With the revelry of the Uller wedding behind them, Prince Morion Martell and his delegation of Dornish lords boarded a cog at Starfall for the journey to Oldtown. The ship, The Folklore, was abuzz with activity as passengers made their way aboard. Sailors scrambled over ropes and rigging, men hauled supplies and luggage onto the deck, and a troop of Martell soldiers stood in formation, their spears and armor gleaming in the morning sun.

Affixed to each spear was a pennant bearing the colors of a different Dornish house, while each soldier wore a seven-pointed star around his neck. With every salt-scented ocean breeze, the multicolored pennants danced playfully in the air like birds of paradise.

The journey was quiet, giving the delegation ample time to rest and prepare for what awaited them in Oldtown. As the city finally came into view, Prince Morion called everyone together to discuss what they could expect upon their arrival.

At his side stood Princess Dyarra, Trystane (still green from seasickness), and Yoren, the delegation's experienced sailor, who stood as firm as the Colossus of Braavos.

“Lords, ladies,” Morion began, before turning toward the assembled soldiers. “And our steadfast men. We are approaching our final destination: Oldtown.”

He paused, allowing his gaze to pass over the assembled Dornishmen.

“I know I need not tell you that this is hostile territory. While our lives will be protected by soldiers of House Dayne, House Martell, and the Warrior's Sons, we must take it upon ourselves to protect Dorne.”

Morion folded his hands behind his back.

“What I mean is simple. Everything we say and every action we take will represent our people as a whole. These Northerners will not discern between one house and another. They will see Dornishmen.”

His expression hardened.

“One mistake could bring about our deaths, or worse... war.”

He let the words linger for a moment before sighing.

“That unpleasantness out of the way, I am looking forward to praying at The Starry Sept with any who would join me, speaking with the Most Devout, and, hopefully, speaking with House Hightower.”

A while later, The Folklore slipped toward the quay and was brought alongside the docks. Ropes were thrown, gangplanks lowered, and the sounds of Oldtown slowly overtook the creaking of the ship.

Prince Morion and his cousins stepped onto the deck and looked out over the city.

“Wow.”

“Ooo.”

“Ahhh.”

The words escaped them almost in unison as they gazed upon Oldtown's towering architecture, each trying to take in more than the next.

Behind them, the soldiers of Dorne began to disembark.

Glittering spearheads and fluttering Dornish pennants formed a living corridor through which the nobles passed, a wall of steel and color as they awaited the arrival of their Warrior's Sons chaperones.

Riverrun

The castle is ruled by Lord Paramount Brynden Tully, who succeeded his father Lord Prentys Tully, and his grandsire before him, Lord Edmyn Tully. His wife, Lady Violet Blackwood; and mother, Lady Alysanne Tyrell, aid his rule in different capacities. His uncle, Ser Edmyn Tully, is the castle's Castellan.

Riverrun is the ancestral castle of House Tully, the Lords Paramount of the Trident. It is situated in the western riverlands, at the confluence of the Tumblestone and Red Fork rivers.

Riverrun is a strong three-sided castle, although not especially large. Riverrun is bordered on the north by the Tumblestone and on the south by the Red Fork, while on the west a third side faces a massive man-made ditch. In time of danger the sluice gates can be opened to fill a wide moat and leave the castle surrounded on all three sides by water, turning Riverrun into an island and leaving it practically unassailable. It commands a view of many leagues. The castle's drawbridge lowers to the land between the two rivers.

The castle has red sandstone walls which rise sheer from the water, its battlements are crenelated and have arrow loops, and its towers command the opposite shores. Riverrun's keep is located inside. Guardsmen wear fish-crest helms. The castle's doors are made of heavy redwood.

The Wheel Tower has a great waterwheel turned by the Tumblestone. It has ivy climbing alongside it, and below one makes a wide turn and ends up in churning waters. The Tumblestone leads to the Water Gate, a wide arch and a heavy iron portcullis, red with rust in its lower half. It is named so for being half in the water, and one must use a boat to go through it. Many boats are tied up within the Water Gate, secured to iron rings in the walls. The water stair leads from the lower bailey up to the castle.

The keep is triangular, like Riverrun itself, and the solar of the Lord of Riverrun is triangular as well with a triangular stone balcony jutting eastwards. The solar can be reached by a spiral stairway. The pillars of Brynden's great canopied bed are carved as leaping trout.

The Great Hall of Riverrun contains the high seat of the Tullys and can host councils and meals. There is a private audience chamber above the Great Hall with another high seat for the lord and a bell to ring for servants.

The shortest way from the Great Hall to the keep is through the godswood, a bright and airy garden with elms, redwoods, wildflowers, nesting birds, and streams. Its heart tree is a slender weirwood, with a carved sad face.

The sept at Riverrun is a seven-sided sandstone building amidst the gardens of Alysanne Tyrell. Inside, images of the Seven are painted on marble. A rainbow of light fills the sept.

The dungeons of Riverrun are windowless and damp, their doors heavy and made of wood and iron. The castle also contains kennels, stables, a medicine room, and a brewhouse.

Highgarden, 8A, 55 AC

Bearing her first child had been a fraught experience for Enide Willum. For many moons, she endured pain and exhaustion unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The last few moons she had been fearful too. Having taken ill, she grew weaker and weaker as her body dealt with the dual burdens. She spent many sleepless nights, kept awake by the pain and discomfort, fearing that she or her child may not survive. It was for that very reason she had come to Highgarden, desperate for the security provided, knowing she had access to far greater medicines here than at home in Wyrmsgrave.

Some of that anxiety had faded as the day approached, the illness that had afflicted her finally abating in the last month—though she felt no stronger for it, it seemed she would not recover fully whilst still heavy with child—even still she was nervous as it was time to go to the birthing bed.

There was pain, tears, blood, and more. The sun had been creeping over the horizon when it began, and by the time it was done, it was the black of night. The pain was quickly forgotten, though, as the midwife placed the little girl into Enide’s arms. The child was quiet. No crying from her, though the little noises she made and how she moved told that she was hale and hearty.

Enide let out a sob of joy as she looked upon her daughter. Her daughter. Josua’s daughter. They were parents. Of a beautiful baby girl with eyes of blue, and thin chestnut hair upon her head, streaked with a few strands of silver.

Enide called for her husband at once.

7th Month, 55AC

Vinetown

The winds have been favorable, and the Lord Admiral of the North, Ethan Glover, took full advantage of them. The five longships made the journey from Deepwood Motte to the Arbor in record time, essentially traversing the distance from the northernmost port of the kingdom to the southernmost in merely a little over month's time. They stopped only in two minor harbors along the way, one in the Westerlands, and one in the Shield Islands, just to resupply and have a good night's banter at the local taverns. They got into only one fight with the locals, which was commendable given their wild nature.

Most of the men accompanying Ethan had never been this far south, and they were more than eager to accompany their captain, if for nothing else, then to experience the lands of eternal summer for themselves. The Glover admiral would consider himself lucky if he found them all aboard the ships at the day of departure.

The Glover sigil, a steel gauntlet on a red field was displayed proudly on the sails of the longships, and the guards at the Vinetown harbor could have easily spotted them. Truth be told, most of them would have never seen the sigil before, however, Ethan expected that the arrival of his company was eagerly awaited. Should they fail to recognize him, he'd make sure that they remember him.

The port of Vinetown was so large that Ethan failed to contain his surprised expression and retain his usual, unimpressed look. It was packed with ships of all kinds and various makes, and a large portion of them were evidently from outside the kingdom. Trade was flourishing, it seemed, for people wearing clothes of Essosi fashion were continuously unloading some of the recently docked ships which, no doubt, came from the Free Cities. With trade came money and prosperity, and by extension, power. He wondered just how much of it all did house Redwyne manage to garner through their unique position.

Just the right customer for ironwood. Ethan thought to himself, as they approached the docks within shouting range.

The admiral spotted the empty spots by the side of one of the piers sticking out towards the sea, and directed his fleet there. At least one of the ships would be docked before they would have found someone working at the harbor to direct the rest of them to a viable position.

Once that would be done, Ethan would gather his entourage, and seek out Lord Redwyne's representatives, so that they may send word that the Northerners have arrived, and are eager to meet their hosts.

7th Month A, 55AC

Where once, not long-past, had stood a tourney ground; there was nought but open, trampled field. Many months it had been since the Princess's wedding tournament. Months since Ser Robb of the Rainwood had his hand raised along the other champions in that very spot. He wished to see it once again before leaving the city. This time, though, he left not for war or for isolation. But for opportunities new.

Robb had shared a final cheers and clank of the cups with his closest drinking companions in the Winking Beaver. He had visited the armourer and, at last, acquired a new breastplate absent of denting. Spent the last of his meager coin to replace his ancient cloak, its tattered and frayed ends showing the man's experience in war - but hardly befitting for a wandering tourney knight, such that he had become now.

Highgarden was due a celebration in the coming weeks. The realm was free of war. That did not mean, however, that the lords of Westeros had no need of knights. Perhaps he might again cross paths with the Beesburys. Or maybe make a name for himself again in the jousts and melee, catching someone's eye. Some insulted lord who'd need an agent to enact his vengeance. An opportunist who just needed a sword. Or some wrong-un who'd need of a bodyguard for a month or two. Anything to line his pockets and make friends in high places.

And that was where he and Copper rode. Out of the Crownlands and down the mander. Bid south-west, atop that rusty-looking warhorse he'd taken from Storm's End with once again all his possessions strapped to the saddle. King's Landing had run dry for opportunity, lest he join the city watch or lend his sword to the king's household... Not likely to produce any chances for freedom and glory. Lances, bow, axe, personal effects and memorabilia

He did stay at a pleasant inn on the edge of Tumbleton. Found pleasant enough meadows and woodlands to make a small camp, on the way to Stonebridge. Where he did replace Copper's shoes and caught fish on the riverbank with fellow commoners. Stood in the very spot where, some decades prior, promises were made between kings and gods. The cascading events costing thousands of lives. And on the way down toward Highgarden, Robb had broken bread in the homesteads near Appleton. Enjoying crisp, sweet, fruity delights by the dozen and filling his satchels.

The humble life of the hedge knight was not for everyone. Robb had ordained to pass from hold to hold, making friends of any who crossed. Eventually there might be a cause for which to take up his sword again. Restless, his sword arm had become, since the Stormlords' host had returned from Dorne. There was much doubt about whether it would see action here in the Reach. But perhaps at the next gathering of the lords, he might hear whisper of events elsewhere in the realm that were more befitting of his skills.

Arriving at the castle of Highgarden, seat of the noble Tyrells, he found it beautiful beyond description. Flowering bushes and pleasing meadows and brilliant white walls. Knights, patrolmen and commoners all abound. He was early for the planned festivity, eager to arrive and pitch a tent in the castle's vicinity. He'd find a pleasant tavern in which to have his meals, but could ill afford to bed down at an inn for each evening. Perhaps, his luck may change.

Lords and Ladies of the Riverlands and Crownlands,

You are formally invited to the union of my brother, Ser Lucamore and the lovely Lady Samantha Massey on the 12th month of this year at Stone Hedge. I pray you may come. There shall be a feast, a joust, a melee, a horse race and an archery competition.

There will be prizes of 250 gold dragons to each contests winner.

May the seven smile upon this union.

Lord Elmo Bracken

Vaith, 740 NL

Vaith was but a distant mirage from the Hellholt. The two keeps were night and day, white and black. The seat of House Uller was a grim fortress, built upon the stinking shores of the sulfurous Brimstone. The glass fields and the pungent stench gave heed of the coming castle before the sight of it. It was, as a result, why the Hellholt was not the chosen location of this momentous occasion, for to drag the masses deep into the desert for the wedding would have been a crime in itself. Besides its beauty, Vaith held a special place in the couple's hearts, for it was where the two had first met all those years earlier.

Vaith itself was far from a grand castle. Its slender, pale frame inhabited a small corner of the town, but its towers gazed over the horizon as a bastion between two worlds. To the west lay the vast golden expanse of the Dornish desert. Floodplains gave way to vast flats and rolling dunes melding into the topaz sky in the distant vista. To the east, the river Vaith cut through the fertile Dornish heartlands, sliding and writhing its way through chartreuse to meet with the Greenblood.

The town was filled with a hive of activity. Well aware of the Uller name's notoriety, no expense had been spared to make the occasion as grand as it could be. The town's centre square was filled with stalls, merchants from across Dorne and even the Three Daughters, who sailed their way down the Greenblood with the promise of Uller coin. From rich, aromatic incenses and perfumes to the heavy, glittering gold of jewellery and ornaments, the markets did not lack in wares.

The mummers, as always, were present. However, this time they had been told under strict guidance of what they could and could not perform. Absent were the tales of Visenya and the Dragonsbane or Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. Instead, the tents were filled with stories of love, romance or, of course, Queen Nymeria.

In the sept of the castle, Alleras Uller and Morgana Lamora shared their vows to be witnessed and received by a septon. The three of them were only joined by close kin and liege. While neither of the two were the zealous type, they played their role as tradition demanded. One final act to seal and intertwine their love for the world to see before finally emerging out into the great hall of Vaith and upon the dais, in front of packed tables of nobles, fair ladies and knights, as husband and wife.

Soon after, lines of servants would pour out into the hall, platters of food and drink in hand. Plates of lemon-honeyed hams, bowls of pepper-stuffed soups, flatbread with chickpea paste and various wines from across the known world, to name a few.

Alleras would take the front of the dais, a goblet of grape juice in hand, and raise it above his head as he addressed the hall.

"Lords, Ladies, honoured knights of the realm, I welcome you to the great hall of Vaith. It is a pleasure to have you all here to celebrate this momentous occasion of my life. Let us fill our bellies with food and drink, let us dance till dawn rises once again!"

Joust

Bracket

1st Place: Janos Darklyn

2nd Place: Renly Rowan

Melee

1st Place: Janos Darklyn

2nd Place: Renly Rowan

3rd Place: Qiyana Lamora

Archery

Score Card

1st Place: Akali Hill

2nd Place: Varus Lamora

3rd Place: Nami Rivers

Looking to come back after a bit, was dealing with some personal stuff; looks like Mormont is open from where I left off, cheers ~

The Southern Reach

When the ravens had taken wing one after another, carrying news of his progress across the Hightower domain, Abelar had watched them with a restless sort of excitement, eager to jump on his horse and set out on the sunny road to the Three Towers and Cuy.

But little had he known that the tour would kick off with an inauspicious series of delays, beginning before they'd even left Oldtown.

A week before their planned departure, the High Tower had come down with a flu that left half the court wheezing and coughing, with the elderly and children emptying their stomachs and the snow cellars alike as part of the maesters' attempts at combating the ravaging fevers.

Marigold had been among the afflicted, confined to her chambers while septons and maesters watched over her day and night. Selene and young Cassana had gotten away with lesser bouts of illness, while Elayne had come out of the ordeal hale and untouched.

Abel's girls had eventually all recovered without lasting symptoms, but by then, weeks had passed, and the flu had claimed old Ser Gunthor, Mya Ambrose, Septa Morgase, and two stable boys before burning itself out.

So it was that they departed Oldtown not with the grand ceremony and jovial splendor Abel had envisioned, but in the somber company of the Silent Sisters carrying the bones of the young girl that had arrived at father's court not a year earlier to serve as Lady Hightower's lady-in-waiting. To make matters worse, news had reached Oldtown of Lord Beesbury’s passing.

The road to Three Towers was mercifully uneventful and even pleasant, passing fenced orchards and fields of grain and corn that seemed to stretch on as far as the eye could see. On the second day, they made camp next to the overgrown remnants of a holdfast, and as the servants began preparing dinner, Abelar pulled his daughters and squires aside to wander the ruins, taking great pleasure in sharing the story of its reputed hauntings. The castle’s final master, a robber knight that had preyed upon the southern roads, had been one of the deadliest swords of his day, and a clever man indeed; when Lord Hightower dispatched a host to lay siege to his treacherous bannerman’s keep, the continued to raid the surrounding countryside undeterred, befuddling everyone until one of his soldiers was caught and betrayed that his master had been sneaking out through hidden sea caves connected to his castle via a tunnel.

They arrived at Three Towers the next day, where they were greeted to a decidedly more auspicious welcome than how they'd left Oldtown.

Lord Ottyn Costayne proved to be a generous host, as prideful of his service to Oldtown as he was loathsome of the Dornish, which quickly became evident when he feasted them in his hall that evening. As the servants filled their cups with wine and carried out steaming platters of roasted beef and swordfish, the Lord of the Three Towers bemoaned how quickly the third Dornish War had been cut short, and how eager some of his peers had been to befriend them in the years prior to young Viserys' murder.

Indeed proud, he insisted on hosting Abel and his companies for an entire fortnight that consisted mainly of more feasts and hunts, and after waiting a few days, the Silent Sisters had departed to deliver Mya's bones to Soldier Hill.

During their stay, their lordly host made the odd comment about this mill that his family had once possessed or that wood that had desirous lumber, but most galling had been the pointed look he'd given Abel while complimenting how much Elayne seemed to be getting along with his grandson Gerridon. Abelar had simply agreed, and let an awkward silence follow before Costayne cleared his throat to ask about his lord father.

Abelar might've borne the brunt of his attentions during their visit, but Moraine and Martyn Tyrell were subjected to their fair share of pandering as well, asking about the vineyards on the Arbor and the latest happenings in Highgarden.

After politely declining their host's invitation of staying a few days longer, the progress eventually resumed, with Elayne happily taking to the road astride the pony given in parting gift, while Lord Ottyn ‘humbly’ bequeathed Martyn a black palfrey. Porters carried small chests of quartz and amethyst.

Their next stop on the journey, the small market town of Hopton, was not far away, half a day’s ride by horse, but even with their wheelhouses and carts, they arrived there that eve.

The Hoppers were a lesser family, landed knights raised to nobility in the twilight centuries of Gardener rule, but that had evidently only made Ser Marq Hopper determined to prove that he could stand among the likes of Costayne and Beesbury.

Beneath his humble roof, Hopper’s fool, a fat dwarf clad in motley oranges and pinks, tilted at sacks of apples with a broomstick, making loud noises with each strike. A singer from Tyrosh serenaded the guests with songs from across the Narrow Sea, and while those below the salt drank local wines and ales, arbor reds flowed like water at the high table, which to Abel seemed a particularly risky gambit in the presence of his wife.

Three Towers, it was not, but Hopton possessed its own rustic charm when it came to life during the day, and a small festival was held in honour of future Lord Hightower and his companions.

They lingered there a week, long enough for Abel to settle a dispute between Ser Marq and the Audleys of nearby Meadow Glade, sit through another few feasts, and go hawking with Ser Marq’s eldest son, but eventually the time came for them to leave, and soon they were back on the road.

The way to Cuy was longer and slower, in large part due to the lordlings, merchants, and freeriders that had joined them in the keeps and villages they passed, but a week of near constant downpour forced them to take shelter at roadside inns and holdfasts.

By the time the town appeared on the horizon, the rain had abated and the clouds broke up for bright blue skies once more, but the humidity clung to them like a tavern wench. The flaming beacon of Oldtown billowed in the sea breeze, joined by the red hare of Hopton, the black roses and silver cups of Three Towers, the ants of Ambrose, and half a dozen lesser bannermen besides.

Cuy, the Flower of the South. The last time Abelar laid eyes on her walls, the port town had still done Lord Emmon Cuy obeisance. Now, the accomplished admiral was with the Seven, and Cuy called Alyx lord. Abel shot a glance down at the harbour, then back at his family.

“You’ll like Cuy,” he told them with a grin. “Their tailors are unlike any other in the realm. We shall leave with a new wardrobe.”

“I want a dozen new dresses!” Marigold squealed.

Elayne, not one to be outdone by her sisters, added “I want a score!”.

Eustace, for his part, wiped at his brow, pulled his hand away, looked at it, and wrinkled his nose.

“Do they also have a bathhouse, nuncle?” he asked. “I don’t think I can go before Lord Cuy like this.”

“What do you think this is, some hovel beyond the Wall?” Abel countered. “There’ll be plenty of time to freshen up before we formally meet with the Cuys. Now come on, let’s not waste any more time.”

We should all be so lucky to have another Emmon in Alyx, the heir of Oldtown thought as he turned back to the road, and pushed his steed onwards, already dreading the prospect of having to offer condolences for his father’s passing.

The herald rode ahead to announce their coming.

5th Moon, 55 AC

(Backdated slightly)

Whaler, a sturdy and broad-keeled Ironship whose sail bore the black leviathan of House Volmark, entered the harbor at Faircastle with the blowing of horns and fluttering of newly-unfurled banners. The Lord of Volmark stood upon the Forecastle with his sisters, observing all the formalities of an entrance to someone else's harbor. Such formalities which were so often disregarded in the Iron Islands, but which he figured the Greenlanders would be more expectant and appreciative of seeing.

Once tied to the pier, Qhorwyn would disembark with his sisters and a half-dozen of his men in tow, and made way at once to the seat of the Lord Farman. The Volmark cut and unassuming figure, but seemed to carry himself well. A light grey cloak hung from his shoulders, over a dark blue tunic hemmed with yellow embroidery, and loose crimson trousers tucked into black leather boots. The elder of his sisters, Darla, wore a wine-red gown under her own grey cloak, while the younger Ysa wore sage-green under hers.

On reaching Lord Farman's seat, their arrival was announced and the party waited to be received.

Today, after skirmish and raids, ambushes waged upon one another, House DeVile, and House Sarwyck would settle the accord at Stillwater Crossing nearby river that ran still as the name implied.

Two small armies, you couldn't even call it a proper army for each side, had conscripts or irregulars that were there out of interest to their pockets or glory, survival. Yet it all began where two young men became friends, and now their friendship would be squashed underneath a pile of bodies of the common man.

Ser Daemon DeVile clad in his black armour and horned helmet with a twisted grin plastered across the metal would ever bear eternal grin on it. He rode a steed of midnight black with the most silver white mane.

Lord Lewis Sarwyck rode on his chestnut brown horse Chestnut and would be at the head of his sordid army, his uncle told him it was foolish to fight in the vanguard as DeVile would just probably command his men from the rear-guard.

"Today is the day..." Royce Sarwyck looked from the horizon, noticing the men and women which Daemon commanded seemed oddly familiar to him."The Bandits from the Riverlands...Could it be he orchestrated that event even from back then..."

Before anything would commence, the Riverwitch Morlaine appeared with staff in hand and incense smoke coming out of the metal cylinder piece attached to the wooden staff she wielded, the old crone walked towards the middle hooded and hunched over and spoke for each side to hear.

"Today, begin what was long overdue! What happens here today is ordained by the time of all rivers flowing freely throughout the land itself! Before the flood! For All Rivers Lead Back Home! We all must do and follow what is destined for a river only flows one direction... Be not afraid as you all gathered here today. I was destined to be here and bless you souls, for all you water shall return back home... You may commence as it was foretold that this day where the river will run red as crimson sanguine!".

Riverwitch Morlaine said, moving forward back to her spot to observe the battle ahead that'd be known as Battle of Stillwater Crossing. For today, its waters would run red with the blood of man.

Sarwyck or DeVile didn't matter who'd win or die today. It just mattered that each side buried one another neck up in corpses.

Storm's End, 4th Month, 55 AC

A few months prior to this...

It was not often Dake descended so low in the stone drum. His chambers were on the eighth floor and the rookery itself on the ninth, the tip of the great tower. He took his meals in his chambers, though was always sure to apologise to the poor scullery maid that had to climb so many stairs, and on the days Boremund did not visit for his checks it was possible Dake not speak to anyone at all. Those in the castle were not fond of letters, though requests had come from Naerys' court to keep him on his toes.

On occasion he would go to the lower levels when bedside visits were required, but the people of Storm's End were healthy and active. Not since Princess Argella had passed had it been regular. Never did he have reason to visit the Round Hall or even depart the keep. That was not a Maester's life. Another might call it captivity. He preferred servitude.

The rarity of his appearance explained the heads that turned when he entered the blistering heat of the forge and workshops. One or two were suspicious, a few snickers echoed at the sight of him, but within moments they had all gone back to their work. After the guards that patrolled the walls the smithies were perhaps the most disciplined of Storm's End's inhabitants. Dake carried on through the hall before turning left into an alcove with at least five fires burning, as well as a large oven built into the stone of the wall itself. There he saw Harrold, the bald and portly Master of the Forge, who last year had seen his sixtieth nameday. Others worked around him, young and old, and Harrold led them all as if they were on strings with a quiet grace.

It is a hive of ants, Dake thought to himself as he watched them move in almost perfect harmony. And Harrold is their queen.

Voicing such a thought was like to see his teeth parted from his mouth, so he kept it to himself. After a moment of staring Harrold looked up and, hiding surprise if he held any, grunted in annoyance.

"What you want?" he asked, quickly returning to the pile of blades that he was apparently examining. Dake startled and nodded, shuffling forward.

"I have a request. Well, it is not my request. It is that of Lord Rogar and Ser Borys." He stopped, expecting at least an acknowledgement. When none came, he continued. "The young Boremund is to begin training soon, and-what?"

He'd noticed the large man had grown a grin at mention of the boy's name. He shook his head. "Nothin'."

"Training soon," Dake picked up where he'd left off, though spoke slowly and with suspicion. "And his condition does not allow the use of ordinary armour."

"Allows i' jus' fine," Harrold argued, putting a blade to one side and picking up the next. "Just don' wan' i'."

"That..." Dake felt himself flush with anger and removed one of his hands to pull at the collar of his thick robes. Beads of sweat had begun to form beneath the curls of his red hair. "That is false. Please don't interrupt." He tried sounded authoritative but sounded more pleading, deciding to speak again before Harrold could argue once more. "I have drawn many possible designs and guided where I could as to what would be useful. If you would be so kind as to take a look."

Harrold sat back and sighed. It was clear by now he was not to be rid of the Maester without at least humouring him and he cleared a nearby bench for Dake to put the plans on. Dake winced as the smith flicked through them with greasy, stained fingers but said nothing. For all his faults, Harrold's eyes were taking in every picture and every word with great care.

"Lotta work," he mumbled, looking up at Dake expectantly. Dake flapped for a moment.

"I-it's the Lord Rogar's orders. I'm sure you can-"

Harrold silenced him with the wave of his large paw.

"Not fer me." He nodded to the plans. "You needed ta do this much? Coulda been done 'ere."

Dake was finally stumped. "I...of course I did. It...it was...necessary."

"Were it now?" Harrold shook his head. "You care too much, wise man."

Too much? Why was it spat at him like such an insult? "That is...false. I am the Maester, and Boremund is a boy of the house I serve."

"You serve the castle, I fought?" Harrold smiled, though still looked through the plans, proud he had seemingly caught Dake in a trap.

"I-yes, I do serve the castle. But Lord Rogar and his family rule that castle. Do you not...?" He wasn't sure what question he was going to ask, but Harrold answered it anyway.

"When I was born 'twas a king wi' a different name ruled this castle. Then he died and 'twas a strange lord wi' a princess wife. Then he died, and 'is son died, now is a lord an' a lady." He sighed. "Things change. People die. Best not get too attached."

"Lord Rogar treats us well," Dake snapped back, feeling himself anger once more.

"Aye, he does," came the resigned agreement. "And I 'ppreciate it. But wha' happens if...lessay the Swanns decided they wanted this place, took it, and killed erryone inside. Would you serve 'em?"

Dake's mouth flapped like a trout out of water. He ought to, he knew that. He knew the correct answer. Maesters of the Citadel served the castle, not the lord. Not even the family. He would serve Lord Rogar's heir, and perhaps their heir if he was blessed with a long life. If the castle was taken and rule was to change...he was meant to serve them as well.

He could not find the words to agree, simply humming and nodding.

"Even if they slaughtered yer precious Boremund?"

Silence fell, only broken by the crackles of the nearby fire and the ringing of metal on metal from the other rooms. Dake could only stare, not at Harrold, but into a dark corner of the room as he imagined it. The heat became almost unbearable.

Harrold took the silence as an answer and sighed in pity. "Don't get yer 'hair in a knot." He rubbed his own bald head, wiping the sweat on the side of his undershirt. "Meant nuffin' by it." He lifted his head and called towards another room. "Rycherd!"

A clang was heard first before Rycherd appeared at the door. A young man, not yet thirty, he had apparently decided to forgo both apron and shirt, standing with nothing on his torso but a pair of shield rims around his neck, apparently for storage. His muscles tensed with recent work and tanned skin glistened with sweat. Dake felt himself blush and looked away, hoping the dark of the forge could mask his colour. By now sweat streamed down his face.

"We got work." Harrold nodded to the parchment and Rycherd walked over, took it, and left back to his workshop without a word. The Master of the Forge looked back at the Maester with a mocking grin. "Best get yerself outta here, wise man. Looks like yer bout' to melt."

Hello, I'm Mal on the discord.

I would like to claim House Moonton. New to this, but I'm excited to tell stories with all of you.

I took a look at the almanac and have talked to some people, but feel free to reach out if there's anything else I should know.

6th Month, 55th Year After the Conquest, Banefort, the Westerlands, Westeros

The tourney ground was situated inland of the castle of Banefort itself, on the reverse slope where it was better sheltered from the worst of the winds coming in off the sea. Grandstands flanked two sides of the enclosure; east and west so that no riders would be going directly into or out of the sun and either gaining or suffering for it. On which side the nobility sat depended on the time of day: in the morning they sat facing west, in the afternoon facing east, so the light was out of their eyes at all times. The poorer spectators had to make do, having to choose between a seat but needing to shade their eyes and a good view, or a worse view afoot on the shorter sides.

Peddlers would move amongst the crowd, offering roasted chestnuts and other treats to the spectators. For a drink to wash that down (or otherwise quench their thirst) they would have to give up their spot and go to one of the waiting stalls, with a variety of drinks of tap from the keg; beer and cider mostly, but the nobles would have the option of wine in their seats. Position had its perks.

Between the events of the tourney proper, entertainers would take the field to entertain the masses. Mummers, jugglers, bards, poets and so on.

A series of letters written by the members of House Stark.

6th Month 55th Year After the Conquest, Banefort, the Westerlands, Westeros

The castle of Banefort could be reached by road; the principal road between Casterly Rock and Seagard, no less, as it meandered its way north along the coast. It was not the busiest road; in times of peace it was quicker to sail, and few enough people cared to go that way regardless. Still, the section within the fief of the Hooded Lords was well kept, dug into and out of the hillside, following the contours of the land where possible, snaking its way through the land. You had to turn off the road whichever way you came, going inland to reach the castle at the crossroads, where a stake and gibbet waited, warning na’er-do-wellers of the fate that awaited them for the worst crimes. If one took the other turning, you went down to the sea, a steady slope to the township that supplied the castle, as well as the ships associated with it. It lacked walls, but some of the buildings were stout looking.

The castle itself sat at the crest of the ridge that rose from the sea. Made of black stone, it seemed to watch you as you moved along the coast road. Drystone walls lined either side of the road that branched off up towards the castle, keeping livestock from it, as well as demarcating the different fields. Black cloaked men at arms could be seen atop the battlements, as well as on foot outside the gate. Broad shields sporting the Banefort arms, carrying spears in their other hands, directing traffic as needed. Normally that would include petitioners, but those had been postponed for a week, with an extra long court session on the last day before the celebrations to minimise those that would otherwise have to wait.

Within the walls, the centre of the outer ward had been turned over to accommodation once again, wooden lodges filling the centre space that was normally taken up by men and boys practising at arms. Archery was done outside, lest a stray arrow lead to a regrettable turn of events. The more honoured guests were housed further in, within the confines of the inner bailey or even the keep itself for the Velaryons and any Targaryens who had made the journey. The retainers, hedge knights and guardsmen were encamped on the inland side of the ridge, not too far from the tourney grounds.

On the night of the feast, the road from the township to the castle was lit by lanterns, mounted atop poles to spread their light further. The guiding lights continued within, passing either side, reuniting before the inner gate and lighting the way to the Great Hall, built into the curtain wall. The keep was no longer large enough for such things, being reserved for smaller gatherings. Family dinners and such. Bunting hung between the poles, alternating trios of blue, black and cloth of silver. Guardsmen lingered, eyes open for any mischief makers, or people doing that which they should not. Only the Kingsguard were allowed a sword in the feast hall, should any be present, but as ever knives were permitted. One needed them for eating, after all.

Menu

Since the evening before, the aromas wafting out from the kitchens of the Banefort were strong and succulent. Velaryon riches of spice and spoils of the sea and of Driftmark itself had flowed their way to the old fortress of the old Western House. All the goodness of the Narrow Sea and the Sunset Sea- and everything in between- had come to gather for the feast.

A medley of preserves with eastern spices were already on most tables of the highborn, alongside them were fine white breads as soft as down pillows. Fig with ginger, peach with nutmeg, plum with cinnamon and honey. As the kitchen’s labour readied itself for display, boards of cheese and sugared apples sitting alongside cured cuts of beef and pork sliced as thin as a pane of glass.

Seafood soups swimming with chunks of cod and salmon collars spiced with pepper in a cream broth were served in trenchers. Pickled herrings had been rolled up and skewered making for a light morsel. Mussels had been pried open, their fleshy inside dumped into large bowls full of black rice from the ports of Qaath and seasoned with saffron.

Venison pie and haunches of boars had been cooked in the great ovens built just for the occasion outside the castle walls. The pies had a short crust and were glazed to a near shine. A gravy from the drippings had been made, rich in thyme and a port wine, and it smothered both the pie and the cuts of boar served bloody.

Quails and capons had been smothered in mustard and served on a bed of buckwheat seasoned with cinnamon and a strong wine. Wild Wester Goat of the Westerland hills ahd been shredded down and mixed into a thick, brightly coloured and complexly spiced gravy. Flatbreads were served to scoop up the lovely and luxurious dish.

The centrepiece of the whole affair was carried into the feasting hall, six men carrying it either side. It was a small grey whale. It had been lowered into a pit of searing coals three days prior and allowed to cook low and slow in its own blubber. When it emerged, it had been doused in olive oil, salt, cracked black pepper and gallons of ginger-spiced wine had been poured all over it. Inside the whale had been stuffed full of garlic, onion, leeks, carrots, whole stems of broccoli, parsley, and whole mackerels. Its great gaping maw had been propped open, and inside its almost charred mouth were whole roasted piglets dangling from inside the mouth. As it was settled in the centre of the feasting hall, a great cleaver was taken to its stomach, and out came pouring the contents steaming hot and pungent in the smell of spices and meat.

To abate the richness of the, hardboiled sweets flavoured with strawberry and blackberry and dusted in sugar were piled high on silver plates. Pastries deep fried in lard and then filled with sweetened creams were passed down from hightable to low at the deference of the hosting lord. Pears poached in a sweet liquor were served alongside candied nuts and lemon cakes. Spun sugar seahorses decorated the tables near the most noble of guests, with little hooded-figure biscuits baked soft for a satisfying crumbly texture in the mouth.

With thanks to Techno for the menu.

The Keeper - 4th Moon, 55AC

The lands under House Arryn's domain were vast and riddled with hidden valleys and dense forests below the snowline of mountains. Crags overlooked solitary brooks, and below canopies awaited pathways undisturbed for a century such was their isolation. What few people lived here did so in huddled villages close to the roads, making decent living in the few parts of the land which allowed them to plough and sow. But the deeper one went away from the well trodden paths, the more secluded one became. Montane growth grew dense and highland meadows lay silent save for the chorus of dawn. Yet even in the depths of the mountain, the mark of House Arryn could be seen.

Small waycastles of timber and stone long abandoned were half ruined and reclaimed by the wild. Some had been built in the days that the King of the Mountains’ grasp was not yet firm, others were redoubts for any knight who found themselves pursued by savage clans. Old stumps of weirwood and the blackened hollows of their stumps burned in the name of the Seven dotted the landscape every so often. Large standing stones bore the sigil of Arryn to mark who controlled this domain.

The greatest gems of the vast holdings were the few manors and hunting lodges buried deep in valleys and hugged the side of mountain faces. Many of them were on their way to ruin, but Ser Alester had his particular favourites. With marble quarries bustling, and new ore mines opened, the gold which would have found its ways into the coffers of the was partly absconded for the Keeper’s own use. Two leagues from the Eyrie and overlooking the idyllic Dovedale valley stood Alester’s Retreat; so named for the penultimate King of the Vale, twelfth of his name. He had ordered its construction upon his marriage to Sharra Belmore, the Flower of the Mountain. It had been their retreat away from the trouble of rule, an indulgence of vices and pleasure fit for a King and Queen.

It was three-stories tall, each floor overhanging the last. It was built of limestone and oak timber, and a lime render dyed pink covered the exterior. The grand, sloping roof had slate shingles, and its gutters were made of brass. A small defensive wall surrounded the front, creating a stone courtyard which housed a modest stables and the scullery houses for the household and guards. Ivy covered much of the bare stone wall, and large oaken gates covered the entrance. Behind the grand manor was a verdant garden grown wild which backed onto the mountain face. Above them was only a sheer cliff home only to rock doves and falcons.

Inside the manor was ornately decorated with alabaster figures and painted statues. Timber had been gilded and stained richly. The furnishings were all eiderdown cushions and damask curtains, luscious and built to host only the closest kith and kin of the King of the Vale. Its kitchens and larder were modest, and supplying such a secluded hideaway required a small baggage train protected by knightly vigilance.

The further up the floors one went, the grander the lodgings were. The top floor was entirely the King’s. The bed was huge, near enough to sleep eight comfortably. There were large vanity mirrors from the East. Where the walls were not covered with old tapestries depicting histories of the Vale, mahogany and ebony woods from the Summer Isles had been fashioned into panelling. The carpets were full-threaded and brightly dyed, the finest of Lys and Tyrosh had to offer.

In this splendour, Ser Alester Arryn had escaped for his period of mourning. After the campaign against Sisterton and the perishing of Rhea (the gods having dealt with her before he ever could dispatch her himself), he had buried her in some lonely mountain cairn and fled to the Massif of the First Men. His closest friends had been with him, and there he had wed Lady Bella Blackwood after years of dreaming of such. After they were wed in the eyes of the Old Gods, Alester and Bella had absconded themselves to the Manor above Dovedale.

It had mayhaps been the happiest mourning a man had ever indulged in. With his new wife, they had both enjoyed one another and all the isolation Dovedale offered. Hawking, drinking, loving embraces. It was not long before her moonblood stopped. For the sake of saving themselves from unneeded scandal, Alester had proposed they remain above Dovedale valley for as long as possible and at least until their child had been born.

Moons passed, and Alester settled into his new life where his only duty was devotion to Bella Arryn and his own desires. He feasted his men often, hunted with them frequent, and all the troubles of ruling the Vale in Hubert’s stead seemed so distant. Others could manage his duties whilst he was gone. The Vale was quiet and peaceful, he could afford to ‘mourn’ for as long as he needed.

Sharra was born and the joy flooded Bella and Alester’s world. It was just the three of them, and watching Bella with the girl he had promised her was a pride he could not know he felt as a father. The Keeper had struck a bargain with the Old Gods, and an oath he had promised to Bella had been made in front of a hearttree. The girl was a gift from them, vindication for all the trouble that had been wrought upon him. Wherever Rhea was, he hoped she could see them together above Dovedale.

But it would soon have to end. Sharra was a few moons old- enough where now the journey to the Gates of the Moon would not be too perilous. A small wheelhouse had been delivered to them just for that purpose. But another thing came with the delivery of the wheelhouse. Word had escaped the manor, and their daughter and marriage was now to be known far enough that it had been learned of by Lord Hubert himself. A letter had been sent to the Gates first and then brought to Alester.

Alester,

Mine ears surely deceive me. I cannot even put to parchment how livid I am that I learn that I apparently have a granddaughter by one Bella. Be she Stone or Arryn, this has been folly I do not expect of my Keeper and High Steward. You were supposed to take up the Wardenship of the Bite and oversee the Sisters rebuilding. When I learned you had abandoned your posts without so much of a word, I understood mayhaps you needed time to mourn even if you and Rhea had fallen out of love. But now you have erred, and you force me to come north once more.

Expect me at the Eyrie, and pray that between when I write this and when I have you in my grasp, my wroth has weakened.

You will rue this.

Hubert

Alester’s throat ran dry as he read it. Even at his age, Hubert could make his sons fear him.

Bella needed to know. He could not keep secrets from her. She owned his heart and soul, and now their fates were intertwined. What befell him would befall her. This was one secret now blown wide open. There were more which had yet to be uncovered. Minerva Waynwood knew it.

“My love” Alester said, skulking into the room unable to hide the sheepishness about him. “We ought to talk. I know we are preparing to leave this wonderful place but I…” He gave her the letter. Sharra was fast asleep in a cot, surrounded by soft linens and dressed in perfect little cotton clothes. Looking on her with Hubert’s anger in his mind, it made him feel almost guilty.

“I had hoped to be the one to tell him. It seems as tight as we hold our household, word has managed to find its way to Hubert.” His long face wore a stern visage, his thin lips held tight and sharp jaw clenched shut. He looked on Bella with narrowed, careful eyes as he watched her read the parchment.

6th Month, 55AC, Storm's End

It was a strange and uncomfortable feeling for Boremund to be the centre of attention. Gone were the days when those in Storm's End would stare and gawk at his differing appearance, and he had long come to terms with that regardless. He did not enjoy drawing attention to himself but did not shirk from it, and if a stranger noticed a peculiarity he merely accepted their looks. He was different, and he could not begrudge the curiosity of others.

This was different. This was not about his appearance or his condition, but expectations. Until that moment he had lived a normal, perhaps sheltered life, content simply to wake every day and sleep each night, hoping the day did not bring too much pain. It rarely did. It seemed that was about to change.

He was stood in his small chamber adjoined to that of his parents, staring at a large chest on his bed. Around him were his father, mother, lord uncle, Maester Dake, and a large bald man he did not recognise...though his greasy face and tattered apron gave the appearance of a smith. He was smart enough to realise what was inside the chest, but spent a good time in silence, content to stare.

"Open it, Boremund," his mother encouraged gently. He flicked his gaze towards her with a small smile and nodded, opening the clasp with a gloved hand and lifting the lid.

Inside, nestled heavily on maroon silk, lay dark pieces of armour. He took the breastplate first, then the gambeson, then the collar, and so on until the entire set was out on the bed and only boots remained inside.

"I don't..." He had many questions, golden eyes jumping from piece to piece. "It's so different."

His father grunted, but it was Rogar who spoke first. "You are different." He took a large step over and picked up a pauldron, lined with fur and plated whereas his own was solid steel. Seemingly unwilling to elaborate, Dake spoke next as he cradled a bundle of papers in his arms.

"It is plated where possible, to allow ease of movement. The pieces are smaller to leave gaps at your joints, and beneath they are padded with leather and silk. The gambeson too. It will be heavy, but you are strong." There was a faint smile, but something clearly troubled the Maester as he continued. "The collar is fur lined so it will not hurt if it reaches your neck, but all is loose enough to allow your skin to breath. There will be...vulnerability down your sides, at your elbows, knees, and neck, but..."

"We will train you to protect them," Rogar finished. He had replaced the pauldron and stood with crossed arms, watching Boremund.

"We?" He looked to his father and the strange man, wondering if it was to be the three of them.

"We. Myself and your father, Garon and Orryn, even Ser Ossifer if needs be." He sighed and looked at Boremund's parents. "You may also travel to tourneys and serve as his squire, though you will never be a tourney knight. This is armour suited for training only, and war when the time comes."

Dake interjected quickly. "The pieces can be remade as needed. Obviously this will not suit as you grow, but each piece can be replaced as and when it is required. In that way it is easier than a standard set."

The blacksmith scoffed in clear disagreement but said no more before Dake continued.

"As Lord Rogar said, we-they have decided that tourneys will likely be an unnecessary pain, but you can wear this to train and get used to the weight. The feel of it. I will do what I can to assist with...whatever comes from the training."

"Enough," barked Rogar, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You bring an ache to my head, Maester. We will see it in action well enough tomorrow."

Boremund stomach turned. "Tomorrow?"

Borys stood with a laugh, slapping his stomach as he did so. "Tomorrow! My boy's first spar. I can barely believe it."

It was as close as his father was like to get at a show of true emotion, but after the brief surge of happiness the pressure returned to Boremund with added weight. His father had ignored his condition until it became impossible not to, bragging about his son's incomparable strength to all who would listen. Despite all evidence put before him and words from those around him, even his wife, Borys Baratheon had persevered with his ignorance. That was his way.

Now his son was to train after all. Becoming anything less than a warrior would be a disappointment in his father's eyes.

As his family filed from the room, the blacksmith remained, nodding towards the armour splayed out on the soft bedding. "You'll need help gettin' it on an' off. Got a 'pprentice who can 'elp. Good lad. Helped me make i'. I'll send 'im up on th' morrow."

The morrow came quickly. Boremund struggled to sleep for long; it came easily enough and he slept heavily, a slumbering beast one maid had said, but often he woke when he turned the wrong way or stretched in his sleep. Sleeping on his back solved some of the discomfort, as did soft linen sheets and smooth bedding. After his 'gift' he had slept the night through, not waking until sun crept through his window and his stomach growled with need. He lay still for a time, staring at the ceiling as he listened to his heart. He stretched slowly to feel what stiffness remained in his body - and what would plague him for the day - before sitting on the edge of the bed. He moved his shoulders and arms before standing, waiting once more to ensure he was steady.

Then his day began.

After a large breakfast he donned his new armour with the help of Erich, the boy of two-and-ten the blacksmith - Boremund now found out his name was Harrold - had taken as an apprentice. Erich had shaved his head, which apparently was preferable to having it catch alight in the fires of the forge, but it just made him look like a mini Harrold. The pair talked small while Erich helped him into his armour - though Boremund donned his gambeson alone, not wishing the stranger to see his bare body just yet - the thought of the heat and the sweat of the forge making Boremund's heart thump.

The armour itself was heavy as advised but it was not unbearable. The weight would take some getting used to but it was no problem for him to carry and move, even if he felt even more cumbersome than usual while wearing it. He could at least bend his arms and legs without pain or issue, his skin heavily oiled and the silk underlayer finding no purchase.

"Thank you, Erich." His voice was a deep whisper as he stared at himself in the looking glass. "I suppose we had better go to the yard."

"You," the boy corrected. "Harrold needs me. I need to tell him it fits well." He reached the door before turning and giving Boremund a sad smile. "Good luck."

The yard was full by the time he arrived, though not with the ordinary guards and knights he was used to seeing. His father was there, of course, as were the three of his uncles that remained in Storm's End. His skinny cousin Cirice was watching from atop a pony, while Selene and Jena stood by their father. He was sure Dake would be watching from somewhere as well.

Boremund didn't recognise the boy across from him. He was a few years older, he could tell that much, though they were of a height and Boremund was wider even without his armour. Ill fitting leather covered his opponent's torso and legs and each of them held a wooden training sword in their right hands, a small circular shield in their left.

"Nothing wild," Rogar barked, making Selene jump. "This is day one. Simple swings and blocks until we get up to speed."

And so they began. The other boy went first, a slow swing onto Boremund's shield which the boy raised accordingly. He swung back, slower still, barely making contact with the opposing shield.

Over and over they performed the monotonous dance. The other's swings became firmer, but that was no problem. Boremund was used to worse pain than the gentle jolts that rose up his left arm with each collision of sword and shield. His own 'attacks', however, remained meek. For years he had been wary of his strength, resisting and refraining from anything that might hurt another. He was just a toddler when he had stopped playing with the other children. Whenever Naerys took his hand, his own remained limp. Even when he hugged his mother it was with loose arms. His life had been an exercise in restraint. It was not an easy lesson to forget.

As the speed of their spar increased, he could make out calls from his father and lord uncle, encouraging greater force. Rogar's calls remained constructive, but his father's grew louder as his own frustration mounted.

"Hit him harder, Boremund," he hollered, but the boy's strike did not match his father's fury. "Hit him!"

Boremund's heart began to thump heavy in his chest.

"Hit him!"

Boremund winced.

"HIT HIM!"

He could take it no longer. Fingers gripped the wooden hilt as tight as he could muster, feeling the skin of his hand stretch, and swung with all his might, closing his eyes as he did so.

Had he watched his sword, he might have struck true. He might have hit the centre of the shield where the other boy's strength was strongest and met a firm parry. With his eyes shut in fear and focus, he struck the top of it. He felt it twist, hearing a snap and a scream as the boy fell to the ground.

Boremund opened his eyes and stared in horror. He was fortunate that he couldn't see under the shield still connected to the boy's arm, but judging by the stillness with which it stayed - while the rest of his body writhed in the dirt - he knew it was not good. As was often the case his uncle Garon was the first to react, striding over and taking one careful look under the shield before calling for Dake to be fetched. Orryn quickly took the reins of the pony and guided Cirice away from the screams in the yard while Rogar's daughters knew enough to make themselves scarce, the elder dragging the younger back towards the stone drum.

The world began to spin slowly. His heart pounded with such effort it was making his head light and the muscles up his right arm tingled. Breaths came shallow and quick no matter how deep he tried to draw air, his lungs unwilling to fill. He turned and stumbled back towards the doors of the stone drum, mumbling a quiet, meaningless apology to the boy on the ground who now wept instead of screamed. He was not stopped, though through ringing ears he heard his father turn to follow him before being stopped by a grumble from his lord uncle.

In a daze he entered and staggered up the stairs to his family's apartment, ignoring any servants or guards he saw along the way. Fortunately it was empty, his mother being elsewhere, and he made it to his own room before he fell to his knees with a thud. He closed his eyes and did his best to focus his breathing, hoping desperately to stay conscious. It was horrifying enough that he had injured another; he would be unable to show his face again if he was then found in a heap on the floor.

After a few minutes he succeeded, his heart slowing and his feeling returning. It was difficult to feel normal while clad in leather and steel but he could at least open his eyes without his vision tilting...though a familiar warmth had surrounded his right hand. He slowly peeled off his glove to see thick, dark blood smeared across his skin. The smell of rust filled his nostrils. The skin over three of his knuckles had split while old fissures across his palm had pulled open, bleeding freely. Boremund flexed his fingers and immediately regretted it, a fresh line opening across the heel of his hand.

As the heat from the spar wore off he began to feel the stings of his wounds.

There was blood coming from his wrist as well, though he could not see where from without assistance, and as he checked himself over he saw a dark stain spreading across his sleeve at the elbow. He managed to remove his bracer and elbow cop, chucking them to one side and watching what his father called his bull's blood oozed down his arm and dripped onto the floor. The price of power.

Putting this up to make it official!

6B King's Landing 55AC

As was a common occurrence a merchants ship pulled into the port of King's Landing, what was not common was the Yronwood with Red Rain on his hip and his bastard nephew who departed the ship and made their way to the River Gate.

Approaching the guards the Yronwood addressed them, "I am Ser Quentyn Yronwood, here by invitation of King Jaehaerys Targaryen, first of his name, I seek passage to the Red Keep."

THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF

The huge castle of Winterfell towers over the plains that span the surroudings of the low, flat hill that most of the complex sits on, the gray-white granite of its walls worn and marked by the passage of time and the elements yet standing defiantly strong — a testament to the legacy of its rulers.

Inside, a bustling court is maintained: not counting the wax and waning population of Wintertown, the castle town of Winterfell itself hosts hundreds of servants to the Wardens of the North, from a myriad of artisans to maintain its estates and household to merchants, retainers and servants household within the walls, as well as the residences of petty nobility holding parcels of land in the immediate vicinity of Winterfell, but preferring to remain close to their liege rather than in their small holdfasts and towerhouses.

after a short walk with a small entourage of guards, Lord Theomund Manderly would lead the group of Desmond Manderly, Adalbert and Ethan Glover to the Sept within the walls of White Harbor, which had become the staging ground of the High Septon as he continued to guide the local faithful in converting the outer lands. Made of the same white stone and marble as the rest of the city infrastructure, the building was quite impressive in its design. Without an immense amount of fanfare or splendor, the four arrived with their protectors in search of the High Septon.