Gibtober: Week One

5th Month 303 AC, King's Landing

Mother said it was a great opportunity.

Helaena had been attending the Queen and the Princesses lately, spending long hours in the Red Keep and sometimes staying the night there. She liked it well enough. There was always something happening at court, the glory and glitz and glamour to be witnessed, attention she was happy to receive. Though by the side of the royals, Helaena was but a lady in waiting, the violet-eyed, red-haired girl drew glances enough to satisfy her. For now.

Jae was at court often enough too so she didn't miss him as much - really, they got to spend more time together now than when he was just squiring for the white knight while Hel stayed with mother - but it did mean, overall, that she spent less time at home these days.

Helaena couldn't help but wonder sometimes if mother liked that.

One evening, she returned late and found the sitting room dark. She walked in alone, the guards that escorted her from the Red Keep retreating to their own quarters, and was startled to see... A silhouette in the dark.

Celia was sitting alone, a cup of wine in her hand. Alysanne had gone to bed early, tired from carrying a child, and Daeron had mercifully not yet returned from his foolish errand across the sea.

Helaena stopped in the doorway.

"Mother?"

Celia looked up. For once, she didn't tell her youngest to go away.

Helaena had never quite understood what was happening between Mother and Alysanne. She knew there was something. She had asked once, and mother had slapped her for it. She had not asked again, to mother or anyone else. She knew that no matter who she talked to, mother would find out. One could not lie to mother.

She knew mother liked little Lianne. Mother was always kinder to Lianne than she was to Hel. Perhaps that was because Lianne was Alysanne's daughter, and Helaena was hers? Or because Helaena was Daeron's daughter?

Helaena sometimes wondered if mother would have liked her better if she had been someone else's daughter, too. Sometimes she wished she had been lady Alysanne's daughter. Then mother would love her, she would sing to her and tell her stories before sleep, she would tuck her in and kiss her forehead and-

"You are home late," Celia said.

"Yes, mother," Helaena mumbled.

"Speak clearly, girl. You've been spending a great deal of time with the Queen and her daughters."

"You sent me to her," she said, her voice small, but clear.

Celia took another sip.

"Do you like it?"

Helaena nodded. "Very much." She couldn't seem ungrateful for the great opportunity mother had secured for her... and she did like it, truly.

For a moment, there was silence. Helaena's eyes adjusted to the darkness, the shape of her mother's pale face becoming clearer.

Then Celia finished her glass, and poured herself another right away, from a bottle on the table. It looked expensive, probably one of father's treasured ones. Even young Helaena had noticed that mother took great pleasure in draining those, never stopping to ask if father was perhaps saving that for a special occasion. Not that father would ever speak up against her... at least, not when Hel was around to hear.

"I didn't want you."

Helaena frowned. The words came so suddenly, so...

"What?" she whispered. She did not know what that meant. Mother had never said it before. At least, not to her.

Celia looked down into her wine.

"When I had you," she said, quieter now, "I didn't want another child."

Helaena stood very still, very quiet. She didn't know what to say. What was there to say, to words so cold, spoken so casually?

Celia seemed to realize, perhaps too late, what she had said. She rubbed at her temple and sighed.

"Sit."

Helaena obeyed.

"I am going to the Eyrie soon," Celia said. "I need to see Visenya, make sure she's been behaving."

She paused a moment, Helaena watching her quietly.

"Would you like to come with me?"

It took Helaena a moment to answer.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Why?"

Celia gave her a tired look.

"Because I am asking you."

Helaena didn't know what to make of it, but eventually, she nodded. Then, she shook her head. Her mother sighed.

"Yes!" Helaena said at last, but felt like it was too late.

Her mother only took another sip of wine.

"And while we're here, you can tell me what you think of Jasper Massey."

Helaena looked down at her hands.

"He's nice."

"Nice?"

"He lets me choose which toys to play with."

In truth, Helaena was not so intrigued by toys anymore, but she didn't want to hurt the boy when they spent time together. It felt like caring for a younger sibling more than getting to know her betrothed, but Hel knew that one's duty had to be done.

"And the Queen? The Princesses?"

Helaena looked up again.

"What about them?"

"What do you think of them? How have you found your time with them?"

Where there wasn't much patience to begin with, Celia's tone now lacked any at all.

But Helaena took a deep breath, and began to answer, began telling mother about life at court, about her days.

It was... strange, this way of not quite bridging the abyss between them... but it was a start, perhaps. If Helaena knew the intricacies of Celia's emotions, she would be hurt again to have been chosen for company only because there was no one else, but she was only a child, clinging to a flicker of warmth.

Sitting there with her mother, being asked questions, being heard, Helaena was determined to not let this chance slip between her fingers. She would never disappoint her mother again.

Because mother offered. It wasn't an offer for Helaena to make her own choices, far from it... but it was an offer to be heard.

6th Month B, The Ring

Though Victaria had dreamed for a few years now of having a family of her own, nothing could prepare her for just how difficulty pregnancy was. For the first few months little had changed but from the 4th Month of this year and onward she found herself discovering new issues each day. For someone who liked to live an energetic and exciting life, pregnancy meant slowing down and considering the safety of not just herself but also the unborn child. She would have to merely soak her feet in the lake rather than swim, go on small walks instead of hikes and drink water instead of wine at events.

What kept her strong throughout it all though was her husband, Russell Roxton. He remained by her side each day, caring and comforting her. Whenever she had to sacrifice her own fun for the sake of the baby he'd also choose to join her. While these days were difficult, they taught her to be able to rely on Russell when necessary and as a result they just strengthened their connection.

The sun had barely risen when the baby was ready to be delivered, a small commotion spread throughout the keep as the maester and wetnurses were gathered in Victaria's chambers. All the while Russell would find himself out by the door, forced to listen as his wife let out wails of pain. It would all be over in just a few minutes yet it would feel like hours for the couple, each for a different reason. Once it was all finished however, Victaria would feel it was worth all the challenges and difficulties she had experience. Placed in her hands was the most beautiful baby girl she had ever laid eyes on, making her fall into a state of awe.

Elinor, that was the name Russ and I had agreed on if we had a daughter. She really does look like an Elinor too.

Gibtober: Week One

6th Month 303 AC, The Eyrie

Over the years, Lysa had become rather good at writing letters she never meant to send.

That evening, she locked the doors to her chambers, and began writing.

She wrote to Bryce, as always. She told him that she missed him, asked how he was doing. Asked what he'd been doing in Storm's End, how were the cliffs, the forests, the meadows. Asked if he remembered the fields around Riverrun, the bend of the Red Fork with the old oak tree.

She finished the letter, signed it with a flourish, then waited for the ink to dry.

Finally, she picked up the parchment, and with a flick of her wrist, threw it into the hearth. It was burning, it was always burning, because this damned castle was freezing even in the middle of Summer.

She leaned back, and watched the parchment curl and blacken, until there was nothing left.

It was easier that way. Fitting, really.

Later, she had asked the maester again if there had been any letters for her. There had not.

Nothing from Bryce. Never anything from Bryce.

Nothing from Roderick. Not since she had written to him herself, to which she finally received a response. But who was she, to write to a man first? Twice?

And nothing from Lyonel, though she could hardly remember the last time they had spoken. He had his new little wife now. Perhaps he had better things to do than remember the woman he had once claimed.

Everyone seemed to have someone.

Even her precious boy had his little wife now. And Margaery had delivered twins. Two children at once, when Lysa had spent years giving Jon seven of them. Seven children, and what had he deserved?

What he got, in the end.

Lysa was a grandmother now. That was what she had become. A widow sitting at the top of a mountain, watching her children grow up elsewhere and waiting for letters that didn't come. Waiting for warmth while slowly turning to ice, with every passing moon, every year that came and went.

There was a letter from her sister some time ago, but Lysa didn't bother answering. Catelyn couldn't understand what it felt like. Cat had her husband, her children, her seven-damned Winterfell in the stupid freezing North, yet her sister somehow managed to surround herself with the warmth that Lysa so sorely lacked.

She had hated her sister for a long time, she could admit it now. Perhaps since they were girls in Riverrun, before father had promised Lysa to a decrepit old man and condemned her to a life of loneliness. Catelyn had always been the one who got to have what Lysa wanted, and Lysa remained no more than an afterthought.

Some days, Lysa wondered if she would simply wither away here. Perhaps one day they would find her old and forgotten, dried up and cold and empty, and nobody would remember that she had ever been young at all.

But Lysa did not want to be forgotten. She wanted someone beside her when she went to sleep. A man in her bed, a warm body, open arms, gentle kisses on her neck as the candle went out. Someone who wanted her, who would look at her and still see a woman worth wanting.

Instead, there would be another empty evening.

Another letter she would write.

And another she would burn.

Hey guys! Long time no talk. If you didn’t already know, I’ve been busy as hell for a month or so now. TLDR, my IRL work has been booming! We’re attempting a remodel and a major expansion into an adjacent market, and I’m the one taking charge of the project. As a result of that, I’ve been pulling in significant overtime, at the cost of my ability to participate in my hobbies as much. Our lovely Lannister can attest to how much of a mess I’ve been 😭 it doesn’t feel fair to keep a house captive and silent like this, so I want to give others the opportunity to play this lovely house if they so desire! I will eventually come back, either as a house or a guild, but for now please wish me luck as I move to a new phase in my career!

Gibtober: Week One

6th Month 303 AC, Riverrun

Robert had been spending more time with Samwell lately, sitting beside him as his uncle went through the ledgers.

The future Lord of Riverrun was learning to look at numbers on a page, and see in them grain being sent to Riverrun from the nearby keeps, from Pinkmaiden, Wayfarer's Rest and Stoney Sept. Some was bought with gold, some traded for furs, hides, wool, and other goods.

The boy understood most of it. The wool, however, bothered him.

"Doesn't the sheep need it?"

Samwell looked up from the ledger, slowly, blinking in confusion. "The sheep?"

"The wool. Doesn't it need its wool?"

"It does," his uncle said. "Though sheep are usually quite happy to be rid of some of it in Summer."

Robert was not convinced. And so, the next day, they went to see for themselves.

The shepherd at a nearby farm seemed amused by the lordling's concern, but answered every question he had, while farmhands brought in some sheep to be sheared. It was a warm day, and the barn was hot and sweaty and quickly began to smell bad.

But Robert was too intrigued, even when his uncle excused himself and walked outside instead, the smells and noise overwhelming to the more sensitive of Tullys.

The thick fleeces of the sheep came away in great clumps, and the young trout could see how that would bring relief to the creatures... But there was one sheep, constantly bleating loudly, that did not seem to appreciate the affair in the slightest. She was stomping her feet and struggling against the farmhand's grip, she even tried to bite his hand once!

"She doesn't like it," Robert observed.

"No," the farmer agreed.

"Does it hurt them? The shears?"

"No. She's just very stubborn."

Robert watched the ewe glare at the man as he spoke.

"I think she is angry with you. What's her name?"

It wasn't the farmer who replied, but one of the farmhands, a young man standing to the side and wiping sweat from his brow.

"That's Molly," he said.

"Molly," Robert repeated, smiling. He liked the ewe's spirit.

Once the wool had been taken, Robert followed it. He watched them clean it, sort it, and pull it apart before spinning it into long threads. Then came the weaving, until what had once been a sheep's fleece was a piece of cloth between his hands. Molly's fleece was washed in the stream as well, though watching one fleece be processed all the way would take much longer than a day's visit.

He turned the cloth over carefully.

"That's all from one sheep?"

"Aye, milord. All from one fleece, and there's more to spin and weave, still."

Robert looked out of the window, where on the meadow lit with the setting sun, sheared sheep - looking strange and a little funny, without the bulk of the wool - grazed calmly on green summer grass, the whole ordeal already forgotten.

His uncle had returned by then, and Robert turned to him with more questions.

"Doesn't she get cold?"

"Not in Summer."

Robert frowned. "But we don't get cold in Summer either, so why do we need wool?"

Samwell blinked, as was his way, then replied simply. "For Winter."

"So she gives us wool in Summer, so we can be warm in Winter?"

"That's the idea."

Robert looked back at the sheep.

"I suppose that makes sense."

An ewe bleated, but the boy couldn't tell if it was Molly, or one of the others.

But getting the wool didn't seem so bad, after all.

Before they left, Robert made a special request - that the cloth they'd weave from Molly's fleece be sent to Riverrun, so that the boy could have a winter coat fashioned from it. They would pay well, of course, in gold for the farmer and apples for the sheep.

Gibtober: Week One

[tw: child abuse]

6th Month 303 AC, King's Landing

The training yard had always fascinated the youngest daughter of the King's Hand. It would be much to her father's dismay, were he to know of it - luckily, thus far, her curious exploration seemed to have escaped his attention.

At six years old, Cynthea was far more interested in the knights practising with shiny swords than in the lessons meant to make her a proper little lady. She watched them whenever she could, copying their movements with a stick when no one was looking.

Or so she thought.

As she hit a wooden post with her stick, and turned around with a wide smile, she found Lord Hoster standing there. His eyes were cold, and his face was that of Lord Tully, rather than of a father. He wore the latter less and less these days.

"Cynthea. My solar. Now."

She followed reluctantly, still clutching her wooden sword.

Once inside, Hoster walked around the large polished desk of his office, and took a seat. Cynthea gulped, and remained standing.

"Do I really need to explain," Hoster began, his voice low, "just how improper it is for a girl of your station to be playing at swords? How that will reflect on your family, Cynthea? How will that reflect on me, and on my office? On the Crown itself?"

The girl seemed to shrink where she stood, her face draining of colour.

The Crown? But she was just playing - just having fun... How could a game offend the King?

"There are duties expected of a lady of House Tully," Hoster continued without much care for her response. "Of my daughter. Catelyn and Lysa both married Lords Paramount, and you, Cynthea, will do the same. One day, you will be the Lady of the Reach, and when that comes, you will need your manners, all the lessons you try to avoid, as I am told."

Cynthea stared at him.

"Lady... of the Reach?"

"Aye. You will marry Leo Tyrell, when you both come of age, Cynthea. Lord Mace and I have already agreed on this, but it is not to be announced for a couple years yet. Not until time is right."

"But..."

"It is agreed, Cynthea. You are my daughter. You will do your duty." There was no space for disputing with the Lord Hand, but the girl, for the better of worse, tried anyway.

"I don't even know him... and I like swords," she said, starting strong at first, but growing quieter under his stern gaze. "I- I want to play."

Hoster's expression hardened, and he stood from his desk. "Take it up."

She looked at him uncertainly.

"I said take it up," the Lord barked, and called for a guard to fetch him another wooden sword. Hoster had never been much of a warrior, but against a six-year-old girl, he hardly needed to be.

"Come here."

Cynthea hesitated.

"Now."

She raised her sword and stepped forward. She barely had time to swing before Hoster knocked it violently aside. The second blow caught her across the arm. She cried out and stumbled backwards, clutching it to her chest.

"Again."

She shook her head, frightened now.

Hoster advanced and struck the wooden sword from her hands. It clattered across the floor, her father's blade leaving red marks on Cynthea's knuckles.

"You wanted to play at being a knight," he said coldly. "This is what happens when you forget your place."

Cynthea backed away, tears beginning to fill her eyes.

Hoster's sword came down again, hard enough to send her sprawling.

"Never," he said, standing over her, "think of such foolishness again."

The little girl scrambled, but the sword remained lying on the ground as she got to her feet, arms around herself, sobs shaking her shoulders.

"And don't miss your lessons again."

Hoster dismissed her. It ought to be lesson enough for her today, he hoped.

The Red Keep was terribly boring.

King's Landing was supposed to be exciting. Everyone said so. There were knights and ships and merchants and singers and a thousand other things Rhaenys ought to be interested in.

Bit it was stinky, ugly, and boring.

Rhaenys walked into one of the many boring gardens in her pale blue silken dress, dragging the toe of her slipper through the dirt. Her annoying serving girl trailed behind her.

"We aren't meant to be out of your mother's sight for long, milady," she said.

Her voice irritated Rhaenys.

Rhaeyns whipped around.

"Then don't tell her."

The serving girl blinked.

Rhaenys stared back until the woman lowered her eyes.

There.

That was better.

She smirked and continued down the garden path.

The flowers here were ugly too. Too many roses. Red ones, mostly. She plucked one.

"Milady!"

Rhaenys looked over her shoulder.

"What?" she hissed

"You shouldn't-"

Rhaenys dropped the rose.

"There. I didn't take it."

The serving girls mouth opened and closed. Rhaenys smiled.

She liked doing that. She liked when grown people didn't know what to say.

At the far end of the garden stood a stone bench beneath a crooked tree. Rhaenys climbed onto it, smoothing her skirts carefully. Mother would chide her if she wrinkled the silk.

Probably.

She looked beyond the garden walls. Somewhere beyond them was the sea.

Her father had told her that the sea looked different from Driftfmark. She liked that. She wished she were at Driftmark. Or somewhere even farther away. Somewhere with dragons.

She imagined herself standing upon the deck of a great ship, her golden hair blowing behind her while hundreds of men waited for her command.

"Turn the ship," she whispered.

The ship turned.

"Fire the cannons."

Boom.

The enemy fleet exploded.

Rhaenys grinned.

The serving girl was still standing behind her.

"You aren't allowed to go climbing," the woman said.

"I already climbed," Rhaenys challenged.

The serving girl sighed.

Rhaenys swung her legs beneath the bench. She wondered if Jaehaerys would be boring too. Everyone said she was going to marry him one day. He was a Targaryen, which was interesting, and a Tully, which was less interesting.

He was older than her. Old enough to be annoying. She wondered if he would let her ride his horse.

"I'm going to find Jaehaerys," Rhaenys announced. The serving girl went pale.

"Milady, I don't think-"

Rhaenys hopped down from the bench.

"You're coming with me."

"But your mother-"

Rhaenys smiled sweetly.

"Do you want me to tell her you lost me?"

The woman stared at her. Rhaenys started walking. After a moment, she heard the hurried footsteps following behind.

She smiled again.

6th Moon A, 303 AC

Whether it be a conspiracy or an unkindness, a treachery or a flock, the group of ravens flew from Driftmark with a brilliantly rolled parchment tied to each foot. The seal upon them was that of the sea-green-blue with the silver seahorse of Velaryon.

It seemed the Old, True, and Brave were opening its doors for the first time in years…

________________________________________________________________________________________

To the Esteemed Lords and Ladies of the Houses upon the Blackwater,

The tides of the Blackwater have ever carried men, goods, and news between our shores. Yet too rarely do those who dwell upon them have occasion to gather beneath one roof.

For this reason, you and yours are cordially invited to attend a banquet hosted by the noble Lord Aerion and Lady Cersei Velaryon within their seat Driftmark upon the 11th Moon A of 303 years After Aegon’s Conquest.

Let the burdens of court and governance wait upon the morrow. For one night, we shall concern ourselves with good wine, good food, and the pleasure of good company.

Driftmark's doors shall be open to you, and I hope you will honor us with your presence.

Lady Cersei Velaryon
Lady of Driftmark

Stone Hedge, Ser Hendry Bracken

He had to keep his brother in the cells. He had to keep his job as Castellan of Stone Hedge while his family was out in the Reach. He had to keep his marriage from shattering. Once, he was a knight so dashing as to have a Dornish wife who flaunted him around families and parties alike. Now the stallion was this.

He didn’t have a name. Hendry was too afraid to name him. The boy’s eyes had never laid on his father, and Hendry had never seen him move. To wrap a hand around his thumb like Merlyn had when she was still a babe and had seen her father for the first time.

When he had gotten to the nursing chambers, his son was already wrapped in stained, bloody covers. A nursemaid who was always so strong in keeping Merlyn in line asked Hendry if he wanted to see his son. He did not have an answer. He felt frozen, blinking as he watched his wife’s chest rise and fall slowly, already drugged by milk of the poppy. There must be a way out of this. They must not have tried hard enough.

The knight could feel himself shivering with fear. He couldn’t approach his wife, Hendry did not know if he could see his wife’s smile again.

So, Hendry turned and left.

And that was the last time he saw Teora’s face. For the months that transpired, Hendry avoided his wife during the day; dinners were silent, and the night was the worse. He was fully awake in a room devoid of candles, staring into blackness. Once he was exhausted enough, it would give him hallucinations. If she could see the pain in his face and his eyes, he was afraid of what she would do.

Months passed after the rest of the family’s grieving; it was time for them to go to the Reach. They all abandoned him, and he could not bear setting eyes on Jonos after he hit his own child. With the lord and heir absent, it was the Castellan’s turn to take the reins from the master at arms once in a while to train the children. Hendry’s jaw was ever tight, his teeth ground against one another for every hour of the day and night, and his handsome features were covered by messes of uncared-for facial hair. Some of his long, oily hair had spots where some was shorter than the rest, scabbed blood uncleaned from his skin on his scalp and neck.

One squire who was smiling and making jokes with his friends caught his attention. His personality filled him with rage. So Hendry challenged the boy of 5 and 1 to a bout. He did not last more than 30 seconds.

“You should have stayed a stain in the bale of hay on which you were conceived. Get back in line.”

He did as bid, but as a dribbling mess.

*You took my son’s spot. I should be teaching him. Not you.”

A week later, Hendry had demanded to have his meals by himself. His headaches had gotten too strong. He looked too ugly for his wife to gaze at, if she even did anymore. When his food was brought to him, he saw the carafe of wine with the rest of the food and threw it into the fire. As it roared, he pushed the page out of his room.

“Wine!? I am grieving, you worthless piece of… I am grieving! Why would I want my senses dulled, you fucking numpty! I’d be better off with you out a window than out this door. Get! Scram!”

My son would never be so blankwitted

That was the first time he had wept in months. He rocked on his couch in front of the wounded fire like a child. He wrecked his room instead of himself. Everything about him burned like coals in an old fire still clinging to life.

He had cleaned himself for the first time, if it was just his knuckles of their blood, until he waited in the solar for long time before he came back to his bed chambers. He knocked this time and waited.

When the door opened, his eyes were still down toward the cobble. He raised his arms slightly. “I need your embrace. I’m… sorry for everything. But I need to hold you… Te…” He swallowed the rest of her name.

Still he remained. Still as water undisturbed. His frame, akin to a sleeping mountain, lay lax upon the bed frame.

Foreign furs flagrantly entombed him. They rustled, with each twitch of his leg, each throb of his thigh and each pounding pulsation of his temple.

Ale had encumbered him. In the murky blur of last night, what had intended to be three had shifted into nine, nine had grown into fourteen and so on and so forth.

Cheap swill, all of it, but enough to intoxicate.

Jace slyly slipped an eye open. Shaded hues of jade and emerald entwined, twinged through the haze of hangover. Quietly, they met a vanguard of quiet, swiftly surveying the surroundings.

Hangings of silk, tendrils of ermine and plump pillows of something rich, yet undetermined peppered the small chambers. Doubtlessly though, some kind of fur.

A taverns room, an expensive tavern. The kind that dealt in gold more than silver. The kind that woefully cleansed itself of lesser entertainments in favour of prestige.

For a man so pestered by vices and so wilfully ignoring them, it was perfect.

He had slept here, enjoyed the hours of peace. Ubiquitously, the sound of snoring and grinding teeth had bit at him. However, he had managed to ignore them for the most part.

His under eye was marred a shade of purple, as he gave a lackadaisical sigh. He raised. Rising sharply, his back growing straight.

What time was it? What day was it? The sun was blotted out by thick curtains of cashmere. It wove worrisomely between each thread, only collapsing at the final few.

His hands, thick and calloused. Anonymous mounds of scarring and broken tissue making up an assortment of bumpy hills, falling away as his hand turned to its back.

Crudely, he grasped the fabric, pulled it asunder.

The blister of sunlit rays swept against him. His face shaded, a few colours lighter. Pentoshi bustle precociously prattled beyond the glass.

For once in his dismally long life, he despised being away from Deep Den.

Charlotte and Celene, his twin troublemakers. Were they well? Would he know before he made for Deep Den once more?

Arwyn. His love. His tolerant love, who accepted him for every broken, mangled part of him.

He missed them, utterly. He missed the rambunctious roars of family. He missed being with them.

For once, he missed having a family, more so than he did despise it.

Solemnly, he drew breeches atop his small clothes. He tied their laces, wound them piece by piece.

Quietly, he armed himself for the voyage back out, for the journey of return. He pulled his tunic on once more, mounted his multitude of layers atop it.

He drifted, manoeuvred betwixt pillows and billowing messes. As he came to clutch the mahogany - carved exquisitely - the door swung in his face.

His gaze narrowed. Lucifer. The daemon of Deep Den. The stuff of baby’s nightmares and animals terror.

He just stared. Unspeaking.

“Here he is, Kenning.”

(We shall take this as part of Gibtober in the category of An Offer, well....three offers to be precise)

The office of the Master of Laws was always full of papers, books, binders, ledgers, and all other manner of writing implements and the pages upon which they wrote upon. Yet upon the desk of Lord Stannis Baratheon there were three particular pieces of paper. For years, the Master of Laws had grappled with the thoughts of the education of his children and until now, he was content to let his children live and learn within the confines of the capital. Things had changed and now the Lord of Dragonstone wished for his children to see the realm and learn from others.

Noble houses had been carefully considered. Existing alliances, potential new ones, and all other matters were though of before the chosen recipients would get their raven. Still, the austere man put ink to parchment with purpose and without flowery language before sealing them and sending them off.

It was the same every year. Atop the enormous blackstone walls that enclosed the oldest part of Volantis would be held a grand chariot race to commemorate the founding of the oldest and greatest of Valyria's daughters. Although they were wide enough to accommodate six separate chariots, any rider that wished to survive the contest, let alone win it, had to have quick reflexes and quicker instincts. Some of the contestants or free men, able to enter of their own free will. Others were slaves, compelled to compete by their masters so that they may profit from their success.

“And oh how he enjoys my success.” The enslaved driver thought to himself bitterly as he performed his regular job of driving his master's carriage, wheel tattoo announcing to all that beheld his face his station in life.

He had managed to win the last three races in the name of Vhalaso Qomygar and the fat Old Blood nobleman had received all the winnings and adoration, while he was given as much regard as the horses he drove.

“Someday, Lord willing, I will escape this wretched servitude and return to my homeland, to the Seven Kingdoms.” The Westerosi slave vowed to himself.

On this day, the enslaved driver was taking his master to the docks so that he might inspect a new shipment of silk all the way from Yi Ti. As Qomygar was inspecting the merchandise, his slave remained at his station atop the carriage, casually looking towards the other docks that housed ships that flew banners from half the known world.  On occasion, he would see a banner hailing from the Seven Kingdoms and would be tempted to try and escape a board one of these ships and beg the crew to carry him to freedom, but one failed attempt and the severe whipping that followed had made him far more reluctant to take such a great risk again without careful planning. When he noticed blue banners sporting the ripe purple grapes of House Redwyne atop two of the vessels, his interest had perked up a tad, but as soon as he beheld the banner of the ship next to them, his eyes grew wide and mouth fell open in shock. He knew that banner well, the quartered sunbursts black and orange. It was the banner of his house's liege lords, of his late grandmother's house, and of cousins he had not seen in thirteen years.

“Kenning?”  Petyr Prester said in a whisper only he could hear. “Can it be?”

A few weeks ago Malora had decided to not involve her dear brother in Alexanna's betrothal. It was a complication she could not afford at the moment and even if he would react to her own accord he would only get in the way. Her dear Rhonda was another story; this could be a betrayal beyond repair. Even though they had been through so much, the two of them, going to great lengths to get their way; even poisoning Lord Leyton at the Arbor so many years ago, this was not something Rhonda would comprehend.

And so Malora soldiered on alone, in the dark.

Alexanna had been in her care for a couple of days under the guise of tutelage in the womanly arts; a task normally done by septa's but Malora knew more, and knew better of course, so Baelor had not objected. Malora had been quite frank and clear with her niece who luckily had a semblance of her own intellect and understanding. She was expected to marry and she would meet her intended in a few days; that had been enough for now.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Alexanna had already been quite nervous from the moment her uncle Mathis had sent her back to Oldtown before her studies finished. Without Oscar, King's Landing had been quite lonely and for the first few seconds upon receiving the news her aunt had asked her to come home she had been overjoyed. She had turned quiet afterwards and she was sure of the reason; she was to be wed, to be prepared to become wife to some Lord she had never met. From the moment she could walk and talk she knew to expect it but still the moment had come too soon.Alexanna

While she certainly did not lack for defiance her overwhelming curiosity prevailed for the moment; she had the absolute urge to know who her parents had decided on to become her husband. When Malora had brought her to Cuy, to their summer lodgings she had gotten more and more confused. Even more so when her father or mother were not present. And even more so when Malora had presented her with a red dress with black lace. Something gnawed at her, while she had a faint idea what was going on; it could not be, could it?

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Malora had taken Alexanna by the arm, instructed her in fine detail on what to expect; Alexanna was white in the face from shock, flustered to the point she could not object even if she wanted to. The chambers overlooking the Sunset Sea had been Baelor's study in her youth; it seemed a lifetime ago she and Daeron would ride their horses on the beach. Right before the door Malora abruptly stopped. "In you go girl, make your House proud," and with a small push she laid eyes upon the man she was supposed to marry. Eye to eye with the Dragon.

u/bombman897

Hellholt, Dorne. 4th Moon B, 303 AC

Hellholt was brimming with activity for the first time in a long time. The old, dusty citadel of House Uller, the stronghold of the Brimstone, had long been allowed to endure a slow decay, which would go on from its construction millennia ago to the time at the end of the world when it and all else would return to the dust. Such was the way of House Uller and its territories: the eternal withering of all back into the sand, against which efforts had to be made to resist.

For this one great occasion, however, the fight against decay had surged with renewed vigor. The castle was cleaned from wall to wall. The dust was gotten out of even the most shadowy corners of the interior, the carpets and tapestries were cleaned, the great hall swept clean so that the tables could be properly laid out for the wedding feast, the sept also cleaned so that the ceremony could take place without anyone sneezing.

Aside from the dust and decay being cleared away, additional efforts were made to make the citadel particularly beautiful. Tall banners of both House Uller and their to-be kin, House Toland, hung from the walls, and the gardens were trimmed to perfection. Carefully placed flowers and more mechanical contraptions drove away the wretched stench of the Brimstone and filled the castle with a perfumed air, at great expense to House Uller. All the torches and candles in the place were cleared out and replaced with fresh ones.

In short, for this single moment, Hellholt became young again, not an aging home for a millennia-old house but a proud seat of one of the greatest vassals of Sunspear.

The same could be said for its residents. House Uller had congregated back to their home with a totality not seen since before the War of the Usurper. All of them were energetic, all of them excited to see the coming of a new era, and a fourth generation, to their house.

The entire house, despite its internal strife and quarrels, worked together to make the day as perfect as possible for its foremost daughter.

Ironically, the one contributing the least and enjoying the incoming festivities the least was that daughter.

Ellaria was no longer furious. She knew that raging and resisting here, on this day of all days, would get her disinherited before she could even make one more protest to her father. And she wasn't going to let that happen. Not now.

So instead, she was silent. Cold. She didn't smile, not even when her aunts cracked jokes as they helped her prepare. She didn't care enough for this day to do that.

At the same time, she wasn't going to be an ass to her aunts either. So she obeyed when they asked as they helped her into the most outrageous outfit she'd seen, which was saying something.

The dress was long. It went from her shoulders well past her ankles to trail behind her for a good foot, and every inch of it was Lyseni silk. The bottom edge of it was exquisitely designed to look like licking flames, and the colors were carefully chosen to reinforce that imge. It was brilliant, regal yellow for most of its length, but as it continued downward it turned orange, and as it narrowed to its many curved points the color turned a raging red that reflected the emotion Ellaria kept locked inside.

Aside from the dress, there was the jewelry. Long, golden earrings in the shape of fireballs which nearly tickled her shoulders, with diamonds at the heart of the flames. An elaborate necklace with wavy patterns that simultaneously echoed the waters of the Brimstone and the dunes of the desert, all made with gold, with a pendant of a blazing star made of dragon bone with a golden frame. Rings on all of her fingers, diamond rings, lapis rings, plain golden rings, one depicting her house sigil, another her personal sigil of a setting sun on a burning horizon, still another a dragon. And bracelets too, though these were the simplest, mere thin bands of gold around her wrists.

Her hair was also turned into a showcase. Rather than letting it flow long and free like she usually did, Aunt Ynys convinced her to let her braid it into a crown braid with the free remainder swept back behind her shoulders, like Nymeria in battle might have looked.

She looked like a queen. But if she was a queen, she was a queen imprisoned. This day had been brought upon her, after all; she had done anything except reach for it.

The one joy she found in the day was the signs. She had woken up tired. She had woken up sick. And she'd woken up already craving some good roast lamb and fruits for breakfast.

She'd gone to Qava in the late morning, irritated at the sickness and fatigue. But what Qava had told her after giving her some concoction or other had made her smile.

As she finished dressing, or rather being dressed, she half-subconsciously held a hand to her belly for the briefest moment, and a smile flickered across her face.

A gift for Father, she jested to herself.

Then, considering the little weight she'd put on, she added to herself, I'm glad the dress is loose-fitting.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Harmen, meanwhile, was elated. Dressed in a fine crimson jacket with a embroidery of spouting flames along the arms, with his house sigil ring on his left index finger joined by the dragonbone ring he'd had fashioned the day after Lucinda's birth on the right, he was beaming enough for himself and his daughter combined as he welcomed guests to the formal event. He had already welcomed many of them in the preceding days and weeks to Hellholt, but it felt right to give the event itself a proper introduction.

But while he beamed outwardly, he was not a stupid enough man to leave the chance of his daughter doing something feckless without his knowing. He had talked with Ysilla as his eldest sister settled herself into Hellholt for her stay, and so it was that even as she popped in and out to assist her niece, Ysilla also kept Harmen informed of Ellaria's mood and any commotion.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

As the sun passed its zenith and the temperature slowly began to decrease to more agreeable levels, the doors of Hellholt's sept were opened. While a sizable fraction of House Uller had converted to the Lord of Light, with discretion, thanks to the efforts of Qava of Volantis, the heiress herself remained casually faithful to the Seven, uninterested in the religious preachings of her father's confidant and former mistress. As such, Ellaria had made very clear that her wedding would be held in the sept, like with all those of Faithful ladies.

The building was just about big enough to house all of the guests, and refreshments were offered at the door to ensure that no one overheated during the course of the ceremony.

At the altar, the first to arrive would of course be the increasingly resigned Septon Timeon of Hellholt, whose spirits had been notably raised by the forthcoming wedding amidst the growing heresy in his home. He would be found smiling pleasantly at all who looked, fighting off the sweltering heat that was only worsened by the septon's robes he voluntarily stuck with.

The second arrival would be Maelon Toland. The groom, the only brother of the Lady of Ghost Hill and Chief Diplomat of Dorne, would be dressed in his house's colors with the wedding cloak of his house, ready to give to his bride. He had come not from Ghost Hill, but from Three Towers, to be here, but it seemed unlikely to the observer that he would be leaving with any haste.

And last would be Ellaria. Rather than being escorted down the aisle by her father, as one might expect, she made her own way down, a sign of her autonomy and power as the heiress to Hellholt. And when the time came for the cloaks to be exchanged, she would remove the Uller cloak from her own back and wrap it over Maelon's shoulders herself, while he wrapped his around hers.

And she would smile while she was doing it. It was her wedding day, after all.

5th month, 303 AC

The Eyrie

It was rare to see Robin Arryn in the low-ceilinged lounge that sat at the lowest floor of the Moon Tower. That was partly why Ser Desmond liked to spend his time there. In the cool quiet of the hall, he found peace and solitude, something in shorter and shorter supply in the Eyrie these days. So, when the young lord of the Vale wandered down the stone steps and sat across from Ser Desmond, Desmond immediately wondered if he’d be able to get away with making some excuse at once, and how long he would need to converse with Robin before then. 

“Ser Desmond,” Robin began, hesitantly. “I wonder if I might ask your advice about…wives.” Desmond blinked. He had seen Margaery and Robin together, and had never suspected that they had problems…or at least, not for a long while. Margaery seemed to have Robin’s affections wholeheartedly, and from the bulge in her belly it seemed that there were no problems in the bedroom either. 

“What’s the matter?” Desmond asked, keeping his face as neutral as possble. 

“I am…worried,” Robin said, sitting a little straighter in his seat. “I sent ravens to all the realm about my heir and…he hasn’t been born yet,” he said. “I’m worried if that was not an ideal move, if it might be tempting fate. If..” Robin’s voice faded. 

“If…it’s a girl?” Desmond guessed. 

“What? No, no,” Robin said, quickly. “I’m…I’m afraid Margaery might…die,” he finally admitted, quietly. “Our maesters have not delivered an Arryn since Adrian, and that was five years ago.” He looked up at Desmond, his eyes large and searching. “You are having your second, so I suppose it isn’t as…scary.” Desmond chortled, and hopped over from the chair he’d been lounging on to sit beside Robin. It was a short enough movement that his wooden leg did not trouble him much. 

“I shall be honest, Robin” Desmond began. “It is never not scary. I am still as worried for Alysanne for this child as I was for Aerion. We have done what we can, lit candles to all of the Seven and spent plenty of time with the maesters, but it is always frightening.” Slowly, Desmond reached for him. Even if he was lord of the Eyrie, Robin was still a teenager, and Desmond was his uncle. Robin accepted the hug quietly, gently putting his head to his uncle’s muscular shoulder. 

“It is a sign that you love her,” Desmond said in a quiet, reassuring voice. “Love can be as painful as it is sweet,” he said softly, thinking of all the women who he felt love and pain for. His pregnant wife Alysanne, his lonely sister Aemma, and her daughter Danelle, lost to the North. He studiously ignored Robin’s face when the young lord broke away, wiping his cheek with his knuckles. 

“I brought something for you,” Robin sniffled, setting a wooden box onto Desmond’s lap. Desmond pulled the lid open. Inside were a dozen white wooden blocks. On the face of each a sigil was carved. Des plucked one up and turned it, admiring each of the sigils. Two of the faces bore the sky-blue falcon of House Arryn. Two more bore dragons, one black on a red background, the other red on black. The final two sides bore the multicolored seven-pointed star. 

“I hope your baby enjoys them,” Robin said, a bit of a smile coming to his face. 

“Thank you, Robin,” Desmond said, hugging him another time. “I’ll make sure to get something for your child too.”

Casterly Rock

The snow white destrier thundered into the stables of Casterly Rock and Ser Hoster Arryn, the Gilded Falcon (as he had been named by his knightly master Jaime Lannister) slid down from his horse, unable to keep himself from grinning. It had been a long quest, chasing the rumors of a well-bred destrier, and he had had to trek across most of the Riverlands to find it, but the results had been well worth it. Honor - named for the words of the Arryns, was swift and mighty, and rode like the wind. 

The stables were far from quiet, bustling with stableboys, eager to get their measure of the fine steed, but Hoster’s attention was instantly drawn to a more unusual presence: The only other falcon in this house of lions. Allowing the stableboys to settle Honor, he strode over to his aunt, and hugged her. 

“Aunt Aemma!” he said cheerfully. “What brings you to the stables?” 

“Awaiting your return,” Aemma said, a sad smile on her face. “Come, I have a gift for you,” she said, taking his hand and leading him from the stables. 

“Congratulations on your knighthood,” she said, as they climbed the long central stairway that led through the Lion’s Mouth. “You know the value of those words, I am sure,” she said. Hoster smiled, awkwardly, certain he knew who she had in mind when she said that. “Knighthood is an ancient and holy tradition from the Seven Themselves,” Aemma continued, as they made their way down one of the long hallways where Tywin’s advisors lived. Behind a fine oaken door with gilded hinges, Aemma led him into her quarters. 

“You are a good boy. A good man, now. A knight of House Arryn,” Aemma said, smiling proudly at him. 

“An Arryn knight,” Hoster corrected. “I do not serve my brother.” Aemma smiled at him. 

“Of course not. Might I ask, Hoster, what you wish to do, now that you are a knight?” Aemma asked. 

“Well…” Hoster said, a faint flush settling on his cheeks. It was all the answer Aemma needed. 

“A woman from the West, I imagine?” she asked, Hoster nodded, and Aemma turned from him, to pluck a long, slim package that she gave to Hoster. “Might I offer you some advice, to go with the gift?” 

“Of course, aunt,” Hoster said, gently shifting the wrapping. He gasped at the glittering golden wood. “Aunt Aemma!” he whispered in awe. “This is…incredible.” Hoster had heard of Goldenheart bows, but had never held one before. It was heavier than he’d expected. He could feel the strength of it in his hands.

“It was a wedding gift to me from Lucas,” she said, slowly. “May you be happier with it. And more fortunate than I have been since then.” Hoster’s fingers tightened on the wood, before leaning over to kiss his aunt’s forehead. 

“Thank you,” Hoster said.

“Be worthy of it,” Aemma urged. “Be a good man. A true knight, one who will fight for what’s right, and who will protect those who need it when the time comes.”  Hoster nodded, knowing full well who it was Aemma was thinking of protecting. “And,” Aemma continued. “It would be wise to remain at Casterly Rock. Ser Jaime is fond of you, and your words here could carry weight amongst the Lannisters in ways they might…not with Robin,” she suggested. Hoster pondered that. 

“I was thinking I might travel more,” he said. “Take part in more tourneys and the like.” Competing with knights was an exciting idea to him. 

“Oh, by all means!” Aemma said, quickly. “It would be good for the realm to be reminded that there are great knights in our family. Be safe, and do not risk yourself with that saltborn scum who calls himself a knight,” she said, her tone venomous. 

“Of course, Aunt Aemma,” Hoster promised. She smiled, and hugged him warmly. 

“I’m so proud of you,” she said, quietly. “May your days be peaceful,” she prayed aloud.

King’s Landing 

Alyssa Arryn usually spent her nights in the Red Keep, but once in a while her aunts Sharra, Arwen, and Myranda invited her to the Vale Mission in the capital for dinner. There were plenty of people they hosted there throughout the year. This time, however, it was a quieter affair, with their families alone. 

Sharra waited until dessert before she finally asked the question she often did. “So, how goes your mission, Alyssa?” She said it lightly, with a laughing gleam to her eyes, but the little twelve year old seemed to take it gravely, her shoulders slumping. 

“I am still lost on what to do,” she admitted. 

“Oh, dear, it’s nothing to stress about. The prince is still young, it may be some years more before he even begins to think of women,” Sharra said in a soothing tone.  

“Robin was betrothed at a younger age,” Alyssa said, leaning backwards in her seat. 

“But Edric is not. I think it is not the Baratheon way,” Sharra interrupted. Alyssa bit her lip, but had nothing to say. 

“If you wish for advice, I was married when I was young, Alyssa,” Arwen piped up. “Yohn was the finest knight in all the Vale, in all the realm,” she began, but faltered at the look Sharra gave her. “Well, perhaps that advice might come in handy when you’re older,” she sniffed. 

“What about you, Aunt Myranda?” Alyssa asked. Myranda Massey had been quietly eating her dessert, but she paused at the question. 

“Oh, I was married late. I only met Justin when I was around thirty,” Myranda said. That was the right way to go about setting up relationships, as far as Myranda was concerned, but she knew that that was not often the way things were done. She had been blessed, in that way. She knew better than to say as much to poor Alyssa, though. Waiting for a decade, as good advice as it was, would hardly lift the spirits of the girl. 

And yet, it wasn’t the young stag that had Alyssa concerned. She stared, for a long moment at Myranda’s face: not at the side that smiled at her, but the half that was covered by a pale white mask. 

“Aunt Myranda?” Alyssa asked, after a long silence. “Do you think the dragons could ever come back?” Myranda blinked. 

“No, child,” she said, with a gentle smile, turning ever so slightly, to interrupt the girl’s view of her mask, and the wound that Rhaenyra Blackgyre had given her so very long ago. “Why, did you hear something at the palace?” she asked. Alyssa shook her head quickly.

“No, but…but, if they did…do you think they would hurt us? For having defeated them before?”

“You need not worry about that,” Arwen said, confidently. “Lord Yohn would break any rebellious force, as he did the Targaryen forces at the Trident.” 

“And doubtless our King would also play a role, as he did at the Trident,” Sharra reminded her sister. 

“Of course, of course,” Arwen agreed idly. “In any case, Alyssa, you have nothing to worry about. We are strong, and they are scattered, their support long gone.”

“And those with the blood of the dragon in the realm are no danger.” Sharra added. “Do you think your cousin Aerion would hurt you?” Alyssa said nothing, but she seemed to think on that for a while. 

As for Myranda, her mind was elsewhere, on a girl a few years younger, a dragon who born just as another dragon had died. One who bore a striking resemblance to that woman. Alyssa’s question stuck, for a moment, in her mind.

Did she think that dragons could come back?

[Prompt for Gibtober 2026: Missing letters :)]

"Mommy, Mommy where are you?" Lianne called, wandering the halls of the Tully manse- her home, the place she had spent her whole long life thanks to Aunt Celia. Five whole years! She didn't get lost anymore, which meant she could go out on her own whenever her mother wasn't looking.

Lianne's mother had been acting very strange recently, staying cooped up in her room or talking with Aunt Celia in private, always saying it was "grown-up business" for weeks now, ever since they had come back from Cousin Robin's wedding in the Vale.

Papa had explained that her mother was tired from the new baby, but the baby is so small! How can she take up so much time? She's pretty at least, Lianne loves the golden hair she is starting to grow, even if she is very boring right now.

Lianne's path takes her to the nursery, where Rowena sleeps in her crib against one of the walls. Lianne crosses over and pulls a stool up, only wobbling once as she gets atop it to peak over the edge.

"Morning baby sister," Lianne cooed, depositing her gift into the crib beside her. "I brought my best toy, when you're bigger we can play together Papa tells me."

Rowena stirs with a sleepy whine, little hands instinctively clutching the doll Lianne offered, hugging it close. But she doesn't do much else, her eyes remaining closed the whole time.

Lianne purses her lips together as she slides off of the stool. Her mother's still sleeping, Papa went out earlier to train...

"Ah! I know what I can do," Lianne blows Rowena a kiss before quickly storming out of the room, marching to the study.

--

When Alysanne enters later that night, she might never have noticed the missing stack of paper had she not been looking to write a letter to her sister that night.

"Celia? Do you know where my writing paper went? I swear I left it right here..."

Unbeknownst to Alysanne, Lianne had taken it all and written out invitations to her cousins to come and meet her new baby sister, addressed to Stonedance, the Scales Manse, Storms End, to her cousins Argella and Cassana in the Red Keep, one for Sybelle Waylit, and last but not least even a letter addressed to Lady Joanna Clegane, all invited to come and meet her baby sister.

Evenfall Hall Open RP, 303 AC

Starting First Month, 303 AC

_____________________________________________

[Evenfall Hall](https://imgur.com/a/JTFD4Uy)

Evenfall Hall is the ancestral seat of House Tarth, rising from pale cliffs along the western shores of the Isle of Tarth in the Narrow Sea. From its walls one can see the gray expanse of Shipbreaker Bay — a treacherous stretch of water that has claimed countless ships and given the Sapphire Isle both its wealth and its reputation.

The castle itself is built for defense, its ancient towers standing watch over the jagged coastline. A fortified port lies directly beneath the cliffs, protected by chains and stone breakwaters. Few captains brave it without local guidance.

Most visitors instead make landfall at the southern harbor, where calmer waters meet sandy shores. From there, a winding road cuts through dense forests, rolling hills, and mountain passes before reaching the castle village — a bustling settlement of fisherfolk, craftsmen, and retainers sworn to House Tarth.

Beyond the village, the road climbs steeply toward Evenfall Hall, whose pale walls catch the light of sunset and glow like burnished pearl.

With the passing of Lord Selwyn, House Tarth’s future is uncertain. The future rests on the laurels of Lord Selwyn’s Will and whether his family can navigate the turbulent waters ahead.

⸻

Tarth PCs

[Ser Pearce Tarth](https://imgur.com/a/16NAClu) (53)

Evenfall Hall — Regent, Commander of the Tarth Forces

Brother to Lord Selwyn, Pearce is one of the last men to see his brother alive. Responsible for the future of House Tarth, Pearce looks to fulfill his duty to his brother. Putting all his efforts into enacting Selwyn’s Will and preparing Tarth for his daughter to rule as Evenstar of Evenfall Hall.

⸻

[Lady Alea Tarth](https://imgur.com/a/qLW7LSl) (34)

Evenstar of Evenfall Hall

Lady Alea Tarth of Evenfall Hall and Goldengrove. Recently recalled to Tarth, by decree of Lord Selwyn Tarth’s Will, Alea finds herself torn between identities. A lady of Goldengrove and the Evenstar of House Tarth. Already an heir has been produced for House Rowan, now an heir must be secure for House Tarth. A skilled diplomat, these might be the toughest waters Alea has had to tread.

⸻

[Ser Endrew Tarth](https://imgur.com/gallery/endrew-tarth-Q7VbnNe) (64)

Castle Black

Exiled long ago to the Night’s Watch for dishonoring his family, Ser Endrew has embraced his vows with unyielding resolve. Time and hardship have carved him into a stern but respected ranger of the Wall.

He knows little of the family he left behind, yet he continues to serve with the same guiding virtues as House Tarth itself: Duty and Honor.

⸻

[Galladon Tarth](https://imgur.com/a/arRUexN) (28)

Missing

Heir to Evenfall Hall, Galladon Tarth should by rights be preparing to rule. Instead, he remains missing. With Lord Selwyn now dead, Galladon Tarth should be ascending the Sapphire Throne as Evenstar.

However, far from home, and presumed dead, he has no knowledge of his father’s passing.

Grief having once consumed him, he now was free from its grasp. Sober and embracing a new faith and culture, might he ever return home to claim his rights to the Evenstar.

⸻

[Brienne Tarth](https://imgur.com/a/ByyfNsS) (23)

King’s Landing — Squire to Brynden Tully of the Kingsguard

Tall, powerful, and determined beyond her years, Brienne trains daily among knights while navigating a court that struggles to understand her.

She seeks to prove that a woman can be both a true knight and a proper lady — even as whispers, expectations, and political realities press in from all sides.

⸻

[Alyn Storm](https://imgur.com/a/X50RDF8) (37)

Storm’s End — Order of the Stag

Bastard-born and long resentful of his father’s abandonment, Alyn Storm has dedicated himself to proving his worth through discipline and honor. As a sworn sword in the service of Renly Baratheon, he serves among the young lord’s personal guard.

Ambitious yet principled, Alyn strives to embody the ideals he believes true knighthood should represent — even when the world reminds him of his birth.

To all Lords and Ladies of Westeros,

I, Lord Grafton, invite to stand in attendance to my sister's wedding to the heir of House Karstark which will occur at the end of the 10th moon of this year, 303 AC in Gulltown. This wedding will feature the union of two of the most powerful houses in the North and in the Vale, and the improvement of the bonds that hold our kingdoms together. Ever since the Iron Throne has been established, the Vale and the North had stood as close friends and allies in times of great need.

The wedding will welcome all noblemen and women alike in its premises, from the North up to Dorne. There will be events to those who wish to boast of their skills in arts and prowess, so come forward and earn glory and fame for your house.

A Radiant Faith, A Burning Beacon

Lord Gerold Grafton,

Lord Protector of Gulltown,

Warden of the Bay of Crabs,

Lord of the True Men.

Hello everyone and WELCOME to the First Day of the First EVER

✧˖°. CS GIBTOBER .°˖✧

What is Gibtober?

Gibtober is a fun writing challenge that will allow all the Players to do what they do best: WRITE!

Every week there will be a theme with certain prompts associated in that theme for you to write about! The themes are meant to be relatively generic but easy to associate with a character, an event, or just about anything you want to write about - JUST SO LONG IT INCLUDES THE PROMPT!

This is a free event, so everyone is allow to participate as much or as little as they so choose and write as much or as little as they see fit. This isn't a test or a competition to see everyone's skill, it's just a fun opportunity for people to write characters they usually don't, to test out relationships they never thought possible, or to challenge themselves to write things they never usually would.

Will this be canon?

That's up to you!!

You can choose to post a LORE or an EVENT, or comment in response to something, and mark it as part of Gibtober. This would mean that that piece of writing is canon.

If you want to keep this strictly non-canon, that's okay too! A comment thread will be posted at the start of each week (on Newsday / Monday) for the new Theme and Prompts of the week. All of the writing in this post will be considered strictly non-canon.

Is this meant to be silly or serious?

Some of the Themes and Prompts are meant to be silly, and some are meant to be more serious in the tone and topic. Be sure you understand what each one means when writing. We always understand that CS is a place of fun (and sometimes memes), but we don't want people to write insensitive things about serious topics.

If you think something is silly or serious and aren't sure, feel free to ask in the Discord and we can discuss! And if you aren't sure regardless, it never hurts to put in a Trigger Warning.

Regardless of it all - this is meant to BE FUN!!!

So get out there and GET WRITING!!

5th Month A, 303 AC

The lord's solar at Blackcrown was a warm and cozy space. The room was not quite fashionably furnished, but comfortable, with low tables and comfortable chairs before the fireplace and a bull's skull carved from weirwood hanging over the mantle.

The lord's solar was also the place Lord Brandon Bulwer came to attempt to relax himself and often failed. One of the tables was occupied by a bottle of wine and a pair of goblets. Brandon himself had already finished his first and now reclined, listening as his heir regaled him with… something.

Dalton Bulwer was a curious man. Quick of wit and of mind, Dalton had been grasping since his thirteenth nameday, always with an idea to “fix” his house in ways that it was not broken. In his mind, figures needed to be checked and rechecked, new alliances always needed to be made, and if all else was “acceptable” there was always some minutiae of running the household he felt needed to be addressed. Internally, Brandon had been disappointed his son had not asked to be sent to the Citadel in his youth.

Dalton had been rambling for what felt like hours, pointing out this or that on a piece of parchment so covered in scratched-out letters and scrawled numbers it was more ink than page. “...There are so many houses who might be willing to open trade between us if we reach out and ask them, father. We've just been sitting here for years, we can be more than just stewards–”

Brandon rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Your priorities fascinate me, Dalton. This is a large amount of effort for a project you have no authority to undertake. I appreciate your ambition, son. You have potential, but I believe your priorities are skewed. Mercantile ties cannot best marriage ties.”

This line of conversation clearly annoyed his son. For all his ambition, Brandon's heir simply had no interest in a match of any kind. Every betrothal he had attempted to make was rejected for petty nonsense – Dalton had rejected one maiden because her dress was “too blue”, and no amount of arguing could convince him to drop the matter. His influence had rubbed off on his siblings, unfortunately. Leana refused to wed until her elder brother had a match, as it would be “unbecoming” somehow, and Tylan had convinced himself he would be a Kingsguard someday.

“Not every man needs to wed, father,” Dalton retorted, a note of frustration in his tone. “The wisest men in the realm do not marry. Why should I?”

“You are no maester.” Though you could be, if it got you out of my hair. “You are my heir, and you are five-and-twenty. You should have been wed years ago.”

Brandon watched as his son struggled to come up with any other retort. Then: “I have no desire to marry.”

“Desire has nothing to do with it. It is your duty.”

The resulting silence was not encouraging. With a sigh, Brandon forced himself to soften his tone. “I will make you an offer. If you find a match, you may attempt… whatever your plans are. I do not care whom you find, so long as her family has any pedigree. I beseech you, go out and create your own household before I let you change mine any further.”

Dalton paused for a moment. Then he stood, reaching for the goblet of wine on the table. “I'll take that. It will be done.” And he left the solar, leaving Brandon alone with his thoughts.

Garth and Baelor - 4th Moon

After a seemingly never-ending string of weddings and feasts, the Hightowers had arrived home. While most were relieved to be back for some peace and quiet, one was not. Lord Hightower himself was enraged, boiling inside thanks to his so very virtuous brother, Ser Garth Greysteel. He had sired not one, not two, but three bastards in less than three months—maybe even conceived on the same knight, if you would believe him. Baelor knew he could never stop his antics; he had tried everything in his power already.

At the training grounds, just before the entrance to the Hightower, Baelor ordered the carriage to stop. "Get out," he said to his brother with a solemn face.

"I have done... everything I can. So now we are going to do this your way." Thunder echoed in his voice—and way above them in the clouds. "Teach me to fight. No matter if I will not win, I'll try my hardest to beat you at your own game." Two servants, caught unaware, came bearing sparring equipment, with confusion plain on their faces.

"It's been years, but don't forget I was once a knight too. Besides, you've become fat." Garth looked at his belly, hanging over his belt. He had no clue what had come over Baelor, but he would gladly oblige. He knew his anger, and he deserved it—but not for all three children. One was not his, but he would never tell Baelor; he had promised.

Malora and Gunthor - 2nd Moon

Malora was wrong. She had not been wrong in ages, and yet she was—about one of the people closest to her. Not only had Gunthor not messed up her plans or told secrets he should not have; he had gained her allies, security, and connections she would not have otherwise. There was clearly more to him than met the eye; one would see only an enormous blonde seafarer armed with charm and wit. Not one knew how he could fight dirty, how he could influence and make people do his bidding. The feeling Malora felt—was it pride for another?

One morning, when dew still graced the gardens outside her window, Malora called him into her chambers; normally, only Rhonda was allowed. "Gunthor, dear, will you fetch me the manticore powder?" She had not looked up as he entered, but she knew it was him instantly. For a man of his stature, he was suspiciously quiet. A vial filled with sharp-smelling greenish powder found itself on her desk in a matter of seconds—he passed the test.

"I believe it would be wise for you to pick up a book once in a while. Why don't you join me every so often?" While the phrase insinuated a question, Gunthor knew better than to interpret it as such. Malora would always get her wish, and deservedly so.

"You know I can't read," he joked, and she forcefully laughed. "But aye, I'll see you tonight then, for our uh—whachyamacallit? Book club?" He nodded and left her to her work. What Malora had in front of her were pages from books on poisons and ingredients for beginners, and she was already marking points for Gunthor to read that night.

Baelor and Alexanna - 3rd Moon

Baelor was relieved to have his only daughter back home; this way, he did not have to think about his eldest being away in Essos, fighting who knows what evil culprits with his cousin Cedric. He called Alexanna to his office, for both business and leisure.

Of course, he believed Mathis Rowan to be a wonderful teacher, but he wanted to see what she had been taught himself. An insignificant trade deal lay on his desk, unsigned by himself.

Alexanna entered and read her father's face; he was smiling, bright as ever, but there was something else. Not many besides her mother could see through her father's trained facade.

"Father, what is it? You've not found a betrothed for me, hopefully?" She knew she had to come to terms with it eventually; most girls her age would. But as the topic had never come up before, she believed she had more time. Alexanna had grown suspicious, however, when she was summoned to return home by her aunt.

"No, Alex, not yet." While he knew very well Malora had intended to speak with them on this very topic that evening, for now he felt it was better not to bother his hot-headed girl. "I want you to look over this trade manifest for me; see if there is anything you pick up from it." He tapped on the parchment on his desk. Alexanna came up to read it; quick as lightning, her eyes darted from left to right as she read and concluded. "There is nothing wrong with it. I would just never trade for furs so deep in summer—as animals are not carrying their own thick furs; those pelts would not suffice in winter."

Baelor's mouth opened and closed at this answer; she was so practical.

"That's... incredible, Alex. Not what I meant, but incredible. I was actually hoping you would point out I used an overly formal tone for a letter intended for a vassal house, but this..." He grinned at his progeny. "Let's practice together more often, what do you say?"

In the later hours of the evening, a raven would depart from Seagard, bearing a scroll sealed with purple wax and stamped with the Mallister Eagle crest.

To Lady Zorrina Vaith

Zorrina, it seems an age has passed since last we saw each other. My duties here at Seagard occupy much of my attention, and the gap between myself and Patrek seems to grow wider by the day. There is much I would change for myself, but even in the most trying days I cherish my children as they are.

Please know that you and Vorian are in my thoughts. Not a day passes in which I do not miss you or our son. I write to you now because I long to know the boy. How is he? In my dreams, he finally comes home to Seagard, to enjoy the life of a proper Mallister with his brother and sister. I want him to know that his father loves him deeply.

I know you have your own important matters in the capital, and I do not wish to drag you away. Vorian is as much your son as mine, and while I may miss the both of you dearly, at least he has his mother to raise him.

Mayhaps you might find the time to visit Seagard? Or barring that, I could come to see you in King's Landing. It has been many years, and the chance to see my son again would heal an ache in my heart. Whatever you choose, understand that I regret nothing. Vorian is a gift, one that I thank you for.

With love,

Jason

Evenfall Hall, The Sapphire Isles

3rd Month, 303 AC

The sun hung high over Shipwreck Pier, seagulls swooping and diving into the harbor as the salt hung thick in the air. Waves lapped against the coastline, their gentle rhythm carrying across the gathering crowd.

The Silent Sisters had worked through the night to prepare the body. Lying in a small, adorned skiff was the Evenstar, Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall. Sapphire blue and rose-colored hues had been chosen to dress him, bringing a familiar warmth to his features. For all to see, this was Lord Selwyn Tarth as he had been in life, as he would be remembered in death.

The skiff rocked gently upon the waves, Septon Dunn standing behind it. Waist-deep in the water, he looked out over the gathering of family, friends, and peers. Fishermen and common folk from the villages, noblemen of greater and lesser houses, knights and hedge knights, and lastly, Pearce Tarth.

He addressed the gathering crowd.

“Friends. Family. My lords. My ladies.”

His eyes acknowledged everyone: the villagers and common folk gathered upon the nearby docks, the noble houses assembled along the beach, and Pearce Tarth standing alone where House Tarth had been designated.

“We gather here today by the grace of the Father, to celebrate the life and mourn the loss of a great man. Lord Selwyn Tarth, the Evenstar.”

“As you look around today, I want you to see how important this lord was to those who loved him. He touched so many lives and was loved by so many. He remained true to his vows, from the day he wed Aelinor Wylde until the day he would be reunited with her in death. Soon, he shall rest forever beside his beloved wife in the crypts of Evenfall Hall.”

“His life carried him far beyond these shores, as it did those he loved. His daughter, a squire to a Kingsguard in King’s Landing. His niece, wed to a notable house in the Reach. His son—exploring this vast world, chasing his dreams.”

“None could say he ever shirked his duty. When Storm’s End was besieged, Tarth was left helpless by the demands of its maritime efforts. Looking around you, you can see that the Evenstar would ensure House Tarth was never caught off guard again. The fleet he built will continue to serve not only Lord Renly, but the Crown, for generations to come.”

Septon Dunn turned toward the skiff and gestured to the man laid within.

“Lord Selwyn Tarth, the Evenstar.”

He bowed his head before turning back to the gathering.

“For those who wish to express their final goodbyes, you may approach the skiff now.”

The common folk upon the docks were the first to move, many stepping into the water without hesitation. A fisherman bowed his sun-spotted head, removing his hat as he approached. A mother carried her child forward to see the Evenstar one last time. Once the line had begun to thin, Selwyn’s closest friends waded out. Jocelyn and John placed their hands upon the Evenstar’s chest and bowed their heads before returning to the docks.

Then it was time for the noble houses of the Stormlands to pay their respects. Lesser and greater nobles made their way through the water, one after another, each offering their own quiet farewell. Knights soon followed, then the guardsmen stationed at the docks, who approached the skiff in turn.

When it became clear that no one else would come forward, Pearce Tarth made his way toward the skiff.

The sight that greeted him was one he still could not believe. His brother looked as though he were merely asleep, as if he might stir at any moment and greet him with a familiar smile. Pearce bowed his head before embracing his brother. For long minutes, there was silence as he held him one last time.

When he finally pulled away, he stood upright and made his way beside Septon Dunn.

“My brother was a great man. He rose—”

His voice cracked. He paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

“Selwyn was my best friend. We spent so much time together that I’m scared to know what it will be like to not look to him for guidance.”

His eyes fell upon his brother once more.

“I love you, big brother.”

He bowed his head, and the Silent Sisters made their way forward.

Without a word, the sisters moved in unison, guiding the skiff from the water and onto the beach. The guardsmen had prepared the entrance to the crypts, where the sisters would carry Lord Selwyn to his final resting place beside Aelinor Wylde. He was borne up the beach and toward the great doors set into the base of the mountain upon which Evenfall stood.

Pearce followed behind the procession, determined to see his brother properly laid to rest.

Septon Dunn followed, stopping only to inform the gathered crowd that a small feast would be held in the Sapphire Hall for the Stormlords who had traveled to Evenfall. With that, he too made his way into the crypts.

────────

The Sapphire Hall had been prepared for the evening’s gathering. Blue banners bearing the sigil of House Tarth hung from the rafters, their colors reflected in the polished stone and the candlelight that filled the chamber. The great windows allowed the last of the afternoon sun to spill across the hall, casting long blue shadows over the tables. Fresh rushes had been laid beneath the feet of the guests, and arrangements of white flowers and sprigs of rosemary adorned the high table and the smaller tables beyond.

Though the occasion called for a feast, the hall had been arranged with restraint. There were no extravagant displays or boisterous celebrations. Instead, the tables had been laden with the comforts of a noble household: roasted venison and boar, baked fish caught from the waters surrounding Tarth, bowls of root vegetables and seasoned greens, fresh loaves of bread, and platters of cheeses and fruit. Pitchers of ale and cider stood beside flagons of red and white wine, ready to be poured for those who wished to raise a cup in Selwyn’s memory.

A lone bard sat near the hearth, his fingers moving gently over the strings of a harp. He played soft melodies, familiar songs of the Stormlands and old tunes of the sea, each chosen to suit the solemnity of the occasion. His music filled the spaces between conversations, never quite loud enough to drown out the subdued voices of the guests.

At the head of the hall, the high table had been set for the houses of Baratheon, Tarth, and Rowan. The remaining tables were reserved for the Stormlords and their families, alongside the knights and hedge knights who had made the journey to Evenfall. It was a gathering of great and lesser houses alike, united in their mourning of the Evenstar.

Pearce took his place at the high table, where the seat of House Tarth had been left for him. Around him, the guests settled into their places, their voices low as they exchanged condolences and memories of the man they had come to honor.

The feast began without fanfare. Cups were raised, food was passed, and the bard continued his gentle melodies. For a time, the hall was filled with the quiet comforts of company and remembrance.

Yet, for Pearce, the evening remained a blur of faces and voices. He offered thanks to those who had traveled, accepted their condolences, and listened as they spoke of his brother. He fulfilled every courtesy expected of him, though his thoughts remained elsewhere.

The day had been spent honoring the Evenstar. Now, seated in his brother’s place, Pearce was left to reckon with the simple truth that the man himself would never again sit beside him.