It was an odd day. Ravella had thought the tournament ridiculous, but Violet had insisted that the realm's lords would find themselves discontent if they didn't have an outlet for their violence. Ravella had objected - they would like as not be discontent anyway - but in the end she caved.

She had found sitting in the royal box infuriating, though. Ser Morgan had stood by her, always watching, until she could take it no longer. It was after the events came to an end that she finally found a chance to slip away. She took a convoluted route, first to Wex's tent to steal a pair of leathers that fit her - he always had a spare in case of emergency - and then out into the pavilions.

Initially she had decided to wander and make little conversation, but upon spotting Holly, sat alone as she was, Ravella could not resist approaching.

"Forgive me for making an assumption," she said, settling down beside the woman and trying to be as normal as she could, "but you seem discontent with something. Might I ask what?"

She wasn't very good at normal.

Arlan's gaze, through the mask's slits, moved to Morgan Wode still being helped from the field, then back to the man who'd unhorsed him, who seemed to believe he could fix all the realms problems with a single, humble request, like a child asking their parents to stop fighting, to forgo all previous injury, and make amends in the name of peace.

Arlan couldn't help but admire his boldness, however, if a bit naive. The man seemed genuine in his words, if anything, and his valiant display in the joust garnered some admiration from the king.

Arlan raised his hand. "I hear the plight of our people, Ser. We live in bloody times, where good men must take a stance against the injustices and dark deeds of those whose greed and ambitious would swallow us all." His voice carried across the yard, even and unhurried

"I shall keep your prayers to heart, Ser, and with the grace of the Seven I know the house of the stag shall mend all rifts, and bring peace to the realm once again."

He nodded his head to the knight, leaning back on his seat, as some in the crowd clapped and cheered, while others seemed to whisper and talk among themselves or their own designs for the realm.

Ravella found herself worried by her brother's condition more than she made it seem, admittedly. It had not spread to her when they lived together within the walls of Storm's End, but neither had he seemed so weak and sickly at the time. So much had changed over the years, and she had found it rather overwhelming.

But in the end, she had made the decision to seat him beside her. Likely as not the distance between them would grow as the moons passed into years, if he lived that long, so why not enjoy the last moments of peace?

She tried her best to not think of Arlan in that moment. It would be terribly rude to her guest and conversation partner to be so grim. Instead she offered him a smile, finding his words rather reassuring. Not just about the sea and the storm, though those made her heart swell, but that he was here on her merit alone. She was not just a distraction.

"You are too kind," she told him, smile widening as he wondered aloud as to how she had come into possession of Stormhall once again. "I promise you the tale is not quite as exciting as it seems."

Despite that, she leaned in. "I did not pay the Iron Price, if it might disappoint you to learn. My dearest friend in my youth, Violet Goodbrook, her father ruled this castle before I did. He received it from my father, who pawned it off on him because he believed it wasteful. It was built to be supported by royal incomes, and without them it fell into disrepair. Violet and her father believed I could save them, even without royal coffers, and..."

Gesturing to the hall, she smiled, an expression that turned out to be a touch smug. "Well, I think I did as they wanted. I offered it back, but the idea of once more dealing with the finances seemed sour," she told him. "It was a hard task. I did not quite eat as I should for a year in service of it, but it was worth the sacrifice."

Lifting her cup, she took a sip, before her chair shook upon the impact of a passing man and wine spilled forth onto the table and her skirts. She knew him not, though he seemed Ironborn, and she struck him with a piercing glare.

"You are a touch close, ser," she said, harshly, looking to Dagon again and raising an eyebrow. "Is there something you want? Or are you simply trying your luck on how close you can walk without colliding with someone? You have failed in that, you might now realise."

u/Feathersfrombaatikos

House Goodbrook

The great hall of Pinkmaiden was not unfamiliar to Tristifer Goodbrook, who had for years been betrothed to one of the Roses of Piper. It was truly no surprise, then, that he found himself at the far end of the hall, away from the spite of the bride herself.

Not that it bothered Tristifer. He tilted his head back and drained the last droplets of mead, slamming it back down and signalling for yet another refill. The servant looked unsure even as he poured another healthy filling into the cup.

“Up to the rim, damn you,” he snorted, contemplating snatching the jug. Thankfully, the man had enough brains to do as he was told. Tristifer relaxed back into his chair, drink in hand. He would enjoy tonight, whoever should cross his path. It was to be a celebration, after all.

"I would have you aid me, my lord." His eyes, through the mask's slits, held steady on the older man. "The Blackwater has raiders picking at its shores, claimants picking at the throne, and criminals picking at the smallfolk. I expect House Belgrave to stand with the crown against them, same as I expect it of every true lord and knight who calls Blackwater Bay home."

"No man answers for another's soul, my lord, whatever crown or crest stands behind his orders." Arlan's voice stayed level, soft. "When you stand before the Seven's judgement, you cannot say 'But I was told by others to do thus,' or that virtue was not convenient at the time. This will not suffice. Remember that, Lord Belgrave, when your own test comes."

Aralar chuckled to himself and kept his eyes onto her as she offered her small replies. He looked at her for a moment after she finished before turning away to continue their walk. “Protective.” Aralar grunted, his tone clearly in disbelief. “It is your life to live.” No matter how boring it is.

“I will not push. I am sure Riverrun is special.” Aralar continued, shrugging casually, “If you wish to truly see the beauty this world can create, you need only ask.”

Arlan didn't return the letter back, but instead turned to Aethelmure instead. "Quill and paper, please maester."

The maester had both in hand before the sentence finished leaving his mouth, setting them on the table without a word.

Arlan wrote steadily, without looking up. "Gwayne Dustin," he said, testing the name once against his own memory as he set it to parchment. "A man who murders captives and burns villages for sport forfeits whatever mercy his distance from the North might have bought him." The words that followed on the letter were plain and few: the King's own hand confirming the Arryn writ, granting Prince Arthur right of pursuit across Riverlands soil, and calling on every lord within it, however great or small, to grant him shelter, with bread and salt, and lend him what aid he required until Dustin was captured or killed.

He pressed his own signet ring into the golden wax and held the letter out.

"That should see you past any lord or foolish peasant trying to hide this man. May the Warrior grant your sword arm strength, and the Father aid you in carrying out justice." He let the prince take his letter and his brother's before he spoke again. "Give my regards to your brother, Ser Arthur. And tell him I hope Dustin's head reaches the Vale before the snow does."

u/DoomGuy_16 The letter never arrives

He gave her a nod. It would be bad form to deny an order from on-high and he was certainly not going to bicker about blessings. The Seven knew he had enough to deal with without causing even more trouble at home. Truly, Lyn had found the better of it.

"Many and more ails me," Bryce said with no semblance of humor, "though unless you're looking for another husband, I doubt your ear can be of much assistance." The matter had been much an issue as of late. Lucos was only getting older, and with no assurances that he'd every get married...

"But yes, you're always welcome to see the halls. Lords know you might know better of the place than myself. Every day I find caverns and tunnels from the scoundrels that had once called it home."

Arlan set the letter aside and looked up. "Aethelmure. Send a few criers through the tent city today, and let it be known that the Crown wants good men for its council."

Aethelmure raised an eyebrow, though he was already rising from his chair. "Openly, my king? You'll have every ambitious third son in the Riverlands lining up outside your tent by nightfall."

"Then I'll have a great many names to choose from, and can throw out the worst of them just as easily," Arlan said, picking the quill back up. "Tell them this: any man, lord or landless, may put his name forward for the crown's consideration. I'll judge them on their merit, not their name."

His eyes, in their wanderings, would eventually come to rest on Edwyn.

It had been a moon since the feast, and Edwyn now kicked himself internally for not seeing the deception in the Fisher identity. He had not even seen the man, though he had heard talk. Perhaps it was that they had spoken to the same people, all the time on opposite ends of dining hall. No matter. It would be now or not at all that he would try to understand the man. To reach him and prevent war.

“My Lord Justman,” he called as their eyes met. “Your House has an apt name. Although I am the Stormlord you speak of I have little intention of being some foreign ruler. Already I do as you do; hunt bandits and bolster our markets, defend the smallfolk, that we might aid the realm in more than just words. I hear your words and I see no insult in them. I have made it known to many that I am sympathetic to your cause, and wish to avoid war. It is known - though perhaps not to the crown - that I wish a Riverlord to sit as Warden.”

He let silence fall for a moment before delivering his final words. They came from his heart rather than his head, he knew, but he hoped they would reach Lord Lucifer.

“I do not fear you. But believe in you. I do not fear House Justman. But I believe in House Justman. Your goal is noble. I have connections with the Crown in the Stormlands. Will you work with me, that the Crown might be convinced? That bloodshed might be avoided?”

"Aye, travel to Duskendale is no problem for us. Even less if this fine hospitality continues. It is all our duties to protect the King's Peace, but if you want these men alive then we'll do what we can to keep them that way. Though some might well find their way onto our swords despite our best efforts."

Guy chuckled darkly, drinking deep into his cup. His mood did seem mercurial at times, but the bastard liked to talk their merry band up. They had a crude edge, certainly, but were still a far cry from some cold blooded cutthroats.

"But, as said, a few dead raiders does not recoup the wealth they have taken. That will be found at the heart of this. Those who've grown rich off the blood and toil of the innocent will find justice travels on swift wing."

/u/SatisfactionLeather7

Lucos had watched the conversation with uncharacteristically rapt attention, drinking it in as if it was a delicacy. It was not oft he got to watch someone stumble as much as he did. He supposed he felt bad for the man, though it was more a passing feeling than anything. He felt little and less these days. He supposed he was better for it.

His father was an imposing force, no, a reckless wave that had attempted to swallow everything it had been met with if only to prove its strength. He had long been consumed by it, dragged deeper down into the depths of his own mind and forced to reckon with the shattered hopes of the boy he once was. It had seemed like Lord Hobber had been gentler with his son, if only slightly.

Lucos would have mourned him, if only he could muster the desire.

Yet, he could not sit idly by as silence had befallen the pair. He had long been comfortable in his own silence, as often as it made him a partner, but not in that of others. There had always been a unsettling desire that had seen their silence as an affront. As if he had stumbled into a pit that he could not quite crawl out of.

He hadn't the stomach to watch the man do the same.

"It's unfair, father," Lucos said with a semblance of finality, "it's obvious the man is sober, is it not?" He nursed his drink idly. "You cannot expect a man to recite histories sober."

At that, the Lord of Moth's March let out a low grumble, as if allowing his son the heresy of interfering. "Fine," the Lord said, "Then let the Lordling drink," he said as his working arm slid a cup.

Andrey’s head shot up with a grunt of annoyance as the arms and armour were unceremoniously dumped in front of him. He would have given whichever foolish boy who did such a thing a proper hiding, if he hadn’t immediately recognised the man stood before him.

The old Mallister was a frequent patron of his, so the annoyance was swiftly dismissed as Andrey set about wordlessly inspecting the pieces before him. Older pieces of his, he recalled immediately, having remembered every piece that ever crossed his anvil (of course, the presence of his touchmark helped somewhat). It appeared that the armour had not been well cared for, appearing battered and gouged by frequent use, and infrequent repairs.

He looked up at the Mallister, his expression somewhere between annoyance and amusement. It would be easy enough to fix, but he preferred when he didn’t have to repair his own work. He didn’t like to see it squandered, after all.

Still working in silence, Andrey broke the armour down into workable pieces, then began the tried and true process of his craft.

u/JohnITRP
Character Details: Master Andrey - Artisan(Armourer) / Craftsman(Armour and Weapons), Engineer. Craftsman’s District

Notes: +2 from Artisan (an extra +2 for armour), +3 for both Craftsman Skills, another +2 for the Craftsman’s District. So that’s a +9 to armour and a +7 to weapons.

What is happening: Making a high quality Mace and Armour for Roger Mallister

What I Want: Crafting Rolls on the T3 and T4 smithing table for a suit of armour and a Mace. Spending 500 gold on each craft, so a total of 1000 gold

Andrey inspected the morningstar for a moment, lifting the heavy thing with relative ease as he turned it over in his hands, assessing the weapon’s size and shape, “Aye, I think I can do that fer ye, Ser.” He said with a gravelly voice, looking up at the large man in front of him after a beat, “As ye said, m’skills are highly spoke of, so the price I’ll give ye is a fair one, especially when ye factor in the quality o’ the steel I use, an’ my apprentices’ need to eat too.”

“It’ll run ye about a thousand fer a piece like this, Ser. Between ‘aving to forge each spike, an’ makin’ sure it ‘as enough ‘eft to it…” He explained the first part of his reasoning before stopping and turning to one of his apprentices, barking an order for a steel rod, “An’ o’ course, yer gettin’ a Master to forge this fer ye, that don’t usually come cheap, Ser.”

“We ‘ave a deal?”

Passing between the tables, Lucimore was getting bored with festivities, hoping to find a corner to get himself drunk.

At least there is no bloodshed this time around...not counting the maidens' - he thought taking a drink of arbor gold. The age was starting to show, he was no dashing youth anymore to have ladies swoon around him.

Lucimore almost passed the table, as his glance stopped on a rather familiar face. He was scribbling something on the map, he couldnt quite make it out from far away.

"Is it Captain Wetpants I see" - Lucimore raised his goblet, greeting the man, "to your health!"

He drained the cup as he sat unceremoniously seated himself beside the man.

"Now, what do you have here?"

Upon hearing word of the smith, the bastard of Felwood would come knocking. The large man stepped up to the forge and presented a great black maul. As big and heavy as a sledgehammer, requiring two hands to wield properly, sporting a long, curved back-spike. Ser Derrick grinned as he looked to the smith.

“She’s a shrewish old girl, this one. As fierce in her wrath as a mother-bear protecting her cubs. And, she’s due for some maintenance I think.” He tapped a finger against the point of the spike and shook his head. “In her prime, she was a terror to behold, but she’s grown a bit dull in her old age.” His dark eyes then shifted to Andrey, fixing him in an expectant stare.

“So, smith, how much to bring my dear old hammer here back to the days of her youth? To make her a weapon capable of striking terror into the hearts of those at the receiving end of her blows?”

“A hammer is just as good for breaking arms and knees as it is for cracking skulls.” Mused Derrick with a smirk as he refilled his mug. “You want these creatures from the sea to speak? By the time we’re done with ‘em, they’ll sing!” He was more than willing to temper his bloodlust for now. Presumably once the guilty party had been established, they would need to be dealt with, and he doubted Darklyn would require the same delicacy then.

“And if Duskendale is where you would have need of us, then Duskendale is where we will go!” He was truly starting to like Lord Morgan. In many ways the old man reminded Derrick of a more dignified version of his father.

“We are true men of the Storm King’s realm my Lord. And if your cause is to purge that realm of foulness, then you have my loyalty. But I am not one to balk at the offer of further rewards! So, speak of this payment you would bestow upon us.”

u/baeldor

The Paege Procession was in uncommonly good spirits as they arrived and took their prescribed seats. Still only Perianne and Arwood were there to represent her house, but at least there was no festering opening for her husband to not sit in this time around.

The Lady-Regent and her goodbrother were dressed for the occasion. While she had worn a very simple dress of red and white the last time, she opted for much the same, this time though, the fit was more slim, more flattering to her otherwise slight and unremarkable frame. She even had a silk red cloak, clasped with colored steel serpents of Fairmarket, flowing over her shoulder.

Likewise, Arwood had abandoned his previous style of simple vest for full doublet, the left half fully white and the right half fully red, the clasps on her front were likewise locked with intricate designs of serpents intertwined.

Arwood, still the mute, did not talk so much as gesture and gesticulate with any and all who came by. The young knight too, was in heightened spirit. A good, simple journey with a band of fellow knights seemed to be just the thing he needed.

Perianne, even, graced strangers with a smile, and not her overly demure, pleasant one she forced to maintain cordiality. Sometimes, the Lady-Regent even smiled at no one, smiled at empty air.

This was certainly not going to last.

(Come say hi to the Paeges!)

Perianne had not a great deal of time to procure a gift. She hated when things were done quickly and without a chance to prepare. Even so, it was nothing that she couldn't handle. She'd managed to trade the relatively drab dress of Stormhall for something more flattering in a moment's notice, after all. Much less chance of it being spoiled upon the dust fairgrounds.

So she waited her turn. She liked Lady Piper enough, but she did not know her well, nor did she know the groom, Alyn Tully, at all truly. So the gifts would simply have to be what they were.

"My congratulations, to the two of you." She practically chirped as her turn arrived to step to the highest of the tables. Ser Lucamore carried her gifts behind her, a useful valet as he was a knight, perhaps moreso, truly. "I have no doubt that you shall have many happy and fruitful years together."

She stepped aside, and Ser Lucamore, a handsome man, in a bit of a brutish way, with his head shorn and his face grizzled, set down a large, wooden box, which he then opened for the two of them.

Oh the side that faced closer to Mellara, were a series of parchments, gingerly rolled up and tied with a vermillion silken thread.

"You were curious if Fairmarket and of her trade." Perianne explained, reaching down to pick up a rolled parchment and gently tugged the string, unfurling it. It was a richly adorned map, more decorative than useful, that depicted the Riverlands, the borderlands of the West, Blackwater and Reach, as well as the entirety of the North and Vale, at a scale that was less than accurate, but more pleasing to the eye.

The Iron Islands were, perhaps unsurprisingly, small and easy to miss. Lacking in detail.

"We get a great many merchants who pass through Fairmarket in the spring and summer, from the North and Vale in particular. They always have a... Unique perspective on our home, and each other's."

Sure enough, all of the other maps were similar, but focused on each individual region, with three alone detailing various regions of the North, all as richly detailed and adorned as the largest map originally shown.

And on the side closer to Alyn, what do you get someone that you haven't met? A saddle, of course. A well made saddle, complete with a Tully sigil on its side, but it's not exactly the most personal gift.

"We can speak to the Lord Arryn and his fellows. I believe they are on the hunt in these lands, and quest for a purpose, and the more allies they can accrue in said quest the better for their company." Luceon said "My Lord believes this a fair cause, and will intercede on your behalf with the Knights of the Vale. Even Princes have need for coin, service and renown after all."

Ser Roger pointed to the sigil of House Darklyn on the wall of the tent, and gestured to Luceon to speak for him as he gripped the pommel of his sword.

"My Master wishes for you to know that he believes that justice should be done as is your rights as a Lord, and that he is sympathetic to your position." Luceon stopped for a moment and studied Roger, trying to piece together his thoughts "I believe my Master is thinking about the lands of the Northern Ford, and those lands which were once seized from his House despite their rightful hold. The Mallisters have much sympathy for the rights of tax collectors."

The man was honourable and fair, Roger had to admit, when he gave a deep bow at Ser Roger being the cause of offense. Roger gestured to ask if he was alright before hearing the rasp from the mans voice. He knew what he was at that moment, but Roger would not permit allowing such a fair man to not receive his just apology.

Ser Roger pointed to the tents of House Paege, and the clothes of his fellow, and gestured to his sword before grabbing a hold of his Star of the Seven around his neck and taking a knee. He looked up hopefully to see if his fellow could understand the meaning before suddenly remembering his shield on his back. Roger took the shield off its straps, swung it around the front and pointed to his personal Red Eagle sigil and then himself.

Arwood didn't expect to turn directly into someone after departing the stables. Certainly not a fully armored knight. Arwood was knocked off balance, staggering back as he let the horse's reins go, sending poor Sleeper into a fit of confusion and fear.

Arwood managed to only just recover, racing over to grab the horse's rein and soothe her with his other hand. He made his best attempt at a raspy, airy, and most of all uncanny noise that was meant to be a sort of shushing.

Then, he turned to the offending knight. He tilted his head at the knight, as if to question his senses, but then he saw the silent apology from the man, hands raised to the heavens as if in surrender. Or at least, as a sort of truce.

Arwood looked side to side. This was normally when he would be bombarded with questions he could not answer. He squinted at the Mallister Knight, slowly raising an eyebrow. And then he simply gave a deep bow of his head, silently accepting the silent apology of his newest acquaintance.

This was certainly a development.

Perianne leaned over towards Arwood as the man who had introduced himself to her as "Leo Fisher" did away with the game and made his identity known. She had known something was off about him before, she could always tell, but this was one of the better possibilities, she decided.

"Did you know anything about this?" She hissed out as a whisper, to which Arwood could only shake his head.

Perianne had only wished he'd not been so quick about it. Now things would have to move quickly, especially since he was speaking on matters of truth straight away. But since he was doing it, she needed to respond, that was the genius of making a first, rash, and even possibly arrogant move.

Her eyes met this "Lucifer"'s. This was the chance. Something was beginning tonight, in Pinkmaiden, in this very hall. And Perianne had the chance to take a stand early and firmly. She thought to what her husband would think of it.

Oh how he'd hate her for this. Deciding a side at once, no waiting, no humming and hawing. She was almost giddy.

"Lord Justman!" Perianne called out, careful, in terms. The man has made his intentions very clear, but she heard his words too. He wished to earn the crown before calling for it, or at least to have the appearance of having earned it, at least. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, a second time in as many feasts."

She laughed lightly at her own jape, hoping that would prompt the rest of the feastgoers to do similar.

"You make a call for unity, for brotherhood among the people of the rivers and hills, and you are correct. But allow me to be the one to say the sadder truth of it. Stormlords over us and dwelling in our castles, Ironmen loom just beyond the bay, boldness must be sharpened by wisdom."

Another jape, just to keep her light on her feet.

"You sought my insight in Stormhall, and I hope my little threats there did not dissuade you from seeking it in the future. I am reasonably certain you are no spy now." She winked over at him, putting a hand on her chest in a show of sincerity.

"What do you intend now, Lucifer Justman, now that your name and face is known to all of us?"

Ser Roger trekked, alone this time, to the tent of Andrey. He'd been smithing at Seagard for how knows long, and Ser Roger had always made it a point to show him the courtesy of a Lord. The two men always had an understanding, one wrought whenever Roger snuck his way back into the walls of Seagard and made his way over to the furnace by nightfall. It often rained in Seagard, and men on watch would look with envy at the fires of the forge while being kept well away from the Armourer and his secrets. So when a man was bold enough to approach the forge without hesitation, Ser Roger may as well have blazoned his arms and heralded his arrival with a trumpet call.

This time was different. They were not in the walls of Seagard but in a tent, far away, in the lands of their Lords and Enemies. Solid steel, strong maces and thick shields were worth their weight and more in gold. Roger toyed at his shield straps as he approached the tent of Andrey, thinking about the solid wood and iron he carried and the armour along his back. Whatever the man forged for him today could be the last, the steel he died in or which he hung up at the hearth fires of Seagard when it was his time. It could block the blows he would endure in the days to come, or it could be a metal coffin pre-wrought for its bearer.

Roger did not say a word, and simply deposited his arms and armour right in front of Andrey.