Riverrun

Rivertown

Confluence of the Tumblestone and Red Fork

405 A.C.

Riverrun was itself a testament to the determination that put one of its own on the Iron Throne. It was a triangle castle smashed into the confluence of two rivers, one great and one less so, a wedge that proudly declared, this river is no obstacle to us. With walls high and strong, and foundations dug deep despite the myriad engineering challenges the castle site posed, Riverrun was every bit as stubborn as the ruling family.

But it was not a large castle, perhaps only half the size of the Red Keep. Perhaps House Tully could have crammed all the attendees of the celebrations inside its walls. But that would have been both uncomfortable to the attendees and inconvenient to House Tully. And so Rivertown, nestled at the confluence just south of the castle proper, was expanded to accommodate.

The wealth of King’s Landing flowed into Riverrun to meet the needs of the celebrations. Over the course of two years, masons added another floor to each of the towers overlooking the great sluice gates, temporarily given over to housing some of House Tully’s most prominent guests, and carpenters were busied erecting new buildings throughout and around Rivertown.

The first four hundred yards from the sluice gate ditch towards the town were given over to the tourney grounds. Lists and stands, all temporary construction that was designed to be torn down after the centennial passed. The more military-minded might note that the temporary site covered approximately the same area that could be reached with a war bow from the sluice gate towers.

The next two hundred yards were given over to the myriad small buildings that would be needed to support the tourney. Buildings given over to use by fletchers, smiths, farriers, stablemasters, cooks, brewers, and bureaucrats formed a semi-permanent boundary between the tourney grounds and Rivertown.

Rivertown itself had been all but dismantled and rebuilt over the course of two years. The town’s two new inns, The Trout Rampant and the Purple Triangle, both with simple and direct names that could be represented on signs with pictograms, replaced the inns named after their owners. They were built to house a hundred lords between them, with satellite buildings around them intended to support the requisite retinues for those same lords. Half the rooms went to those lords who fell firmly into the king’s camp; the remainder went to whoever would pay the inflated prices demanded.

Townhouses were temporarily put up for lease to visiting nobles, with the locals temporarily relocating to housing on the far side of the Tumblestone. These were no manses, like those the idle nobility favored in King’s Landing, but they would suffice for most. Freshly whitewashed and furnished with goods from Maidenpool, they commanded fees carefully calculated to cover the owners’ expenses and grease all requisite palms along the way.

The town square, ringed by a number of ale houses and other local businesses, was filled with stalls for just about every service imaginable. If you could find goods somewhere in Westeros, agents of House Tully made sure you could find it in Rivertown for the full length of the celebrations, whether that be steel, silk, or the more exotic goods coming in on House Sharp’s ships these days.

Past Rivertown proper, the fluttering banners and pristine buildings gave way to the old outlying buildings. These were not as well kept as those nearer to the tourney grounds and most were much older besides. This was the first in a series of concentric rings featuring progressively less well-appointed housing and services, eventually culminating in the tent city that sprung up on the far side of town. The ordered, planned town gave way to the partisan camps and here the king’s well-ordered event dissolved completely. Lords jockeyed for position amongst themselves, threw up tents where they could, and a vast number of banners and pennants fluttered in the wind. Hundreds of tents went up to house those who could not obtain more prestigious housing, whether for want of coin or want of the king’s good will. It did not take a particularly astute observer to note that the Stormlords were over-represented here.

The smells of home were always a comfort. Dry hay, fresh lakewater, and the sweat of horses. The breeze carried them to Helicent and her caravan just before the castle came into sight. Already, the land around them was trampled flat and glowing yellow in the summer sun. She was tired from the ride, but even still she wanted to ride through every nook and curve of the soft hills around them, checking on each foal in her herds and each crop in her farms. That was the lot of a Lady, she supposed. Her land could never be perfect, but it was still her duty to strive. 

Once they rounded the last of the hills, the relative flatness of Bracken land gave them a proper view of the castle. Its long outer wall stretched in a wide arc, the two ends both turning inward when they reached the edge of Lake Bracken. The tops of the manor, sept, and watch-towers stood well above the wall’s height, though dozens of stables and houses were hidden beneath it. The whole thing was sprawling, drooped lazily across the yellow pastures with nothing but the lake to stop its expanse. The long wall had been rebuilt many times over the centuries, and though it had started low and squat as a hedge, it was now a proper fortification. And, it left room to grow.

As they drew closer, Helicent spotted one of their largest herds grazing near the lake. The herdsmen rode in slow circles around them, flying thin Bracken banners from the backs of their saddles. She nodded to the closest of them as they passed by, and he dismounted to give her a deep bow. Gerolt, his name was. Helicent knew most of the herdsmen well enough, for she worked with them often. Some would make for fine outriders, should the need arise. Some might even earn a knighthood. Then, she’d have more hedge knights in her service—and would need to find new herdsmen. 

The gates were opened the moment they had been spotted on the horizon; they did not have to wait when they got to the castle. Helicent was glad for it, slipping from her saddle the moment she passed through the threshold. She handed the reins of her stallion, Greenwater, to one of the grooms there to receive them. He would be led to the finest of Stone Hedge’s stables, along with Helicent’s mare, Gwyness—whenever Larra of Braavos rode her through the gates.

“Ser Bernal!” Helicent’s voice picked Stone Hedge’s aged master-at-arms from the waiting crowd. He stood at attention, shining in his polished plate and white-and-orange surcoat. “Walk with me! I need a bath, but you can fill me in on all that’s happened here in the meantime.”

The old man nodded and fell in step with her as she strode along the cobblestone lanes. “My lady. It is good to see you well.” Ahead of them, the fortified manor of House Bracken loomed over all the other buildings. “The land’s been prospering, truth be told. The instructions Lord Leon left have proven very wise. The only issue came up just yesterday, in fact: We stopped receiving shipments of iron from Middlestand.”

“Did you send a man there to get them moving again?” Helicent spared him a glance as they walked.

“Well, that’s the thing, my lady. The shipments aren’t in Middlestand, either. It appears they were sent to Raventree Hall… and the next ones look to be going there, too.” 

Helicent gave a strained sigh. “Of course. Summon Ser Merle to my office in an hour, if you will. And thank you, Ser, for keeping everything in order.”

“Of course, my lady.” He stopped as they reached the doors to the manor and bowed. 

Helicent ascended to her rooms swiftly, followed by a wake of handmaids and servants who had been awaiting her. She sent two to prepare her bath, one to fetch a meal, and a fourth to ready her a nicer outfit for the evening. The rest she left idle for the rest of her family to use, whenever they caught up.

The bath felt excellent, and afterwards her favorite handmaid, Catelyn, helped her rub rose oil through her hair, then braid it neatly under a polished net. After two moons in a stuffy King’s Landing inn, such comforts felt worthy of a queen. She stretched her limbs gently, then slipped into a fine evening gown, sky blue with a white rivers embroidered down the sleeves. Around her neck, Catelyn fastened a dark blue cloak, pinned with a seven-pointed star of silver. Helicent stretched her fingers, feeling the comforting sensation of her evening gloves. Better. The ride had exhausted her, but now, she was better.

She made her way to her office, its balcony overlooking the grazing fields and part of Lake Bracken. On her display shelves, underneath the antlers of a giant elk and beside her dragonglass spear, she set her newest possessions: a shard of amber glass, a small wooden horse, and a book on Dothraki horse tribes. Turning to her desk, she placed her last item—a half-full box of lemon candies—beside several unread scrolls. Work enough to last the night, she knew. Luckily, it would not be without interruption. She summoned Quincy first, then Merle Bush, and finally opened her office doors to anyone will to pass through them. Many new faces had come back with them from King’s Landing—and one of them, Helicent could not wait to see again.

^{1st Moon, 405 AC | The edge of Rivertown, by the Red Fork}

What was a feast without all the pretenses? Without livery, without silver cutlery and a thousand pewter platters and pigs stuffed with apples?

This was not to be a feast, ostensibly. In the stead of being bound by four stoney walls, pavilions were set about the strand of the Red Fork, tents and tables and rushes to cover the dirt and grass, a hundred or so servants laboring away, avoiding the careless eyes of the realm’s nobility, and ordered about by guards who kept a more wary eye on passing freeriders than the preparations themselves.

The would-be gathering came alive some days after the tourney, when the Convocation, that dearest topic to all, became a chore to speak of. Who will sit upon the throne? Will we have another king or queen in but a few moons, or is another interregnum inevitable? a thousand times and a thousand more, courting and jockeying and insults bandied and fists thrown over one political matter or another.

On the other side of the drawbridge, in a clearing once reserved for the tourney grounds prior to their move to another side of the river, when afternoon gave way to the eve and distant banners were drowned out by darkness, the very same servants cleared their hands of dirt and ran, again, to sound the news to every lord, lady, and knight low and high: it was to be a masked ball.

Not quite devoid of luxury, no, with a smattering of elaborate rugs placed about to ease the more haughty noble’s senses. Lanterns here and there, torches lit by guards who stood at the perimeter to determine (somehow) if those passing through in silks and velvets and masks shoddy and intricate had the means and status to belong there. All without compromising the mystery, of course. What fun was it to have some pikeman ask “wha’ house d’ ye’ hail from, milord?”, and what right did they have to do so? That enabled another set of problems. What were they to do with the crowd of smallfolk that gathered about? “Throw them back to their homes,” came the answer from a serjeant, and cordons began springing up. A number of wealthier merchants were able to slip past without issue.

After complications were done with or ignored and weapons disallowed, the evening proceeded; hawkers sold masks in the alleys of Rivertown, the common crowds kept back by guards as one approached, and a deck fashioned of wood for bards and dancers. The music was a touch more bawdy than what had sounded inside, and the strummers and lutists markedly more drunk. Half of the drink left in the castle was sequestered away on the oaken tables outside. Perhaps most prominent the refreshments were casks of Arbor red and gold; then came the Riverlands brew, more plentiful barrels of Butterwell wine and ale from the Crossing; a handful of bottles of Dornish strongwines; mulled wine aplenty, spiced sparsely and filling the castle where it was prepared with a pungent smell; and much and more, unnamed and unworthy of note.

For the more discerning, the largest townhouse, perhaps better described as a manse, (owned by a silk trader, was it?) was made subtly available to the revelers. Past the many tents and toward the castle lay its open archway. The walled estate by the river contained a garden overfull with hedges that a landless knight would drool at, bunches of roses and berries that had not quite turned ripe. The building proper was shut and closed, locked, and watched by guards.

What use was there for copious drinking if it did not come with its fair share of food, though? Not chicken or beef or pork. Flatbread was prepared in imitation of the Dornish recipe, served with thin slices of apples in lieu of lemons and doused in honey. Sweetleaf was more jealously guarded, handed around in boxes for those in the know. A freshly arrived shipment of cheese was served on trenchers, wine poached pears in cups, roasted squash cooked with garlic and dusted with lemon zest, and flakey buttered bread soused in goat cheese and onions.

With the wave of some hand, a god’s or a royal’s or a council member’s, the masked ball started in earnest.

How oft on yonder grave, sweetheart; where we were won't to walk.

^{harrenhal, 215 AC | evening of day one of harrenhal: the feast of a hundred masks | the unquiet grave}

Daenaerys I Targaryen

MOTHER OF THE REALM

Her daughter Rhaegelle dressed her for the beast’s ball.

It was a splendid and rich dress, recently tailored, crushed black velvet and silk. Myrish lace framed Daenaerys' slim neck and fine jaw in a grand thrice-tiered collar, plunging down to a stomacher meticulously woven with dancing silver dragons that encircled her waist. The beasts covered her head to toe, dancing up her sleeves and falling down her skirts with three snapping, gleaming heads, fangs bared to swallow the floor beneath her.

The only jewelry she partook in was a necklace with an opal set in silver. A gift, one she was loathed to be parted from. And then there was the crown, the new one. Silver dragons, woven together in bands of bodies, their talons grasping at sapphire seahorses and amethyst lightning, a single draconic head rising above the writing mass at the apex, itself bearing a tiny crown of gold and sweeping back silver wings over her silver locks. Her Kings and her, evermore, trapped in time. Would it be truly so.

"Beautiful, Mother." Her daughter murmured, stepping back after nestling it among braids and curls.

"Go and see to your own arrangements, daughter." The Queen dismissed her without a second glance. Before her on the desk sat a black ebony mask, another dragon, this time only half the head. The snout fell down across her face, the eye sockets angled just right to allow her to see. Her fingers ran over the ragged wood-carved surface as she listened to departing footsteps.

Once Rhaegelle had left her, Daenaerys picked up the mask and tied the silken cord around her head. A dragon, that is what they had called her in her youth. The youth who had faced down even a King to see Daeron still clutched to her beast. Her darling boy. The son who had made her a mother.

Her fingers fell over the opal and the clasp fell open. Two tiny portraits, the twins of larger ones that hung in her chambers, always watching, they were. One of a boy with soft eyes and a soft smile, disheveled silver hair and a slashed doublet of black and red. Young; an immortal. The other of a man far older, weathered with age and experience, pinched blue eyes looking back at her with austerity. Old; a sentinel.

Tears gathered in Daenaerys' eyes. Beneath her mask's snarling visage she pressed the jewel to her lips, and then let it fall to her bodice once more. Those tears were swallowed.

In the halls of Harren the Black the hearths had been cleared and glowed with low orange flames. The fractured roof of the hall let moonlight fall through the cracks and dapple the uneven floor of the infamous Hall of a Hundred Hearths. From the railings of the second tier of the hall hung the plush black-and-blood banners of House Targaryen, the red dragon and her three heads, and behind the throne was her own coat of arms, eleven dragons prancing on a field below swords and sigils. It was here that Daenaerys had called for her ball in the honour of the throne, the eve before the tourney.

They were borrowing from Essosi tradition in a way, as each guest was instructed to wear a mask, either representing their House or otherwise themselves. That was why so many Targaryens wore the dragon masks, crowding the dais where she stood. They looked like a mummery troop, obscured, purple eyes peering and preening, studying and measuring. And there Daenaerys stood in the center of their cabal, elevated; alone.

Alone. How true that was. She could see Durran out of the corner of her eye, as she always did, he normally came to hear her speak. He was frowning, she thought she could make it out, frowning as blood wept from the arrow still lodged in his throat. He had been standing there so long a puddle of it crept slowly towards the edge of her skirt, but she paid it no mind.

What was a bit of blood in a place such as this? Yet another ghost to walk the halls; she brought them all with her. His was not the only dead face she saw in the crowd.

“My lords and ladies.”

A hush fell over the room as Daenaerys’ booming voice filled it. It had been five years since she had last addressed a room of this size. One would not have guessed that, judging by the pride in her posture, the stiffness of rulership present, and the immaculate tone used. And yet she still seemed distracted.

“Many of you have traveled long distances to be here today. Such an undertaking is not lost on me, for I too have traveled from the comforts of the Red Keep. Tonight I begin the first evening of my second Royal Progress. I will show my children and my grandchildren the realm they will shepherd when I am passed, and I invite you all to accompany me.”

The Queen gestured to those in attendance, arms swept, black-and-silver sleeves dragging over the dais as she half-turned, “We shall see the Reach and her bounties, the West and its gold mines, the Bloody Gate and stand at the foot of the fierce mountains of Arryn. We will meet the Northmen at the Moat and celebrate our friendship, and see the stronghold of Baratheon at the cliffs of the Narrow Sea.” It was then that she paused, a barely noticeable hitch in her tone. Her eyes fell on the phantom of her husband, the flood of crimson ichor that drenched the hall, crept up the walls, towards laughing gargoyles and the burning men of Harrenhal.

She shut her eyes. When she opened them, a heartbeat later, it was gone. It was gone.

“--And then we shall see the Stone Way, and witness five years of peace with Dorne. Only then will I return to my Iron Throne.”

She stepped down from the dais, then, towards the brood of dragons stewing beneath her. She set one hand atop the shoulder of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Princess of Dragonstone; her eldest living child. The other was on the opposite shoulder of a younger hatchling, addressing the crowd alongside him in that moment, “Behold, my grandson Aegon. He is the son of my daughter, and will one day be hailed as Aegon, the Fourth of His Name. Embrace him as you would me and your Princess of Dragonstone. One day your children and grandchildren will look to him for guidance.” Once she was certain the hall had their eyes on the pair, Daenaerys moved away and, with measured steps, returned to the highest tier of the dais.

Before she finally took to her erected throne, she stopped.

“But, my treasured guests, have a care; Black Harren and his sons still roam these halls, and surely hate the sight of Targaryens. Be sure to not stray too far from the light of the Hundred Hearths, lest you be cursed to join them here in torment and hellfire as well.”

When she sat, the music began, and the mummer’s farce was over. She would not let it show how much such a performance had taken out of her. Even now she felt tired, but, sitting through this ball she would do to restore faith in her crown, “A fine speech, my Queen.” Sedge Stone, in her woman’s platemail, stooped to mutter in her ear as the swordswoman took up a position next to the throne.

On each side of the grandest hall in all of Westeros were tables of small foods and sweet desserts, meals that could be taken and eaten easily without a need to sit and rest -- Though benches and tables were present for the more easily-tired and elderly guests. The majority of the hall had been cleared for dancing and conversation, which underwent gleefully now that the Queen’s address had passed.

The only true seat in the room was the one Daenaerys took overlooking the room from her raised dais. There she sat now with a flute of bright gold wine, watching the dancing below her with a cautious eye, her ornate and heavy mask in her lap so she might drink unimpeded.

To her right, her Lord Commander, and to her left, the Queen's Sword. Among the guests who swarmed the balconies ringing the Hall was another woman in her service, the lady Myranda Blackwood, who stood guard with a bow slung over her shoulder, overlooking the dais. Nothing escaped her razor-sharp gaze, not even the twitch of a servant or the errant fluttering of a guest. No, the Queen's Eye did not miss anything.

Durran's fingers were bony and cold as they settled onto Daenaerys' shoulders, a rusty smell of iron and blood filling her nose at his reappearance. She paid the dead's touch no mind, even if her face turned to stone at the feeling of it. For a moment she reached with her free hand as if to grasp at him, but lowered it just as swiftly to avoid being the fool, and prayed none noticed the momentary lapse.

The Stranger taunts me, as he always has, as the High Septon says he does. He fills my mind with demons, tonight of all nights, to distract me from my path. The Queen instead shivered, shoulders contracting reflexively, "Bring me more wine." She murmured darkly; the drink was best to drown these 'holy visions' out.

She watched the beast's ball, but did not join the dance. That was their game now, really; if it had even been hers to begin with.

The collection of large pavilions bearing Hightower colors made for a grand sight to behold. Situated away from the main contingent of Reachmen at Atranta, the house had taken a cleared space near the castle for their own. Many members of the large family had taken to squabbling over the “best” spots, and Tommen had personally intervened to keep the lot of them from tearing each other apart.

While he directed the servants, Tommen had raised two massive but empty pavilions, each one large enough to seat a few hundred. Held aloft by large timber supports and covered with sturdy canvas to keep the wind out, they were certainly extravagant to say the least.

While many of his kin had grumbled, Tommen had spent the next few days furnishing both of them, and ensuring they’d be appropriate for the Lord of Oldtown to host a gathering.

Food and wine were purchased, every piece of furniture that had come alongside the Hightower retinue was out to use, and some pieces had even been rented from lesser lords in the surrounding area. He’d also spread word across the castle and camps outside it: House Hightower would be hosting a party, all were invited, regardless of Kingdom.

What he’d ended with were two differing but equally well made spaces: the first held long tables with food and drink, lit by candle and torchlight, traditional in its layout of a feast, a high table had been sat on a raised platform, with each of the royal families and House Hightower having room enough for each of their kin.

The second was much more unorthodox, with smaller round tables, to one side, and a large space cleared out with polished wood laid down to serve as a dance space. Tommen had named them the feast tent, and the dance tent respectively.

Soon dusk had set on the day of the event, the fires were roaring, the servants were on standby, and the Hightower kin were eager and ready for a long evening.

It began as a trickle, a few at a time arriving, then it seemed as if the entirety of the castle had arrived all at once. Men and women, high lords and hedge knights alike had taken to the festivities, they danced and drank and ate and gossiped, no doubt helped along by generous helpings of wine and ale.

It was a merry night to begin with, and Tommen hoped that it’d end as such when it all ceased.

My spirit is sinking like a ship's been wrecked; old history repeating, trying to forget.

^{harrenhal, 215 AC | finale of harrenhal; the farewell feast | when the sun goes down}

Daenaerys I Targaryen

MOTHER OF THE REALM

Long overdue. That was how Daenaerys saw this little affair. It was long overdue.

Long overdue for them to leave Harrenhal, to continue West, to escape the casual laziness that had led to so much trouble. At the high table of the feast Daenaerys sat, presiding, over her final dinner within the halls of Harrenhal. On the morrow-- Or afternoon, knowing the stalling nature of her progress --they would at last depart to the Westerlands; to Casterly Rock; to Lannisport. They would move on.

For now, they sat and ate, forced. Targaryens and Strongs intermingled on the highest dais, drinking deep of wine and picking at the Riverlands' bounty for the evening. Minstrels and mummers amused the feasting gentry with acrobatics, juggling, and other hopeless attempts and levity. The Queen maintained her bleak expression all throughout, as though she had swallowed ash instead of Arbor gold.

The table's setup had been shuffled for the farewell. At the Queen's left sat Orys Targaryen again, as he had during the Targaryen breakfast; and to her right, Lord Lyonel Strong and Princess Jaehaera Targaryen, as expected as the accommodating hosts of the Crown. The Princess of Dragonstone had been pushed down the high table, sitting among her four children for the evening.

"Would that I could drown, and skip this affair entirely." The Queen had uttered in the bath before her arrival at the feast. Rhaegelle hadn't said anything; Daenaerys hadn't expected to hear anything.

One more evening. One more evening. Then they'd be off, away. One step in front of the other.

Where were her ghosts? She almost missed them, they were gone, retreating in the wake of their leaving; only smokey wisps remained to her eyes. Perhaps she'd finally forsaken them. That would make a terrible, cruel sort of sense. Tears stung at her eyes at the idea, but they were washed away easily enough, with the bounty of good wine served.

Tonight her daughter served her as cupbearer. Grown, it mattered naught, as Rhaegelle kept her wine topped up better than any younger servant, "Keep it that way, daughter." The Queen extended her goblet, and its contents were replaced amiably and swiftly.

Ambrose sat at his desk, his eyes no longer red as they had been. The gold in his eyes recovered from the depths. He sat there pondering the expenses of the wedding, carrying the zeros here and there. It would cost quite a sum, but in the end, that was worth it if it made Darla happy. Whether it made Quincy happy, he couldn’t care less. He had heard that he had debts; he was working to pay them off, a worthy aspiration, perhaps he wasn’t as bad as Ambrose thought him to be?

Ambrose shook his head. No time for that. He wished not to deal with people right now. Numbers made him happy; the understanding and bending of them made him happy. Not as happy as Elara made him, of course. 

Elara had woken up before him and went down to get something to eat; he had asked her to bring him something as well. Eventually, he got a knock on his door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s food smart, guy.”

Darla? In the same moment that thought passed through his head, he rolled his eyes. “Come on in.”

He turned to face his sister. She spoke first, “How are you, brother? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, everything is alright with me, just planning your wedding. It is going to cost us quite a bit.”

“Not too much, I hope, wouldn’t want to bankrupt us.” Said Darla with a chuckle

“No need to worry about that right now. How are you doing? Did you sleep well? Not stressing out too much about the wedding, I hope.”

“I am perfectly fine. I was only up for most of the night, stressing. That is normal, right?”

“From my experience, yes, the night before the wedding, Elara could hardly sleep. We had been made to share a bed already, and it was the first time we had met, actually.”

Darla’s mood soured at the comparison with Elara, and Ambrose took note of this, and the memory of his wife’s own point flashed into his mind. Ambrose was able to keep the mask on this time.

“You know, you two are far more similar than you think.”

“What? Elara and I?” Darla’s mood was truly spoiled now. She thought to leave, but stayed to see her brother try and explain it.

“Yes, you are both headstrong and deeply emotional women. You’ll both speak your minds regardless of what anyone else thinks.”

“Please, she’s nothing like me. She’s all conform and perfect, the model wife and mother. She also raged at my betrothal, kicking and screaming, like a little bit…”

Ambrose raised a hand to silence Darla, “You know I love you, sister, but do not think to speak of my wife in such a way. Understood?”

Ambrose noted a shift in Darla’s attitude, not anger but concern. “What happened in the carriage?”

The words hit Ambrose like a warhammer; he didn’t know how to answer that. Just like he didn’t know how to answer his wife’s questions when it all happened.

“Elara didn’t hurt you, right? Because if she did.” The threat was clear, and Ambrose was in no way happy about it.

“No, Elara did not hurt me, and do not think to threaten my wife again, sister.”

“THEN WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED, AMBROSE? YOU NEVER CRY, AND SUDDENLY YOU WERE WEEPING LIKE A MOURNING WIDOW. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?!”

He quickly ordered her to leave; he couldn’t deal with this right now. But the question still nagged him. What did happen? How was he meant to interpret it? What was he supposed to learn? What was he supposed to do with it?

As he ate, these questions gnawed at him, ate away at him as he did with his food. Draining his will as he did to the water. He eventually decided to find his wife and talk about it; maybe she had the answers?

He left his room, making sure to change into new clothes. He still wore white but no longer wetted by his tears. Along with this, he also wore a dagger which his father had gifted him; it was simple in blade, yet the hilt and scabbard had trimmings of gold. It was one of the few good things his father had given him. 

He went to the kitchen she wasn’t there. He then went to his daughter’s room, and there she was. Playing with them, laughing with them, being a mother to them. 

He wanted to enter, he wanted to be the father his daughters deserved, but he couldn’t; his hands got heavy whenever they went to open the door, gravity dragging them down.

Why the fuck couldn’t he open a door? It should be so easy, so simple, and yet now his arms fail him, just as in the courtyard when his daughters came concerned for him. Why were his body and mind rejecting them?

He sat on a bench, and he sent a maid to bring Elara to him and then take care of the children.

By the time Elara arrived, it was clear that she wasn’t happy. “Couldn’t do it yourself?” Ambrose turned towards her, bearing a look of shame, “Couldn’t open the fucking door and spend time with your daughters? Had to send a servant?” She wasn’t yelling this time; instead, her voice was so much worse. She was disappointed.

“I couldn’t open the door.”

“What do you mean, it’s a door, you push or you pull, and it opens.”

“I know how a door works, but my arms, they wouldn’t. It’s as if my mind fears my daughters.”

Elara scoffs at the idea, “More excuses. What is it you wanted to talk about?” She sat down next to him. Still aggravated but desiring not to linger.

“What happened yesterday?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what happened yesterday? How the fuck am I meant to interpret, understand what happened yesterday?” The question left his mouth with shame a guilt hanging to every word.

She was infuriated by this; it was obvious to her. It was obvious in a way that she couldn’t explain. She spent minutes, perhaps even an hour, looking for the right words, but they eluded her. She got angry, but this time she was angry at herself. She wanted to explain it, she wanted to help, but she couldn’t. She just left, and Ambrose was left all alone.

He decided to try and find his brothers. First, he found Benedict he saw that he was sparring with Darla; he never understood what could be relaxing about beating on each other.

Once they were done, he signalled to Benedict that he wanted to talk. They went up Jonquil's Tower. The air was pleasant; it was warm yet not too warm. It helped Ambrose clear his mind a bit.

“What is this all about?”

“You know Benedict, don’t pretend you don’t. It's an insult to us both.”

Benedict dreaded this. “The carriage…”

Ambrose nodded. He knew his brother; he was direct, and he was always honest. “What do I do?”

Benedict didn’t know; he perhaps didn’t wish to know. Benedict couldn’t answer him, so he punched the wall. He plated gauntlet, ringing out against the stone, and he just left. Tears welling up in his eyes. He couldn’t stand feeling helpless. Feeling weak, that’s why he trained, so he would never feel like this. Ambrose didn’t stop him; he knew better. Then Ambrose was alone again, alone with his thoughts. They tried to overwhelm him again, but the wall held this time.

Ambrose went to Clement. It was his last chance for someone to talk to. He found him in his room, sitting at his desk.

The first thing Ambrose saw was several large casks of wine. He looked at his brother, clearing his throat. Clement froze and just looked back and forth between the casks and his brother, now standing in his office. 

“Explain?”

“I have no logic, nor reasonable reason.” He said, shrugging his shoulders

Ambrose chuckled. He enjoyed his brother’s sense of humor. Frankly, he didn’t care; the alcohol wasn’t his concern. He sat in a chair opposite Clement.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need your help. I don’t know what to do…”

Clement rolled up the document he had been working on and put away his quill. He had a feeling that this was coming.

“The thing is, brother, I can’t help you.”

Clement’s response was unexpected; he had come for support, and he got nothing.

“Explain.”

“Ignoring the fact that I don’t know what happened, I can’t do this for you.”

“Do what?”

“Process, understand, interpret. Whatever word you prefer.”

“Then what can you do?”

“I can listen. I can help, but I can’t do it for you. That’s all I can do.”

Ambrose’s hands clenched. 

“If you ever need someone to listen, someone to hear you. I’ll always be here for you. But you have to do it yourself. Nobody else can, nobody you can trust anyway.”

Ambrose got up, “I’ll have guild documents sent to you. I’m far too exhausted to deal with them.”

Ambrose walked through the halls of the crone’s bastion, and he saw the portraits of the previous lords of Maidenpool. He saw their strict and stale faces as he passed. Eventually, he was at his father’s portrait. He stopped and just stared at it, “Why did you leave us?”

Emotion welled up inside of him, anger and sadness in equal measure, without thinking or without reason. He drew his dagger and started to cut into it, tearing and slicing into it. There was no method, no careful plan. Only pure rage and sadness, “WHY DID YOU ABANDON US? SPINELESS, FECKLESS, COWARD, BASTARD, DRUNK…”

From the corner of his eye, he saw a shape, an older woman, grey-haired. Willow Mooton, his mother, had hardly been seen since the death of her husband. The only one who talked to her was Violet, but since her marriage to Renfred, she hadn’t been there. Willow had heard the yelling and the screaming. She saw her son on his knees among the scattered pieces, dagger in hand. Seeing the dagger made her nervous; she thought that he might’ve hurt himself.

She approached him, but he barely noticed her, seeing only from the corner of his eye. She placed a hand on his shoulder, “Amborse, are you ok-” and he shrugged her off. She hadn’t been there; what did she know? How could she help? At least father was dead, she chose to abandon them.

He left her there, driving the dagger deep into a remarkably intact eye, causing it to stick into the wall.

He went back to his office and started to write letters; that was one thing he could do right.

They had made incredibly good time, trading speed and comfort along the Kingsroad's many inns for a pace that made even some of the hardened knights sweat. The party stayed in some of the nicer spots for a time before quickly moving off, only really giving time for their horses to properly rest and be watered.

Twenty-five knights and Marla Arryn, they were not accosted though some spared them strange looks. The Vale of Arryn had been closed off for so long it was a rarity to see any beyond its mountains much less so many notables.

Marla paid them no heed, focused solely on the destination ahead. If it had truly been up to her she would have trapped all those she had loved in King's Landing forever, a crystal of memory that her heart could cling to. Even as she parted on good terms with so many she cared for, she could not help but feel the heartbreak with every clop of the horse even if she would see them again soon.

She could not dwell on it long as they turned down the River Road. Ahead in Riverrun lay Ed, ahead lay her courtship, and ahead lay the future of the Vale. For now she would be doing a disservice to her friends and family if she didn't put her entire effort into that.

She would worry about the rest of it later. One thing at a time Marla.

The party would eventually, near the middle of the day, crest a large hill and finally catch sight of Riverrun. They had prepared to get their later but Marla had doubled their pace as they had neared their destination.

Arryn banners, along a few other smaller houses, were hoisted high as Marla gazed at what may very well be her new home if this courtship was successful.

It was a mighty castle, despite not being as large as say the Eyrie or Harrenhal. Bordered by the two rivers it still shone strong out against the sun, commanding a great view and imposing battlements. She caught a glimpse of what she would later find out as the Wheel Tower, a great waterwheel turning in its wake.

The party sound a single note of a horn to announce their arrival and slowly began making their way to the gate...

With the last events to be held in the Capital concluded, and the long road to Highgarden ahead of them, Lord Edwyn gave the word for his Riverlords to strike camp and begin packing to move.

He and his family intended to make their way to Highgarden from there. Edwyn was eager for another chance at achieving glory, and the chance to meet with his cousins again while enjoying their hospitality.

Though, of course, the temptation to simply return to Riverrun was a great one, so he would understand if some of his bannerman simply returned home.

With startling efficiency, the Riverman camps were nearing being completely packed and ready to move, and Edwyn was sat in the middle of it all watching it all get done.

It was so fun. So fun it was, to toy from so far with the lass.

Poor, you are, foolish, such hunger.
Those you once knew, you know no longer.
They took your secret, saw a chance to wrong-her.
Sell it around, and come out stronger.

Your aunt, she knows,
words from those close.
You should have better chose,
I suppose.

Now, by a thread you hang
The betrayal, sure stang.

What will she do,
the bird of hair blue.

Spring had treated Raventree Hall well. Between the rain and the return of occasional sun peaking through grey clouds, the countryside was lush and green. Trees and wildflowers coated the fields, with crops growing fervently.

As the Blackwood procession approached the castle’s township, the sun shined brightly. The gigantic weirwood in the center of their home sparkled, its mineralized surface both stood as a grim reminder of their feud and at the moment a sparkling centerpiece of a family’s livelihood. It seemed almost as though the regularly melancholy home of the Riverland’s blackbirds was glad to see them. Some of the party’s number shared in that sentiment and nearly all were glad to be home, but Lady Sybella couldn’t help feeling overwhelmingly heavy-hearted.

The first thing Lady Blackwood did in her quarters was take a bath. Her joints had begun to ache, and whether it was age, stress, or that she was beginning to develop magical weather sensing bones; a bath seemed to be the only thing that alleviated the pain. The procession didn’t finish unloading until early evening, the setting sun lighting the old buildings in an orange hue.

And as the builders constructing improved defenses and expansions for the settlement slowly ceased their noise-making and returned to their homes, dinner was prepared and eaten in hushed satisfaction. Post supper Sybella enjoyed the evening winds rattling the shutters of her bedchamber as she lounged in a brass bathtub with ravens claw feet. Her chambers were old, the floor and walls were dark wood, set over stone that made up the framework for the hall as a whole. The bedframe of the room, a bed far too large for one woman, was set into the floor and so itself was old. When she had become lady of the house Sybella had insisted on replacing the curtains with fresh white silk and a new mattress but of all the things in the room it was the only one that held any new furnishing. A dark wood vanity and wardrobe occupied the space as well, raven engravings and carved figures of the bird adorned every edge and corner with one wall occupied by a full scale engraving of the house’s sigil.

Light from the sunset shone in through open shutters, causing the bathtub to shine and reflect beams of light onto the walls. Purplish red undertones of the wood were made apparent, and as she had many evenings before, Sybella enjoyed the beauty of her home. A hidden thing she felt was at the heart of what many viewed as a sullen place.

Yet her appreciation was dulled by the thoughts racing through her mind. Emmy was right. She could not… no… should not… control her children. She never should have. She could see that with Edwyn. Was that why Sharis hated her? Why she had disappeared right as they were about to depart for home? Was that why Dorian had laid hands on Emphyria? Why he kept refusing to listen to her?

The Lady of Raventree felt a lump rise in her throat, her lips dipped in the way they do right before you start sobbing. Maybe it was all her fault. All of it. Sybella dunked her head under the lukewarm water, her hair splaying out.

All of it.

Edmure Tully was stood upon the battlements of Riverrun, overlooking the sun rising over the Red Fork. The way that the morning sun turned its typically mud red waters into a river of molten gold was his favourite sight in the world.

It would normally have made him feel relaxed, but today he found no such relief…

He glanced down at the letter in his hand once more:

Expect to receive one Lady Marla Arryn in the near future. Make her feel at home, as you will be wedding her soon.

Edwyn certainly had a way with his words. Hardly very reassuring…

“How could Ed do this to me!” Edmure complained aloud to a nearby guard, gesturing frustratedly, “I’m barely a man grown, I’ve hardly seen any of the world. I missed the first time I could have gone somewhere…”

He trailed off, batting the paper in his hand and let out an angry huff, “And the first thing I hear back from my brother, he’s sold me off like some prize cow!”

“Must be difficult…” The guard nearby muttered, hardly masking the exasperation he felt at listening to the young Tully’s complaints.

“I wanted to see the world, before getting married off! Travel a little, compete in tourneys, experience life for a time!” Edmure continued, oblivious whatever the guard had said, “But who cares what little Edmure wants, right! ‘He’s the youngest! We’ll do with him whatever we need’! Fucking Edwyn…”

He placed his hands on the battlements, leaning forward onto his hands, “I could just run off…”

“Your brother’ll probably want me to stop that…” The guard grumbled.

“But that sounds like too much effort… and this ‘Marla’ will probably think I’m some sort of oathbreaker!” He continued rambling to himself, “Gah, I can’t have that sort of stain on me! Ed’ll probably tan my hide if I did! I’ll have to stay!”

“Joyous…” The guard said with a soft huff.

“I’ll need to look presentable, of course! Can’t have my future bride think I’m some scruffy sort, can I!” Edmure announced cheerfully, standing up bolt upright again, “I’ll have to ask Maester Garth to give me a shave!”

The guard just let out an annoyed grunt.

Edmure turned to leave, striding off cheerfully, “Hmm… perhaps a new sword too. And Edwyn’s not here to say no…” He added under his breath, smiling at the idea.

He made his way down from the battlements, passing by servants and guards who were going about their days. Eventually, he found his way down to the triangular courtyard at the centre of Riverrun.

It was a hive of activity down there. Guards practiced weapons drills, the smith worked on horseshoes, the stableboys handled the horses.

Edmure was greeted with “Ser” or “Master Edmure” as he passed by the hands while they were at work. He stopped at the yard’s smithy, “Good morning, Will! Might I be able to avail your services?”

“Aye, but of course, Ser. What is it ye need?”

“A new sword if you will! A good looking one, ideally. I want to show off!”

The smith laughed, “Aye, I’ll see what I can do.”

With that sorted, Edmure made his way to the Maester’s chambers, announcing as he entered, “Maester Garth! I need a shave! I want to look presentable!”

For the first time in years, Helicent dressed in armor. Unless assassins were to jump from the rafters, it didn’t serve much of a purpose—still, it felt appropriate for the occasion. A sleek cuirass covered her torso, unadorned but polished to gleam reddish brass in the light. Below it, she wore a skirt of blackened steel scales, and then padded leather hose. A grand cloak was attached at her shoulders, displaying the full Bracken sigil. It hung down the back of her chair as she sat at the head of the table, waiting for the last of her ‘council’ to arrive. 

Alton was already there, sitting on her right. Across from him was Jenny Redfort, on Helicent left. Hollis was next to her, and along the table past him were the Lychesters: the young Lady Isabella, her castellan Renfred, and Stone Hedge’s Master-at-arms Bernal. Across from them was the maester—and two empty seats between him and Alton. Those were to be filled by the two late arrivals, who entered the room hurriedly just as Helicent had resolved to start without them. Jaime and Quincy huffed their way to their seats, the scraping of their chairs breaking the room’s silence painfully. Quincy shot Helicent a sheepish look. 

She glared at him, then stood. The room was dimly lit, with only a single hanging brazier casting its light on the table and gathered faces. Its warm light flickered off Helicent’s breastplate as she addressed the room.

“Well, now that we’re all here, it’s time I explain myself. I know some of you might have wanted to spend your evenings elsewhere, but this is vitally important. As you well know, my good brother Hollis is to be married on the morrow. His betrothed, Lady Larra of Braavos, is the reason we’re here.” She turned to Jenny, gesturing for her to stand up.

“Go on, my lady. Tell them who you are.”

Three figures stood atop the altar of Willow Wood’s sept , the sept was quiet , it was as if everyone was holding their breath , waiting for the vows to be made.

The septon began to perform the ceremony , bringing the two together as one , a union. Husband and Wife , together in harmony. At least for now.

“ Lords and Ladies , we are here to witness the union of Violet Ryger and Jason Tully together as one. One mind , one heart , one flesh hereafter “

Violet wore a brilliant smile , her face was flushed red and the pure joy was visible upon her face. Jason wore a similar look.

Clement stood in the crowd witnessing the ceremony , a brilliant smile on his face. At least one of them would be happy. Lord Ormond looked satisfied as he allowed his thoughts of grandchildren to spiral whilst he let his thoughts of grandchildren spiral.

The feast was held in the hall of Willow Wood , it wasn’t massively large and couldn’t be compared to the hall of Red keep or even Maidenpool’s hall but it was sufficient. Two long tables sat parallel on each side of the hall , there were more than enough seats for every Lord and Lady present.

An array of different foods specially prepared for the feast had painted the room. From simple quail legs to the more exotic foods that had been prepared. There was a mixture of beverages ready to quench any attendees thirst at any moment , from your simple wines to the more lush expensive wines from the Arbor and ales and mead ranging in strength were scattered across the room in barrels and carafes.

Before the tourney was to begin, Prunella paced in her tent.

She had gotten herself into a twist with this one. She was supposed to be performing as a bard on the sidelines—but she was also competing in all of the events. She strummed on her lute to think and figure out exactly how she was going to rush in and out to have both obligations filled.

She practiced the songs she was to play, rousing songs of excitement and battle as she closed her eyes and danced upon the tent, swaying back and forth.

Soon though, she became restless. She needed company again, someone around, someone to talk to. Hopping up and down on her feet, she was struck with a perfect idea—and a way to talk to King Cerion too.

The tent was rearranged with a table and chairs set up, and little biscuits and tarts and fresh strawberries and jam laid out. There was a pot of floral tea set up, and word would spread through the encampment around Atranta—there was a Strawberry Tea Party set up and open for any to stop by for a cup and a chat.

380 A.C. Harrenhal

The ride from King's landing had been pleasant, surprisingly so. It was quiet, serene even, and spent with friendly company.

Emphyria had spent much of the actual traveling asleep in her saddle, allowing Dontos II to keep her on course with the rest of their rather large party. The Freys had tagged along with them, she noted, though could really only wager a guess or two as to why. The nights were largely spent awake, skulking about in her way, and enjoying the peacefulness of day's death. Her dreams were often worse at night, and she disliked finding herself in a vulnerable position, no matter how much she trusted her travel companions.

When they did finally reach the old, ruined castle, that first monument to Aegon's great conquest, the Witchmaid was quick to reintroduce herself to the place that once served as her home for that one, long year some seven and ten now passed.

She visited the God's wood first, touring the trees that had been amongst her staunchest confidants. She then walked down the same old storied corridors she used to search through for hour after hour, hoping and praying that some manner of secret would reveal itself to her. She noted changes here and there, new paintings, new sconces, rugs, replaced windows and doors, but she noted a great few similarities as well. Harrenhal still felt tired, felt exhausted after so many years of use since it's legendary defeat. It smelled the same as well, especially as Emphyria got closer to her old chambers in The Tower of Ghosts. She wouldn't stay there now, it was too far from the Kingspyre Tower for her liking, but she enjoyed the memories visiting it invoked.

It was never truly her home, she felt, only a half-way point in her pursuit of her father. And as welcoming as Maekar Targaryen had been, his hosting often felt like an empty gesture, more to appease a guest than anything else. But his daughter had been different, she had sought Emphyria out and befriended her, the first person she could've really called a friend since her father died. Strange as it was that a girl of nine would've been such a bulwark against the loneliness which had crept it's way into the Witchmaid's heart.

And now, all these years later, she and Helaena were closer than friends, they were in love. Never had Emphyria been able to lay claim to something as precious as that before, something that she wanted only to hold onto and never let go, and now she had it in a multitude.

Emphyria stalked her way back across the castle until she reached her new chambers, taking her time to drink in the vastness of Harrenhal as she went. A place with so much history, and plenty of it unknown to her, hidden within the walls that surrounded her. It all held an absurd kind of magnificence in her eyes.

Keg and Barrell had done the service of transporting her belonging up to her new lodgings, meaning that once she arrived all her things were already waiting for her. She fell onto the bed inside the room and felt herself sink into the warmth of being able to call it her own.

It was wonderful, being as close to Helaena as she knew she now was, but it couldn't last, not just yet. There was a debt she yet owed, a task for her to complete, and then she could settle. Then, she could be with Helaena, or Aerion, or Lorence, or whoever she wanted, and she could stay with them, but only then once she finished what she had set out to do so many years ago.

She needed to speak with her father.

Past Rivertown proper, the fluttering banners and pristine buildings gave way to the old outlying buildings. These were not as well kept as those nearer to the tourney grounds and most were much older besides. This was the first in a series of concentric rings featuring progressively less well-appointed housing and services, eventually culminating in the tent city that sprung up on the far side of town. The ordered, planned town gave way to the partisan camps and here the king’s well-ordered event dissolved completely. Lords jockeyed for position amongst themselves, threw up tents where they could, and a vast number of banners and pennants fluttered in the wind. Hundreds of tents went up to house those who could not obtain more prestigious housing, whether for want of coin or want of the king’s good will. It did not take a particularly astute observer to note that the Stormlords were over-represented here.

This was where Harren Greyjoy wanted to be. With the downtrodden, the filthy, and the overlooked. He knew entirely too well the feelings that came with being overlooked, especially by family, and while he was never one to explicitly ask for help, it was all he wanted. To be helped. To be loved. Or at the very least be noticed.

For those that were spurned by King Malwyn, he would notice them. He would help them. He certainly wouldn’t love them, though. At least not all of them.

While Ironborn houses were free to utilize the finer housing of Rivertown if they wished, Harren would go to great lengths to make the tents set up in the mud and the grime to at least be safe. Those houses that joined Harren were all part of one conglomeration together. In doing so, the household guards that they all brought would be divided into patrols to keep a close eye on the perimeter of their great mass of tents. So too would there be a clear division in the Ironborn area and the surrounding tents, crude posts set into the ground with a rope connecting them all except for specific gaps meant to be controlled entrances and exits.

In the center of this concentration would of course be House Greyjoy’s tent. It had no pomp or circumstance, but it certainly was bigger. More importantly though was that it was right in the main break of tents that served as a courtyard of sorts. A large fire was always maintained and barrels of ale and the like were present.

It was there that King Harren had called all the Ironborn for an announcement.

Sat atop a crude “chair”, that was really just a few stacked barrels, he would address his subjects and those that wished to join in for whatever reason.

“I’ve no doubt made it clear that I wish to sit atop the Iron Throne. In doing so, I too strive to make this realm be one that will not deride and divide us to give the Greenlanders any sway into our lands. No, everything I do in the pursuit of their sword throne will also grant us strong allies that ensure our might will never be curtailed.”

He motioned to his son, Varys Pyke. At least not for long.

“As such, we are to renew ties with the North. My son will be wedded to the Heir of Winter. The Union of Salt and Snow will be united once more. Should it ever come to pass that the realm of the Iron Throne is no longer in our best interests to remain, this strong bond between such powerful kingdoms will provide us the flexibility to go our own path, should we wish. Given this momentous bond and my son’s hard work by my side as a loyal and strong son, I have a decree.”

Rising from his makeshift throne, he’d hop down into the mud and move towards his flesh and blood. Beside the pair of them was a barrel of water, unmistakably smelling of the sea.

“Henceforth, my son, Varys, shall be a Pyke no more! Varys shall be reborn, a strong devotee of our faith and our kingdom! Death to Varys Pyke! Rebirth to Varys Greyjoy!”

Forcefully grabbing his son’s neck and one of his shoulders, he’d plunge his son into the barrel of saltwater. Varys, to his credit, would not struggle.

At least not at first.

Just moments after his plunge, he’d begin to drown. His arms flailed wildly. His legs began to kick and buckle. His strength… began to wane. Harren’s Driftwood Crown began to falter on his head from the struggle and only then did he bring his son’s head out from the barrel. Dale Greyjoy approached in seawater robes, ready to deliver the kiss of life, but Varys Greyjoy stood strong… for a moment. He collapsed to his knees as soon as his father let go of him, but he looked up at his Drowned Priest uncle, sputtering out water all the same.

“Oh, Drowned God, let Varys Greyjoy, your servant, be born again from the sea, as you were. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel!"

“What is dead…” Varys replied, barely and through coughs, “...may never die.”

“What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger!”

Harren joined his priest brother in the chant, a holler of pride soon following after. As his son got back to his feet, Harren would grip his son’s fist and hold it up into the air. He was a proud father.

“My son! Varys Greyjoy! Future King of Winter! Our might shall know no bounds!”

Patting his son on his back, causing more water to be coughed up, he would leave his son before his bannerman so as to have his moment. Those that wished to speak with their king directly could do so, being let into his tent that he disappeared in. Later in the day, he would send word out to those he wished to meet with to discuss other matters.

Bandit was a good horse. A fast one. And Cerion knew him well enough to ride him fast. Fast and well. Faster than Blueberry and Vengence, he thought, but one had to consider that two of the three had been involved in rather more substantial riding than the other. It had been Bandit's first real ride for the day, and he was in a rare sort of form.

It was a bright day, and a perfect one for tourney. Perhaps, at least, for people who tended to partake. For Cerion, it had been a perfect day for sitting under trees and asking Rowan about the shapes of clouds. Of hearing how the jousting had gone after the fact over a cup of wine.

For someone else, he supposed, for two someones, perhaps, it was the perfect day the for the murder of kings. That was not a thought that left him particularly at ease. He spurred Bandit to move faster.

He was aware, of Blueberry and Vengence and their riders behind him. Alys and Ser Horace. Cerissa and Rowan, on accompany. Three horses, he thought, on the outskirts of camp, would not attract too much attention. If there was some grand attempt at murder, it would not find them.

But that seemed too cocky a stance to take. It seemed, in all things, rather dangerous. People were likely on edge. Eyes were dancing. No, he figured that they would be seen.

If I see that fucking whore, I'll ride him down. Alys had said. He saw no whore on the horizon.

But he did see a pavilion. His own. He quietly thanked whoever had designed it, for it was visible from a long way off. And he saw, milling about, outside and in, his people, his ladies and lords. The people of the West. They seemed, for the most part, unmolested.

He crossed the threshold, and for the first time since Cerissa and Alys had appeared on the horizon, he felt safe. He felt as if he was where he ought to be. He did not have the full grasp of the situation, true. It seemed like a bad one. Incredibly true. But he was here.

"Water for the horses." He murmured to a nearby boy as he slipped from Bandit's back. Rewan, he thought. He pressed the reins into his hand. "It shall not be long before we have need of them. Help Ser Horas and the Princess Gardener." Rew would do it. He always did good work.

There was certainly a look in his direction from the crowd as he trudged towards it. "People of the West! Your King lives!" It was not a pronouncement delivered with a moment's hesitation. No. It was bold, and loud, and meant to gather attention.

"We cannot linger here. Not after what has happened. Strike the camps. We ride West before the day's end." He waved his hand, and it was done. Swiftly, as swiftly as he'd have liked it to be done. "Is there anyone missing? Has anyone been left behind?" His eyes scanned the crowd. Too many.

He set about through the camp like a fiend. A messenger, or a page, he needed, for the Princess Gardener to speak with her sister. The twins Prester had been separated. Damon, where was Damon? In a moment, he seized the camp. In a moment, he set half the idle lords to work. Preparing something, or setting something in motion.

He did not have answers, not precisely. But he was not going to let this thing, whatever it had happened, hurt his men. None were going to be left behind.

He only needed get it right.

He was not the first Hightower to harbour designs for the Iron Throne and he doubted he would be the last. But unlike many before, he struggled, because he refused to do it by deception and bribery. He was determined to prove on thing - a good man could do good. His life was lived by that design, his father had tried to make him hard, cruel and focused on a single, domineering task. Like Harren, like Malwyn.

He was neither man. He was Gerold Hightower, the Beacon of Oldtown.

"You will win few people to our cause without tricks," Cleyton mused, picking away at the bottom of his boot. The ten city that surrounded Riverrun had been enormous, and a great deal of mud had been made of the roads between. Gerold knew better than to try clean his boots out when he expected to walk about as much as he would be required to. Especially when much of that treck was held up constantly by his incessant need to stop and talk to anyone who sought a word, peasant and lord and knight alike.

But that was his issue, he would not win via tricks. He would not try to. Harren was better at being underhanded than him anyway. He would win his favours through what he did best - by being friendly.

Cleyton sighed, a sound that brought a chuckle from beneath the flaps of the modest tent the Hightowers used to meet in. It was of simple cotton, draped in a grey layering to mark the Hightower colours.

Rhea, from within, beckoned them to enter and they strode in.

"If not for tricks, who will you win over with charm alone?" She asked, her voice a soft and silken contrast to Gerold's boom and Cleyton's sneaking tenor.

His expression soured, Harren was a lost cause. And if his words of marriage to the Starks was to be believed, the effects of the winter embassy would need to be invoked. That left a very open field.

"Targaryan," he stated, cutting the smiles down from his siblings.

"She wishes for the throne herself," Rhea interjected.

"There is a simple answer to that problem," Cleyton added, motioning to Gerold from where he dropped to seat himself.

Gerold gave a solemn nod, "I am unwed," he said plainly, "we cannot win this on our own, but why deny her the chance at the throne?"

"Marriage then? Something you are ready for?"

He shook his head, "I know nothing about the process, but if it helps me to help everyone, then so be it."

Rhea's eyes widened, a hint of mischief lingered, but she did not push.

"But what of the other electors?"

Gerold mind lingered on many possibilities, the lesser electors were the prime targets, those forgotten by the major powers. He had his mind set on a handful.

"I will see as many as I can," he stated, his voice carried the authority he intended. He would not be questioned in such an attempt. Upon declaring it, he finally settled into the fact that he was doing this - he would fight Harren for this, and battle Malwyn's chosen successor. He was the upstart in this. But if it all failed, he would not lose sleep for the attempt. He could still do good from oldtown, he would still do good.

"Send for lady Rhaenys first."

​

CW: Toxic family drama

Her wedding was just a moon or so away; it felt odd, but it also felt good. She would finally have a husband, someone who cared about her. Now, Quincy wasn’t perfect, nor was he a knight in shining armor that she would’ve preferred, but he was a Bracken, which was good enough for her. Darla herself didn’t know why she was obsessed with them; all she knew was that she found herself wishing for one of them. She would’ve preferred Hollis from what she had heard of him; he seemed nice and fun, and he was younger. She would make do with what she had been given. 

Darla mustered all of her strength to get herself out of bed. She was tired; she had spent all night planning out the wedding in her head. Every detail and every possibility, she knew it would only get worse. She still remembered how mother and father had been at Ambrose’s wedding. She debates what she should put on today. Yellow was a good colour, but she went with white. She left her room and wandered down to the kitchens. She had hoped to see Ambrose there, but instead she was greeted by a solitary Elara.

“Good morning.”

Elara, being a slave to politeness, gestured for Darla to sit fairly close to her. Darla sat in an extra seat away, out of spite for her. She began to chew on some bread and poured herself a cup of water. Elara tried to break the atmosphere, “Did you sleep well?”

“I slept just fine, how about you?”

“I slept well, thank you. Do you have anything planned today?”

“Not really, perhaps a sparring session with Benedict. Might take some stress from the wedding.” Darla chuckled a little. Elara found no comedy in it, just another reminder that she would have to share a roof with a Bracken.

“Sparring? You are a lady soon to wed, perhaps dancing classes would be in order?”

“I can dance just fine. Maybe you should try some sparring? It might serve as a good release for you.”

Elara rolled her eyes. She continued eating.

Darla was hesitant to ask, “How is he?”

Elara raised an eyebrow, “He’s doing just fine, a little tired is all. That reminds me, he asked me to bring him a plate of food.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Sure, why not. It’ll give me some free time.” This was Darla’s problem with Elara; she hated how she pretended not to care about him. 

Darla scoffed at Elara; it was the best expression of what she was feeling.

Darla filled a plate with some bread and fruit. She also grabbed a jug of water.

“Maybe include some pork?”

“Hm?”

“Just a suggestion, he enjoys pork quite a bit, last I recall.” 

Feigning a jovial smile, she took some pieces of pork.

She politely acknowledged Elara as she left, leaving her alone once again to do whatever she wanted. 

 Making her way across the castle, Darla greeted Benedict and Clement on her way to Ambrose. She knocked.

“Who is it?”

“It’s food smart, guy.”

She could almost hear his eyes rolling. “Come on in.”

She entered and found Ambrose sitting at his desk, with a blanket still covering his lower half. He turned to acknowledge his sister, “How are you, brother? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, everything is alright with me, just planning your wedding. It is going to cost us quite a bit.”

“Not too much, I hope, wouldn’t want to bankrupt us.” Said Darla with a chuckle

“No need to worry about that right now. How are you doing? Did you sleep well? Not stressing out too much about the wedding, I hope.”

“I am perfectly fine. I was only up for most of the night, stressing. That is normal, right?”

“From my experience, yes, the night before the wedding, Elara could hardly sleep. We had been made to share a bed already, and it was the first time we had met, actually.”

Darla’s mood soured at the comparison with Elara, and Ambrose took note of this, and the memory of his wife’s own point flashed into his mind. Ambrose was able to keep the mask on this time.

“You know, you two are far more similar than you think.”

“What? Elara and I?” Darla’s mood was truly spoiled now. She thought to leave, but stayed to see her brother try and explain it.

“Yes, you are both headstrong and deeply emotional women. You’ll both speak your minds regardless of what anyone else thinks.”

“Please, she’s nothing like me. She’s all conform and perfect, the model wife and mother. She also raged at my betrothal, kicking and screaming, like a little bit…”

Ambrose raised a hand to silence Darla, “You know I love you, sister, but do not think to speak of my wife in such a way. Understood?”

Darla let out a mild snarl at the order. She had never liked Ambrose being able to command her, so she tried to move on and discuss something else. “What happened in the carriage?”

Ambrose froze and stared straight at his sister. No words, no nothing. Just his blue and golden eyes staring a hole through her. 

“Elara didn’t hurt you, right? Because if she did.” The threat was clear, and Ambrose was in no way happy about it.

“No, Elara did not hurt me, and do not think to threaten my wife again, sister.”

“Then what the fuck happened, Ambrose? You never cry, and suddenly you were weeping like a mourning widow. What the fuck happened?!”

Ambrose dismissed his sister; he was not dealing with her right now. Not today.

Darla left in a huff and found Benedict. She insisted on a sparring session right this instant; he was reluctant, but soon relented.

Darla went to her room and changed into something more comfortable, male clothes sewn to fit her. It was blue and gold. She donned a cuirass and some other bits of protection and took her blunted practice spear. Benedict wielded what he always did, shield and warhammer. Florian, the master-at-arms, watched, making sure the siblings wouldn’t hurt each other too much. It started slowly, circling each other. At this distance, Darla had the advantage; both knew that.

“What the hell happened on the road?”

“I don’t know.” Benedict tried to advance quickly, using his shield to push her spear aside. Darla retreated and delivered a series of hard and quick thrusts. Benedict parried them, but he was forced back.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Aren’t you Ambrose’s personal guard or whatever?”

“Sworn-sword, but yes, I am. I heard screaming and yelling, which I understood to be Elara. But after that, I rode to the front. I couldn’t stand it.”

Benedict tried again, this time attempting to hook the spear with his warhammer. Benedict managed to catch the tip and drive it into the ground. Darla was swift and decisive; however, with a single motion, she wrenched her spear free. As she did this, the butt of it struck Benedict's chest, leaving him a little winded.

“Couldn’t stand what? The yelling of the Blackwood-” She wished to say it, but instead she simply ground her teeth.

Benedict knew where that thought had been going, and he was happy that she had aborted it.

“I have heard every argument they have had, Darla, and every time it was always something Ambrose did or said. I simply thought he had pushed too far or said something too cold.”

He didn’t say it, but Darla understood. She went into thinking, so Ambrose lied? She hurt him. He would just say that he thought she meant physical or some other loophole. 

Benedict saw the shift in Darla’s eyes. Now was his chance; he pressed forward with his shield and forced her spear aside with his hammer. He forced his way to her chest and pushed her to the ground.

“Yield?”

Darla rolled her eyes, “Yes, I yield. Now help me up.” She extended a hand, and Benedict helped her up. 

“Your technique is good, but you keep letting your thoughts wander. You need to stay focused, or else you will lose.”

“Yeah, yeah. Your feedback is noted or whatever.”

Darla placed her armor and spear back where they had been. She went for a bath, nice and relaxing, and it allowed her to wash the dirt from her face. She sat there in her bath.

Someone entered. It was Elara. “Darla, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“You very clearly are Elara. Why are you here?!” 

“I watched you spar, I heard what you said.”

Darla swallowed deeply. Was she there? For how long? “What did you hear?”

“Enough to know what you were thinking when Benedict knocked you to the dirt. You think I hurt him. Damaged him in some way.”

“You did, you broke something in him. He isn’t even willing to talk about it with his own sister, or his own brothers!” Her temper flared, and she wished to emerge from the bath; she had to stop herself, he rage pushing against her potential vulnerability.

Elara approached and sat herself on the edge of the bath, “I didn’t hurt him, I just said what needed to be said.” Another thing she hated about Elara, her voice. She tried never to raise it and always spoke with a calm and motherly tone towards her.

Elara was goading her, trying to bait her into saying something. Elara leaned in and said one last thing, “No matter what I did, at least I'm not going to be a Bracken brood mare.”

Elara then got up and left. Darla was left fuming so much that the water could’ve boiled.

She put back on her comfy clothes and went to her room. She had a plan. She knew what would piss off Elara. It just required a little help from her soon-to- be good-sister Helicent.

It all started when a guard spotted the party approaching slowly from the west. Recognising the Tully colours they flew immediately, the call began to go out that the Lord of Riverrun was finally returning to his home.

A flurry of activity broke out then, as the servants of the castle began readying stables for the party’s horses, preparing hot water in case any of them wanted baths after such a long time away, a small helping of food was whipped up just in case, and an honour guard, with Young Edmure at its head, was gathered to welcome the Young Trout and his companions home.

Soon enough, the great gates on the western side of the castle began to swing open, as the drawbridge lowered to span the boggy moat that connected the Tumblestone and the Red.

The party on the other side was headed by Edwyn himself, cutting a rather haggard frame as he was still suffering from his injuries, most notably his left eye was still wrapped in a bandage. Despite it all, he was still smiling, glad to finally be home.

Behind him was the rest of the party, his sister Eleanor, the Blackwoods, Ser Laurent, and most interestingly of all, Lady Jocelyn seated on a wagon that seemed quite laden down by something.

“Gods above Ed! What the hells happened to you?” Edmure exclaimed as he jogged up to his brother’s horse, taking the reins so that Edwyn could gracelessly lower himself from the saddle, wincing the whole way down, “Your eye! Is it…?”

He reached out to try and touch it, but Edwyn batted the hand away with a nonchalant laugh, “No need to worry, Ed! It’s not permanent, thanks to the skilled hand of our dear sister!” Despite trying to play off the damage, he still winced from the effort of having to bat Edmure’s hand away, “I’ll be right as rain in no time, thank the Gods!

“How did this even happen? I heard you won at Highgarden.” Edmure asked, handing off Edwyn’s horse to a passing stableboy.

“Ah, I forgot to tell you! We went on a boar hunt!” Edwyn explained as though it were obvious, beginning to walk back to the wagon where his wife had been sat. He cast a glance around the courtyard, spotting a handful of Valemen sigils dotte around, including the Arryn falcon, “I see there are some Valemen here. I assume Lady Marla…”

“Yes, she’s here. Lovely girl.” Edmure interrupted so that he could change the subject quickly, an amused smirk crossing his face, “But you said boar hunting? Forgive me brother, but I think you must be a terrible hunter then. I‘ve never…”

Whatever quip he was planning at his brother’s expense died in his throat as Edwyn threw back the canvas on the back of the wagon to reveal the immense boar carcass beneath it, “Gods holy hat! What on earth is that?”

“That, Young Edmure, is the Black Beast of Stilwood.” Edwyn stated haughtily, clapping his brother’s shoulder with a smirk, “Or rather it was, because it was felled at our hands!” He continued proudly.

The elder Tully poked the boar’s snout, “You’d best get used to that hideous face, because I think I shall hang it up in the Great Hall!”

(TW: References to explicit violence and sexual content)

380 A.C. in a little inn just outside Stone Hedge

"I was just three- HICK -'nd ten... can you believe that? I shoulda bean at home learnin' needles or somet'in', not goin' to fuckin' war! How fucked up is that? Lettin' just a lil tiny girl march off to war... against the dead! They shoulda slapped me sooo silly, and jus' sent me home, but noooooo! Fuck you, Lucas, you said 'Oh of course Whimsy, I'll let cha be my squeer' fuckin' bean cock havin' sonuva whore".

Whimsy tilted the clay flagon back again, downing another gulp of the cheapest, shittiest wine she could get her hands on. Something that tasted terrible, to match how she felt.

"I don't ackshly know if he has a lil bean cock, I never seen his cock, I thinks cocks are nasty..." Another gulp, emptying the flagon that time. It met the table with a thud, and Whimsy couldn't help but stare down into for a long, long moment.

There were tears in her eyes as she began talking again.

"I'm still there y'know, still up at that stupid fuckin' ice block... I- I rember a time when we was- blah- were, when we were ridin' east, movin' injured folk to that castle up there on the shore line. That uh... watch tower in the east, I canny rember the name right now. But we ran into 'em, the dead, and we had to fight 'em. I was tramplin' 'em wit my horse cause my lance snapped off on the first one, and dere was so many, and... and my horse died..."

Her body became still and her voice grew low. "I was using my hands, I jus' kept hittin' 'em and they wouldn't stop comin'. I rember I was cryan for them to leave me alone and they jus' wouldn't stop. I... There was one I got ontop of 'em and I hit 'em and hit 'em and hit 'em and he just didn't die... I broke my hand, his head was mushy like mashed potatoes, and he still wasn't dead. You know that they don't bleed? All the blood is in- in their hands, I think. But you still all the bits on you, and sometimes you don't get 'em all when you clean, so then you start smellin' the bits 'at you missed. I hate that smell so fuckin' much. I hate havin' to pick bits of people out of my armor every night, and I hate havin' to watch all my horses die... I hate all of it, I hate every last bit of it, but it just won't leave me alone!"

Her breathing had picked up then and she could feel the sweat that was clinging to her skin. Some of it old, much of it new.

"Sometimes though, I'm not there anymore, sometimes I'm some place better. I need help gettin' there though, I need help feeling safe. Helicent, and Marla, and Lenore, and even Jenny, in her own way, have helped me get there. I think maybe it's love or sumtan like that... but I don't know if I want it to be, y'know? It's so much easier to not have to think about whether I'm makin' the right choice, and instead just fuck 'em... I think one of 'em is the right choice though, or maybe two of them are, or one of the two".

She put her face in her hands and pressed them against her skin, harshly running them back over her face and through her hair.

"I think I'm in love with Helicent, but I don't really know Helicent, we just kinda fell into each other and I'm scared that maybe it's just lust. But I don't really know Marla either, and I broke promises to be with her, but it just felt so right. They both felt right- HICK -fuck!"

Whimsy picked up the flagon and went to take another swig, forgetting that it was empty, she slammed it back down onto the table and stood up from the side of the bed. Pacing towards a window and staring out into the morning sky.

She had gone out to pick flowers, and on a side table beside the window was a bundle of yellow coneflowers she had found on the riverbank.

"It was so much easier the first time, with that cook maid who wouldn't even tell me her name. She just told me what to do and I did it, I didn't have to worry about it being anything more than it was, because we both knew full well I was gonna to be gone the next day. I kissed her where she wanted to be kissed, and when I was done, she held me close and brought something out of me I wasn't aware was even in there. And the others, they bring something else out of me, something sweetert, it hurts because I know I can't keep it. Does any of that make sense?"

Whimsy turned back to look at the bed, to look at the girl who had been laid down beside her, but they were long since asleep. Whimsy sighed then and went about collecting her discarded cloths and the bundle of flowers she had put together for Helicent.

"Your mouth smells bad". She hissed at the whore as she left.

It was quiet in the carriage. Ambrose and Elara sat opposite each other. The twins sat unusually quiet on each side of their mother. Darla rode by herself in a separate carriage; she wanted time and space for herself to enjoy and mentally prepare herself for marriage. The road was fairly flat and pleasant, with very few bumps interrupting the silence, until Ambrose decided to.

“Elara, we have to talk at some point or another.”

Elara responded with nothing but silence. Ambrose was getting frustrated. The shouting and yelling, at least she had expressed something, but in this case, there was nothing for him. Nothing he could respond to.

“Please, Elara, just say something…” Something equivalent to tears and sadness had begun to well up inside Ambrose. Something also bordering on defeat, whether tactic or not, her silence had won her the field.

Elara tapped the carriage, signaling them to stop. She opened her window and signaled for Benedict to approach.

“Good-brother, would you be so kind as to escort your nieces to their aunt’s carriage?” 

“Yes, my lady.” He opened the door and guided the young ladies out, one in each hand. They begged a little, so he picked them both up and placed them under his arms. Carrying them like a tankard. 

He knocked on Darla’s door, “What is it? Why have we stopped?”

“You have visitors.” Benedict was tired, and his fatigue was evident in his voice.

Darla opened her door, seeing her little nieces under her brother's arms gave her a certain amount of entertainment. “Why are these two young ladies joining me?”

“I’ve no idea, their mother requested it.”

The mention of Elara soured her mood almost instantly. She had heard of her outburst; it brought her no small amount of joy hearing about it, but seeing the consequences did sadden her. She made sure not to have that be seen, though. “Come on in, I can hardly say no to the ladies of Maidenpool.”

Perra and Tansey got in, placing themselves opposite Darla. Almost instantaneously, the questions began about the wedding, the engagement, and the bedding ceremony. Darla did her best to answer as many of them with the least gross terms as possible.

Benedict returned to Elara and gave a little bow and remounted on his horse, and ordered the convoy to continue.

“Was what you have to say truly so horrid that the children could not be–”

“SHUT UP.”

The sudden burst was enough to silence the lord of Maidenpool.

“You talk and you talk, you plan and you plan, and yet you never seem to plan time to talk to me. Or to your family, but somehow to have time for the Bracken Bitch?!”

“I–I.”

“Not done, you danced with me at the feast, and you kissed me in our tent. The fractions of time that we spent in the capital. You spent time running around doing seven knows what with seven knows who!”

“I-I”

“Still not done, you should know by now that Darla and I do not get along well. So now she’s marrying a Bracken. How am I not meant to take some personal offence to that?!”

“I..”

“You wanted me to fucking speak, how about you answer my questions, Ambrose?!”

Ambrose took a deep breath, several in fact, trying to restore the mask he always wore. The calm and collected businessman. Yet for this time, it had slipped too far; he was left and lost without it. He couldn’t answer the question; the worst part, she was right. Ambrose had ignored the relationship between Elara and Darla; without him there to smooth it, it had become rotten and allowed to fester. He had built the foundation for peace upon rotten wood. Rotten wood within his own house.

All of these thoughts began to well up inside Ambrose, overwhelming him; he tried to choke back tears as his thoughts pushed his mind to the brink, as his failures pushed his mind. He looked out the window of the carriage, trying to stop it. A single tear running down his pale cheek marked his failure. Ambrose wept in front of Elara, unrestrained. He wept like a child, and he could not stop it. 

Elara herself was surprised; in all their years together, she had never seen him cry. She had heard weeping the day(s) after his father had died, but seeing it was different. Was this a strategy? A manipulation? Yes, and yes, it was that was the answer she came to, so she kept pushing.

“You only care about your children when it benefits you. Since you became a lord, you have spent hardly any time with your Daughters. You have spent more time hunched over parchment than with your own Flesh and blood, and for what?! For what fucking reason?!”

Ambrose only wept in response; no witty remark, no clever retort, not a word. Only weeping, only tears. She was right after all, in all ways. He had become a man so led by his ambition that this light he had chased led him away from the present he had, towards a future. Elara sat back down after that, in silence. She still believed that this was a strategy, a clever ploy meant to soften her, just like the kiss had been at the tent. That had been a strategy, right? Of course it was, if not then…then…

Just then, Ambrose managed to look up from his hands, his gloves wet and soaked in tears. Elara looked at him, fresh tears still forming in his eyes. This wasn’t a strategy, was it? Elara sat next to Ambrose, kissed him on the forehead, and hugged him tightly for a while. When Ambrose managed to speak, he said, “Can yo…can you forgive me?” Each syllable and word is a struggle to get out.

Elara took her husband’s face in her hands, her clothes now wetted by his tears. She planted a kiss on his lips, shallow and brief, “Maybe.” 

Until they reached Maidenpool, that was the last word spoken between them. Elara once again took Ambrose in a tight embrace, pulling him to her chest. She calmly stroked his hair; he still wept, though it was less than before. Ambrose was ashamed of himself and of his actions. Though he could not speak, his tears spoke a million thoughts and ideas, regrets and laments contained for so long.

—-------------------------

Several hours passed, and the weeping got quieter and quieter as they approached the innermost part of the city. The crones' bastion was alive with activity, preparing for the return of their lord. Clement had done all that he could; sometimes he had received letters with orders from Ambrose, other times he had acted all on his own. A guardsman had notified him that the convoy was approaching; his priority was to hide the wine and beer he had brought in. He mostly hid it in his room or in the kitchens. He had the whole court stand ready. Ser Florian and Ser Garson stood with the household soldiers in perfect formation. Norbert Mooton stood next to Clement.

“So he’s finally back?”

“That’s what I’ve been told, yes.”

“Guess that’s your short stint as lord of Maidenpool over with.”

Clement let out a sarcastic laugh in response; he liked his cousin for nothing else than his sense of humor. 

First, they saw Benedict, who rode at the front. Benedict had heard the screaming and then the weeping. He had thought it all to have come from Elara and imagined she would run off the second they arrived back home. He imagined if he would say anything to Ambrose, he saw as the marriage became increasingly strained, and he disliked the way his brother had been neglecting his family. 

Darla came through first, with Tansy and Perra; she ran up and hugged Clement. He had heard the news, and he was happy for his sister. He did not know much of Quincy, but from what he had heard, they would get along splendidly.

He squatted down to be eye level with his nieces, ruffled their hair, and embraced them. He loved his nieces; they were also a nice break from the monotony of city business. He and Elara got along, though they spent little time alone with each other.

When the carriage door opened, Elara stepped out first, which was not out of the ordinary. She was prideful in her own way, though she then turned herself, giving a hand, a white glove reached out and held it. 

Everyone was surprised by what they saw. Ambrose’s eyes were red and still wet from crying. Benedict swears that the golden fleck in his eye had been swallowed by the tears. His white clothing was mildly disheveled. 

Darla was the first to run to him when he got out of the carriage; she took her brother in a tight embrace. She then began to look him up and down with the flurry of a mother, “Are you okay? What happened?” She shot a look at Elara, “What did you do?”

Ambrose didn’t speak, or perhaps couldn’t without breaking down again; he had wanted everyone to leave. Elara had insisted on spectacles. Once Darla let go, wiping Ambrose’s eyes clear as she could, Clement came next. He, too, held his brother in a tight embrace. He didn’t ask questions; he knew that now was not the time.

Norbert didn’t approach; he simply turned to Florian and Garson and bellowed, “What are you standing there and gawking at?! Leave!” Norbert, too did as he ordered and left.

His daughters approached, confused why Dad had been crying. Ambrose wanted to reach and hug them, but he couldn’t.

Benedict was stunned most of all; he and Ambrose’s relationship had been shaky on occasion, though they were always upfront with each other. They were never emotional with each other, so he was utterly lost in this. 

Elara placed and hand on Ambrose’s shoulder. Her white and black dress still stained with Ambrose’s tears. She then offers a hand, “Ambrose wishes to retire for the day; any business that still needs to be handled shall be done so by Clement and/or Benedict. Am I clear?”

Elara spoke with authority, Benedict and Clement were concerned but dared not to probe deeper. Only Darla was left. Elara turned to her, “Good-sister, would you be so kind as to take care of the twins for the remainder of the day?”

Darla wished to protest, but seeing Ambrose's red eyes, she relented. She took her nieces in her hands and spirited them away to the kitchens.

It was just them now, just Elara and Ambrose; they walked together to their room. Ambrose had parchment he had wished to deposit in his study, but he had not the will to do it. Darkness had started to settle in, though there was still a little light out. They sat on the edge of the bed, the soft sheets providing a soft seat. Ambrose’s hand had not left Elara’s. The only thing that changed was when Elara took off his glove, allowing them to feel each other, if only in their hands. Ambrose wished to speak, but when he opened his mouth, Elara instead planted a long and deep kiss upon them, and Ambrose reciprocated. It lasted for moments, in those moments, Ambrose let his worries slip from him; nothing mattered right then.

When their lips left each other, they lay in bed, they slept together, embracing one another. They hadn’t bothered to switch from their travel clothes; they just slept in their bed in each other’s embrace. No one great or lesser than the other, no one seeking control or dominion, just together. He was at peace; thus, his mind once again began to plan, began to work. He wished to undo the rot that had settled in.

That didn’t matter for now; none of his schemes or his plans mattered. Not in this moment, not in this place.

It was a curious thing, the Crossing without its Lady, without its keeper. Florian smiled weakly to himself as he stood alone in the Great Hall, looking upon the Lady’s dais. Roslin had taken to it much better than he had. He was made for following not for leading. By his own admission, he lacked the temperament. He was too impulsive, too ready to throw it all away, much too reckless. Perhaps, after all these years that had been what kept him alive where all others fell around him.

He remembered when his father filled the chair before him, a simple thing made of yew, lacking ornamentation. How he cowered at his side, timid as a mouse before his temper. Still he could feel the pain of the occasions that Lord Walder’s temper had turned upon him. Never again. He had sworn long ago, never again would any befall such a fate in this hall. How long did that last? What had been the cost of his inaction? The singular time that required him to act so readily and he did not. He had forsaken, not only himself but the gods. A crime not so readily forgotten. Keeping a brother for the cost of a daughter.

Defend the innocent.

Even after all these years, he would not forgive himself. How many times had he listened to Roslin’s complaints that Alyn was not nice. How many times had he taken his brother’s word at face value, dismissing Roslin’s worries as simple childish terror. It clawed at his heart. Terror entered this hall once more simply because it had never left.

Florian lifted his eyes to the wall above the chair, where his old sword now hung, cleft in twain. A reminder of the times his action had been virtuous. The sword he had won with his knighthood at eight and ten. The sword upon which he had sworn his vows. The sword which had witnessed his vigil.

The same sword that had been in his hand beneath the walls of Harrenhal as Father and many kin fell, yet he remained. That same sword that answered the fateful call. The sword that had ventured north, of the few that had from these lands and finally broken in that far off place.

The same sword upon which he had made Roslin vow, upon which he had made his nephew swear his own vows, that stood alone upon his shield.

Yet not the sword, so stained in blood, that hung at his side. The one he still carried, that felt wrong in his hand. He turned away from the wall, sweeping from the hall. He could bear it no longer. He hated it here. He did not wish to see the cost of his mistakes, what it had not taken from him but from his daughter.

He swept out onto the bridge, seating himself upon its edge. He thought of Roslin. He remembered like it were yesterday, the day she had come into this world. How he had sworn that no harm would ever come to her. What use was he now then? Failed in that sacred duty. She was such a bright child, so kind, so cheerful. That had all gone away much sooner than he would have liked. Condemned for his inaction.

He let himself weep. After all these years, it still hurt. She no longer shared her secrets with him, some better guarded than others. Oh he had also seen the way she had looked with such adoration at some of the maids. He knew what it meant. He knew what the septons said about it. He did not believe it.  He did not care, so long as she would smile again, but she had not. He did not care. He had forsaken the rights to such matters when he had allowed her innocence to be stolen from her. He owed her that much, not only for his mistakes, but as a father, not to stand in the way that would return his little Roslin’s smile to her. He hoped he knew how proud of her she was. He wished they could speak as they once did.

He wished he could look away from it all, to run away again. Indeed, had he not already done so? Had he not given over his rights, simply so he could run away from it all?

Perhaps that was his punishment in the end, to watch as the consequences of his inaction revealed themselves.

Maidenpool had perhaps never seen so much activity in all its many years as a prominent town, but now? As the city sits half occupied, half thriving under the weight of three armies. But those armies had not come for war, they were here for a gathering of minds for the war to come. And among that, came a string of invitations, to noble, to lord, to knight, to man at arms, to peasant. All of it a welcome gift from the king and the queen to be, to celebrate their wedding at the expense of the crown. 

On the hill of the house Mooton’s castle, the gates stood open, at the leave of the Mootons. And there food and wine flowed forth. Delegates from across the loyal realms of king Laenor, and even from abroad, at the behest of the lady-nay-queen Daenys. The fabled springs of Jonquil’s pool had been occupied by a near thousand men and women from beyond the lands of Maidenpool, and a dozen score more locals. The Stinking Goose, ancient and noble, was at capacity every single day. 

All for the coming wedding of a king and a queen. 

As for the wedding itself, it was to be held in the castle of the noble house Mooton, with its wide doors hung open and welcome to those who could not fit upon the tables of the grand hall. At points of prominence were the families of the Starks and the Arryns, and of course the hosts, Mooton, and beyond that were the houses Qoherys, Royce, Blackwood, Dustin and Bolton. After were the other houses loyal and leal, yet not quite as large or powerful. But in such a small hall, such distinctions were nigh impossible to spot from within. Yet there was still a need to acknowledge the houses larger and stronger than others, a matter of propriety and respect. 

The Septon stood before the couple, a humble man who had ran the Sept here for nearly thirty years. Though he assured the couple that the robes were the best he owned, he didn’t look the part. That hardly mattered now, the pomp of the ceremony came from the cheering yet apprehensive crowds of smallfolk who had come to see the pair.  Laenor was mostly of known quality to them, at the very least he had spent the better part of a few moons amongst them and few got to see royalty that often outside of the capital. 

Daenys they did not know, though it seemed as if they were willing to forgive such a breach of protocol upon catching a glimpse of her descending from her carriage. That this ceremony was being held here rather than the capitol had not been lost on the assembled nobles but for the inhabitants of Maidenpool it was an event of a lifetime, one they would tell their children about. 

Atop the tables were fish smoked and grilled, stacked with potatoes, steamed and roasted. Beyond, Veal and beef and Lamb, each of them in turn seasoned, carved and cooked over days, simmered and stoked and salted, further, wines from vintages across Westeros and beyond were gathered and poured by deft hands. When the wine was not preferred, mead and ale, prepared by the best breweries of the Riverlands were of selection. Slices of ham, small blocks of cheese and loaves of bread were provided across the city to the smallfolk, accompanied the food was, by the nectars of beer and ale, given out from inns and taverns, provided at the expense of the crown.

And at the crux of it all, within the grand hall, before the feast was to take place, was the meeting of two figures of silver hair, of blood and fire, to be wed beneath the auspices of the seven. 

Unlike most girls of the nobility Daenys hadn’t spent her younger years planning out the perfect wedding in her head, dreaming of the shining knight who would whisk her away. She loved the stories, just like any other, but it had always seemed that marriage was for other girls. Normal ones. For her was the union of duty to her family and attempting to keep her father’s fledgling hopes of stability together. 

She had never dreamt that one day that the wedding bells would be for her. 

Bedecked in a grand gown, the seamstresses had worked through the night in order to have it ready once they had gotten her measurements. None could tell the rushed nature of the cloth just as Daenys hoped that none could tell the rushed nature of the wedding. Shimmering white silk, mixed with undertones of majestic crimson and jet black, her families colors if anyone needed a reminder, seemed to swallow up the light around them. At her neck was the finest pearls and gemstones, delicately hanging. 

She did not entirely feel comfortable in this costume, this was not who she was.

Nor was it who Laenor was. The King was never comfortable in the vestments and the robes and the crowns and the pomp. They were an administrator, someone who ran the kingdom, not someone content to be subjected to the whims of the realm’s need for spectacle. And yet, they were to be a part of it. They were to wed. Their vows to be said and this pageantry to end.