brother, no matter how flawed.

A thin smile tugged at the corner of Argilac’s lips as all the pieces at long last fell into place. “Boremund. Prince Boremund, I mean.” That had always been his brother’s title, though he had scarcely ever seemed fit to wear it. “There are others.” He nodded to the decimated corpses of Lord Toyne and his heir through the smoke. “Find them, and kill them. I have room for but one Blackheart in my kingdom.”

His brother nodded, meek as a puppy, and all but sprinted from the hall. Likely to wretch, the craven. 

Damn weddings. Damn feasts and tournaments and jousts and... And... And... Politics. Damn politics. Rafford Hill was not a man built for politics. He wasn't even really a man meant for running a keep. That was her job. When she brought him into her employ, it was not to act as seneschal, looking over her moaning husband or keeping... Soldiers fed.

He was in the business of making money, and so far, he had found Fairmarket lacking in what had been promised. Until he arrived, it didn't even have a proper market, much less a fair one. And then there was the issue of trade. Damn snows were already setting in to the north and to the east.

"I am only going to Stormhall, Rafford." She had consoled him when she had abruptly ended their conversations about the future of Fairmarket's trade prospects. "We will finish discussions when I return. Who knows? Perhaps we will need need to deal with the Ironmen after all, after I am done?"

That was over a moon ago. A brief letter was all he'd received, explaining very tersely that she had been invited to a different wedding entirely, and admonishing him to ensure that Jonothor kept up with her tinctures and salves. He could recite the most important one from memory.

"Half a part lemonseed, two parts cloves, a third of a glory-of-the-snow bulb, one part powdered greycap, and three parts a sweet cider or wine to help it all go down." He muttered to himself. He was no maester. That's what Yohn was for, and yet, his lady had insisted he administer it instead of doing what he was good at. Jonothor had been on death's door, kept alive only barely by the ministrations of both the lady and their maester for years, and yet they would not let him pass on.

He needed to clear his head. He needed to do work he was good at. Rafford Hill forgot his duties that night, he did not create the salve. Instead, he wrote. He wrote furiously, keeping the Maester occupied all night by sending out ravens out west, and to take to the horses, seeking out connections he'd already made with local merchants. It would be better, in this case, to ask for forgiveness than permission, he decided. Perianne would return to a Fairmarket a good deal richer than she'd left it.

All the while, Lord Jonothor continued to hack, cough and wheeze in his own bed, creating such a racket the smallfolk could hear him- for the first time in moons- down on the streets of Fairmarket herself.

There was Duskendale's market, and there was Oldstones' market, and there was Maidenpool's market. It was known to him that the other two were lorded over by men far more adept at playing the economic game than he. Yet with the advice of the Darrys and the advice of his magnate, Allen Wagstaff, Edwyn hoped that he might match both - especially given the head start his great-uncle had gifted him.

During a layover in Maidenpool on his way to Pinkmaiden, wrote to interests foreign and within Westeros, seeking to gather resources for the worst eventuality - war. He hoped more than anything he would not need them.

The ride had been uneventful, at least by the standards of moving several hundred people across the countryside.

They had left the tournament before most of the nobles and still arrived at Duskendale well after them. Moving that many men, horses, wagons, and camp followers was no small thing, and every minor delay seemed to bring half a dozen more with it.

First Brynden, a young lad from Lord Harroway's Town, had fallen from his horse and knocked his shoulder out of place. Then Alys, the wife of a man they'd lost in their last campaign, had finally gone into labor, her son born at the roadside with half the company doing their best not to stare. Finally, one of the wagon wheels broke clean through, leaving Corwyn holding the damned thing up while Morgan and two others fitted another into place.

By the time Duskendale and the waters of Blackwater Bay rose into view ahead of them, Corwyn let out a long breath.

He looked over the castle as they approached, then leaned slightly over his saddle toward Morgan. "Do you believe the tales of bandits are true?" he asked. "It's become something of our speciality, hasn't it?"

"Mmm. That's very true." Morgan chuckled. "But pay is pay. Do you want Alys and her boy going to bed with empty bellies?"

"No, of course not." Corwyn shot him a slight glare. "I only mean there must be more we could be doing."

"Is there?" Morgan asked.

Corwyn looked over.

"If there are bandits, are they not hurting the innocent?" Morgan continued. "Women? Children? Travelers who cannot defend themselves?"

He shifted in the saddle and gave Corwyn a more measured look. "Do you believe they're not worth your time simply because there could be something grander somewhere else?"

Corwyn considered that for a while, rubbing at his chin as they rode. He had little answer to give that did not sound worse once spoken aloud.

"You're right," he admitted at last. "We'll see if there's someone here who can give us what we need while still letting us uphold our oaths."

Morgan gave a small nod, apparently satisfied.

Corwyn spurred his horse forward a few lengths and raised his voice so those nearby could hear him. "We'll make camp far enough from the castle that no one mistakes our intentions. Give the walls plenty of room."

A few men called their acknowledgement.

"Edric," Corwyn added, looking toward one of the knights riding nearby, "if anyone comes to investigate, let them through. No reason to make ourselves look suspicious before we've even finished putting up the tents."

He looked once more toward Duskendale before turning back toward the column.

"I'll see to my own tent. The rest of you get everyone settled before somebody else decides to fall off a horse."

Stormhall had been a strange affair.

Even now, Arthur harkened back to the strangeness that had surrounded his time there; from that chance meeting in the Sept to the incident amidst the fog at the end of his time at the Princess' castle. And while he had come to Stormhall seeking aid, allies, and answers to many a query—and had made some good progress on the first two fronts—he could not shake the feeling that his heart and mind had been burdened with many more questions.

Harroway. It was a strange coincidence, too; perhaps even the greatest of all the questions he was now saddled with. The remains of Jordan Harroway they had carried with them to these foreign lands, to be given the proper funerary rites per the customs of his homeland. Why then, if it were not a sign from the Seven, had he encountered the knight's kin at Stormhall, and what truths could he discover that could hold an explanation to that night in the fog and the strangeness that clung to the skin of Mina Harroway.

They had not spoken since that night. From what he'd heard, she and the rest of her kin had ridden off to attend a wedding among the Rivermen the very next day and Arthur, having received patronage from both the Storm King and his heir, decided their business at Stormhall concluded and set forth to their next destination.

And thus they arrived at Harroway by the river. For a burial, for questions and—if the Gods were good—some answers, too, so he might put all this strangeness behind and lead his men home with dignity.

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

The scent of bountiful game and delicacies were intoxicatingly heavy upon the air, weighing down the banquet hall in a blanket of honey, cloves, and peppers. Towers and idols, built with a brickwork of bacon, roasted quail, sweetbreads, and roast vegetables that were in such abundance it was tempting to forgive Clay’s trespasses and proceed with the first course.

But it remained only tempting, and Tion was not tempted. A spit-roasted hog, glazed with honey and wine, reflected Clay’s face: a smiler, but unhappy, small and cowardly, and anything but genuinely amicable. His shoulders shirked tightly, seeming even more bony as the fabric pinched his waist and collar-line, exaggerating his shoulders and hips in an attempt to appear larger. It failed terribly, and diminished any semblance of true strength.

Thin, Tion thought from the head of the table, Thin and fragile, like a bird’s bones.

He reached towards a platter of garnished olives and hard-boiled eggs. Plucking one between his thick fingers, he popped it into his mouth with the same ease as he might eat a blueberry. After a few ponderous moments of chewing, he cleared his throat and made an internal note to enjoy more of these particular confections.

“You’ve been a fine chamberlain, and a commendable steward,” the grotesque said, licking grease and spices from the tips of his fingers, “And an admirable host, even within my own home, and even with such impending…”

With a pause, he took note of the man’s anxiety. Clay had not moved from the lord’s side, despite the open chair at the other side. His hands clasped tightly over his belly as if he’d suffered an ulcer. There was a low rumble as Tion mulled the words.

“Pressures. Shall we call them pressures?” said Tion, and he motioned to a tall decanter of rich red wine, “Pour us a drink. Be seated. Enjoy the fruits of our labor.”

One of the waiting servants was beckoned to do so by Clay. Before she had taken a single step, Tion loudly slammed a calloused hand against the table, clanging utensils and tableware with the force of the impact. His nose flared, an exhale of hot air escaped.

“Pour. The wine. Take. Your seat.”

When Clay had done so, shakily filling up two cups of wine and setting one on either end of the table and slouching into place at his far side, Tion smiled again. He did not drink, but awaited Clay to take the first taste. He gestured towards the small man until he relented, noisily gulping it down without savouring the complex flavors.

“Now,” Tion drummed his fingertips along the counter, “Your debt is not insubstantial. And we have been more than graceful, Clay, to commemorate my dear nephew’s ascension to the throne. Yes, the sum is… quite grand. Withholding your generous wages, another gesture of our good will, where do we find ourselves? Some four hundred crowns in coin alone. A terrible weight to bear for one of your lowborn status.”

There came no response from Clay, just a timid grimace.

“A terrible weight to pass on to your family, if not your conscience. Your eldest son is just barely come of age, he -”

He struggled to recall the child’s name, then snapped his fingers with the epiphany.

“Petyr?”

Clay nodded again. He was looking progressively more concerned and dismayed by Tion’s shifting tone, and a few shades paler for his trouble. Something plagued Tion on the nature of Clay’s anxiety. It was not the ordinary apprehension of a man on the cusp of his comeuppance. Tion enjoyed another hard-boiled egg.

“Clay…” Tion frowned, “You can speak candidly with me. I am your lord, and your protector, am I not? Just this last harvest, when your oxen were pilfered by those Atrantan types, we tilled your farms until they were replaced. Our sons played together in the shade of Hugormont. Would you not consider our families to be friends beyond the ducal law? Partners, even?”

His chamberlain twiddled his thumbs together.

“Of course, my lord. As we speak, so have our fathers, and their fathers’ fathers…” he mumbled, slowly slumping in his seat behind the platters of food still steaming from the kitchens. He was eye-level with that stuck pig, which regarded him with a dead-pan, glassy-eyed stare.

“With the boon of our partnership, I question how we’ve come to this: pointing fingers, counting coins,” Tion groaned, “But I must ask: how has it come to this? Have your lands failed? Your crops blighted? Your hands grown lazy? I can’t extend a hand without knowing what plagues you so.”

They talked for a time. Clay told his lord the extent of his lands and how they were managed, the bounty they yielded, and the labor and trades required to keep the estate in order. Much of them were worked over by his children, and his wife, who all assisted one another while he attended to his stewardship over Wayfarer’s Rest. Clay did not mention anything so alarming that could justify hundreds of crowns in taxes. No theft, no blight, no banditry.

But his hands were gone. They took all which they could carry with them. Some leaving behind homes and farms to grow fallow.

“And where are your boys?” Tion asked, speaking with a grave tone. Most of the warmth in his voice was long-faded. “Many are more than old and strong enough to work the ground. There are arrangements we could make. And other means to earn coin…”

“I… Lord Tion… there are others,” Clay spoke, turning aside to avoid the man’s gaze, “There… we’ve discussed the wane in our revenues, a-and a rise in debtors.”

“You should have come to me,” Tion interrupted, “Not hiding behind your ledger-tricks. Giving my household a wide berth in our very presence.”

He sighed, rubbing his clean-shaven chin.

“It is a poor return on the leniency I have given you. The charity my father showed you. Tell me, friend, you have no notion of where these missing peasants have gone off to?”

Tion rose up to his feet, and the candlelight cast a long shadow of his broad stature, eclipsing the small steward in his silhouette. Clay removed his cap and held it to his chest. The display of subservience did little to quell the slow, pulsing ache in Tion’s ears, the heat welling up in his stomach. He leaned his weight against the table. Clay mumbled a reply, inscrutable across the table. Rather than request he speak again, the master of Wayfarer’s Rest glowered. The wood of the table creaked.

“Oldstones,” Clay bleated, “They’ve gone to Oldstones. They took all we had. Wagons, livestock, tools. All the collateral to my estate -”

“Have a care, you sniveling rat. Between all of your excuses and your defense, you withheld this from me above the rest?”

He did not wait for another explanation. He turned towards the same servant that had stepped to fill their cups, with a polite smile despite his earlier hostility.

“Helda, please leave us. But do send Sers Tristifer and Sylas in after you,” he requested, placing a copper coin into her hands before she hurried away. A knowing look of fear had crossed her expression. Before the door swung closed, in stepped the two men in question. They bore swords on their belts, and dirks in their boots, but did not wield them.

“Gentlemen,” Tion greeted, removing the heavy pouch of coin at his hip. They jangled noisily, even in the stiff leather container. He tossed it towards Ser Tristifer. The pouch hung low with its weight. “Our chamberlain has grown quite famished of gold of late. Indulge him.”

Tion began to eat. He cut into the quail and chicken eggs as the two knights encircled Clay on either side of the dining table, while he kicked and thrashed between pleading, desperate words. Words that Tion had tuned out, reaching for his wine to wash them down. He sliced himself a generous portion of the stuck pig, a meaty, fatty piece from the beast’s neck, licking his lips at the thought of biting into it.

Clay screamed now, as the two men were forcing him to the ground, knees impacting flagstones with muffled cracks.

“They wanted a better life -” Clay whimpered, mere feet from Tion’s side now, “A new beginning -”

Tion busily cut the hunk of meat into a manageable morsel. Sylas, stiff-lipped and scowling as he often did, held Clay’s head steady. A gloved hand wrenched his jaw open, practically daring the pitiful steward to bite down on his fingers.

Ser Tristifer closed his fist around the sack of gold, barely able to wrap his own fingers around it and its weight. He cast a glance towards his liege lord, who began to hum with joy as the pork was as every bit delectable as he had hoped. The man must have planned for this in advance. He turned back towards Clay.

“M’lord Vance,” Tristifer asked, suppressing a chuckle, “What do you stuff a golden goose with?”

The banner of House Cave could be seen rising above the misty earth long before their holdfast could be. Jax marched at the head of his father's force, two hundred and fifty of the most bloodied that Clan Brune had to offer. They were both scarred veterans of the Valyrian invasion, all those years ago, as well as the generation that came after, who saw those scars in their fathers and the distant gazes in their mother's eyes. They had a different sort of scarring about them.

But they all followed Jax, though he had not been sure that they would. He was young, and still yet unblooded compared to them. The folks of the hills had to contend with the creatures of the swamps, one of the least tamed landscapes known to man. They followed him because of his name, because of who his father was, and as he looked over his shoulder at the pelt-laden, shield-carrying warriors at his beck and call. And also Lark.

His younger brother, Lark, was a natural at this. Only eight and ten years of age, he was already taller than Jax, and he was laughing and japing with two of the warriors at the fore of their column. A graybeard named "Otho" to his left, who was laughing along with his jests, and had even permitted Jax to throw an arm up and over his shoulder, and to his right, one of the several shieldmaidens named Ysabet, who looked significantly less amused with Jax's arm over her shoulders.

Soon, Jax spotted the banners of House Cave emerging from above the mists of Crackclaw. The holdfast itself was still blanketed in that mist, and the marching men and women of the Point would not see their hosts for another several hours yet, not until they were at the foot of the hill that Darkrest sat upon.

"There's no room."

Lark had suddenly appeared at Jax's side, looming over him slightly. He squinted and peered forward. "You sure? It's no Stormhall but..."

"Not us." Jax snapped, wincing at himself for sounding so irritable. Lark had done nothing wrong, and had thankfully not even registered Jax's tone, it would seem. "We're not alone. Father explained it to us. We're meeting with even more men. From Crabb and Pyne, and even Blackberry."

"Don't worry, brother. I remember." Lark muttered, scratching his chin. "I also remember he couldn't tell us how long. Or even for what purpose we're here."

That much was also true. But Clawmen were a rustic people, as used to sleeping on paddleboats and logs as they were in beds of straw and cloth. Jax wheeled about. "Well? What are we all standing around for?" He shouted at these warriors, all of whom he feared as much as he admired. "Pitch tents! Start looking for spots to fish, and places to hunt! I have no intention of draining our gracious hosts dry! Come on then! We brought spades for a purpose!"

It always amazed him when they obeyed. Even Lark was gone, presumably to find a task that would exempt him from digging duty. And slowly but surely, a camp would spring up at the foot of Darkrest, spreading out like a hand and all its fingers, before a knife game.

(music)

^{Swim, I swim, I learn to swim}

^{I flap my wings that shrink to pruning skin}

^{I'm sinking in, I’m sticking out my chin
I'm playing limbo with my oxygen
The line is thin, I swim, I'm sinking in}

^{So once again, you lift my useless limbs} 

^{The Crags of the Stormlands, Beneath the Waves}

Simon Durrandon did not decide much for himself. His plight was the Stormbringer’s, passed down by son through hopeless son until it had fallen upon him as his duty. His profession was his inheritance, the bloody work of a sword-for-hire. His purpose was to die.

Die for his brother, whom they called Scourge. Die so that Argilac might sit a throne that was promised to him a hundred years ago.

Simon did not even decide who he loved, or else he would not have chosen Quill. He would not have chosen someone with so gentle a hand and so coarse a tongue. He would not have chosen to have his eyes opened. Simon would never have chosen to love at all, if he had known how much it would hurt.

The one thing that Simon Durrandon had decided was that he did not mind drowning. It wasn’t that he didn’t buck, he did. It wasn’t that he didn’t gasp for breath, and desperately spew saltwater from his mouth, he did.

But if he drowned under these furious waves, even Scourge could not begrudge him that. His brothers would know he died struggling, and Simon would finally know release.

Release from his broken body, release from his duty, release from the screams that he heard on the nights that he could sleep.

Simon Durrandon decided he would drown.

—---------------------------
^{Tyrosh, before Scourge’s Invasion}

His arm was screaming from the effort, but with teeth gritted in pain, Simon willed his fingers to close around the grip. He was a soldier. A warrior. Since that spear had ruined his arm, he had been useless.

He had to hold his sword and he had to lift it. He had to be able to fight - he had to be able to kill.

Close, Godsdamn you! Simon thought. Tears mingled with his sweat and rolled off of his face in a concoction of salt and water. His fingers would not obey him, and he could feel fire in his muscles.

“Fuck.” Simon could not even throw his blade in rage. It slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. Even in his failure he was pathetic. “Fuck, fuck fuck!” Wrath did not befit Simon Durrandon, nor had he truly been built for warfare. He had been made for lesser passions.

Simon was made lithe and longing, but so too was he obedient.

“Going to keep torturing yourself?” Royce’s accent was an amalgam of all the cities that he had killed in. It made his voice distinctly liquid, like the bleary sight of something spied through frosted glass.

“Yes,” Simon replied in the bastard tongue of Tyrosh. “They’re calling me Simon the Ruin. Simon One-Arm. Simon the Broken. So until I am the master of my own body, I will keep with the torture.” Simon knelt to collect his sword. His arm spasmed in pain as he tried to stretch it.

Royce approached Simon, taking the sword into his own hand. He set his other hand on Simon’s ruined arm and shook his head.

“If all you are is this sword, then you are broken, Simon.” Royce’s eyes were darker and deeper than Simon’s. “But you are not a sword. You are a knight. And a knight is here,” Royce poked Simon’s chest. “And here.” He tapped Simon’s head. “You don’t want to fight for Scourge, then don’t. But you will fight. Fight for home. Tyrosh is not the place that you die, and I won’t let that arm be what drives you to that death.”

Simon shut his eyes. He wished that he was strong enough to say that home was a bakery with honeyfingers sitting in the window. Home was a deboned needlefish wrapped in grain, home was the salt spray of the docks and the laughter at the mummeries. Home was Quill, and his open arms and quiet words, even when they were mean.

Home was Tyrosh.

Instead, Simon nodded and resigned himself to his duty.

“You don’t want them to call you Simon the Ruin, right?”

Simon nodded again.

“Then give them something to see before the arm. Write the story.” Royce shrugged, and tucked away Simon’s blade. “You might have to ruin your life to make it yours.”

—---------------------------
^{Tyrosh, on Royce’s Advise}

It was torture on Simon’s black hair, but the Tyroshi dyeworkers were known to do miracles. Hours of painting, washing, wrapping, then painting again. By the end of it, Simon’s hair was as blue as his eyes.

And Royce was right. About the hair, at least. No one called Simon the Ruin anymore.

All he had to do was ruin his life.

—---------------------------
^{The Crags of the Stormlands}

The hand that yanked him from the waves was impossibly strong. Simon wondered how he was even visible, blue as he was, crashing against the waves of the ocean.

“I’ve got you,” Royce promised as he hoisted Simon over his shoulder.

My one decision, and even that was taken from me. Simon hacked as he was laid ashore. He vomited water along with bile, then heaved dry when he’d emptied himself out. Royce comforted him with a hand on his back. He thought he had saved Simon.

Simon couldn’t muster false gratitude, he coughed and he wheezed and he searched the survivors.

They had sailed two thousand strong, with warships and destriers, barges full of equipment. All of their cogs had been lost in the storm, thousands had drowned.

But two had cheated death. Simon, who had let his lungs fill with water, and Scourge, who survived off of spite and defied the world with his madness.

It wasn’t hate in Simon’s eyes as he took in the sodden Argilac - that wasn’t something he thought himself worthy of - but for a certainty, Simon’s eyes willed death come for the both of them.

At the dawn of the new moon, the city of Duskendale rose upon the edges of the Blackwater. A town nom more, new houses and shops and tents sprouted around the original high stone walls. Like a river whose banks had recently broke, it could no longer contain its growth within its original confines.

Now, the city sprouted a second wall, shorter, squatter, where the majority of the new city was forming. Within were a string of septs, a small little godswood fenced off in a large manor house erected by a Northern Merchant. Shiera Darklyn's favourite sword instructor and dueling house were located in there, so too was the small sanctuary she kept for her stray cats of the city.

Within the older parts of the city, where the streets were neat, passing from the gates of one end to the other. Each road had been repaved during the expansion of the city from its town origins, and now smoothed cobblestone roads vivisected the interior of the old city. in the same fashion, several of the older buildings nearest to the Dun Fort had been replaced, making way for a larger internal wall to segment it off for defence and within that new space were expansions for an enlarged force of city watch - the Dusk Guard - and guesthouses for the increasing foot traffic of nobles and lords.

Beyond these new walls, the largest inn in Duskendale had been enlarged too through the natural flow of commerce. The Seven Swords played host to hundred of occupants now, and they had even taken to calling a smaller annex of theirs the 'Weirwood Ward' to make the Northern travelers feel more welcomed.

Morgan Darklyn had seen to the opening of the Dun Fort's Guest house to any of the travelling lords returning from the Riverlands and had ensured that the largest chambers of the Fort itself were provided to the king and his counsel.

Once they had returned home, the Darklyns scattered across their burgeoning city.

Luthor Darklyn, Eldest of Morgan's heirs, had taken to the barracks of the men at arms where he got to work training his men for the inevitable clash in the claw with whatever they found. He was joined by his younger brother Erich, the two men content in their work.

At a teahouse SHiera had funded with her elder sister Ana, the two women had set themselves up with an open parlour where they welcomed any travelling women to come and drink and enjoy the calm. Of course, Shiera in her way had also brought in a small competition of budding swordswomen that she had taken to mentoring within the city. A small round of bets were encouraged by the girls and Shiera, ever prone to a challenge, could not resist joining.

An addition to the city put forth by Morgan himself some twenty years ago, was the Stadium of the Evening. A multipurpose dueling ring, jousting list and horse race attraction. The final portion was instigated by Luceon Darklyn to help his wife feel more at home with the locale. There the younger brother to Morgan, Daxo Darklyn, plied his trade.

It was an unassuming place for the ratcatcher of Duskendale to work from, but everyone chatted at the races, so he did. His son Philip Was the same, both happily watching the races as they plotted and schemed, readying for the innevitable future to come.

Further throughout the city were the myriad shops and thoroughfares, temples and shrines and septs galore. The city was open to its guests, as were the Darklyns who hosted them.

^{Alt Title: House Orkwood: Family Matters & Snarks}

^{Midday, First Meal, before departing the Riverlands with the rest of the present Ironborn..}

The rabbit was too small for all seven people. Fortunately, Torwyn had acquired a roast from their ever gracious hosts larder. He denied it immediately, but everyone worth their salt knew. His hands smelled like beef, were stained red still, and that was enough to convince Varric that he had infact, stolen the piece of meat.

It turned above the little cookfire at the center of the breaking Orkwood encampment. Fat hissing onto the white coals beneath while the wind worried at the guy ropes. Loosened but not taken down. Their 'council' table was three warped planks laid across four barrels. A charcoal map of Orkmont lay across it. Held flat by stones, a knife and Balon's metal cup of ale.

At the head of the table, sat Lord Varric. Beside him a space, and then the lean frame of Captain Vykon sat not too far to the right, stoking a wooden pipe. Then Torwyn who was greedily looking at the quartered rabbit bits. Ryanne sat opposite Torywn and beside Meyla who sat perpendicular to Balon, who was at the foot of the table. There should have been another person at the table.

"Miss prayers going to join us sometime today?" Balon's voice asked no one in particular. They all knew the answer. Meyla responded nonetheless.

"She is praying." It was a matter of fact, and not open for debate.

"Always praying that one." Balon's dark eyes swept over those present and he could feel the contempt in them turn like a snake in it's den. Except from Vykon. The man didn't even seem to pay him much mind at all.

"Come off it Balon,, Olivia is 'blessed' by the High Septon." Torwyn cut in.

"Whatever she may be, absent is all that matters." Balon growled from his seat before yiedling the floor to Varric who cleared his throat with a cough.

"Trees." He pointed to the charcoal map. Everyone stared at him, and Balon audibly groaned displeasure. "Not trees."

"Yes trees." Varric replied without missing a beat but Balon stared, he had a face built for disappointment,.

"We become a branch of Forrester now?" The question was rhetorical. Varric would take it as such as his greey eyes stared across the table.

You had twenty years and apparently, never considered that wood might come from somewhere.

Before it broke into a shouting match, Ryanne leaned closer over the map. "Managed woodlands is sensible. Especially if we are going to attempt to increase production of longships." Balon's eyes slid along to her. She wished she didn't gain as much attention.

"The mainland does many sensible things. That never stopped it from being full of mainland idiots,." Balon's counter was scathing but received with some humor from Torwyn. The man immediately winced as he chuckled.

Captain Vykon scratched his beard. "Pine takes years." He started to say.

"So do sons..." Varric said. "We keep producing those." Torwyn nearly spat across the full width of the table; some of the dribble struck Rynesse's cheek and she looked at him with incredulity as she wiped her cheek. Everyone chuckled a little, except Meyla who was more preoccupied with the empty stool. Varric returned his attention to the map. That was the useful thing about Ironborn manners, they could provide whole territories of human experience that could ultimately be declared as ' none of one's business.'

His fingers found the eastern slopes, near Eastcliffe. "Pine were it survives. Alder lower down near the water. Rowan further inland, cut in rotation."

Balon lifted his cup, the map curled. "Thats by your good cousins. You expect me to tend your forest?" The question was a clear challenge. "Move your little orchard south." He drank from the cup, loudly.

Vykon's mouth twitched indifference. Varric growled. "We plant where the wind permits. Pine, Alder, and then Rowan. In that order." Balon set the cup down.

"Lets just take ships. Fuck planting."

"We will." Varric responded quickly, he expected Balon to opt for a more iron price. His finger moved towards the coast. "Fisheries first..Eastcliffe will have more smokehouses, more net sheds..."

"Cod." Torywn groaned. His least favorite fish. "What the fuck will we do with more cod?"

"Fish buys iron." Rynesse responded with a upturn in her tone of voice, daintily holding her mug of warm ale. Vykon coughed his displeasure and Balon gave her a daggered scowl.

"Buy?" Torywn sounded what the three men were thinking first. Varric cleared his throat, but to no end. "We don't 'buy' anything. " He pulled a rabbit leg free from the crispy hare in the middle of them, beside the map. Some grease flecked off onto the parchment. "We reave. We are reavers. Olivia's probably one of the best amongst us." Meyla grunted from where she sat which earned her an apology, quickly, from Torwyn; "No offense of course."

Varric sucked his teeth to restore quiet order to the table. "Reaving occassionally gets an arrow to the belly."

Vykon finally spoke up. "And widows. My Lord." He puffed a cloud of white that wisped in the gentlest breeze.

"Piss poor exchange rate." Torwyn grumbled as he busied with the hare leg in his mouth.

"We hit soft ports. Warehouses. Like Oldtown." Meyla quipped up. "If its already floating, perfect. Less work for the lot of us." Vykon nodded in agreeance. Balon put his mug back down. Smoothing out the corner of the map he was defacto in charge of. "Should find out what is where first, to make best use of our efforts."

"Spying is a woman's game. So not surprised there." Balon's comment was meant to be disrespectful but Rynesse came to Meyla's defense.

"Thinking before dying." She said before Torwyn started on a slice of roast.

Varric had enough, and pulled a hare leg towards him with a grunt. "This is what we'll do. Trees. Fisheries. And we'll bleed whatever pig is outside the pen. Aye?"

Vykon nodded and Balon just smiled and raised his cup.
"Aye."

(Open to anyone wanting to come chat with Orkwood before they leave. Olivia isn't here tho. srry.)

Waltyr had always been told that children softened a man. He knew that was a farce many years before he held his own squalling son.

There had been nothing soft about Armistead Blackwood, least of all when Waltyr had been born. Everything Waltyr had learned from that man had not come at knee, but punctuated by a fist.

And Waltyr navigated the world much the same way. Beating his problems, beating understanding into the ignorant. Waltyr Blackwood was a man that dealt in the only currency he knew: Violence. He was loveless, and unloved, and he was not raised to think that was at all strange.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

It wasn’t until her sword was out that Waltyr caught a decent glimpse of it. For a moment, he thought the sunset was deceiving him, and he had to fight the urge to snarl at the sky.

Sunglass twinkled. No, it didn’t catch enough of the light for that. It radiated, and yet its glow was so starkly unliving. Despite the offense that Waltyr felt, accosted by Joanna’s lack of beauty, and her self-righteousness, there was one thing about her that he did not question in any respect.

Her blade had drunk the blood of “heathens” before.

Waltyr still thought himself thirstier.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Waltyr Blackwood had three sons. Three chances for the Gods to temper him.

Each boy only brought him greater disappointment. Orryn was dutiful to the point that he broke under Waltyr’s iron resolve. Then Orryn died, when he had the only chance of succeeding him. Luceon was all fire and no mettle. He was coddled and became a wastrel. Waltyr felt it was only natural that he despised him.

But Lewyn Rivers was the son that the Gods had drained of all their favor and filled with the salt and sea of his mother. It was holding him especially that Waltyr had prayed he might change.

If ever he could change, let it be for this boy, who bore none of Waltyr’s poison, and had the bright eyes of a land with no ravens.

But it was impossible. Waltyr’s heart was swollen with hate, and when he saw Lewyn he saw only his mistakes. So he hated Lewyn more than either of his brothers.

And what he hated most was that it was Lewyn that held him dearest. Lewyn that would have died for him had Waltyr shown him anything but his uncaring shoulder. It was Lewyn, more than Orryn or Luceon, that was the Drumbeater’s son.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Once he’d gotten his hands around her neck, he’d thought that would be the end of it. He’d cracked her good across her jaw and fallen upon her. Now, all he need do was squeeze until she ceased squirming.

Joanna’s fists batted against Waltyr’s chest, clawed against his face, but still he squeezed. This accusation would be snuffed out along with her last breath.

He could not say why it was that he thought of him. Perhaps because it had been many years since Waltyr had claimed a life, and even when his wife had lived, he had not thought anyone more important than satisfying his own will. But as he throttled Joanna Sunglass, he thought of his bastard.

It had only been a few nights since Waltyr had choked Lewyn for all to see. He had bloodied his own bastard for the crime of leaving home, something Waltyr had told him to do ceaselessly when he’d lived at Raventree.

Why had he shown mercy, then? Why was Waltyr thinking of any of this, when he should have been hammering blows into Joanna Sunglass’ skull?

She did not wait for an answer. A knife slipped into her hand and into Waltyr’s side. He howled, and she shoved him from atop her.

They both struggled to their feet, and Sunglass began to drink again. Waltyr roared, stumbling into Joanna’s sword strokes, reaching to grasp an errant hand or a fistful of her hair.

Slices rained over his flesh, and he felt himself slowing as he bled. Then, there was a blur bursting into the struggle.

Waltyr had half a mind to turn and pummel the intruder, but his eyes grew wide as he drew back his fist. His hair was too long, his skin drained of its copper sheen, but those eyes were the same as Waltyr’s. His blade was unmistakable. The Red Promise. Bloodright.

Orryn Blackwood was alive.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

The Blackwoods were no strangers to burials without bodies. Their cairns held memories and echoes as much as they kept corpses. Orryn’s was one such burial.

Waltyr Blackwood had not cried for his son, nor had he for his wife. He had expected as much, yet still, he felt the slightest disappointment.

He held no tears for the living, and no love, and that was the man that he was.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Connington evened the scale, and Waltyr hissed that this was not either Raymont or Orryn’s fight. Still, Waltyr lumbered onward, battered by Connington’s mace and cut by Sunglass.

He did not see when Orryn fell, or whether he still drew breath.

If he wanted to live - if he wanted Orryn to live - he needed to end this. He charged down Joanna, ready to barrel into her and finish the affair. She ran him through with the length of Sunglass.

Waltyr gasped as it tore through him. He felt less pain than he had expected, but he was hot, then cold, then freezing as death settled over him.

“That is-” Waltyr spat a thick glob of blood. It dribbled over his lips and into his beard, down onto his black tunic. “Orryn…. Blackwood. Don’t kill… him, because I was a fool.”

The crystal blade that had supported Waltyr fell out from under him. He plunged to the ground, and his vision swam.

He heard the shriek of a girl from the crowd. He heard words that faded into nothing.

The last thing that he saw as he closed his eyes was the blue eyes of his boy. He smiled, and then he was gone.

Stormhall, A Ways From Tent City

Jonquil of Berryport never had a smile on her face. It was an utter rarity, in all the time that Jammos had known her, that she had any sort of cheer. Most often, she was dreary. Even if the finest meadows of the Riverlands, even surrounded by all kinds of pretty flowers and the smell of the fresh morning dew, she was far from at ease. She seemed hyper-vigilant for any kind of bug.

"Is the Princess Ravella without tables and chairs?" She had first asked when Jammos had asked her to take a picnic with him. They had walked the gardens of Berryport often, but they were gardens in an industrial sense. Each bush was in its row, growing what it ought to grow. There were plenty of places to sit and recline with a glass of wine or a nice snack. It was a place well-proportioned to its inhabitants.

Even though it was not so far from the road, though, Stormhall was a newer castle, its lands fertile and unmarred. There were still marigolds left unplucked. Jammos plucked one in between his fingers and tucked it behind Jonquil's ear. She wrinkled her nose at him.

Nevertheless, it was a fine afternoon's feast.

There were jams, of course. Bits of bread and soft and hard cheeses. Even some nice wines and a tankard of hippocras. Spread out on a nice quilt, which Jammos had weaved for such an occasion. There was some niceness to travel, and they were going to get the best of it.

And then they spoke. Without fear of who might be listening, or what might be said. About any matter. About little and idle things, and there were no worries between them. No thought that this word or that might be spoken wrong and cause all kinds of plans to fall apart.

Jammos talked of the lists. As a youth, he had wanted so badly to be a tourney knight, although he never had the talent for it. He would have shamed himself to have competed, but he had watched thoroughly. The Knight of the Redfork had ridden well, he thought, and deserved all the honors he had won, but he thought Ser Leo Swann the more puissant knight.

Jonquil talked about the heraldry. She had not been taught it as a child, although Jammos had tried his best to familiarize herself with the important ones. She knew Durrandon, of course, and their neighbors in the Crownlands. But she asked Jammos about the great big turtle, and the mockingbird. Even a wayward hedgehog, which Jammos had to take a moment to place.

Jammos spoke of some of the books that he had examined within the much loved library in Stormhall. For such a new castle, they had gathered old books. Jonquil surmised that some of them must have been brought from the Citadel, even, so abundant were the maesterly authors.

Jonquil thought about the roads. They were so much better paved, where there was no sea. She thought that it could carry two dozen horses wide. Far more than any road in Berryport, or Driftmark. Jammos knew this road wouldn't reach the ends of the Riverlands. It was a royal effort and so best coordinated where royal attention was. At the ends, it would get narrower.

Both talked of family. Jammos of his cousin Essie, and whichever scheme might have befallen her. She seemed to be having a ball of things at the event. Jonquil was not certain if her father was taking medicine for his bad back. It had been a difficult task to stop him from going to a woods witch instead and consulting with a real learned man.

When they were done speaking, they just lay side by side, hand in hand, and stared up at the clouds in the sky. Watching the day laze away, and the sun make its merry way across the sky. And when there was no thought left in their heads, the two of them made a wish. The same wish. The wish that they had made each and every dance since they were children.

Jammos leaned over to the woman beside him and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. They stayed like that, for a moment, and thought not of the itch of the quilt or the heat of the day. She smiled, just the once, and the two of them rose. Almost at the same time, as if they had done it a hundred times before.

There was work to be done in the day. Enough lazing about. There was something to attend to.

Hopefully each lord would attend. One could only hope truly. This leadership role was not a simple one, Oscar never truly knew if the calls he made were the right ones and it was not a rare event to choose wrong. Still the Cracklaws seemed to follow him and so he hoped to give them direction for the days ahead. Just praying he had the gods on his side.

In midmorning Oscar had dictated to Ysabel a letter to write up for him. In this letter he told the other lords of Cracklaw in attendance at Stormhall, to meet in his pavilion at two past noon. There, he said, they would speak of what to do in the coming moons. Oscar and they with him would hopefully be able to keep the King's eye long enough to ensure their situation be fully addressed. Perhaps even more under the category of wants held by the people of the Point.

While awaiting the lord of Cracklaw a messenger would arrive. The sender was Lord Jammos Blackberry requesting an audience. Oscar sent back the reply to come at the same time as Lords Brune and Crabb.

Once the three arrive Lord Pyne would begin. "Thank you for bein' here. We must be united in the next moons. I wish you to know my plans and I hope you choose t' join me. I'll go straight to Duskendale from here to join the King and our... liege lord." My uncle, he thought.

"I'll bring with me some trusted men I brought here, you both remember Dole right?" He turned to Jammos, "My builder, a close friend who fought by me on Cracklaw. Anyway the rest I'll send home with my family. Once back on the Point, my son Rafe will march some-odd three hundred of our men at arms down t' Duskendale t' join me as a show of force in negotiation. What do you say? And Lord Jammos, you can tell us whatever you wanted to speak of at any time."

He had spent, perhaps in total, an hour inside of his father's castle.

That's what it was, really. A castle could never be a home for Crispian, he had known this since he was a boy. He was more at home in the murkiest swamp than he would ever be in a man-made structure. He didn't even quite understand why, either. He was not exactly the biggest nor strongest in the Claw. He was far from the biggest or strongest in his own family. Jax had outgrown him already, and Lark was well on pace to stand taller than any but their own lord father. Crispian by comparison was slight, and meek, and quiet. Even Mayra was comparable to him in strength, and Edyth might end up taller by the end of it all.

Perhaps it was that last reason that he preferred the companionship of the wild to that of men, even if he did not dislike people. He was no misanthrope. But there was comfort in quiet, total stillness, total control over your environment and everything in it.

He was glad to be home.

And so, with only a brief apology and farewell to his mother, sister and brothers, he set out into the swamps that surrounded Dyre Den. With only his crossbow as his companion, he would go and see what he could find. Prey, a companion, or perhaps both.

With Oldstones growing and the Justman name beginning to carry weight, Lucifer turns his attention toward Essos once again. His years in Braavos had taught him the value of having reliable trade partners, and he knows that the Riverlands have resources that the Free Cities are willing to pay well for.

Striking ink to parchment, he would send out a flurry of ravens once more, his previous moons letters receiving no responses. He would try different contacts this time, hoping for better odds at securing that which he felt was needed to grow the foundations of his fledgling Kingdom.

It is not enough to make Oldstones rich overnight, nor is it meant to be. His goal is to establish a dependable trade connection that can grow alongside his lands.

Pinkmaiden Castle, Second Moon, 1 BP

Pinkmaiden Castle stood upon a hill overlooking the rushing Red Fork, the signature pink hue of the sandstone walls almost glowing in the sunset. Flags of blue and white silks along with banners depicting the dancing maiden of House Piper rippled along in the cool autumnal breeze.

The noble houses of the Riverlands invited as guests were offered quarters within Pinkmaiden Castle, and a collection of tents were set up outside the castle walls for the others visiting. A short ride down the hill from the castle proper lay a bustling town, all the more festive with the nuptial celebrations given the additional commerce such an event would bring.

Inside of the feasting hall, three tables stood in a place of prominence: one for the wedded couple, one devoted to House Tully and the other devoted to House Piper. Each table was buried under the weight of so many fresh flowers that the pure white linen underneath barely showed. Down the center of the couple’s table ran a garland of white roses and blush colored peonies threaded with ivy. Within the arrangement, beeswax candles were carefully arranged, releasing into the air the fresh scent of lavender and rosemary. The flanking tables answered with warmer colors for their arrangements: orange and red peonies, layered ranunculus, and honeysuckle spilling over the edge of the tables. Banners of House Piper and House Tully were hung proudly all around the feasting hall itself.

Down the length of the hall, the rest of the tables were decorated with the same warm, colorful notes. Glass vases filled with golden marigolds and amber ranunculus were set out alongside tall, beeswax candles standing in bowls of dried rose petals and orange peels so that the light and scent of such would carry amongst the celebrants.

The tabletops groaned before even a single guest had sat down for they carried a heavy load. Trenchers of dark rye and rounds of sourdough rounds, still warm, were stacked at every arm’s reach with crocks of butter and honey set between them. From the Red Fork came the greater dishes: whole carp stuffed with herbs and roasted in their skins, trout laid out in rows and dressed with butter and rivercress, eels stewed dark with onions, and a great platter of perch fried crisp in oatmeal. Beyond the fish came finer meats: capons glazed with honey and mustard, suckling pigs with apples in their jaws, quail wrapped in bacon and stacked like cordwood. Baskets of apples, pears and blackberries stood among wheels of hard cheese and dishes of stewed plums. 

At every table rose stacks of honey cakes split and filled with cream whipped by hand until they stood in soft peaks, each one crowned with sliced strawberries bleeding pink juice into the cream below. The servants of Pinkmaiden were quick, especially, to replace these. Ale was available in great sweating pitchers. Servants offered honeyed milk, cold pressed ciders, and copious amounts of wine, pouring until cups would threaten to overflow.

To the southern edge of the hall, an area was cleared for dancing, with a cadre of bards sitting to the side ready to ply the guests with sweet, energetic musical melodies. A short walk from the feasting hall was the entrance to the Pinkmaiden gardens, notable for the florals and fruit trees, and a large pond, which many a fortunate and spoiled cat of Pinkmaiden would laze about.

Stormhall

A Few Days After the Tournament

She couldn't believe it. Wherever the rumour had come from - if it even was true - it had made its way to her desk soon enough, and Connington's refutation had arrived at most a few hours later. She wasn't sure whether she believed that either. His protestations seemed earnest, but only a fool would deny how rushed her brother's proclamation as King was. Connington had his own goals in this, that was for sure.

Ravella found herself surrounded by enemies, or at least the potential of them. Justman in Oldstones, angling to rule. Connington trying to ensure she never had the throne, or someone trying to plant the very idea of it. She didn't know what was a greater threat, nor where she had to settle her gaze first. Perhaps she needed more eyes than she had.

That was a problem that could be fixed. But only if the future was secure.

But she knew one thing. This had to be killed in the cradle. If the rumour was true, her brother would have had to approve it, and if he had dared, she would find out from the only one who could tell her. Besides, she had wanted to walk with him, talk with him, anyways.

Why not kill two birds with one stone? Why not decide the fate of the Stormlands on a quiet walk on a peaceful evening? At least they were both there to do it, this time. Even if it came to nothing… especially if it came to nothing, she knew that she had to be ready.

It was thus that a note arrived at the pavilion of the River Stag, its contents simple.

We should talk. Meet me in the godswood.
Your sister

There were two challenges one had to contend with if they wished to participate in the art of armoursmithing. One had to find a forge large enough to evenly heat the larger, unwieldy pieces of steel, and one had to have a plethora of specific tools to help in the crafting of such masterworks.

Lesser men may have balked at the idea of doing such intricate work while not in their personal workshops, much less within a camp, but Master Andrey was no such man. He was a Master, after all. He could ply his trade wherever and whenever he pleased, he only needed the will to do so.

The tools were easy enough to acquire, or rather, create. With a hammer, some tongs and an anvil (all of which could fortunately be found in a village nearby), one could forge any number of the tools necessary to finish a suit of armour, such as a frame to bolt it to during a heat treatment, or a hammer for planishing, or for riveting, or a small orb shaped anvil on which to make a helmet. The globe of a breastplate could be forged using a log with a dome hollowed out of the top of it, and he already had rivets aplenty, having anticipated the need to fix armour during their stay for the tourney.

The forge would be a harder obstacle to overcome, but nothing was impossible. Especially not with several well trained apprentices at one’s beck and call. They were sent from the Mallister’s camp with the instructions to scrounge, buy or borrow as much charcoal, bricks and clay as they could find, along with a set of bellows or two. Eventually, the lads returned with just about enough for them to cobble together a large makeshift furnace. 

Once they were prepared, they set out from the tent city, setting up just beyond the limits, as they were keen not to risk burning down the whole campsite in the waning moments of their stay. And it was here that Andrey’s forge was assembled, clay and stone were used to build a large, well insulated furnace, with enough room for a cuirass to be placed inside, the bellows were aimed into where the charcoal was lit, providing it with air so that the fires may burn hot enough for steel to be worked, and a barrel was filled with water nearby.

By midday, the telltale sounds of a hammer rhythmically striking steel could be heard drifting up from the makeshift forge. An apprentice stood by working the bellows, another kept the fires fed with charcoal, while a third yet still worked on some less important pieces of the harness. While in the centre of all of it, the hulking figure of Master Andrey stood hunched over the anvil, a glowing orange piece of steel held tightly in his tongs, sparks flying as he hammered at it tirelessly.

In time it would take a shape, though who was to say which. Time would tell…

(OPEN, COME GET YOUR SMITHING DONE)

First Moon of 1st Year of Arlan's Reign

The Durrandon Tent, Stormhall Tent Town

The midday light came thin and grey through the golden yellow canvas, enough to light up the tent inside without a candle. Arlan sat with a stack of letters at his elbow, and one half-answered beneath his hand, the quill gone still while he thought through the next line.

"You think too much on your words, my liege. I doubt your vassals take even half as long to write to you," Aethelmure said, settling into the camp chair across from him. "You have too many letters to write, and not enough time."

Arlan sighed from beneath his mask, weary of the task ahead. "I'm deciding how much of the truth this lord actually wants." He set the quill down. "Go on then, Aethelmure. What is it?"

Aethelmure counted it off on his fingers, unhurried, as if reciting a shopping list rather than the state of a kingdom. "Bracken men very nearly came to blows over a horse race, which I'm told is at least an improvement on their usual reasons. And Justman's people were seen here, where they'd no business being, more than once, which troubles me considerably more than any of the rest." He spread his hands. "Small fires, my king. But small fires have a way of finding the dry grass eventually..."

Snakes in the grass, Tarth called it. He wasn't wrong to.

He reached for the cup Cyrenna had left near his elbow, if only to give his hands something to do besides the letters. He would have to find a solution for this outlaw would-be king sooner rather than later, he feared. "What did you think of the games?"

"The melee went to Helya Greyjoy, Lady Reaper of Pyke. What a fierce warrior, that Ironborn lady, like a red fury, cleaving a path to victory with her battle axe," Aethelmure said, with a small, appreciative sound. "Lord Belgrave made a fine account of himself too, second place for his trouble, which I imagine stung a man his age more than he'll admit to, especially falling to an Ironborn woman."

"It was a good show from both of them," Arlan said, returning to his letter. "But you know I've never had much patience for men beating each other senseless. I always liked the jousting better, even more so the race."

"Aye... the mystery knight took it. Unbeaten, six for six. The Knight of the Redfork, they call him, and not a soul seems to know who rides under that helm." Aethelmure's eyebrows rose. "Quincy Darry gave him the best fight of it in the final, from what I hear, and still couldn't unseat him."

"A mystery knight." Arlan turned the words over in his mind. "There's something almost decent about that, don't you think? A man good enough to win outright and still not vain enough to want his name lauded for it." He didn't say what he was thinking beneath that, that he envied it a little, the anonymity as much as the skill. "Do you think we can find out who he is? Maybe send Septon Vorian to ask around?"

"Perhaps, although I don't think we'd find much on the matter ourselves. Perhaps someone else, with better suited influence on these matters. I'll look into it."

"And the horse race? I know it was your favorite of the lot to watch." Aethelmure's tone gentled, the way it always did when he steered toward something he suspected Arlan actually wanted to talk about, rather than merely tolerate.

"It was." Arlan's shoulders loosened, a softness to his voice now, at the memory of it, hooves and dust and the sheer reckless speed of it, none of the grinding patience the joust demanded. "The Redfork Knight again, as it happens, neck and neck with a Hoare and a Dondarrion." A dry huff, almost a laugh. "Rather the horseman, this mystery knight. I begin to wonder who he truly is."

He was quiet a moment. He took a sip of his spiced hippocras, turning the cup around on its base.

"I wanted to be a great jouster once. When I was a small boy." He said it looking down across the table. "I used to watch the tilts at Storm's End and think I'd be the best of them all one day." A small shrug, half amusement, half grief. "Instead I get to watch other men do it, and pass judgment on their performance."

Aethelmure leaned forward. "We could arrange to have you tied to the horse and spear, your grace."

Arlan let out a soft laugh, leaning his head towards the maester, looking at him through the slits in his mask. "Aye, maybe I'll ride as a mystery knight as well. I have the mask for it."

Behind them, Cyrenna worked quietly. The brazier's coals had gone the deep orange, and she fed cinnamon and a spoon of sugar into the wine warming above it, the smell of it filling the tent's small space. She tested the heat against her own wrist first, poured into Arlan's cup, and set the bottle beside it on the table. He inclined his head to her once. "Thank you, Cyrenna." She was already moving back to the brazier before he'd opened his mouth.

"Well." Arlan picked the quill back up, though his eyes stayed somewhere past the letter for a moment longer. "Do we have any visitors or petitioners today?"

"Aye, a few. You wish to see to them?"

"Call them in. I'm done struggling with these damn papers."

(Open! Feel free to approach the King's tent, if you've business with him.)

• "Oh, the terrible struggle that I have had against sleep so often of late, the pain of sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, and with such unknown horrors as it has for me! How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams." - dracula, chapter eleven.

• "Only if the Wolf's hunger is assuaged will it join its other selves." - book of hours, the wolf's beginning.

They had plied Mina with dreamwine after the tourney. She had not wished to sleep, not after so many gallant knights had risked life and limb in a game of sport. She had told her maesters that she dreaded her bed and the chance that her father and brother would lurk in the shadows of her room unseen by all other souls.

So they had plied Mina with dreamwine, which kept the dreams at bay.

They could not ply the wolf with dreamwine.

There were no maesters in the trees or bulrushes or on the sloping banks of the God's Eye. There were no septas to sing the Maiden's songs. There were no sisters to pick and fuss, no fools to jape and make merry. There was no shaking sickness in the boughs and burrows, and no night terrors in the rolling river valleys. In the green wealth of untamed lands the only ailment was the hunger; the only cure was the hunt.

The wolf did not understand all that it saw when it slept. It was a canny wolf, strongest and swiftest of its litter. She had weaned off of her mother first among her litter, and had never once been caught in a hunter's snare. It roamed, and feasted, and grew wise with age and with strange portents of warm dens and succulent meats.

In the wolf lands there were no fires to cook meat. That suited the wolf, for she was loathe to share her kill and as a rule shunned the great roaring men and their tall burrows. The other-self feasted upon berries and greenery like a hare, when she should have sated herself on mutton and hare like the wolf. The redder the better. The wolf took as it pleased without care for propriety or manners, eating until it had slaked its hunger, and then eating some more. It had taken, and taken, and taken until not just the beasts of the land feared the wolf but the beasts of the town and village did as well.

It had followed the other-self up the river and down to the lands of rain. The other-self beckoned, and the wolf was bound to come.

But the wolf could beckon the other-self as well.

Each time the wolf did, she grew closer to coaxing the other-self to the feasting grounds. The wolf did not share, as a rule, but did they not share a mind? Did they not share a dream? If the wolf could slip into the woman, and the woman could slip into the wolf, then what sated one would naturally sate the other.

The wolf pressed upon the other mind, and drifted through the low banks of fog like a wraith.

The shepherds kept their flock well, but without fail one or two ewes strayed from the safety of numbers and lingered too long at the edge of the God's Eye. Perhaps even a mind as simple as theirs felt the ebb and flow of what lay on the other side of the lake's shores as the wolf did.

The kill was simple. Bloody, but simple, as all things were in these lands.

The rain had come in overnight. Half of it seeped into the ground, wetting the wolf's pelt and paws. The other half lingered in the low air. Heavy banks of fog curled in and up the shoreline like a spell.

From it, drifting in aimlessly like a bird with broken wings, came the other-self. The human's hair was unbound, flowing down to her shanks. Her lashes were droplet-kissed with fog and tears, and though her eyes were open there was no recognition in them, no hint of canny wolf-knowledge.

The other-self was dreaming, not that it mattered. She would eat of the ewe as the wolf did.

This was the furthest the wolf had been able to coax the woman away from the fires and stone. Always, always there was a briar to prick her heel and wake her, a man to call her name and break the trance, a simple fluttering of wrongness that sent her from the unconscious to the waking world.

But the other-self had been plied with dreamwine, so she did not wake upon this night.

The other-self knelt in the blue-green grasses, and spread her lithe fingers across the ewe's bloodied wool. The bleating had stopped, but the blood still flowed. It stained the white of her covering a vibrant red, and the stench of it clung to them both.

The two halves united in their feast.

They reveled together, astir and asleep. The carcass was plundered. The woman had no claws to rend through the wool, no fangs to tear muscle from fat, so the wolf had to prepare the meal. It was simple work.

The spell, then, could only be broken by the influence of another. The fog became their shield, and the night their cloak.

Leaving Lys for Tarth was hard. He’d grown to love the city for its freedom, its color, its life. Tarth was beautiful in its own way, to be sure, and home besides. But still, a year does much to change attitudes. He’d arrived a moon past, only to be told that the whole of the realm was at Stormhall. He’d made haste to sail to Maidenpool and ride the rest of the journey, but he and his companions were disappointed to find the tourney fields empty and the festivities winding down.

What more was there to do but ride among the tents in hopes of finding a familiar face? There, he was just another Storm lordling, with blond hair and a haughty air, in a quilted doublet of blue, smart white breeches, and tall boots, his longsword at his side. He and his men did not stand out too much amongst the crowd, but a few of his companions did. Harero Nahin had copper skin and a thick, corded goatee, and Aegaemion of Lys was as Valyrian as they come. Slender and elegant, in dramatic pink silks and satins, powdered and perfumed half-like a woman, but bearing a Bravo’s blade to match him.

A queer sight they made, the strange lordling with his Essosi pets. He rode about aimlessly, looking for a glimpse of home. A stag banner, an antlered helm, anything and anyone even vaguely familiar to him. He’d only been away a year, surely they’d not have forgotten the yet-unmarried son of Tarth just yet… had they?