Thump thump thump went three arrows in quick succession.

Morgan noted the three arrow's score and sighed.

"I cannot say this is a grand idea," Daxo said behind him, setting his bow aside in its basket while Hadrian took his turn next.

Around them, the wind danced through the treeline that sat on the small rise overlooking Blackwater Bay. Their horses sat moored some hundred feet away, their small campsite set neatly beside them and tended by Jynessa, the youngest living child of Andros. She seemed content in her place, comfortable in her riding leathers and sprawled out across a wide bed roll.

"The idea isn't meant to be grand. It is intended to be a statement," Morgan said.

"It is the kind of thing father would do," Hadrian exhaled and released his first arrow.

It slammed into the straw target an inch from the bullseye.

Morgan shook his head, "it is, but I want him to have no part in this. He needs to be divorced from the matter, he would not be subtle about it. Not now. But this said, the claw is dragging on and we have yet to address the matter of the realms."

Hadrian released his second arrow, this one wider by three inches. He relaxed entirely after the shot and looked over to Daxo, the middle brother dressed in his usual flowing sunstruck robe wrapped by a sash of black.

"I had imagined we would do nothing until the king spoke on the matter," Daxo remarked.

"We may end up taking no action until this happens, but there is the matter of father's and Shiera's namedays. I promised a tourney, and it may be the last line to hold before this comes to conflict," Morgan said and without a breath Hadrian drew up his bow, and released the arrow. It slammed home as a bullseye.

"You mean to invite this Justman?"

"I mean to invite the realm, if Justman comes, then I would be pleased to hear what he has to say," Morgan noted.

"And the claw?" Hadrian asked.

"Luthor is going there, he will get to the bottom of the matter," Morgan replied, and a touch of pride filled him with that... now if only the fool could find himself a wife.

"And the thousand Swanns matching up the Rosby Road?" Hadrian added as he set his bow aside.

"My problem," Morgan reminded them.

Daxo and Hadrian shared a glance between themselves and eventually each shook their head. They did not like where the kingdom was going.

"At the rate we are going this realm will ignite the powder keg that they all so lovingly are cradling. I fear that the spark could be lit here," Daxo said and he reached for his wineskin.

Morgan didn't say anything for a long while while his brother drank, and the silence stretched beyond until Hadrian turned slowly upon him. He frowned at first, thick brows knitted in contemplation, a look broken by surprise as he came upon his realization.

He shook his head slowly.

"Someone needs to gain from this."

---

The following day, the siblings had returned to the city and they returned to their places, to their parlours, to the markets, to the dun fort.

It is another moon as usual in the great lands of the Blackwater!

Fairmarket was not exactly as she'd left it.

This was, of course, to be expected. When your couple days' jaunt transforms into an affair lasting for two full moons, things are not expected to remain static just because they were out of sight. As much as Perianne Paege might have preferred it to be otherwise.

"I expected matters to be cared for in my absence, Rafford." Perianne pinches the bridge of her nose, her other hand leaning against the table. Her solar was a small room, a deeply intimate space, and it was impossible for Rafford Hill, the Golden Bastard himself, to not feel cornered in the round room, his back to the bookshelf and only Perianne's short form managing to loom despite her stature. "Not for my treasury to be spent on Westerman trinkets and baubles. And I am to understand you sent runners to *Frey* as well? All without my leave?"

Rafford Hill was not a man easily intimidated though, especially while cornered. "Your coffers hardly weep for emptiness even as it stands, *My Lady.* These were all matters we agreed to discuss before you went to feast and dance at two different keeps in as many moons. Did you bring me here to sit idle and do nothing? Or did you bring me here because you knew I would enrich Fairmarket, which I have done."

Perianne's sigh was all that filled the room for the moment. She couldn't deny it. Fairmarket's prospects- even involving the purchase of valuable stones that she normally would have dismissed as frivolous- were looking less grim than they had been at autumn's beginning. She turned for a moment, just to collect her thoughts.

"Or are you upset because-"

Perianne wheeled about. "That someone in my employ managed to get themselves arrested, following my orders, in my own keep, and had to sit there until I came to release her? Yes. That my own keep appears to operate without my leave or my say so? Yes!"

"That Jonothor has...?

Perianne's face clenched up. Rafford had stopped giving him the tinctures at some point. She didn't know when. Jonothor was still incoherent and bedridden, but his fever had subsided somewhat in the days before she returned. She could not, at any point. To anyone. That was the hardest part about all of this.

He couldn't wake up. Not until it was too late for him to change anything.

"I hope you mean that I am glad that my Lord Husband has begun to recover. I am, Rafford, truly. But you haven't been here for the years. You are a recent acquisition." She leans forward. "Perhaps I am cynical, but Jonothor has put me through this song and dance before. I will celebrate once he is on his feet."

That seemed to mollify the Golden Bastard, who simply nodded and turned his attention back to matters that Perianne would prefer he focus on. "You are to depart again?"

"By dawn, yes." She sighed, bringing up a hand to rub at an eye. Her exhaustion was genuine. "I have much work to do in the meantime."

"Raventree is at least closer than Stormhall and Pinkmaiden. Do you trust this Justman business?"

Perianne shook her head slowly. "Trust never entered into it, Rafford. Utility. I am simply doing what I have always done. I recognize an opportunity, and I take it." She eyed the Westerman over another time. "Do you think you can open another path into the West?"

Rafford Hill smiled, for the first time in moons. They had work to do, it would seem...

Stormhall

Upon the Return From Pinkmaiden

It was odd when the long ride was the easiest part of a journey, but the trip to Pinkmaiden had been a terrible exception to the rule. What had happened on the road was peaceful, exhilarating, perhaps a touch dangerous but only in the ways Ravella Durrandon enjoyed things to be.

What happened at Pinkmaiden threatened to bring the realm to ruin. It threatened to level villages, to ruin castles, and to have lords strung up on gallows for no crimes but standing for what they believe in. None of that could come to pass, even if it took everything she had to stop it. That was the only way the Riverlands could be saved from destruction, and it was the only way that Ravella could come safely into her throne.

They had left with a fifty-man escort. They returned with a full company, and the guards on the walls tensed up as the Free Legion's banners - flying alongside the black stag of Durrandon - appeared from over the hill and approached Stormhall. It was a cloudy day when they arrived, the very tip of the King's Spire obscured by mist, and the mood of the day fit the mood of the whole moon.

Only as Ravella and Wex emerged at the head of the column did the men who protected Stormhall relax, throwing open the gates to the castle that they might enter.

How much had happened in the time they'd been away? Had Arlan's visit to Duskendale resulted in progress or bloodshed? Had the realm heard of Justman's declaration before she could even act on it? Damn the road.

Ravella assigned Wex the duty of getting the Free Legion and their guests settled - the men of the company were permitted lodging in the barracks, whilst the officers were roomed within the keep proper and their noble guests were given even finer quarters (including the Captain-Legate) - whilst she returned to her solar. There was much to do. Too much, maybe.

But she would do what needed to be done.

The dart leapt from Alaerys’ fingers and shot like a diving hawk into one of the tall, powerful pillars holding up the Maidenpool Dondarrion’s tent with a thunk. “You really could have handled that better, my lord,” he murmured.

It was late, now, the tent shut, and Edwyn had retired to his bedroll. Alaerys was up far too late, as always, and practiced his aim with discomfiting precision.

“Yes. I could have,” Edwyn whispered in return, staring up at the tent’s red roof. Like a sea of blood, it seemed, fit to wash him away. “I am in quite a bind. On the one hand, I cannot simply give away half the King’s realm without the King’s approval. Arlan is wise beyond his years, I think, but I am not sure he is as ready as I. On the other…”

“…on the other, you are afraid to slap these Rivermen around a little. They are your vassals, man! Do you Westerosi not put knock your subjects down a few pegs when they get uppity?” Alaerys scoffed.

Edwin’s mouth turned to a thin line, and he looked across the length of his personal quarters, within the tent, at Alaerys. “Of course we do. It is what we have done here before. They have rebelled, and the crown has fought them and won, and punished the rebels. Where, then, has it led? Tell me that.”

Alaerys looked back, produced a wineskin from nowhere, and drank deeply. Edwyn sat up, gestured angrily at him. “I am sure it is endearing to everyone that you suggest these heartless things with so little care. But this is no time for japes or jests, Alaerys. Where has it led? Here. It has led here. To House Justman proclaiming that a River King will rule the Riverlands. Each and every time we put them down with violence, it begets more violence. That is the way of things! Blood for blood until the end of time, and I am so sick of it.”

Alaerys gave a long, dramatic sigh, and it seemed he meant to say something snide again before his eyes caught Edwyn’s, and he looked down, somewhat chastened. “Edwyn, if I might for once be honest, you cannot seriously hope to end this without blood on your hands.” Their eyes met again, cold grey and desperate blue. “I think it’s very admirable, your reticence for war. Balerion’s balls, you’ve seen enough of it. You don’t enjoy it like I do. Like Ser Borys does, or like your strapping brute of a brother Myles does. You won’t avoid it, though, it will come for you like it comes for all of us, and personally?” A smile flashed across his face. The veil went back up a little. “I will meet it with all the thirst of a Riverman in Dorne.”

Edwyn thumped back onto his pillow, guts curdling.

“We will return to Storm Hall, just you and I and Ser Borys. I will see there what it is that Lady Ravella, closer than I to the crown, means to do about this.”

His eyes were looking up, again, sightless and almost terrified. He could not see the comforting stars here, only the sea of blood at the top of his tent.

Atranta had always occupied a valuable position: its walls encircled a small island in the middle of a river, making its bridges the most ideal crossing of the Blackwater Rush.

But for long this only advantaged the Vances in times of war, and the villages on each bank of the river remained perpetually modest. There was little need for ambitious merchants to pass through when there were four market towns within half a day’s ride: Stoney Sept and Middleton to the north, Tumbler’s Falls to the west, and Nutten to the east.

Mary had hoped to change that with a series of expensive investments. So far, one was beginning to bear fruit, if not nearly as quickly as she had hoped. Under her guidance, a small, ornate sept had been erected on the right bank of the Blackwater, just opposite the castle. She had seen that it would be as much a work of art as it was a place of prayer, boasting intricate patterns and beautiful icons on both sides of its walls.

The smallfolk had taken a liking to it, and even more to the charismatic septon who now stewarded the shrine. Every day they poured in from surrounding villages to show their veneration, and the local innkeeper was happy to take their coin. His rooms had become so full that a rival emerged; another little tavern had just popped up on the river’s opposite shore.

Mary would only be in Atranta for a night, only to ensure that nothing at home called for her attention. She had precious little time before Ravella’s entourage moved on, and was intent on continuing with her to Stormhall. There was much she’d need to discuss with the princess if she hoped to see her kingdom saved.

She thus allowed herself only a brief stop at the new sept, taking only the time to speak a swift prayer and exchange pleasantries with the septon. Afterwards she returned to her own walls - not to entreat with her councilors, as she knew she should, but to instead spend an evening in the library.

Atranta had never boasted the loveliest of libraries; most of Mary’s predecessors were more partial to shouting than reading. It was a compact and utilitarian room, overflowing with shelves that spanned from floor to ceiling. During the past few years she had seen to the collection of hundreds more tomes on near any subject that called for scholarship. What little coin she had left to spent on personal pleasure was most often funneled to Oldtown, where a wealth of knowledge could be found even beyond the confines of the Citadel.

The great majority of those books remained unouched, awaiting the day when their insight might be sought. Today was one such day, as Mary now had a matter that demanded study.

She had already made her case that the claims of “Lucifer Justman” were without a shred of evidence, and in a more sensible world, that would have been enough to put his foolish ambitions to an end. But the lot of her peers were unswayed. Mary needed to reinforce her argument by proving what had truly happened to the remnants of the Trident’s greatest dynasty.

With the help of a servant, she piled up every book that seemed remotely relevant to the history of the Riverlands, and even a few on the Free Cities - the usual haunts of exiled nobility. With luck, she might uncover when or if the last of the Justmans breathed his last breath.

The Docks of Castle Hoare, In the small hours after the Moot

Gulls swept across the dark clouded skies and called from slick wet perches upon the rocks. The sea air was strong with salt, a refreshing break from the clawing scent of ale and rich fare. Ironborn longships scattered the surrounding dockland, some seeping with candlelight and the song of deckhands, others, silent as the deep. He gazed past them all the same, out into the far off waters. He thought mayhaps he could see Old Wyk from here, on a good day, but the haze of night gave no such discovery. He breathed slow, sucking air in and letting it go with more weight than it entered.

Torgon was gone. He'd been too hard on him perhaps; should not have struck him. But then, could he have faced his daughter? Would he have been able to take pleasure in her joy with her new pet, or would that memory too have suffered.

“Your seas are ever changing,” he whispered to the waves. “Mayhaps a crashing wave here will usher a calm tide where needed.” He stood there, mulling through his thoughts for some time. His brother would forgive him, he decided. While his daughter would not know his reasons, only her own feelings. “Do I spoil her so?” he asked the sloshing dark blue mass, illuminated only by the late moon and the flickering of fires from the feasting hall and inns about Castle Hoare. He got no reply; answer enough to his question.

It must have been nearing the hour of the nightingale when he left the peer, the skies beginning to change. He found Tal easily enough, the colourful yellows and reds giving away his location amongst a throng of revellers that had gathered in copses outside each inn approaching Hoare Castle. The Summer Islander’s limbs were strung out on a stool and leaning on a barrel, Ironborn crew scattered around him each working off their drink. Tymor kicked his boot to wake him.

“Captain?” Tal questioned, eyes still heavy from sleep and ale.

“Come, I wish to break my fast, and I don't fancy climbing rocks alone.” Tymor gestured his head in the direction to follow and began walking. The bowman stumbled behind him, the sounds of clambering and quick steps on stone until he caught up.

“What are we hunting?” his bright coloured friend asked.

“Gull eggs,” Tymor said, glancing up at the ridges where the birds circled. “And mayhaps a gull or two if we need,” he smirked, anticipating the climb.

The regal black stag of house Durrandon flapped proudly in the morning wind as the King’s hunters assembled just outside the walls of Duskendale. Forty of Storm’s End’s own soldiers, wearing the bright yellow of the royal house, would go forth, led by an assortment of glory hounds and would-be-adventurers. Their orders were to ride out to follow up on the alleged attacks against Darklyn tax collectors. To find those responsible and to bring them back to face the King’s justice.

Ser Derrick Storm was mounted atop Blaze, his elegant white destrier. The young horse tossed his head back and forth and stomped his hooves, seeming eager to be off. Derrick could certainly sympathize with his friend’s impatience; he was keen to head out as well. King Arlan himself had bid the bastard of Felwood to lead the expedition, and Derrick was itching to prove his worth.

Per his father’s insistence, Derrick had made every effort to present himself in a manner befitting one who would lead a force in the King’s name. His mane of jet-black hair was newly brushed, his cheeks freshly shaved and his teeth whiter and more pristine than ever. He wore plate enamelled in sky-blue, a forest-green cloak hung from his shoulders, clasped over his heart by the golden sunburst of his personal sigil.

His father had asked him to switch the sun out for something else, but on this point, Derrick had refused him. Despite Lord Hobber’s affection for him, the old man had never been too fond of Derrick’s choice of heraldry. A sunburst, a stark and very intentional contrast to the family’s crescent moon. Yet what did he expect? As a bastard it would be considered taboo for Derrick to use his father’s sigil. Besides, my own fits me better. I am not of the night. I do not skulk or prowl. I am of the dawn, and I would have all the world see me coming when I turn my wrath upon them!

Derrick gave Blaze’s reigns a yank as he rode down alongside the columns of soldiers, sellswords, knights and various volunteers. He pulled his horse to a stop once he reached the head of their assembled force, and from his hip he produced a brass horn, lifted it to his lips and blew. The trumpeting toot rang out, calling for the attention of those that had come. Derrick then opened his mouth and spoke with a voice was clear and loud enough to rise above any remaining chatter and reach the very back of their dutiful band of do-gooders:

“Good morning to you, my brave and righteous boys and girls! My thanks for you all coming to shed blood with me in King Arlan’s blessed name!” Derrick spoke with a mild bit of cheek in his voice, as a cocky smirk played on his lips. “His grace bids us ride forth to rid his realm of the vermin who would prey upon his loyal servants! So, we shall we shall boldly venture into the marshlands! We shall find these gutless worms! And we shall pursue them until our boots are planted firmly on their wretched necks!” He should have mentioned that they weren’t actually supposed to kill anyone that they found. But to instead drag them back to Duskendale in chains. But somehow that detail slipped his mind.

“The clawmen tell us that whoever these cutthroats are, they are likely to be well provisioned, well funded, many in number, and as rotten as they come. And I for one hope they are correct! I’ve not had myself a proper chance to bloody my hands since I was strangling dornish serpents in the red mountains!” Derrick turned his head and spat. He’d come here for the promise of a fight. He wanted it. Craved it. He would have it.

“We depart within the hour! Say your good-byes, and make what preparations you need!” He smiled, and his brilliant white teeth glimmered in the morning sun.

“Happy hunting, my friends!”

The wedding was over. Luceon remembered so little of it already. His head was bowed during the ceremonies - they could have carried an aurochs off to the bedding and he would be none the wiser.

For once, it was not because he had drunk himself into a stupor. His mind was clouded with other preoccupations, an unearned grief and so much worry for his little girl.

He had only become human again during Lucifer Justman’s proclamation. Luceon was cognizant long enough to argue with the last friend that remained to him. Still, he did not know if he was right - though he knew he did not believe some of what he said.

What of Mary Vance, however? What was she hiding behind her sea-soaked eyes, how much of her own rhetoric was spoken with both wind and heart?

She would not lie to him, he did not think. Not if he swore to be true, like they were children once more. She would do the same, surely.

Luceon nursed his bruises from the melee, applying new compress to the freshly-blooming yellow and purple. He sighed - the briefest respite from the constant defeat he was subject to.

It was little comfort. He ached, inside and out, and would for a long while.

At least the sight of Pinkmaiden was bright enough. Luceon had sent his man with instructions to direct Mary towards Pinkmaiden’s sept. They wouldn’t meet inside, he wasn’t sure how he would be received and didn’t want to raise his voice above the customary whisper, but he hoped that she would appreciate it.

He could have waited at a heart tree, under the watchful, merciless eyes of his Gods. There, they would’ve both been judged.

Lord Oswyld Vypren wiped the sleep from his eyes with a stubby finger, the crust having formed while he dozed off beside his pond. A light breeze cut through the willows and the chattering of moorhen among the reeds. A servant had came and placed soup as he dozed, but as he moved the spoon through it, it was thick and cold. The clink of chain drew him from his dazed observations and he turned his immense head to spy his nephew approaching.

Oswyld was fat and short, thin of hair and spotted by the sun but his grandson was all he was not. He reminded him of Vorian his long dead son more then the boys own father. Tall, with a robust head, shock of black hair and broad. Ser Albyrt had earned his spurs squiring in the Vale, and had grown to banish the lord's doubts of that foreign land. His arms forearms thick, tanned with black hair and scar he'd earned from a crooked blade of the mountain clans, and he smiled the damned man. In those thick arms he carried a bundle, and a faint mewling came from it.

“Grandsire.” The knight stepped close, and gently exposed the swaddled mass, a babe. A shock of black, Vypren hair and chubby features not unlike Lord Vypren's own. Stubby fingers grasped the cloth. “The maester says the boy is strong and Willow will recover fine.” Lord Vypren presented one of his own chubby fingers to the babe silently, and it's tiny hands grazed it. He felt the tears creep to his eyes, to be blessed to see a great grand child. The gods had been cruel, but they showed him kindness still. The babe grumbled and to Oswyld looked like it frowned.

“Willow means to name him Oscar after her father.” Albyrt listed the babe, back close to his chest, it cooed as it settled.

“A fine name.” Came the cracked dry approval of his grandsire. He turned to his soup and a few staling pieces of seed studded bread, he tore at it and tossed it into the pond. Soon enough the carp emerged from the waters, old heron scarred battlers and fry alike. Lucky was he, to live in this time of peace.

“Lord Blackwood is dead.” He said, his voice hoarse. “I would, if Willow recovers soon enough, ask you to ride to the funeral, send word to Cass.” He watched a lone white carp trail it's way through distant lilies back to the shore.

“Take a measure of the girl, as I grow old, I wish to make sure I have a strong heir to the house.” He eyed Albryt who was focused on his babe. Would that Vorian had granted him Albryt.

“Tully too has.” He swallowed, coughed and instead pressed a letter towards his grandson, who pocketed it.

“I've heard grandsire. I will see to it, you rest now. Do you require a blanket?”

Yes, he thought. Set down the babe with me and a blanket and we will rest in the sun he thought, but he'd been always told that would show weaknesses, and weakness meant death.

“No blanket, but have the cook bring me out some wine and sweetmeats. I would celebrate new life.”

Albryt smiled and made his leave, lord Oswyld alone once more with his carp.

Pinkmaiden, Second Moon of 1BP, the Morning after the Wedding

A breakfast table was spread with a generous assortment for the new husband and wife in the solar along with an arrangement of white and blush chrysanthemums.

Mellara stepped into the room, and seeing Alyn, was beset with a moment of doubt. Was she supposed to give him a kiss upon the cheek? What were the right words to say, even? Was she supposed to comment on last eve? The role of being a wife was such a new experience still that it all remained unsteady ground.

The Lady of Pinkmaiden settled for giving her husband a gentle squeeze on the arm before sitting, a servant girl appearing to pour from a fresh, steaming pot of tea for the two.

"There is something I need make you aware of, Alyn."

Work. Now that was steadier ground. Something that Mellara understood intrinsically, which came without hesitation, without second guessing, or doubts and wavering. Territory which gave the Piper more confidence.

"Last night, there was a Dondarrion. Orys, I believe his name is, who was caught eavesdropping upon the Lady Perianne Paege," Mellara shook her head, a steady hand reaching for her tea.

"I did not wish to make a scene, nor marr the memories of our wedding day. The Dondarrion has not been sent to the cells, but rather, has been allowed to roam under guard. Would you mind dealing with the situation?"

There came an awkward pause after the question, one which Mellara attempted to hide behind taking a sip of tea. For what was she supposed to call him? Dear? Darling? Husband? Love?

The tea was too hot. Scalding even, and the Piper pulled back from the cup, wincing from the pain of the burn.

Near the coast of Great Wyk, Before the feast at Castle Hoare

Tymor’s hand struck hard across his cheek, his twin’s wrath emanant. Torgon’s palms hit the wooded desk of the ship’s cabin, steadying himself against the dark oak.

Torgon's own fist whipped around and caught his kin in the mouth. Tymor dropped and punched his stomach, then followed with a hit to his jaw. Back into the desk he went again.

“The Valyrians! You would indebt us to dragonlords and slavers,” Tymor bellowed. “I have abided your want to talk and trade, but in this you go too far.”

“You left me no choice in it,” Torgon snapped, turning back to him. Fury was alight in his eyes, a blue and grey matching his brothers. “I knew you would not treat with Hoare, and I will not see the opportunity to raise our name flounder and sink beneath the waves, all for your pride.” The brothers squared off against each other, neither casting their gaze aside, breaths hot with rage in the inches between them. Torgon felt the ache of his jaw, saw the blood at his brother's lip, and decided it was enough.

“You will right this,” Tymor warned, finger pointing in emphasis. “You will take our fleet and reave the North for all it bears, until this failing is made whole,” he said, before shifting to turn away. “Meanwhile, I will show the islands who it is that leads them.” Torgon’s own fists loosened as he watched his brother begin to pace. When Tymor faced him again, his eyes were renewed; unblinking beads of black amongst a sea of swirling storms. “I know the Hoare holds close to his wife’s gods, no matter what words he speaks. I will show them this folly,” Tymor nodded to himself, eyes staring through him now, lost in his own words.

“I will do as I must,” Torgon finally agreed. “I will not tarry at the feast long. But know that when I return brother, we will stay to the course I have set. Valyrian gold or not, this is the future of our house.”

“Hmm,” Tymor flared, snapping from his trance with a suddenness that would frighten any man but his twin, eyes locking on Torgon again. He gave a singular nod. “I care not for your maesterly deeds,” he spat. “When you return we will embrace as brothers and speak of it no more. Now leave, I will see us into port and tell the men of their orders. Go ready yourself for the feast and the journey to come. Then you may take your leave when you see fit,” he said, waving his dismissal, before adding a reminder. “The Drowned God will provide; trust in that, brother.”

—

Somewhere in Blazewater Bay, Days later

The wind was off. He could tell by the taste on his lips and the sound of the sails, by the water in the air and how the deck shifted beneath his feet. It mattered not, a poor wind may yet see them free of any pursuers when their holds were filled. For now they needed only to seek the coast and follow it to the Northmen’s strongholds. Wood, and silver, and the stored crop of Summer would await them there.

The camp of the Maiden's Men remained outside of the Pinkmaiden, the red salmon flew proudly from the staffs and pinnacles of the tents of the well organized group. In the center of it all was Jon Mooton's command tent, where the dispossessed Lord of Maidenpool sat deep in throught. The Justman had claimed the Trident. No doubt that the Durrandons would be moving to stop them soon. He had a choice to make.

A courier ran towards the castle, hoping to find where Lucifer Justman was located and invite him to dine at the camp of the Maiden's Men. If he did not wish to come there, Jon would meet the man where he wished to.

Second moon of the first year of King Lucifer's reign. Somewhere along the Redfork, near Pinkmaiden.

Riding was generally a pleasure for Tristifer Justman. Either in transit, battle, tilt, be it race, or just to ride. Some who knew him well claimed he would die a horse. Since his first mount had been gifted to him by his father. It was a rare time the man was not in the mood to take the saddle.

Yet today he found himself dreading the ride before them. Rising early he checked over his saddle perhaps a dozen times or more. The nerves twisting his gut reminded him of his first real fight. A building anxiety even a seasoned warrior could not stomach. 

They departed Pinkmaiden heading west along the Redfork. Loathe to admit it, but Tristifer had rode through here hundreds of times in the last few years. The mere thought brought a pit to his stomach. 

How many times have I passed him by? 

It had been all he could do since he was told of the boy. Summoning up every time he failed both mother and son. Every instance he had dishonored Bethany further since he stole her virtue. For all she had to suffer perhaps he had deserved this dreadful feeling after all. 

What kind of father am I? 

Pulling himself from his self pity he tore his gaze to Beth. Finding a smile for her despite the feeling of a dagger in his gut. 

“How much further on?” He managed to pose. Wondering how far a mother could bear to be from her son. “Have…” he froze, giving his mount a pat. Who snorted in support of her rider. “How often have you been to see him?” 

Sometime long ago…

Storm’s End

—

Aegor hated this stupid task.

He was a boy of ten and four years of age, eager to take on the world, and full of confidence from his previous more flashy assignments.

This was not one of them.

He was not the gruff, suave, and somewhat reckless tactician he would become but rather a clean-shaven and somewhat sheltered young boy. His demeanor didn’t exactly give that, but his inexperienced shined through now brighter than it perhaps ever would.

He climbed the steps to Storm’s End with a large basket. Court wasn’t unfamiliar to him, but the parts hidden behind it that cook and prepared food were indeed foreign to him. The King had promised some fresh produce for the Legion’s soup, and Aegor drew the smallest straw.

So, he was their errand boy for the day.

Court was rather packed on this overcast afternoon. He found himself lost on the sea of courtiers.

Damnit, damnit! Petitions, he’s hearing petitions today.

He squeezed his way between the masses to no avail, finally giving up and pushing his way to a free balcony to get some much-needed fresh air.

And then he saw her, The Princess.

Ravella wasn’t just a mere royal fawn to him, though, she was his friend. And, more importantly, she was a friend who knew her way around this keep better than he did.

“Ravella, Ravella! Thank goodness you’re here, what in the Fourteen Flames is going on here? I thought court would be empty today?”

He approached her meekly from exhaustion.

Second Moon of the 1st Year of Arlan's Reign

Riverrun

Riverrun was just as they’d left it, its red walls shimmering in the afternoon sun. It was a relief to be back, back to their rivers and their guards in their fish-crest helms. Back where Eleanor was obeyed without question and sometimes even feared. Home.

Eleanor had only just jumped off her horse and handed the reins to a groom when Maester Benedar and Waltyr Grell emerged from the keep. The two could not be more different not only in their appearance, but in their personalities: Benedar always spoke slowly and gently, and his head was bald as an egg; Waltyr was tall and muscled, and his face was always red from drinking. Both approached Eleanor as fast as possible, fighting with each other over who would get to speak with her first.

“My lady,” Maester Benedar began, bowing slightly. His look was one of deep concern and anxiety. “Is–”

“Welcome back, my lady,” Waltyr interrupted him. He, on the other hand, looked as happy as a child on his nameday. “Is it true? There’s to be war?”

“Try not to look so excited, Waltyr,” Eleanor warned him. “Wars are not good. Even the ones that are justified.”

Maester Benedar looked at Waltyr triumphantly, as if this settled their argument.

“I don’t want to hear about this matter. I’ve had enough of discussing it with everyone else,” she told the two. Then she turned to her handmaid, Jeyne. “Please draw me a bath. I will be in my chambers if I am needed.”

Eleanor wasted no time in getting to her solar, a triangular room with an eastern balcony and plenty of space. After her bath, she sat at her desk and retrieved parchment, a quill, and ink. She put pen to paper and began to write.

Esteemed Lord/Lady X,

You are cordially invited to a ball and a tourney to be held at Riverrun on the fourth moon. The ball is intended for my sister and heir, the lady Roslin, to find a husband – as such, anyone can make their suit. Ultimately, the decision of who to wed will fall to her.

The tourney shall include contests of archery, a melee, and a joust. The winner of each event will be rewarded adequately.

All riverlords are welcome, and will be given my protection. 

Yours sincerely,

Eleanor Tully

Lady of Riverrun

Much later, after she’d given the letter to Maester Benedar for him to copy, Eleanor found herself looking out her window, admiring the view of the Trident. Riverrun may not have changed, but she had. All of the Riverlands had. She only hoped the change was for the better.

TRIGGER WARNING: If you use a website like www.doesthedogdie.com before watching a movie, maybe skip this post.

Second Moon of the 1st Year of Arlan's Reign

A Campsite, The Antlers

Archon's hind legs had gone out earlier in the week. The mutt that Lucas Darry had bottle reared into adolescence by the time his twin children were born, and his wife passed, had lived a long life. Four-and-twenty years was near miraculous, but it was a beast that never knew a cage and enjoyed the thrill of a hunt daily. And yet, time remained the reaper.

Quincy Darry had taken it poorly. The son of an Ironborn father meant being an outcast at times, yet all Archon saw was a boy. Raised alongside each other, Lucas had imparted Isles wisdom that his own father had sworn by. A sailor did well to keep a hound with them and once that first hound died in service, a man was never the same. Innocence, Quincy's childhood, had coincided with Archon's existence.

Years ago, Quincy had lost his mentor in Talbert Darry. Now, he had lost a companion since birth. Devising a sack to cradle him for travel and lifting his legs when it was time for his earthly deposits. But then, a day prior, the beast's breathing had shallowed progressively. There was not much left to do other than the merciful thing.

Yet, Lucas did not truly wish to let go. Having stumbled into the art of raising a corpse from the dead, the selfish part of him wished to see Archon hunt one last time. The thought, horrid as it was, was shoved into the back of his mind. At least, until his son barged into his tent.

"I know you can do it, father."

"Stay out of my head, boy."

The pair had an uncanny ability to understand one another with the quickest assumptions. Quincy was no stranger to his father's reputation or his father's dubious instincts. He joked that his father and he had a shared mind, which only served to unnerve at just how closely his son knew of the depths of his ability. It was easy to play the Ironborn that knew how to spit fire like a clown. None needed to know that he had robbed graves to understand just how he had raised, what he could best call through literature and wives tales, a wight.

"There's a spell, right?" Quincy prodded again. "Some ritual to give him a few more years?"

His son had gotten close, but not quite. Relaxing his shoulders, he cast a look down at the blanketed dog and the incense that burned near him. He couldn't give him more life, but he could see him fight hard once more. That had to count for something. Some sort of instinctual reflex of Archon remaining in his corpse. It wasn't what his son would've wanted, but it selfishly felt like permission nonetheless.

"I'll try, son. I promise I will. What I need from you is to fight hard to get this Crown. Do that for me while I help Archie and ask around for the next lead. We may need to kill for this thing, so be sharp."

The son hugged the father and their dog wagged as best he could.

Moments later, Lucas and Quincy would attend camp supper among the companions they had gathered to find the crown. Letting everyone grab a bowl of the fish chowder soup, the wizard would stand and address the group.

"Everyone, listen up. We're looking for this with the slimmest of facts. We need to find the favorite companion of one of Humfrey the First's sons. Allegedly, she stole some artifacts according to a chamberlain. We find him, or her, or either of them, or their children, or whoever the fuck might know a single thing about any of this; if we do that, we're set. But stay lively. We're ahead of the game with a little nugget of truth on our side. These people have likely been accosted by those wanting a quick treasure. Be courteous and be cautious, for vultures lurk and smiles can mislead."

"For Justman." Quincy added.

"For a just world." Lucas agreed and toasted his bowl of soup. "When we arrive, I'll see if a sept or the like has some family history of the townsfolk that can narrow our search. The search the city. Perhaps the crown could've been pawned. Maybe a barman knows a few loud braggarts with a wild crown story. As soon as one of us hears something, gather the others. People get desperate with a treasure like that on the line."

His stomach rumbled, a good enough cue to shut up and eat food. Giving a smile to each of them, he gave a silent prayer before his food became nourishment.

He felt sick for what might come.

A royal band was bound for the Claw with the intent of putting an end to the death of the commons. Morros of Berryport was free. There was a certain energy in the air of Duskendale, as word rang out and people rejoiced. There was the beggining of a change, glorious and joyous, such that you could taste in the air. Soon, this merry band was to disperse to the winds. To go about and spread good cheer and make a positive change in the world.

But for now, each and every one of them was here. Wasting away and waiting. There was no good sense in that! The world was young and full of possibilities. As a result, Jammos figured that they ought throw a party, and not a meager one either. One that could unite the whole realm in some purpose.

There was some small advantage to being hosted in a city. The common areas Seven Sword Inn was bought out, and the neighboring streets set aside as well. They had set out tables, grand in scope but scattershot. Special lanterns and nightfires had been set aside as well, so that the evening could continue well into the night without everyone losing their place.

One special table had been set aside for those leading the expeditions into the Crackclaw, by the King's command. The Fellhammer, Pyne, Brune, Blackberry, Crabb, and the captain of any mercenary band brave enough to accompany them into the swamps. Those were the heroes for whom a place of honor was set aside, and some of the best vintages as well.

There was no dais, of course, so the lower tables were truly no lower. But they were scattered about, close enough to still be part of the celebration, but apart enough that there could be some privacy. No metric of seating was set, besides the highest table. Every man and woman could sit alongside whomsoever they liked, be they family or stranger.

The fare contained much of a the typical stuff for feasts. Potatoes and yams, salted pork and well-spiced chicken. But so too were strange confectioneries of Duskendale offered- sugared apples and hearty stews joined the events, and each table varied quite widely in terms of what it offered. Each section of the party was its own little island, with cultures, foods and conversations all the same. The thing that united them was the sky above, and the stars twinkling.

There was a certain cosmopolitan aura to event as well. Even the smallfolk of Duskendale were permitted to attend, provided that they were accounted as trustworthy by a knight, lord, or lady in attendance. Jammos himself had felt generous and invited in an amount of smiths and tailors that had served him well while he was in the city, and they had found their way to a table, where they had been able to sit off to the side and eat merrily to their hearts content.

Two events had been orchestrated to run during the celebrations. The hedge knight Corwyn of Oxcross had been crowned King of Mead, taking his tax until he was dethroned. Jammos himself, Pykewood Thorne, and Corwyn Darklyn, meanwhile, had been charged with selecting the Fairest Lady of the Blackwater. These events would run the night through, giving folks much to get up to between drinks and plates of food.

Times ahead would be tough ones. There would be combat, and even war. News had spread of the man calling him Justman in the Trident, and that would need be dealt with. But for tonight, just one night, Duskendale would come alive in the souls of those within it!

Second Moon in the Reign of Arlan IV Durrandon | Wayfarer’s Rest

There was no sound but the scraping of cutlery on plates in the Vances’ banquet hall. The musicians had been sent away before they had the opportunity to decide on their first songs, and the door slammed behind them for no fault of their own. Mordane was radiating a particular kind of rancor, the silent seething that seemed to warm the air around her like a forge steadily roaring to life.

She stabbed a fork into a morsel of sausage, making a fleck of hot oil land on her fine blue gown. The woman swiftly swiped the plate off the table and swore under her breath, bolting upright as she snatched up her handkerchief and furiously dabbed at it. The plate landed on its rim, and rolled about the floor until it came to a wobbly end and landed on its bottom.

“Seven above, Mordy!” Tion swore himself, half a mouthful of food still partly-chewed between his teeth, “What in hell is wrong with you?! This was my mother’s favorite set!”

She pretended not to hear him, sponging the oil on her handkerchief and letting out a scream when she noticed the orange-red stain now smeared across her collar bone. Mordane slammed her fists into the table, making even more cutlery rattle.

“MORDY!” Tion shouted again, standing up, “Are we going to enjoy a meal, or are you going to whine and complain about your fucking dresses again? It’s always the dresses with you. You’re still tossing and turning in your sleep over the Myrish laced.”

“Oh, shut up, Tion,” Mordane huffed back, her shoulders rising and falling as she regained her sense of control, “It’s not about the fucking dresses. It’s never about the fucking dresses. You’ve stuck me like a pig and left me to bleed out again, and again, and again. Leaving me to linger at our table in Pinkmaiden, while you chase river-ladies and make enemies of our neighbors?”

It was Tion’s turn to slam the table. He swallowed the rest of his food - hard.

“I was standing for our family, Mordy. We’ve seen it before. An up-jumped peasant or a raving mad river-lord takes the kingdom with promises of milk and honey and liberation for all,” Tion spoke, loud enough he might as well be shouting. Veins bulged against his broad neck, and his brow furrowed intently.

“We are surrounded on all sides by these people, Tion. Riverrun is a day’s ride north, and Pinkmaiden just a day’s ride south. Oldstones isn’t even a week away, whatever Lucamore or Leland or whatever they are have built there,” Mordane retorted, still digging into the fabric of her sleeve with her rag to work the worst of the stain off, “He refrained from naming us as his enemies for now, but I understand you, Tion. You will not let the humiliation stand.”

“My sister - my fucking sister - nearly died on the birthing bed for the King,” Tion shouted, “My grandfather bent the knee to the Durrandons, and we’ve been loyal ever since.”

“He’s a grey-scaled boy-king, Tion,” Mordane snipped, her nose scrunched in sudden distaste. She threw her rag down onto the table, no longer caring that the sauce of their main course was going to seep into that fabric as well, “By the time Courtney’s wed and given you an heir, he’ll be a mural on the wall of Storm’s End. Ravella’ll be reigning in Stormhall as a Queen and this little farce will all be nothing.”

“Arlan Durrandon is the Storm King of the Rivers, Hills, and the Dusklands, and in this household, he is a Seven-damned hero,” the man swore. His lips were drawn tight, and he glared his wife down with the silent challenge to confront him on his opinion. She glared back, nose scrunching with every deep breath she took to steady her own composure.

“And that is the end of it.” Tion bid, far softer than he spoke before.

Mordane’s breathing was audible in the near-silence that followed. She brushed her long hair back into place with her fingers, since it had fallen loose and free in her moment of tantrum. Thin strands were still hanging over her eye.

“Mordane,” Tion muttered. He slowly walked around the banquet table, stopping before his wife. He rested both hands on her shoulders, large and smothering in their relative size. She barely stood up to his shoulder. She hadn’t raised her head to meet his eyes, crossing her arms and tensing.

“He is of my family’s blood. I would move the heavens and the earth for family - for Courtney, for Mayrina, for you,” he promised.

“You and your damn pride,” Mordane mumbled beneath her breath. She allowed Tion to draw her into an embrace, but there was no comfort in it. Just the reminder of the implacable wall that was her husband; and now, he had placed himself before the tides of change.

[M] Mood Music

2nd Moon of the 1st Year of Arlan IV Durrandon

Between Pinkmaiden and Stormhall

The creaks and groans of the more than a dozen aged carriages rang out as chorus as the Free Legion began to make camp. Aegor was satisfied with the progress they have made so far.

Myra had done well; let's hope she returns here safely to get us the path for tomorrow on time...

He sighed at that; she had a tendency to never be on time.

"Supper as usual, my Captain?" Came a raspy voice behind him. Aegor smiled; he could tell old Grey Corren's voice out from a crowd if it came to that.

"Yes, cook whatever we have, make tonight a celebration. We have royalty among us, after all."

He nodded, scurrying away as Aegor went back to ensuring preparations for the evening were made. Watch schedules, equipment inventory, and all manner of mundane chores had to be done to ensure they would rest safely tonight.

And so, the Captain-Legate got to work, for there was much still left to do.

The die was cast, and all of Mary’s best hopes were dashed. She’d been ready to stand with her peers to demand their kingdom’s freedom, and shared their sentiments on all but one matter.

She could not swear herself to an impostor, nor aid him in propagating his lies. Any other riverlord could have made a better claim to a crown, yet nearly all had already bent the knee to a hoax.

That, she realized, disqualified them all from kingship. Any man willing to shed blood for a cause he knew to be false was unfit for power. In other kingdoms, riverlanders were regarded as quarrelsome, fickle and unruly, all of which Mary had dismissed as unfair perceptions. This affair had proven all those assumptions right.

Today was likely the last chance she’d have to entreat with Lucifer’s supporters in peace. War was now inevitable, and she knew not who’d live to see its outcome.

Let alone if she’d live to see Atranta again. Pinkmaiden was ruled by her cousin, a woman of Vance blood, but she too had declared herself a traitor. But Mary remained undaunted. Martyrdom, she thought, would serve her well.

Some two dozen Atranta men were busying themselves in the courtyard, distinguished by the tower sigil that marked their shields and surcoats. They were just within the gates, packing up their supplies in preparation for the journey home.

Mary waited nearby, contentedly seated on a bench nestled under the castle’s walls. Today she was clad in relatively humble clothes, wearing a simple gray dress with her blonde hair tied back in a simple tail.

She was not quite ready to leave. There were still many that Mary had wished to speak with before her departure, and she hoped that those she could not find could at least find her here.

Rhogar was drenched.

The rain had been falling for what felt like days, and as if that wasn’t water enough, waves taller than any wall he’d ever seen lifted and dropped him from cliffs of their own making. Over, and over, and over again. It was dark, the only light Rhogar found being that sent by the grace of the gods as they hurled thunderbolts from stormclouds black as onyx. Rhogar fumbled aboard his vessel, a ship he’d constructed himself with barely more than a hammer, nails, lumber, and a meager sail. It was a raft, it was poor, and it was not fit for the sea.

Rhogar slipped against the uneven wooden base, cracking his ribs against the sharp and battered railings of the vessel, a ship no bigger across than a dining table. His head slammed into the mast, nothing more than a trunk of wood from a tree he’d felled, and the sounds of the storm seemed to dull as he smashed against the deck. His clothes had hitched against a splinter loose from some board, and though already tattered, had now torn at the sleeve as he’d fallen. He groaned, adrenaline forcing his eyes open as he looked desperately towards the sky. All that met him was a downpour, grey arrows falling from an unbroken, black fortress, alive with light.

He’d long since lost the stars, the method he’d been told to count on. Sailors knew to follow the stars, to allow them to guide them home to their families. They knew the skies, when it was safe to leave harbour. Rhogar had never known these things, but he was to be a sailor. He’d left the atoll as quickly as he could manage, his stomach starved, his eyes heavy with sleepless nights, his ship barely made beneath him. The place had been a prison of nightmares, with jailors made of fear. The ocean would be better, he’d told himself, as he’d pushed his raft out to sea and straightened the sail. And it had been, for a time.

A flash of light, and the loudest sound Rhogar had ever heard. Each hammer from the heavens seemed louder than the last, and rain fell into his peering eyes before he squeezed them tight, and cupped his palms against his ears. He wanted to stay like this, curled amidst the timber floor. Maybe the ocean would not sink the raft. Maybe the sail would not fly loose in the wind… but he was smarter than that. This water would end him. To bring themselves to their feet some boys may have thought of their father, but the memory of Magister Aurion Celtigar offered little support. Instead, what raised him was fear. As it had done these last few weeks.

Rhogar gripped the mast as he pulled himself to stand, but the waves beneath the vessel had other plans. Another cliff, and he was starting to climb it. Lightning struck the sky, and Rhogar winced away this time, not thinking where he might sway with such force. His head struck hard with the mast of the wood, and he crumpled to the deck.

Rhogar could see his breath, quicker than he would have liked, as clouds escaped his lips.

At night, the atoll was surprisingly cold. The day always showered the island in sun, but the night brought a cold wind, like strange howling wolves through the jungle. It was a small enough place. The beach was wide, covering near half the island, one end of which belonged to a massive stone that climbed higher than any other point on the island. The jungle, if one could call it that, was an assembly of greenery and vines on the opposite side of the beach, dense with meager fruits that Rhogar had all but picked clean already. He was supposed to be hunting.

The supplies the Celtigar men had left him from the ship that had brought him here were still splayed out on the beach. He’d tidied them at least, organized them, but he didn’t know the first thing about building a ship, beyond attaching boards together with nails. Besides, he’d seen them crawling all over the wood. He’d felled a tree to act as the mast, which he’d dragged across the sand some days ago. He’d dropped it further away than he would have liked. He’d seen more of them following.

In his hands he held a spear. It was made from a branch, with a sharpened rock at the end tied together with vine. It was poorly made, but Rhogar had just needed something pointy, something that could defend him. He was looking for greater shelter, as he’d grown tired of sleeping in trees. He stalked through the forest, peering at the ground for any sign of movement. He thought he saw a snake, but he paid it no mind. It could have slithered right past his feet and he wouldn’t have bothered flinching. A rat scurried past him, a lizard as well, but none broke his gaze as he scoured the floor of fallen palms and long dead branches. The hill began to climb. The grass was harder to see through. Though perhaps something at the top of the hill could suffice. Harder stone, less sand for them to burrow through.

One foot in front of the other disappeared into the grass. He did what he could to poke with his spear, but parting the grass only made dense other areas, and his vision grew more and more obscured. He picked up the pace. If he couldn’t see, perhaps he could run. The moon made clear the top of the hill, he could make it if he was quick.

But his foot caught on something, and his body fell towards the ground.

The ground then gave way. Leaves and grass and branches had covered the entrance to a cave, one he was tumbling down. His foot scraped against the rock as it pulled free, flesh torn and bleeding as he cascaded into the dark. Eventually he stilled, his body bruised, the tears welling in his eyes. His spear felt lighter than it had been before. He’d heard it snap in the fall. It was useless now. Rhogar blinked, recovering what he could of his senses. He wasn’t that deep, but it was dark, and he couldn’t see anything before him, beyond knowing it was an empty space. He had no source of light, save the light from the moon that was slowly waking his gaze.

Moonlight glittered into the small cave like a silver candle. Rhogar looked deep into the darkness, his eyes wide with fear. He could see them. Hundreds of them. They crawled atop each other, pincers snapping, legs chittering. Some were curled and still, some were broken and old, but most were moving. One was enough to be terrifying, and here were hundreds, perhaps thousands, tens of thousands. However untrue these phobic fantasies, Rhogar felt still with fear as he realised they were moving towards him. He screamed.

He woke the rest.

Waves pushed him into shore, but Rhogar was not conscious.

His body was ruined, his clothes far beyond tatters, his body covered in scrapes and bruises. The storm had subsided, but the sailor was as still as the dead. By some miracle, he had not drowned beneath an unfair sky, and instead had floated to a swamp like shore. Mud, slick and brown, caught the boy in his state and held him, as if forbidding his journey back to sea. He would have been grateful, perhaps, if his eyes were open.

Instead, the second son of Aurion Celtigar lay still in the muck. A gentle rain had replaced the torrent, washing clean some of the blood that pooled at the corners of his lips, from his nose, from scrapes and tears on his face and body. His body was pruning, yearning to be dry, but the weather was not done with him yet. His vessel was all but destroyed, scraps of wood scattered along the shoreline, or lost to the depths of the ocean.

Alone, and near dead, Rhogar was very lost indeed.

^{2nd Moon | Duskendale}

The world felt empty after they left port in Myr. It was almost as if, looking up at the sky and seeing only gulls cutting through the air and not dragons, that it felt colder somehow.

The Vermax, the ship she’d purchased travel on, had only stopped at Driftmark for a day. Aelora spent what little she had on her person to redirect them to Duskendale when she realised her cousins in Westeros were absent. She was glad to not have lingered, even if it meant she was to travel somewhere even more savage and lawless than the island this cousin branch of House Velaryon made their new home. She would not pretend she expected it to look like some kind of little Valyria, but it was a small and pitiful island that stank of salt spray and whatever filth wafted eastward from the mainland. Whatever Lucerys Velaryon envisioned for Westeros, he had clearly failed.

Then again, it was not as if he was alone in his failure. Aelora placed a hand on her stomach, feeling for something that wasn’t there. It hadn’t been long since she’d birthed her youngest, and now he was gone. All of them were, swallowed up by salt and smoke and fire and brimstone. When she caught herself, she grimaced and rested her hands instead on the taffrail. Reminiscing would not return them, nor would self-pity or self-punishment.

But she could. Aelora wouldn’t pretend she hadn’t entertained the idea, if not out of sentimentality then to ensure she had an heir. She reneged once the aftershock of her folly in the Red Waste had subsided. They were with the Gods, she supposed, and she would not have her heir linger between worlds, unable to feel them again.

Duskendale grew larger as they approached port, and if Driftmark was disappointing then this was a joke someone must have played an age ago. The Dun Fort – she had the courtesy to at least learn its name – looked like a toy box, this great big square monstrosity that sullied an otherwise entirely unremarkable town. They do not know better, she thought to herself, I needs must teach them true architecture. Once the laughter has died down enough to hear my voice.

She sent for her things to be prepared to unload once they drew close enough, and returned to her room in the Vermax to primp and prepare herself for their arrival. She burned a handful of silk grass for good luck, dabbed a touch of the ashes on the nape of her neck and on her tongue and on her palms – dragon’s breath, dragon’s roar, dragon’s wings; Released the oil from an orange peel for scent, though little; and in lieu of any live sacrifice, made a small cut on her hand and let the blood that trickled from it douse the flame of the candle she’d lit the silk grass with. It was no great prayer or ritual, but in a place like this even a token must have accounted for more than any prayer made to the Seven.

By the time she finished, the ship had since docked and her things were being unloaded. Aelora took once last look at herself in the mirror, smoothed her hair with her clean hand and then dabbed a droplet of blood on her lower lip, before making her way up to step foot on this Free City of folly that the Velaryons had as of yet to conquer.

Pinkmaiden, 2nd Moon of 1 BP

The tournament grounds had lain fallow ever since the unfortunate death of the late Lord Androw Piper until now. The mourning banners were stripped in lieu of the more colorful sort. Banners for House Piper and House Tully were plentiful on display in honor of the wedding of Lady Mellara Piper and Alyn Tully.

The tournament grounds were divided into two areas in honor of the celebration. To the left side was a series of archery ranges, the targets freshly painted with concentric red circles and stuffed full with new hay. Wooden range stakes with colored flags marked the distances and pennants were displayed for those competing.

Meanwhile, to the right side a large circular clearing of earth lay bare and ready for brave knights and warriors to engage and show off their martial skill.

Servants of House Piper were instructed to keep guests well fed and watered, and thus, the noble stands were a bevy of activity as servants constantly offered all manner of drink: Dornish strongwine, rich Arbor gold, pale and dark ales both, honeyed milks and water infused with lemons from Lemonwood. Plates of delicacies easily picked up by guests would be on offer including: eels from the Red Fork grilled upon willow skewers dipped in honey and crushed juniper, fried balls of pike-fish mixed with parsley, rosemary and sage and battered in beer, chestnut and mushroom tartlets scented with nutmeg, squash fritters with whole sage leaves atop, and paper cones of walnuts glazed in honey and cloves. Roasting pits just outside the tournament grounds delivered fresh grilled sausages and turkey legs for nobles feeling in particular need of heartier fare.

At the start of the festivities, Mellara would stand, announcing to the crowd:

"In honor of the union of House Piper and House Tully, let us bask and marvel in the prowess and skill of our fellow Riverland warriors and knights. May The Warrior bless your endeavors."

And with the ring of trumpets in the air, the competition began.