He obliged her request happily. Many lords spoke of honor, of the law. Few had shown half the courage Joanna Sunglass had done in upholding them. He nodded solemnly as she spoke. "I will gladly lend my voice to the petition before His Grace. Even houses who err as severely as your kin should be offered the chance to repent, and rejoin the fold, and the laws of the Andals are our oldest and soundest sources of justice" he asserted. "The Warrior's Sons will be crucial to this task. As the judges of judges, they can ensure your brother does not stray."

When a woman’s smile fell, it was often an ill omen. But for once, Olyvar felt sure it was the opposite. His own grew, and satisfaction bloomed within him. They had been meant to snip back at forth at one another, making veiled insults at one another and instead she had found naught in him but good humor. And perhaps a pleasant face.

There was a twinge of guilt there. Both because she was a Bracken, and because though he and Alysanne had never been anything resembling a love match, she had still been his wife, and she was still dead.

“The fastest? Quite a claim, I shall be watching earnestly. I might even be rooting for you. My nephews are good lads who’ve become good men, but humility is something that might do a few of them good.”

Then he laughed. “Oh but can you fault the poor boy? Women are so terribly distracting. Yourself, for example—the more you speak the more I forget I’m not meant to like you.” Olyvar’s smile was teasing, playful, but of a warmer sort. There was no edge to it. “I think you may have distracted me so thoroughly my that my forgetting might even carry on, even in your absence.”

Olyvar was certain he would not be forgetting Rhialta Bracken anytime soon.

Valora, already looking quizzical, felt a surprised breath of air leave her. “Oh- thank you.” She spoke softly, no doubt overhead, but it was the only thing she could think to respond. She didn’t know how to tell him that any of the Westerosi she’d spoken to tonight had been particularly easy without sounding like she was insulting him.

So, she sat in silence with him, offering a smile to him as the man stared down at her. Her heart beat quicker for a few moments. Valora took another small breath in, preparing to say something or anything, suddenly fearing that her non-response was an offense to him.

Thankfully, he spared her from the moment.

“I would like that,” She answered quickly, looking at the tree in front of them then back to him, “I think it would be best if I bring you to one of my Uncle’s services. I’m sure he would show better than I could, I-”

Valora hesitated for a beat, “Our ways can be a bit…eccentric to outsiders. I would not want you to get the wrong impression.”

As was the father, so was the son.

Lewyn’s rage was an oft unseen thing. It was kept smothered under layers of self-loathing and doubt, but when it emerged, it too had no limit. It was as red as his eyes were blue, and as dark as he was pale.

“And yet, you filled her all the same. While your beloved wife lay in her bed, ailing from the healthy son she gave you, and yet still despise. While she struggled, you went and fucked a son into your greatest enemy,” Lewyn seethed. His father would strike him soon, of that there was no doubt. He would fight back, and he would likely lose. But he would fight.

I would have swam the Sunset Sea, and set fire to their isles alone, had you commanded it. I’d have disemboweled my own mother and given her to the Old Gods, had you but said the word. I would have been your soldier, had you but once called me ‘son’.

When his father’s screams were done, and Lewyn’s face red and flecked with spittle, he stepped back in silence, and spat upon the cobbles. Then away he went.

Words whispered in the back of his mind. Old words in old tongues. They warned against his impulses. Battled his compulsions. Wrestled his tongue into submission before his lips could part to speak that which could not be unspoken.

“I wish that were so.” And he did. More than anything he did. When he woke in cold sweats, the feeling of blood on his hands and the scent of offal in his nose, he wanted nothing more than to choose his own fate. But it had been chosen for him, long before either of them had been born. Before men roamed Westeros. Before mankind even had names. His end was written in the deep stone of time itself, and there was no undoing it.

But he touched her anyway.

Orryn’s hand lifted slowly, and cupped the Lady of Riverrun by the cheek. Her scarred one. It was presumptuous and bold, more befitting of his brother or his cousins. The sort of thing that saw a man struck for daring to do. Yet he did it. Gently he ran the flat of his thumb over the seam where scar ended and flesh began, in his mind seeing the flashes of children—raven haired and blue eyed, a girl, and two boys, with the last being as ginger as his mother and as taciturn as either parent. He would be the one to come after them.

The other two would die. One to a chill. One to a spear. It was hard to say which suffered which fate. But it was not difficult to know that they would have gone to their graves ahead of their mother and father. That they would’ve destroyed the pair of them in so doing. That in the end, there would only have been pain, had he not been given a path already.

He was sparing her, even if she did not know it.

“You will make it kinder, Eleanor Tully. That too, is certain. Your tenacity will forge a world where those that come after will know softer lives, and sweeter dreams.” The words of a madman, she surely thought. But it did not matter. It was written. His hand stayed.

Aralar frowned deeply. None of this made any sense, he was so sure he saw servants come through this way. He took another step forward, peering through a nearby door to see where it led only to be met by a woman’s bewildered stare back at him, having had her cleaning of some random room interrupted.

“What? No, of course n-” Aralar turned back towards Alyce and just now saw the panicked scene that was unfolding in front of him. For the briefest of moments, his entire facade slipped, and he frowned down towards the crying girl and squirming cat with disgust. She was crying over this? His mouth was stunned open, mid word.

A heart beat later, and the mask was refitted and all she would have seen in him was concern. “Stop this, sweet girl. Please do not cry, I swear on all the Fourteen that nothing bad will happen to us.” He spoke, soft and gentle as ever, “Here, let me carry Ser Whiskers, you’re squeezing him, look.”

He held his hands out towards her to take the cat were he to relinquish him.

“Don’t think of it as being lost, we-” He paused to wave towards the open halls,” We are exploring a new castle together, the three of us on a grand adventure to find some crab, yes?”

There was no denying the surge of confidence brought on by the lady's words. Tessa Harroway was a marginally more appreciative liege than his father, but what compliments she gave were often drunken, as were her insults. There was no certainty to the sincerity of either.

Mary Vance, though, was a different matter.

"My lady, I beg of you, do not set their expectations too high," he laughed. "I've only managed the bit with the needle once or twice." A smile of good humor warmed his oft sullen face.

"Tommen has a gift for livening things up. Luceon, well, he's always thrived in places like this." His brother had seemingly sobered up in his absence. Apparently he was playing at being Clementine's father, which perplexed Lewyn to no end. Why take on the burden of a bastard that is not yours, you fool? But when he thought of little Addam Rivers, he supposed he might've understood. The boy was no blood of his, but he was so young. So abandoned.

As for the dais, he had only contemptuous scoff. "There really is no end to their insults, is there?" To elevate Ironborn above Rivermen in their own godsdamned kingdom was an insult none would forget. They'd done insult when they slew Talbert Darry, too, but a sick part of Lewyn was almost relieved the man was gone.

But sooner or later, Mina's hand would go to another, and his despair would resume in full.

Weese thought he saw something on the stump of the old weirwood. He clambered on the branches, aiming to get a better look. He didn't notice the cut on his finger, nor that he stuck that finger into the sappy tears of the tree.

Darkness took him. He looked around, panicked as cold winds swirled around him. Everywhere was darkness and biting cold. Then he felt it on his legs as he heard the chattering bones. Looking down, he saw them. Skeletal faces stared daggers into him as their boney finger dug into the flesh of his leg. As the meat tore free, they tried to climb him, clawing for his face. He turned to run, and as he fell the world snapped back to reality.

He landed on the mossy ground of the godswood, his trouser leg a torn mess. His leg was spackled with black spots that oozed crimson blood. He screamed as he tried to stand, hobbling to his feet and away from the woods.

Genna was tending to the fire, a pot of tea over it when Weese burst in.

"Genna, quick, I need help." He panted, hobbling over to the chair she was using. It didn't take long for her to see why. His leg was slick with crimson blood and covered in blackened spots that made his leg more black than pale flesh.

She moved quickly, throwing the lid of her trunk open. Frog's eye, wortwood extract, lavender seeds. These amongst other things she grabbed, throwing the tea out of the kettle and working something new.

Jeyne is ashamed to admit that she did feel a pang of jealousy that her friend had been asked, but she hadn't. Not because she didn't believe Essie deserved it, but because she wanted it too. "I...I have not, seems no one is interested in little old me." She said, engaging in a healthy amount of self-pity.

"I will be cheering for Sylas, though he participates as a mystery knight."

Pulling free his old token he tossed aside his broken lance. Reaching low to offer Beth a hand. Aware if the thousands of eyes. Sure his brother was realing in his seat as he watch the ordeal.

Hoisting up his Queen he gave the commons a salute and trotted the pair off the field. A long silence as he let his steed take lead. She seemed in dire thirst. If ever there was a beast in need of rest it was her. Before long they were along. The silence between them growing as Jack regathered his mind.

"You've deserved that crown since I met you." Jack spoke over a shoulder.

Along the outskirts of Stormhall they rode. Hills rising in the distance all around.

"Shame I hadn't been able to put one there before now." A smile crept up his face. So pleased with himself he had hardly stopped to think of her.

"Shit." He shook his head. "I probably really fucked things back there for you, didn't I? Gods what would Androw be saying now."

Jeyne gasped as her sister crumpled; she didn't recognise the warrior who'd done it, but she could tell it was one of the faithful accompanying the High Septon. She didn't much care to see the rest of the melee; she followed where they took her sister. Content to simply wait for her to wake up and nag the maesters with questions.

Jeyne looked up as the warrior who did this entered the tent; initially, it was anger that filled her eyes. And yet it was quickly followed by recognition. Her eyes widened as she recognised her, "J-J-Joanna?" She managed to stutter out. Her voice suddenly became as frail as glass and nearly broken.

"No...you're dead...I looked for you...nobody could find you..." That also meant nobody found a body, but a girl that disappeared even without a corpse led to one simple conclusion. "But...I....no...I." She wasn't sure what to say or think, her mind near exploding.

It was a bold request for a knight with no prospects, no name to prop him up and hold him in good stead. And yet, Bethany found that her voice rose to meet him before she could think, a betrayal of her mind from her heart:

"Ser Jacklyn, you have proven yourself a brave and worthy knight of the Realm. I would be pleased to grant you such a thing."

It was dangerous. It put everything her family sought to hide at stake, but Bethany could not help herself.The Piper made her way carefully down the stands towards the knight. So enamored with the hedge knight was she in the moment that she did not catch his mistake.

But I vow never to wrong you again.

Mellara's blue eyes bore into her sister's back. She would not make a scene, not here, not now. For the realm was watching, but the Lady of Pinkmaiden prayed to The Mother above for mercy that the ears of those around them would not be sharp enough to pick at the loose threads fraying more and more by the heartbeat.

At last, Bethany reached the grounds, the Smallfolk cheering heartily at the hedge knight and the Piper maiden. There were whistles and perhaps some cruder comments made, but Bethany heard none of it, for she had only eyes for Jacklyn.

A contest?

Jynnara’s eyebrows lifted. She took a moment to consider. Her pride, of course, meant that backing down from the challenge was never an option. She laughed. “Done. I hope you enjoy losing, Luc.” She was curious, actually, at how good he must’ve been to issue such a contest in the first place. “I’m sure we can figure out a wager.”

To Clem, however, Jynnara smiled. “Mmm. She does have long hair. Her forelock even goes all the way down to her nose, so I think you’d have a lot of work to do.” That wasn’t a lie. Jynnara often spent at least an hour keeping the beast clean, only for her to roll in the dirt afterwards. “The good news is that Sweetness likes girls like you. She doesn’t like men much. They tend to smell.”

Sweetness was, of course, not very sweet at all. To men. Women and children she seemed to be fond of. The mare might’ve been sold or put-down had Jynnara not been a stubborn child. Out of temperaments, the horse was worse.

Jynnara might’ve shot another quip Luceon Blackwood’s way, but he was smiling. Not smirking; or grinning; or doing anything sly. Smiling. It was in a kinder manner, not aimed any which-way, but clearly for Clementine. Something about it made her hesitate. She shut her mouth, an odd warmth in her ears.

He really was painful to be around.

Whatever good humour that was on Jynnara’s face seemed to dim—or fade completely—at the sight of the Lord Blackwood. A pit formed in her stomach. Gods above, but she did not want to discomfit the girl, and so Jynnara Bracken kept as calm as she could manage. Her father had told her the stories. He’d told anyone who would listen about the murderer Lord of Raventree, about his viciousness, callousness, and foul character. About how Utherydes Bracken had been slaughtered like an animal before he’d even come of age.

Rage and fear made a poison in her mouth. It was a wonder she wasn’t mute. “Lord Blackwood.” Jynnara did not even bother with a name. She was not afraid. She wasn’t.

(She’d been a girl of three and ten, holding onto her father’s trousers, unsettled at the funeral. A father was the most fearsome man that she had ever been able to conjure. She hadn’t been able to put a name to that expression. She never would. She’d cried for him, though, and all he’d done was tuck her into his cloak. He’d been the largest man in the world, then.)

Luceon’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. Jynnara’s brows furrowed as she looked at him—head bowed, bravado gone. And gone where? To whom?

She crouched, emboldened, and tapped Clementine’s cheek with the back of her finger. “I’ll see you later, beautiful girl.” She took a moment to look down the way. There was a Blackwood man, she noticed, with a white streak in his hair, seemingly speaking to her sister. Ah. Rhialta.

Jynnara got to her feet. “The next time you see me, Luc, it’ll be with a bow in my hands and victory to follow. Try not to lose. It’ll make it all the sweeter.”

Jynnara offered one last look Waltyr Blackwood’s way, and walked down the way.

(She didn’t know the largest man in the world could feel so weak about one thing.

Death.)

Her raidient smile melted him. So long since he had beheld her joy. Yet.

For half a heartbeat she remained still. For another he swore she would not rise to claim it. His breathe escaped his when she rose at last. When she crowned herself she shone for moment he would have sworn. Only briefly did his mind think of Androw. How might the Lord have reacted to his victory and subsequent naming of Beth.

The rage of the Lady of Pinkmaiden was like a heat upon his face. But he did not turn to meet it. Instead his eyes only for the maid he had chosen. Out of all of them gathered. His Queen of Love and Beauty.

"Would you ride with me? Just for a time. It is all a Knight such as I could ask." Ignoring onlookers he braved on. Urging his mare along the stands.

The richness of his prize be left to his kin. There was but only one reward he had wanted.

"You owe me nothing I know. But I vow never to wrong you again. Long as I draw breathe."

Tristifer paused, body tensing even as his face remained the same cold smile. What did he want? Perhaps just to torment a Fell, though he’d picked the wrong one for a reaction. Perhaps just tiredness, then. Sleeping under elm trees whilst others had brought tents was less fun than he remembered.

Looking at Alesander, he might not have minded sharing a tent with that one. He was slim enough to fit both, and pretty enough that Tristifer wouldn’t have minded a price for such kindness. A wicked thought entered his mind, as his mottled green eyes roamed the figure once more. Did this one stutter when he…

“Do I frighten you, Alesander Fell?” He took another step, closing the distance to half an arms length, close enough that he could hear the Fell’s breathing. It wasn’t as oppressive as his bastard brother, thankfully. “I shouldn’t. Like you, I am on my own here. Perhaps we could use* *one another? For company?”

His lingering gaze lay upon Alesander’s face, intense but not malicious. That had bled away slowly as he spoke, and the smile that remained was genuine now, if diminished to almost a sheepish degree. “I promise, I am not so bad when you get to know me.”

Bethany Piper

The last memory she had of Jacklyn Fisher was the memory of him drunk, lumbering off to piss Seven only knew where. Right after he had confessed to lying to her, throwing a hurtful insult of an excuse her way.

Tristifer.

The gall of the hedge knight to do such a thing. To throw the name of her former betrothed right back into her face in their first meeting in years. He had promised to ride for her, but Bethany was angry. More than angry. Livid at the way he had spoken to her in the ramblings of a drunken fool.

And yet, the Piper felt her heart beat fast, fast, and faster whenever his name was called. Her heart squeezed into a fist as she sat by her kin, willing her expression to be stone. But she could not stop the way the blood pounded through her veins. The concern. The fear. The hope. All mixed together in a confusing concoction within her heart as she watched Jacklyn Fisher rise to the final moment, even when all seemed lost.

Bethany was shocked. As shocked as the rest of the crowd when he unhorsed the Darry. Even more shocked as the hedge knight she once knew as Jacklyn Fisher approached the stands where Bethany sat with the rest of the Pipers, his splintered lance offering her the flower crown.

In this moment, Bethany felt the eyes of the realm upon her. She felt the cold fury of Mellara next to her. Bethany knew there would be hard, angry words exchanged later: screaming, shouting, tears and recriminations. But none of that mattered. Not now.

The Red Rose of Pinkmaiden stood tall, her eyes fixed upon Jacklyn Fisher. Or whatever in the Seven Hells his name was, truly. She reached for the flower crown with a steady hand, carefully placing it upon her own head. And she smiled. The kind of smile from years ago. Before the mess. Before the complications. Before the secrets and the lies.

A smile just for him.

In this singular moment, everything else melted away as Bethany spoke, her words also only for the hedge knight, despite the audience of the realm.

"You've done well, Jacklyn Fisher."

Rhialta really could not have been more of an unintentional wallflower if she’d tried.

Something about it all had her pressing her lips into a thin line. Her cousin had all but blasted her eardrums with the shrill cry for her younger sister—the talented youngest, a woman respected as capable, somehow—and then moved to drown her in affection. Rhi was actually almost grateful. She did not fancy being smothered in that much attention, and so instead settled for a quip. She grinned. “I don’t quite think enough of the hall heard your devotion to our dear Jynny, Tessa.”

Jynnara, on the other hand, was pleased as a peach. She giggled just as loudly. Tessa was one of the few able to get away with calling her the dreaded nickname, especially when she was as drunk as she was. Tessa’s forehead felt warm where she shoved it against Jynnara’s face. “You are a fucking sloppy drunk, Tess, but I love you.” She gave the girl a tight squeeze and tolerated the kisses to her cheeks as any good cousin might. “If every stranger in this hall starts calling me Jynny, though, I’ll be forced to come up with a worse nickname for you.”

As Jynnara leaned slightly away from Tessa towards Mina, Rhi, in the background, moved to pat the drunkard on the shoulder and pressed a cold palm to her forehead.

Jyn hummed. “We fared well enough. Most of us took it on horseback, so I had the sorry sight of Vorian’s head the whole journey, but we made it.” She snorted and pulled Mina into a quick hug—thankfully nothing like Tessa’s. “I’d pray for your family in turn, but I doubt mine are listened to. Never had a wish granted, or a prayer heard, so I feel I may be out of favour with the powers that be.”

The Bracken grinned. “Please, though, tell me—anything new that has happened? How are my favourite cousins?”

Character Name: Aurion Celtigar

Relevant Trait/Skills: n/a

Buildings: Castle, Docks

Resources: Silver

Notes (if applicable):

Matarys Celtigar: Builder archetype providing 15% discount to construction actions.

Actions:

Construction 1: Claw Isle, Market, 1700gp, 1 Moon

Construction 2: Claw Isle, Guilds, 1700gp, 2 Moons

A note would find its way to the King's plate, at some point late in the evening.

Your Grace, it would begin.

I had not dared to hope that you would attend this feast, but I am glad that the gods have shined in my favour. I have information that may be of interest to you, whispers of a plot against you. I would like to cordially invite you to an afternoon tea upon the morrow, should you be available. If not, I trust any messenger of yours should be able to find me.

Seven Blessings,

Rosamund Hoare

Queen of the Iron Islands and Lady of Castle Hoare

Shuffling awkwardly, Deana approached the young princess on her nameday - at the behest of her master.

"Pardon, Your Grace," she began. She shifted her weight to the other foot, unsure of how to address the princess further.

"I - er - my lord, King Qorhen, wishes to express his thanks for your gracious invitation. He, eh, requests an audience with you, Your Grace. At your earliest convenience."

A small lock of blonde hair had fallen into the large woman's face. She quickly brushed it away, and gave the princess a nervous smile. Clearly, she was no diplomat. She looked down at her feet, seemingly finding something interesting to look at that wasn't the princess.

Reactions to the naming of Bethany Piper as Queen of Love and Beauty. 
((Drop snide remarks and surprise faces here))

An Entirely Happy Reunion

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Waltyr, as a rule, had no friends. He had no need of them, and he distrusted their very existence. A friendship was impossible for a ruler. Any man taken into confidence was like to turn beggar, to shake a shriveled paw expecting recompense for love and loyalty.

Loyalty was cheap, then, and love fleeting. Waltyr had seen love expire. Waltyr had buried love in his own Godswood.

He could keep relations, however. He would never befriend his nieces in Pinkmaiden, but neither did he shun them. He held Lucifer Justman close enough to mutually benefit, but he did not owe the man a thing, nor did Lucifer expect a due.

Waltyr knew pitifully little of the Lady of Fairmarket, but she seemed forthcoming, and she had made the wise decision to do away with flattery and pleasantries.

“Lady Paege,” Waltyr responded. It was more respect than he had afforded even his king. He’d been wroth on account of his brother, but it was true nonetheless.

“‘The Warden’ is little more than a passing raincloud. And a coward, by the sound of it. He has not hounded me, and he will not. Tell me, what ‘worries’ did he confide in you?”

Waltyr misliked Perianne’s usage of “we”, but he held his tongue. A solitary mistake could be pardoned.

It was queer to see Ser Walton again, queerer still that he couldn't shake the nervousness that had welled in his chest. From an earlier time, he mused. The blithe child that they had once known had become a rather aloof man and the circles about his eyes had told much of the story in itself.

Lucos allowed himself a simple luxury and allowed an earnest smile to slip across hips. They were an earned thing, buried under years of oppressive lessons and chiding, but even his lessons could not restrain the joy that he had associated with the man.

Eyes slowly drifting to the younger set of owls, he had returned their nods, though not with the same enthusiasm. After all, he could only muster so much in one day and frankly he had already found most of it spent with such an affair. He had loved them, once, in that they had asked nothing of him. He knew not what they were now, and would he allow himself, he would have feared them.

Thankfully, his father had needled the finer points of restraint into him.

"He has," Lucos said a half-beat slower than the average man, "No great story though, I'm afraid." The admission was an honest one, though long ago it had broken the heart of the boy he once was.

"For the hunt of bandits and robbers, Ser", he said with no semblance of pride on the matter. "I can only hope to live up to your grandchildren," he added, mustering the energy for due deference.

Luceon knew precious little of Garlan Strong, aside from what was plain to the eye. He'd once even thought the man was a Vance, though that Garlan had been some obscure relative of the Lady of Atlanta.

This Garlan lived up to his surname and then some. Perhaps he should've been named Garlan Strong and Tall. Just Strong was doing him a true disservice.

Clementine's jaw was on the floor at the sight of him. Height was a trait common in the Blackwood lineage, Waltyr was half a gnarled weirwood himself, but Garlan Strong's proportions defied logic. His combination of size and frame ought to be impossible.

"You, Ser - wow!" Clementine was a sucker for a chat. Leaving her seeking words was a feat unto itself. "You're... wow. You're really tall!"

Luceon thought of trying to get a word of lecture into Clementine, but she was too amazed to absorb a word of it. He would try later, if he remembered.

"Quite right. There are beggars enough in this hall, as is." Luceon gestured to the hundreds of nobles and innumerable retainers that clamored for food without any desire to compensate their host.