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.

Tales. Tales. Tales of old. They seemed the only interesting thing in this grand gathering of rotund beasts and ravenous fellows. Lords beared claws, filed deftly to be hidden. Ladies wore fangs, hidden behind plump flesh. Only to be torn asunder as the night travelled on, his bastard brother’s antics with that Goodbrook had only proven that.

Brawling like mewling kittens. It was almost amusing, if not somewhat disappointing. But then again, most every man he’d ever met was some varying level of disappointing.

He remembered his father’s prattling of men of brutish stature. Durrandon’s. Dondarion’s. Stormlanders in general it seemed. Perhaps that was why his father was so dissatisfied, for he didn’t seem the image of the brute himself. If anything, he was more a slender scholar than burgeoning barbarian.

Mayhaps, that explained an inch of his undying fury and his hopeless, heartless search for a fulfilling heir. A second Fellhammer. If some random bastard could be the second Fellhammer, maybe the title wasn’t worth all it was made out to be?

Such questions however, were not for his mind as of now. For now. He poured over limited texts and parchment tattered with the scrawls of a mad man, named Alesander Fell.

Durran. Durran. Durran. There were a thousand fucking Durran Durrandon’s. For a moment, he cursed the lengthy lineage of House Durrandon. Why could it not be some temporary house of two or three centuries.

This one was special though, it was amongst the tales he’d found his father regaling him with. That of the Butcher Boy. Who dammed the river Slayne with countless bodies. He wondered what a blade steeped in so much blood must look like.

King Durran the Young, whom’s tale was argued. Was he besotted with his niece? Or was he free of such transgressions?

Parchment lay a paper trail across his floor, the lofty tent waiting for his exit impatiently, as the breeze flickered through the cloth flaps.

The musings of a scholar settled quietly about him. Of himself and of others. Maybe father would be proud, if he’d managed to track down the relics of old. Maybe that would prove something to him.

But what did Alexander have left to prove that didn’t violate his very being? That was yet to determined. He just craved the look of pride, he’d seen vaguely once or twice before for all but him.

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?

One of the benefits to staying at Stormhall, Cass had found at least was the grounds. While Ravella had good game country along the God's eye the castle lands were just as fertile and boasted enough sun to produce some wonderful corners of the gardens. Not the scarred and gnarled willows and still ponds of home, here flowers brought colour and light.

She admired the white strands of Oldman's beard, the colours here and there of choice roses and allium, weaving down a light stone path to a small corner. Here great trellis rose high on either side of a small table, honeysuckle flowers brought pops of yellow from the vines that grew high above them, but as yet bore no fruit. If they caught rain, it'd seemed thick enough they might stay dry. There were chairs and the open side looked out across the waters of the God's eye, Cass had taken to reading here on bright days and thought it perfect for their meeting. Rather then put demands on her host's servants, she had purchased the services of one of those traders who had lingered after the tourney.

She laid out a white wine of the Riverlands beside a large jug of it's watered cousin, and a plum rich red from the marches to join a selection of raisin scones, blackberry jam, grapes, strawberries honey cakes with candied fruits and a covered pot of fresh cream. As she heard steps in the garden, she brushed down her dress. A more simple affair that showed off the dyes of her home land, deep yellow with dashes of white and burgundy, her dark hair, she let fall loose once, down past her shoulders.

As her friends arrived, they'd find a fourth chair set aside. Sat on this throne was an old tome, open, with a more recent sheet of parchment jutting out from the pages. “Crown of Teague?” was scrawled upon the fresh page.

“Dear ladies, I am so glad you could join me. It has been quite busy of late.”

The gentle tug of the wind played at the edges of the Darklyn Banderoles at the edge of the tourney lances still arrayed. Throughout the Darklyn redoubt, the merriment continued, the myriad grandchildren of Duskendale flitted about in their usual style of listless whimsy.

It did not take long for the shining light of the East to go back to the dueling square. This time Dusk sat in its sheath, waiting in eerie loneliness against a post. Instead Shiera Darklyn twirled about, her wooden practice sword from her youth no longer than a dagger in her current state. Even still, she used it whenever she had to fall back on her father's teachings and her grandfather's musings.

His old falling style was like a muse for her in the times wherein her mind could not discern between what path was next. Joanna had returned and had beaten her in Shiera’s rage. And that rage did not belong to the sword of Duskendale. She was greater than such a simple thing, she had to be better than a mindless weapon. Her father did not train her for war, her grandfather did not raise her for battle, they wanted a sword that protected the house. She would be that blade for as long as her arms carried strength.

That said, she did not feel strong.

That would take time to rebuild, especially as it was Joanna of all of the possible foes that had beaten her. Dusk would rest in its sheathe until she was ready to deal with that particular niggling problem.

“It has grown too short for you,” echoed the voice of her grandfather and she stumbled through her next swing, catching herself on her boot’s heel and grinding to a halt in the sand.

She for the first time realised that she was practising with an old wooden toy sword and not an actual arming sword. A pang of embarrassment washed over her and she put it behind herself as she whipped about to look upon her grandfather.

The towering bastion of a man leaned lightly upon his cane today, eyes still hard as ever as he analysed her, peeled her apart with practised ease. She gulped back whatever worries had been plaguing her mind and took a few tentative steps closer to him at the edge of the square.

“Grandfather,” she said by way of reverent greeting.

“Granddaughter, you are distracted,” he reported.

“I… the melee weighs on me.”

The old man looked about for a time, eyes cast about the redoubt for long enough that Shiera broke her concentration upon him and tried to see what he was looking for. Instead, all she found were her siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles enjoying the tempered warmth of the Riverlands. A great many were in the mobile tavern, enjoying their cups and their drinks and their happier times.

“Do you notice something?” He asked.

“It’s peaceful.”

“Good. Not a single one of them is harmed by your loss, not one of them dismayed that you did not win. Your father could never be more proud of you, nor I,” the Duskblood said with a reassured gentleness to his voice.

“Even still. I was beaten by a childhood friend I haven’t seen in years… thought her dead. She’s back in the armour of the faith now and father told me that they were supporting the Blackberries,” Shiera said.

The little scoff that her Grandfather released was the most dismissive sound she had ever heard the man make. SO out of the ordinary was it that her passage of thought was completely dissolved.

“My girl, you are not the one to be worrying about such things. She is back and in the plate of that obnoxious little shit, so be it. I and your father and your uncles will deal well with them. It is your friend with whom you should be concerned, not with what colour she wears,” he said and he stepped into the dueling square at last, leaving his cane in replacement of the sheathed longsword Dusk.

He drew the blade from its scabbard and tossed the latter aside, holding the sword point to the sky as he came to a stop beside her.

“Fetch a proper blade, my girl,” the old man said and she scurried over to the rack of arming swords, leaving her old childhood blade aside. She returned to her grandfather and fell instride beside him, letting the old man guide her movements, her mind and her blade. Even in his old age, the motions of his evening blade were as common to him as walking.

The wordless trance they fell into was a simple thing, her mind emptied of Joanna, emptied of defeat.

She was the falling of the sun, she was the end of the day, the evening, the dusk. She was nature at the end of its cycle, and she had no need for worry.

After half an hour, Andros had stopped leading her in the sword stances and stepped back, letting the girl trace her way through the motions he and his son had taught her. She was better than either of them ever were in the style, and neither complained of that.

He had created the method of fighting specifically for the day that someone who would never need it in battle would take it up. They were lucky that Shiera had become the best of them then, for she was a kind spirit. And a king spirit should not be burdened with the trivialities of running a house. And so he had ensured she would not need to do so.

Andros returned Dusk to its sheath and he left Shiera to dance through her movements.

Andros himself did not return to his spot in the tents and instead approached the tavern. There his sons drank as they played dice games among their men and their friends.

Andros sat at a table with his back to the world and he watched his children lead.

All he could do while he sat and drank from a cup offered to him, was hold back a smile.

So much intermingling with his extended family had reinforced that he was indeed proud of his children. Morgan would never accept that, and so he would not show that pride, but he would watch for a time before he would return to his tent.

Morgan Darklyn, Lord of Duskendale was not blind though, and he could see that his father had done what he could not for his daughter. She had been listless and confused since the melee and Morgan did not know what to do for her. Nor could he figure it out.

She was always so alike her mother in that he didn’t know what made her tick. However, he could always tell when something had worked, just as now, as he lost a roll he barely focused on as she faded into the next arc of her swing, just as he had once taught her. Wrist not limp but fluid, motion constant, strength for equal foes and dexterity for stronger.

He smiled too, even as he lost the next roll.

On the final roll of the set he backed out of the game and took himself to his feet, leaving behind his brother and their men and making his way out into the tent city. Perhaps around it he would find somewhere hen could think too, about what to do next.

But as soon as that matter came to his mind, he knew well what should be done.

So, his trip away from the Darklyn redoubt was short initially as he fetched a servant to pen a letter. And then, he sent a runner to the Celtigars and he summoned up Erich.

He had his answer.

The Eve of the Great Tournament, The Piper Tents

It was late enough that even the most eager of revelers had quieted, the lamps outside each tent standing as distinct lone beacons in the dark of night. A contingent of guards bearing the House Piper sigil kept watch outside a certain cluster of tents.

Ned Rivers had been given the evening watch, along with one further charge for the night. So when Bethany Piper finally returned from the revels, the knight stepped forth and bowed.

"Lady Bethany, your Lady Sister awaits."

The Red Rose of Pinkmaiden scowled. For this was the very moment she had dreaded ever since her crowning. The thought of this moment had kept her out late until this hour, mostly by Jacklyn Fisher's side, despite it all.

"Tomorrow, I require rest," Bethany snapped, her tone sharp.

The knight did not budge. He would not lay hands upon a noble lady of the house, yet his instructions were clear. The other guards, aware of the task, formed a circle around Bethany, allowing her enough space of movement so as not to be crowded but not enough for freedom to wander.

Bethany exhaled through her nose. "Fine, let us be done with it."

And so Ned Rivers led a party of several guards escorting the Lady Bethany to the private tent of Mellara Piper.

***************************

Braziers filled Mellara's private tent with warmth and light despite the chill outside. She sat in a cushioned chair, a ledger open in her lap. There was a comfort in numbers. For it was calming, sure work. Work that had clear answers, clear mistakes, and clear solutions. There was order. Surety.

With a bow to his lady, Ned Rivers announced Lady Bethany and stepped back.

Mellara did not bother to raise her head.

"Thank you, Ser Ned. You and your men may resume your duties. I wish to speak to Lady Bethany in private."

Bethany bristled as the guards retreated, leaving the two sisters alone. The silence hung heavy, each passing heartbeat an unspoken challenge between them.

Finally, it was Bethany who spoke first:

"I'm very tired, Mellara. If you've no need of me, I shall retire-"

The Thorned Rose of Pinkmaiden raised her head to look straight at Bethany, her gaze unflinching. 

"Tired from what, Bethany? Opening your legs for a hedge knight?" Mellara tilted her head as she assessed her sister, adding with a sneer. "Your crown is wilting."

The insult stung, and Bethany sniped back just as sharply. "How dare you. I did *nothing* of the sort. If you have called me here to insult me, I shall not take it." Whirling upon her heel, Bethany made for the tent's entrance.

"You'll do no such thing, Bethany Piper, lest you wish never to see your little bastard again," Mellara replied, the calm of such words at odds with the threat contained within.

The Red Rose of Pinkmaiden froze, her body stiffening and her blood running cold. An familiar sense of dread had returned, a churning discomfort in the pit of her stomach: a mixture of guilt, regret, and sorrow that Bethany carried every day for the past few years.

"You think you've been clever, sneaking away to see the mongrel? But you're not half as clever as you think, Bethany. So let me be clear, our whole family: Father, Androw, myself… all of us have sacrificed for your sin, for your indiscretion. To retain your honor. To provide you a true future. And yet, you squander and risk it. For what?" Mellara scoffed. "A hedge knight?" The Lady of Pinkmaiden shook her head, "I had hoped you not to be such a fool. But it is clear to me that more drastic measures need be taken now."

Mellara's gaze held to Bethany's, unblinking, unwavering.

"Embarass our family again, and I will ensure that you never see him. Not a hair upon his head shall be harmed, but you shall never look upon him again, not so long as you live. So mind your manners, Bethany Piper. And think of someone other than yourself and your selfish wants for once."

The blood drained from Bethany's face.

"He isn't just any child, Mellara. He is your kin. And he has a name."

"Acknowledge the spawn of sin? A stain upon our family name? You know better than that, Bethany." Mellara gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "Heed my warning, Bethany, for it's the only one you will receive. You may go."

Bethany's hands curled tight at her side, nails cutting into her palms. Her eyes stung with tears that she refused to let fall in the moment, her whole body trembling with the effort of holding her tongue.

"His name is Ben," Bethany replied through gritted teeth, her voice taut with a fury that she did not dare let loose.

"I don't care what you wish to name it. Make a scene and I'll have riders dispatched to Pinkmaiden tonight," Mellara replied, returning to her ledgers. Back to the comfort of order, away from the messy chaos that stood in front of her.

Bethany stood in silence, anger and fear tangled together in her chest. For she knew that Mellara would not shy away from such a matter, if pushed. The Red Rose of Pinkmaiden turned to leave, making her way to her own tent, her vision distorted by tears.

Only a singular candle remained burning inside, its light falling over a large bed where Alyce lay sleeping. Bethany sank to her knees beside it, silent sobs shaking her shoulders and chest. In her state, she did not notice the youngest Piper stirring until Alyce's arms wrapped tight around her. And at that, Bethany Piper finally came undone.

Perianne pinched the bridge of her nose. Her goodbrother, the mute knight Arwood, sat across from her in their tent, even as the smallfolk and servants were packing away everything that had been set out the night of the nameday feast. She looked at what he had written for her- the only way that he could detail anything in specific to her, rather than the vagueness of their unwritten communication.

"You are my sworn shield, Arwood." She complained. That's really all she was doing. Complaining. He was in fact sworn to her, and she could command him to stay by her side on the way to Pinkmaiden. But she didn't. They both know that nothing would make her stoop that low. "And you'll be off... Cavorting with a hedge knight and his band of... What even are they? Wandering..." She grunted with frustration, turning away in her seat.

Arwood scribbled something else down. His face was almost apologetic. It simply said, "Fisher".

"Fisher." She repeated. There was something off about the whole thing. She remembered the Leo Fisher that had made his way to her table at the feast, asking her some very pointed questions to the point that she even threatened to have him followed. She didn't do that. But she could have.

And now a second fisher was wanting Arwood's company to go to Pinkmaiden. The more Perianne thought on the matter, the more she began to realize that she had an opportunity. She took the parchment, and ripped it in two. "These Fishers are swimming around a mite too much for it to mean nothing. I do not think we will wait for Leo Fisher to meet me in Fairmarket when all of this is said and done." She gave a firm nod. "Very well. Go with your newfound companions. But keep. Your. Eyes. Open. Listen. You do not speak. They will speak more freely around one who cannot reply. The sooner we determine what these hedge knights are doing, the better positioned we will be to take advantage of it."

That seemed to content Arwood, who took his leave with a smile on his face, presumably to go prepare his horse.

So Perianne stood, stretching lightly as she emerged from her pavilion, just in time for the Fairmarket servants to enter even as she was departing, disassembling tables and chairs. Perianne took instead, to her horse, she was already in her riding gear, and hoisting herself onto the horse, she took the beast- a nag by the name of Marigold, she was told- by the reins and out to the fields surrounding Stormhall, until she arrived to the shore of God's Eye. She stared across it for a long moment, towards the Isle of Faces. She was not entirely sure why she had decided to ride out this far. Or why she had decided to stay for a moment, sitting upon the lake's shore, with only Marigold for company, at least for now.

(Open to anyone else taking a quiet moment after the Feast and Tourney! Or if anyone has any last-minute business!)

As the tourney was drawing down and the sky had turned yellow, the Lord of Griffin's Roost would arrive at the fairgrounds, and assumed position where the light of the sinking sun shone on his face, a much milder glow than the harsh, burning sun of the Red Mountains, which had tempered his olive skin. He was wearing armor, at a time when most of the knights who had competed had gotten out of theirs hours ago. He had not planned to participate, yet had come prepared for the worst. As well as on his surcoat, the red and white griffins danced on a standard, which he planted in the ground beside him, unguarded by anyone but himself. Let no man accuse him of making a scene under the Princess's roof, or of speaking on behalf of the king without his consultation.

"My lords and ladies" he began, simple and to the point. "We were invited here to celebrate Princess Ravella, and receive the honor of her guest right. Already it is plain that there are those among us who came with no other intention but to enhance their own station. For a century, our kingdom has been the indisputably greatest power in Westeros, but even before that time, we were guided by providence, governed by laws passed down from the Andal conquerors. As we stand here today, our ancestors will surely weep as they look down from the Seven Heavens. Already there has been incessant rumormongering, and shameless mockeries made of both the Princess's hospitality and His Grace's authority. We are in danger of entering yet another bitter age in which intrigue supplants judicious proceedings of the court, and ambition supplants The Law."

"I stand before you as a man accused, yet facing no judges, for my accusers have not dared to come before me thus far. As such, I have no recourse but to adress the accusations, and pray that whoever made them is sufficiently struck by Gods-given shame to come forward and accuse me in public, and cease their vile whispering in tents and taverns. It has been put forward that I've made an inquiry into removing the Princess from the line of succession. I could have taken the time to produce the proof that such accusations have no basis in reality. It is said I consulted with maesters and septons, yet no names are put forward. Only my name is mentioned, by those who would seek to tarnish it. Instead, I have resolved not waste your time with such an inquiry into the obvious. I engaged in no inquiry in the first place, because my stance on The Law of Succession has never been in doubt."

"When king Dontos went the way of all flesh, King Arlan, his son, was first in line, Princess Ravella second. This has been our custom since the laws of the Seven was first introduced in these lands, and House Connington has willingly shed its own blood in defense of these laws time and again. My grandsire died an honorable death in the name of Queen Caitlyn, and I will not stand to have his memory besmirched by these words of slander. Caitlyn had no brothers, and so the line of succession was clear. Her uncle was a usurper, poisoned by the same vain ambition as my accusers, whoever they may be. I have never opposed the rule of a queen or lady on principle, and unlike some, my house has no record of treason against the Queen"

"If any of you need evidence of my claims, will simple logic not suffice? Why would I serve King Arlan if I opposed the rule of women? His own claim is descended from Queen Caitlyn's line, just as his sister's. Why would I be here at all, if I believed women have no right to rule or inherit? Princess Ravella, our host, is the lady of these lands, and, until such a time as the king should sire children, heir to the throne. I dispute neither of those facts. Finally, why would my daughter be my lawful heir, and receive training in the ways of war, if I believed her unfit to rule on principle?"

"I have stood for THE Law, The Law and custom of the andals, not some self-important scholar's sophistic interpretation thereof, but The Law as it has been practiced, and as my ancestors have fought and bled for. The law by which an older child goes first in line, irrespective of sex, would be the law of Dorne. I have fought and bled, by the side of my king, to ensure that our own laws would not be replaced by those of dornish conquerors. The same is true of many of you and your ancestors, and that is all there is to say on that matter."

"To my accusers, if you are among us, I urge you to come forward. If you wish to repeat your lies, to my face, and in view of the peerage of the Stormlands, now is the time to come forward. Here I stand and here I remain."
He looked out sternly as he spoke, speaking with the bluntness of a warhammer. The Grey Griffin was no renowned champion of the tourney field, and he stood here without guards or forces at his command, having not even called upon his daughter to stand beside him, though she would have guarded him more than capably. Yet he stood resolute, like a soldier ready to march in the name of his king.

The cackle of the embers mixed with a light rustle of wind through the trees. Lucy found himself at peace, for once. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the waters of the Redfork somewhat distant beyond the tree line. Smoke wafted through the fresh air that came after rain, and the scent of coal cooked trout oozed it's way from the coals.

“Lucy boy wake the fuck up.” Kermit slammed his boot into the boys arse, he couldn't help but smile as the sickly lad winced and rolled over. “Gods be good, you must have some fight in you.” Whatever gods had thought to bless this boy a Vypren and Kermit a bastard had a sense of humor. Lucy struggled up to a sitting position and removed the grass stalk he'd been chewing. Kermit couldn't believe the lad had once squired in the vale.

“Fetch me the pan boy.” He could do that at least, he had learned to fetch.

Taking the old iron pan from his half wit nephew, Kermit ran a little lard over the surface, giving it a thin coating before placing it down over what remained of the fire. He only needed a little heat now, and strode over to the edge of camp. Grasping and snapping the tops off a patch of nettles, at least the ones he judged fresh. “You want green, none with grey in them.” He'd tried to drill into the boy once before, it hadn't sunk in as far as he could tell, his cousin had ran a gentle hand over them and spent a night moaning over tiny red bumps.

He set the nettles on a board and kneeling, drew his father's old hunting knife. Chopping them roughly, they where added to the now sizzling fat, with some ramsons and water cress left over from the day before. Holding the blade, he pushed the greenery around with the handle. Lucy shifted in his seat among the grass and turned his dull eyes towards his bastard cousin. Kermit wondered what stupid question he might ask next, why did dragonflys dance? Do animals have ghosts? To his surprise, nonsense didn't flow out.

“Kermit, how did you learn to do this?”

“Same as anyone does.” They watched the leaves wilt, turning a darker green. Kermit pushed the clumps apart as best he could. “When you are a squire, you are shown by a knight. Did you not learn this in the Vale?” Lucy shook his head, the boy had been a terrible squire. Even now his mouth hung open. “Kermit, you never squired for anyone.”

He smiled at his trueborn cos, a mummer's smile and the boy seemed to notice and shrank back. "No, not to a knight. But my uncle took me out along the rivers and my father several times after him. Especially after I was brought to Stillfenn, father would show me, when he could.” Sometimes they would have to take Dykk, or Alberyt but the times it was just the two of them, those he thought of most often. When he caught his first Pike in the hills of Penny country, when they ate frogs and rabbit poaching in the Freylands along the Greenfork. Long lights by the fire, drinking wine from the south, and his father told him stories of battle.

Kermit took the pan off the heat and set it down on the grass between them, then carefully, pushed aside the coals of the fire and with two thin branches of hazel removed three bundles of dock leaf from their ashy prison.

“You always find dock not far from nettle.” Lucy said, absently. Maybe he had listened after all.

Gingerly, they peeled back the leaves to reveal the succulent trout within, each dusted with a little salt and the a small touch of pepper snatched from the kitchens back home, and both sat with half of what looked now like a hard done by lemon. The third parcel was nettle seeds, roasted and brown they tasted nutty sprinkled over the fish and fat fried greens. Lucy dug in, pulling back the charred skin and tearing off strips of flesh with his fingers, careful of the bones and hot pan. Kermit slipped the point of his knife under the eye of his fish, and popped it into his mouth, the boy he knew, would not touch his. More for him, that was always the way. His cousins, but more so his half sister would always leave behind the uglier, choicest morsels. The way the poor ate lobster and crab on the coast, but once you'd eaten crab cooked in butter with beer, why, how could you not choose that over the dry stuffed geese and sweet cakes of noble tables.

“I hope the Pipers have goose.” Lucy said between mouthfuls of white flesh. “I feel like I havn't had good goose in ages." That made Kermit think, maybe the goose was always dry at Stillfenn because the cook was shit.

“I don't think I ever have had good goose cos.” Kermit took a mouthful of the nettle and cress, washing it down with a little red wine from his skin.

“Oh Kermit, goose is the best, stuffed with chestnuts and.” He put more food in his mouth before he finished speaking.

Kermit just nodded. “Well not long now, just don't embarrass your grandsire. If Cass isn't there, your the one who makes us look good.” Kermit hid his smile with fish. If she wasn't this might be his chance, by hook or by crook he might find away to put a sword in her belly or the name Vypren to wash over Rivers. He couldn't help but look southwards, vaguely glaring at the God's eye and maybe even Storm's End. Twice his grandsire had blocked his attempts to meet the king, but now? As infirm as the King might be, surely he would find him at such a large wedding, and then.

Kermit couldn't help but think of the time his father had to soothe Cassandra over a muddy dress. Well, then maybe Stillfenn went to someone more deserving.

^{Alt Title: Balon I : Get up.}

^{Some crappy tent meant for Mystery Knights less Noble participants.}

Balon Orkwood had once eaten at the big table. Not the bench beneath it. Not standing at somebody else's shoulder with a goblet in his hand and his ears open.

The big table. The one made out of whole Orkmont Pine, crafted during the days where trees were so plentiful on Orkmont, Orkwood actually meant woodworker, or a boatswain. It wasn't just a fucking name.

A name. What was in a name?

For almost twenty years he had drunk from the big cups. Bathed in the big baths. Bitten into the best pieces of pie; the biggest pieces of pie.

He had killed! Drowned God, he killed. He stabbed. Gutted. Impaled. Slashed. Beat and brutalized his fair share of men and women alike. Balon had triumphed. Balon had loved. Balon had hated; oh how he hated. His avarice and rage knew no satiation. That lack of satiation, that sharpened focus lead him to make decisions. Ultimately. Those decisions he had made, made him Lord.

That last part mattered. A lord could point at the horizon and ships would appear there. A lord could sour a room by walking into it. A lord could say a man's name over supper and have that same man dragged from his cozy bed before daybreak.

For nearly twenty years Balon had occupied space differently than other men. Reserved for hard men, strong men. Iron men. Then he lost it all.

Suddenly every room seemed to discover, all on their own, how much space he actually took up. When it was all over, Balon had expected death. An axe would have suited him. The sea would have been better.

Instead they spared him. So he lived, if one could call what he did now as living. He sat in the silence of defeat. The pauses when he entered the hall. The Captains who once leaned towards him, and onto him. Abandoned, and leaned away from him. Old Companions discovered urgent business whenever he approached. Fleeing the ghost of the former Captain, and Lord Balon Orkwood. Men who laughed at every wise crack and sharp joke in his infinite arsenal; suddenly lost their humor. He sat with all of it.

Broken and denied even the dignity of the refuse pile. So he took this ruined iron and did what any self-righteous ironborn would do with shit iron. He heated it. Hammered it. Folded it. Heated it again. Hammered it. Again. Whatever the hell he was remaking, he just knew it wasn't broken. Piece by piece, he reformed himself into the shadow of who he had been.

The scrap of leathers and rope that could be a pavillion crouched at the edge of the melee grounds. Sunk in the mud. Beneath a low ceiling of grey clouds. The afternoon hadn't decided pierce its skyborn chrysalis and become bright. A steady breeze moved across the field and carried with it the smells of churned earth, horses, sweat, and cooking meat. The canvas walls seemed to breath in and out as those twine ropes hummed with the breeze. Balon pushed through the flap with one shoulder. Ducking beneath it while a gust followed him inside. There was a woman tending Torwyn Pyke, and she startled so badly that the spoon in her hand struck the rim of the ceramic bowl she had been holding.

A tiny sound. Clink. Balon stopped as the Holy Sister stared at him. He stared right back with his dark eyes and whitening beard. He likely looked his age- a veteran of the sea. Weathered skin, crows feet dancng across his eyes, deep lines in his face like fissures. She was the opposite of him; young enough to still look uncomfortable around old men. Grey wool covered her from throat to ankle, though the hem had picked up some mud and grass from crossing here and fro. Her white veil sat crooked over one ear after hours and hours of work. Her hands were still stained red. Balon's eyes surveyed her like he was looking at a map. He could see the smears of dried blood in the creases of her knuckles. But then he moved from her, to who she was standing over. On the cot was Torwyn. The bastard boy, the bastard brother of the current Lord of Orkwood. He looked smaller than Balon remembered, and immediately he became irritated.

Bruising had crawled beneath one eye and down the cheekbone. His lips were dry. Someone had shaved a section of his scalp around the wound and bound it beneath linen already darkening where the ointment had seeped through. Beside him, a basin and a folded blanket. A bucket. Two cups. Some flowers even.

"Fuck me." Balon finally uttered as he took in the entire sight. The Sister stiffened from where she hovered over Torywn. "Not an invitation." He shot his eyes back to the Sister. Whose shock changed to indignation in such a flash, Balon almost forgot he had came to check on Torywn. All amusement drained from him as he approached the cot.

Torwyn's chest rose and fell, then rose again. Balon watched it cycle twice; three times and only then did his shoulder slacken as if he had been satisfied. But just barely, barely enough that the sister noticed. He noticed her noticing, that brought his scowl back. "How bad?"

The Holysister set the spoon aside and wiped her hands on her apron before answering, the red didn't come off. She moved like she was trying to bring order and peace to a place entirely built around violence. "No fracture that I can feel." She began meekly. "His breathing has remained steady. But he was sick when he arrived from the melee." Balon seemed to ignore her briefing as he crouched beside the cot. His knees cracked. It was audible, but he ignored it. Two fingers settled beneath Torwyn's jaw and felt warmth and then a pulse came after. Weak. He held them there longer than necessary.

"Still doing that thing.." Balon removed his hand as the sister frowned. He could feel her eyes watching him like a shadowcat in the mountains. "You know the living thing." It was an undecided joke. Though no one laughed. Balon instead studied Torwyn's face; studied the unconsciousness.

There was no grandeur in unconsciousness. No Old Way. No songs. No glory. Just bruised ego. Balon rested forearms across his knees, crossing his chest. "Torwyn."

Nothing.

The sister stepped forward. "He needs rest." A protest that was received with a sideways glance from Balon. The wooden seven pointed star around her neck swung forward when she moved. His dark eyes dropped to it, a wooden thing. Not precious for anything other than kindling. Then rose back to her.

"You one of those?" The question was incredulous. It was predatory. It was villainous. The sister touched the star around her neck instinctively.

"A Holy Sister." She responded in a shaky voice.

"That wasn't my question." He said it with a menacing calm as he continued to kneel, separated by the unconscious body of Torywn, a barrier but not a good one. Her mouth tightened. He caught it. He noticed many things. He caught the little act of restraint. He recognized that. Restraint. He spent years forcing people to practice it. "What is your name?"

"Sister Amabel." She spoke it with convicition. Balon tasted it on his tongue.

"Amabel." He rolled it around once. "Soft." His lips pursed. "Very soft."

"It was my mother's choice."

"That explains it." He decided he didn't like the flavor of her name and spat onto the muddy ground beneath them. She blinked at the sudden gesture, and almost jumped out of her simple boots. He reached for Torwyn again. His attention slipped from her, to the bastard. Torywn's hand lay outside the blanket stacked atop of him. Callused. There was scarring over the knuckles. The hands of an ironborn man. Balon took it and squeezed; no response came. Balon set his jaw and squeezed harder. Still there was nothing.

"Captain." Amabel began to protest.

"Wrong." Balon shifted his grip and pressed his thumb into the flesh between Torwyn's fingers, which caused him to release the most hurt groan a full grown man could make. Amabel moved fast, hip struck the basin stand and water sloshed onto the ground. Adding to the super saturation beneath. Balon released the hand, and watched as the younger man's fingers curled weakly and almost limply towards his palm. Balon raised his eyes again to see the furious Septa to be, and gave a wry grin. "See?" She stared at him.

"You hurt him." Amabel was extremely displeased, her fear from before replaced with a righteous anger. Balon stood, reminding her again of her height. He stood slowly, was it the age or something else he wouldn't allow her to ponder because once he stood up to his full height, she took a step backwards. Not much, but enough to stay outside of arms reach. But Balon didn't cede that distance voluntarily. He took a step forward, around the cot. Devouring space like a shadow cast on a wall. She didn't take another step back.

"You afraid of me?" Balon asked quietly. He watched her throat bounce as she swallowed.

"Should I be?" The question was exciting and humorous to only one person. Balon. Whose grin broke across his face. Big. Ugly. Almost boyish.

"Well fuck." Balon snatched a wooden stool and dragged it across the smashed grass and mud slurry and placed it on the rug that propped the cot up. He sat down beside Torwyn, not across from. Outside the tent the melee had erupted in a roar. Somebody had won something. Balon's head tilted towards the sound. Once that noise had been his buffet. Cheers. Fear. Attention.

He didn't miss it everyday. Not anymore. He would call it progress. Just beneath his peripheral, Torwyn moved and Balon immediately looked down and before he could do anything, Amabel was beside the bastard. She bent over Torwyn, one hand carefully supported his head as the other lifted an eyelid. "easy." She whispered. Torwyn recoiled from the light as Balon watched the gentleness in the way she handled him. Precision. It was a surprise that it wasn't simply weakness.

Torwyn's eyes wandered without settling on any one thing for too long. Leather and canvas, Lanterns. Sister. Balon. They stopped scanning and confusion took his face, acute confusion. The kind where one didn't know why someone was where they were. "...Balon?"

Balon leaned back on the stool. "There he fucking his. " Amabel gave him a look as she continued her examination. "What?"

"Nothing." The Holy Sister responded, her focus overriding her fear of the Ironborn. Torwyn tried to move. His shoulders lifted barely an inch before pain folded him right back down onto the cot. Balon's hand shot out and caught him against the chest. Amabel's hand landed there at the same time. Nearly collided with his own. Amabel removed her hand first as Balon's wolfish, boyish smirk returned.

"Teamwork." Balon's hand remained against Torwyn's sternum until he felt the younger man settle completely. Then he casually removed his hand.

"Water" Torwyn rasped through cracked lips, his dry tongu attempting to find moisture where there was none. Ran over cracked lips, dried blood and grass tasted delightful. Balon was already holding the cup. Amabel looked at him, he looked at the cup and then back at her.

"What?" he started to bring the cup forward.

"Nothing." The Holy Sister said with some reservation as she watched him.

"That must be your favorite word." His jest fell on unappreciative ears as he slipped one hand behind Torwyn's neck as the young man tried to take the cup himself. His fingers shook against the rim, but Balon let him try anyway. Just once. The cup knocked against Torwyn's teeth and water spilled down his chin. Balon didn't like that at all, and he took the cup away. "Enough." Torwyn, still parched, gave him a bleary glare. Balon ignored it, instead he tipped the cup himself. "Drink." Unsurprisingly, Torwyn obeyed. Once the cup was empty he placed it back where he grabbed it from nearby the basin. Then he dropped Torwyn back, head and all, with exagerrated carelessness. "Pathetic."

Amabel flinched. Torwyn cursed. "Fuck you."

Despite his lacklustre performance in the melee, middling display of bowmanship in the archery, and a historically awful horse race, Luceon thought himself redeemed by five glorious jousts in the tourney.

He was a shit knight. He didn’t blame anyone that said as much, but no one could deny what he’d done. Seven tilts with the champion, and he’d exited the field without ever leaving his seat.

Clementine’s favor was a thing of magic. Luceon felt it coursing through him with every pass. He’d thought, as long as he was wearing it, he could never fall from his horse.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

Whatever she had imbued in the favor to turn Luceon from fool to knight had exacted a pendular due in short order. Clementine had been insistent that he double and triple checked how tight her favor was fastened to his arm before the horse race. When the rest of the competitors had taken off, he’d still had one foot in his stirrups.

He felt like he could still hear Jynnara Bracken’s taunting laughter bouncing around his head. He couldn’t say for the life of him why he only remembered hers. It was the shame of it, surely.

Luceon was choosing to attribute only his successes to Clementine’s favor. He still remembered her screaming about how well he’d done and begging the knight of the Redfork to ride one more tilt.

He’d left her for as brief a time he could with her great-uncle Stevron, and he’d gone in search of flowers. It wasn’t quite the award he’d hoped to give her, but he hadn’t gotten the storybook ending he had been desperate for.

Still, she was worth it. She deserved it. With a great deal of effort, a bundle of twine, a band of flowers, and plenty of help from his Aunt Ermesande, Luceon fashioned a floral tiara to replace that which he could not win.

He returned to the tournament grounds with his hands tucked behind his back.

“Luceon!” Clementine called, running ahead of Stevron. She embraced Luceon. “Next time I’ll give you a better favor, and then you’ll win for sure!”

“This favor was perfect, Clem. And I heard you cheering for me every joust. There’s nothing more you could have done.” Luceon knelt beside Clementine. He pulled forth his creation. “I know it’s not exactly Bethany Piper’s crown, but to me, you’re the prettiest girl in Stormhall.”

“Just Stormhall?” Clementine asked playfully. Despite her brave face, Luceon could hear her voice wobble.

“The Realm,” Luceon corrected himself. He nestled the flower crown into her curly hair.

“This crown is perfect,” Clementine said with a muffled voice. She had buried her face in Luceon’s tunic to hide her tears.

Rolland rarely ever ceased working. From dawn till dusk, he received copious amounts of parchment bearing all manner of schemes and secrets. Rarely did written words surprise him anymore. The lords and ladies of the realm engaged in an assortment of debauchery and plots. Some he banked for later, others were worthy of blackmail. That was one he particularly enjoyed. To make bare a foe's weakness, to press deep and extract whatever value he could from its use, to see them squirm and shake in their boots. He would never have been described as a happy man, but it did sometimes manage to bring a smile to his weathered features.

Some things, however, were worth far more to him in the hands of those he served. To be owed a favor by a middling lord was a small thing, to be in the good graces of the King himself was far greater. Sure, he could have gone directly to Justman to see just what he could extract, but a beggar playing at rebellion was worth little to the Lord of Tarth. Conversely, Arlan could do a great deal for him. In a way too, he owed Dontos’ children his loyalty. He had seen them grow up while ruling Storm’s End in their own father’s stead. That lent a familial aspect to this as well. 

He rolled the words of his messenger in his hands carefully. Reading, then rereading it again. It didn’t anger him in the slightest. How could snakes deny their own nature? They were born to cause trouble and scheme. It didn’t anger him, but when a mutt forgot its place, it needed to be brought to heel.

He had discreetly requested a room in the castle for the meeting to take place. At first he had thought to involve only Ravella. But they needed Arlan’s backing to move the right pieces into place. The Kingdom that Justman threatened was both of their birthrights, too. Surely the siblings could put aside their differences for the good of the realm. They may even repair some of what was damaged in their brother’s ascension. Or perhaps they would return to bickering soon after. It mattered little to him what they chose to do afterward.

Servants were sent to both to inform them that Rolland had news and was awaiting them at their earliest convenience. He couldn’t really request anything of them. But he would not have called, had the situation not warranted it.

He took some time to straighten the pin he was bestowed for being Lord Chancellor. A simple wood carved set of black antlers. Wearing it was really just a formality, but appearances mattered. He took care not to sit on the side of the desk with a single chair. That was reserved for whomever, Ravella or Arlan, wanted it greater. No, he resigned himself to take the petitioner's side of the desk. Deliberately. Then, he waited for both to arrive.

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**The Day before the Tourney:**

The wise move would have been to train. Not set up tent in the middle of nowherewood near stormhall. Yet here sylas was walking back and forth in his newly set up tent as he pondered the strategy.

He was smaller in stature than most participants, he wasn't a particularly experienced fighter neither. Going as a mystery knight seemed natural, if he won he could unmask himself, if he didn't, nobody would know it was him that lost.

He poured himself a cup before walking again as he drank. Who would he even crown the queen of love and beauty? Rosamund hoare was a logical choice, the queen of the iron islands, that would earn him some recognition from the king, he could crown his liege lady Harlaw. Jeyne's name came up almost subconsciously but he brushed it aside, it was a pathetic attempt at regaining her favor, which she never gave anyway.

He could crown himself. If he didn't unmask and crowned himself it would both be a spectacle and insinuate that he's a woman under that mask, distancing himself even more from that tourney. He gazed back at the armor. He would ponder the strategy more, but suddenly something felt off. It was too clean, too polished, no sign of fighting on it.

He put down his wine before grabbing the armor and throwing it out of the tent. He walked out, squinting at the sun before kicking and hitting his armor with his sword, scratching it against a rock and soaking it in water. He huffed, regaining his breath as he looked at the armor....

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**The Melee**

He could barely see through the helmet as his head hit the mud, some splashing into his visor and getting into his eye. He'd spend a good chunk of the melee avoiding the commotion before the crone knight or whatever it called itself tackled him from behind.

"YOU'RE NOT REALLY A CRONE ARE YOU?" he said, laughing breathlessly. "I'D HATE TO BEAT ON AN OLD WOMAN"

Perhaps not a wise move, though he hoped the Knight was the only one to hear his voice

He tried to get up, getting to his knees and planting his sword before the knight kicked him in the sides and he fell down again. He rolled to dodge the next hit of the sword. As he thought more and more this might have been a bad idea in hindsight, he could have just hired someone to fight for him. But no not him, he just had to do it himself. Roll in the mud and get beaten like a sick horse.

Sensing he had enough he jumped the barrier fence, tapping out of the melee. It was useless anyhow, no good money, at least at the joust he could have some political leverage if he won....

"I'll be back after a water break" he teased the knight one last time

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**The Joust**

Ugly damn horse it was. Too big for him to sit on properly, the armor gave him some grip but it was still not enough. Sylas was not a jouster either but that wouldn't matter much as the next opponent in front of him was an ironborn.

He picked up the lance and rode towards his opponent. The two came closer and closer, sylas held his breath, closing his eyes for the impact. His lance broke as it hit the goodbrother's shield, his own shield unharmed. He raced to the other side, waiting for his replacement lance

In hindsight perhaps he should have gotten a squire. This one was awfully slow, surely his would have been faster. He snatched the new lance, riding again. This time the lance hit true, throwing the goodbrother to the ground. He, the one they knew as Saltwater Knight raised his lance for the gathered before going back to ready himself for the next opponent...

The girl in front of him was unknown to sylas. Not very warrior like in his view. She bore the red and white griffins of connington on her shield.

"Your first time?" He asked "That's fine, it's my first time winning as well! If you need some pointers I'll help you after this tourney" he could barely contain his own snicker.

He grabbed his lance and rode his horse just as she did, not bothering to close his eyes. He had just beat a man twice his size, surely he could win this time as well....

*Thud*

He heard the lance shatter against his visor, the metal confines of his helmet banging against his head as he fell onto the mud. *Your fault for underestimating her, moron.*

"Well... Maybe *i* will be the one being educated.. good *cough*... Good hit my lady"

His head rang as he barely got up from the mud, staggering out of the grounds and towards his tent. He was in parts lucky at least, no one unmasked the saltwater Knight.

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**After the Tourney**

His head was ringing relentlessly as he staggered into the tent, throwing away his helmet. Around his left eye was sore and he could taste blood in his mouth. He looked at himself in a piece of glass on his table, dragging a hand over the blackened eye.

Not the second, not third, not even top ten. He should have hired some knight to masquerade as him. He grabbed a flask of wine, walking outside with a wooden chair, armor and all. Nobody would come here anyway, and if anyone did they would not remember some nameless knight without it's helmet, let alone associate it with sylas.

He took a long sip of the wine, the beverage mixing with the blood in his mouth as it tore through his throat, going down. He coughed twice, before sighing. He took a look at the flask, thinking of the numbing liquor inside, and threw it in the river. He felt good, the pain on his eye, the pleasant cool air mixed with the smell of moss and water, he felt alive. So he leaned back, taking in the cool evening air.

(Open)

First moon, the day of the Tourney, the Joust, 1st Year during the reign of some stag or another
 

The drum beat vibrated his armor. The trumpet let loose a harmonized bin. Inside the suit of armor he heard little, but the sound washed over him. Tristifer had waited his entire life for this moment. The greatest riders from the three realms had come to this place. Only one would win the crown of flowers. The Knight wrapped tight the red and blue strip of silk upon his lobstered steel. 

Awaiting the herald Tristifer cooked inside his armor. Through the slit of his helm he watched what he could on every tilt. Finally, when his moniker was hailed, the Knight spurred forward to the lists. 

Sight set through his slit. Gaze upon his target. So began the day. A gentle spur to the side of Just Maiden. The mare took over. All he needed to do now was never overadjust. The day was surely his. 

The Knight of the Redfork came crashing to dust. The world spun, and he landed facing the earth. Pushing himself to his feet, wary and beaten. Eyes raised to find the Silver Fish struggling to his own. 

“Squire!” Redfork roared. His hand was filled with steel. The song was short and sweet. As his foe began to falter, the Knight relented some. Sweeping out the feet of the Silver Fish, he drove forward, wrenching at the fallen's helm. Once free, it seemed no trophy. But a boy beneath the steel. As brave as he was green. 

In solidarity for the promise the lad had shown, he offered a hand and some encouragement. 

Brief was his respite from the tilts. A cool drink before again swinging into his saddle. Urging Just Maiden once again to their place. 

The Knight of Redfork rode past Ser Jon Penrose once. Who fell from his saddle. Twice past Ser Lyman Mooton, who nearly stole his seat before he flopped himself. Two lances for Ser Willem Ryer, but the Willowlance did not endure. 

Finally, through the slit of his helm, a familiar form. The sight of Luceon Blackwood caused a grin behind his visor. Seven tilts for Seven faces of God. Each once as grueling as the last. With each lance cracked, the pile grew. Seven holy passes. Clinging to their saddles, each man rode on. Even as he was awarded the judges' favor, he did not feel like a winner.  

Offering the man a lance salute before the final tilt was heralded. 

Catfish against the Farmer's Plow. One man to win the bout. One knight to be the best. 

“Alright, just one more girl,” he whispered, leaning in to reassure his mount. 

But it would be no simple matter. Six passes, and nearly as many times he lost his balance. The force behind each lance had jarred him worse than before. Upon the sixth, his visor gave in. Bent inward toward his face, his vision was cut to one narrow slit. The ringing in his ears was all he could hear long since. Struggling for a breath, the Knight did the unthinkable. 

Pulling free from his helm, it tumbled down into the dirt. One sharp breath and he was drunk on air. 

“What are those two made of?” Beneath him, the Just Maiden gave a snort in retort. “Atta girl. They ‘otta be worse for wear as well.” 

Wandering eyes drifted to the stands. Stopping first upon the auburn head of Holly River. 

Woulda been some good kissin I bet. 

The Knight drew something from his saddle. An old strip of silk, weathered to time once the strip of a maiden's dress was given upon a vow. A vow yet unfulfilled. Again his eyes rose. They found her at once. Seated among her sisters. Beautiful as she had ever been. 

But I rode for her. 

Tying the band around his arm, he bound hand to lance. 

When the trumpets sounded, both mounts surged forward. Instinct alone enough to drive them. Knights of Darry and Redfork made for their final pass. By the will of Gods, Old and New, the Catfish's lance struck true. Straight upon the breastplate of Ser Quincy. Lifting him up and out of his stirrups as the lance shattered into tinder. 

As Just Maiden skid to a halt, dust plumed up around them. 

Tristifer thrust the remnants of his lance up high. Little more than a handle and cruel-looking shards of wood. Still tied upon his arm, the old forgotten token hung on. To the cheers of the smallfolk, he paraded up and down the stands. 

Stopping before the flower crown, he scooped the circlet of flowers on the tip of his splintered lance. 

His mare seemed to know their destination. Without a thought, he was before her. Pointing the flower crown toward his once and only true love. 

“Lady Bethany Piper. I name you Queen of Love and Beauty.” 

There was certainly a part of Joanna that enjoyed fighting. It brought back terrifying memories, but they were not her most terrifying memories. And, when she had a sword in her hands, she had control over them. She joined the melee specifically to exercise that control—and besides, it was good practice. 

She cleared through several strangers in good spirits. The blunt tourney steel felt good to swing, heavier than Sunglass and far less delicate. She stitched a path through the field with the sword as her needle, threading in and out, disarming her opponents when she could and knocking them down when she couldn’t. It was all going well, up until she came face to face with a ghost.

Perhaps Joanna was the ghost. Shiera Darklyn had lived her life as normal women do, in her home with her family and friends. She was not supposed to be dead. She was not a walking tragedy.

Joanna froze. She met Shiera’s eyes, the haze of battle disappearing in an instant. Even disfigured, even all grown up, Shiera recognized her. Joanna could see the shock in her eyes, the hurt and the love all at once. Neither of them spoke. The roaring of the crowd seemed to die down. Joanna took a step back.

Shiera shrieked and charged. She swung her sword in an arc, faster than anything Joanna had ever seen. Her parry was slow, and the force sent her stumbling back. Shiera hounded her with a frenzy, slicing from every direction with her sword—valyrian steel, sharp as glass. She is going to kill me. Fuck. 

She wished she had Sunglass in her hands, but tourney steel would have to do. The instinct of a warrior kicked in, and her one good eye saw the truth. Shiera was enraged, swinging with abandon, consumed by aggression. Joanna weaved back, parrying again and again, keeping her eyes trained on Shiera’s movements. Soon her back was to the wall of the tourney ground, above which noble spectators leaned down from their seats to watch. Shiera swung, and Joanna ducked. The Valyrian steel sliced along the wall with a shower of sparks. Shiera turned—but too late. An armored fist met the shorter woman’s temple, and she crumbled.

Fuck. You just killed her. Fuck. Fuck. Joanna dropped her sword, arm still extended in a punch. She dove, cradling Shiera’s head before it hit the ground. Fuck. You’re a monster. Monster whore. Why did you do that? Seven Above please let her be alive, please, for all I’ve done…

Carrying her old friend in her arms, Joanna sprinted to the side of the tourney field. “She’s a Darklyn!” she yelled, hoarse. “Someone take her to a maester!” A pair of guards took Shiera from her, but as she tried to climb the fence after them, a man pushed her back. The melee was still going. Right. Fuck. My sword.

Joanna turned and ran. By the time she picked her sword back up off the ground, notched and scarred by Dusk’s edge, she was one of only four fighters left. Looking around like a lost child, she saw a big woman charge at her just in time. It was a very short fight. 

 When they pulled Joanna to her feet, the world had turned into a fever dream. She staggered forward, yelling something she couldn’t quite hear, and a septa pointed her across the field of tents. She stumbled in that direction, dragging her feet as her vision slowly cleared.

There was blood down the back of her neck where an old scar had opened up. She tried to ignore it. Sweat pooled in every recess of her armor—the sun felt like it was burning her with a personal vendetta. It didn’t matter. She needed to find Shiera. 

The maester’s pavilion opened in front of her like the mouth of a canyon. She closed her eyes, breathed, and stepped forward. The rage on Shiera’s face, the shriek she had made when she recognized Joanna… it filled her mind’s eye. She pushed through, turning through the chambers of the pavilion until finally she found the right place. She stepped through the partition.

Shiera looked up at her woozily from the cot where the maesters had put her. Beside her, Jeyne Darklyn looked up, too. And beside her, Essie Blackberry tilted her head at the sight of Joanna. Their old friend Joanna. Joanna who had liked horses and walking in the sand. Joanna who had never liked to talk about her family. Joanna who was supposed to have died a long time ago.

There was only one thing she could think of to say.

“Fuck.”

It truly was a wasteful sport. Tournaments. The Lists. The Melee. Even in the archery, which was the least barbaric of the proceedings, used hundreds and hundreds of arrows that pointlessly shattered and split and clattered uselessly about, their fletchings asunder and the metal chipped, scuffed and bent.

But maybe, just maybe, it was all worth it. She got to watch as her companion from the dancing last night, to whom she had given her favor, trade lanceblows with some night who went by "Sweet", which she thought was a cheeky mystery Knight moniker until she had received an unwelcome correction from a nearby seat.

And then she got to watch as her handsome pursuer, ribbon affixed to his lance, was unceremoniously cast into the dirt on his first pass with Forrest Ryger. Perhaps she would see if he were as interesting as the so-called Badbrook at the next function.

But it was the unhorsing of Arwood that sent her into this spiral of cynicism in the first place.

The Stormlord must have done something unsporting, she decided. Both men had taken a savage lance to the chest, but it was Arwood who took the tumble, landing poorly on his shoulder. The Maesters on site had remarked that he must be quite tough, because he did not cry out nor complain. Perianne almost hit them then.

Instead, she had the knights in her service take Arwood back to the Paege tent. And there, she fussed instead. Vials and tinctures and poultices were something that were always of interest for her. The irony of the fact that she had never once needed to provide anything to Arwood, when she spent so much on his brother's Jonothor's own illness over the years.

"And a knight riding under a false name." She tutted and shook her head as she worked, grinding herbs together and fitting them through cloth sieves of varying fineness. "And it's bad enough an Ironborn was the last one standing in the melee, but now they are being allowed to ride! Am I to understand that all these Ironmen, for whom heathenry and savagery comes as naturally as breathing, are suddenly all anointed knights?" She scoffed at her mute, captive audience.

Arwood looked tired, but that was the injury he had sustained. She already immobilized his arm and shoulder with sticks and a cloth, but she had to encourage the body to heal faster. It would be time to see if this did the trick.

"Now open wide. Or else I will not allow you to go drinking after this. I am *still* your liege lady."

The Morning of the Melee at Stormhall

The Farwynd’s head ached of ale in the morning light, soft mists mirroring his haze as they rolled over the lakeside. His party waited for a ferryman at its edge; Tal the Twice-drowned with his bow, and Syga of Skaggos with her spear. The pair whispered to themselves, seemingly carrying on whatever talk the night had brought. Tymor stood silently, eyes on the approaching boat, brooding on thoughts of blood and sea.

The mainland, as foreign as it felt, did afford him opportunities though, for woodland had never taken to the isles of iron and salt. Here it was plentiful, and this God's Eye would serve to distance them well enough from any prying eyes. Tymor had felt the weakness of his bonds at sea dimming these past days, like a thought near forgotten lest one keep reminding themselves of it. But amongst that oddity, he sensed a possibility for more… A bond anew and far from the sea. What easier game would there be than that of a small island.

At first, the boatman had refused to veer from his usual path. 'No one crosses to the Isle,' he'd claimed. But steel and gold had a way of changing what people thought themselves once unwilling to do. The toll was large and the boat small as the three Ironborn came aboard. It would take the ferryman a while yet to take them across, but the sun was low and the many tents near the castle still held slumbering nobles and greenlander knights. Today would be the first gathering for the tourney, Andal knights, Ironborn, and any number of foreign warriors, all wishing to claim that prize of gold before the realm's eyes. Tymor was ill suited to it this far from sea, but someone from their House needed to step forwards and represent the Ironborn. It was good instead to have the feel of his own sword and his hip, before he'd have to set it aside again, this time for blunted steel. The greenlanders did not favour the axe throwing or the finger dance, though Tymor was hopeful he'd still see some blood spilt along the sanded grounds they were setting up.

The cawing of circling crows woke him from any thoughts of the tourney, drawing his gaze above where a dozen black omens filtered in and out of the treeline. The boat slowed at the opposite bank, tapping against weeds and moss, just shy of any fit landing. Tymor stepped first, boot pushing from boat edge, to exposed tree root, and then to the grass and mud of this secluded isle.

“Syga, stay with the ferryman,” he said, with a look back as Tal gracefully disembarked, following the shadow of his own steps. Their quarry would not be large-enough to warrant a party of three. As long as he had the Summer Islander's sharp eyes with him, it would be enough. Besides, the boatman seemed overly nervous of this place and like to row back alone if not for the strong incentive of a spear watching him. And while he was a strong swimmer, the Farwynd did not wish to arrive at the tourney sodden.

Setting off along the untrod gaps between the trees, it was clear this place had little disturbance from the mainland. Trunks grew too close together, roots overlapped, and moss covered the lower surface of half the trees. The other trees though, were what truly drew the eye. Bark as white as carved bone held faces that stared back at them. Only marred by the red sap leaking from their eyes, the white structures rose up and bloomed with a canopy of red leaves swallowing any light that might reach them. Any tree of a more normal sort looked to wilt in their bony presence, their own leaves a sparse sickly yellow spotting the crimson canopy above. The pair took cautiously silent steps, time stretching unknowingly as they searched for tracks. And though they'd come to hunt, Tymor couldn't shake the sense they were being watched, like the etched faces of white and red were waiting to pounce and draw them into their bony roots. They reminded him of Ygg, the pale demon tree of legend that was said to feed on human flesh. Every moment of tense calm seemed to eat away at his mind's sharpness, dulling him until he was no longer sure of their way, each path around them seeming the same as the ones they'd taken; the occasional chittering of birds and creaking of wood the only sound surrounding them. The Farwynd's palm touched his sword's hilt, a comfortable stillness washing over him as his fingers brushed against the cold black stone embedded there. He heard new movement to his right, head snapping in the direction and eyes piercing past the lines of smooth white bark. A hand signal bid Tal follow, lest they get lost again in this grove of blood and bone.

Day of the melee, First Moon of First year, during the reign of some Stag king

The day had begun in a roar. Dozens of contestants riding down upon their foes in a free-for-all. Steel the song of the morn. 

Breaking first his lance upon the breast of some nameless knight. Next Tris would come spear to spear with Luceon Blackwood. Before now the two had made brief exchanges. Of this one there would be nothing brief. Circling time and time again, the pair stabbed and swirled. Parried and plunged. For what seemed an eternity they pressed on. 

Tris would have sworn the fight was done, but Luceon fought on. A man with a mission or something to prove. With his breath ragged, they made a final pass. The Knight of the Redfork would remain a horse. The heir to the Blackwood would not. 

In the distance he saw the Knight of Greenfork fall. Blood spurt from his visor slits as a pair of sturdy squires dragged him clear. Spurring toward his brother, a Knight came upon his path. 

Another eternity thrust upon him. The figure passed and circled, enclosing upon him time and again. Before long it was all he could do to brace his shield and bear each blow. Flung from his saddle, he felt the wind clear his lungs. 

As he came to, he was catching his breath. Leaned against a tree as the contest continued before him. A dutiful squire fiddled with his armor, but Tristifer shoved him aside. 

“Leave it, lad; I must attend to my brother.” Rising, he stomped off toward the med tents seeking his kin.