Fandom &nbsp; A Game Of Thrones : THE EXALTED COUNCIL - RP

High Moon

Little-Fox · Jun 1, 2018

Rowan Royce
The Moon Warden's Daughter

Fire flickered in the background as if in a hearth. There were others nearby. Men. Three to be exact. Their faces were never clear for her, their words were tauntingly muffled, each aspect just out of focus enough that she couldn't quite make it out. But the pain was real. The heat was real. She could feel her heart pounding as something - a brand - was brought close to her face and pulled away after a few more taunting words. The man with the brand walked behind her, a warm wet feeling gliding up the length of her ear as a very clear command was given, the first words she'd hear and understand. 'Hold her still.' Hands held her body still as more held her head to one side using her hair as a firm handhold before searing pain shot through the right side of her neck.

A thin sheen of sweat coated her body as she tossed and turned, the blanket long gone and kicked off her sleeping form into a pile of thin linen near the foot of the mat. A tousled mess of coal black strands pooled around her shoulders in a tangle from how much she'd moved, her hair plastered across her forehead in places. She shot up abruptly, her breath coming out in harsh gasps as she glanced around wide-eyed, those silvery-green hues just catching in the sliver of moonlight that poured through the cracked flap of her tent. Another nightmare. Her hand lifted to touch at her neck, rubbing along where the pain had been only moments ago, a subconscious gesture of self-assurance that it really had been just a nightmare and nothing more. I couldn't even see them... but I heard him this time. She groaned softly and reached for the blanket, pulling it back up. Despite it still being early, she couldn't go back to sleep just yet, not with her adrenaline racing and her blood pounding like Dornish Sand Steeds through every inch of her body, her pulse thundering in her ears.

A deep frown set across her lips as she reached for a small leather bound journal and unfastened it, flipping through to find a particular page. The nightmare, this nightmare had already been recorded. Her gaze danced across the page in search of anything different, anything that had changed... and the only thing she could add were those words. She sighed and reached for the bottle of ink and quill, careful not to paint her pale flesh in black ink as she went to mark down the sentence, a small mark of annotation made to show where it had been said so she could add more in the future should it continue. Soft lips pursed to blow across the page, aiming to dry it completely before closing and rebinding the book, each rune fading from it's shine to a more matte appearance. It's just stress. She told herself. Stress and worry... He thinks himself invisible and that he has nothing to lose... He's still fucking important to me... Idiot. She flounced back on the mat, her shoulders complaining as they greeted it less than kindly. She finally rolled up onto her side and pulled the blanket up, drifting back to sleep.

Whisker · Jun 1, 2018

Jaremy Reed

Jaremy felt a hand snatch his cloak and then he was pulled off, away from Karstark, and spun around to face the intense gaze of Lady Manderly – though he didn’t really recognize her at first. The room was spinning in front of him. Her face was blurred. What was the matter with him? The crannogman felt the urge to slap himself, to wake up from the dream he felt he must be having, but the words of the shieldmaiden were more than enough to bring the room back into focus.

"Get the Stark girls and leave. Now. Do you understand me?"

Lysara Manderly’s eyes pierced him, like a pair of talons. He returned the urgent stare with his own for a long moment, hesitated, then looked aside to the body of the Lord Paramount lying on the floor. His blood was spilling out onto the stones of the Great Hall, eyes still a stark-grey despite their emptiness. The chieftain of the crannogs swallowed down his bitterness and nodded, squaring his shoulders.

“Alright.”

Somewhere in the distance someone screamed. Lysara Manderly pushed him away from her, in the direction of the stunned Willow Stark. Jaremy lunged forward towards the girl and extended his hand.

“Lady Stark? Come with me.”

Whether she wanted to or not, he took her hand and half-pushed, half-pulled her towards the door. As they grew close, he could hear shouting. His skin prickled uncomfortably as the frigid air hung heavy with an old, but familiar sensation: danger. And it was just as they reached the open door than he heard the sound of rending metal.

It’s started.

The crannogman knew it instinctively. Had known it from the moment Gregor Bolton had run his sword through Torreg Umber, and Karstark through him.

Winterfell was a battleground.

The war had started.

And he was standing right in the middle of it.

Alone.

His men, he had left them behind at the Neck. There would be none of his own here in this chaos. If he made it through, it would be by his wits alone. Gripping his spear, he held Willow Stark’s arm a bit more firmly as he pushed the door open to reveal the open courtyard. Snow was falling. The flakes drifted down from the grey skies. He saw a contingent of men-at-arms dressed in leather tabards and fur mantles cross the courtyard away from them. Their gait was urgent, and they did not seem to see him. An arrow whizzed past. One of them dropped. Blood spilled into the snow. Jaremy flattened himself against the stones and looked around. His lessons were coming back to him, as if his father were standing there, whispering instructions into his ear. ‘Pay attention. Not to the chaos, but the way out, son.’

Jaremy glanced over his shoulder at Willow Stark. “Lady Stark. Your sisters? Where - ?”

Then he saw them. Two girls. Red of hair like her. Sisters. The crannogman gestured towards them, every sense in his body telling him they needed to move. Fast.

TheFool · Jun 1, 2018

Leona Bolton
Sister

“Di’ you enjoy the hunt, hm?” Alyn asked, his breath smelling like spring onion. He got off of her and pulled up his pants. Ugh, she was disgusted with herself. Leona Bolton was so frustrated from hunting that rabbit that she’d resorted to romping with one of her brother’s soldiers. She tried to stand. Her back sliding up against the wall in which she leaned on as Alyn entered and exited her. “It was exciting,” She lied.
It was mayhaps the most uneventful hunt in the history of hunts. Not even one kill. She fixed herself, as did her lover. There was an awkward tension between the two now that the grunts and thrusting had subsided. “Well, ‘hat is good.”
“It is.” She eyed him.
The man had instantly become the ugliest man alive to her. Gods. Leona began to notice all the flaws of his face. The red and rounded pimple under his nostril and the way his right eye was crooked. I need… a nice long bath.
Alyn smiled at her, revealing a set of yellow.
Ugh.

There was a short and silent walk back to Winterfell’s courtyard, where the rest of her brother’s soldier rested. Alyn complimented her and then compliment the ‘nice weather’ as well. She did not issue him a response.
I wish what I just did could disappear.
And, for the most part, it did. “Men.” She greeted them. Some did quick bows, whilst some nodded. A select few of them stared at her with lust. Leona was sure that they all suspected the fact that their brother-in-arms had his way with her.
“Anything odd?” She asked a tall soldier, whose muscles bulged. Why didn’t I fuck him instead? He shrugged and then said something, but his words were suffocating in screams coming from the castle’s insides.
From inside the hall where the council had been happening.

Gregor Bolton said ‘something’ would happen.
“The Dreadfort stands with you.”
The soldier relayed her brother’s saying to her. Thus Leona was on the alert. At least she was until her and Alyn tussled in one of Winterfell’s pantries. The first scream caught her and her brother’s men off guard.
The second propelled them into action.
“You.” She pointed at a short soldier who was fat with armour. “Take most of the men here and…” She stopped to think. And? Leona wasn’t used to having a word of influence. She knew how to hunt and she knew how to sit and be an object of desire. She did not know how to lead.
“Go. Trek back to The Dreadfort. Do not stop for no one but Lord Gregor or myself. Understood?” She finished.
The soldier nodded a frantic nod and then began screaming orders at the other men. She was not finished though,
“I need twenty men with me.” She pointed at Alyn, and the group of soldiers standing next to the one with the bulging biceps. When her twenty huddled towards her, and the others began to make leave, she turned towards an archway that led into another part of the courtyard.
I’m coming to get you, brother.

Winterfell had been poisoned with chaos.
People hid and ran and screamed. Each roar was more terrifying than the last. “Lord Stark is stabbed to death.” She heard a peasant weep.
What!?
She never cared for The Old Wolf. He was an almost absent lord who had reigned over a boring and peaceful period in The North’s long list of periods. She was, of course, taken aback by word of his murder but she did not let it stop her.
I must find my brother, I-
She stopped.
The girls.
Aregelle and Lyanna weren’t close friends whatsoever, at least not in Leona’s mind, but she liked them and she did not wish to see them get caught up in whatever it was that their damned father had. She looked at the bulging muscled soldier-
“Have you seen Lord Bryce’s daughters?”
“Lady Willow was with your brother in the council, I do believe.”
“And what of Lyanna? Aregelle? The other one?”
“I-”
“Is ‘hat ‘em there?” Alyn interrupted, pointing his drawn sword at two red headed figures, standing still.
That’s them.
Leona broke into a sprint. Alyn and Bulger followed suit, whilst the other eighteen waited by the arch. “Aregelle! Lyanna!” She shouted, her voice barely audible over all the panic. She stopped and shouted the names once more, but they did not react.
It was then that she saw him.
A small sized man. Reed?
He was also calling to the girls. She was still unaware of whatever went on in the council room, so she realised that she could not trust anyone with the Stark girls but herself. She continued her run until she arrived at the spot in which the girls still stood.
Leona grabbed Lyanna by the collar and pulled her close. Her eyes locked with Reed’s. “What is this craziness?” She asked him as Alyn and Bulge backed her up.
Armed and ready.
As she awaited Reed’s response. As she held Lyanna. As Aregelle clung to her sister. She saw men coming out of Winterfell with their swords raised.
The hunt has not ended just yet.

High Moon

Hypnos ( Rest In Peace, My Bruva )

Hypnos · Jun 1, 2018

Walton Ryswell
Ready For Some Murder

Bryce Stark was dead. Gregor Bolton was dead. Toregg Umber was dead. Walton Ryswell was not.

Whilst other cowards might lose focus during a time like this, those who valued their lives more than their dignity, Walt was no such man. He had remained stationary during the entirety of the proceedings, not even uttering a word when Gregor Bolton had pierced the heart of Lord Umber with his blade, a man who many in his life considered family. He had also not stirred when his liege, Bryce Stark, had been murdered during his futile attempt to extract some sort of revenge from Lord Karstark following the demise of the fool of the Dreadfort. Walt merely sat, contenting himself with chewing upon the sourleaf which he had brought with him from one of his many journeys into the south, a habit which had gifted him nothing but a painful addiction and a crimson smile. Ryswell was a knight, a good one, and it took more than a little death to frighten him. Of course, this was not the setting he had expected for the first battle of the war, nor was this the war he had been expecting to fight, but life had a funny way of complicating things unexpectedly.

Clutching a sword in one hand, and a tankard of ale in the other, Walt rose, spitting his sourleaf onto the floor. Under normal circumstances he might have thought twice about leaving such a mess, but it was doubtful that anyone would notice the little red plant in amongst all of the blood that had already stained Winterfell red. So much death had happened today, and no doubt there was more to come. The thought excited Walt somewhat. In the last thirty years he had participated in more tourneys than he could name: he had won jousts, he had won melees, he had even tried his hand at archery, though had had found himself rather lacking in that area. What he had never won before was a war, and it seemed that now was his chance to change that.

Downing the last trickles of ale from the tankard before discarding that as well, Walt’s eyes found themself following a rather peculiar target. At first they had landed upon Lysara Manderly, the southern whore as she dashed forward to grab the Valyrian greatsword Ice, from it’s position at the feet of the quarrelling lords. He stepped forward in an attempt to stop her, but he realised in almost an instant that he would be too slow. The bitch was small, and she’d run right through his fingers.

Who was he even fighting for? House Ryswell had long been loyal sworn to House Stark of Winterfell, and his father, Lord Beron Ryswell had been a close companion of Lord Calon Stark, before the man’s untimely death upon the Stepstones. Should he not fight to avenge his liege? Cut down Karstark where he stood?

Then he thought of Arrana.

Sweet, sweet Arrana, his forbidden fruit. Toregg Umber was another friend of his father’s, and he was also Arrana’s father. She would never forgive him if he let those who conspired to kill her kin run free. Perhaps it was a selfish thought, for in truth, Walt cared little for this tripe. What he did care for, however was himself, and right now ‘himself’ was telling him to right a wrong.

He nodded for a second at Torrhen Karstark, conveying a single unspoken message. ‘The Rills are with you.’ Though perhaps it was more accurate to say that the Rills were chasing Toregg Umber’s ghost.

Lord Reed ran towards the little Stark girl, Walt made himself a separate path. It was clear that the key to the North rested within the surviving members of House Stark, and he didn’t intend to let that key run away from him. There was one way out of the great hall, and he intended to cut off the wolflings before they could make their escape.

Sprinting towards the door with the stamina of a much younger man, Walt maneuvered his way around the fighting with a deftness he’d learned from countless journeys to the south. As he ran, he was joined by another man, or rather, two. The brother’s Glenmore: Artos and Jory. It felt good knowing that he would have a little reinforcement, though he knew that this way slow down his ability to gather up the men of the Rills.

They made their way out of the room with not too much issue, attempting to locate the other Stark girls. Apparently they were not the only ones. Reed had gotten greedy it seemed. He wanted to make off with the whole pack of bitches rather than just the head. If that was the game he intended to play, then Walt was more than happy to oblige.

“Jory, gather up ta men. We may need ta make a quick getaway.”

“And you Ser?”

Walt shot the man a grin, his teeth stained red. “I’m going huntin’ for wolves.”

As the man ran off, Walt raised his sword above his head, his eyes fixed upon the little crannogman. The swampling had his back against the wall, but his face was turned away to look at the two red haired Stark daughters. It seemed as if another party had arrived as well, the sister of the bastard who had killed Lord Toregg. Perhaps he would be able to deal two blows with one swing.

“Scuse me little man, but where ta fuck da ye think yer going? I don’t think all them belong ta’ ye’.” He pointed his sword in Reed’s direction, but he was far enough away that the man was slightly out of his reach. For the moment.

Akio · Jun 1, 2018

Qoren Martell
Lord of House Martell

Qoren was silent for another moment before Darklyns servant came in before anything more could be said, calling them to council. Rather than answering his request he instead mused on something else, speaking just loud enough for the older man to hear. “When I heard Stormsend had fallen I must admit I feared the war was lost. Perhaps i gave up on faith too easily. I have high expectations for you Lord Darklyn and despite that you have exceeded them.” He said before standing and glancing at Lord Darklyn out of the corner of his eye. “I will divide my current forces here into three groups. A third will be put under you for collection duties and will help you gather the metal and wood needed for your efforts. One thing I believe we must take advantage of if that the treasury is full thanks to your previous efforts as master of coin. We should hire additional men to help with collections. However recruitment and the removal of homes is something I think you should leave to me Lord hand.” He said, still regarding him from the corner of his eye. “You are the Queens hand and the commoners believe you speak with her voice so if you were to take front and center in his movement people will trace the action back to the Queen and blame her for their troubles. This can not be allowed for a smooth rule during the war and later on. Instead i would like you to leave it to me to command these other operations to me. Ryden has been stuck in grieve but he has a talent for warfare so i believe the best way to help him recover is to give him a task or else he will wallow in his grief. He needs something to motivate him. As for the removal of homes and other dark necessities of war if they are placed on my shoulders the common folk will be quick to blame it on my influence at court as a foreigner and following the wars end I can remove myself from the capital to reduce tensions. By that time my son will be able to take my position on the council and rule at Elaenas side, with the goodwill of the people as the defender of the city.” He said offering his support but what he said next would likely shock the older man.

“As for bringing some of my troops here I've been studying the situation in the south and it is in a deadlock for now with the fall of Stormsend. Even if the Stormlands rally themselves around Alex pushing out of the passes would take more casualties than it was worth. Since the situation is not likely to move I believe my men will do better here. To replace Alexander's troops I will be moving 10000 men to the city from the core of my forces. That should be sufficient to defend the city even against Baelors best efforts.” While taking so many from home was somewhat risky if Kingslanding fell the war would end regardless. The city could not be allowed to fall. Moving so many if he took them mainly from the core forces nestled in Dorne rather then those already waiting at the passes he could shroud the true number of forces left in Dorne. Though he doubted Baelor would attack Dorne with it being so out of the way and dangerous, and if he did they could lead him deeper into the sands and bury him there. He trusted his daughter and the councilors he left behind to organize a proper defense if that came to pass. “I also think we should approach the guild of Alchemist, they’re wildfire might be the secret edge we need.” He said considering the alchemist guild. Wildfire was a dangerous weapon of mass destruction in a way only true dragon flame could have compared. But if used properly against an attacking army what kind of damage would it do? Not to mention it might even have uses beyond simple siege defense. Perhaps he would need to see Nathanial about working with the guild of alchemists. A discussion for another time.

“If that is acceptable I will go inform the Queen that you will be a moment..” He said turning to make his leave before he glanced back at him out of the corner of his eye. “And Lord Darklyn. You have impressed me but I want to ask you to consider the desperate steps we may need to take to win this war. Things that we will likely be condemned for. You will need to consider how far you are willing to go to win this war. But if you are willing to do everything that is necessary I will stand with you.” He said offering his support and without waiting for an answer turned to leave. The queen was waiting.

Rusty of Shackleford · Jun 1, 2018

Amelia Stark
Widowed Wolf

Amelia didn't make a sound at first. She simply stated in wide eyes despair. The man she loved, who she married and gave five healthy children was dead at her feet, a pool of blood spreading from his corpse. Her shock was soon replaced by grief and rage, the woman pulling a dagger from her skirt as she charged Karstark. Or tried, at least. One of her guards grabbed her, saying, "We need to get out of here, Mi'lady! Come on!" She fought against him, tears running down her face as she cursed Karstark, saying, "You'll rot for this, Kinslayer! You and your entire bloodline will!" The guard drug her away, helping her out of the building while the others covered their retreat. All of Bryce's men respected him, and they would die with him, like true Northerners.

Amelia could barely stand, needing to lean on somebody to prevent falling out completely. She looked around for her daughter's, asking the guard, "Where are my girls? Where are they!?" The guard was stoic, saying, "I'm sure they're fine, Mi'lady. We need to go." She was still crying, the dagger falling from her hands as the guards fought for their Lord to their last breath. In the ensuing battle, the tapestry of the Stark family was torn, Bryce being completely cut off of it. The fall of the North had truly begun.

Akio · Jun 1, 2018

Urrigon Greyjoy

It had been a quick ride back to Pyke, Urrigion trading quips with his sister as he rode back to his brother. He could only hope the Lord Reaper of Pyke had finally decided on a course of action. His brother was many things but communitive was not one of them and he had told him nothing about their coming plans about the war in the mainland. It had been a dull wait, would have been duller still if he didn’t have his sister keeping him company but not the son of the sea wind had finally made a decision and he was tired of being marooned on the isles. There were battles to win. Pyke was a dreary castle, of dark stone and so full of dampness you could feel it seep into you as the castle was constantly bombarded by sea winds. But it was home. He was smiling as he entered the castle, regarding his sister from the corner of his eye. “Hopefully our brother has actually decided to get off his ass. One can only sit in port so long.” He idly complained to her as they rode but without much real heat. While they rarely ever agreed Urrigon rarely defied his brother openly, though he was known to take liberties like going out for a ‘sail’ that afternoon. And while Urrigon liked to believe he answered to no man he grudgingly had to admit he answered to his brother and gave him face when necessary, He was his Lord after all, even if he was just a couple years older than him.

They had to wait in the great hall for his brother after he sent some servant to let him know of his arrival. He stood close to Gwyn, making ideal conversation before she turned around and called out his brothers arrival. She went over to him and kissed his cheek and he turned to regard his brother, seeing with some surprise that he was with Victarion as well. “Brother, glad to see you’ve come up with a plan of action.” He said favoring a roguish grin as he turned his gaze to the older man next to him and inclined his head. “And even got nuncle with you.” He said inclining his head to the man, which was the most anyone got out of him as far as a gesture of respect. He then turned back to his brother, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “So plan to let me into your plan.”

Little-Fox · Jun 1, 2018

Willow Stark
Winter's Blossom Stained with Red

One moment, her father was stalking into the room as if he'd caught a group of troublesome children vandalizing a family wall-hanging, and the next Lord Bolton's blade was being shoved through the Umber Giant's chest. She'd given little more than a sharp gasp as she'd stared wide-eyed, slowly beginning to back towards the table until her hip bumped into it and pulled a squeak out of her. It was just like Harrenhal all over again. Except it wasn't the tent-ridden yard full of banners, it was her home. Lord Karstark was quick to avenge Umber's death, his blade finding the man of grey-scale and running him through. Two Lords. In mere moments, two Northern Lords had fallen to the blade and now their life-blood pooled out to stain the wooden floorboards. She couldn't help but stare in shock, her lips parted just slightly as everything felt so surreal. It was a nightmare. It had to be.

There was yelling in an all too familiar voice, a voice that had sung to her sleep as a child and had guided her through her life to this point. Her eyes still lingered on the lifeless husks that lay bleeding out on the floor. Steel clashed and while she heard it,she couldn't shake herself out of the heavily shock-induced fog that lay over her mind, her gaze trapped on the oozing crimson. More voices, more yells, screaming, and then another body meeting the floor with a thud as the arm of Bryce Karstark hit first and then came the sound of his crumpling form meeting wood. She finally drug her gaze up from the carnage, just in time to see Karstark's blade come down on her father. Her father. Her voice choked out a startled cry as the 'Old Wolf' fell, Reed's attempt to intervene barely registering until Lady Manderly essentially tossed him at her.

Sound didn't hold real meaning until Jaremy grabbed her hand and started forcing her towards the door.

“Lady Stark? Come with me.”

There was a sense of chaos, that time both held still and was a rushing current that would consume them all if they didn't act and quickly. She was only vaguely aware of her mother's presence, of Lady Manderly still in the hall. Jaremy asked where her sisters were, but his answer was quickly answered before she could even bring enough breath forth to speak. Had they seen? Lady Bolton's words drew her attention as much as the grab for Lyanna, Aragelle still wrapped around her sister. "The Lords are dead, Karstark still lives... I am sorry, both my father and your brother..." She couldn't finish the sentence, her eyes were already glassy with threatened tears she could not afford to shed here or now.

“Jory, gather up ta men. We may need ta make a quick getaway.”

“And you Ser?”

“I’m going huntin’ for wolves.”

Her attention sharply turned to the man of reddened teeth as she quickly realized that he planned on taking the girls... her sisters. Her. She quickly realized as Ryswell targetted Jaremy.

“Scuse me little man, but where ta fuck da ye think yer going? I don’t think all them belong ta’ ye’.”

"Guards!" She yelled out, the first time anyone had likely ever heard her reach such a volume. "You swore an oath to my father, defend his daughters!" She stared the man down, his sword aimed at the Lord of Greywater Watch, the man who'd been trying to help her... the first man she'd ever really felt anything for that wasn't simple pleasantries and awkwardness. She let go of his hand, knowing he'd need to defend himself as she reached for the dagger hidden in her skirt as her mother had shown her. She didn't have a fucking clue how to use it appropriately in a fight but she at least knew which end to hold.

Guards in Stark colors had begun to react, swords drawn and ready to shed the blood of those who threatened House Stark. Their most obvious targets were the running Glenmore's and Ryswell himself though Lady Bolton too was suspect by how she held Lyanna by the collar of her dress.

Hypnos

ailurophile · Jun 2, 2018

Lyanna Stark

Treason.
Traitor.
Mad.
Kinslayer.

“Aregelle, come on, we musn’t slow down!”

They should never have been there. Gods, why had Lyanna ever thought that snooping would be a good idea? It was curiosity. Disappointment at being left out. She and Aregelle had wanted to investigate, not wanting to be left in the dark, they were not children, they were entitled to know the fate of the North.
Truth be told, they still didn’t know.

Torreg Umber. Gregor Bolton.
Father.

The reminder tore a whimper from her throat, one she couldn’t suppress no matter how hard she tried to appear calm for her younger sister. They tore down the corridor in a flurry of panic and red hair, but once they’d burst into the courtyard, Lyanna stood still. Where did they go from there? What could she do? For once in her life, Lyanna Stark didn’t want to be a grown woman. She wanted to be a little girl. She wanted her mother to stroke her hair. She wanted her father to come and gather her up in his arms and tell her that he’d fix everything. She wanted familiarity. Everything was wrong, suddenly.

Somehow, seeing Willow did little to calm the girl’s nerves.
Willow, with Jaremy Reed.
How could they trust the man? He’d been there. Their father had died. How could they expect him to protect them?

She drew Aregelle closer to her chest, eyes wide, frightened. Specks of snow flecked her hair, white against red. Green eyes met Willow’s. Flickered to Jaremy Reed.
Lyanna shook her head.
Mercifully, a voice cut through the crisp air, and Lyanna felt her knees would give out with relief. Leona was a friend. Leona would help them. She turned herself to look at the blonde haired woman, and for a moment her words caught in her throat.
Oh, Leona, I’m so sorry.
And then they came all at once, a torrent of panic and desperation. It didn’t matter that Willow had already explained, Lyanna found herself unable to hold the words back.
“Torreg Umber, Gregor, my father… Oh, Leona, Leona I’m so sorry, they’re… Leona, it all happened so quickly.”

Ryswell’s words were like a slap in the face, in the sense that they broke Lyanna from her panicked haze and made her focus. The tears that threatened to spill from her eyes were blinked back, along with thoughts of her father, her mother, because all that mattered was the present. All that mattered was keeping Aregelle safe, keeping Willow safe. She did not know where Larah had gotten to. She prayed it was somewhere safe and far from here.

“You must be mistaken. We don’t belong to anybody.” The way she and her sisters had been referred to made Lyanna’s skin crawl. As if they were possessions, possessions to be divided up and shared amongst anybody who decided to stake a claim to them. She nodded acknowledgement to Willow, tightened her grip on Aregelle til her knuckles were white. They were Starks of Winterfell. Nobody was going to take them against their will without a fight.

TheFool · Jun 2, 2018

Leona Bolton
Sister

Dead.
“What?”
The words wheezed out of her. Her breath was white mist. For a moment, the feeling of danger froze. Leona’s shoulders stiffened. Her knees felt as if they’d let her fall. Her fingers trembled around Lyanna until she clenched them into a coarse fist.
Gregor…

Leona’s head leant to the left so that she could set her eyes on Bulger. He, likewise, looked at her. He issued her a nod that signified that he and she were thinking similar things. She used her spare hand to slither behind her back and get her bow and arrow.
But it was gone.
Fuck.
She had taken it off before her and Alyn went for their tumble. With a quick glance back at the arch where her brother’s eighteen men were waiting, she spotted it. The ranged weapon and her salmon pink quiver lying on a wooden cart.
Fuck.
All was not lost, though.
Apart from my brother, he’s… he’s dead.
Each heartbeat was like a kick to the chest and, even though the air was with chill, her underarms boiled into a sweat. She stared at the weapon on Bulger’s back.
His bow.
She stared at the black tipped bolts.
His arrows.

Leona’s fist was tight. Ryswell stood in-front of Reed and Bryce’s eldest daughter. He wants to take the girls. Her fingers flexed before they clung to Lyanna’s collar. With as much force as she had in her, Leona dragged Lyanna, who in turn dragged Aregelle, and pushed the girls behind her towards the arch. Towards her brother’s eighteen men. Or...
My men.
Time had tidied. Slowed to the pace of a snail. At least it was like that to Leona. As the girls stumbled from her grasp, she shouted at the men standing at the arch. “Take the girls.” Alyn charged at Ryswell as did a gang of soldiers wearing Stark colours.
Gregor…
Leona hopped to Bulger and stole the bow from his back. As she could hear swords clink, she loaded the bow with black tips. “Protect Stark. Protect Reed.” She told him. He responded with a run to the two of them.
Gregor.
She took her stance. She took a breath. She aimed. Ryswell. She did not know how her brother had died. A part of her did not want to know. For that moment though, she pictured Walton Ryswell as the man who took the one person she cared for from her. The man who murdered her dear brother. She held her fire. Her arm aching. Her eyes watching Ryswell as he clashed his steel with that of the Stark soldiers.
She remembered the rabbit. How it hid from the hunt in the bush with blueberries. How it escaped the death her arrow would bring. Not this time. She held fire. I won’t miss again. Her eyes burned into Ryswell. I cannot miss… again. Her fingers loosened as did the arrow. It soared through the air and for those few seconds she prayed that it would puncture that bastard’s throat.

High Moon

Hypnos

Hypnos · Jun 2, 2018

Walton Ryswell

Walt didn't have time to react before the arrow pierced his throat. He was dead within a second. His whole life seemed so insignificant in that moment, so short. It was as if he'd hardly lived, yet now his life was over. His body keeled over, a river of blood flowing from his neck as red as the sourleaf he'd loved to chew.

It was over.

Whisker · Jun 2, 2018

Jaremy Reed

Jaremy Reed was many things. Short, at least by Northern standards, thin enough to be almost scrawny; but a coward he was not. When the door flew open behind him and a man came out, sword drawn, the colors of House Ryswell emblazoned on his leathers, the crannogman turned on a dime, his spear still clenched in hand.

“Scuse me little man,” the Ryswell slurred, his voice marred by ale. “But where ta fuck da ye think yer going? I don’t think all them belong ta’ ye’.”

His brandished sword was pointed directly at him, and he was coming closer. There was another man with him. A Glenmore? At once, Reed responded by backing up a bit into Willow Stark who was behind him, leveling his frog spear so that his line was on point with the bigger man’s sword. His hands were spread far apart with the back portion curled tightly in preparation to move the spear in a “pool-cue” motion in order to control the space directly in front of him as well as preserve the distance. As Jaremy steeled himself to do battle, there was one thing on his mind: Willow Stark.

He had to protect her. It was the one thing he could do – the only thing he could do now.

“Have you gone mad, Ryswell? Back off,” Jaremy told him, the words slipping out cold and flat. Behind him, he heard Willow Stark scream.

"Guards! You swore an oath to my father, defend his daughters!"

At once, the courtyard began to fill with wolves. Stark guards started pouring out of every nook and cranny around Winterfell, swords drawn, as if the scream had woken them from a dream.

Where were the fuckers a minute ago when we needed them?

Everywhere things exploded into motion. He saw the Bolton maid from the Hunt shove the two girls aside, snatching a bow from one of her soldiers. The Stark guards poured in towards the Glenmore. A hand almost the size of his own head seized him from the back and he was shoved forward, away from the doorway and towards the direction of the front gates of Winterfell. His last glimpse of the scene was that of the arrow leaving the Bolton’s bow.

Hypnos

TheFool

F for Walt Ryswell.

Braddington · Jun 3, 2018

Steffon Dayne, Anaya Uller and Lotho Antaryon

I hate this place. The thought was barely in passing as she slipped down the hall and out into the open street. Sure, it had been through the servant’s quarters… but how else was she to get past both her father and the damned guard the Martell’s tended to have babysit her? I should be in Dorne with Laena. At least then I wouldn’t have to pretend to want to be around the Lords my father thinks are ‘good ideas’... She glanced back from where she’d came, the lack of movement encouraging as she headed down towards what she hoped was the docks. Dark gold fabric draped down over her thighs, the cool morning air fluttering through it a bit as she walked, an apple still in hand from the kitchens. Years of getting out and away from so many people… and I still can’t escape this city.

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The start of the day began as most for the Dornish Lord. He awoke, feeling the urge to piss and a throbbing pain in his head. The ingestion of alcohol the night prior - the entire day if he were to be honest - always caught up with him. After taking care of his bodies urges, including at least one round of purging, Steffon bathed, taking his time to enjoy the waters as he struggled against his accursed hangover. The day after was less noteworthy. Waking so early, there was little to do immediately. No doubt Matthos and his companions would be resting still, not that Steffon wanted to visit them. The last he saw them, the meeting developed into an almost unsettling one. Matthos displayed the tremendous power of his foreign God again and Steffon hadn’t slept a wink that night, despite the alcohol he poured into his gullet. ‘Not that I wish to make Prince Qoren aware of them, either.’ The night cloaked Steffon the previous trip, they lost the men that Qoren Martell always had trailing the Sword of the Morning. In the broad daylight, he would get no such luck. As he dressed for the day, the stale air of the Red Keep, it’s imposing bricks that earned it the name, Dayne needed to escape. Shutting his eyes as he tied his trousers tightly, Steffon exhaled. Anything was better than lingering in this castle. The tunic of his house adorned his chest, a simple brown mantle fell on the Dornish Lord after that. As he learned days ago, it was not particularly intelligent to wander the streets of King’s Landing without a protective layer on, for here it not only rained water, but a golden fluid and nuggets of manure as well. The last thing Dayne grabbed was the scabbard and blade of his house. Dawn. Normally, Steffon would keep it in his room, but with such snakes and lizards crawling, he feared it would go ‘missing’ and neither Lord Qoren or the Hand of the Queen would bother much finding it. Tying it to his belt, the Stoney Dornish made his way from his chamber, down the hall, heading for the main gate. He did not bother to inform his house guards. The brazen suns equipped with wooden spears trailed him already. ‘I have no patience left for them.’ Steffon thought to himself before crossing into the courtyard, where scrap metal was collected on orders of the Hand, to the street outside. ‘Brilliant. I’m out, but now where?’ The Sword of the Morning paused, his face falling as he contemplated his choices. ‘Food. Food and wine.’ Not a particularly hard choice, the Sword of the Morning set forth, his eyes looking for any promising sign or one of those less than charming peasants that screeched on about their bread or mutton.

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Taking a turn around a corner, she realized that she was not where she thought she’d been. She wasn’t headed towards the docks, but back across the face of the Red Keep. A litany of curses rang through her thoughts as she considered her options. If she stayed her current course, she could end up intercepting a guard, but if she turned around, she very well might end up right back where she started. Leaning against a wall, she considered a few things, namely whether or not she’d seen any other passages that would lead her through an alternate street. No. There wasn’t another way. I’d have remembered if there was another street or alley, and I don’t recall seeing one… this was the only direction. She groaned quietly, hoping that she wasn’t to be discovered. Her father would likely have more than a few stern words for her as she was supposed to be ‘behaving’ while here. Taking a deep breath, she cautiously continued down the path and kept an eye out for any lingering guards, trying to at least pretend she belonged here.

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A few curious glances backwards and Steffon found where the Martell guards were lurking. Far back enough, hiding in the crowd or just beyond a bend, that they could peak out and look at the distinctive man from a block away. But not close enough for Steffon to catch them off guard and question them. Breaking out into a mad sprint after the two, demanding they leave him be would only encourage both of the Martell urchins to hide, or worse yet, run back to Qoren. Doing his best to blend in, The Sword of the Morning pushed them out of his mind. Sooner or later, he’d find an alley and hide in it, the city was nothing if not a maze to get lost in. Keeping track of the coin purse tied to his belt, sword and of those around him - aside from Qoren’s lot, the usual beggars of the city could be as dangerous, if not more - the Dornish Lord focused his mind on the goal. Food. Food and wine. ‘Maybe grog, if I’m brave.’ Steffon heard once that the greatest cure to an affliction from drinking was to continue drinking. To Steffon, it was nothing but a moderately amusing jest, the man certain that was a recipe for disaster. Yet, now, the advice from years ago were tingling in his mind, a thirst growing far past his developing hunger. ‘One or two drinks won’t kill me.’ Dayne decided, his violet eyes hitting a crier, the news of Storm’s End fall escaping his lips. The last thing Dayne wanted was a reminder of the war. A scowl forming, Steffon averted his eyes from the man. . .And found a familiar sight. Darker skin that belonged only south of the Red Mountains. A dress that no merchant’s daughter or wife could afford. First name and House were lost to the Sword of the Morning as he spotted the lone girl, her eyes moving like a bird of prey, scanning the street for any sign of danger. ‘Uller.’ It hit him. She looked like Lord Uller. ‘What was his daughters name again?’ The handmaiden at Sunspear. . . “Anaya.” He said, pushing past a pox marred man, moving directly for the lonely lady. ”Lady Anaya Uller?” His voice was low, his eyes washing over her. There was no mistaking it, this was the same girl he saw years ago, his last formal visit to Sunspear. Why was she out here alone though? ‘Doesn’t she know how dangerous the city could be for one like herself?’ “Are you by yourself? He decided to ask, rather than drilling into her with several questions on why she was.

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Rather abruptly, the daughter of Hellholt turned her peridot gaze towards the Dayne, pausing as she rather quickly realized that she’d been caught and by a Lord no less. ‘Fuck.’ She tried to quickly regain her composure, offering him a polite smile as she dipped her head in a small nod. “Good morning, Lord…” ‘Fuck… who… Dayne maybe?’ “...Dayne… I am alone, actually. I was taking a bit of a morning walk to clear my head.” She tucked a few strands of medium brown back behind her ear and looked past him, noting the guards that weren’t too far past him. “What do you say we perhaps take a walk further into King’s Landing, Lord Dayne? Perhaps somewhere a little more peaceful than so close to the keep.”

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Steffon almost laughed when he saw the woman’s expression shift and melt, looking less fierce or noble now, resembling a child caught out of bed more than a lord’s daughter. Holding back his laughter, only a smile with an ounce of mirth broke past his mask. As quickly as her expression changed, it returned, though differently. Now, she looked like a noble woman at court, rather than the sharp eyed woman he saw moments earlier. Steffon leaned heavily to his left, nodding as she spoke, ‘All alone? What candle kisser allowed her to do that?’ None, he presumed, given the fact that most Lords wouldn’t wander the streets without some guards. An attractive young lady set to wander the streets for fresh air? Steffon knew better than to believe her tall tale. His right hand rose, scratching the back of his head, spreading the brown mantle and flashing the sigil of his house as Anaya suggested they go elsewhere to walk, further from the Red Keep. A small smile followed a slow shake of his head. ‘No guards around her? All alone and wants to get away from the Red Keep?’ This meant that Anaya was either trusted more than he imagined, a possibility considering he didn’t know the woman at all. Or, she was out without permission from her father, escaping the stale air of the Red Keep for her own reasons. “Going far from the Red Keep?” He tasted the suggestion on his tongue. It was very appealing. “I can get behind that idea, Lady Uller.” Lord Dayne didn’t question her anymore. Provided he was with her, Anaya would at least have some form of protection, if the the guttersnipes stirred trouble. “Any place you are particularly eager to see? This must be your first time in the city,” He was reminded of Matthos in that moment, the words from the other night. Steffon forced them away. “I was intending to visit an inn, fill my stomach before the day began. If you’d care to join me, we can find a place half suitable for our regal standards.” Steffon said with a low chuckle. He’d take the girl back to the Red Keep when they were done eating, no harm could come of it, the Sword of the Morning was certain. If she wanted a little adventure in her life, seeing a strange place without a dozen armed guards at her side? Steffon wouldn’t be the one to take it away from her.

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She could almost hear the unspoken questions in how he’d phrased that first question, not to mention the micro-expression that had danced across his features just as much as hers had. He’d surprised her, she assured herself. Nothing more, nothing less. She would slip away from him just as she did everyone else. Afterall, it wasn’t as if anyone kept their attentions on her for long and that was something she enjoyed as it was all too often her means of escape. Had we been in Dorne, I could have been in leathers and wandered to the training field without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ But here… She cringed inwardly, hating the pretentious garb of nobility she had to wear in this place. Here I have to pretend to be proper and lady-like. Here… I have to pretend that I actually want this life. She knew she couldn’t tell the Sword that she’d been out and about at least one other time… though that had been with a sellsword, one sold to Ryden Martell. That would be… scandalous at best. “As I have no familiarities with this place, I have no idea where I would be going. I had been aiming for the harbor so I could at least get a look at the sea. Hellholt is far from any large body of water and Sunspear, while closer, is not exactly on the water’s edge either.” She gave another smile, this time of feigned innocence as she held up her apple. “I have breakfast here with me, but I don’t suppose I mind the idea of accompanying you while you have yours.”

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‘This is half as awkward as it should be.’ Steffon noted, nodding at the woman’s words once more, beginning to walk slowly in the direction of the Blackwater Rush, once the mention of the harbor reached his ears. ‘I could use some company, nor could I leave her alone.’ Dornish women were notoriously strong in Westeros, but Steffon didn’t wish to test the resilience of Dornish woman against the perverse crowds of King’s Landing. More than likely, Anaya felt she was self sufficient, wandering the streets of the Red Keep without an escort. ‘Doesn’t mean she won’t be attacked from behind, or robbed of that rich linen.’ Smiling forward, despite the headache that pestered him still, Steffon shook his head. “It’s a great city and it’s one of the worst places I’ve ever been. It’s convenient, if you need anything. There seems to be a street for everything, not to mention the different sights. From the Sept of Baelor to the Dragonpit.” If Dayne were more of a romantic man, he might spend time admiring the structures more. Or, if he were a pragmatic man, he’d be deeply satisfied with the many smiths, the cobblers, and the merchants who could provide a service unique to themselves. If one needed a cheap helmet or one made of gold, there was nowhere else in Westeros where both smiths resided hundreds of feet from each other. As it stood, Steffon was a country man, who enjoyed castles on the horizon and open fields, maybe a thick forest or the Red Mountains. “I can’t stand the denizens, though. Half of them seem to hold malicious intent on anyone and everyone they see. The other half are apathetic to the world around them.” It was a city for those who gave up on chivalry, honor, and duty. Maybe he belonged there more than he let on. As Steffon led Lady Uller further from the Keep, his head routinely turned around, eyeing the same Martell guards, always a safe distance from them. One would peak out and get caught, maybe both were too unfortunate to hide in time. The Sword of the Morning wasn’t losing either of them though, especially not with Lady Uller at his side. He smiled softly, his eyes in the distance as he continued. “A sandy Dornish seeking the sea? Maybe you’ve spent too much time with the Martells.” He personally didn’t mind it, there was a peace that the ushering of the tides could bring, the consistent charge of the waves, their steady retreat from the beach as well. Steffon Dayne just didn’t care much about it, either.

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At all of 4’8 it wasn’t uncommon for most to initially think she was a child until they actually saw her from the front or perhaps from just a little closer than a bit of a distance. That he’d think she couldn’t really defend herself was probably the best assumption unless he’d actively watched her spar in Sunspear over the last few years. Either way, she didn’t appear to be armed and she didn’t let on to any other possibility, instead she followed the Stoney Dornish, taking note of how he kept checking up on their ‘tail.’ He does not seem to be any happier with those who would follow than I do. She considered commenting on his opinion of the people here, those merchants and peasants alike who would shank or rob a man as soon as look at him. She wasn’t entirely sure if he was trying to scare her into remaining in the safety of the court or if he was simply stating his observations, either way it didn’t change her opinion of the situation. She kept her opinions to herself, however, at least when it came to those wandering the same streets they were currently traversing. The comment regarding the Martells got a reaction out of her though, a long slender brow arching a bit as she glanced at him and then back down the road, noting an alleyway coming up on their left. “Two years is plenty, I think. Try explaining that to my father.” She glanced back, noting the garish red and gold of the Dornish colors and their distance, where they were looking before she glanced back up at Lord Dayne, a hand finding his forearm as she smiled. “I think I found our exit, Lord Dayne. Unless you’d like to have the sun at your back all day long.” Without another word she let her hand fall and stepped into the alleyway, smooth as the silk she wore. If he was quick to follow, then it was likely that their followers wouldn’t be able to track them down. “Try and keep up.” She called back to him, following the wall to the next set of corridors and taking an abrupt right.

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Steffon didn’t know if it was his constant head turning that alerted Anaya Uller to their company or if the woman was naturally observant. She was peering out into the crowd when he bumped into her. Sure enough, Anaya’s head turned a few times, as did his, keeping the guards cloaked in the colors of the lizard in their sights. ‘Bright girl.’ Dayne thought as they passed by another stand. The lingering eyes of a poor woman, dressed in green drags and smelling of a dog did not go unnoticed. “It almost sounded like you’ve got a grievance with our Prince.” Steffon didn’t shy away from the words, keeping his voice steady as before, with only a hint of bitterness in them. The more he conversed with Prince Qoren, the more Steffon wanted nothing to do with the lizard of a man. His musings were interrupted as a hand clasped around his forearm. Anaya looked at him, mischief in her eyes as she spoke, practically reading his intentions. No other words slipped from the young ladies mouth. She darted into the alley, not bothering to look back, expecting him to follow after her. And he did. “Wait!” His voice rose for a second before sharply dropping off. Grabbing hold of his sword, to keep it steady, Steffon bolted after the younger, smaller, and infinitely more agile woman as she shouted back to him. ‘Catch up?’ A small part of the Dornish Lord was annoyed by the childish nature of the girl, needing to add that comment in as she took off away from him. Another, more dominating part of Steffon pressed forward, his legs moving faster, his feet striking the ground harder, and his lungs igniting. The small grin on his face betrayed any annoyance he wanted to have with Anaya. She turned abruptly, going right and following the narrow alley. Any danger they were in didn’t register, Steffon followed, his dark hair that was so neatly combed earlier this morning now wild with the wind. “Do you even know where we’re going?” He shouted up to her, already knowing the answer.

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She never did answer his question on whether or not she had a grievance with the Dornish Prince, though as he trailed her she finally did take a second to pause and look back at him, almost smiling as she questioned him for a change. “Why are you yelling? You know I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s either take a chance or get a sunburn. Your choice, Lord Dayne, but I’d rather prefer to enjoy a bit of time without ties and cages.” She never stopped moving, her feet carrying her backwards until she spun back around and continued her way through the alley before cutting to the left once more. This street was wider than their last, stands carrying colorful bits of fabric marking it as what was quite likely the clothing quarters. She paused once again, pulling a few coins from a small bag at her waist and passing them over to a merchant in exchange for a long scarf of teal, the exchange only taking a few moments as she began to move again, glancing back to see where the Dayne had ended up before she started to semi-wrap it around herself much like a hooded cloak.

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‘Sunburn?’ Uller’s daughter had a funny way with words, Dayne noticed, as she twisted her body fully around to further tease him. Running backwards as she grinned at him, Dayne couldn’t help but return the expression. Though, fortunately for Steffon, the distance between them was shrinking. Anaya’s decision to taunt the Dornish Lord with her actual-back peddling was giving him a chance to ‘catch up’. The throbbing in his skull struck out against this physical activity, deciding that anything was better than running, but most of all drinking was the optimal solution. Not for the first time in recent memory, Steffon ignored what his head had to tell him, pursuing the young woman. Just as he gained ground, Uller decided to turn back around. As she did, Steffon’s grin faded. His mind went back to the guards for the moment, trying to anticipate their next action. ‘I’d assume return to Prince Qoren, but I can’t be sure. His men are determined, if nothing else.’ And they were a lot more than determined, to the dismay of Steffon and Lady Uller. Dayne hoped they would leave behind their unwanted guardians, otherwise confronting them later would bring about only a greater headache. Breathing slowly, Dayne turned into the street after Uller, finding the young lady quick at work, handing two coins to a decrepit old woman in exchange for a clear-water colored scarff. Steffon didn’t entertain the notion of paying for a disguise, the brown mantel he wore was common looking enough at a distance, nor did Dayne want to spend any stags on clothing. He’d need them later. “If I knew I’d be running today,” He started, filling his lungs full of oxygen as he stepped behind her. “There’d be more wine in the Red Keep and less in my stomach.” The Sword of the Morning didn’t grimace at the exercise. It was a little exciting to run away from the guards, even if Steffon Dayne was too old for such antics. That was an old children’s game, after all. “Have your fun with it or should I brace myself for another quarter mile?” He remarked with a half cocked grin.

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“Oh? I didn’t realize you’d been drinking, Lord Dayne. After all, the point was to slip the guards, not to make you run any sort of race after some drunken night.” Her tone was teasing but genuine as she looked up at him and then past him, her volume dropping. “I won’t ask you to run, but I will ask that either you go your separate way, or follow closely.” She offered him a quiet smile before pulling the makeshift hood a little further around her before turning and starting down the street once more at a slower pace. “You didn’t seem to enjoy their company anymore than I do. If nothing else, perhaps I can teach you how to slip away from them on your own when you choose.” She hadn’t seen any signs of the red and golds of Dorne when she’d turned and so she wasn’t in too much of a hurry anymore, simply meandering down yet another random alley in passing, this one not quite as large or busy as the last, the cloying scents of fire, oil, flux, and metal starting to fill the area with their proximity to the blacksmithing district. “Now that we seem to have lost our spears, any idea where we are?”

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Pushing aside his mantle, Steffon’s arms folded over his chest as she made her quips. Faux anger flashed against his features, molding them as his eyes narrowed. It fell shortly after, with the Sword of the Morning walking closer to the woman, not yet responding to her. A subtle change in posture and tone indicated that something was about to be said in privacy, Dayne forded the distance so he was not ignorant of her words. Though, upon hearing them, he wished he had been. Doubtless, the young woman didn’t intend for these words to be received negatively. But the way in which they were presented to Dayne left him few alternate interpretations. It sounded like Anaya Uller was in control, with the choices that Steffon made being secondary to hers. ‘She’s just a girl,’ Dayne reminded himself, shrugging off the irritation that her comment caused. ‘Spends most of her time with people lesser than her and I just played her game. What else would she think?’ Still, Steffon found himself disliking the way she spoke her request. “I’ll be sure to stay close, then.” Dayne’s voice was low with a mild rasp as he stepped closer. His eyes went past the girl as she made yet another quick comment, laced with humor. His lips crawled up his face slowly, a sly smirk as his lips parted. “Might be I know some, already. It’s the proclivity for every ten and six boy to sneak away from his parents.” By that age, Steffon was already on the road with his father, traveling the length of the Reach in a year. It was only natural that, in a few occasions, Steffon snuck away from his father, or maybe went somewhere he wasn’t supposed to. Still, he would humor the girl. “I’m always willing to learn, if your generation’s done something mine hadn’t.” Dayne didn’t bother questioning why she learned how to evade guards, it was an obvious answer. Steffon didn’t feel the need to lecture her on staying put, considering how far he’d gone with her, regardless. “Maybe the Street of Silk.” Steffon mentioned. “We’re not far from the Mudd Gate. We’ll find me something to eat and you’ll get to see that sea of yours.”

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To be fair, Lord Dayne had intercepted her. Had he let her be, she’d never have asked him to ‘keep up’ let alone to either part ways or stay close. She didn’t want to be harried by guards nor had she expected ‘company.’ He might have thought he was doing her a favor, and perhaps he was, but in her mind he was simply another who seemed to share her preference for privacy. As he stated that he might know a few tricks of his own, she grinned, a flash of teeth between dark parted lips as she glanced up at him. “Then perhaps you can teach me a few. I’ve gotten quite good at it, at least while I was still in Dorne. I was doing well before Ryden found me at Harrenhal and after he delivered me to my father I was already gone again by the time he likely reached whichever end of the caravan he was heading.” She glanced ahead as they walked, the scarf now affixed properly to help hide her identity at least from behind, she was quieter, listening to street names she didn’t recognize except in passing conversation. “That sounds lovely, actually.” She murmured almost absently. She wasn’t sure what she’d do when they got to their destination. So far the plan had simply been to spend the day near the sea and perhaps consider what her options might be. But with her present company, she now had to plan for a possible escape. She could outrun him, but he seemed like a nice individual and that would likely leave a bad taste in his mouth if she did such a thing.

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A soft chuckle rolled from Dayne’s lips, passing as the wind and mouse-like in volume. “Ryden Martell caught you?” He asked, needing some clarification before he continued. The Sword of the Morning didn’t know much about the Martell children, ten years ago he spent more time outside of Dorne than in it. That was the case for most of the swordsman’s life as well. He knew that his house and theirs were linked, Steffon’s wife was a Fowler, sister to Qoren Martell’s wife. Summoning up everything he knew, the Dayne continued. “Isn’t Ryden the dumb one? It was Dorran Martell that was the thinker, when it came to the boys.” Steffon knew a little more of Dorran, having gone to Sunspear to congratulate Prince Qoren on siring an heir and wishing good health upon him. “Being caught by Ryden’s a little shameful, don’t you think?” He asked with another rolling laugh, equally as brief as the first and leaving a mirth filled smile on his lips. Aside from a comment moments ago, Dayne was liking Lady Uller. She was capable of holding interesting conversation, not to mention she seemed more adventurous than most he’d seen. Though, outside of Dorne, that was not all too common. Highborn ladies were prim and proper. Not a trait he particularly disliked, but seeing the opposite had an odd appeal similar to that of an early spring. “If we’re talking about being caught. .” Steffon whistled loudly, eyes bulging for a second as he accentuated the severity of his tale. “I was sixteen, freshly knighted and a bit too smart for my own good. My father took me to the Reach to join in my first joust. The night before, after I’d made it in the tourney passed the trial round, I found myself inclined to accompany a few older knights and their squires.” His lips turned towards his nose, his eyes distant as he recalled the memory. The knights weren’t more than five years his senior, each as green as Dayne at the time. “You know how fathers can be, mine wouldn’t fancy the notion of his son leaving to be with others on the eve of his debut. I, the cocky little Dayne I was, decided that I was smarter than my father. So, when he left, I snuck out of our pavilion and away from the companions of ours. By midnight, we were on a hill miles away, drinking some lord’s red. We spoke, drank, cursed each other and did everything a dumb kid does.” Including the sacred tradition of naming wives. Each claimed another attractive woman they saw as their own, swearing to cut another’s throat if she were claimed by their companions. Silly boyhood fantasies that adolescents are all too eager to take seriously. “I snuck back some hours later, unable to see my left from my right. I thought I was so much smarter than the world, but when I saw my father waiting for me, I knew I’d gotten it.” Dayne paused, pointing to a smaller street intersecting through the road of wares. “This way, I think.” Dayne muttered, stepping down hill as they drew closer to the Mudd Gate. Salt air wafted in his nose, indicating he was correct. “I told my father what I did after a few clouts. He demanded more wine be brought to the pavilion, told me I’d be drinking all night, as punishment. Didn’t seem so bad at first. Not till the next day when I was begging for death, trying to sit straight on my horse. A pain worse than any mace could give resonated in my head, ready to sleep till I died, too.” It was a horrible first joust. Steffon didn’t even offer competition. That was Gwayne Dayne, however, stern and merciless when it came to adopting poor habits. “The next time I snuck out, I made sure to bribe a few of our servants. They covered for me.”

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His smaller companion listened quietly as he woke, a nod given when he’d asked if it had been Ryden Martell specifically who’d caught her. “I don’t know that he’s ‘dumb’... but certainly not the most intelligent when he takes his anger out on a trio of guards in the sparring yard… Dorran was gentle and quiet. He and Laena were usually around in Sunspear while I didn’t formally meet Ryden until Harrenhal.” She again listened in silence as they walked, his tale of sneaking out and getting caught drawing a faint smile from the girl. “I’ve been sneaking out since before Father sent me to Sunspear… I used to follow my older brother and I learned to spar with him… and when my father began speaking of… trying to find a ‘suitable’ match for me in marriage, I began sneaking off more often. He sent me to Sunspear to serve as Laena’s handmaiden about two years ago, thinking that I’d pair with either Dorran or Ryden. Honestly, I spent more time in the training yard and away from people. I don’t drink wine but I’ve met rather interesting people… So-called lowborn… but they feel more real to me. Not so pretentious, I guess.” She quieted for a long moment, following his guidances through the streets with at least some sense of trust that he knew where he was going and wasn’t going to turn her over to a guard.

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“Maybe stupid was the wrong word.” Steffon agreed. “Abrasive. Impetuous, short sighted. Unless Laena inherits her father's position, I am not so eager to see Prince Qoren pass.” Ryden was young, maybe he would grow into a more calculated man. But from what Steffon saw personally and the attitude that the youth carried, Dayne doubted that was the case. He would be killed in this war if he didn’t smarten up. House Martell wasn’t very popular as it is and Steffon was sure that Ryden at its helm would sink it further into the dirt. When the young woman spoke of sparring, Dayne didn’t doubt she was telling the truth. As he saw her, she seemed to think she was capable of handling anything. Anaya was not timid in the least, abandoning any guards and willing to wander the cesspool of a city by herself, if Dayne hadn’t seen her. “Self defense is an important skill to have.” Steffon commented, approving of the fact she knew her way around a fight. Dornish women were notoriously prickly. Such a Dornish woman who knew the intricacies of combat was not something to scoff at. “You’re good then? What with? Sword or spear?” Dayne would wager a bet that it was the sword, a more lordly weapon that her family would be able to spare - or Anaya could “acquire” from the Martell’s. Though the spear was handy as well, likely the deciding weapon in any grand battle, if the annals of history were to be believed. Archery was a physically demanding activity and unless Uller was an avid hunter, Dayne wouldn’t believe the Dornish lady would waste her time learning it. When the conversation went to the common folk and the attitude many of the Dornish lords held, Steffon sighed. Feeling around his waist, Steffon scowled at the lack of a wine skin. ‘I drank it all. Right.’ “I’ve met plenty of kind smallfolk. Honest, earth and soil people who give praise the gods for what they have. I’ve also had to hang many wicked and gluttonous who murder, rape, and steal. For every haughty lord I’ve treated with, few of them I can decisively label cretins.” Immediately, Qoren Martell came to mind. “ It’s hard for me to pick one group over the other. I may be biased, seeing as I am a highborn.” He smirked at the infinitely smaller girl. “I hope I’m not so pretentious to you.” The air was getting fouler, the salt air being polluted with a familiar scent. Fish. Fish being disemboweled, descaled, and put on market. “Will you join me for breakfast?” Steffon posed the question. It was very likely she’d want to see the sea. If that’s even why she snuck out. The Sword of the Morning suspected she’d not want Dayne’s company all day, as it was.

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“Glaive, actually… or a short sword or dagger if necessary. Glaives are only as good as their reach, once your opponent passes it, you want to drop it for a shorter weapon. They make for a damn good weapon to trip someone with though.” She replied quietly, a bit of mirth in her tone as she tucked a wayward strand back into the makeshift hood. “Every person you meet could be the one who kills you, the one who saves you, one you never think of again, or one you will never stop thinking of. But if you never step out and take that chance, you’ll never meet the ones who do matter… as for you being pretentious…” She paused in the middle of the street to look up at him, her head tipped slightly to the side. “I don’t think I know you well enough to say one way or another, honestly. You could be what you seem, a nice man who might be a touch too concerned… or you could simply be someone seeking their own motives. I’m not gifted with any sort of otherworldly sight… so until you show yourself otherwise, I hope you to be the former rather than the latter.” She smiled gently, a genuine expression as she started back on her way towards the ranker smells of the marine butchers. “As for breakfast, I don’t mind at all to join you.”

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Another string of laughs came from Dayne when she told him what her weapon of choice was. “A glaive? You went for unique. It would be very unsettling, seeing something that sharp being shoved in my face.” She was right when it came to the distance it alotted to its owner. “You keep the short sword for that very occasion, so you won’t be entirely unarmed.” Just at a reach disadvantage when an enemy broke past her weapon. “Some time, away from your father, we should exercise a little.” It wouldn’t be an actual match. Dayne didn’t want to fight a polearm with a sword. But working himself back into a more active life style would come in handy when he met Jon Corbray again. ‘And when we do, neither of us will humiliate the other.’ Upon reflecting on their duel, Dayne could only imagine the shame it would bring Corbray to kill a lord such as Dayne when the man was at his lowest. Neither armor nor sobriety were on his person. Dayne could not kill a man in such a condition, least not with any amount of honor in the act. He suspected Jon felt similarly. “You’re an insightful woman, do you know that? Is this what burdens your mind? Who to meet, what fate might have in store for you? You should learn to relax and think less.” Dayne moved through a crowd of people. A few wealthier men in fine gambets, though those did not reflect any house sigil he knew. Self made men, Dayne assumed. “This way, I smell something other than raw fish. Cooked fish. What a smell.” Sardonically spoken, Dayne drifted to a beige colored building with two floors. The first had a closed window, the shutters letting in scarce light, whereas the second was open, where a woman knelt by the window with linen in her hands. Written poorly on a sign hanging off the building read; ‘The Winking Mermaid’. A good of place as any other. Steffon approached it and opened the door, giving Anaya the privilege of entering first. Wide, with several large tables in the center of the building and lesser seats available towards the walls, the heat of an oven spilled over into the room from a back door. Where the kitchen was, no doubt. The inn was sparsely populated, most off working or returning to their wives, Dayne would assume.

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Lotho had to have ventured for just over an hour in this petulant city, taking in its sights and familiarizing himself with its ways. It was corrupt, it was disgusting, it was messy and worst of the smell refused to truly abate but somehow it was oddly charming. The men and women in amongst the retinue of random Lord's with different coloured banners, the merchants selling off their wares and the children playing in between it all. The city was truly alive with a community and each new street gave way to an entire new cultural subsystem where everyone knew each other and had their own identity separate from all the rest. He had to admit he enjoyed the simplicity, in Braavos if you ventured down a side street you were just as likely to join a cult sacrificing someone to a random God every week as you were to find a quaint little butchers store. Although those were sometimes the same thing on the outskirts of Braavos. Whatever it was this city was also another place to tick off his list, from Asshai to Kingslanding it had been quite the cultural journey but as the mystique of the east became boring the charm of the west had only just begun.

However, his hunger now refused to wait any longer and so as he walked through the maze like streets in search of a tavern. He came upon a boy of around 15 years, in actual leather armour juggling some apples and decided to see how the hell he could afford all of that, especially the old sword he had with him. As he walked over the boy stopped and looked up to regard the Braavosi “Sorry, I am not performing today. I am just practising before I get on a ship, the Captain said I had to entertain the passengers on top of my pay in order to get the last place and I won't be around after that. Obviously. Old Ben down the street has others if your looking for someone to provide a bit of fun.” The boy said, pointing down the street in the direction of what seemed to be a collection of children performing tricks. Lotho looked down to him with an inquisitive eye “Where are you going boy? How did you afford your current ensemble and if your current job pays this well then why on earth would you want to leave?” The boy didn't flinch at the inquisitive foreigner but merely gave the truth “This is all my father's stuff, he died a few years ago. Killed by one of them debtors who lend you money. Goldcloaks got em though. I am headed home, at least what father constantly rambled on about as home even though he was too poor to return. He says he was from the Iron Islands and that his family ruled from some castle there and that's where he got this stuff from, I am named after his father apparently, some war hero. I don't believe it but it's better than working for that old snake and now I finally have enough money to take me and mother there like father always wanted. If it turns out to be nothing? Then so be it.” Lotho listened intently to the boys story, it was of course fantastical but something about the boys garments and his well spoken manner, possibly inherited from his father made just a part of him view it as possible. He had some suspicion and needed to hear the boys name. “What's the man your named after? Your grandfather? You said he was a war hero.” The boy drew his sword and showed the hilt to Lotho, on it was a Kraken and what was presumably his father's name. “My name is Victarion, though everyone calls me Vic.” The name hit Lotho like an arrow, they still sung songs of the Shipbreaker in Essos, a man who's name would send frightened children to sleep at night and for a brief few years the Shipbreakers son had stayed in Braavos, supposedly exiled by his uncle. He looked at the boy, examined his eyes and his features, looked at his equipment once more and smiled “Go home little Greyjoy, I am sure your family will be glad to see you. Especially Victarion.” With that he walked off, leaving the boy who tried to shout after him to see what he meant by his statement. Lotho simply ignored him, confident he would eventually work it out on his own.

Eventually he came upon a tavern known as “The Winking Mermaid" and decided to enter, regarding the place with a keen eye. It was rather empty just as he had hoped. He walked up to the woman who was seemingly in charge, “Surprise me with something native, anything will do.” He stated before throwing down some coins, knowingly far exceeding the amount he was meant to pay before wandering over to most distant table. Before food came however a noble and a woman who was also obviously noble to his eyes walked in, it appeared that they had been running. He stood, eager for some company in this place and shouted over to them, “My friends! Come join me! I am eager for company after a long trip from Braavos and I would appreciate folks like yourselves keeping me about my senses. I did also just order a rather large amount of food that I won't be able to consume myself.” He stated with a bow.

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Did he really tell me to stop thinking? To not worry about what is going to happen to me? “Yes and no.” She murmured in soft response to his question. “What burdens my mind is what I imagine burdens every Lord’s daughter’s mind at some point in their lives…” “My friends!” Anaya nearly jumped out of her skin as the stranger shouted at them, olive-toned flesh paling briefly before darkening across her cheeks just a little, seafoam eyes glancing up at Dayne with a questioning look as if to ask if that was actually a good idea. It was a Braavosi, that in itself could make for good conversation. However Dayne didn’t seem the sort to want to socialize with outlanders all that much… especially given his opinions on ‘lowborn.’

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As Anaya exchanged looks of confusion with Dayne, the lord gave a negligible shrug. Boisterous, naming himself a sailor from Braavos, violet eyes fell on the foreigner calling them for company. He wasn’t dressed like a ship hand and Steffon didn’t know what sailors would go to an inn alone. Surely, most would be eager to drown their sorrows and take in local ‘sights’. “Maybe I drank with him, once.” Steffon muttered to the dwarf of a woman. It was plausible but unlikely. Steffon never ventured outside of Westeros nor did he recall meeting many Braavosi in the past. ‘Unless. . I just drank that much.’ It would be an unpleasant conversation if that were the case. Dayne’s face was flat for a moment more, a small smile creasing his features. “Lady Anaya?” He whispered, careful to keep her name low. “Rejecting this man’s offer for bread and conversation would be very discourteous. We might never be forgiven if we ignore him.” A free meal? Steffon would accept that. Pleasant conversation? Depending on the nature of the man, Dayne was likely to at least have a story or two to tell from the man. He only worried that the Braavosi could be a liar. Looking for company to share his meal with before evacuating the inn, leaving Lord and Lady with his debt. Dayne would be sure to keep an eye on this stranger if he acted in a questionable manner. Pulling the mantle tightly, Dayne’s smile expanded. “It would be our pleasure.” Speaking on behalf for Uller at the moment, Steffon picked a seat opposite of the unknown Braavosi, hovering behind it as he introduced himself. “Steffon Dayne.” It was spoken lower, half a whisper, to keep any prying ears at bay. “A sailor from Braavos, you say? Would you be the ship's captain?” Dayne inquired before planting himself on the stool, resting his hands on the wooden surface in front of him. “Maybe he’ll offer you a ride back, Anaya.” Steffon offered her a teasing smile, thin and lacking any resilience, as it soon faded from his lips.

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He regarded the noble and his companion, Dayne was a Dornish house and his companion had the looks of one from Dorne. It answered the question of which side Dorne backed in this so called civil war, of course they would back the girl. Being asked if he were just a lowly Captain brought a smile to his face, everyone in Essos knew his name and looks one way or another but here in Westeros he was an unknown Braavosi traveling the world. He considered for a moment whether he should go along with the Captain lie but something tugged him towards honesty with the two of them. “I am the Captain of a ship, the biggest one in the harbour no less. That is not my sole profession, however, and it is not what brings me to this city. My name is Lotho Antaryon, former First Sword to my brother, the Sealord of Braavos. Charmed.” He bowed to the two, making sure his thin sword was visible to both before rising once more and motioning to the seats. “I assure you, the food is payed for.”

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Anaya offered Dayne a faint smile and nodded. He was right, it would be rude to turn down such a kind offer. And to be fair, she was rather interested in hearing about the world beyond Dorne and this city of walls the Nobles fawned over like some prize jewel. Looking back to the Braavosi she moved to a seat that would be somewhat between both of the men. “Anaya Uller, pleased to meet you, Lotho Antaryon.” She understood at least a bit of what it meant to be a Braavosi and perhaps even what it meant to be a ‘Sword’ to someone. She’d not gotten to practice much with the Braavosi teacher in Dorne, but it’s something she’d wanted to do. For now she stayed quiet, somewhere between curious and trying to be what passed as a proper lady.

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Once the stranger mentioned his name, occupation and immediate relationship to the effective ruler of Braavos, Dayne pulled back in his chair, right eye squinting at the supposed First Sword with a healthy degree of suspicion. Most lords at least knew what a First Sword was, maybe Steffon didn’t grasp the full significance of the title, but it meant that the man sitting across from him was a master of his style. Blades of thin steel that aimed to penetrate above all other things, not unlike a viper strike. It was elegant, in the few times Steffon even saw a duel between two swordsman from Braavos. The odds of this man, Lotho Antaryon, being a genuine was low. Impossibly so. Why would the First Sword - Former First Sword - be in Westeros? In King’s Landing? ‘Here?’ Dayne thought. It seemed like Anaya was taking his words for truth, at least that was the appearance she gave. Steffon gave a polite nod at the two, “Lord Antaryon, I’ll confess that I was not expecting to meet very famous men when we ventured out for breakfast.” This wouldn’t be hard to prove or disprove. Braavosi sailors would be somewhere in the city, nearby, most likely. After they ate and the two groups diverged, Steffon would verify the Braavosi’s identity. “What brings you here? If it’s for any hope at entering the last season of tourneys before Winter hits, I’m afraid you came at a bad time.” The Sword of the Morning didn’t specify what the issue was, no doubt this man knew, especially if he was kin to the Sealord.

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Lotho immediately knew that this Lord Dayne was suspicious of him, with good reason of course. The odds were against him being truthful. He smiled at the man and continued his theme of honesty. “I was hired by your Prince Jaehaerys to teach your now Queen the art of the Dance. The letter specifically said she was always striving in the aspect of sword play so I thought to myself, “Why not? What do I have to lose?” Then the very day I was about to leave and had said farewell to my brother and daughter I heard the news of his death. I held off to see how the cards would fall but when I learnt of this so called civil war how could I possibly resist any longer? I took ship and here I am before you now, weary from travel and eager for some food and chatter.” It was a rather plain story in all honesty, easy to fabricate if one wanted to but it was the truth. Then right on cue around 4 of his men entered the room with expensive Braavosi armour adorning their chests with his sigil smack bang in the middle. There was always a reason for the places he ate and drank at and this place was chosen simply for it’s proximity to the docks and native feel. It also served to be immensely helpful in validating his story if the need arose which it just so did. Of course his men would visit here.

The biggest of the group, Syrio, approached the table and bowed his head to the three of them. “Lord Antaryon, it is a surprise to see you here, we expected you would be exploring as you usually do.” He guffawed, “The men did as you asked and your things are being transported to that red castle as we speak.” One day his men would realise he plans these events but alas, today is not that day. Lotho rose and drew the man into a hug before a large amount of food arrived. He gestured to the inkeep to send the majority to his men's table and the rest for the small group he himself had collected. He sat as it was placed and looked to the two Dornish nobles, “I apologise about that, my friends. My men are a sensitive bunch and prone to being insulted if I ignore them. Do dig in, I didn’t pay for nothing.” He stabbed a sausage with his fork and bit off an end, “Where were we?”

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Anaya listened as Dayne and Lotho spoke, her curiosities answered and piqued again as the mention was made of his specific reasons for being here. The Braavosi Dance… I missed my chances in Dorne… She smiled as the Essosi men entered the place, watching as they embraced Lotho and confirmed the man’s identity, something that helped her make her decision. Once they’d began to settle a bit more and the apology was given with an explanation, she glanced at Dayne and settled her gaze back on the First Sword. “Would it be rude of me to ask if you are open to teaching those outside of Queen Elaena?”

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Lotho Antaryon’s story was no Odyssey. Steffon mused over the scarce details that Lotho gave, likely too little to share, rather than the Braavosi man hiding anything. Steffon Dayne thought he was a decent judge of character and the man across the table from him didn’t appear to be holding anything back. He spoke quickly, so either Lotho had this response rehearsed or he was honest. Any doubt the Sword of the Morning carried was subsequently swallowed when four large men in unusual armor entered the inn, eyes heavy on Lady Uller and Lord Dayne before shifting to their superior. Dayne gave the men a simple nod of his head, letting them mingle with each other without reproach. As one large man met Lotho, both embracing, Dayne shot the younger woman at his side a small grin. ‘Of all the men of noble rank this city has to offer, she’s somehow introduced both of us to a foreigner.’ This came from the young, unwed lady that wanted to avoid nobility as if it were the executioner’s edge and embrace the smallfolk of the city. It was humorous, was this the hand of some invisible god pulling them closer to this swordsman? ‘Maybe it’s Matthos’ god.’ The vision in the flames was clear to him still, as clear as the prophet of embers had made it. Shifting in his chair, Dayne’s smile died, watching as the four men sat at a table further from those of a higher lineage. Not before the last sailor (warrior?) sat, two women pranced from the kitchen with saultry grins. Much like the mistresses at Maerie’s, no doubt these women enjoyed a story or two. Maybe just men with heavy coffers, as he eyed one of the serving girls glance at the richly dressed men in the adjacent table. “You have my thanks Lord Antaryon.” A guest of the late prince, presumably still a guest for Elaena too, Steffon would owe him as much respect as Prince Martell warranted. “Should you wish it, I’d be happy to escort you to the Red Keep.” As little compensation as that was, just eyeing the trays of steamed fish or freshly slaughtered pig made Dayne very conscious of how little coinage he brought with him. It was supposed to be a meal for one and wine for three, yet now it seemed to be a meal for ten or even twelve. As the platters were distributed between tables, most heading for the more populous of the two, Dayne gratefully took hold of a cup. Without even tasting it, Dayne knew the name of the drink. An ale brewed outside the city. His second visit to King’s Landing involved a similar beverage. “To you, Lord Antaryon.” He cheered and brought the cup to his lips, sipping on the brown fluid and feeling his migraine rest more. Then Anaya Uller made her request. He turned to look at her then their new friend, remaining silent. It wasn’t Dayne’s place to lecture Anaya, otherwise he’d of stopped their adventure at its inception. Lord Uller had years to pry Anaya from the training grounds, even sending her to Sunspear. If that didn’t quell her spirit, what would a strangers concern accomplish?

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As the Dayne toasted him a wide smile appeared on his face, it seemed he had chosen correctly in his form of company. He eagerly chugged whatever it was the woman had given to him with enthusiasm, nearly spitting it out as the harsh ale hit the back of his throat. It was disgusting. He chugged some more. Then the girl spoke up, having been quiet this whole time and took Lotho by surprise. Normally one would send a servant or 10 to negotiate a price for his services a month or so before he even met his charge, never had someone with noble blood in their veins so boldly asked, however indirectly, the First Sword of Braavos to teach them. He had to admit he was intrigued by the girl. She was of a good height for the Dance, short and quick, not to mention she seemed to perk right up as she asked the question. He had to think on it for a second, was he seriously considering this? He had only just met the girl and his new charge was not some fourth son of a minor house that lived in a fancy shack, it was the supposed Queen of Westeros. Then a feeling hit him, one he had when his mind recognised a familiarity in someone, the same that had made his years as First Sword devoid of intrigue. Unlike the scoundrels this one was different, the familiarity was of...his daughter. The eagerness and the boldness in which she questioned him drew him back to the days when he returned to Braavos after his years in exile. When his daughter, rough and clumsy but eager and passionate begged him to teach her. She was now the First Sword of Braavos, the finest sword in Essos now that he had left. If she gave off those feelings then it only left one option in his mind. He would teach her if she wanted it.

He regarded the girl and bowed his head slightly. “One extremely busy charge shall doubtless leave me plenty of free time. If you are asking what I believe you are asking then I simply say this. It is a hard path, it changes you and you evolve with it, don’t expect to spend 30 minutes a day repeating a motion. The Dance is so much more. You will need to devote yourself to it and listen without distraction, perform seemingly mundane tasks that have deeper meanings and above all else you need to ask yourself one question. I am I doing this for my own benefit or for the benefit of the art? Selfishness is not something the Dance appreciates and neither do I. If you are prepared to do all of these things and devote yourself to it’s selfless nature then yes, I will train you my friend.” He picked up a second mug and once more chugged it, the burning becoming softer as the liquid slid down his throat. “As for your offer Lord Dayne, I would most appreciate such a gesture. I doubt I would get lost finding the giant red castle that you can see everywhere in the city but what’s a journey without company?”

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The girl hadn’t even lifted her glass. Alcohol wasn’t something she drank often, if ever. She preferred to have her wits about her and a non-leadened tongue. Instead, she seemed rather intent on the conversation around her sea-green eyes trying to gauge whether or not she’d made a mistake in her asking. She was the daughter of a Lord, a daughter of Hellholt, but she was not someone who could offer him the money that Elaena could. It was a brash request and she knew it, but she still held hope. Hope that was rewarded in the Essosi’s answer as she could have glowed with that possibility, her smile giving away how much the idea excited her. “I have slipped away to spend hours at the training yard for years… and while I have specialized in the use of a glaive, I have always found the Dance to be fascinating. If you allow me to learn, I will do my best each and every time as I do not believe in wasting the time of another.” It was true, she hated small talk, which was likely part of why she’d skipped it for her question no matter how bold it seemed. For her, things were often more cut and dry rather than the silken words of a whore or the silvered words of a Lord or Lady. As she’d told Dayne, she far preferred the smallfolk with their stories and lack of politics… they seemed more real and less a farce, those masked Nobles she’d grown up watching. But while Lotho wasn’t a smallfolk, he didn’t seem like the Nobles either. He seemed real, and that was quite enough for her for the moment.

TheAncientCelt

diwa · Jun 3, 2018

Aregelle Stark
"Winter is Coming"

Aregelle considered herself as a courageous girl. When girls her age are scared of the stories about the white walkers, along with grumpkins, snarks and wildlings killing men, women and child, the youngest Stark easily laughs it off. She can sleep through a harsh winter storm without asking her mother to sleep in her bed and keep her company during the night. She often goes to the woods alone when even the servants are terrified at the place. Aregelle was brave and dauntless because she knew nothing bad will happen to her. Because she knew her lord father will come swooping in and protect her from all the things that wanted to hurt her. Truly, it’s a childish belief but her faith in her father remained. It was intact until a blade ended her father’s life.

Terror and fright immobilize the youngest Stark; at first she thought that what she saw was wrong and not possible. Or perhaps it was some other lord that was skewered and not her father, but the makeshift crack on the door is wide enough for her to double check that it was indeed Lord Stark who fell down dead. Aregelle didn’t scream nor shriek, but the youngest wolf went pale and cold. She looked at Lyanna with such fearful eyes, looking for some assurance at her sister that their father was still alive despite of what she saw.

If it wasn’t for Lyanna, Aregelle would probably stay there, stoic, unmoving and unsure of what to do; probably dead in an instant as soon as she was discovered. Everything was blurry, and even Lyanna’s voice became distant. She was partly unaware as she was being drag into safety and only snapped out of it when she saw Lady Bolton in the court yard along with the Reed boy they met earlier during the hunt. Seeing Leona made her feel somehow at ease, not entirely safe, but Aregelle felt they have a shot at surviving the whole pandemonium around them.

“Scuse me, little man, but where ta fuck da ye think yer going? I don’t think all them belong ta’ ye’.” Another treacherous northerner appeared to stop them; his looks were both menacing and ugly. His voice was the same voice Aregelle imagines the wights possesses from all the stories her Septa told her. It made her hand clammy and colder if it’s entirely possible.

“You must be mistaken. We don’t belong to anybody.” She looked at Lyanna and was more than proud that she managed to react like that. And it was enough to give her a little boost of courage that she needs. It woke her up from a daze, that and Aregelle was starting to feel her wrist hurting from Lyanna’s grasp. And for more than the second time that night, Aregelle was pushed and pulled to safety. It was probably because of the exhilaration and danger of what’s happening around her that everything happened too fast for her to comprehend. She was protected by the Bolton army even before she knew it. It was then when she heard Willow ordered the guards to protect them, and lastly she saw Leona Bolton drawing an arrow, aiming it and killing the scary man in one shot. It was probably the second or third man Aregelle saw died that hour but instead of flinching, she felt relieved. Their army soon came and flooded the courtyard, surrounding them just like what Willow wanted. Assuming it was safe with all the Stark guards around them, Aregelle pulled away from Lyanna with all her might and pushed past the Bolton Army. They made a grab of her but Aregelle used her strength, kicking and clawing at the poor guard. Once out of reach, she ran towards the dead man’s body and stood over it. With all the effort she can muster, she then pulled the arrow sticking from his neck and buries it again in the same spot. She could see his blood pooling on the ground, the traitor’s blood is staining the soles of her shoes. Blood gurgled from his mouth and without thinking, she pulled the arrow again. She had to be sure that he was dead for Aregelle knew he was a nightmare in the making. She needs to stop it even before it begins.

“Father,” the youngest Stark whispered as she walks back to her protectors, still with the bloodied arrow in hand. “We need to get father.” Aregelle pleaded at her sister, her grey eyes begging as she looked at Lyanna. “We… need to. We must.”

TheFordee20

Whisker

Little-Fox · Jun 3, 2018

Willow Stark
Winter's Blossom Stained with Red

Death. So much death in so little time. Winterfell had been painted red with the blood of the Lords that had sworn fealty to the Starks. She didn't get to see whether Lord Ryswell lived or died and that was probably for the best, she really didn't need yet another murder to haunt her nightmares. As Leona called out to defend Stark and Reed, guards began to move to do just that as it was suddenly clear who's side she was on. A guard threw the crannogman bodily towards the door and almost immediately after Willow was colliding into Reed's shoulder, the dagger her mother had given her clattering to the ground between the ruckus and where they now stood so haphazardly.

"Keep Running!" Someone yelled, likely one of the guards who were now working to ensure that the Starks escaped and that those responsible did not. Willow barely got a glance back to see the fire-red hair of her sister before she was being ushered towards the gate. "Make sure Lady Bolton gets my sisters out!" Please... please let them get out. She knew better than to stay, and yet her stomach twisted with guilt. How dare she run to escape when her sisters were not out yet? They have Lady Bolton... the guards, each other. Her throat tightened as she ran out the gate with Lord Reed, the sounds of steel clashing against steel following their every step as men roared and screamed in battle. More blood being shed. More death sure to follow.

The stables. They were close, and a horse would get them farther faster... Willow pointed towards the wooden structure, using a hand on the man's shoulder to ensure she'd gotten his attention. Stark guards were still streaming towards the courtyard with fervor, a few of which slowed at the retreating pair. "Oi! Where're y'goin, milady? What's all happenin' up there?" The guard who spoke sounded scared, and he hardly looked the age of a man himself; a late-teen boy dressed in Stark colors, but wholly unprepared for the shock of mutiny. Not unlike themselves. Willow's feet slowed to a stop whether Reed continued to run or not. "Lord Stark has fallen." Willow's voice cracked, a breath barely taken before she pushed herself to continue to speak and quickly. "My sisters are still in there, Lady Bolton is getting them out I believe. Find the Captain of the Guard and get those troops that are outside of Winterfell to Cerwyn. We cannot let Karstark take control of them and I will not have them massacred if they refuse to bend the knee. Now go!"

The teen didn't wait to be told a second time, if Lord Stark was dead than Lady Willow's orders were imminent and necessary. She'd tasked him with what was likely one of the most important duties she could have granted. As soon as the boy ran off, Willow turned back to Reed, making her way to the stables. "We can either take separate horses, or you can ride with me."

Braddington · Jun 3, 2018

Lady Lysara Manderly
Lady of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lady Marshal of the Mander and Knight of the Order of the Green Hand

If there was ever a moment Lysara wished her father was still among the living it would have been now. He would of no doubt failed after giving it his best efforts but he would not have broken, never broken no matter what lay in front of him. The same could not be said for Lysara as she veered on the edge of collapsing as death surrounded her, even some Manderly men who had been drinking with their now enemies not 10 minutes before lay dead on the ground. Knights she had known from childhood, who taught her how to use a greatsword like the one she was now carrying, bled out as they screamed for help that would never come. This was war and it was brutal.

Lysara clung to Ice, the ancestral valyrian steel sword of House Stark, as what appeared to be an Umber soldier charged at her. She recognized the man, he had helped cook the food they had caught on the mornings hunt. He had a scar along his left cheek, a minor accident when he was but a boy she remembered him saying softly to her when she fell into conversation with him a few hours before. Now he was running at her, sword red with what appeared to be an arrow lodged in his shoulder. She called out, "Stop! You know me! Stop damn you!" but he did nothing but scream a war charge at her and increase his speed. She had no choice and so raised Ice above her head, no doubt a normally intimidating stance in a regular melee, and as the man came close she sliced at a leftward angle with all the force she could muster. Like a knife through butter the sword did all the rest, one minute she faced a singular mass and the next she faced two. So effortless was it to cut a fully grown man into separate pieces that Lysara had to check she was still holding the damn thing, barely registering what she had just done. As she looked down, her body and face covered in blood, she saw the mess that had once been the jolly cook and stumbled backwards, almost tripping over if not for a Stark guard running into her. Without thinking she swung around and readied her weapon only to find the sobbing mess that was Amelia Stark.

The guards regarded her and saw the banner on her chest, unsure which side she was truly on. Putting the previous horrifying event out of mind, Lysara focused on the present, always the present. She looked to the guards and spoke aloud, "We need to get her out of here now, my men are gathering and we are about to go." They looked to Amelia, eager for her to give any command as Lysara appealed to her directly. "My Lady, I ask that you trust me." She held Ice aloft to show Amelia, "I am loyal to House Stark, I remember my oath. Come with me and we will see your husband avenged and your daughters saved."

Rusty of Shackleford

ailurophile · Jun 4, 2018

Lyanna Stark

The guards spilled into the courtyard and Lyanna felt her heart leap into her throat. It was beating so fast and loud that she was certain everyone around must he able to hear. That they could tell she was afraid, no matter how hard she tried to conceal it. The girl couldn’t stay still, she was flinching, twitching, eyes darting around in an attempt to spot potential attackers.
Was this how the rabbit Leona had hunted only hours before had felt?

Lyanna’s iron grip on Aregelle did not weaken as she hurried blindly towards the Bolton men, a source of hope, some protection. The moment she reached temporary salvation she whirled around, desperate to see Leona standing alive, and caught the moment the woman’s arrow pierced Ryswell’s throat. A cry escaped her, a mixture of surprise and relief. It was enough of a distraction to allow her grip on Aregelle to loosen momentarily, and though she leapt forwards to grab her sister again, she was a step too late and could only watch as the younger girl darted towards Ryswell’s corpse. She wanted to scream at her to get back at once. She was so afraid, her hands shook without somebody to clutch, her teeth chattered.

Yet as she watched Aregelle drive the arrow into their attacker again and again, Lyanna felt nothing.
No.
She did feel something.
We will avenge you, father. Until Karstark’s blood spills upon the ground, we will not rest.

Lyanna had never been a squeamish girl but the gore of the scene before her should have had some effect. Even Lyanna herself was expecting to recoil in horror, waiting for the wave of disgust to hit and make her sick to her stomach. It never came. She only tore her eyes from the body when she heard Aregelle’s voice and, ignoring the bloody arrow, she clasped the girl’s hands. Then moved them, laying her hands on either side of her sister’s face as she gazed into her eyes.
“We musn’t. If it were possible, I would do it, you know I would. It’s too dangerous now, and father--” a sob caught in her throat, “--father would not want us to put ourselves at risk. And if that doesn’t satisfy you, Aregelle, because it doesn’t satisfy me either, try thinking of it another way: if we go back and we are killed, we will never get to see a world where Karstark is dead. Where father is avenged.”

She bent to kiss her sister’s forehead. She let her hands drop.
They left a streak of bloody handprint on Aregelle’s cheeks.

There was no time to say goodbye to Willow, no time to say goodbye to Larah.
Willow, Larah, Mother, Father, Theon.
Aregelle.
Lyanna would keep her safe. With her life, she’d defend her younger sister. As the snow mingled with Ryswell’s blood, she made that silent vow to herself.

Whisker · Jun 4, 2018

Jaremy Reed

Jaremy ran for his life. It was coming back to him now – all the old sounds. Sounds he had prayed to the Old Gods he would never have to hear again. Horses, dying from the axes or arrows that felled them; Screams of women in terror, long and loud; and worst of all, the clang of steel on steel as it grew steadily closer towards the courtyard of Winterfell. It lent wings to his feet as he scrambled away at the behest of the Bolton who had grabbed him, only just vaguely aware of the presence of the girl who ran at his side.

Protect her, a voice repeated again. Protect her. Protect her.

They stopped only once as a guard hailed them. Jaremy heard Willow Stark give him orders to retreat to Castle Cerwyn and warn others to do the same. The crannogman, between gasping breathes, found himself surprised at how calm she was despite the circumstances. Her Lord father was dead, and she still had the presence of mind to think of others before herself. A thin smile touched his lips for a moment but retreated when she caught up to him again. They set off at a brisk walk towards the stables. As they drew close to the wooden building, Jaremy heard her say, "We can either take separate horses, or you can ride with me."

Jaremy hesitated and looked the shaggy mounts up and down. He wasn’t a strong rider. There were no horses in the Neck. No sheep, goats, or cattle, or any other manner of docile beasts. But could he afford to be picky at a time like this?

Before he could formulate an answer, there came the thunder of boots over his shoulder.

“Stop, boy!”

Jaremy turned in time to hear the hiss of steel leaving a scabbard. Without thinking about it, he turned as he had been trained to do, braced back his arm, and gave a sharp thrust of his spear. It just barely met the downward cut of the sword with a loud ‘thwock!’ and for just the briefest of seconds, the two were locked into a bind. The man holding the sword was taller than him by almost a foot, he saw, with a sunburst sowed onto his jacket. His hair was yellow, and his eyes like two coals alight with an ember. He clawed at him, fingers scrabbling to take control of the spear’s point. Alarmed, Jaremy stumbled backwards, and took the opportunity to thrust again. The Karstark gave a gurgling cry as the central prong took him beneath the chin. He made no other sound before falling back into the pine needles.

Swallowing back his own fear, the Lord of Greywater forced himself to turn away, to look back only at Willow Stark as he pried his spear loose from the body. “We will share the mount. There is no more time!” Lowering the point of his spear, Jaremy grabbed the reigns of the nearest saddled horse. He recognized it vaguely as the one Lord Greg Bolton had been riding earlier during the hunt. He stepped into the stirrup first and then reached back to grab her hand, pulling her up behind him. An arrow sailed past. Then another. Desperate, the crannogman sawed at the reigns. The horse, perhaps sensing the danger more so than the crannogman’s orders, turned on its own and dashed for the gate, snow kicking up in its wake. For just an instant, Jaremy saw. Saw the carnage taking place behind them. The Stark banners fluttering in the wind tinged in blood. A man dressed in a blue-green mermaid waving his hand. And then they were moving. He knew not where yet, but that no longer mattered. Not so far as Jaremy was concerned. The question of where to run lay in the future.

And we’ll deal with that when it gets here.

For now, all they could do was flee. Flee before it was too late.

deer · Jun 4, 2018

meet me where the sky touches the sea. . .

With a tight grip on her shoulders, Lord Aemond gazed down at his most prized possession with a glint of pride in his eyes, "My daughter. You will do fine. Just remember what I always say - "

"The Old, The True, The Brave." Her voice rang melodiously through the halls of the castle. Rhaella’s gaze never faltered as she stared back at her own reflection through her father's mirrored eyes. With a slight shudder in her breath, the Lady of Driftmark managed to catch herself from wavering as she attempted to not grip the sides of her dress -- an act of nervousness on her part.

Heels clicked behind her — a telling that it was time for her to depart. With another squeeze on her shoulder, Lord Aemond pulled her into a tight, gripping hug as he whispered gently in her ears, “Your mother and I are proud. Write and safe travels.”

With a soft sigh, Rhaella took in her father’s scent, letting herself slump slightly in her father’s embrace as she hugged him for what seemed like the last time. Taking a small step back, Rhaella nodded as a small smile slowly etched across her lips while she took in her father’s feature, commiting his appearance to memory. His broad shoulders, piercing violet eyes, and aura that demanded respect as he stood tall and proud was a sight to behold.

Before making her way out the doors, trailing behind one of her trusted guards, with one more glance, Rhaella’s eyes searched for her mother’s frame but to no avail. Her mother was nowhere in sight, hidden somewhere within the castle. A small tinge ached in her chest as Rhaella knew her mother wasn’t going to tell her goodbye. Her mother Valeana had always been bad at tearful goodbyes, but most of all, Valaena was against her own daughter’s departure. Rhaella could only imagine her mother’s temper as she sighed again once more. The last time her mother locked herself in her room happened a few days before her coming-of-age ceremony and Rhaella wished to travel the seas with her father for a one day trip. However, despite her mother’s grieving and misgivings, her father allowed her to travel with him. They weren’t gone for too long, it was only midday before they returned home safe and sound, but, her mother would have none of that.

“Lady Velaryon?” Her guard stopped, turning his head around in wonder, noticing the Daughter of the Tides have stopped in her tracks. “I apologise, but we must depart.”

For a moment longer, she stood there, hoping her mother would come and make an appearance. But, with a heavy heart, Rhaella gave one last wave towards her father and a smile. The guard was right, there wasn't a moment to lose. She could only imagine what has been happening during the time she had been stalling.

The wind blew through her long, silky, white hair as Rhaella's natural lilac eyes gazed ahead at the horizon. Weariness plagued her features, a foreign expression that usually never encompass her face. Usually vibrant and filled with comfort, Rhaella could only internally suffer her worries as dread filled her core. Rhaella could only merely send small polite smiles to her crewman and answer softly to any questions they asked of her. She could see from their worn and worried expression that the Daughter of the Sea was unlike herself as she usually went about the ship filled with laughter with a bright sense of adventure. A butterfly in the wind.

The sound of the birds called out from above, flying in the open blue skies reminded her of her journey ahead. With a deep breath, Rhaella found herself fidgeting at the hems of her dress once more as she kept her wills about her. She could only hope that her good friend, one of her closest aid to the otherworld had gotten her letter. Closing her eyes, Rhaella listened intently to the sound of the water as the ship moved forward, feeling a wave of calmness pass by her. The sea was always her calling, a sense of longing yet returning as she listened to the waves pull and tug the ship, rocking like a soothing lullaby. Her hands gripped the railings of the front of her ship, balancing herself, letting the fresh air shroud her frame in comfort as she suck in a breath, mentally preparing herself for what laid ahead.

As hard as she and her family tried to avoid being involved in the disputes and politics over who would rule and the chaos going on in the other parts of the world, it was only a matter of time the Velaryons were needed. At one point, Rhaella would have called herself 'blessed' to not have to take up important responsibilities and the mantles while her first cousin was chosen. She could vaguely remember her cousin's face and forlorn expression of having to be Head of the House. Rhaella tried her best to support and encourage Rhaenys, but part of her felt as if she hadn't done enough. . .not when she felt as if some parts of her was missing. Regardless, Rhaella liked being away from the uncivilised , away from the corruptions and dirty markings of the world and she wished the same for Rhaenys,. It would do no good to be involved in disputes that they have no business of attending to . . . unless necessary. Life had been peaceful and she enjoyed straying from bloodshed and pain living day-by-day in a normal lifestyle. But, it seemed it wasn't meant to be -- not when turmoil festered in her heart at the thought of losing Rhaenys.

The Contents of the Letter

To Lady Cyrenna, Mistress of Whisperers,

My friend, I hope this letter finds you well. I am sorry that it has taken long to respond to your recent letter but, something has happened. Rumors are spreading across the land and I do not know the truth of the matter. My cousin , no , the Head of the House. She has not been heard from in weeks, perhaps even months. No one has seen or heard from her. I worry something has happened. It is not like her to disappear without a word. I fear the worst and my heart , my mind can not fathom something like this happened. If word were to spread of this matter . . . I dare not even speak or think of it.

Lord Aemond, my father, has granted me his permission to sail the seas. I want to know the truth. To find Rhaenys before trouble awaits. My mother Valeana is against it, but in moments like these, decisions must be made. I am to depart for King's Landing. If this letter reaches to you in time, will you aid me in my search to find her? To find Rhaenys? There is much I have not caught up with in those parts of the world, but, I hope, in the sea filled with strangers and a land filled with dangers, I could find comfort and see a familiar face amongst the crowd.

Until we hopefully meet,
Your friend,
Rhaella Velaryon
Lady of Driftmark, Keeper of the Seas, Daughter of the Tides

tags:

diwa ,

TheFool

. . .wait for me where the world begins

codedbymeraki.
hidden scroll

clarinetti · Jun 5, 2018

Lady Meredyth Hightower
Beacon of the South

“Will there be anything else, my Lady?” The ruddy-faced lad asked meekly, his continued presence forcing her to lift her gaze from the parchment. “No, Patrek, that will be all, thank you.” the woman replied evenly, adding afterwards what she thought to be a gentle smile. It didn’t seem to ease the boy much, but the thought was forgotten the moment he left and her eyes returned to the inked pages. Indeed, the ravens had been kept busy as of late, a constant stream of updates pouring in. Singled out from the small pile on her desk was the latest news from father- Lord Willem and his forces had reached Silverhill, and were moving at a good pace to join their companions of the Westerlands at the Tooth before marching forth to aid the Tully’s and their vassals. Amongst these updates were well wishes to the rest of the family, and she would pass the letter along to her mother and siblings upon sharing their midday meal.

Reading over the other pages once more, Meredyth mulled over the words that they brought. They had done well in their striking of Blackhaven and Harvest Hall, moves which were as necessary as they were unfortunate- after all, it was not long ago that the nobles of the Reach and the Stormlands had been close allies. While they had been successful, these small victories did not come without cost, though they were minimal compared to what could have been. And while she had suspected their forces would face a proper challenge in taking Storm’s End, fortune had smiled upon them as Lady Baratheon surrendered the keep. It was frankly a foolish move on her part; even without their full power, the Baratheon’s could have sustained a siege for weeks if not longer, delaying the Reach’s progress to the Crownlands and allowing time for the Red Keep to send their own troops to assist. A stroke of luck if there ever was one.

I’ll drink to it all the same, the woman thought dryly to herself as she sipped from a cup of nectar. One could hardly expect that things would continue to progress so smoothly. Now that they had taken the heart of the Stormlands, their army would have to divide itself in order to keep hold of it from the stags in Kings Landing. There was still work to be done in the east, but much of the low-hanging fruit had been plucked, leaving them to face the thornier tasks. Besides keeping guard of the Marches and the coastline from Dornish and Ironmen, there was the tricky business of the Riverlands. There were good men leading that mission, her father included, but the Vale had plenty of good men of their own, and to assume that their victory was assured would be pure folly. From the moment Lord Baelor had ordered Willem and his men to take part in securing the Twins, a small seed of worry had buried itself in her gut, one which no amount of reassurance could placate. Yet there was little use in losing oneself to rumination, and in Lord Hightower’s absence someone needed to see that matters were handled in Oldtown, and so this provided ample distraction for the young woman. Ser Mullendore was of course more than capable of managing Oldtown’s affairs in the event she had to join her bannermen in the field, but for now the castellan’s counsel was more than enough. After all, I’ll have to become accustomed to such work… in case father passes away.

Shaking the thought from her head, Meredyth sets down the sheet she was looking over before straightening the pile and setting them in a drawer to rest- responses would be written later, when there was news to be had. A cringe sets on the woman’s face as she rises, a twinge rising in her back. After stretching it out for a minute, the lady exits her chambers and proceeds down the corridors, brisk in her pace. It does not take long to reach her destination, and after a series of firm knocks a creaking door opens to reveal a portly old geezer, wisps of cottony hair sitting atop a speckled head. Beady eyes glisten back with familiarity, and this with the large sloping nose and swollen cheeks creates an appearance resembling that of a puffin. “Good Morning, Maester Warryn.” “And to you as well, Lady Hightower. I trust you come as you have need of me?” He responds in kind, a faint warmth detectable beneath his stern exterior. “I hope your knees are well today, Maester- we’re paying a visit to the Citadel.”

——

This is how the pair came to stand outside the Scribes Hearth, waiting to see whether any of the Archmaesters would welcome their company and take a meeting. Typically these little sessions’ were scheduled in advance, but with things being as they stood now, hopefully they would be understanding in this deviation of routine. She required knowledge of a kind that only they could grant access to, and in turn had information which might prove of value to them. A small part of the woman felt guilty for dragging Warryn into this, but she knew that while some of those scholars might be less open to conferring with one of her gender, they would hardly be so discourteous as to deny one of their own. Well, it’s worked often enough before- let us hope that it does not fail us now.