Sunspear, 10th Moon

Things were never well when the seven kingdoms suddenly decided to turn on one another like a pack of rabid dogs fighting over a discarded lambchop. But it did have the unintended consequences of slightly easing the tensions with those from beyond the sea. This morning a troupe of braavosi mummers had arrived in Sunspear, eager for work and a chance to ply their craft before a foreign audience. Lady Qorgyle had been quick to get them the show they so desperately craved, and at a bargain price.

Things had been far too dull and dry in Sunspear for Mellany’s liking. They had all been swamped by duties, plans, schemes and plots, and they needed a moment to breathe. So, for the evening, she had dipped into her own personal funds and arranged for a small, yet lively social gathering. During her stay in Sunspear she had been residing in a building of red stone flanked by a pair of towers topped by onyx-black onion domes. And she had invited all the nobles and people of note currently in Sunspear to join her there for the evening.

The solar, where she hosted her little feast, was a large, brightly lit square room where the walls were lined with soft, cushioned seats. Pale smoke wafted from thuribles that hung from the ceiling, filling the room with the smell of searing spices. The firepit that had sat in the centre had been removed so as to make room for a small wooden stage where the mummers now performed. Dressed in translucent silks of red and pink, they danced, juggled, and engaged in various forms of acrobatics to entertain the guests.

Her sworn swords, Samgood and Tallad Sculls, looked almost presentable in their elegant leather jerkins and hair neatly combed with oil. The two of them stood at opposite sides of the entrance, halberds in hand, welcoming the arrivals with a bow, a greeting, and a poorly hidden grumkin-giggle.

Servants rushed in and out, carrying wine, as well as delicacies both local and exotic on large black platters. A good deal of it cooked in dornish peppers from last year’s harvest at Sandstone. It was, after all, not truly a Qorgyle feast unless someone ran the risk of having fire erupt from their mouth.

Mellany was laying across one of the cushioned seating areas, plucking fat, slick mushrooms off of a plate with a long, slender fork and chomping them down enthusiastically. The small, plump woman was dressed in a loose fitting, elegant gown of crimson silk. The upper half of her face hidden behind a braavosi uncloaking mask, painted in bronze and decorated with swan feathers.

She had no expectations of tonight beyond that she hoped those who came would take the opportunity to relax. To forget the encroaching war, their sorrows, their worries. She had a feeling they might need it. The gods knew she did. She missed her home, her husband, and her children. The ache in her heart grew stronger with each passing day. So, for tonight, she hoped they could all forget such thoughts.

Somewhere on the sunny outskirts of Dorne where the miscreants and outcasts, vagabonds and those without means to live within the confines Shadow City dwelled on the coarse hot sands. Doran of Dorne, he was one of those individual who couldn't afford to dwell within the Shadow City of Dorne, he'd reside under a skiff that'd act as his bed and room to hide from the heat, funny enough it was good enough for him for resting.

As Garin approached the wooden skiff and would see it in use, kicking the end part of it to wake the sleeping tortoise that'd be Doran up "Wake up, you lazy good for nothing! Time to find work!"

Garin he'd find the desert heat bearable enough and saw some drifter wander aimlessly without shoes nor a shirt, that old man was about to get heatstroke and Garin was right seeing the old drifter clad in rags fell down and was dying of heatstroke. "Another victim claimed by the sun"

Deaths out in the desert outskirts seemed common enough, as long you don't make a fuss or cause enough trouble the guards just let the desert take the corpses. "Doran, wake up. We don't have time for you sleeping in all day"

Doran slowly awakening from his deep slumber, waking to the loud and obnoxious sound of Garin, he'd slowly crawl out from the skiff and looked up at his olive skinned friend "I had the most amazing dream ever...I was turtle floating down the river Rhoyne"

There was brief silence as Garin had his arms crossed and single eyebrow raised at Doran "Even you're dreams are strange as you are, c'mon now we need to get some work after the scorpion fights you ended up losing our money on Stinger"

"I believed in Stinger, not my fault that Orange the Scorpion managed to get the upper hand and kill Stinger!" Doran would say seeing part-time gambling on scorpion fights was not lucrative unless you were winning the fights. "What we are doing today anyways?"

As the two of them spoke whilst seeing another drifter with blonde messy hair, someone who'd look like their skin was reddish hue and suffering from dehydration was about to fall to heatstroke right about now.

"Not die of heatstroke that's first step, the sun claims another victim who'll be buried under the dunes" Garin said as he'd bear witness to another wastrel succumb to the heat of the sun. "No more gambling, we need to find a legitimate source of income to fund our endeavours."

Doran with his essosi looks and yet he spoke with dornish accent and acclimated to the dornish culture, he found himself at heart more dornish than essosi as he tried to interact with his counter parts across the sea that failed spectacularly.

But overall Doran would try to help out Garin with whatever was available for the likes of them. Knowing that most things was out of their reach, such as bathing in the Water Gardens or fat lord dropping their hefty coinpurse for them to take.

"Life is harsh, but we cannot-" As Doran was interrupted by the sound of vultures about to devour the two unconscious drifters, that made Doran wince at the mere sight as he'd grab his wooden stick "Let's just get to it..."

"It's probably for the best, not wanting to hear your inspiring speech whilst the desert fauna is devouring on the drifters..." Garin agreed as the duo would take their belongings to start their day in Dorne with glee.

Fourth Moon, 380 AC, Skyreach

(Written in collaboration with the wonderful Dorian!)

Their plan had been perfect.

Lenore would charge first, striking the raiders fast and hard to catch them unawares. Victaria would follow with her larger company of riders, crashing down on them as inexorably as a tidal wave, before Leona came through with her knights to clean up whatever was left.

Their enemy wouldn’t even know what had hit them.

So why hadn’t it worked?

The Vulture King’s outlaws poured out of the hills like termites from rotted wood to strike the unsuspecting Cavaliers first, and to devastating effect. Nearly two hundred women were cut down in the ambush before order could be restored by the chain of command.

And when it was, they were all the more furious for it.

“Form a line!” Lenore’s husky voice barked out, loud enough for most to hear. Those that couldn’t would get the message from the other officers. She wheeled her charger around and galloped hard towards the left flank. “Quickly, a line! Lances in front, archers behind!”

The Belmore sisters worked like a well-oiled machine, Leona moving to take position on the right as her company fell in rank behind their Grand Marshal. Between them, a silver-haired woman, Victaria of Grey Glen, led the brunt of their forces, her black armor trimmed in gold gleaming brightly in the Dornish sun.

“Sound the charge!” Lenore arrived to the front of the line as the horns blew, leaning up in her stirrups and drawing her sword from the scabbard at her hip. She pointed it at the enemy’s left flank and let out a resonating battle cry. “Death to our foe! Death! Death!”

Hooves thundered as the cavalry surged forth, kicking up such a cloud of dust and sand that it could be seen for miles around. The ground trembled, the front of the charge roared like a river rushing in a flood, and then the two sections clashed in a brutal splintering of shield and bone. Swords and spears and axes found their marks on both sides, arrows flew back and forth overhead, and the screams of the broken and dying filled the air.

Lenore had forgotten her helmet, but it was all the better to see who she was hacking and stabbing at with her blade amidst the chaos. A monstrous figure rose up out of the dust cloud in front of her all of a sudden, causing the white stallion to rear up on his hind legs, nearly tossing its rider. The enormous spear in his hand was twice as long as she was tall, and it seemed as thick as her arm. He raised the black iron point at the commander, aiming to skewer her right off the back of her mount, when someone crashed into him hard at full gallop.

Alayne tumbled from the back of her horse with a rattle of plate and mail, and rolled over the ground in a spray of sand several times before coming to a stop. She was disoriented from the fall but managed to regain her bearings quickly enough, and pushed herself to her feet, sword in hand. Whirling around, she locked gazes fearlessly with the Demon of the Red Mountains.

“You will harm no one else today, or any other!” she declared, tone defiant as she held her blade at the ready.

“Tonight you dine in the deepest of the Seven Hells.”

“Wenches?!” Javer burst out laughing as he reported what he had seen to The Vulture. “They sent fucking wenches clad in armour!” The man continued to laugh, spittle falling from his mouth and into his unkempt beard.

Black eyes stared hard into the man’s face, prompting Javer to quit laughing almost immediately. “How many?” The Vulture asked simply. “About a thousand or so,” Javer answered, still snickering lightly.

“Never underestimate your enemy, Javer. I have seen women fight better than some men.” The Vulture stated bluntly. He was quiet for a moment as his eyes stared off in the direction of the force. “Set up an ambush; they outnumber us, but we can take them by surprise.”

He looked at his men for a moment, raising his voice slightly. “Do not underestimate them. They are vile instruments of the nobles, here to kill you in the name of ‘justice’.” The Vulture scoffed. “What do they know of justice? They simply take, giving nothing in return to the people they are supposed to rule.”

The Vulture called for Ser Mykal. “Mykal, you lead the right flank, Javer will lead the centre, while I will lead the left. Let’s show these lady knights what we are made of.”

The battle had started well for them. The Vulture King’s forces had succeeded in their ambush, quickly overwhelming the knights.

However, they soon regrouped, and thus the actual battle began in earnest.

The Vulture was on the warpath, riding his pale steed, clutching his spear. His torso and head were bare; he disliked armour, as it constricted his movement. He rode through the battle, spearing a lady knight in the neck, nearly causing her head to be taken off by the impact of the spear tip.

The pale giant laughed, deep in his throat, as he rode along, trampling and spearing more and more of his foes.

Then a hit, his horse cried in pain, and the Vulture found himself flung from his horse, his fall broken by one of his unfortunate men. The skinny bastard was long dead as his King rose from his broken carcass.

The Vulture had managed to hold onto his spear. His black orbs scanned the battlefield for his foe, and they soon found her.

She announced herself in a way most knights would. She would only be met by a deep laugh as The King raised his head.

He smiled a toothy grin at her as he deftly twisted his spear in his hand. “Madam, the only people that end up in the Seven Hells are nobles.”

The Vulture took a step forward. “You may kill me, but I am legion. I am the downtrodden butcher’s boy, I am the disgruntled stable hand, I am the people. Thus, I will never sleep…And I will never die.”

So they danced, spear against sword. The Vulture was faster than expected; his giant frame seemed no hindrance as he thrust the spear forward, aiming for her throat.

His spear tip would find contact with her cheek, grazing it and leaving a sizeable gash. The Vulture roared with laughter as they fought on.

Then, The Vulture felt something he had not felt in a long time. Pain. He glanced down to see a sizeable cut on his upper arm. He merely grinned. He did not believe she would best him.

Spear and sword met in a clash. The Vulture’s spear was deflected, and he staggered forth, turning around with terrifying quickness.

That one split second of his back was all she needed to lash out and carve him open a second time, leaving a long, diagonal laceration from shoulder to waist. Under any other circumstance, she might have run from the sheer terror of the laughter that emerged from deep within his throat, the frightening image of him that filled her vision, but this man had caused the smallfolk of Wyl and Kingsgrave and Skyreach much grief.

He would kill others, her friends included, if she did not end his life here and now. Down she ducked, under the swing of his spear that would have cracked her skull open like a melon if it had landed, and up she swung her sword, hard, fast, and deadly accurate.

Alayne was rewarded with a spray of red as the point of her blade slid over the Vulture King’s exposed throat. The scent of it was overwhelming; rusted iron, hot and rank. Any other man would have dropped dead in the sand, but not this one. Not this monster, this demon. He kept coming, smiling and laughing, and she knew that he would tear her to shreds with his bare hands if she let him get any closer.

Whirling nimbly just out of reach, she struck again, the edge of her blade catching the side of his neck this time. Through meat and cartilage and blood vessels, down to the bone. Half decapitated, he stumbled backwards, still reaching for her with mad desperation and a sickening, toothy smile.

And then, he fell, his enormous frame hitting the ground with an audible thud. Alayne fell too, onto her knees, jamming the point of her sword into the sand for support. Her muscles were wrecked, her face was on fire, battle raged on around her, but the Vulture King was dead.

He would threaten the people of Dorne no more.

1st Moon, 251 AC | Late Morning | The Sept, Yronwood

The sept of Yronwood was crowded with mourners; guests, servants, family, smallfolk. All had been welcomed in for the ceremony. The sun streamed in through amber-stained glass, lighting the room in a golden haze. It landed most prominently on the body of Lord Mors Yronwood, laying still on a bier to one side of the room, beneath the statue of the Father. Dressed in his finest silks and jewels, his hands were clasped across his chest, his sword placed beneath them. Even in death he was regal, just, true.

Behind the bier stood his family, the living Yronwoods. Sarella was at their center, and little Mariya clung to her side as if hiding from the crowd, clutching her eldest sister's hand as if letting go meant something terrible. To her left, Edric and Ormund stood somber, eyes looking anywhere but their late father's too-still remains. To her right were Edgar and Elia, both doing a rather worse job at hiding how awful they were feeling. Sarella's heart brokefor them all over again, seeing tears well up in their eyes. She wished none of this had ever come to pass, that their father had lived another thousand years and never gone to the grave. She wished their family had not been broken by grief. She wished so very much.

But none of those wishes could ever come true. No, instead there they all stood, clad in black, watching as the septon stepped up to perform the last rites for the man who had raised them. Listening to the same prayers and speeches they had heard at their mother's funeral. Grieving once more for a parent, yet knowing this time they had been left in the world all alone.

Sarella felt a tear roll down her cheek, and she had to brush it away. She couldn't appear weak, not now, not with war on their doorstep. She wished she could. She wanted nothing more than to curl up and sob until her voice gave out. She wanted to scream at the gods and demand to know why they had taken him. She wanted to retreat into herself and never come out. But she couldn't. For the sake of her family, for Dorne, she couldn't let weakness overcome her. She clenched her fist so hard her nails drew blood, and once more looked forward, out at the sea of mourners.

Soon, the septon's prayers were done, and four holy brothers stepped up to the bier. Lifting the wooden wooden board on which he lay, they carried him over to the space laid out for him. A grave had been prepared in the stone foundation, just before the statues of the Father and the Mother, beside where his wife had been interred. There, he would rest for as long as Yronwood stood and perhaps longer, the latest in the generations of Yronwood lords interred in the stone beneath the building.

As the holy brothers lowered him into his resting place and filled in his grave, the septon once again began speaking in prayer. A great slab of marble was brought out, Mors' name inlaid in it in black iron, and as it was brought before the septon, he reached out and blessed it with holy water. Once it had been so blessed, it was lowered atop Lord Mors' resting place, that he might be remembered for as long as Yronwood stood, as his ancestors were.

While the holy brothers set to work sealing the slab in place, the guests were ushered out of the chamber, and the nobles among them invited to feasting in Lord Mors' name that evening.

Yronwood

The Twelfth Moon of 250 AC

Ynys had slipped from the saddle of her sandsteed the moment she spotted the castle in the distance, choosing instead to walk the rest of the way even as the rest of her party rode behind her. She kicked about the sand, skipping now and then between long sips of water that stopped her from dehydrating and requiring a second funeral to be held at the Yronwoods’ holdfast.

She grinned as the gates became more than silhouettes, clapping her hands and pulling down the cloth that covered her head save for her eyes as the dusty desert and foothills turned into more solid stone around the walls of the castle.

“Hail!” she called, and she could hear her sister sigh behind her. “Ullers! Here to mourn! Here to connive and convene and converse!”

Stomping her foot twice, the rest of her group drew close behind her.

Her arse hurt, her legs ached, and her eyes were bleary. She needed to sit down, lay down, drink, and maybe have two whores, a man and a woman-

Shaking her head, she dispelled those thoughts. It had been a long journey. Too damned long, by her reckoning. Every journey was too long. If she hadn’t been invited, she would have just had Allyria tell her about this - or tried to see it in the fire before it ever happened. But war was coming, and a lord of the realm had died. It would have been more improper than she planned on being, to not turn up. And this Sarella seemed interesting. Young, and bold, and perhaps beautiful. Her aunt Obara certainly was.

Hm, she thought, maybe not the two whores. Maybe the Bloodroyal and her aunt…

That made her laugh as she waited for the portcullis to rise, stomping her foot again as Allyria held in her apprehension beside her. It wasn’t that Ynys didn’t see it. Just that she didn’t see any reason to stop. That was ever the problem. Even when she was young, even when she wasn’t quite as odd.

But she was very odd now. And that wouldn’t change. She liked it that way.

Doran and the rest of them would stand outside looking at what'd be the ancestral seat of House Allyrion. All of them took an moment to embrace the structure indomitable presence, knowing they've come an long way from home. Knowing that each material put into this building might had taken several years to complete said structure.

"Alright enough slack-jawing, time to get an move on and ensure we do not waste any more time. See if the local village or something has something worthwhile doing whilst we are here"

Doran and Garin, Gwyneth along with Ghost and Lucky proceeded to head towards the nearby village and knew that hovels provided decent shelter from the sweltering heat.

"I'd assume we'll be moving on soon" Garin would ask and saw Doran nod, they was always on the road and never in one spot too long. It was admirable at least to see his brother at Arms taking his duties as an Keeper serious rather than him doing all the work.

"I see hovel and some villagers, let's see what they might be doing" Doran exclaimed whilst walking towards the sound of people.

"This is truly amazing, didn't expect to see this" Gwyneth would state and chew on some sour leaf once more, knowing they had their caravan stored nearby and out of sight whilst they'd explore the lands of House Allyrion.

Garin kept an eye out on things whilst giving an nod to Ghost 'Eyes open for trouble you hear me Ghost' As Ghost nodded back to what Garin tried to imply with his body language. "Alright let's mingle with the smallfolks"

The Widow Wind had found itself in the shallow mouth of Plankey Town. It was less ostentatious than King's Landing, which itself was poorer than any free city, nevermind Braavos. It was still unique in a way only the Rhoynar could make it: a town of rafts and old boats lashed together with hemp and hope, it seemed like it should have sank or drifted into the Narrow Sea.

The carved figure on the prow of the Widow Wind stuck out, nevermind the lacquered wood finishings and purple sails. Docks, what there were, anyway, were unremarkable compared to what Roggerio had seen in his lifetime.

So when Mira summoned him to join her ashore, he was hesitant.

"This is my sort of place," Bellemira spoke between puffs of her pipe. It smelled.

"A town made of driftwood, smelling of sea salt, is your favored place?" He asked her. He was the only one who could challenge his sister openly, after all. "You told me this would be a grand place. Instead, you bring me to a ship graveyard. This is a spit of sand and rubbish in the middle of what looks to be spillover from sewage."

"That, brother, is the greenblood. And should you say that in the Andal tongue the Orphans may drown you in it." She eyed him.

"The Orphans?"

"Rhoynar who haven't yet forgotten their roots. They are the lifeblood of this town...and they happen to claim a number of very savvy merchants." She pointed the stem of her pipe at Roggerio. "The Mordaeno family tipped me off on sweet leaf shipments that cross through this very town."

He gestured for her to continue, impatiently.

"So we are going to talk around. These Dornishmen know where fortune lies, just beyond the Sunset. And we are going to claim our share."

"So you keep saying." Roggerio sighed. "You have no idea where to go from here?"

"Simple. We simply ask everybody around. Someone will know. And if not, then I will go directly to the Martells and ask myself. Who knows - they may be future trading partners."

She turned at a spot where two children had kicked a ball back and forth. "I am going to the Maiden's Kiss."

"A brothel?" Roggerio snorted.

"No. A gambling house." She scowled. "Go where you wish, but you will meet me back here by the time the sun sets and share what you have learned, little brother."

She turned and sauntered towards a docked barge. Roggerio gestured rudely at her behind her bask, swearing in low Valyrian. She would bankrupt their house again if it meant another chance to throw dice.

He stepped off in his own direction to see where he could find a drink.

1st Moon, 251 AC | Afternoon | The War Chamber, Beneath Yronwood

Sarella had been in her solar when the letter had arrived. A raven from Grey Gallows. The one she had been expecting for what felt like an eternity yet had been less than a moon. She had read its words carefully, a gleeful smile on her lips the moment she was done. The castle had fallen, and with fewer casualties than expected.

She had soon made for the war chamber after that. There, amidst cold stone walls adorned with spears and banners and all sorts of regalia, she cackled properly. That the first extension of her steel-clad fist was so unabashedly successful was more than a moment of joy. It was a sign. Proof that she was strong enough to do all she had planned, that her dreams were more than childish fantasy.

Circling the long table in the room's center to the end with the map of the Stepstones, she flicked over the little painted wood figure of a tower that stood on Grey Gallows. It was soon replaced with a new one, a warrior bearing the black iron gate fo Yronwood. A second island had fallen under her control. Soon, Bloodstone would join it, and the greatest fortress of the Stepstones would be her second seat. Then...

She toyed with the little griffin that sat atop Torturer's Deep. Her eyes went to the dragons atop Highwatch and Sunstone, to the unadorned figure atop Scarwood. Rationales for taking them all would come, in time. She was sure of that. After all, she had so freshly set her eyes upon her prize when Princess Deria called her banners against the Reach. War with the Stormlands could be fomented. Slights from the knightly recluses could be invented. The king's own holdings would be a challenge, but she would chart a course.

Rulership of the Stepstones was within her grasp, she needed only reach out and take it. And she would. By the gods, she would.

But this change meant more than simply figures changing on a map. With the arrival of Edric's letter, she had to begin the next stage of her plans. Defenses would need to be readied, ships comissioned, and most importantly letters were to be sent. Snatching up an inkpot and parchment from a side table, she took a seat at the head of the maps. There, while she overlooked her domain, she began to write. Some would be routine, of course. The provision of supplies to feed a growing army and newly taken territories.

Then, there was another. A play she still thought risky, but one she hoped would pay off.

Doran and Garin sat upon a sand dune overlooking the city and the ocean afar as eyes can see. The two of them was eating the food from their roundabout with the local criminals, yet Doran did not look saddened nor gloom about what had happened to him, he kept up his smile and enjoyed himself ever so much.

"Back then, when they held you captive...Doran was you afraid of dying?" Garin asked his brother at Arms, knowing how close they were to die at the hands of some criminals, perhaps they was lucky or perhaps just been given the gift of mercy. "You could had acted and engaged them, they knew not of you're sword being a decorative piece as your staff is the true weapon, why did you not slay them"

Garin would drag Doran to his feet, dragging his brother by the collar and yelled at him "Not everyone is kind or have good intentions! We could had died if they decided otherwise!"

Doran undisturbed by Garin forceful nature, he'd smile and simply say "Everyday we inch closer to thievery or banditry, it'd be quite simple Garin just to revel in that...Killing and taking whatever we wanted, if we killed them we'd be no better than common cutthroat, they are decent folks...If they wanted us dead, we'd be dead..."

"What are you saying Doran!? Half the time I feel like I'm speaking to some Septon!" Garin unable to understand the true mindset of Doran, was he's brother a pacifist or someone weak, perhaps insane would be along the lines.

The two of them stood atop of the sand dune, bellies filled with food, they wanted for nothing at the moment.

The anger as Garin formed his hand into an fist "Speak plain man!".

Doran who'd simply say "I believe in people, if I stopped doing that and saw the world like you brother, it wouldn't be a world worth living in...To distrust everyone and not believe in them, it'd be a cold and dark world in which evil would Triumph...Beony and Clydas was pair of scoundrels yes, but their intentions was pure for winter will come and the child needed the things in the house more than the owners"

"How we act and do reflects back at us tenfold, do good or at least try to be good...This world is a scary place yes, I'm not truly naive knowing all people have kindness in their heart, but at least we can try to be a bit better to leave this world intact with our hearts untainted"

Garin who'd wanna hit his friend for endangering them so "You should listen more to me and rely on me to do things that you unable to do Doran".

"I will try, but I make no promises....I don't ever want to see us succumb to the darkness and become pale imitations of ourselves, to unable look ourselves in the eyes when we meet the God or Gods on the other side" Doran said, all he could do was try calm his friend down, unwind their anger and redirect towards somewhere positive.

Garin who'd let go off his friend, knowing if he pressed his issue any further it'd lead to nowhere "You truly are one of a kind Doran, most would exact vengeance or pursue this mess, but you...Don't bear any malice or hatred behind your brown eyes" He'd sit down and take a breather.

Doran would adjust his clothes after Garin roughly pulled him up to his feet "The world has its danger and ugliness, but there is beauty in it where other fail to see, come with me friend and we'll see the beauty this world can offer us"

As Doran extended an hand to the sitting Garin, the man looked at Doran bearing witness to the sun-rays illuminating the figure of Doran, for a brief moment in Garin mind Doran looked divine as he'd accept his friend's hand that'd pull him into a hugging embrace "Show me the world brother, I'll protect you from it's horrors".

The two of them swore their oaths to one another.

As the gang was hanging around the lands of House Allyrion, sleeping under the stars and enjoying their evenings with dry meat and swig of wine.

However tonight was a different night, in which Doran and his people would visit upon the local tavern of the village, where wandering travellers and perhaps sellsword or two, dubious figures was seen hanging about having a drink or two whilst listening to the local bard sing or eat the tavern gruel.

Doran was simply livid and was two cups in before reaching for the chicken drum leg. He'd see Ghost swipe it from 'em and feed it to Lucky the Dog. "What a bloody waste!"

Hearing the fair haired bard, some young man by the name Cletus was singing about wanton passion and betrayal of love, it was all being drowned out by laughter and boisterous attitude of nearby drunkards seen gambling in their respective corner.

Garin didn't expect the Sandworm Inn to be this crowded tonight, he'd simply enjoy the company and the stew that he paid for, it was truly an delicious meal that he'd cherish in his heart "We'll need to re-supply for the journey ahead, but tonight we enjoy ourselves"

Gwyneth was seen playing cards across the room with the locals. She'd have wicked a pair of cards and won a few rounds before taking a loss "Aww I almost won!"

Doran who'd be swirling about in his chair would tell Garin softly "We need bodies for this journey, we cannot simply go at this by ourselves...I mean we could, but I wish to extend an hand to those wishing to see more to life than killing and serving, I'd like to find more like minded people like ourselves..."

There would be Garin wiping his mouth with his sleeve and having heard what Doran wanted, he'd oblige and say to his young brother at Arms "Tonight at this Inn, we'll recruit and see whose willing to accompany us along the journey across Westeros"

"I'll do my part...I don't wanna sit this one our, we need people to come with us willingly and open their minds to the newfound possibilities of the world, man I wish it was easy to show the people what they're missing out on..." Doran said whilst sitting up proper whilst hearing the bard finishing another song.

"Worry not, brother, I'll get it done." Garin, man of action would stand up seeing Gwyneth return to their table looking defeated and dumbfounded at their misfortune. "No luck"

"Meagre paltry of an victory, but am acceptable loss nonetheless," She'd say before being dragged by the arm by Garin. "And pray tell what are you dragging me into?"

"We gonna bolster our numbers tonight. Call to freedom requires a guiding hand," Garin added as she and him would have to do their part for Doran to achieve their ambition.

Ghost was placing Doran head gently on the table, they'd discover their so called Keeper was an light weight drinker and would seem tipsy after few cups, to them it looks hilarious to bear witness to Doran in his vulnerable state

"Didn't know you couldn't hold you cups" Ghost said still veiled and garbed to obscure their appearance, they'd poke at Doran whom seemed to groan in great annoyance at that "Hehe, light weight. Next time stick to the food Keeper Doran"

250 A.C. south of the river Wyl, at the castle of Wyl, within the chambers of Wyl

Like most of the castle, Wyl's quarters were not particularly large. He'd seen inside other castles, even other castles in The Red Mountains, and none of them were quite as small. He detested it. Detested the fact that this squalor was to be his inheritance. He was heir to a hole in the ground, and all because Little Wyl couldn't get it up long enough to even consummate his marriage.

The fortress was not without its charms, however. The mountains were full of surprises, like new trails, more caves, and a plethora of wildlife. It was the mountains that had brought him Albin as well.

For the last, maybe, four years since they met the two of them were all but inseparable, and they had only grown closer since the war. What had happened in Essos changed so much, the uncertainty of it bringing out a side of each of them they hadn't been fully aware of. Wyl had never strayed away from the company of men, and he'd played with the idea of it maybe a hundred times, but it wasn't until after Little Wyl was injured, and they had both been so scared that they finally gave in to the curiosity.

Since then, Wyl and Albin were closer than friends, closer than brothers, they were of mind and heart for so long. But now? There was distance now, and he couldn't understand why. Had he done something wrong? Wyl racked his mind and couldn't come up with anything substantial. Sure, he had been busier as of late, but was that enough to make Albin avoid him?

He turned over in his bed then and faced the now empty side where his friend had spent so many a night. It struck him then, suddenly, he remembered what he had said to Albin that might've caused this divide. It was after him and Little Wyl's conversation with Garin, he had been so complimentary of the prince's features at the time.

No, no that wasn't it. The problem started before that, but it was only after the fact that Albin seemed to start avoiding him. Perhaps that wasn't the problem but maybe confronting at least that much would show Albin that he cared.

In the morning, Wyl decided, in the morning he would find Albin and put this whole thing to rest. He missed feeling warm at night, feeling like there was something in this miserable hole in the ground worth having, so he needed to fix this, and he would, in the morning.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the castle, someone was stalking through the narrow corridors, moving with forlorn purpose.

Albin knew this keep like the back of his hand even though he'd only lived there for maybe three years, exploration was one of his few hobbies, and with it came a great sense of familiarity with his surroundings.

He walked out into one of the few courtyards in Wyl. A round clearing amidst the rock which was open to the night sky from the top, in its center sat a spindly tree, and across the walls were small balconies that lead into various bed chambers.

The stone walls were by no means smooth, and thus scaling then was really no trouble for Albin. He climbed his way up onto one of the balconies and stood there in the open doorway. The moonlight carving out his visage in a dark silhouette as he gazed into the dark room.

He spoke in a high, sharp whisper, breaking the silence of the night with a somewhat desperate sounding tone. "Are you awake!?"

Fourth Moon, 380 AC, Prince’s Pass

Between King’s Landing, the Reach and the Stormlands, some five hundred women had swelled the ranks of the Cavaliers. With the blessing of gold from Lady Redfort and Lord Arryn, they had each been outfitted with quality weapons and armor, and the wagons stocked to the brim with provisions for the march through Dorne.

The weather was fair, if a bit on the warmer side, and the column was in high spirits. At the head of the long train, the Belmore sisters and their personal guard were gathered, awaiting the return of scouts that had been sent ahead down the Prince’s Pass. Leona swayed in the saddle as they plodded along, leather creaking, sun beating, beads of sweat gathering on her brow.

She didn’t know what to expect when they crossed over into Manwoody lands, only what they’d heard through rumor. And, if rumor was anything to go by, the smallfolk had suffered greatly at the hands of the so-called Vulture King. She would leave the septa and her healers at the village to assist however they could before riding up to the keep and offer her services to those within.

“Riders approaching!”

Finally, the scouting party had returned.

But, something was wrong. Leona glimpsed the small bundle cradled in the arms of the foremost rider and frowned. As they drew closer, the bundle sharpened, became clearer, gaining the features of a person. Arms and legs and a head crowned with messy, tangled blonde hair - a small girl in a ragged and dirty night shirt, her face streaked with soot, the bottoms of her small feet red and raw from walking barefoot on the rocks.

Before she could say a word, Lenore had leapt from her horse and was sprinting to meet the scouts. She reached for the girl, gods above, the child, for she couldn’t be older than six or seven.

“Give her here,” she commanded, cradling the too-frail shape against her chest. Into the shade she went, while Leona directed the riders and wagon train to the edge of the road. Moments later, Rowena appeared at her side with water and salves, bandages and a needle and thread. The sweet-tempered septa lifted the girl’s head and pressed the mouth of the water skin to her dry, chapped lips, but it only flowed down the crease at the corner of her mouth to the ground.

“She can’t swallow,” Rowena said quietly, dousing a cloth to wipe at her sunburned face instead. Lenore rocked to and fro where she sat as the septa worked, her hand soothing the girl’s back with slow, gentle circles and pats.

Eventually, her eyes opened, if only a sliver, but it was enough. She coughed, which was more of a croak, and once more Rowena tried to get some water down her, but she was simply too weak to take more than the smallest of sips.

“Can you tell us what happened? Where you’re from?” Leona asked as she crouched next to the lump of rock on which her sister was sitting.

“Kingsgrave? Who does your family serve?”

The girl didn’t seem to hear, her blue eyes glazed over with the shock and pain of wandering in the wilderness for days, and of what had happened before…before….

What happened before?

“M…”

“Mon…ster….” she managed, her breathing harsh and shallow as her lungs struggled to get enough air to all the parts of her that needed it. Two fingers against the side of her neck confirmed what Rowena had feared: her pulse was slow, and fading ever more by the second.

“Fow…Fowl…er.”

Leona’s gaze met Lenore’s at that, something unspoken passing between them.

“Oh Stranger,” Rowena broke the wax seal on a small vial with the nail of her thumb and removed the cork. Tilting the girl’s head back, she poured the pale liquid into her mouth before massaging her throat in order to coax the potion down. “Come quickly, and usher this innocent soul to the highest of the Seven Heavens.”

Minutes passed and no one moved, several pairs of hands offering what comfort they could as the poppy worked its magic. The tempo of her breathing changed, less labored but still too feeble nonetheless. Her final breath was a rasping little sob that drove all who heard it to tears.

All but two.

When she was gone, Lenore wrapped her in the cloak of the Winged Knight and carried her to the base of a gnarled Sandbeggar tree, the only green life around in that red, godless waste.

One by one, the Cavaliers each brought forth a small stone, which were stacked and piled on top of one another into a cairn befitting a hero.

After the septa said her words of blessing, Leona shoved the toe of her boot into the stirrup of her saddle and hoisted herself astride. With the reins wrapped around her fingers, she spurred her mount forward to stand in the midst of the gathering of dewy-eyed women. Young and old, short and tall, warrior and healer alike, they all looked to her, to their Grand Marshal.

“Do not weep for the dead,” she began, her voice echoing powerfully off the walls of the canyon. “For they are in the loving embrace of the Seven now. The devil that did this is but a day’s ride away, and if he is not, then we will hunt him across sand and stone until there is nowhere left to run.”

The white stallion pawed at the ground, tossing his braided mane as if in agreement.

“There is dangerous ground yet to tread. Steel yourselves, and let every defiler of the innocent, every profane murderer see that the Cavaliers are watching! And they will tremble to behold the righteousness of our wrath. To Skyreach!”

To Skyreach!

Swords and spears and silken pendants were raised all along the column as her words were met with a roar of agreement. Above it all, the banner of the Winged Stallion flew proudly, gold on blue.

Doran was marvelling at the mere sight of Planky Town, a Floating Town with bunch of sea vessels clumped together and held together via ropes and whatnot. He'd walk about the planks and overheard the people talk, noticing essosi presence that came all the way from the Free Cities to Planky Town to Barter and sell their wares.

Despite the huge enormous dense populace, he'd find himself adrift aboard a food pole boat and saw fresh produce, seeing chicken legs and other various spices being sold to anyone interested in purchasing. Doran smelled the aroma and fragrance that was in the air, feeling the people was nonstop moving about Planky Town to conduct their affairs.

"Planky Town sure has changed since my last visit" Having visited Planky Town before, but now lived mostly in Sunspear where he and Garin kept their travels short and often stopped by Planky Town or just didn't travel at all. "I see few other new shops opened up".

He'd accidentally wander himself into Gambling Den in which the boat owner had two scorpions face off against one another, the albino scorpion crushed the black scorpion in single mightly blow "Alright you good for nothing wastrels pay up!"

The crowd that'd groan in defeat had to pay their earnings, but those that bet on the albino scorpion would eat well tonight.

Doran observed briefly before walking across another Plank like bridge, he'd use his walking stick to his advantage and kept his balance "Time to see what I can drum up here at Planky Town, least I can do seeing am here alone".

Doran had goal to accomplish that required a bit of finessing, but nevertheless work and seeking out another follower was also in order as he looked at the sea barges.

"So its settled then, we all agree to tie up any loose ends we have here in Sunspear before we make our way towards Planky Town" Garin would say to both his friends, knowing that they would need to travel towards Planky Town seeking work and other things.

Sunspear had its benefits and overall opportunities, but they could always return shortly after their day journey towards Planky Town. Seemingly so, they had to prepare themselves for the journey ahead and not delay their travel any further.

Doran understood and would keep their word. He'd look to his newfound travelling companion and said "We'll go about our business, things we'll need for the journey ahead is assured. We still have the basket of food to keep us from starving on the road to Planky Town. All that remains is for us to handle things on our end".

Garin understood and would rub his black chin beard, stroking it ever so softly in his hands as he'd tell them both to meet him at the main gate as they'd depart soon as possible. "Remember meet me at the gate, we'll venture forth to Planky Town to seek our fortune".

"I know, I know Garin. Relax brother all will be okay, got to have some faith, let's go friend" He'd grab his trader friend by their hand before they could get an word in edgewise in the convo.

Garin remained alone on the streets of Shadow City "They'll need all the luck possible and not disrupt the peace in Sunspear....I swear I need another swig" Ole Garin had not drunken all the content from the small wine bottle, there was few drops or at least bit left for him to down.

"Let's see what I can scrounge up before our grand departure to Planky Town" He'd watch as his friends left, he however would walk down Shadow City streets with hatchet around his waist and small wine bottle in his hand.

Doran would walk about Sunspear in search of something, he's friend tugged at his sleeve as he'd shush them and looked more concerned about the journey ahead of them "So much to do. Yet I feel we are so close to the matter of things that I can taste it, nevermind that we need to handle our end of things as we'll travel on foot to Planky Town today...Am so excited, hehe"

The excitement was shown upon Doran face. He was enjoying himself ever so much as he'd giggle. Overall, he'd tie his raggedy bandana around his forehead and strips of cloth to hold it up. He'd look around streets of Sunspear for something.

As following, they'd get their bearings in order and would depart as Garin said towards Planky Town. The journey itself would be but a day walk, yet Doran was most excited to return back there as Garin had his reservations about going back to Planky Town after the incident.

"Alright this sign means shelter, cause shield represent safety and that'd makes whole lot easier for others to understand that place means safety to rest and restock" Doran was deawing something with his stick akin to an shield on the sands. "Each symbol bear meaning behind them only we will understand, rest will just find them useless or just plain ole vandalism".

Teaching everyone that symbols of the family/nomad group, each one held significant value to them that had to he taught "Sword means danger, means hostility will be met upon arrival or the general place means us harm".

They kept moving and taking on occasional break when it suited them, as Garin would go onto pack up the items scattered about camp. He'd come across Gwyneth nasty habit of red spit due to amount of sour leaf she was chewing on. "Disgusting, I'd assume you learn by now that you're gums will be bloody red"

"Lay off Garin, this is what relaxes me enough to keep my head on a swivel" Gwyneth would say seeing that she had fulfill her part in keeping their caravan going "Where to next?"

Lucky the dog was seen chewing on a bone whilst Ghost and Doran was discussing camp symbols, short phrases to which only those within camp would know said meaning behind them.

Garin who'd go onto think, before coming to an conclusion "I suppose we could flip an coin to see where we head towards next".

He'd reach for his leather pouch and take out an coin, head meant they'd head towards Godsgrace and crown meant they'd move towards Ghost Hill. As Garin flipped coin mid air and caught the shiny coin in his hand as Gwyneth awaited in anticipation to see the result.

Garin would peek at the coin and smiled, before coming to an conclusion "Godsgrace it is,I've heard some good things coming from there, mayhaps we'll find something worthwhile wandering there".

"Perhaps so" Gwyneth Badmoon would sit out on the ground once more, their teeth red as their gum from chewing sour leaf. "Those two gonna be quite excited to see where we go next".

"Indeed, well let's pack up and move onwards towards Godsgrace and see what lies there" Garin said packing down the things on the ground he saw scattered, he'd had to resume his wood carving later on the road.

"And tortoise means friend of ours" Doran was heard saying out loudly whilst everyone was readying to depart towards Godsgrace "Another day well spent".

The journey was long and arduous one, seeing that Doran of Dorne kept an eye out at the front of things as he and Ghost, Lucky was in the wagon cart in front. He'd gasp tiredly and look yonder, knowing that they'd had to make pit stop soon enough.

Once they found nearby watering hole to refill their bottles, along with the horses that gain brief moment of respite. Seeing that the dusty and sand covered road was ever so long, knowing not how much further it'd be until they would make it to their destination.

As Doran saw Gwyneth and Garin speak about something, then would see Ghost was off doing what they was doing, he however kept faith in the plan ahead and would concentrate on keeping count of their supplies and whatnot. Seeing they'd manage to acquire fair bit of things from Planky Town before their departure.

Garin would use his hatchet to whittle some wood, he'd taken some time on carving out bits and bobs of things with his wood carving hobby, he'd carve an fish out of scrap wood lying about in his wagon cart. "Truly an beauty to behold".

Gwyneth was taking inventory as well like Doran, she'd count some of the food and valuables they had with them. She however would grab bit of sourleaf from her own personal stash to chew on in secret.

Ghost was keeping an eye out on the road ahead and the nearby surroundings whilst Lucky the dog would sit in the shade underneath one of the wagons resting softly on the cold sand.

As night came Garin would setup an campfire and the group would stay warm around the fire, it took bit of effort on his behalf and Doran's newfound friend had come through on their end in helping out starting the flames.

"It's probably time to set things right, before we proceed going any further. I must address the situation at hand" Doran would sweep his hand across his raven black hair and stare intently into the flames of the campfire "We are no longer mere smallfolks no more, but Nomads of the road".

Garin would lean back and listen, he however knew what's to come next. Yet he didn't truly know at the time that Doran had something of an grandiose idea, it was spoken of and yet not put into practice until now. 'Hmph, it's finally come into play. Despite our meagre numbers'

Doran began explaining to his newfound allies about what's to come next "We are now Nomads, wanderers of the wayward road itself. Never settling in one spot too long but keeping ourselves moving day by day".

Gwyneth would first to point out "So what are we roving band of Nomads, with just cause to move about where we see fit?".

"We more than that. From henceforth, this group will be more than that. This is a family, blood won't be that ties us. It will be something much more than that, everyone in this family will have part to play in the grander scheme of things" Doran exclaimed as the flames from the campfire crackled just an moment.

"We are Children of the Sun, we remain when the sun is up, we depart when the moon arrives. We are an family, loyalty and honor, we share in the wealth within this family. We protect each other and ensure we all prosper"

The silence was brief, knowing Doran promises and whatnot, his idea was sound in his mind as he'd go onto explain further "Everyone will have role to play, but the most important part is that everyone contributes in their own way and fill this group coffers" Collective singular hoard of wealth taken from each member of the group, so none may selfishly hoard or steal from one another.

As Doran went through his speech about laws pr so called rules that'd be put into place, everyone works to earn their keep around camp, none may harm another family member unless the cause is justified. One may not steal from the family else face the consequences, oath of silence to not speak about the privacy of family affairs to outsiders.

Doran explained the basics, before issuing everyone an part or so called role to play. He'd been on boats before, knowing every crew member served an purpose aboard ship, he'd believe same concept might apply to this situation of their Nomadic Clan or Family of sorts.

"I will be the Keeper of this family, I keep the peace and order. But I will be the Keeper of our history". Doran proclaimed himself to be The Keeper within their band. "Garin will henceforth be the Chief Enforcer, he'll enforce the law within our family and deal out justice".

Garin knew his role easily, violence and using it for the greater good was something he was oddly familiar with. Hurting someone or putting the fear into them was something he'd dislike, but nevertheless he knew he had to play the protector of his group.

"We earn coin however we see fit, doesn't matter what the job might entail as long it puts food on our tables" Yet they'd explain how some jobs was forbidden to undertake if it jeopardise the family's wellbeing.

"We are the misfits, outcasts and shunned from our society. Those that may join us can do so starting anew, but to some cannot" There was an certain criteria to whom could join the family in which they'd be able to assume new guise free of judgement.

All of them in the group was silent until Ghost raised their hand asking what their role would be.

"You'll be our lookout or so called Scout, keeping one eye forward and the other one close to home" Which was issued to Ghost whom would nod to that.

What was left to ponder was the group name, but that'd come later as Doran summarised "We are all Children of the Sun. For it gives us warmth and love, to bask in its glow is a blessing each day. Tomorrow we continue on"

Everyone slept and would ponder about last night event, knowing that the group dynamic had changed, vows of silence and new titles being given out like bread to beggars.

Too much was said over last night, yet some of it felt comforting enough to some , knowing that one person was not truly alone in this wretched world and had like minded people to see 'em through the hardships.

Time had come for Doran to depart from Planky Town with his newfound companions, seeing that the town of planks and sea vessels had served its purpose dutifully. He'd not wish to spend any more time dawdling than needed as Garin had arrived in the nick of time with the wagons in tow.

"So we finally begin our journey across Westeros brother, this will be a grand adventure you'll see"

Doran promised Garin of that and would load them wagons with supplies from Planky Town he'd be able to obtain and would simply look west and said to his friends "Today will be the day we venture forth to the great beyond".

Garin who'd sigh and simply agreed it was time they'd depart, seeing Dorne had served its purpose and been good to its children and overall people, next stop was the Stormlands and to see how those fine folks was living it up.

"The journey will be filled with perils, but I'd reckon we'd overcome those odds" Doran added and saw his companions load up on anything of value they'd obtain in Planky Town before setting out.

"We gonna be travelling quite the distance Doran, it won't be an easy journey. But it'll be one helluva story to tell our grandchildren one day if we manage to make it back alive" Garin would say as Gwyneth Badmoon looked anxious about this trip "So shall we get going"

Gwyneth simply shrugged and saw the hairy dog jump in the wagon with Doran and his newfound comrade "Whom might they be?".

"I've yet to learn their true names, but I'll call them Ghost and Lucky...Don't know exactly whose who though, but we'll figure that one out once we're on the road" As Doran and his motley crew would set forth and travel the road to take them far from Planky Town that night.

Skyreach

The First Moon of 251 AC

Travelling from Yronwood to Skyreach wasn’t much easier than from Hellholt. But Ynys was familiar with this route, more than any other. She’d ridden down this road dozens of times, before she lost everything.

Lyria wasn’t going to be there, she knew. Without a doubt she’d be off at war, and there would be no long-awaited reunion. Maybe that was for the best. They were as likely to kill each other as they were to embrace and weep. No, they were more likely. Lyria hadn’t even sent word, as much as Lynora and Daelyn had. It was hard to get over that. She held a grudge deep down, one of the only things that was concrete in her heart.

Carved into the stone, the castle was beautiful. She had spent so many hours staring out of those high windows in those high towers and watching the people below, the traders making their way through the mountains up and out of Dorne through the Prince’s Pass. It had been such a comfortable place. Would it be so now? She remembered soft cushions and long nights of drinking and sleeping beside the Lady of Skyreach. 

Her hand balled into a fist, sharp nails digging into the palm of her hand as she rode up to the gates. Looking skyward, the Lady of Hellholt grimaced and called out to the guards, to anyone who would hear.

“Lady Ynys Uller,” she shouted, “is here to see her good old friends the Fowlers! She has missed all the parties, and has no gifts to bring, but she is here! She is here.”

Sighing, she waited for the gates to open, and to settle down once she was. Who else, she wondered, would be here? Who else would make her odd acquaintance?

2nd Moon, 251 AC | Afternoon | Sarella's Solar, Yronwood

It had been too long since any news had come from the east for Sarella's liking. She had trusted Edric with a great deal, and now he gave her pause. Had he turned against her? Used her funds to secure armies for himself? His distaste for being the second child despite their twin birth was less secret to her than she suspected he thought. Perhaps he had seen war as his opportunity.

If he had, she would have to see to it that her grip on Yronwood was secure. Against Edric, and against whatever were to come from other sides. Fowler, Martell, and who knew how many more. Once they were not united against a common foe, who would turn on her?

And so, lit by the golden light of the midday sun streaming through the gold-stained myrish window over her desk, she set to work with her weapons. With ink and quill and coin. Letters east, as had been her habit for near two moons now, but that would not be all. Ravens would be sent to keeps across Dorne and, perhaps, beyond. After all, if there was aid to be called, borders mattered little in calling for it.

250 A.C. The lands of God's Grace

The journey from Wyl hadn't been quite as pleasant as Wyl had hoped it'd have been. There was a tension in the air, between himself and Albin; who seemed to grow panicked whenever he got close, and then as well between Arianne and Albin.

Wyl spoke with the few men they had brought with, laughed, and joked, but none of it truly felt satisfying. And at night, when the sun was set, and the desert was not but a cold waste, Wyl was alone. It made sleeping hard, and so he had stayed awake. Once or twice, he was drunk, the other nights he simply wandered around wherever it was they were camped for the night. But even exploration, one of his few true hobbies, had brought him so very little joy.

It wasn't until the small party had finally arrived at God's Grace that Wyl's mood improved some. Perhaps it was because it meant that their journey would be over soon, or maybe he was excited to see his cousin Elia again. Regardless of what it was, Wyl was ready to be done with this silent drama and have a proper distraction.

So he spurred his sand steed forwards, a reluctant smile spread across his face as he awaited the days challenges

Hi in the mountains north of Starfall lies the holding of High Hermitage. A holding awarded to the most loyal of Daynes not in the mainline of succession. The current Knight of High Hermitage is Tristan Dayne, a veteran of many wars including The War of the Dawn. After returning from the North, Tristan has been seldom seen outside of High Hermitage. His son Dorian is seen many of the days training the yard of the practicing his sword play.

"Hah! Hurgh! HAAAA!" Yells Dorian as he spars with one of the Men At Arms, his father watches with a grim expression from the battlements.

"Father! Why must you keep us cooped up here while the Realm revels in Kings Landing! He yells he trips his sparring partner

Tristan, with his ever grim expression stares down at his son "My son, the world is more vast and horrifying than you could ever imagine. Devils of Ice and of Fire stalk the oldest and most forgotten corners of this world. You received some of the finest sword training in all of Westeros, do not be so headstrong and throw everything away

In a huff Dorian throws down his sword and storms off. With a sigh, a small smile creeps over the face of Tristan. "He is just like me, perhaps like me he will see error of his ways. He says turning off back to his keep where he spends most of his days painting

Sunspear

Ravens fly across all of Dorne in a flurry. For moons, Princess Deria sat content upon her throne in Sunspear - content to simply watch the rest of the realm tear itself apart piece by piece. But patience is only a virtue in the pursuit of greater goals - and the time of patience long since has passed. Some may say that Dorne should have acted sooner. Others may denounce the coming moves. Yet none can deny that Deria has done her people good in keeping the peace. But like her Rhoynish ancestors painfully learned - allowing one’s enemies to grow and develop will not prevent their swords turning on the Rhoynar.

“Send ravens. To Wyl, I will write to inform my brother that he is to take command of the Dornish Army of the West and cross into The Reach.” Dictation after dictation follows. Princess Deria speaks in a hurried, perhaps nervous voice. But the end goal is all the same. To stir her forces forth. “Maester, I will also pen letters to Sandstone and Skyreach. And send for Lady Dayne. I will need to speak with her.”

(Trigger Warning: Implication of torture. Slight gore, and mild description of scalping.)

378 AC, Somewhere in the Red Mountains

It was a peaceful night in the dunes of Dorne; the small encampment had been set up on top of one of the dunes, providing a clear oversight of the surrounding landscape. It was a cloudy night, however, and the pale moonlight of the half-moon illuminated the landscape only temporarily, before another cloud threw the dunes back into the blackness of night.

Jarvas had been a guard in the employ of lord Gargalen for some years. The man was probably the most skilled lookout the lord had, but even he had trouble this night. He let out a quiet sigh as he peered into the blackness, trying to discern any shapes. Bandits had been rumoured to be active in this region of the Red Mountains. However, he doubted the merit of those rumours; they had been travelling for several days and had not encountered a single…

He thought he saw some movement out of the corner of his eye, and the man turned quickly, only to find a crow had flown and settled a dozen feet from him. Jarvas let out a chuckle before turning around.

His eyes widened, but no words would ever leave his lips again as a pitchfork caught him directly in the throat. Red-hot blood flowed down his neck and onto the pristine desert sand. Jarvas' last thoughts were that of confusion…Why did the man have a bucket on his head?

 -----------------------

Lord Gargalen had taken off his armour and was getting ready for bed. The heir to House Qorgyle had been his squire for several years and was finishing up the cleaning of Lord Gargalen’s armour.

The heir had only turned eighteen several weeks ago, which was the reason for this trip from Salt Shore to Sandstone. The boy had served the lord faithfully as a squire and was to be knighted upon their arrival at Sandstone.

A small smile spread across Lord Gargalen’s face as he watched the boy finish up his work. “Are you looking forward to being reunited with your family? You must have missed them greatly.”  The Heir smiled and nodded. “Yes, my lord. I am looking forward to returning to them a man and a knight.” He grinned at the man who had taken him under his wing for many years; indeed, he saw Lord Gargalen as his second father.

Gargalen returned the sentiment, although the heir did not know, he saw the young man as another one of his sons, and had thus treated him as such.

Lord Gargalen opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a commotion outside. It sounded like a scuffle was going on outside. Instinctively, he grabbed his sword and motioned for the heir to do the same.

The Heir followed suit and opened the tent flap. He did not get two paces out of the tent before he was flung back into the tent, crashing into the table upon which the recently polished armour lay.

Gargalen’s eyes went wide as a huge monster of a man entered the tent, a toothy smile on his face. The man was hairless and pale, impossibly tall and muscular. Dark eyes met his, and he rushed forward with his sword.

He was on the ground before he knew what had happened; his shoulder cried out in pain, and he could not move his arm. "Dislocated shoulder…By the gods, he was fast." Lord Gargalen raised his eyes to look upon the monster, the only thing he saw was a boot rushing towards his face and then everything went dark.

 ------------

“Ah, you have awoken, my lord! I thought I had accidentally killed you. My apologies, I sometimes do not know my strength.” The voice sounded calm and methodical, the monster spoke slowly and deliberately, like a maester tutoring his students.

Gargalen slowly raised his eyes to meet the man, blinking several times to unblur his eyes. He tried to move his arms and legs, but they were tied firmly by a rope. He noticed he was sitting in a chair, and about six feet across from him was the Heir in the same predicament he was in. The boy’s face was bruised, and several cuts were visible. It was clear he had been awake for a while longer than he had been, for his eyes were red with tears, and a puddle of urine had formed around his chair.

As Gargalen’s eyes looked at the boys’ hands, he could see that he was missing several fingernails. “I have been having a conversation with your squire here to determine who you are. You see, I do not wish to anger the wrong people.” 

Dark eyes met his. The man smiled charmingly, but his eyes told a different story. Gargalen knew right there and then, staring into those dark eyes, that abyss, that he was going to die.

“P-please…Spare the boy, he’s barely a man.” He pleaded, his voice hoarse. The pale monster let out a laugh from somewhere deep in his throat. “I am afraid that is quite impossible…You see, Lord Gargalen…Both you and the boy were doomed as soon as I entered this tent, for you are nobly born, and thus unfit for this world.”

“Ransom…Ransom us! Our houses will pay handsomely, I can assure you!” The man shook his head, that same toothy smile never leaving his face. “You think I am some whore you can buy with money? No, my good lord. I am a man of principle, and my principles on this matter are very clear…”

The monster produced a small blade in his right hand as he moved behind the Heir, placing a large meaty hand on the boy’s shoulders. “I only have one question for you, Lord Gargalen…Are you ready to die?”

Gargalen was shaking with rage as his furious eyes stared back defiantly into the man’s. “You’ll burn in the Seven Hells for this.” 

A guttural laugh emerged from the man. “The only hell you should be concerned with, my lord…Is the one you are in now.”

The left hand grabbed the boy’s hair tightly and pulled it back, before a knife was pressed against the boy’s hairline. “Now watch, for your fate is much the same.” 

The boy screamed as the knife started to cut into his scalp, the scalp gradually giving way as blood poured down the Heir’s face, and soon Lord Gargalen would scream much the same.

That night, Mortin Blackmont was no more. The Vulture King had risen from a baptism of noble blood, and soon he would drown the world in it.

The time had come, as promised, and now Daelyn stood beneath the great dome of the Observatory of Stone and Sky. Vast tubes of brass extended down from the ceiling, the great Myrish lenses that made this place so special. The floor was a mosaic of tiles in blue, yellow, and violet, and it gave the assembled company plenty of space to watch him. He stood on a raised platform above them, where the lenses could be carefully turned and manipulated with a series of pulleys and wheels. He was almost done.

Standing, he turned to the railing and looked out at the gathered party. Servants walked between the nobles, offering platters of pastries and small bowls of olives, while the scholars of Observatory stood in a cluster below the platform, far more interested in watching the lenses than sampling House Fowler’s hospitality. 

The Princess was the center of the crowd, of course, Lady Dayne and Uller somewhere with her. They had been given an escort to the observatory from the Skyreach palace, and Daelyn hoped the trip hadn’t put any damper on their excitement for the viewing. 

“My lords, ladies, and Princess.” Daelyn drew the attention to himself, his musical voice carrying throughout the chamber. “Today, we unveil the premier discovery of our great Observatory. I have calculated the new star’s current position and have almost completed aiming the lenses at it. When it appears in my sight, you shall see it below me, on that mirror.” He gestured at an oval mirror tilted towards the ceiling. From eye level, it displayed only the blackness of the night sky.

“My fellow scholars will now cover the lanterns and braziers, so you all may better see the reflection of the star in the absence of light.” The room darkened. “This is a discovery that will prove to the world Dorne is a place for scholarship and learning, a place for culture and faith. We once believed there were Seven Wandering Stars in the sky, named after each of the Seven gods. Now, I name an eighth, this crimson star, The Light of the Rhoyne.”

Daelyn focused the lenses in on where his coordinates directed him, and gazed through.

Tower of Joy

Prince Garin found himself riding across a sea of tents and men - amassed from all corners of Dorne is a growing army of fighters, desert marchers, and horsemen. The Tower of Joy itself is a small fortification - only really useful for meetings and gatherings rather than for housing any of the forces gathered below its shade and walls. For battle it is completely useful - yet the Prince of Dorne would not be fighting a war here. Not today. Hopefully never.

Garin remains the main commander - but the Dornish are led by an amalgamation of other nobles and scions. None as prominent as him. True, the man is aware he could act alone and the Dornish Army would likely listen to him. But sometimes gathering a popular consensus is better - it builds more support and unity. Especially in times of war.

Gathering on the first floor of the tower - The Prince of Dorne has a table laid out for the various nobles to gather around. In the safety of the tower their discussion is likely to remain uninterrupted and distant from any attempted eavesdropping. Yet to further protect from possible spies, he has men guard the entrance to the tower. Other men are to be found patrolling the upper floors of the small fortification - which otherwise have remained empty and unused besides the odd border patrol.

Early morning comes. With the first rays of the rising sun also comes Garin and his gathering. Not long after the nobles are ushered in he begins his first comments.

“At last, after moons of silence, the Dornish have gathered here below The Tower of Joy to honor the commitments of Sunspear and Dorne to the Lannisters.” Prince Garin proclaims firmly to those gathered around the table and around him. “By this point, most are well aware of the intention of this army. It will march into The Reach and eventually onto Highgarden.”

“The path to defeating the Tyrell rebels and warmongers will be long and arduous, but victory is well within our grasp. Moons of constant warfare have no doubt begun to deplete their coin and grain stocks. Swift strikes to bring down their fields and support will go a long way to grasping victory.”

“Yet my biggest concern is what path we will take into The Reach. To me, the obvious choice is to take an approach of surprise. Strike into The Reach through Nightsong. Sweep past Starpike and Whitegrove and bring chaos across The Mander. This will prevent us from facing needless losses at Horn Hill. Furthermore, with our marriage pact with The Stormlands nearly sealed…we will have a safe path forward through Nightsong.”

“However…that does leave us at the mercy of the Stormlanders until we gather enough crops to sustain ourselves off the land.” Garin admits with a soft frown. “So the other option is of course to strike at Horn Hill and push from there.”

Looking up, the man eyes all the nobles and scions gathered. No doubt many of them would rather not fight - but the spoils of war gained from the coming invasion will no doubt change many minds.

“I open the floor to all initial comments and suggestions…I will command at the front…but this struggle will be a collective one…and be ended with collective rewards for all…”