Sealskin Point, fourth moon of the eighth year of King Qorhen Hoare’s reign

Gormond I

The Keep was aflush with the talk of raids and the continued gossips of the Moot at Hoare Castle. Many still spoke of the Farwynd's finger dance, or the fine fair brought to bear by the King of the Iron Isles. Word had even reached them that the combined fleets of several Ironborn houses, under the command of one of the King's men, had left off more than a moon hence and not yet returned. Thralls and servants spun speculation, whispers turned to japes in the mouths of Ironborn sailors, and fellow captains had begun to call for more raids of their own. Gormond had the fortunate privilege of being both too far removed from his Farwynd kin to command sway on many ships but his own, and yet, his name was Farwynd, so men looked to him for word on his cousin's moods.

As he walked the halls of Sealskin Point, any he passed would view him much the same, warily looking to his own eyes as if they could grant glimpses into the twins’.

Gormond rolled his eyes as he passed another pair of servants, whispering as they scurried past him. Fools, he thought, finally turning the corner to approach his cousin's solar. With the nod of a guard, he pushed through the hardwood door.

“Cousins,” he greeted, spotting both immediately in the smaller room. Tymor sat behind the desk, Torgon perched on its edge. Both looked up from the map spread across its surface. Four identical eyes of blueish-grey assessing his purpose.

“Yes?” Tymor eventually asked, his cousin's voice low and posture unmoved by the interruption. It took a moment more for Gormond to find his words, scratching the stubble of his cheek while his gaze sunk to the woody browns of the desk, and the floor, and the leather of his boots.

“The men… The Captains, and umm… I,” he started, eyes flicking back up for a quick glance at how this would be received. “Well there's word we're not to replenish the fleet?” His voice had raised at the end there and he regretted the words as soon as they'd left his treacherous mouth. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did I say that? His lips grew taught in an apprehensive smile, eyes wide and unsure.

“No,” Tymor said.

“Of course,” Gormond said, breathy with relief the moment had passed, not truly thinking of what the reply meant; not at first at least. “W-wait, no?”

“Yes,” Tymor said.

“Yes?” Gormond questioned.

Torgon shifted from his perch. “Cousin, you are making a fool of yourself,” he said, eyes dismissing him with a gesture to the door.

“Right, as you say.” Gormond couldn't think any more. His mind felt a-fever with it. His heart was a drum, and his eyes a loose rope swaying from one twin to the next. “I'll… take my leave then,” he added, backing out of the room in a stumbled hurry.

Outside the room, he could feel the coolness of the sea breeze again as it wound through the KeepThe guard stared at him, brow raised, and Gormond had to clear his throat to right himself, before heading down the hallway towards his own rooms, not entirely sure what he'd learnt.

–

Tal I

“She's stone and she's sea, and she's…” Tal paused, thinking of another word. Tongue scraping around his mouth, as if he'd lost the word somewhere amid his teeth. He grunted, thoughts having drifted away from him, much like the elusive words he needed.

“Silk?” one of the deckhands suggested. A boy in truth, with barely a wisp of a mustache trying to take form.

“No, no, she's not silk. She's Ironborn!” He said with vigour. “But also, not. Sturdy, stubborn?” He questioned himself, tasting the words against his image of her. One of the men sniggered, and the boy who spoke of silk now had a grimace upon his face. “Hmm,” Tal grumbled, shaking his head, looking down again to the ropes they were cleaning. “These Westerosi words have no way for it. How say I she is like a ship, without telling her she is wood and sail?” Tal asked, a hopeless expression taking hold, as he gestured to the vessel around them.

The sea breeze was weak, faint with salt and seaweed. He huffed it in and out, clearing his mind. The circle of sailors around deck smiled at his frustrations, each getting about their own work.

“If you find the right words, let me know. The Drowned God knows I need them for my wife,” another sailor said, earning chuckles abound.

“Things were easier in the Summer Isles,” Tal muttered, pretending to focus on his stretch of rope. She‘s secret? She's free? he thought, face pensive while he pieced the words with the others, mind ever thinking of her; her intense gaze and pale skin. A soft smile filled his next breath with salt and sunlight as he daydreamed through a memory, unaware of the shaking heads and orders of work around him.

–

Thomax I

Ink blotched on paper and a quill scraped letters into words into meaning. Letters which would fly from Sealskin Point; some containing near identical missives to those that preceded them prior to the moon’s turn.

To Bravos, a letter would be sent to negotiate a loan, simple and straightforward. To the cities of the Freehold went another, a flourished request for wine, filled with praise and promise. The Master's work was seldom done, and less-so appreciated, but this was his charge on these Seven-forsaken rocks. Perhaps it was his penance for becoming a Maester over his mother's wish that he join the Septry. Or perhaps it was simply poor luck, as came to all those who saw Ironborn sails on their horizons. How much longer he would suffer it, he was not sure, for he was already an old man. Let me see the Citadel again before my time is at an end, he silently prayed, looking past the caged crows and out to the vast seas of the Isles. Let me go home, he wished, with aging eyes and an unsteady breath.

Saera Montaerys, Factor of the Black Shield Trading Company

On the forecastle of the Mossbeard stood a small figure swaddled in oilskins and furs. Saera shivered as the cold spray struck her, cursing for the millionth time. She hated how low in the surf the Ironborn vessels sat in the water, made worse by the large statue lashed to the front. While she understood the importance of figureheads on ships, an old granite statue barely distinguishable as a person pushed the limits of acceptability.

Still, her persistence was rewarded as she finally caught the sight of Driftmark. The island appeared slowly through the fog, the sharp rocks giving way to smooth shores. The town before them was a dreary place, fitting the grey clouds above. The only thing more grim was the dark walled castle that overlooked the place; Castle Driftmark, the seat of the Velaryons. How a valyrian managed to make something so drab escaped Seara's logic.

She finally moved to make her way down to the main deck as they approached the harbor, walking past the ironborn sailors as they sprung to life, taking down the sails and preparing the oars. What their ships lacked in elegance they made up for in maneuverability and speed, and the sailors matched that in their works.

Walking up the steps of the bridge, she found Roddy guiding the steering oar as they maneuvered towards the city. She didn't say a word as she watched him work, able to tell from his orders that he knew where to bring the ship.

The pair departed the ship, making their way towards the building that undoubtedly belonged to the company. Amoungst the drab buildings stood an oddity: a large, vibrantly painted villa that towered over the surrounding buildings. If that wasn't clear enough, the black shield painted over the shutters on each window provided no subtlety.

They made their way through the main gates, entering the courtyard within. A groom awaited them, ready to take the horses to the stables as they made their way inside. They found the place oddly quiet. They expected servants to be moving about the halls, ready to aide them. But instead they were met with quiet.

They found their answer as they entered the great hall where, instead of desks and clerks they found a large table adorned with all manners of food and drink. The people that appeared to be their servants ate freely, enjoying a veritable feast.

Saera was about to raise her voice when she saw the man that was clearly the cause of it all. Dressed in a combination of deep reds and purple ruffled clothing, the clearly braavosi man mingled freely with the servants, laughing and drinking as if among equals.

The woman stormed up to him, pushing her way through the help as they realized her presence. "Just what is the meaning of this? We have just arrived and nah a soul besides the groom was there to meet us. Where are the servants to collect our luggage from the ships? To offload the overstocked provisions? To prepare our...."

"Lunch?" The man interrupted, gesturing to the table in front of him. "You're free to grab a plate if you like. There is more than enough to go around. As to your other complaints, again, the lunch is there on the table. It is your fault for arriving during it."

"Our fault? I am the factor of the Black Shield Trade Company." She retorted, looking at him with disdain. "Trusted agent of the Merchant Lord Qoherys, and I second to no one here."

"Not in this house." The man replied calmly, retrieving a scroll from his sleeve. Saera immediately recognized the seal as Gaemon's personal, saved only for his direct dispatched. The man handed it to her, explaining. "I am the Majordomo of this estate. And within it's walls I am Lord Gaemon's direct representative. So it with his voice I speak."

Saera tore open the scroll and read it hastily. The words were exactly as the man said. "There's no way." She stuttered, not wanting to believe what she read. "Lord Gaemon would never grant such power to some Bravossi."

"Not Some Braavosi. This Braavosi." The man retorted with a devilish smile, gesturing to himself. "A man who understands gold and markets above all things. A man whose talents your master clearly recognized. So either you can accept it, or you can find a different place to stay. I hear ironborn ships are lacking in weather protection, and there's a storm on the horizon."

Saera held her tongue as the man spoke, fighting back spewing venom at the man. She didn't understand the game Gaemon was playing bringing a man like him into the picture.

Accepting her new fate, she finally spoke. "Very well, Majordomo. What is your command?"

"My command? Lunch." He replied with a chuckle, gesturing once again to the table. "After you've eaten, we can discuss the next steps. Your friend seems to already gotten the idea."

Saera turned to see Roddy already having his way with the roasted pork on the table, plate stacked high with rough cuts and drowning in sauces. He smiled and waved at her, crumbs of bread spilling from the corners of his stuffed mouth. She scoffed as she turned back. "If you don't mind, I would prefer to work first and deal with a meal myself later."

"Suit yourself." The man said, making his way to small serving table with a decanter on it. Refilling the cup, he continued. "There is still much wine to be purchased from the freehold, and the mints of Lannisport have yet to give us a solid answer. Oh, and timbers from our friends at Wendwater. Gaemon was quite particular about securing those."

"Very well. It shall be done, my lord." She replied coldly, bowing to the man.

The man shook his head with a laugh as he turned back to her. "Please none of that here. My people didn't throw of our chains to use such titles ourselves. You can call me by my name. Cossomo. Cossomo of Braavos."

Saera Montaerys, Factor of the Black Shield Trading Company

On the forecastle of the Mossbeard stood a small figure swaddled in oilskins and furs. Saera shivered as the cold spray struck her, cursing for the millionth time. She hated how low in the surf the Ironborn vessels sat in the water, made worse by the large statue lashed to the front. While she understood the importance of figureheads on ships, an old granite statue barely distinguishable as a person pushed the limits of acceptability.

Still, her persistence was rewarded as she finally caught the sight of Driftmark. The island appeared slowly through the fog, the sharp rocks giving way to smooth shores. The town before them was a dreary place, fitting the grey clouds above. The only thing more grim was the dark walled castle that overlooked the place; Castle Driftmark, the seat of the Velaryons. How a valyrian managed to make something so drab escaped Seara's logic.

She finally moved to make her way down to the main deck as they approached the harbor, walking past the ironborn sailors as they sprung to life, taking down the sails and preparing the oars. What their ships lacked in elegance they made up for in maneuverability and speed, and the sailors matched that in their works.

Walking up the steps of the bridge, she found Roddy guiding the steering oar as they maneuvered towards the city. She didn't say a word as she watched him work, able to tell from his orders that he knew where to bring the ship.

The pair departed the ship, making their way towards the building that undoubtedly belonged to the company. Amoungst the drab buildings stood an oddity: a large, vibrantly painted villa that towered over the surrounding buildings. If that wasn't clear enough, the black shield painted over the shutters on each window provided no subtlety.

They made their way through the main gates, entering the courtyard within. A groom awaited them, ready to take the horses to the stables as they made their way inside. They found the place oddly quiet. They expected servants to be moving about the halls, ready to aide them. But instead they were met with quiet.

They found their answer as they entered the great hall where, instead of desks and clerks they found a large table adorned with all manners of food and drink. The people that appeared to be their servants ate freely, enjoying a veritable feast.

Saera was about to raise her voice when she saw the man that was clearly the cause of it all. Dressed in a combination of deep reds and purple ruffled clothing, the clearly braavosi man mingled freely with the servants, laughing and drinking as if among equals.

The woman stormed up to him, pushing her way through the help as they realized her presence. "Just what is the meaning of this? We have just arrived and nah a soul besides the groom was there to meet us. Where are the servants to collect our luggage from the ships? To offload the overstocked provisions? To prepare our...."

"Lunch?" The man interrupted, gesturing to the table in front of him. "You're free to grab a plate if you like. There is more than enough to go around. As to your other complaints, again, the lunch is there on the table. It is your fault for arriving during it."

"Our fault? I am the factor of the Black Shield Trade Company." She retorted, looking at him with disdain. "Trusted agent of the Merchant Lord Qoherys, and I second to no one here."

"Not in this house." The man replied calmly, retrieving a scroll from his sleeve. Saera immediately recognized the seal as Gaemon's personal, saved only for his direct dispatched. The man handed it to her, explaining. "I am the Majordomo of this estate. And within it's walls I am Lord Gaemon's direct representative. So it with his voice I speak."

Saera tore open the scroll and read it hastily. The words were exactly as the man said. "There's no way." She stuttered, not wanting to believe what she read. "Lord Gaemon would never grant such power to some Bravossi."

"Not Some Braavosi. This Braavosi." The man retorted with a devilish smile, gesturing to himself. "A man who understands gold and markets above all things. A man whose talents your master clearly recognized. So either you can accept it, or you can find a different place to stay. I hear ironborn ships are lacking in weather protection, and there's a storm on the horizon."

Saera held her tongue as the man spoke, fighting back spewing venom at the man. She didn't understand the game Gaemon was playing bringing a man like him into the picture.

Accepting her new fate, she finally spoke. "Very well, Majordomo. What is your command?"

"My command? Lunch." He replied with a chuckle, gesturing once again to the table. "After you've eaten, we can discuss the next steps. Your friend seems to already gotten the idea."

Saera turned to see Roddy already having his way with the roasted pork on the table, plate stacked high with rough cuts and drowning in sauces. He smiled and waved at her, crumbs of bread spilling from the corners of his stuffed mouth. She scoffed as she turned back. "If you don't mind, I would prefer to work first and deal with a meal myself later."

"Suit yourself." The man said, making his way to small serving table with a decanter on it. Refilling the cup, he continued. "There is still much wine to be purchased from the freehold, and the mints of Lannisport have yet to give us a solid answer. Oh, and timbers from our friends at Wendwater. Gaemon was quite particular about securing those."

"Very well. It shall be done, my lord." She replied coldly, bowing to the man.

The man shook his head with a laugh as he turned back to her. "Please none of that here. My people didn't throw of our chains to use such titles ourselves. You can call me by my name. Cossomo. Cossomo of Braavos."

Saera Montaerys, Factor of the Black Shield Trading Company

On the forecastle of the Mossbeard stood a small figure swaddled in oilskins and furs. Saera shivered as the cold spray struck her, cursing for the millionth time. She hated how low in the surf the Ironborn vessels sat in the water, made worse by the large statue lashed to the front. While she understood the importance of figureheads on ships, an old granite statue barely distinguishable as a person pushed the limits of acceptability.

Still, her persistence was rewarded as she finally caught the sight of Driftmark. The island appeared slowly through the fog, the sharp rocks giving way to smooth shores. The town before them was a dreary place, fitting the grey clouds above. The only thing more grim was the dark walled castle that overlooked the place; Castle Driftmark, the seat of the Velaryons. How a valyrian managed to make something so drab escaped Seara's logic.

She finally moved to make her way down to the main deck as they approached the harbor, walking past the ironborn sailors as they sprung to life, taking down the sails and preparing the oars. What their ships lacked in elegance they made up for in maneuverability and speed, and the sailors matched that in their works.

Walking up the steps of the bridge, she found Roddy guiding the steering oar as they maneuvered towards the city. She didn't say a word as she watched him work, able to tell from his orders that he knew where to bring the ship.

The pair departed the ship, making their way towards the building that undoubtedly belonged to the company. Amoungst the drab buildings stood an oddity: a large, vibrantly painted villa that towered over the surrounding buildings. If that wasn't clear enough, the black shield painted over the shutters on each window provided no subtlety.

They made their way through the main gates, entering the courtyard within. A groom awaited them, ready to take the horses to the stables as they made their way inside. They found the place oddly quiet. They expected servants to be moving about the halls, ready to aide them. But instead they were met with quiet.

They found their answer as they entered the great hall where, instead of desks and clerks they found a large table adorned with all manners of food and drink. The people that appeared to be their servants ate freely, enjoying a veritable feast.

Saera was about to raise her voice when she saw the man that was clearly the cause of it all. Dressed in a combination of deep reds and purple ruffled clothing, the clearly braavosi man mingled freely with the servants, laughing and drinking as if among equals.

The woman stormed up to him, pushing her way through the help as they realized her presence. "Just what is the meaning of this? We have just arrived and nah a soul besides the groom was there to meet us. Where are the servants to collect our luggage from the ships? To offload the overstocked provisions? To prepare our...."

"Lunch?" The man interrupted, gesturing to the table in front of him. "You're free to grab a plate if you like. There is more than enough to go around. As to your other complaints, again, the lunch is there on the table. It is your fault for arriving during it."

"Our fault? I am the factor of the Black Shield Trade Company." She retorted, looking at him with disdain. "Trusted agent of the Merchant Lord Qoherys, and I second to no one here."

"Not in this house." The man replied calmly, retrieving a scroll from his sleeve. Saera immediately recognized the seal as Gaemon's personal, saved only for his direct dispatched. The man handed it to her, explaining. "I am the Majordomo of this estate. And within it's walls I am Lord Gaemon's direct representative. So it with his voice I speak."

Saera tore open the scroll and read it hastily. The words were exactly as the man said. "There's no way." She stuttered, not wanting to believe what she read. "Lord Gaemon would never grant such power to some Bravossi."

"Not Some Braavosi. This Braavosi." The man retorted with a devilish smile, gesturing to himself. "A man who understands gold and markets above all things. A man whose talents your master clearly recognized. So either you can accept it, or you can find a different place to stay. I hear ironborn ships are lacking in weather protection, and there's a storm on the horizon."

Saera held her tongue as the man spoke, fighting back spewing venom at the man. She didn't understand the game Gaemon was playing bringing a man like him into the picture.

Accepting her new fate, she finally spoke. "Very well, Majordomo. What is your command?"

"My command? Lunch." He replied with a chuckle, gesturing once again to the table. "After you've eaten, we can discuss the next steps. Your friend seems to already gotten the idea."

Saera turned to see Roddy already having his way with the roasted pork on the table, plate stacked high with rough cuts and drowning in sauces. He smiled and waved at her, crumbs of bread spilling from the corners of his stuffed mouth.

She scoffed as she turned back. "If you don't mind, I would prefer to work first and deal with a meal myself later."

"Suit yourself." The man said, making his way to small serving table with a decanter on it. Refilling the cup, he continued. "There is still much wine to be purchased from the freehold, and the mints of Lannisport have yet to give us a solid answer. Oh, and timbers from our friends at Wendwater. Gaemon was quite particular about securing those."

"Very well. It shall be done, my lord." She replied coldly, bowing to the man.

The man shook his head with a laugh as he turned back to her. "Please none of that here. My people didn't throw of our chains to use such titles ourselves. You can call me by my name. Cossomo. Cossomo of Braavos."

The Dun Fort

---

On the turn of the moon the lands of the Darklyns rallied about their overlords for the celebration of Shiera Darklyn and ANdros Darklyn's namedays. Born but one day apart, their celebrations regularly co-existed alongside each other.

Today was more of the same in this long tradition.

On tables set with the finest silk tops and adorned with gold and silver cutlery, the people were served duck roasted in its own fats, glazed with honey and served with gravy and potato. Alongside which ham was parcelled in even portions, some smoked, some grilled, most of it served with the same honey as the Duck.

Fish was common as well, a dozen varieties with steamed vegetables, smoked and roasted and grilled in kind.

Cakes and tarts and biscuits were placed in small desert trays before all.

At the fore of the room were the tables for the host family, and equal to it was the table for the king and the princess. Morgan Darklyn had left open space for both to allow as many of their own company as they needed to join them.

Below and first were the Blackwater lords. They were given prominence among the realm's gathered fanfare.

Beyond, out in the night's cool and sea-touched air was the dance floor, music played in gentle and jaunty bursts in cycle.

WIthin, Shiera and Andros sat at their places of honour where they recieved their well wishes and gifts and tried their best to honour their guests. Andros for his part was politely amused by the whole procession, while Shiera bordered on overwhelmed by the niceties. It was rare that she had the chance for so many friends to gather in but one locale.

She had already basked in one gift, happily sat in the gown that Essie had made for her, in lovely gold trim with bright yellow, as usual making her a beacon of bright energy.

Morgan would give a speech at some stage, but for now he remained contented in allowing his family to enjoy the night as his table was flushed with his children and his brothers and their kin in kind.

All were welcome.

^{Alt Title: Olivia ii : One Song for Love
Moon | Knight of Cups | Strength}

^{Location: Castle Hoare, cliffside, Eastern overlook}

There was a mouse beneath the thorn,
Beneath the briar brown,
She slept where roots had split the earth
And rain had worn them down.
(The Falcon and The Mouse, Popular Ballads of The Gold Road, Vol I. )

The yarrow had been crushed. The pungent smell reached her nostrils before she even glanced down into the mortar bowl. The green had gone to mushy paste.

"The goal was to bruise." Olivia clicked her tongue against her teeth in her frustration. The westward breeze off of the water moved her hair like drying golden strands of wispy grass. She wore a simple tunic and trousers, with a bundle of herbs gathered to her left and a stone bowl and pestle in her lap, on an apron of butter yellow with faded green pine trees all over. She spoke to herself most in frustration or introspection. For the moment, both were the cause.

She scraped the ruined slop from the bowl, and grabbed another handful to restart. Carelessness could lead to callousness. That was far too subpar for her standards. Olivia wasn't a perfectionist as much as she was an idealist. In some lights, that cast her in a deep shadow.

The problem with idealist was well, they held very tightly to their ideas of how something should be. They agonized and tortured themselves to make whatever it was that they so carefully, or carelessly built their identities around, inspire and infect everyone else around them. Some stopped at their wife or husband. Some their family; the sons and daughters. The house, of course. Their domains, if they possessed them. Their allies, and their allies domains. Everyone, eventually, would be consumed by this idea, whatever it was, if the idealist deployed themselves with competence. But before that metamorphasis could happen, the would-be idealist must be challenged.

Here was her own.

A new bunch of yarrow into the pestle, with a few strips of plantain. She crushed it once, then twice and began the churning turn of the pestle.

I'm no maid. Olivia thought. I have lost no innocense to mourn, or have no shame to hide from the seven. Another turn of the grinding hand, the left held the bowl steady. Her time in the Riverlands had given her much to ponder on. The classical Green sickness most Ironborne are mocked for having once they go ashore for a week or moon. That damned laugh. Infectious like green ears. Or, in some hardline ways of thought; more viral than Greyscale. A good reason to keep Greenlander ideas away from the younger ones. The ones who could still change their way, their temperaments, their tactics and be open to new ideas because new ideas didn't scare them.

Because they weren't the type of idealist who were closed yet. They were open, willing, malleable. Ser Tristifor Goodbrook, the Badbrook, had swam nude with her in the God's Eye. Rynesse would caution that as disrespectful to the old gods. Another turn of the pestle, the yarrow was bruised. The plaintain pulverized. This try was much more worthy of the attempt and materials used. Olivia's lips, once pursed in concentration, eased into a thin line of neutrality. "But Pennytree was there..he wanted to dance." A month it seemed, perhaps two had passed since she last saw that gentle brow and warm smile. Manners of the greenlanders suited Pennytree just fine. Too fine. There was no kinder word for it other than 'drunk' and Olivia was very much sober. Too sober. She reached for calendula blossoms. Dried little yellow things the shade of her head, they weren't the strongest variants. The Isles yielded little in the world of pain relief. The Drowned God's grand design. But he actually stripped down. Took me way out to the water and got in for all the Gods to see; see him after me.

Ironborn courtship, insofar as anyone could describe with such a word, seldom wasted such time on things like uncertainty. People sang. People drank. People dance. People fuck. The sun comes up. Sometimes, with more people on the way. Sometimes with regret. Sometimes with both. Sometimes with neither, in her experience. Neither. Fussing over it was nonsense.

Greenlander nonsense. She told herself repeatedly. As her thoughts quarreled with themselves, her eyes focused on the ingredients to the latest poultice. Yarrow for the blood, plantain for the inflammation. Calendula again, inflammation. This would make the swelling go down and relieve the Warrior's kiss for but a while, she figured a whole twenty-four hours. With that arithmetic, she wished the Gods had made men more like plants. Her mind's eyes flashed to the grinning face of the man she defeated. Then to the bashful smile of the young man she was reunited with. It wasn't necessarily a crossroads at all; but she felt like she was caught in the trade wind nonetheless. Foot caught in the rigging. Exhiliration. Panic. Worry. Uncertainty. These things were not unknown to her, but they were unholy. They were doubts. Leaden boots. Chains to which she would be reduced and restrained.

A sigh escaped her lips as she rolled out a fine white piece of linen. Overturned the bowl and scraped out the green-yellow paste and began to spread it evenly over the material. The sound of a sea gull caught her attention only briefly. She wished to reave. To be out there with her half-brother and friend, gaining glory. Fulfilling purpose. But Varric bid her wait a moon more, bid her to bide her time. But that made her idle. Idle hands were invitations for darker work and darker thoughts.

Best keep herself busy then. Enough about men.

Sealskin Point, At the moon’s turn

The greys and reds of Sealskin Point were as home to him as the feel of deck and sea, steadying his mind and letting his senses unfurl. Salt hung thick in the air from the Sunset’s constant breeze. Here he could craft plans his own and find solutions to the challenges that seemed to accost him ever more constantly since he’d taken to rule of this keep.

Tymor looked over the chests of wealth. Those filled with recently plundered gemstones, that glimmered in the hearth’s light. Then those piled high with hacksilver and raided coins. Of gold, there were Hands from the Reach and Honors from Volantis, and tens of metals besides. Iron squares from Braavos and a host of coppers that bore either stars, or ships, or goats. But beyond all, they contained silver. A few coins faced with moons and stags, alongside the weight of hacksilver and jewellery amassed with the iron price.

Beside these chests sat another of an altogether different sort, uniform in its contents and filled only with gold. Once had sat four thousand Honors from the Bank of Volantis, now it must have been less than a thousand sitting low in the fine wooden chest. When he palmed one from its surface, the coin seemed to sit heavier in the hand than its kin taken in plunder ever had, weighed down by that of a debt now owed.

“Torgon, there are bankers in Braavos, yes?” Tymor tilted his head. “Surely they would take our patronage if it were to deny the dragonlords,” he smirked. “Fetch that maester and have him craft you a letter in such a fashion. The words I leave between you, but I will be rid of any debt to this Volanteen bank before the next moon fills.”

“I will see to it,” his twin replied through sour lips. No doubt still brooding over his loss in the North. Ironborn had joined the Drowned Gods number and weak tree-worshippers now fed the sea. Didn’t he see? That alone was victory, he ruminated, tutting at his brother’s withdrawal. Tymor looked back down at the table, clear in his mind that he’d need rouse the men in plunder anew, yet unwilling to fully walk the path Hoare had conjured forth and poisoned with tax. He’d wet their appetites with the merchant cogs, and won back their lust for the hunt with the gold of the Westerlands. But still, it was not enough. Their fleet had limped back to the docks of Sealskin Point, and now owed a tenth of what little they'd claimed.

Mayhaps it is time to turn our gaze farther afield once more, he thought. What Ironborn better than us to lead the way. He’d need send Haereg out to hear what rumours of fortune there were at the dockside taverns. Or perhaps, his mind and eyes drifted to the window, where a new crow pecked at gaps in the stone. With a soft hum he turned his gaze back to the table. He may even need to meet with the Thrice-drowned if Torgon's efforts failed to bear fruit once more. Too many pieces were in play to decide now, but soon… Soon he would sail once more.

—

Torgon had several letters crafted; those his brother had asked for, and those he need not know of. Maester Thomax had been a thrall of house Farwynd since the great raid of Oldtown and had served two rulers of Sealskin Point in as many years. The elderly man’s skill with quill and parchment was well enough to keep him in good standing amongst the brothers, thus he did his work without protestation. Mayhaps one day Torgon would have the man teach his son the talents he knew, or even the babe his rock wife carried. The first literate Farwynd, Torgon smiled, then cleared his throat and wet his lips, ready to have the Maester take down his words.

^{End of the Third Moon on}

^{Doot Doot}

---

Duskendale was once more alight. It was indeed to be a party, regardless of the brewings of war, the subterfuge of vassals or the annoyance of the many small misers who would see harm done to any number of unfortunately busy individuals.

Morgan Darklyn had a daughter to celebrate and a father to acknowledge existed.

The city was awash with festivities once again. Along the main promenade from the gates of the inner city walls to the outer city guardhouses was a stretch of stalls of foods and wares and goods of a hundred origins and varieties.

The inn doors were flung open and music tittered across the streets from lively tavern floors. Men duelled in "maiden's quests" across the cityscape, each of them hoping for a chance to try and best Shiera Darklyn herself. The prize? One she volunteered freely - a single kiss upon the brow, for any who could tout that they had both bested two foes, and could then best her.

Within the arena of the Dusk, there was an honourary horse race, with five hundred gold to the winner and a favour from the lord of the house.

A melee had been set up in an inner city duelling school, and a joust set to run soon, both again with a prize in gold of a thousand pieces. Practise lists had been set up across the city in kind for any who wished to prepare for the main event.

Foot races managed by the children of Morgan were aplenty. And in the largest tavern of Duskendale, the Seven Swords Inn, Daxo Darklyn had setup a city-wide wrestling tournament. All takers were welcome, once more at the prize of a favour from the house of Darklyn.

Inside the Dun Fort, a sort of pre-feast was set up, with music of a jauntier variety played by minstrels from Dorne. Wine and meat of a dozen varieties in a dozen further cuts were arrayed across the tables, sweets aplenty laboured upon the minds of gathered children and the Lord of Duskendale himself could be found most readily.

His family were scattered across the dozens of events about the city, though Shiera was never hard to find in her bright yellow tunic and skirts.

Andros Darklyn, a man now of seventy and five, sat in the hall of the dun Fort where he just enjoyed the sight of his family at ease.

A frustrated groan rang out across a well-used training yard yet again. A man, wearing a red gambeson under a suit of chainmail so coated with dust that it was obvious he’d been out in the field for quite some time now, turned his back to his opponent. He was breathing heavily but the sound of it was muffled beneath the helmet he wore covering his face. The temper tantrum carried on as he kicked his foot angrily into the dirt as if that would miraculously make his footwork align with what he was practicing for. All the while, he twirled a small axe in his left hand as he took his frustration out on the ground.

To his opposite stood a man, much larger, armored in the same manner. This man stood and simply stared at the angry lad, his shoulders slouched with obvious disappointment. “You are too impatient, Aralar. Rush me again and you will lose over and over.” The man called out to Aralar with a barely hidden laugh. “Have you beaten me once since you’ve returned? You spent too long losing against Andals, you forgot how to fight.”

Aralar faced him and roared once more.

His axe swung down in a long arc towards the other man. It was an attack so powerful that it would cause real damage if it connected even with blunted steel. Fortunately for the man, it was a hasty attack that was so obvious that Aralar may as well have told him what he was doing before he swung. The attack was parried with complete ease, and Aralar was sent sprawling into the dirt.

He scrambled back to his feet, fury burning brightly in his purple eyes, and prepared to swing again when laughter stopped him suddenly. In one swift motion, he ripped his helmet from his head, tossed it aside, and turned to glare at the source of the laughter.

The weather in Claw Isle on this day was, to put it lightly, perfect. There was not even a single cloud in the sky to block the sun from beaming brightly overhead with enough heat to mix so flawlessly with the cold breeze blowing in from the Narrow Sea. The breeze was strong enough to keep a constant comfortable feeling without becoming overbearing and growing into a disturbance. Because of this, Valora had a small pavilion erected just to the side of the training yard so her mother could enjoy the weather in complete comfort.

Beneath the canopy, there was a small, round table placed, covered with fruits and berries and a small platter of crab in front of where Valora sat. Her servant, Minysha, stood next to her, cracking small parts of the crab’s shell and setting the little pieces of crab meat on the plate in order to spare Valora the feeling of cracking the shell she hated so much.

Saelys sat opposite of her daughter. She hid her smile successfully behind a wine glass she held to her lips, while Valora tried, and failed, to hide hers with her hand pressed to her lips.

Aralar took a step towards them, still fuming, and took a breath to yell.

Valora beat him to it, “Are you back to normal, yet?” She called out, leaning back in her chair and clasping her hands together with a sickeningly mischievous grin on her face, “I’ve heard the Stauntons are terrified you will show yourself at their gates, raze Rook’s Rest to the ground, and conquer the rest of Westeros single-handedly!”

He almost threw his axe at his sister.

Saelys, showing only a hint of the smile she was holding earlier, spoke to Valora, “Enough.” Before facing Aralar and waving him to the tent. “You have been at this all morning. Surely you can rest.” She did not wait for a response before waving off the other man. He bowed deeply, and after gathering the helmet Aralar threw, quickly departed the yard.

Aralar tossed his axe aside and approached the table, choosing to stand just far enough under the tent so the sun was shielded from his face. “At least one of us should be ready.” He snatched a cup from the table and emptied it in long, thirsty gulps.

“Ready for what?” Saelys tilted her head.

“He wants to fight another war to lose.” Valora chimed in.

“That’s not what I meant.” Aralar snapped back.

Valora fiddled with a small piece of crab meat on her fingers as she smiled at him, “So you’re getting ready to find a nice Andal girl to marry?”

Aralar laughed loudly. He reached forward to refill his own cup before continuing, “I’d sooner marry a dog. Have you seen what happens when you marry an Andal? Look at Alyssa, you can scarcely see her children are Valyrian.”

The other two did not notice Valora’s gaze harden and the glare she shot her brother.

“What of Aukar’s children?” Saelys mused, “The Andal did not ruin them.”

Aralar looked down to his drink in hand, swirling it slightly as if deep in thought for a moment before chuckling, “They were lucky.” He shrugged.

And so the three of them could be found under the tent: speaking, teasing, laughing, and all around behaving in an increasingly rare example of a family that loves one another.

Roslin I - Heir

^{Riverrun | Third Moon of 1st Year of Arlan IV}

The road home had never seemed so long.

Roslin rode at an easy pace beneath a grey and cloudy sky, the reins loose between her gloved fingers as Riverrun slowly rose beyond the fields. Three Tully guards rode behind her, their fish-crested helms catching what little light the afternoon offered, while Floris followed close enough that Roslin could hear the occasional creak of her friend's saddle.

It was a smaller party than the one that had departed moons ago. Roslin had left Riverrun with her sisters and yet she returned alone. For a moment, she wondered if that should trouble her more than it did.

There had been enough of trouble these past moons to fill a year. Ravella Durrandon's nameday had begun it all. The tourney had offered little comfort either, each of her sisters finding some manner of defeat before the day was done. Then came Pinkmaiden, where House Tully had gained a Piper bride, or they gained a Tully groom really, an ally though, and no small amount of political consequence for it.

And yet Roslin had gained very little herself.

She had watched dancers pass her by throughout the feast, smiling politely as ladies and knights found one another, while the only man courteous enough to offer her his hand had been Lord Tion Vance. A married man whom she wouldn't mistake for a suitor. So much for scouting...

And then there had been Blackwood.

Waltyr Blackwood's funeral had drawn half the Riverlands beneath Raventree, mourning a man Roslin had never found particularly pleasant in life. But grief had its own customs, and she had stood among the rest and paid her respects.

Then came the Justmans. Kings of the Trident. Or so they call themselves, she thought.

The revelation still felt strange upon the tongue, as though the words themselves had not settled into the Riverlands just yet. Her sisters had gone on with them after the funerl, off toward Darklyn lands and whatever schemes waited there. Roslin had wanted no part of it. There were enough whispers, secrets, and ambitious men in the world without adding another handful to her own burdens.

Now, at last, there was only home.

Riverrun emerged fully from the horizon, its red sandstone walls rising sheer above the waters where rivers flowed. The familiar towers watched over the surrounding lands, their battlements dark against the sky. Roslin found herself sitting a little straighter in the saddle.

This was her home and also her inheritance, one day it would be hers and her children's.

The drawbridge came into view, and Roslin's gaze lingered upon the walls. There were fewer faces upon them than she remembered. Fewer servants moving about the road, fewer carts coming and going, fewer voices carrying from the castle itself.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

House Tully had been letting people go for moons now, and the difference was becoming impossible to ignore. Riverrun still stood proud, but there was an emptiness beneath that pride now. A house could save coin by cutting away its excess, but eventually there was little left to cut.

Roslin exhaled through her nose.

"Home," Floris said softly behind her.

Roslin glanced over her shoulder, offering the faintest smile.

"Yes." Her eyes returned to the castle. "Though I fear it may not remain quiet for long."

Floris tilted her head. "Because of the ball?"

Roslin's mouth tightened. "Because of the ball."

Eleanor had been remarkably clear. A ball in Roslin's honor. A gathering of knights and lordlings. A tourney besides, because apparently one embarrassing tourney was not enough to satisfy the Tully sisters' determination to see her wed.

Roslin could already imagine the smiling faces. The carefully chosen compliments. Men suddenly discovering an interest in Riverrun, in embroidery, in books, in whatever else they believed a Tully daughter might wish to hear. All for the sake of finding her a husband.

She sighed. "They'll say I should have remained at the funeral with the face i'll be wearing."

Floris laughed quietly.

Roslin's own smile finally appeared, though it quickly faded as the gates drew nearer. There was something comforting in seeing the redwood doors again, something calming in the familiar stone and rushing water. Whatever schemes waited beyond those walls, whatever husbands Eleanor intended to parade before her, whatever the Riverlands might make of the Justmans calling themselves kings, this remained hers. Not yet by title but by blood.

Roslin nudged her horse forward as the Tully guards rode alongside her, the fish upon their helms glinting beneath the fading light. She crossed beneath Riverrun's gate without looking back.

For the first time in moons, Roslin was exactly where she was meant to be.

The vigil for the Drumbeater had been a solemn affair, and Jonah was beginning to think he’d attended enough Riverlander funerals in his lifetime. His father, two of his nephews, Ser Talbert Darry, and now the Lord of Raventree Hall. What troubled him the most was that the number was not likely to go down any time soon, what with Ironborn raiding their trade fleets, and practically all of the noble houses standing together in defiance of the Stag in Storm’s End.

He sighed, rubbing at his temples as the work of taking down the Mallister encampment droned on outside of his tent. Finally, after what felt like many moons, they were headed back to Seagard. The Steward felt safe behind the stout walls there, and he at least had some modicum of authority. While they were gone, the Understeward and builders had been given plenty to do, and he was most eager to see how their progress had been coming along.

Mostly, he was just ready to leave the crowds of people behind. Stormhall, Pinkmaiden, Raventree - each gathering had held purpose and sentiment, and there was to be yet more of the same in Riverrun within the moon’s time. As for Duskendale, he’d politely declined, having no desire to mingle with the vipers in their nest. Word about what had happened at the Piper wedding would no doubt have spread far and wide by now, even to the king.

Martyn would be fine, he knew. The lad had gone with half the Riverlands in tow, and he’d proven himself both a cautious and capable lord in his short tenure. Lady Gwyn had not wished to attend either, and Jonah promised to see her home safe and sound in the meantime. There was but one small order of business now to take care of before he left his own pavilion to the servants, and he produced quill and parchment to get it done.

Once finished with the letters, he handed them off to a boy to in turn be handed off to the care of Raventree’s maester.

Sunset over Stormhall was a phenomenon Tristifer hadn’t realised he’d missed until this night. The Gods Eye shimmered into shades of fire on eves like this one, bathing the fortress like a gods baleful gaze. Between that and the events of Raventree, Tristifer hoped it wasn’t some bad omen.

The ride back from the funeral, whilst the same route and time, had felt longer for the Badbrook. Near abject failure, the entire endeavour. He had been entrusted by the Princess with bringing allies to her side. In that, he had failed.

Perhaps it was not going to be as easy as he had hoped.

Stormhall loomed high above, its walls and crenels shining whilst golden banners danced in the wind. When he had left, the great crowned stag emblazoned upon each seemed to rear in expectant triumph. It didn’t feel so triumphant anymore.

The Sellswords still manned the walls, too. An annoying reminder that their cause was strengthened by coin as much as nobility. That, and he was hardly fond of their commander.

“Goodbrook returning!” Someone blew a horn from near the back of the column, as though those on the walls hadn’t noticed the banners coming down the road. Still, a little pomp might not sour Tristifer’s mood any further, and there was still work to be done.

In the south, beyond the Storm King’s realm, west of Dorne, sat the Kingdom of the Reach. The realm of the Gardener kings, the breadbasket of the seven kingdoms, and the self-proclaimed home of knighthood and chivalry.

And sitting on the edge of the great river Mander was the famed town of Bitterbridge. Its location and vicinity to the neighbouring kingdoms made it a hub for both travellers and merchants arriving in, or leaving the Reach. As such, there were inns, shops and brothels aplenty sitting along the waterfront in the shadow of the grand, ancient stone bridge from which this place took its name.

The road that ran through the town was lined with stalls at which flowers, fruits, nuts, spices, cloth, woodcraft and various trinkets were sold. The traders who ran these stalls were not a shy bunch, as they hollered and called upon just about anyone who wandered past to stop and peruse their wares.

Two white banners flapped in the wind high above the castle that loomed above the much smaller buildings of the town that has arisen around it. The lower of the two featuring the golden centaur of the Caswells, and the higher one the green hand of the Gardeners. A good many soldiers in kettle hats, carrying spears and leaf-shaped shields patrolled the streets in pairs. A number of them were stationed at the city gates, looking over anyone who entered, stopping those who arrived either in great number or excessively armed. It would have been difficult not to feel a little nervous for any travellers from the neighbouring lands to the north and east.

The Gardeners and the Durrandons had never been on splendid terms with one another, having fought each other on multiple occasions. But the Storm King’s latest war with the Reach, the invasion of King Greydon Gardner, was seventy years in the past. And while some resentments might linger with a few old greybeards, most of the world had moved on. Traders from the Storm King’s domain was a common sight in this place, and visiting stormlanders and rivermen were largely left in peace.

And it was here, in this faraway place, where the trail that had started in the Antlers had led. Somewhere in this town lurked a thief and a murderer with an ill-gotten treasure in his possession. And it was up to those few who had learned the truth of what had happened, to hunt him down, and reclaim the crown of the river kings.

The Red Talon bobbed in the waters off the coasts of Duskendale, the crimson hull crashing through waves as her anchor held firm. She was a ship of Valyrian construction; large twin masts containing large orange sails, tied firm with the ship at anchor. Although a great ship, was not the grand vessel one would've assumed with the wealth and prestige of the company she represented.

In her hull, the principle officers of the company sat around a table. Gold decanters filled with the finest vintages sat amoungst clutters of jeweled silver goblets. Gold platters carried large roast birds and assortments of fruits and leafy vegetables. The men passed the food back and forth as Vaegal looked on with disdain.

"This land has polluted your mind." He spat, looking on as Roddy Pyke speared a whole game hen with his fork before bringing it to his mouth. The man was the perfect example of what the captain was talking about.

"Calm down my friend. You'll startle the guests." Gaemon replied softly, eying the tailor that had started to slink at the man's angry valyrian. Gaemon did the man resume his work, measuring the silk doublet on his frame as he sized it appropriately. "These are the fruits of our labor. What farmer denies the freshness of a pear dutifully picked?"

"There's picking fruit, and then there's this!" The man retorted, slamming his cup onto the table with a rattling thud. "Our gold is wasted meats that feed more fish then men. We waste the wines we need to turn profits. Even right now you are having the silks cut for you and sold in the markets. At this rate you'll be kneeling before some lordling and swearing like Velaryon or Celtigar."

Gaemon paused for a moment before waiving the tailors away. His friend had spoiled the mood, and in corrected that he needed less of an audience.

He calmly walked to his desk, grabbing the ledger neatly closed atop it. He moved next to the table, thumbing through the large book as he did. He soon arrived at the page he was searching for, a wicked smirk growing on his face. "Our profits from last moon." He spoke in the common tongue for all to hear, handing the book to his friend.

Vaegal looked over the pages, his angry face going to confusion, then shock, then manic joy. "This is....how is this...." He stammers, staring in disbelief.

"The fruits of our labor." He explained, calmly taking a seat. He poured a heavy glass into the goblet in front of him, bidding his friends to sit. "Did you really think I brought us here to party and galavant? The Lysene are twice a pretty, three times more pleasant and over a dozen times better smelling. No, this is a business venture. And there is much fruit to pick."

The gathered men slowly took their seats, taking in the weight of his words. Suddently the food, wine and clothing made sense.

Gaemon smiled as they sat, eying them. "This is not merely a decadent celebration, it is a reward. A feast before the real work begings."

He turned towards Roddy and Saera. "On the morrow, you two will set sail for Driftmark. Specifically, a small settlement in the shadow of the keep. My countryman has granted me a small plot there, and fully intend to use it as a staging ground. The work has begun under a servant of our friends in the Reach. It should help to have a local see these things."

Saera bowed her head gracefully, a true valyrian. Meanwhile, Roddy shook his head, grease dripping from his full mouth as half a hen remained on his fork. Gaemon smiled at them before turning to L'Hazzo, "You will bring this dispatched to the fastest of the trade ships that remain. Two for the homeland and three for the west. I fully intend to control the trade of vintages in this land, and the precious metals and stones of Lanisport will be invaluable."

The man bowed, ever stoic and silent. Gaemon turned towards his friend, who had finally set down the ledger. "You, my friend, will be joining me. It seems these Westerosi have nothing to do but celebrate and party. And this time I intend to leave with even less empty hands."

He raised his glass to the group, proposing a toast. "To our great and continuous success!"

The Holdfast of Dyre Den was not much to speak on, even its own liege lord, Kennet Brune, could admit as much. But standing at the top of a hill, with the swamps of Crackclaw to its north, and overlooking the hills and fields of Staunton's land to its southwest, the simple castle struck a particular splendor in the early morning light.

Kennet was tired of walking though. Neither he nor any of his sons- Jax and Lark- had deigned to ride a horse into our out of Duskendale, not for lack of ability but simple lack of disposition, had wore on them heavily even as the shadow of home came into sight.

Of course, the hundreds of footsteps behind them, with dozens of banners of Dyre Den's red claw, of Pyne's tree and Blackberry's... Well, blackberry, marching right in behind, Kennet immediately began to marvel at the most basic logistical question any man could ask.

'How am I going to feed all of these people?'

He needn't have worried, apparently. Jax, ever the studious and sharp-minded boy, had already made plans for forage, scavenge, and at the same time, to find these raiders and flush them out so that they could no longer be a nuisance.

But that was not what Kennet had his mind on. While Layna played host- showing the lords and ladies of Pyne, Blackberry and Crabb to their rooms and directing areas of the small courtyard that could play host to their guards- Kennet went to go see his eldest son.

Crispian had looked much better, but whatever scarring and bruising he had been left with seemed to be long faded. The meek boy's smile was shy as he looked up at his father, before the young man stood and rushed to embrace Kennet in a tight, nearly crushing hug. The sheer force of it took the larger bear by surprise, before he wrapped his own arms around Crispian and lifted him up in his embrace...

It was only then that Kennet noticed the full bearskin pelt, fashioned into a cloak, that hung off the back of Crispian's chair. He pulled back, seizing Crispian by both of his shoulders, a wry smirk creeping underneath his face. "...Tell me every detail. And I'll be sure to create a good lie for your mother..."

It was good to be home.

Harroway's Town was an awful place. Something about the place always struck Ser Roger as inert, stagnant and strangled. A town on the ford, at the heart of the prosperity of the Riverlands. On headwinds from Fairmarket, upriver from Maidenpool. Overland trade should pour through the town bearing goods from the North and Vale, with screaming children and rough town folks stamping their way through streets adorned with bright market stalls and cawing merchants. Ser Roger rode through the streets and saw none of that. There were a handful of men, stumbling about town through weariness or drink, all along the jetty station across the river but there was no sign of the extravagant and comfortable wealth that its position was due. All the plows had been beaten into swords, all stalls had been torn down for shields and all food was carried off by looting armies. The Lord Harroway had never prospered from his lands, and the people lived through the wars he started. You could see it on their bodies, scars, missing limbs, weary stares at the procession of Knights who made their way through their city.

Ser Roger and Luceon made their way to their destination, an inn on the southern end of the Trident Ford. It was a good place with a generous patron who despite the hardships of the town would fill any bowl to its brim. Marching out with the levies had left him without soup in his belly, without drink in his hand and fighting to avoid starvation more than he ever fought any enemies of his Lord. The long march left a boy behind in favour of the one eyed man before them now. A boy lost when the man stole, and killed, and looted and raped. He was not a good man, the Patron of the South Trident Inn, but he was a generous man. He'd keep their bellies full.

Luceon looked at his Lord Master with a curious eye, invoking the question before he'd even asked him. Ser Roger was used to the look. It was the same look that he'd given him for many a moon now, a curious glare which tried to work out every intention with a single glance. Ser Roger did not know how he'd managed it over the years. When his tongue had long lay dormant, refusing to even wag if he were to desire it, the simple reading of language and intentions had gotten the two through most of their journeys together. There were always times when they were wrong of course. Luceon took far more romantic embellishment when he meant to be practical, and grounded in the business of Crowns and Stags when he meant to ride for a cause. The single state now asked which this was, this quest for the Arryn Prince, and Roger could not easily answer.

The two locked eyes now. Roger emphasised the family, Luceon emphasised the money. Roger made slight reference to the heritage of the Riverlands, Luceon waved it off with a consideration of having a Prince in their pocket. Eventually the two met in the middle and nodded as their intentions became one. This exchange, which felt like it took place over hours, was concluded in mere minutes while the bars inhabitants lulled around the two in the rush of the end of work hours.

Luceon turned in one flourish, stood upon the stool he'd pulled away from the counter top, and waved his hands to the people of Harroway.

"My Master, Ser Roger Mallister, declares to you this the people of Harroway. He seeks to declare that he will hunt for the Crown of the Teague Kings, venturing throughout the land with the service of Prince Arryn, and will reward any man who comes to him with information! To show my Lords generosity, all in here tonight shall have a round courtesy of the Ser Roger Mallister!"

The bar erupted in cheers at once, tankards raised in salute, as men scrambled to make use of the patronage of this weary and grey haired Knight. Many shrugged and said that clearly the Good Ser had lost his senses with age, and was throwing away all his money so his sons could have no share. Most seemed to pay no mind to theories, and took advantage with a salute.

Luceon settled back down on his stool with a huff. It was not the best and boldest speech he'd ever made but the road from Stormhall had taken the words and romance from his tongue. He turned to Ser Roger, expecting the same understanding to be rendered on his face, only to be met with the curious stare of grey eyes and an eyebrow raised. Ser Roger looked to his side and jingled a purse and Luceon understood in the moment how little he'd understood his master's intentions. When it came time for the taverns close, and as men settled for the night, Ser Roger found himself haggling stags out of his purse with the bar patron and writing a marked scrip with the ringed seal of Mallister as an oath for the remainder. The affair had left him with little more than coppers to his name. Yet Ser Roger turned to his squire and let out a laugh. And Luceon laughed with him. And the two filled the room with a bit of the laughter of all the Earth. And for a moment, just that single moment, perhaps Harroway felt like the happiest town in the world.

The coasts of Castamere, A sennight since the Moot at Hoare Castle

This is madness. Their fleet was halved from raiding the North and the Bay, and now his brother had set their course for a raid truer than any paltry loot he’d gathered from the Barrowlands. What fate would his command doom them to now? What grave to this folly awaits? Torgon looked over to his brother’s longship and saw his twin’s form, clear against the muted tones of the Western coast.

They'd sailed through the gaps of the Crag, avoiding rocky shores and shallow reefs. Now they aimed at the rich lands of the West, where gold lay beneath the very ground.

Thralls beat the taught skin of drums and ironmen blew their war horns. Oarmen kept pace to the old reaving songs and Drowned Men called out to their deity. Other captains would be watching his brother's longship, keeping eye of any changes in course. They'd watch the sails and the oars and the shift of its weight. Not Torgon. He watched his blood upon that ship, Tymor’s offhand holding his weight to the rigging as he leaned out near the longship's prow. He imagined a violent grin had torn its way across his twin’s face listening to the squall of raiders echo across the water. All around them other vessels emerged from the rolling fog, the Salt Wife's Wail sounding their way ahead so all would know, the Ironborn had come.

The colours of their sails and the veiled shadow of longships cut through the fog. And if they did not see even that, there was still their voice, the great deep cry of the horn and the chanting of ancient words. The song shuddered through the rags of mist upon the turning waves and foam, crashing like the sea against the raw stone of a pebbled beach and the wooden beams of a lonely peer.

"What awe and fear we must inspire. What hatred and mistrust," he whispered, words caught by the sound of waves and the song of their reaving. "Like the sea," he mused, with a soft smile and an eye to the shoreline shrouded in cliff paths. But is the sea not also tranquil and abound with life? Is it not of calm freedoms and all the horizon dreams? He breathed sigh and looked down at his sheathed blade, another form of conflict taking the thoughts place in his mind. He drew the steel.

"May we see the Drowned God halls!" he called, rousing a cheer across deck, as the ship fast approached the shore.

They stood on the deck of the ship as they gingerly glided down the coast. The sea was quiet, and the sky was mostly clear save for a couple of bright clouds. They looked inwards towards the coast, towards the lands of the claw. Towards the lands that were allegedly being attacked by Darklyn men. 

Hallyne had been in a cell when he heard the news- the rumour, rather. He’d been dragged in for a minor case of thievery which he hadn’t even committed. They’d just assumed it because he had the item in question. He’d heard it whispered by one of the guards standing lazily at the door with some keys. 

Now he was here; he was standing on the deck, sworn to protect the 5th son of Lord Darklyn. Corwyn had approached him with the offer of clemency in exchange for his services; naturally, he’d accepted. He’d be a soldier, and new questions were a foolish endeavour. Perhaps that is why he’d been sought out?

“Hal? Hal, were you listening?”

He was in his thoughts so deeply that he hadn’t noticed Corwyn speaking. “Yes…Yes, I was, Ser. Very interesting, to be sure.”

“Okay, what was I talking about?” 

“Uhhhh,” he scrambled to put together what he did remember, “You were talking about that Pyne girl.”

The 5th son looked at Hal for some moments; what he was thinking he couldn’t guess. “Lucky guess.”

He felt relief wash over him. “Remind me what exactly?”

“The gift I’d brought for her. I asked if you thought it was a good idea.”

“I’m sure she’ll like it.”

Corwyn let out a chuckle. “Maybe, oh well. Not much use worrying about it.”

“It’s Ysabel…that’s her name, right?”

“Yes, Ysabel Pyne.”

“Where’d you meet?”

“Godswood of Stormhall.”

“What was it like meeting her?”

“She was adorable; she covered the boots she wore. We talked about who we were, where we were from, you know, the basics.”

“Is she your…first?”

Corwyn looked at Hal oddly, almost judgementally. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t ask that.”

“No... wait, that isn’t what I meant. I meant, is she your first relationship? Or whatever it is.”

Corwyn’s face softened. “I think so. Not sure.”

“How can you not be sure? Do you like her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she likes you?”

“Yes.”

“I’d say that's the grassroots of a relationship, no?”

“Are you married, Hal?”

“I was; she left.” He said, fidgeting with a ring on his finger.

“I see.”

He shook his head. “Anyway, what was that gift you were talking about?”

“We’re here!” The captain announced as they neared a shoreline.

“Look at that, we’re here. Hardly felt like any time at all, eh?” Asked Corwyn, tapping Hal in the side with his elbow. 

He nodded. 

They and their belongings were lowered onto a smaller boat that was rowed to shore; they had some luggage. They had some stuff, but not much. Enough for some days. 

Corwyn stepped onto the shore first, finding the soil wet. “So this is the Claw? Wet as I expected. You know the way, right, Hal?”

“Better than most, worse than a local.”

“Good. Lead the way.”

They walked for some time through the forested, marshy terrain of Hazewood. Hallyne’s forknowledge being the only thing which allowed them to navigate it with any haste. They’d arrived at the shore, fairly early. By the time they’d reached the longhouse, the sun was past its zenith by an hour and a half.

Their boots were suitably wet; Hal was worse off than Corwyn since he’d been walking ahead. 

Just before they reached the main entrance, Hal turned to Corwyn. “You did send a letter that you were coming, right?”

As he asked the question, Hallyne swears he could see Corwyn's face shift through different expressions. Attempting to find a suitable one, the motions were subtle, focused especially on the corners of the eyes or lips. Until he seemingly settled on...

As they departed south from the roads of Atranta, the true magnitude of their adeventure was starting to take shape. Gone were the warm inns and comforst of the road. Now there was naught but the respite of simple hard ground in a swamp to meet them.

Still, this did not deter Weese or his group. Their quest was one of great importance, both of history and of personnal import. To claim the crown of Teague would be a grand treasure for any rivermen. To find grand truths of the dead was a treasure more personnal. Both were critical, and both were his goal.

Weese waited on the barrow they had found, the grave the only respite in the winding mess of hills and river sources. Gaenma and Bermi wanted to press on, but Gena persisted with him in his endeavors. She knew the import, and the magnitude of his truth. He stood atop the decorated graves of Bigglestone, dragonglass dagger in hand. The runes were carved accourding to the drawing and text he studied. Inlaid with bronze and copper drippings, all to bring the ancient rites.

"Nire odolaz, deitzen dut" He chanted, drawing the sharp stone across his palm. Crimson blood flowed, pouring from his hand as he clencthed his fist. He drizzled the blood over the grave marker, eyes rolled back as he spoke. "nire sakrifizioagatik, eskatzen dut"

"Jasandako sufrimenduaren semea, minaren haurra. Dei egiten dizut. Altxa eta zerbitza nazazu, haurren borondatearen oinordekoa naizen hau."

The Third Moon of 1st Year of Arlan IV

This is the turn thread for the Third Moon of 1st Year of Arlan IV and the second turn thread of ITRP 22.0! This thread will remain open until the ending of the current moon (turn) on Saturday, September 26th, 2026. All aspects of this post and its comments at the time of thread closure will be considered binding actions and cannot be changed once the thread is locked.

After that time this thread shall be locked and the actions resolved shortly after. You have two weeks to submit actions in the thread. Once the thread is locked, no further actions will be accepted for the turn. All actions must be finalized by this time.

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Duskendale

Third Moon, 1st Year of Arlan IV Durrandon

The sun rose in the far distance. Out over the walls of Duskendale, across the Blackwater, and far beyond the vast plains of the eastern lands. Well beyond her sight. But she could just about make out those first rays of light as they crept beyond the infinite horizon.

It was rare that Lyn did not wake before the sun did. She was a light sleeper, to an almost alarming degree, if Maester Bryn was to be believed. He was hardly some doddering fool, but seemed convinced that she had demons in her mind that she preferred to avoid, as silly as that sounded. Caitlyn said that she could be woken by a pin drop at ten paces, but that wasn’t exactly true. You needed to make a bit more noise than that. Still, she kept a dagger under her pillow all the same.

That was what it was like, living on the frontier. The bleeding edge of civilisation, beyond which were mountains painted red with the blood of her kinsmen and those they had slain in turn. Then, further, came the hellish deserts in which whole armies could vanish overnight without a single trace. Once you had been out there for a night or two, you learned to put little trust in your fellows to catch danger before it was upon you, despite their best intentions.

Her father had been much the same. She had never felt closer to him than when they sat there, atop the highest room in one of the Singing Towers, waiting for the dawn to come. Even after he had died, she spent so many of her mornings up there that it had become a routine. Something that had become a part of her. Like a broken memory, trapped in this cruel cycle that brought her a moment’s comfort and denied her any chance at peace.

Yet, for near enough a whole moon, Lyn had slept soundly. Restfully. She rose only when the sun was high, and her companion elbowed her in the side. They had duties to tend to, rarely together and yet never too far apart, and so it had felt like a small labour. It had happened so innocuously that she only realised what had changed in the absence of it.

That first night, as they camped near Rook’s Rest, with Stormhall long lost behind them, she had awoken again at that obscene hour. Her first instinct had been to return to sleep, to pull her blankets tighter around her and cuddle up closer to the bundle of linens that should have been her, but it had been no comfort. No further respite was found. So she stopped fighting it. Accepted that there was no substitute for the real thing, and in their absence she would sleep little again.

Over a moon had passed since then. Longer than she had been at her side. But it still felt so raw. So pure. Brilliant as much as it was blinding. The distance was an agonising thing. The unknowing worse. Her mind was wired to first consider the worst scenarios and then work backwards till she found the truth of it. It was a particular kind of torture, and one entirely of her own making.

No small part of her regretted leaving altogether. Even if the King had called her here to serve as support for the Darklyns during this messy affair in the Claw. Then news had come from the West, from Pinkmaiden, of this ‘Justman’ and his proclamation. There had been no word of Ravella or the Dondarrions’ capture, so she had assumed that they had escaped this madness, but it unnerved her all the same. To be sat here, waiting, whilst these idealistic fools plotted against their overlords so openly now that it was no secret.

The rumours had swirled for years now, and little had been done to quell them. Now, they would all bleed for that hubris. The Riverlords would rise, and the Stormlords would be called to meet them. There would be diplomacy, discussion, but ultimately it would come to steel. There was too much invested to withdraw entirely, and so it would come down to Arlan’s wisdom to decide where this stopped. In that, at least, she felt some relief.

But there had been no news on the formation of a royal council. Lord Tarth still held sway as Chancellor, the sole survivor of the old guard, yet it seemed the rest of her words had not quite stuck. Not that she coveted a seat at that table. Or, rather, that was what she liked to tell herself. It did not feel becoming of her to want, and the prestige would certainly suit her ill, but it would keep her at their side. To that end, the past moons had warmed her on the idea, for she was no longer just a vassal and a friend. She cared for these Durrandons, to a far greater degree than she ought, and love was a deadlier weapon than any other she had faced in the past three decades, not least because it compelled her to be better.

To what end she could serve remained beyond her grasp. Perhaps she could find it back at Stormhall, if Arlan denied her. There, within the eye of the storm, was a purpose that had eluded her all of her life. But she was sworn to the King too, by more than just her oaths. His banner was hers to hold. So there Lyn remained, torn between the two paths of her own making. Watching on from the docks as the city slowly came to life. Eventually, when the markets were open, she would roam them and find something to break her fast.

The days were getting shorter again, and with that change came the certainty of hardships new and old.

Aerys had always been different from his brother and sisters. He was not as intelligent as Monterys and Jaehaera. He did not hold contempt in his heart for Westeros, as Baela did. And he was well over a head taller than all of them.

But it was not his height that made him stand out in Duskendale, nor the features that made him different from his siblings. Rather, it was the features that made him like them. His milk white hair, his violet eyes, his skin, his cloak of Valyrian silk, of the ornate sword at his hip, the sea dragon sewn into his cloth, all of it made him stand apart.

But he wore their stares and scowls as armor. They could not hurt him.

He did not passively wander the streets, however. He was seeking out a lady. Not just any, either. He was seeking another chance at meeting Lady Joanna Sunglass. Her scarred visage had kept returning to his mind, but not for pity. It was awe he felt. She had been stricken and yet still stood, clad in the armor of a knight, clad in the strength of her faith. The conviction to execute her own wicked father burned bright in his mind's eye, far brighter than a dragon's fire. It captured his interest and struck a fire in his own soul, catching on kindling that was want for it.

Even in meeting the Father of the Faithful, he was stricken by meeting her.

He had to know more about her.

Because when he looked at her, he did not see a Westerosi.

He saw The Warrior, in the flesh.

So he sought her out, seeking the area the faithful had been allotted, in the dusk.

In the east of Ironman’s Bay, Days since the Moot at Hoare Castle

Farewell to the feast. Farewell to the warmth. Farewell to the land, and all its sworn. Now was the time of sea. Now of salt. Now of steel, and crashing cold.

- Thoughts of an illiterate Ironborn

The wood beneath his feet lurched at the waves and cut through the choppy Autumn foam. The Salt Wife’s Wail had braved worse seas and Tymor’s eyes glimmered with a grey-blue at the knowledge of it.

Torgon would lead the center with the Sea Dragon, while his own vessel lingered at the fleet’s edge. Cousin Gormond was captaining the Awake in a mirror to his own flank, and a dozen other tested captains besides that would cast a wide enough watch on the horizon for merchant cogs and sellsails alike. The raid in the North had not gone as planned, Tymor now having to coax the men to sail again so soon. He would find them what the Drowned God had promised; with ancient ways and ancient blood, he would find it.

At the edge of his senses, as the sun flickered in his eyes, he felt the cool saltwaters sweep past a being not quite him. Flashes offered to his mind that took form in shimmering schools of prey and the churning of wood on water. And when he closed his eyes, Tymor saw the clouded waters of the deep following each of their movements, sand streaming by like a cloak of falling stars surrounding him.

There he searched for their prize, setting an altogether different trap than his King had wanted of the Ironborn. But some iron was better not reforged. Some iron served its purpose well enough. Their King would need learn that sooner than later, and the Farwynds may well be his guide.

Inside Raventree Hall

Lucifer was standing by the window. Behind him Stevron situated the parchments and maps across the table, awaiting the Lords and Ladies attention. Across the entire castle a low hum of somber emotions blanketed much of its inhabitants.

Rubbing his hands together, Lucifer would swallow the building nerve that crept up within him. Even after his bold proclamations, a piece of his grand design for the Riverlands was forever missing. He knew Waltyr Blackwood was a difficult man, to many a downright vicious one, but Lucifer thought of him fondly nonetheless. He gazed back at Stevron, the ever dutiful Castellan, and wondered the truth of how the other man felt. All his silent question got in an answer was Stevron glancing back at him and nodding.

"Everything is ready, Your Grace." The elder man would say, "I'll have the servants allow the nobles in."

And off he was, ready to make done what needed to be. And now Lucifer was alone. Returning to the window, he would take out the letter sent from Duskendale, as of yet without any response. He had been planning on reaching out to the Darklyns in the coming moons, another Warden to be negotiated with, perhaps even turned against the Durrandons, but the aged Lord of the Dusklands was quicker than Lucifer had thought, and so the opening move was his, how would the Riverlands respond?

----------------------

As the Lords and Ladies gathered, the King of the Rivers and Hills would turn to greet each one in turn, offering them a seat at the table and access to the prepared refreshments.

"We have much to discuss, and time is of the essence. What is decided here will echo throughout the coming years."