There was a performance in Lannisport—no grand stage with mummer’s leaping, but a small box and curtain and little sewn puppets to entertain children. There was a little golden-haired puppet, with a tiny felt crown. He was often the puppeteer’s favourite to use.

There was another, with long dark hair and shiny armor, with a backdrop of tiny bolts of lightning that proceeded her arrival. There were two little puppets that sat together, sailing across the sea, countless flowers falling in their wake. A bigger puppet with short dark hair and a drawn-on beard sat from a throne as fish and mermaid swam beneath his feet. But there was never a puppet with short red hair, and a gap-toothed smile that ever appeared in the stories the puppeteer told.

The little raggedy doll of Ser Polliver sat along the dresser, untouched until King Cerion’s first born child, where it was passed on as a gift.

Prunella had been forced to take the vows of the Faith, to quell her step-father’s temper. Though she had crossed her fingers behind her back, so she never really meant them. She would frequent the Sept, often to perform music before sermons and dancing on the steps leading up. Most of her days, she was content performing for the King’s court, as it was all she had ever wanted to do.

The vows she had truly meant were the ones she took out in the marsh of Deep Den, where the lightning bugs danced and she held Genna’s hands and promised her love for her forever. When her lips tasted like cloudberries and everything felt good and right.

She tutored Rhea Lydden as she had promised—the child now legitimized and a true part of the house. She taught her song and poetry and music, and loved that girl as if she were her own. She would often teach the children of others around the court the same skills, as well as the little princes and princesses that graced the Halls. Cerion never got his chance to be a bard—forced to live a life that he never should have had. Prunella hoped to give his children the chance he never had, to live life on their own terms.

The Strawberry Knight would compete in a few tourney’s—and eventually win the joust at Deep Den, and name Genna Lydden the Queen of Love and Beauty, and finally reveal the truth with a dramatic rip of his moustache off and leaving it behind, to compete as Prunella and Prunella alone for the future.

In her quarters lay all the gifts she had been given over the years—a silver ribbon tied around her bedpost, the poem painted elegantly from Lao Shi hung on the wall, the shark tooth in twine on her dresser, the little red flute in the pocket over her heart, a yo-yo with unicorns painted carefully on, and that hideous carpet from Lady Caron that she adored so.

In her absence, whenever she was helping the children or in Deep Den, she would help Doran Dreamsong with his efforts and dreams of being a bard, always making sure he was respected, and taken care of. She would visit her friends often, Myranda, Joanna, and Cerissa, Ser Denys and Lady Rowan, writing songs for Princess Alys, and letters to Prince Robert. She would send the woven hats to Highgarden for the princess and her flower picker, with her love, and a basket of pastries to the Ironmaker children each year.

All she had ever wanted was to make people smile, and as long as they kept smiling—so would she.

(Ambience)

The Black Dread was true to his word. After the young queen failed to provide him with his demands, the Band of the Black Dread struck out, burning towns and villages, making the roads of the stormlands a nightmare to lonely travellers.

The mercenaries never did assault a castle again, following their disastrous attempts prior. Instead, they lived mean, hard lives off of merchant caravans and fishing hamlets.

The Durrandons sent parties out again and again to hunt them down, yet all either met with failure, or simply failed to return.

And then, one day, the raids stopped all together.

No signs. No rumors. No trace of the Black Dread or his band of warriors. At first, there was apprehension, fears that this was another scheme. Yet, overtime, the fear faded, the fires went out, the stormlanders rebuilt, and the Black Dread faded from history into myth.

A bogeyman, a frightening wraith who would appear to haunt lonely paths and dark forests.

Always proceeded by the smell of smoke, the sounds of warbled battle cries, and the eerie creaking of dragonbone armor.

And that was all he was meant to be.

Until….

DECADES LATER

Pate didn’t like these woods. The paths were all twisty, and, even in the daytime, with the sun shining overhead, it was easy to get lost.

His sister and their friends had run ahead some ways. Pate was always slower than the rest, but that wasn’t his fault! They never waited for him. That’s what his mom had said.

“Pate!” his sister called from ahead. He felt a pang of fear, and tried to move faster, tripping over branches and brambles as he went.

He emerged into a clearing carrying half a bush with him, tangle into the roughspun he wore.

“What is it?” he called, shambling over to the trio of girls, huddle around a small dell, freshly formed from pounding rain and sliding mud.

Lysa looked at him, with a gaze that held excitement… and fear.

He looked down, and felt his heart stop.

There, sticking out from the mud, was a hand. Gauntleted, in armor that glistened like blackened oil in the sun.

—---

“There we go, that’s it.” Maester Corwin murmured, as the guards moved the armor into position on the long table.

Duskendale had been abuzz at the rumors of the unknown knight being unearthed, his strange armor uncovered by a group of children wandering in the woods, all three so excited and out of breath they could barely speak without coughing and stammering.

Lord Darklyn stood nearby, eyeing the body with thinly veiled interest. No doubt the man thought the armor held some value, something to show off to the other stormlords, just in time for a tourney meant to do that exact thing.

Corwin, by contrast, was more interested in what the armor hid inside it. It was heavy, suggesting a good amount of mass, but that could also have been dirt or even water. Perhaps some warrior from long past, some ancient stormlord or mercenary? Corwin was eager to find out.

The armor, both men could agree, was pristine despite its burial. Light scrubbing had peeled away the layers of dirt and grime, leaving the glistening black plate shining by candlelight.

“Now,” Corwin began, nodding to his assistant, who diligently transcribed the events as they occurred. He was well trained, though Corwin had lamented how many times the boy had to be caned to get the exact words down, rather than paraphrase or guess. “Let us begin with our examination of the armor.”

First, Corwin tried the visor of the helm, hoping to simply open and disassemble the suit around the body. No luck. The visor almost seemed welded shut, and refused to move, even with the guards pulling at it.

Next, Corwin tried to be surgical, tracing a knife along the edges and gaps in the plate. Yet, not only could he find no such gaps or edges, his knife was showing more damage than the armor, the point and blade dulling incredibly quickly.

Finally, with the aid of the two guards who had brought the body in, Corwin elected to pry the breastplate open, wedging a pair of thick iron bars to what seemed to be the corners of the cuirass.

The metal beams groaned, Corwin and the guards grunted and sweated, Lord Darklyn took a step forward, eager to behold his prize, and the armor itself remained silent, even as the chest was pulled upwards.

CLANG

With a jolt, the chestplate flew open, and a cloud of thick grey dust exploded outward. The men all coughed, waved their hands to disperse the cloud, and Corwin raced over to the nearby window, flinging it open. The dust flowed slowly out of the room, the dust scattering over the city of Duskendale, catching the wind and flying where it went.

“Dust?” Darklyn coughed, covering his mouth with a lacy handkerchief. “Just dust?”

Corwin’s brow furrowed, and his hand stroked his beard. “Strange, my lord. A body, buried as it was, would not normally decompose in such a manner. Not with all of the wind and water the stormlands have to offer.”

Darklyn coughed again, more forcefully, clearing his lungs. “Well, it seems we have a bit of a mystery on our hands.”

Corwin sighed internally. That meant Lord Darklyn was no longer interested, either in the armor or how it arrived at its final resting place. “Perhaps Maester Orys at Storm’s End will make better sense of this. After all, with your tourney today, I would hate for a bed to be taken up by such a-”

Darklyn waved a hand, letting out a slight cough. “Yes, yes, do as you please. Send it along as soon as you are able.”

Corwin bowed, feeling and repressing his own cough. “At once, my lord.”

Better to have this be someone else’s problem than his own.

—----

His sister was dead.

Pate couldn’t understand why.

Why they had been so scared of that old armor.

Why they couldn’t stop coughing after they told the guards about it.

Why his chest hurt so much, or why his mother wouldn’t stop crying.

He just couldn’t understand.

Why was he always left behind?

Why was… he……………

—-------

Corwin coughed, coughed again, coughed once more.

“Damn Darklyn! Damn him to the Seven Hells! May he die a thousand deaths, and another besides!” the maester swore, even as the bells tolled throughout the city.

The assistant trembled, coughing slightly, resisting the urge to inform his master that Lord Darklyn was, in fact, dead, from the same thing they all would be from.

“Greyscale!” Corwin gasped, wheezing in feverish fear. “Not even that, but the grey plague! What kind of curse is this, bound and wrapped in-”

He devolved into coughing again, his spittle coming up red and frothy. Suddenly, the old man’s eyes widened.

“Dragonbone! Black and gold, by the seven above!” Corwin tried to rise, but fell back into his bed, hacking into his sleeve, unable to stand. He whirled on his assistant, barely able to speak.

“Write this down, boy, word for word! Write Storm’s End, tell them to burn the Maiden’s Fancy at anchor! Tell them it’s the Black Dread, his armor is cursed with-”

He coughed.

“Cursed with-”

He coughed again, more violently, more bloody.

“Cursed-!”

Corwin coughed, and coughed, and coughed and coughed until the old man went silent, hours later, the stone that was in his lungs consuming all that was in its path, even as the armor was bound in a heavy box, and sent on a fast ship to Storm's End, trailing grey dust as it went.

—---

Storm’s End did receive the missive from Duskendale, but too late to burn the ship at anchor. The armor had already made its way through the lower levels of the mighty castle, before it was stopped and quarantined, alongside a portion of the garrison.

The Durrandons were at a loss for what was transpiring. Duskendale was dying, and many other towns were reporting small outbreaks all throughout the stormlands.

Maester Orys proposed a solution.

Pouring oil into the chamber where the armor lay, all it took was a single torch.

The blaze consumed all in its path, the cart that the armor lay upon, the poor guards who lay dead and dying, and even spilling out into the pouring rain outside, the flames hissing and striking out against the wroth of the storm gods.

Yet the armor remained. A vile, blackened frame, untouched and unbothered by the fire, existing to spite and defy the rulers of the Stormlands.

Once the blaze had died down, the armor was recovered, and sealed within a lonely chamber beneath the Drum Tower.

Never to be worn, never to be used.

But never, ever, to be forgotten.

And so, the curse of the Black Dread transitioned from a mere myth, to an eternal legend.

One that the Durrandons would ever forget.

It had been weeks.. maybe months since Melora Florent was titled as the new lady of Brightwater Keep. It begged one question, what was the outcome for the rest of the foxes? Taking it upon yourself to find out the truth behind it all, since the answers wouldn’t come that easily. Finally, finding something, some kind of information, a letter to be exact.. with the Florents sigil on it? Seemingly old as well, you open it carefully, making sure not to rip the damaged paper.

“Dearest reader, I suspect I might not be alive at the time of you finding this, it had been a great honour to serve my claim like my great grandmother, trying to maintain something that was already broken. I’ve learned that we can’t shape our shadows into older ones, or shift our bodies as if our heartbeats beat at the same time. The lesson I take with me, is that, sometimes it’s best to just let go. Melora was her grandmother’s bitch, not thinking straight for herself.. so she needed to be freed. Weirdly, she is a kind spirit who will do great as the Lady of her house.. that doesn’t mean anything good for me. Sansara won’t be a problem anymore, that fox has gotten herself trapped, probably somewhere dying all alone.. where none will find her. And then there is me, my absence has for sure left you with full of questions, otherwise you wouldn’t have tried so hard to find me.. but I won’t reveal my location, not yet at least. This is your dead end, as I, smarter than a maester, braver than a soldier, broken as a mirror.. cannot emerge...”

Before you could read further, you notice that there is another part missing, as if it was ripped in half. The only thing you could find on the back of the paper was the one who wrote the letter.

“Delena Florent, former Lady of Brightwater Keep.”

Leslyn sat down as his writing desk and penned four letters. One to Lord Jast of Deep Crown, one to Lady Falwell of Motley Hills, one to Lord Drox of Longbolt, and one to Lord Dabell of Bellantine. He recalled how many letters he had written to these four before, under a false name. Now, he had no need to forge letters; now, his own name carried authority.

When he was done, his maester sent fly the ravens. The letters would summon the four vassals of House Serrett to Silverhill. The previous lords never cared to disturb their vassals as such, but Leslyn knew better. They had to be reminded who they were loyal to... or more importantly, who their heirs were loyal to. Corlos Falwell, Kennos Jast, Tysha Drox, Joy Dabell. His sworn swords, sooner or later to be his sworn lords and ladies.

With the business done, Leslyn took a moment in front of the large mirror that adorned his room. His green tunic and black pants seemed plain; he adorned them with a deep blue sash and half-cape embroidered with silver thread. His mouth quirked up in a smile, and the expression didn't cease despite his best efforts. He looked like a lord, now.

From the tallest balcony of the castle, he watched his soldiers train. Ser Tywin Hill was in charge of the new levies, preparing them for the conflicts surely brewing on the horizon. They had converted the courtyard to a temporary training place as a new barracks was being constructed. A sizable expenditure, to be sure, but it would be partially funded by the new tolls Leslyn had ordered set up in his domain. And, despite the late Ser Ossifer's best efforts, Silverhill's coffers were still in quite good shape.

Leslyn's silver eyes focused in on the guards patrolling the walls. The drunken fools that he had first encountered here were gone, replaced by men who stood with pride in their cream-colored surcoats, wearing the proud peacock of Serrett with pride for their house. The smile returned to Leslyn's lips. The stray feathers had been plucked and preened from his castle. House Serrett was ready.

Whether it was peace or war on the westerlands' horizon, the game was never over. Leslyn read his fate in the stone walls of Silverhill, in the way the evening light cascaded over his army, his knights, and his castle. He saw politics, deals, and treachery, times to be ruthless and times to make harsh decisions. But after that, he saw wealth flowing into his house's coffers, knights waving his peacock banner, and mayhaps even a prestigious marriage to further his line. He saw himself rise, House Serrett growing, until there was no one to rival him.

The road to Silverhill sloped up and down, twisting along grassy cliffs and between stark rocky crags. Leslyn would be lying if he said the ride didn't annoy him a bit, leaving him sweating in the saddle by the time his castle came into view. But, it was a very small price to pay for this inheritance, and he knew that much greater prices lay on the horizon. He was a lord, now. Such a duty could not possibly be easy.

His party arrived at the castle in the late morning, and Leslyn couldn't keep his gaze from wandering up the towers and along the walkways that crossed them. He had been here before, but not for many years. Not since the funeral of Lord Lambert. He expected, after that, to never see Silverhill again. He was wrong. Now, he would need to host a new funeral.

The men at the gatehouse opened the gates upon seeing the peacock of House Serrett flying in the wind, hoisted by the knight at Leslyn's side. He rode forward into what should have been a gleaming, dignified courtyard... and found a battlefield of broken bottles, spilt ale, and discarded food. A roast chicken lay stark and untouched in the grass like the victor's banner. Leslyn felt his nose wrinkle in disgust. In the corners of the yard, men aroused themselves from drunken sleep, watching the newcomers in dull stupor.

"Ser Dunaver, Ser Tywin..." Leslyn's voice was soft and cool. "Round them all up and keep them here."
The two knights began to do as they were bid while the new lord dismounted and approached the double doors that led into the main hall. Ser Kennos Jast flung them open for him, and Leslyn felt his eye twitch as he looked at the sight before him. Tables, still covered in food and wine, were beds for a mass of slumbering individuals. Most of them were servants, courtiers, and men-at-arms... but some were distinctly not from Silverhill. Mummers, in various states of garish dress or garish undress. Minstrels with shattered bottles in their sleeping hands. Leslyn's eyes darkened. The night's revelries must have been elaborate, for a castle with no lord.

He stepped over murmuring drunken men to stand before his house's silver seat. This, at least, remained much the same. The silver linings still webbed along the stone chair, rising in the fan of a peacock's pride. Leslyn quietly took his seat, and spoke out into the grand hall:

"All of you. Out." His words were far to quiet to awaken the sleepers, but he had knights for that. Ser Corlos Falwell repeated the lord's command. Much louder. The hall began to rouse, and some made for the door, perhaps heeding the command or perhaps in fear of the armored figures and strange man upon the silver seat. It mattered little. Soon, through the clanging of sword on shield and the shouts of Leslyn's knights, the mass of bodies shuffled out into the now-crowded courtyard outside.

Leslyn took a moment to readjust his hair in a silver pocket mirror. He would need to be at his most striking. Carefully, he stood from the silver seat and made his way to the far end of the hall, standing in the wide doorway, flanked by his knights. A crowd of curious faces watched him, many of them sleepy, annoyed, and ill from their night of drinking.

"Denizens of my cousin's court!" He began, putting force and flair into his words. Now was not the time to be cool and quiet. "I am Leslyn Serrett, Lord of Silverhill. You are all guilty of desecrating my castle and embracing lawlessness in the absence of your lord."

The crowd of faces suddenly murmured with worry. Worry, and some indignation.

"I am, however, a forgiving man. I will not punish you for these crimes, and you will not dishonor yourselves again." He glanced at the knight in black plate and a yellow plume. "Ser Kennos, put them all to work cleaning this place up. Hard work. And if any object or do not work hard, throw them out..." he gave the crowd a sidelong look. "And break their jaw."

The crowd received the message. It was not a pleasant situation for any of them, Leslyn imagined, but they were lucky he had not commanded worse. The work would be done, and soon he could start on matters of real importance.

One man-at-arms, a massive, brutish man, slammed an empty tankard at the ground. He flung his arms out in indignation. "If Ser Ossifer was still 'ere, he'd stand for none of this! Yer going to shame the followers of a dead knight?!"

Leslyn let his brow droop. Such a slow learner. "Tysha..." The command was unspoken, but Tysha Drox carried it out. Her black-metal crossbow sent a bolt through the courtyard, straight into the dissenter's knee. There was a scream and a thud, and he was left writhing on the wine-stained grass. "Throw him out. We'll see if he can make it to a village like that before he bleeds out."

The next hour passed quickly. Leslyn inspected the lord's chambers, which were comfortably extravagant and blessedly free of mess. A large, polished mirror decorated one side of the rooms, much to Leslyn's satisfaction. Even more to his satisfaction was the elaborate writing desk in his new solar. He would be spending hours here, he knew. There were many letters to write.

On his way to inspect the progress of his new workforce, Leslyn was stopped by a Tyroshi mummer, followed by a small troop of dwarfs. The lord's bodyguard, Joy Dabell, moved to intercept the mummers wordlessly. Leslyn stopped her. He was... intrigued, at the very least. They must have been hiding away in the castle, he would have noticed such characters in the courtyard.

"My lord Serrett," the Tyroshi began. "I am humbly at your service. If you permit it, however, I would take my leave of your castle. Other lords in other lands require entertainment," the mummer smiled, too widely.

Leslyn nodded. "Fine, then. You seem like... professionals. I would not hold you here any longer."
"Wonderful news, my lord. If you could just pay our wages we will be out of your hair."

"Wages?" Leslyn glared.

"Wages, my lord. The late Ser Ossifer signed a contract, you see." The Tyroshi produced a piece of parchment from his garish robes. "He paid one-tenth of the due up front, with the rest to be paid at the time of our departure."

Leslyn inspected the contract, his silver eyes growing bored until they found the sum these mummers were owed. Then, those eyes widened in astonishment. He felt his anger flare up. To think that Ossifer had paid even a tenth of this... that was the family's money. The small part of him that desired morality realized that such spending only hurt the people under Serrett's protection. The rest of him felt personally attacked. Silverhill was his now. This was his debt. All of him seethed.

"I will pay no such thing, mummer." His tone was soft again, soft and cool. "And you will leave my lands and never return."

The Tyroshi shook his head. "My lord, this contract is legally binding."

He. Dared. "Dabell. Slit their throats. Hang the corpses from the gatehouse." The mummers' shocked faces grew into panic as his sworn sword drew her weapon. The bell on its pommel rang softly as the blade did its grisly work.

Leslyn walked away. He had work to do.

6th Moon, 5776

Casterly Rock

There had been an attack on her home....the rumors were swirling around Casterly Rock faster than the rumors swirled around Feastfires after she got pregnant with Tybolt. Addison tracked down the rumors until she found someone who seemed to know what they were talking about. A man and his son who had been in the castle when the fight broke out, part of a trading company. Raiders from House Tarbeck had come and attacked them. House Prester won but...they also lost something very important. Addison wanted to cry when she heard the news. Her uncle Samwell...gone forever. This wasn't meant to happen. It wasn't meant to be like this. Her anger took over her sadness and the tears went away.

She had to be the one to tell Jeyne. Her cousin was more like an older sister to her and her father was everything to her. Jeyne was a softer woman. She didn't have the same anger in her heart as Addison did. When Addison sat her down and told her that her father was dead, the other woman wailed like a banshee. She moaned and sobbed until she couldn't breath properly. And then she collapsed in Addison's arms and Addison held her until she cried herself to sleep. Addison tucked Jeyne into her bed and sighed. All of this bloodshed and for what? It wouldn't restore Tarbeck's lost honor. It would only deepen the stain on their reputation.

Once her cousin was safely asleep, and her son was safely under the watchful eye of his grandmother, Addison slipped out and went to find Cerion. She would try his solar first, and if he wasn't there, she would try his rooms. Finally if he wasn't in either of those places, she would look for him in his old chambers, the ones he held before he became King.

Ambience

Near two months had passed since she had marched to put down a rebellion, and now that the deed was done, Ermesande Stokeworth dead, she was becoming more and more exhausted by the passing day.

It was a beautiful reprieve to be off the road, even more was it grand to escape her armour and her writing clothes to don her gowns and makeup. Not that she hated either more than the other. It was just that she liked the freedom to be both, something as a princess she never truly had, it was always an act of rebellion. As a queen though? That was where she could be comfortable.

Mya had told her that she might host an event of some kind for the victorious forces, but she, and Jhezane had agreed that it would be in terrible taste to celebrate what had happened.

So, instead she decided for a different event. Upon returning and resting, she opted for a dinner. A feast indeed, but not a true celebration. It was a much more casual affair.

It was still a celebration to some no doubt, they had won after all, but she would not name it in that favour.

Thus that night, as tables were finally set and entrees were set, sweets and cakes joined after. There would be roasted fish, pheasant, chicken and beef with potatoes and assortments of steamed and roasted vegetables to pick from. All of it was accompanied by wine and mead and ale. All on hand in the grasps of servants.

Those lords on her council were granted their own seats at her long head table, alongside her brothers.

Beyond, the tables of the houses of her council were set closest, the rest following after, with a grand path set between them for anyone to make their way to her.

As the great hall of the Round Keep of Storm's end filled with her vassals, she would stand.

"I will be quick. Thank you, for standing by my side in the battle against the rebellious Stokeworths and Rosbys. It was not a true test for the men and women of the Stormlands, but no less, you all acquitted yourselves excellently." She raised her cup and drank, the first of the toasts done.

"However, we too must remember the fallen, the truly misguided actions of Ermesande Stokeworth. Who was killed by bandits and cutthroats who ambushed her defeated forces. We remember them." She said solemnly and drank again.

"Now make some merriment of this night if you can."

She sat back down and felt the weight of every life taken stack upon her shoulders.

Why did you do it you damn fool?

​

​

The battle outside the walls of Feastfires was a bloody one. And the Tarbeck retreat, fleeing back into the hills of the Westerlands, was no less frenetic.

The forces of House Prester sought vengeance for their fallen allies, Samwell Prester in particular, but the skills of Robert Tarbeck saw the raiders expertly avoid obstacles that the defenders succumbed to.

In the end, all House Prester enjoyed was the sight of House Tarbeck fleeing for their lives.

Retribution would have to come later.

This is the turn thread for the 6th Moon of 5776 AS and the sixth turn thread of ITRP 17.0! This thread will remain open until the ending of the current moon (turn) on Saturday, March 23rd, 2024 at 12:00pm EST [timezone converter](https://www.timeanddate.com/worldclock/converter.html). All aspects of this post and its comments at the time of thread closure will be considered binding actions and cannot be changed once the thread is locked.

After that time this thread shall be locked and the actions resolved shortly after. You have three weeks to submit actions in the thread. Once the thread is locked, no further actions will be accepted for the turn. All actions must be finalized by this time.

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5th Moon, 5776

Highgarden

Things had grown...uneasy...since the months after her husband's death. Nothing had happened to make her feel this way besides the fact that nothing was happening at all. The calm before the storm some might call it. Everyone was waiting while holding their breath to see what would happen next. It seemed they were all too nervous or apprehensive to even start politicking until the flood gates broke open.

Helicent was growing tired of it. She had wanted to keep her pregnancy a secret from all but her closest family and ladies until the timing was right. Perhaps she would faint in the middle of her good sister's coronation for optimal drama. The time for drama had passed her by entirely. She was at the half way point in her pregnancy and her belly was growing at an alarming rate. If she wasn't going to announce it now then people would begin to speculate.

Perhaps...perhaps now she would get the attention and love she deserved. The adoration. The queen regent had been kind enough to her at first but mostly avoided her unless there was a relevant question to ask. Even her true loyal knight had not been the man she hoped. Not that he could be everything she wanted. Not yet. There could be no rumors about her spending too much time with another man. Not when everything she'd ever wanted was finally within her reach.

How was she going to do this? How could Helicent make her move without seeming like she was scheming? Well, she was scheming but she didn't want anyone to view it that way. She wanted to be seen as the grieving, traumatized widow they all thought her to be. She wanted the pretense of being just a woman, just a mother, just a wife. No one anyone needed to be concerned about. A pawn in the games of bigger players. Helicent realized however that there was no way she could go about this subtly. She was just going to have to lay it all out and see where things laid after the dust cleared.

Lords and ladies of the Reach She wrote out the words carefully but quickly, penning them down as though the thoughts came fully formed from her mind already.

I, Queen Dowager Helicent Vyrwel, am currently carrying the child of King Regent Mern Gardener V, conceived during the festivities at Atranta before his untimely murder. I refrained from speaking up about this until the chance to miscarry my child had passed, for I did not want to put any strain or worry unto our regent unduly. I am available in the sitting room in my chambers should you wish to give your well wishes in person or come confirm my state for yourself.

Then she had her man, Ser Jason, deliver a parchment bearing the same message to each noble lord and lady still staying within Highgarden's walls. As he was doing that she prepared herself for visitors, choosing a dress that accentuated her swollen midsection and having Lillian comb her hair. She sat in a high backed velvet chair in front of a table laden with lemony tea and apple tarts. Let them come. Let them gawk. Let them talk to her and about her. She would see who could offer her the best way forward.

Higharden

Delena had requested the presence of Bethany to assist her in equipping her riding gear. She was planning to go for a well earned walk in Highagrden, thinking it might be relaxing. Bethany thought so otherwise, scolding her how it wasn’t proper for her as a Lady to do such things. But Delena didn’t want to busy herself in finding a husband to be stuck with forever.

Bethany accompanied her to the stables, hoping to get her to reconsider. “A tea party would be more appropriate, my lady.” She brought up. “Why is it necessary to take a ride on a huge beast? What are you possibly able to benefit from that, besides horrible smell.” She said covering her nose, the smell of horses could kill her in one second.

Delena chuckled. “No need to worry Bethany, I will not be making haste decisions, I will keep the pace lady like, I shall not interact with creepy lads, and yes, I will be back before sunset.” She said rolling her eyes, her horse had already been prepared for her, so all she did was mount it. Having one final look at the worried women speaking gibberish about all the odds before beginning her journey.

She had her daggers with her in case of anything suspicious.

Lady Florent took a deep breath, she should’ve asked her sisters to go with her. “Excluding them from my routine isn’t going to fix anything for anyone.” She gave in. “Perhaps Bethany was right, I should host an event, not for myself, but for them.” All of them were still looking for any possible suitor who they could swear their vows to. Problem was, they were too invested in bickering with one another that they forgot to think about their futures. The horse simply snored at the comment Delena made.

“Right, you’re the horse, and I’m the lunatic speaking to a horse. How logical.” She said.

Withint he woods of Briarcrest, Cyrenna stood, arms folded, a scowl on her lips and her brow pinched.

Her companions stood around her. They kept their eyes out for more of the ambushers, but they had seen nothing of them. Well. They had found traces of them. Upon the site of a battle they had found in a clearing, hundreds dead.

The field was small, tight and likely the site of Ermesande's camp after the retreat. She had been led here by Mya, the shorter woman having a look of concern the whole time. These were people they had known for years. They were traitors, yes, but even still. It was... difficult for the girl to approach such a massacre. Gods, it wasn't easy for Cyrenna to do it either.

Yet she stood anyway, looking over the sprawling scores of dead. Many hadn't even secured their armour, flinging themselves into the ambush. She could hardly find room for comfort in the end of the rebellion. There was too much wrong here.

But, it was her duty as queen to look for any survivors. So she did.

5th Moon, Highgarden, Florent's Residence

​

Melora had informed her grandmother about what had happened with she and her sisters. Doing a lot of begging, Elaena had promised her to not confront Delena immediately. Today was the day that would change, both of them were heading towards Lady Florents office. Arriving at the closed door, Elaena knocked at least five times before she got a reaction. Granted permission to step in, the confrontation could begin.

​

Whilst entering the office, Melora found the Lady with a glass of water in her hand. "It's obvious that you didn't come here to have a cup of tea." She carefully put her glass down, tapping on the edge. "So what is your deal?" It was obvious that Delena didn't care about their grandmother's presence.

A sudden shadow stood infront of her. "We're here to make peace, for every trouble we may have caused, we ask for forgiveness." Elaena said, surprisingly. She wouldn't have thought those words would come out of a women whom resented her eldest granddaughter. "Your sisters, and me as your grandmother, shouldn't be fighting about a title. We're more than that, are we not?"

Trying to catch the reaction of her sister, peaking over the shoulder of her grandmother, she saw a confused bitter look. Maybe Delena tried to believe and look away from their past, maybe she didn't believe and was just playing the same game Elaena always played with her. Starting to feel a bit confused herself, she started to play anxiously with her hair. Melora had an episode again, that's what Elaena called them, everytime she started to feel confused or grew paranoid.

Before another word could be said, the young lady interrupted them. "I'm sorry to stop this conversation on such a short notice, but i must excuse myself for a moment." She walked forward holding one hand of her sisters. "I..i hope we can catch up on everything we've missed in our youth." Her eyes spoke truth, but her mouth spewed lies, lies that did not originate from her own head. The annoyed gaze of her grandmother was noticeable, to the point that she could feel it in her veins.

Trying to avoid eye contact with elaena, she rushed out of the office, closing the door behind her.

5th moon of 5776 AD - Kayce

​

Lord Robert Tarbeck was astride his favorite war-horse, a high-strung, blooded roan stallion, and it took him some moments to get the destrier back under control. Black smoke rose from the burning hovels in the Kayce lands they had entered. Under a blinding noonday sun, men were grappling with one another, stumbling and sliding down the rock-strewn slopes, crying out to the Smith, or the Warrior or more likely The Stranger, crashing through the barrier hedges of thorn and bramble, into fields of ripening corn. To Robert, it looked more like a brawl than a battle, a wild mêlée with the small folk lacking any order or discipline. The smallfolk of Kayce would pay with their lives and possessions, mere pawns in Robert’s desire to be avenged on his sworn enemies the Presters.

Robert caught sight of one of his men in need of assistance. Knights generally scorned those on foot as unworthy opponents - especially small folk, preferring to cross swords with other knights. But the lure of ransom made lords and well-armed knights tempting targets for those smallfolk they fought. This particular knight, wearing the blue and white livery of Tarbeck, was braced against a large rock, seeking to hold off three circling assailants, lashing out so wildly that it took only a moment for Robert to comprehend the true nature of his plight. Every knight’s dread – his helm had been knocked awry, his eye-sights wrenched askew, effectively blinding him.

Robert spurred his horse forward, leveling his spear. He was upon the three before they realized their danger. As the first man whirled, the point of his spear caught him in the throat. Robert swung his stallion around, but men afoot was no match for a mounted knight; the other two attackers were already in flight.

The knight had taken advantage of the respite to yank off his helm. His eyes flicked from the dying man at his feet to the silver star emblazoned across Robert’s shield. “Lord Robert, I am in your debt.”

Robert dipped his spear in acknowledgment, then let it clatter to the ground; it would be useless in close-quarters fighting that their raid was descending into. While he recognised the man's face, he didn’t know the man personally and in the heat of the raid could not recall his name. Passing his left arm through the loops of his shield, he drew his sword, for another knight was bearing down upon him from the right. Where had he come from? The small Kayce village they had attacked should have been virtually undefended by any soldiers or knights. The man’s helm hid his face, and he had neither shield nor surcoat, making it impossible for Robert to know definitely whether he fought for Tarbeck or not. He had no choice, though, moved to meet the charge. But at the last moment, the knight sheered aside, pointed at Robert’s arms, and raised his hand in a jaunty gesture of apology.

Robert splashed into a chain of the shallow fish ponds that whatever luckless land owner had owned them had dug for drainage and as a food source. Robert slackened the reins, allowed the destrier to drink from one of the ponds. He was very thirsty himself, but while his helm was liberally punctured with air holes, it made no provisions for drinking. Or for wiping sweat away. He could feel it trickling down his forehead, stinging his eyes; grimacing, he tasted salt on his tongue. His pulse was still racing with the exhiliration of the raid and his exultation at dealing death and damage to his foes. But he knew how vulnerable an armor-clad knight was to the heat of the sun, and he forced himself to take deep, deliberate breaths, to give his stallion - and himself - a brief pause.

The stallion snorted; its head came up sharply, scenting the air. Cursing himself for his lack of care, Robert turned in the saddle, already knowing what he’d see. Another three armed men – clearly from the village and determined to defend their possessions were rapidly closing in. They held crude weapons, makeshift weapons obviously gathered in haste from wherever they had hidden them against such an eventuality. The man on the left looked to be the weakest link of the three, and Robert aimed the stallion toward him. The man gave ground; Robert would have broken through had not the man in the middle of the three suddenly thrust his crude spear toward the destrier’s face. Screaming defiance, the stallion reared up. Robert suddenly realized their intent, threw his weight forward to bring his mount down, but not in time. The first man darted under the flailing hooves, drove his crude blade into the animal’s unprotected belly. The horse screamed again, lurched to its knees, and Robert flung himself out of the saddle.

He hit the ground rolling, a trick taught him in his youth by his father, one that served him well now, carrying him out of the range of their weapons, giving him the precious seconds he needed to regain his feet.

The three men surrounding him advanced warily. Robert kept his eyes on the man with the spear; he was the most dangerous, his weapon having the longest reach. “You cannot take all of us,” the man said. “You’re a knight, can afford to buy your freedom from our lord. Use your head, yield while you can and we will spare you.”

“Fuck off!” he snarled back at them. The Lord of Tarbeck Hall would not be taken by such as these. There were no trees at hand to put his back against and keep them in front of him. The best Robert could do was to try to keep the pond at his back. A risky gambit, for if they ended up in the water, the weight of his armor would drag him down. This was a fight to be won fast, or not at all. He waited, letting them get closer, within striking distance, closer still. He feinted suddenly toward the spearman, then whirled upon the man moving in on his right. His sword - three feet long, honed sharp enough to split a thread in midair - came down upon bone, with all the force of Robert’s body behind the blow. There was a shriek; the man reeled backwards, his hand severed at the wrist.

Robert spun around, his sword dripping blood. But the spearman who had brought down his horse was shaking his head; he’d begun to back away and then turned and ran, his resolve to fight clearly shattered. The injured man clutched his stump, rocked back and forth, staring dumbly at his mangled hand. It had fallen into the mud; the fingers still twitched. He seemed in shock, as if not yet comprehending what had befallen him. The third man who was carrying an axe looked no less horror-struck. Warriors they were not, he thought with a sneer.

Robert circled slowly around the remaining assailant, seeking to press an advantage. “I’ll kill you if I must.” he growled his lips drawing back in a snarl. He was panting, could feel blood – unlikely to be his own, as he felt no pain - trickling down his arm.

In answer, the third man having recovered from his shock, swung. Robert easily parried the blow. But as he stepped back, his foot slipped on the wet grass. The other man flung himself forward, and they both crashed heavily to the ground. For several frenzied moments, they thrashed about by the pond’s edge, neither able to gain an advantage. But then Robert managed to roll over on top, and the added weight of his hauberk and helm enabled him to pin the man long enough to unsheathe his dagger. The man gave a frantic heave, carrying them both into the shallows, and Robert thrust the knife up under his ribs. He gasped, his body jerked, and Robert broke free. The water was fast turning red. He gasped again, began to choke. Robert grasped his belt, dragged him back onto the grass. A bubble of blood had formed in the corner of his mouth. As his eyes clouded over, Robert made the sign of the Stranger then rose slowly to his feet. The man he’d maimed continued to moan, oblivious of all but his own pain. Robert ignored him, crossed to where his dying stallion lay.

He knelt, rested his hand on the horse’s head. The destrier’s eyes rolled; its legs kicked weakly, and it made a valiant, futile effort to regain its feet. “Easy,” Robert said, “easy, boy.” His throat tightened; he stroked the muddied forelock, and after a moment or so, he brought up his dagger, drew it swiftly across the animal’s throat.

Robert knew well that a knight afoot was still vulnerable despite their superior numbers in the raid. He’d have to find a loose horse, and fast. He made his way toward where his men were setting the village alight, stopped abruptly at the sight of three or four more smallfolk.

Fuck!

The smallfolk stopped no less suddenly, taking in the graphic scene before them: the corpses sprawled in the grass, the dead horse, the blood still wet on Robert’s sword. Giving Robert a very wide berth, they headed for the body of his horse, where they crouched, sought to take the valuable saddle.

Robert watched them wearily, too tired now to intervene. They would suffer later for their temerity. He needed to find a horse. Sheathing his dagger, he started to walk. He’d not gone far, though, before he saw a knight riding toward him. The chivalric code held that it was dishonorable for a knight to ride down a fellow knight, but Robert had no expectations that his attacker would dismount for a fair fight, given their own purpose. He stood where he was, and waited, feeling an enormous reluctance to hamstring a horse, yet knowing he was likely to have no choice. The knight was almost upon him before Robert recognized the emblem embossed upon his shield and sighed in relief.

Lyonel Vikary reined in beside him, his eyes taking in Robert’s crimson-stained surcoat. “I trust most of that blood is not yours?” When Robert shook his head, he gave a bark of laughter, “By the Seven, Rob, this is no real fight is more like a mummer's show! As for the looting, I swear I saw bodies stripped clean ere they hit the ground. The men are taking our purpose seriously. Raid and plunder.”

Lyonel gave his lord a grin.

“Don't go wandering away,” Lyonel said. “I’ll be back.” And he was as good as his word, returned shortly thereafter leading a blood-streaked bay.

Robert clapped Lyonel on the shoulder and grinned. He swiftly mounted and spurred his new horse to reach his men.

The raid would continue. The Presters would pay in spades for his father’s shame.

As before, house Florent hasn’t shown much of themselves the past few days or even weeks. Delena has yet to hear from her sisters, eagerly waiting for one to approach her. Each right in their own ways, but all so wrong at the same time. Filled with opinions from those who have passed or those who still breath air through their lungs.

Delena has simply tried to manage, often writing to her relatives back in Brightwaters Keep. She’s miserable and sad, holding onto a legacy that was forced upon her by birth. She did not need this, she did not want this. Put to blame for being a child who was guided by a monarch, who puts such weight onto a helpless girl? Delena hasn’t even wed, who is her heir, who is going to make sure that her progress won’t be in vain?

Perhaps, she and her house should return, isolate themselves from the Reach to restore and rise as one. But they are not children anymore, everyone having a mind of their own, it’s not guaranteed, but if there is a chance she and her sister will reconcile, she must take it.

Among a sea of tents, she stood, arms folded.

The Queen, dressed no longer in armour, but her black and gold riding coat, chewed on her fingernail. A hardly ladylike action, but one she had found hard to shake of recent. When she was a child, she did it, when she lived with the Darklyns. Perhaps it was where she stood that brought the habit back, or perhaps the new stress.

She was queen of barely half a year, and she had put down a rebellion. Stokeworth and Rosby, together they were dashed. And yet with them defeated she felt no better. Worse even.

Why do it? She asked herself. The woman was so polite with her in the past. Why suddenly turn traitor? Turn violent? What had possessed her to do that? She was likely mad, or angry, or somewhere in the middle. But event hat did not explain her well enough. Not well enough to have done this.

Gods, this was a mess.

Soon to get worse.

Jhezane came to her side, and handed a rolled up piece of parchment.

"Just tell me," Cyrenna said and her friend sighed.

"Ermesande is dead," she said plainly, "someone ambushed her after," said the Essosi.

Cyrenna's fist tightened, and she bit down hard. A cold, angry fire burnt in her chest. It wasn't that the woman would have escaped punishment, but to be kill3ed in an ambush? Right after their fight, right when Cyrenna would have given her terms.

"Fuck," she said.

"Should we chase the ambusher?" She asked.

Cyrenna hissed away the last of her emotions. This was the time for a pragmatist. She killed her father for emotionality and reasoned it as the act of a rational woman. It was time to tbe the persons he pretended she was. Cyrenna handed the parchment back.

"Break camp... we avenge the traitor."

Coldly, she stormed off to find her armour.

Casterly Rock

​

Doran was not quite sure where he was.

He sat upon the edge of the bed, his head lowered and his breathing laboured. Each breath was a trial itself, a test from the Seven of what little strength he had left. Heavy, harsh and hoarse were each of them and painful beyond reason. He felt the sting of tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, but he made himself a promise that he would not weep. No, he could not do that. He was strong, he had to be strong. And yet, that strength was tested - and wavering faster than he could have ever anticipated.

He lurched forwards and brought his hand up to his mouth, coughing into it. When he drew his hand back, it was stained red; much worse than it had ever been before. He wiped it on his shirt and rose to his feet, trying to ignore how difficult it was to do even that much. He could feel the sweat on his body, causing his clothes to cling to him uncomfortably as he moved towards the door. His hand met the handle of the door as he pushed it forwards.

When he stumbled through the threshold, he found himself in a corridor. He looked left and right, trying to get his bearings. But what met him first was the sheer silence that surrounded him.

He moved forwards, using the nearby wall as support for his steps. His mind raced, where was everybody? Where was Prunella, or the nice Swann ladies he met at the feast all those moons back? Surely they were around, surely they were nearby. Forwards he moved, his vision blurred and obscured - as though he was staring directly into a mist that was rapidly surrounding and consuming him. His breathing audible and strained, providing the only noise to accompany his heavy footfalls.

A large gate framed him as the hall transitioned to a path, and the wind met his skin. It howled as it whipped past him, blowing his hair back and causing him to gasp from the coldness of it. His eyes narrowed as he looked around to drink in his surroundings, as hazy as they were. Everything was so grey and so dark, a mist settled and shrouded anything beyond his immediately vicinity. He took some steps to the right and moved towards the only thing he could truly see. A single tree, overlooking the bay.

He lowered himself into a seated position against it to catch his breath, although that seemed that a vain effort. His eyes moved outwards and down, where the mist seemed to be more clear. He could see a city, and he believed he recognised it to be Lannisport. Yes, that was right. Though, he squinted. There were no ships in the harbour, and all the buildings were grey and old. His breaths continued to labour, and he leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

He heard the whinny of a horse to his left.
"Prunella?" He whispered out, his eyes opening.

A person stood over him, though he could not properly make them out for the shadow and mist that seemed to cloak the world itself. They did not speak a word to him, and they did not look like anyone he knew - but there was a familiarity about them. It certainly wasn't Prunella, nor even the king who ruled these lands. They were cloaked, with pale hands clasped together and face half-hidded beneath a hood. His head turned slightly as a pale mare approached from the flank and moved towards the person.

Then it dawned on him.

His gasp, and the sharp intake of breath along with it, caused him pain. He quickly scrambled to his feet, leaning against the tree for support as his mind rapidly raced. His eyes danced between the person and the mare, and he tried to steady himself. Although he could not see their eyes, there was no doubt that they were upon him. Doran felt fear grip his heart in it's cold, desperate, unwavering grasp. No, not now. It couldn't be.

His lips parted and they were dry as he stammered for words, uncertain of what to settle on, or what to say.
"I," he stammered once again, "I don't want to go."
It brokered no response.
"I," again, he stammered, and his head lowered. Then he raised it once more, looking at the figure. "Why? Tell me why, at least. Why me? What great sin have I committed?"
Once more he was met only by silence.

The silence swirled around him like a maelstrom and it only served to anger him. Surely he was at least owed an explanation for all this?

"Why is it I that you have cursed with this plague on my body? What wrong have I done to be punished like this? All I have wanted is to do good, to bring joy to the many who suffer in this world. And have I have wrought is pain, is suffering night after night. And now, you come to collect me; like so many before. And you do so in silence, with not a word spared. Do I truly deserve this? For my crime of being born?"

Again, he was spared little more than the silent gaze. A low breath escaped him as he wet his dry lips and fought through his laboured breaths.

"There is so much I want to do," he confessed, quieter now, "so much. I have yet to bring my father's legacy to these lands, to make him proud. There is so much more music I have to give the world, so many more songs to write, to spread. So many friends I have yet to meet, and friends I have already met. I can't leave them. I don't want to. It isn't fair. I don't want them to simply forget I ever existed. I want to do something, to mean something."

He felt himself sinking, although he wasn't moving. His pain stung sharply, but what manifested underneath it was a feeling of guilt. A strange shadow hanging over him and swarming within him. Guilt for leaving so much undone, and so much unsaid. But, something further. The person before him regarded him the same as they did before. His ranting, his pleading, it made no difference. Whether that was good or bad still eluded him in the moment.

Mayhaps there was nothing to be said of it. Mayhaps there was no answer to the question he asked. Why? Why not? Nothing made him different from any other person. He thought back to the tournament, those moons ago. Two kings were struck down, two great lives snuffed as quickly as a click of the finger. He remembered what he thought then. Life was fragile. It was never guaranteed, never secured. Never owed. If great kings could fall for reasons that mattered little and less, then he could as well.

He felt himself sink to his knees, his head lowered.

"I, I'm scared," he confessed in little more than a whisper, "I'm sorry."

He felt tears down his cheeks as is eyes remained on the floor. That was where he chose to remain, as his thoughts slowly settled on the realisation and acceptance of what was to happen. He inhaled and exhaled, his breaths sill laboured as they were; though he didn't struggle as much. That was when he felt the hand upon his shoulder, cold as ice.

-----------

His eyes opened at the touch and he gasped, a sharp intake of breath that caused him more pain than he realised. Quickly his eyes searched the room, it was the same. Although there was someone sitting beside him, a woman. He didn't recognse her, but her eyes spelled concern.

"Sorry, I've brought you a cup of water. I didn't mean to wake you." She spoke quickly, extending the cup towards him.
"I," he blinked a few times as he accepted the cup, "where-"
"You were awfully unwell, I couldn't leave you there. Please, drink, it'll help you."
"I, ah, I, thank you."

He lifted the cup to his lips to take a sip.

He was still shaken from what he saw, the thoughts raced through his head ever still. But coming with it was a sense of comfort, of acceptance. He had seen it now, or at least, he thought he had. He knew what was coming, and how it would be inevitable; no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.

He still had time. That was the important thing. That was enough for him.

Whispering Wood - 5th Moon of 5776 AS

One day of hunting had stretched to two, then three, and now the moon had turned; the group themselves becoming more of a mobile band of merriment than the disciplined hunting party that had set out. Sending squires back for drink and hunting their own game in the thick woodlands, the party seemed to all but have forgotten the poachers they were supposed to be tracking. But without finding any outlaws in these woods, would his cousin ever give the order to return.

Said cousin, was currently participating in a game some of the sellswords had introduced to them. It involved Ser Tristifer attempting to throw a horseshoe ten yards away and wrap it around a branch one of them had stuck in the ground.

The days were short and had left all the more time for evenings around campfires, filling their bellies on wild game and sweet wine.

Raymond spent his own time practicing footwork and studying the drawn movements of the only book he'd brought with him. A Bravosi tomb on water dancing, this particular copy featuring notations by a former first sword of Bravos himself. The book had been quite the find. He would work through the motions by night and then spar with his sellswords or fellow squires by day. The routine was pleasant and he was learning quickly, but there was only so long he could remain like this. His mind, his body, they craved change. They craved challenge. For the first time since his return, Raymond missed the fighting pits. The thick air of underground arenas, the sharpened focus of his mind like a blade's edge, the thrum of the crowd meshing with his heartbeat in their scream for blood. When he closed his eyes he could almost see it. Feel it. A hazy vision. A spellbound dream.

Raymond was at the edge of the camp sitting opposite Ser Desmond, both taking whetstones to their blades. It always brought him peace, the same kind he imagined a Smith got at a work well-crafted or a farmer felt after a field sewn. And so they sat in silence, surrounded by the lively camp. Alone with their blades and their thoughts.

"Do you think we're doing the right thing," Raymond broke the silence. "Do you think I made the right choice, returning here after so long?"

Desmond took a moment, placing his sword on his knees and looking into Raymond's eyes. "Do you think we made the wrong one?"

Raymond's mouth opened to speak, then closed in a thin line. "No... I don't know," he finally said. "I just don't feel like I fit here. Like we should be doing something, more."

Desmond again took time to think on his words. "If a man worries about every step he takes, he'll save no time to see where he is, nor where he's going. Do not try and control so much. If you think we should be elsewhere then we will go there. But without a direction, we are better served where we are. I know you want more than the world gave you at birth. Most men do, it is no crime. But you have to be mindful of how you get there. And your kin are decent enough I think, to help you get there."

Ser Desmond always had good advice and Raymond would need time to think on it. He dipped his head in a thankful nod and let his mind fall into itself as he pondered.

Ser Desmond continued the slow moves to sharpen his blade and the silence returned to their small corner of the camp.

Then Raymond spoke softly, his head still facing the ground. "Do you remember the dragon, in Essos?"

This got a raised eyebrow from the knight. "I do."

"The desert was so hot that day, the sun was relentless and the sand dried the air even more. I think I had a similar feeling as I do now. A kind of... Lost, feeling," Raymond said. "My legs hurt, my mind ached, I just didn't know if I'd made the right choice" he sighed.

"And yet we stayed for years thereafter. So what changed?" Desmond asked.

"When I looked out to the horizon I saw nothing but sand, the heat rising in waves. I followed them with my eyes, and then I saw it. A tiny shadow in the sun's glow. A bird I thought at first. But as it got closer I saw the sun flicker, a black bat-like shadow parting it. Then came its roar," Raymond said.

"I remember," Ser Desmond added.

"The screeching made everyone take notice, even the horses became restless. My stomach rose at the thought of what I'd do if the dragons gaze had turned our way. What could any of us have done?" He took a pause. They both knew the answer. "But it stayed to course, and that's when I realised. We weren't even worth the dragon rider's gaze. They were indifferent to the world below them, and that, that was true power." He paused at the word, his head rising to meet Desmond's gaze. "That's what I've been searching for, I think. Does that make sense?" He asked Desmond, eyes locked in questioning.

"More than you know," was the simple response, the silence enveloping them once again.

Raymond dipped his head and slowly they both continued sharpening their blades, the campfire seeming all the warmer; the chatter and laughter of the men, less drowned out than before.

As it turned out, a rider would appear that evening to usher them back to Riverrun at the Lord's command.

It took the first hour of light to pack up the camp, douse the fires, and organise the horses. Then they set out on their return journey. No poachers had shown themselves, but their party's presence had no doubt been noticed. Hopefully that would be enough to dissuade them, but Raymond doubted it. At most they would move on to less patrolled lands.

This is the turn thread for the 5th Moon of 5776 AS and the fifth turn thread of ITRP 17.0! This thread will remain open until the ending of the current moon (turn) on Saturday, March 9th, 2024 at 12:00pm EST [timezone converter](https://www.timeanddate.com/worldclock/converter.html). All aspects of this post and its comments at the time of thread closure will be considered binding actions and cannot be changed once the thread is locked.

After that time this thread shall be locked and the actions resolved shortly after. You have three weeks to submit actions in the thread. Once the thread is locked, no further actions will be accepted for the turn. All actions must be finalized by this time.

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Though a few minor ironborn houses had come to Pyke or sent envoys, none of serious note had yet arrived. Veron Greyjoy, if he was displeased by the meagre turnout, showed no signs of it. He courteously supped with lords large and small alike over swordfish, walrus, and other marine delicacies in Pyke's grand hall. But his eldest son, however, was infuriated. He wanted something more, some great raid to lead or castle to raze. And the fleets of the houses who actually came to House Greyjoy's summons weren't fit to raid a fishing village. So he determined he would let off a little steam.

"It's all so bloody boring, Wulfgar. When will Father finally give me some action?" Vickon grumbled as the man charged at him. Not Wulfgar, for Wulfgar was leaning against the side of the tower's battlements. The man who charged at him was a scruffy fellow with a yellow beard streaked grey, his head shaved bald, his clothes roughspun tatters. The two-handed greataxe came at him with strength, but the man did not swing them often, and he overextended, swinging the axe's blade down hard into the stone, causing the long wooden handle to split.

Vickon did not hesitate to take the opportunity as his opponent stood there stunned with nothing but a rod of wood in his hands. He lopped the man's head off with a single swift swing of his sword. As quickly as he fell though, another man was being prodded into the arena by Greyjoy spears.

"Not enough here to keep you occupied, lad?" Wulfgar Greymane, the old veteran raider, asked with a wry, raspy laugh as he stroked his bushy greybeard. For his part, the master-at-arms was not even watching the fight but a flock of seagulls that passed over the stony courtyard roof and landed on a grouping of rocks a little further out into the ocean. It was one of the smaller towers on Pyke, atop the garrison's main barracks, where the sparring yard was located.

"These thralls are useless!" Vickon spat back with contempt as he traded a handful of blows with the next man who was given a sword. He was better than the last man, but not by very much. It only took three more strikes for the Greyjoy heir to manage a decisive parry, then deliver his riposte. The thrall was skewered cleanly, right through the heart. Thralls usually weren't wasted quite this needlessly. Unless Vickon just had to kill something, that is. Some of the men laughed or cheered for him, but it was half-hearted praise, he knew. Though they made for good enough practice dummies to test out new methods, no thrall was ever going to be a true threat to a kraken.

"Another!" He shouted, pointing his blade at the guards, but they only looked confused or worried. It was only then that Wulfgar stopped observing the seagulls as they caught their fish and pushed himself off the battlements.

"Thralls don't grow on trees, boy. Two a moon, that's your limit. Your father's orders. Steward needs every able thrall on hand for the feast, even if the turnout was shit."

"Don't we have some ore-stealers in the dungeon? Rapers? Not even a single dried-up old salt wife? I'm sure some of yours have to be getting on in years, Wulfy. One less mouth to feed?" Vickon earnestly pleaded, but he knew full well what the Greymane was about to say.

"The dungeons are empty, Vickon. Have been for the past two moons. You're welcome to go whale-hunting or gull-shooting whenever you like. They might not blunt your blade so." The old man counseled with a smirk as two men-at-arms dragged one of the bodies over to the tower's side and began heaving it from left to right. As they did so, Vickon checked the edge of his blood-stained blade, running his finger down the side.

"My edge is fine, old man. Thralls scarce but make a dent." And at that, Vickon let out a long sigh and slid his sword into it's scabbard. Then, started down the stairs into the tower to make his way back to the feast. The rumble of his boots down the stone steps punctuated only by the splash of his offering to the Drowned God as it fell into the sea.

Riverrun - 4th moon of 5776 AS

It had been several days since his first meeting with his cousin and respective advisors, giving Raymond plenty of time alone with his thoughts.

His mother's words were 'Family, Duty, Honour' and Raymond wasn't sure he would ever live up to them.

Family.

Spending only a few years at Riverrun and sparsely seeing his cousins in private, led to a childhood with maesters and soldiers. His mother dead before he knew her and his father absent, whether from lack of care or the stranger's own hand.

Duty.

His, as far as he was told by his aunt and uncle, was to not be heard or seen lest he disrespected the house. When they sent him away to page for the Wayn's it had almost been a relief. He finally made a friend in the young heir, Tristifer. But he quickly realized he would never get the best opportunities in life unless he took them himself.

Honour.

Was that what he abandoned when he traveled to Essos. He felt like he had. Even made Ser Desmond swear not to knight him for selling his sword for gold. A knight was worth more than that.

They had to be.

His muscles tightened and sprang forth the freshly forged greatsword. Still adjusting to the difference in balance, the greatsword was large compared to the hand-and-a-half swords he had learnt with as a sellsword, but he couldn't deny the benefit it gave him in reach. It was a long, wide blade with parallel edges that tapered to a sharpened point. Five feet of castle-forged steel made to slice a man in twain. With a hilt designed for two hands, this style of sword was almost as tall as the man wielding it, but unlike the sword Raymond was still growing. Experience would help him adjust to this one in time.

It's sharpened blade whistled through the air, practicing the motions of each stance. Years in Essos among sellswords and a squireship under the fierce sword of Ser Desmond had seen him develop his own mix of water dance, Westerosi form, and Essosi trickery. Through practice he had found a way to chain each movement as needed. He maneuvered the sword to practice with its extended cross guard and positioning of the parrying hooks that bastard swords lacked. He'd seen Ser Desmond use his own greatsword in a multitude of ways to get the upper hand in a duel, and now he was having to drill the movements into his body until they flowed as smoothly as a river. He would continue until his muscles burned and the other men started sparring, where he would both watch and join in.

And so, it was among a group of guardsmen and sellswords that a runner found him. His cousin, the Lord of Riverrun, had a task for him.

Not an awe inspiring task it turned out, but a task from the Lord all the same. Apparently, his cousin Mycah had been tracking a small group of poachers in the woodlands North of Riverrun. Now that his cousin believed he'd found their main camp, he had returned to round up a hunting party. He would gather his men and join them at the stables.

Raymond collected the men from the training grounds and moved to the nearby inn to grab the remainder, finding Ser Desmond and Adar engaged in a slow game of cyvasse that Adar seemed to have the better of. The knight met his eyes as he entered.

"We've got a job, poacher hunt, tasked by the Lord of Riverrun himself. Ask your questions on the way. The others are meeting at the stables," Raymond informed the group, met with nods as each man began getting ready.

Already in his riding leathers and thin metal plate - you really didn't need that much in Essos - he moved to prep Ser Desmond's armour. Without a word Raymond fitted straps and cloth padding just how he'd been taught all those years ago. He affixed his waist belt which held a single sheathed dagger.

The cloak of heraldry, a silver tree in blossom on a field of blue that hung over his shoulders and flowed down his armoured back. He was so used to the heraldry, he could spot it in the midst of battle with ease if needed. The man once told him the words he'd chosen to match his banner; 'Winter's bane'. He wasn't sure of its meaning to the knight, but it must have been important. While he had neglected to change his name, this cloak alone was proof of his nobility. Of his oath.

On his back went the greatsword in it's half-sheath, pulling the cloak tight so it wouldn't affect him in battle.

Ser Desmond looked every part a knight from stories. Tall, taller then even the fast growing Raymond. Shining, thanks to the polished half-plate. And deadly, in the way that was practiced for war. After organizing the rest of the men, Raymond and Ser Desmond made their way to the castle's stable yard.

To his surprise Tristifer Wayn, his childhood friend was with Ser Mycah Tully by the horses.

"By the seven, is that you Rivers!" The man exclaimed.

"A pleasant surprise I hope. And not alone," he presented his group with a sweeping arm. "You remember Ser Desmond I imagine," he said as the knight moved through the group to where they were.

"Hard to forget the man who made me so well acquainted with the ground," Tristifer jested, clasping Ser Desmond's arm in greeting. "I thought you just looked tall cause I was ten name days past, but it looks like you were a mountain of a man all along," he said looking up to the knight who even now towered near a head over the crowd.

"Young lordling," Ser Desmond smiled.

"Ser now" Tristifer said, puffing his chest a little.

"Hmm" Ser Desmond nodded.

It was then that Ser Mycah made his way over, having been instructing some young stable hands and squires.

"Cousin," Raymond greeted, offering his hand. To his thanks Mycah met the gesture with his own.

"Cousin... It's been a long time," he said looking over the rest of the group.

"I did not see you on my return," Raymond questioned.

"We only arrived back at the Castle near dusk last night. No chance for courtly pleasantries I'm afraid."

The group shared quick introductions and settled on a line of command for the expedition before mounting up and heading through the main gate. There were at least twenty riders in their number, with half that marching alongside, be they squires without horse or trackers led by hounds.

Raymond rode with the rear of the convoy catching up with Ser Tristifer, Vēzos running alongside.

They would cross the waters of the Tumblestone on the main road to make camp early in the beginnings of the Whispering Wood. The knights agreeing each days light would fall quickly in the thick woodland.

Riverrun - 4th moon of 5776 AS

The rooms of the Inn they were lodged in were small, with some of the men even bunking together. But in this one, in the later throws of morning, like now, the sunlight beamed in through the window, dappling the room with Summer sun in a way reminiscent of the Essosi heat. The thin white drapes fluttered in the weak winds of the morning and reflected the days light, crafting a space of bright warmth that seeped into the wooden furniture. Other colourful linens hung about the room, clearly brought from Essos. Bright oranges that faded to yellow imitating the sunlight and light blues to soothe the mind. A faint smell of spice suffused the air and mixed pleasantly with the light river breeze from the Tumblestone. The room's richness vastly contrasted the size, making it seem like a shrunken royal chamber. It was a luxurious refuge from the chaos of the world, just as it's current resident had planned it to be.

Adar zo Merreq was the most flamboyant member of their party by far. The man had dense, dark amber skin, and wiry hair dyed with red highlights, all pointing to his Ghiscari descent. His armour while leather like the rest of the Essosi, had additions of fine red silks and two golden bands on his right bicep. His hands held several rings, all gold. And currently, he had a sly grin on his face.

"You have to be calm. Know he will obey." He said to Raymond, who was in the chair opposite, ignoring the cyvasse game in-between them in favour of the sand coloured jackal at his feet. His friend held up a piece of rabbit meat that had gained the beasts undivided attention. He'd named it in Valyrian, as was everything in Essos, for the sunlight that reflected of its coat.

"Sit." Raymond said, in a softer yet still demanding voice. The jackal whimpered and licked his lips. "Vēzos, Sit." Raymond said again. This time the tone was perfect. It reminded Adar of the beast tamers his family hired for the fighting pits back home. What a spectacle those rare and ferocious creatures had been.

The jackal finally sat and both men couldn't help but break into a smile.

"Good boy." Raymond said as he tossed the meat in an arc to the beasts waiting maw. It chewed a little and near gulped the thing down in one, tongue lapping up the grease around its lips. His friend continued to praise the beast with rubs and heavy pets at the small accomplishment. Adar just smiled and shook his head, gaze drifting back to the board between them. Even half distracted, Raymond had put him in a tough spot. It would take some trickery to pull the game back in his favour; and, he knew that after they'd finished playing he'd be dragged over to the training grounds again. So he put his mind to work.

He should have played an Elyrian defense, but now, what was left to him. Perhaps a Paenymion rush...

Yes.

This harpy still had tricks.

^(|| OST:) ^(Assassin's Creed Revelations Theme (Slowed but you're in the abandoned Masyaf Fortress)) ^(||)

^(|| Alternate Titles : Fear of the Unknown ||)

​

The fertile grasses of Rosby land weren't something that Shi originally believed he would be experiencing. At least, not on a northerly march. Whitfield was to be their destination and they were almost there. His horse, or rather the horse that was afforded to him by the Black Dread and the merry company of men that Shi was counted among - had gained a favorable name; Joyonghan-baram, or just Baram for short. Baram wasn't complaining about the clearly sweeter grass on this side of the bay. But every so often, Shi caught himself looking back from whence they came as he and Baram made their rounds scouting ahead and doubling back with the other outriders. Fires perhaps, or the plumes of smoke - could have all been imaginary coming from Stokeworth. He remembered the fluttering banners of the Stag as the band of the Black Dread stood on those muddy shores and witnessed the Durrandon procession.

Or was it witnessed by? Shi observed strangeness almost daily. These Westerosi were vain - yet aggrieved by a concept of honor that Shi found to be very easy to navigate. Some of the men gambled freely, and with what little valuables they possessed would be far too satisfied with pilfering what was lost right back again. Though bonds formed - typically were much harder to steal - and once broken even harder to resuscitate. Which was a glorious and fanciful contradiction. As the march came to a reprieve Shi dismounted the horse with the others. "Baram. Be aware, I might need you yet my friend." Shi whispered into the dark steed's ear. His words came out in the eastern tongue. It felt more natural to speak to such a gentle creature in a gentler tongue than the Westerosi common. Spiritually, Shi felt more connected to Baram in such a fashion.

Riverrun - 4th moon of 5776 AS

He was home.

It was strange, standing outside of Riverrun, a place he'd spent more than half his life away from, yet still he felt some attachment to its tall stone walls. Maybe because it was the only true place he had left of his mother. And so, he'd held this feeling in his heart without ever really thinking about it. A longing for the motherly warmth he'd never known. A desire to have a true home to return to.

Their group stood outside the large gatehouse, stopped by two guards.

"Make yourselves known." The first guard spoke. A man with a wiry frame that looked like a long march would tire him out. The other guard looked hungover, Raymond had seen the look before. Eyelids a little too heavy, shoulders hunched, a bit too much sweat on the brow; a solid night of gambling and drinking if he had to guess.

"I am Raymond Rivers, cousin to Lord Tully. And these are my companions." He gestured "We've traveled far and seek an audience with your Lord, a place to break our fast, and another to store our wares."

The guards tried to straighten at the mention of their Lord. "Tommer, go get the Captain." The thin one said, the other quickly stumbling in a turn and jogging out of sight. "Apologies m'lord but we can't let you into the keep without proof of who you are." The guard bowed a little and scratched the back of his head, an awkward look gracing his face.

The men behind Raymond shuffled and one or two grumbles broke out, but a quick glance back from Ser Desmond silenced them soon enough.

When the guard returned a few minutes later, his breathing deep and his face flushed, Raymond thought the man might empty his stomach right there. That was one thing he preferred about sellswords. They knew when to get drunk and when to get paid, and that the two seldom worked well together. A drunk man was a slow man, and a slow man was most certainly a dead man.

The still red faced man managed to right himself as the captain of this gate trudged through the morning mud behind him, smoking on a pipe and looking not half as concerned as the two guards. "What'd we av' ere then?" The man's gruff voice came out with a calm that seemed to suck all tension out of the air. The kind of deminer that veteran inkeeps had to make drunk men get along rather than start a fight.

Raymond glanced to the recovering guard to gauge if he'd even told the Captain who he was. He looked panicked. Raymond internally sighed, that was a no then. "Raymond Rivers, cousin to you Lord. Well met, Ser?"

"I'm no Ser m'lord. Just a Captain's all. Don't s'pose you have any letter or such of invitation, prove your not just a band of sellswords or the such." He said, a slight grin appearing.

Ah.

"I'm afraid not Captain. Though Ser Mycah or Ser Ryker should be able to vouch for me. I know both well." Raymond continued, confident. He'd anticipated a cold welcome, but even he thought they'd at least let him through the gate.

"Ser Mycah is out on a hunt." The Captain said matter-of-factly "And Ser Ryker met the stranger over a year past now." The man raised an eyebrow.

By all the Seven, this was proving more trying than he thought.

"Well there has to be a noble or knight within the castle. Fetch one, or simply bring me to an audience with your Lord, my cousin. My men can wait here if need be." By now his patience had been tested.

The Captain pondered, probably weighing the benefits or punishments against his judgement. "As you say m'lord. You can follow. Your men stay here."

Raymond gave a single nod to Ser Desmond and followed after the Captain.

Riverrun looked the same as it always had. Tall sandstone walls, strong and impregnable. Servants, squires and stable boys ran to and fro as he walked through the grounds towards the great hall.

"The Lord Tully'll be seeing to requests of an audience soon. You'll get a chance to see him then. For now you stand at the edge of the hall with me, understood?" It wasn't really a question, so Raymond simply nodded. He'd never liked using more words than necessary, and preferred people who felt the same. Him and Ser Desmond could almost have a whole conversation with just a look of the eyes. It usually went with Raymond wanting to do something dangerous and Ser Desmond first berating him, then leading the way.

They walked past another set of guards and past the open first set of doors before the great hall. The line of petitioners stretches further down the hallway, guards keeping everyone in check, and Raymond had never been more thankful not to be a Lord.

"This way m'lord." The Captain then ushered him to the second set of doors, having the guards open them, and made for the side of the large room.

The long table at the top of the hall was the same one he had looked up at during feasts throughout his childhood. The one his aunt had forbade he sit at. Yet now it sat an old Maester that he thought he remembered the face of, a woman of clearly Essosi descent, Myrish if he had to guess, the uncle who had been so keen for him to leave last time he was in Riverrun, a rough looking man with leathery skin that had been with his cousin in the Citadel, and finally in the center his cousin now Lord of Riverrun. Behind the wooden throne-like seats stood a few house hold guards, including Ser Patrek Rivers, his aunt's old sworn sword.

Though he walked to join the Captain at the side of the room, all eyes trailed towards his. Some with curiosity, some with venomous distaste, and one with, surprisingly, relief. His cousin looked as if a weight had been lifted seeing him, and Raymond was for once uncertain how to respond. So he kept silent instead, a trained passivity in his face, as was his way. He'd not come this far to be thrown out by his uncle due to a lack of decorum. He would wait until called upon. Patience was the first lesson Ser Desmond taught him after all.

It was interesting enough, seeing his cousin handle court. There had been a dispute between a baker and a leather worker over who had caused the fire that set their shops ablaze. A woman had been dragged in and proclaimed a witch by three men, who turned out to have done so to appease their wives rather than admit they had lusted for the poor woman. A travelling minstrel had sought a place in court and been courteously turned away. Plus many more mundane issues brought before the Lord, which seemed to Raymond like they could have been easily handled by decent guards and perhaps a scribe or taxman. But who was he to throw a branch in the watermill.

The rest of the table mostly gave advice to their Lord and whispered among themselves, though each would occasionally steal a glance towards Raymond as he watched the proceedings. When it came to the last of the smallfolk that had lined up, the Captain rose from his slouched position on the side wall and motioned for Raymond to follow him to the center of the great hall like all the people before.

"M'lord, this man and a band of what appear to be sellswords arrived at the gate this morn' and this one claims to be your blood." The Captain said with some clear disbelief.

"And so he is, Captain." Was the short and, judging by the Captain's widening eyes, shocking response. Not knowing what else to say the Captain just stepped aside. Raymond had to fight to contain a smirk.

"My Lord" Raymond said with a bow of the head.

"Cousin. It has been a long time. I had thought you would return to the Citadel and complete your tutelage, mayhaps even forge your own chain. You can imagine my surprise to have then received a letter from Archmaester Galyn himself expressing thanks to house Tully for your contributions from Essos." Lord Tully spoke in a practiced voice that carried well in the large room. "I am curious what these contributions were, but moreso of what you've been doing in Essos all these years, and what your plans are now."

Raymond took a deep breath. "My Lord, I had set out to Essos to learn more, see more, of the world, and to train under Ser Desmond Snow, the knight I am squire to, in a more military environment. To that end, we joined a sellsword company in Essos, trained, travelled, and learnt the culture. It is a handful of those men I travelled and fought with that now stand outside your gate."

"You would have us host men no better than bandits." Ser Martyn Grell interrupted, the man's eyes screaming blind fury. "Riverrun is a noble castle, not some Essosi tavern!" The last bit was said with spittle aimed directly at Raymond.

"Good father please, let my cousin finish." Lord Tully replied, looking actually annoyed with the morose man. His gaze turned back to Raymond. "And the rest?" He prompted.

"As for my contributions to the Citadel, I merely sent the Archmaester some rarer seen ingredients for healing, as well as notes on my own findings. A token of thanks for his teachings, nothing more."

"And yet now you have returned." The Maester, Oswald, now spoke up.

Raymond's eyes flicked to acknowledge the question before centering on his cousin's chair once again. "I have gained the experience I wanted in Essos, and while it's true, there is a lot more to the world I have not yet seen, I wished to return home and earn my knighthood in the way of Westeros rather than as a sellsword." There were a few reactions to that. Ser Martyn snorted, The Myrish woman eyed him like she was watching for any trace of a lie, and his cousin simply smiled. Raymond had forgotten how much of a kind face his cousin had. Last time he'd seen it, it had been shrouded by such grief. Between that and his uncle's dour face, Riverrun had felt much colder. Now, his cousin greeted him with warmth even if they weren't particularly close.

Lord Tully whispered to the old man at his right, who then ushered a servant away with orders. This turned out to be a call for bread and salt as the same servant returned in but a moment with a small bowl of salt and a fresh loaf holding them before Raymond.

"Cousin, please, be welcome in my hearth and home. Share my bread and salt and know you and your companions are under my protection as guests of house Tully."

Raymond tore a piece of the loaf and dipped it in the thick salt. With a grateful nod he ate.

"I will have a room prepared for you, though your company will need to seek lodging in the town." Lord Tully continued, Raymond not surprised they didn't want unknown elements within the castle walls, even if he vouched for them.

"Then mayhaps we will sup with each other once I am less road-weary my Lord." Raymond responded with a short bow.

"Indeed. I am sure my court is keen to hear more of your travels."

And with that Raymond took his leave with another nod of thanks, led away to his new quarters by a serving girl. It would do well to wash off the salt of the narrow sea.

The Tusks - 4th moon of 5776 AS

​

A day’s ride south-west of Tarbeck Hall, Robert Tarbeck had entered the lands of his vassal the Vikarys, known as ‘the Tusks’ and close to the border they shared with the Presters.

Given his well-known hatred of the Presters, Robert Tarbeck thought it prudent to send out scouting parties to see if there were any incursions into the Tarbeck lands. And not just from the Presters. The Ironborn raid on the Banefort had been concerning, so it may well have been that the raiders had sailed south from Banefort and were even now roaming the Westerlands, perhaps even across his own lands. Robert swore that if he ever caught Ironborn raiders on his lands, he would make an example of them that the whole of the Westerlands would remember.

The Presters were another matter. Robert had never forgiven them for the insult to his father. While he had fallen out with his father later in his life, the insult to his family done by Samwell Prester and that bitch Jeyne Hill – he refused to call her Jeyne Prester – could not be borne.

After two days of inadequate reports and Robert being no wiser about whether they were under any threat or whether there had been any incursions from the west or from the sea, the Lord grew frustrated with his subordinates and determined to lead one of the scouting parties himself. “We’ve heard nothing useful now for two days.” he raged to his second in command and friend Lyonel Vikary as he paced in his tent. The large blonde man knowing his friend and lord well over many years, knew when to remain silent. So, he merely nodded in agreement.Robert summoned some of the scouts who had regularly been out patrolling over the past few days. He stared in disbelief when they arrived – notably a boy of sixteen dressed in cheap shoddy leather armour and a small man in his late twenties, known to the other men as ‘Dropeye’ due to his heavy-lidded right eye – the result of a childhood accident. There were a number of others dressed in homespun motley, but alternatively missing ears, fingers and one a whole hand.“

These are our scouts?” Robert demanded of Lyonel incredulously.

Lyonel nodded ruefully. “They can’t fight and these aren’t much good at helping feed the men, so we use them as scouts.”Robert thought for a moment. “They‘ll have to do. I’ll take the boy and the one with the eye and him without the ears for the moment. "What’s your name man?” he asked the one with the missing ears.

“Rolph the Earless, my lord” replied the man ducking his head in a small bow. Robert rolled his eyes, glanced at Lyonel with a sneer and nodded. “Of course it is."

As he turned away to call for his horse, he said shortly "Lyonel – find out the credentials of these others while I’m gone.” Lyonel’s face remained impassive and he merely nodded.

A knight, a green boy and two ugly men, Robert thought to himself as he strode away, the boys and the ugly men scampering after him. ‘Here’s hoping we don’t run into Prester soldiery or worse the Ironborn – the embarrassment would be too much to bear.’

Allowing the rest of the his men to march past them, eventually Robert adjudged the column to have opened sufficient distance between him and his three remaining men. The Lord of Tarbeck had divested himself of his customary blue and silver surcoat and was now dressed plainly with a blank shield that did not reveal his rank. He still wore his customary black armor, however, that matched his visage and some more of his virulent critics said also matched his character.

The small party left the track and commenced trotting adjacent to it. They stayed close enough to see anything coming up the track ahead or behind them, whilst keeping a distance such as they could from the available foliage that would allow them to make for cover and remain unseen should they come across anyone. Robert and Dropeye rode on one side of the road, Rolph Earless and the young boy, whse name Robert had not bothered to learn rode on the other.

At length the Lord of Tarbeck Hall was satisfied that there was no one along the road that shouldn’t be there and he ordered his men to strike west by south-west across open country towards the border with Feastfires, and following what appeared to be a small trail.

“Ain’t much cover along here ser,” Dropeye called over to Robert as they rode mainly through open fields, “If anyone’s about we’ll see ‘em a way off.”

“Still…” replied Robert, “…keep your eyes open and try to make as little noise as possible. Stay behind any little cover you might find.”

After riding ahead and scouting back along whence they had come for over two hours, there came a high call of alarm. Robert quickly gestured for Dropeye to pull his pony over nearby, and the two jumped down from the saddle behind a large gorse-thicket. They waited, trying to ascertain what was going on, but there was neither sight nor sound of the other two men.

Several minutes passed, before there was another shout from the other side. “Milord!” Robert recognized the unmistakable high voice of the earless man Rolph. “Smoke!”

Robert inwardly cursed as he and Dropeye made their way across to the source of the call, to find the earless man staring down over the crest of a small hill. Sure enough, there was smoke billowing from a hut down below – and not just campfire smoke either.

The hut and the neighbouring building – what looked like a rudimentary stable were on fire – an orange glow could be seen emerging from the thatches. The men hastily tethered their horses in a small copse, leaving the boy to watch over them and drew their swords as they crept closer to the brow of the hill. Below them they could now see the scurrying figures of the hut’s inhabitants – attempting to douse the flames engulfing their hovel. Further south-west, Robert could see dust and the outlines of figures – maybe half a dozen men mounted on horses riding off into the distance. He couldn’t make their details out, but whoever they were, they appeared responsible for the scene below them. Whether they were raiders from the Iron islands – which he doubted - or just merely bandits or outlaws he didn’t know.

Dropeye whispered beside him. “They’re not likely Ironborn, Lord. Common outlaws they look like.”

Robert nodded silently in agreement. Every holding had outlaws. His rapacious mother had inspired the formation of many of the outlaw bands that plagued his lands when she had seized holdings and expelled their owners. His father had been too weak-willed to oppose his wife’s depradations. This was likely just another band of outlaws that emerged out of hiding on the odd occasion, to strike back by causing as much damage to his lands as they could inflict. Bandits, outlaws or not, he knew he didn’t have enough men just now to confront them.

He signalled to the others. It was time to return to the rest of his men. Maybe he would discuss some further plans in light of this new development or perhaps he would just cross into Prester lands to chase these likely outlaws. He whistled to the boy, who came leading the horses. Mounting up, Robert warned his men to stay quiet and alert. They moved west quickly following the tracks of their main company.

It wouldn't be long before they caught up.

(Ambience)

The Black Dread watched silently as the banners assembled across the Blackwater Bay. Shi had noticed them first, but with each day more and more levies assembled, the brackish waters separating the two forces.

He stared with contempt at the stag banners fluttering in the wind. His fists clenched, his blood boiled, and it was all he could do not to sound the horns, to send he and his men storming across the bridge to spill their blood.

No. His fists unclenched. That would not do.

They outnumbered his band for too heavily. Even with the element of surprise, they would not win this day.

So, they would leave. Let the stags see that he was watching. Let them look over their shoulders as they marched on Stokeworth.

And let them shudder in fear as they attempted to march back home.

He gave the order. The band began to pack up camp, while some of his stealthier members darted forward to daub ashes on the edge of the bridge across the Blackwater.

Even if the stag queen was as stupid as he thought, the Black Dread would not waste an opportunity to mock his hated foes.

With that, the Band of the Black Dread vanished up the road northward, eagerly awaiting for the Durrandons to stumble.

And thus fall.

The Fourth Moon of 5776 AS

An entourage would arrive at the King’s court, an older couple and two children in their adolescence hanging around by the doors, a young girl and boy who bickered quietly. Also standing with the children was a woman who looked strikingly like Prunella—if her red hair was long and pulled into an elegant twist, with softer, slender features. In he arms, she was shushing a bundle of a baby who was intent on wailing instead of sleeping.

The two who asked for an audience with King Cerion and to be accompanied by Lord Swyft, was a man who was greying at the temples with deep brown hair and a matching beard. At his side, there was a woman of similar age, her blonde hair turned white.

They both would kneel before the King, and the man was the first to rise.

“Your Majesty, it’s an honour to stand before you,” he said, voice a bellow in the halls, “I am Ser Gyles Greenfield, and this is my lady wife, Amarei Turnberry.”

At her name, Amarei rose, linking her hand with her husband’s.

“We have been wanting to speak to you and find the right time as there is a matter and dispute of the Laws of the Rock that have come into question,” he gave a firm nod to Lord Swyft, “And, as it concerns someone here in the Court of the Rock we thought it prudent to speak to both you, Your Majesty, and our liege Lord of Swyft.”

Gyles cleared his throat, rocking back on his feet to puff out his chest.

“The Right to control one's family in the manner of occupation, betrothal, marriage, and wardship,” he recited, “We have a member of our family who has willfully refused all manner of these laws, and it has cost us. We are a humble house, and betrothals and marriages as you know, are important for securing bonds between us and the other noble houses. So when betrothals are broken due to the actions of said family member, and the potential of marriage lost—it hurts our entire house.”

“And then, when a suitable occupation is found for her, as a Septa, she proceeds to send letters home to her family and lie about both her whereabouts and her occupation, telling us for three years that she joined the Sept. And yet we arrive here and find her acting a mummer,” Gyles spoke the last word with such contempt, he might as well said, ‘murderer’.

“Lady Prunella, our Prune, is my wife’s daughter. She belongs at home with her family, where we can arrange a suitable marriage as she has refused to be a Septa. But she has refused to even speak or see us—her family! We ask you, Your Majesty, as she has entrenched herself in your court, that she might be returned to us with your authority that she cannot refuse.”

4th Moon of 5776 A.S.

Nightsong

It would have been somewhat fitting had the Centaurs arrived at Nightsong at, well, night — however, the Lord of Stonebridge decided that this was an occasion where appropriateness and levelheadedness far outweighed the potential for a poetic entrance, and so the party had set up camp some leagues away to wait for dawn.

Thus, it was in the morning light that Theodan Caswell arrived at Nightsong and with him, all the knightly and chivalric glory of the Reach.

The force he had brought with him was, admittedly, somewhat large for what was essentially a brief meeting and an escort back up the road. Though in this time of chaos and uncertainty, it seemed prudent to the Lord Marshall to exercise cautious to the utmost degree. After all, the Lord Swann himself had charged him to take care of his daughter.

It was soon after they arrived (and whilst they were in the midst of setting up camp) that a guard and a missive arrived from Nightsong — from his grandmother, to be precise, the Lady of Nightsong.

It was in the company of Roderick and Theon that he visited her in the castle keep, exchanging with her all the pleasantries a grandson ought to share with his own grandmother as well as sharing with her the reason of his visit. If she objected to his presence, she did not show it on her face, and the Lord Marshall returned to his own camp some hours later, having supped with his kin as customs of hospitality dictated. Though, to be sure, he would be remaining in his own camp for as long as they stayed by the walls of Nightsong which, admittedly, would not be long.

The Swanns would arrive in about two days as per their last communication. On the third day, they would depart once more for the Reach, for home. In the meantime, Theodan had seen fit to raise for himself a grand pavilion in which to welcome the coming guests, its white and gold hues shining in the morning sun from its central position in the camp. It was flanked by smaller tents belonging to his cousins and his foremost knights and advisors — the other tents, small and large, hosted the rest of his retainers as well as servants and a small number of bards and mummers for entertainment (as was common for hosts of this size). A small group of camp followers had gathered in the periphery too, as was common, though they were not allowed within the Caswell camp itself.

The first two days passed by in normalcy. He would occasionally visit the castle itself to sup with his kin and occasionally someone from the castle would visit his own camp — however, the Lord Marshall preferred to keep a dignified separation between the two, regardless of familial ties, and spent most of his time in the pavilion or in the general vicinity of the camp itself, observing and instructing on maintaining proper order in the little 'tent town' that had sprung up so suddenly. Still, it was orderly and it was good — he assured as much whenever he elected to take a stroll along the straight, narrow 'streets'.

And for the first time in many long weeks, Theo's mind was as clear as the morning sky above them.

This is the turn thread for the 4th Moon of 5776 AS and the fourth turn thread of ITRP 17.0! This thread will remain open until the ending of the current moon (turn) on Saturday, February 24th, 2024 at 12:00pm EST [timezone converter](https://www.timeanddate.com/worldclock/converter.html). All aspects of this post and its comments at the time of thread closure will be considered binding actions and cannot be changed once the thread is locked.

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In the fair halls of Silverhill, all the peacocks had gone from the castle, but the party had only just started. Everyone now left behind were those that Lord Gyles felt that he could do without. And chief among these was old Ser Ossifer Serrett, who was known to be a great many things. He was best known for being an able administrator and castellan of the castle, a position he'd served in for going on three decades. Gyles' uncle was also known as the single biggest enemy of his dreaded Confessor Vylarr, which had actually done a great deal for his popularity about the castle. But there were… other things… about Ser Ossifer that only those who knew him best knew.

"At long last, my pretties! We are free from the grasp of my meek nephew and his solemn stork!" The old peacock shouted from atop Silverhill's silver throne, an old and stony seat adorned with elaborate silver scrollwork all about it's arms and back, which was wrought in the shape of a peacock and decorated by green velvet and glittering sapphires. He was a man in his fifties, with grey hair that hung down to his shoulders and a pointed little patch of grey hair on his chin. He wore a rich black-and-silver samite tunic trimmed under a cloak of sable, for he'd been rakish and handsome ever since his youth. His wide eyes, sky blue, sparkled with excitement as he held a great silver goblet in his hand, filled to the brim with Arbor Gold that spilled some onto the floor as he sharply raised it.

Now that the castle was free from the clutches of the confessor for the first time in four years, Ossifer declared that their freedom would be celebrated with great vigor and that all revelry was to be permitted. This, again, made him quite popular with all the serving ladies and men-at-arms in the castle. But it also gave them a chance to see who the old man really was when, for the first time in years, he was truly out from under a lord's shadow.

"With Gyles and his pet septon away, we can finally get to the real tasks at hand! The peacock enclosure only has nineteen such birds! This is an outrage! So, Lord Falwell, I'm sending you to Essos with a princely sum to acquire more! We must have a collection of peafowl that will be the envy of every kingdom from Sothoryos to the Lands of Always Winter!" The gallant peacock proclaimed with glee, his earnestness surely endearing to everyone gathered to hear him. Falwell, a man famously hard, stern, and ungiven to japes, took this order with remarkable seriousness, bowing and thanking the Castellan for selecting him for the honor.

"Ser Aubrey Drox! I expect you to raise more men for the garrison. We can resist any potential incursions from the Reach or the Rivers, aye. But the problem is the Children..."

"The... the children, ser?" Ser Aubrey asked, genuinely befuddled.

Simple soldiers are always too slow to understand the complexities of the game. So like a patient father, I must needs explain it to him.

"Yes, Aubrey. It is true... the Gardeners will be merciless in their attack. They have not had honey in many a summer, for I ate all their bees when I visited their court as a lad. They’ll not have forgotten this. The Children of the Forest may be on their side, but there’s no cause to worry though, Ser! For I have already sent out envoys and the grumpkin king will fight for us! How can we lose?" The mad peacock asked with an unblinking intensity in his eyes and a wide grin stretching across his face. There was a brief moment of silence at this stunning revelation, naturally, but then the applause from all the courtiers at his bold diplomatic strategy arrived.

"First he saved us from the confessor, now certain death! What can't he do?" The youngest Jast boy, Quentyn his name was, exclaimed in awe as he raised his own tankard to toast him, and several other young knights with him followed suit. Ser Aubrey did not appear to join them though, instead sparing a vacant glance to one of his serjants by the door.

"No need for all that, lads." Ossifer laughed, good-naturedly. "Simply enjoy yourselves now that we're free from under the yoke of oppression! So long as I'm in command here, you've all nothing to fear!"

And indeed, he was right. All sorts of people previously banished from the court by the strict and crude measures of Gyles and his pet dove were allowed back in by Ossifer. Enterprising young tax leviers, charming ladies of the night, purveyors of exotic spices, and more found their way to Ossifer's court in very short order. As did singers, jugglers, and mummers. The court was a fun place again. And thank the Gods for that.

The wonderful peacock wondered if his wife would be in such a mood to enjoy herself.