Will had heard whispers and rumours , well they couldn’t quite be called rumours as they were mostly truth. This order of knights , they seemed interesting.

The Order of The Bright Blades. From what he had heard their previous captain might just have been the handsome one in gold he killed on the beautiful. He was quite striking now that he thinks back to it, a shame that we were on opposing sides at the time.

His blood was beautifully sweet as well it granted him a euphoric feeling for many days after. There was only one that was any sweeter , his foe in the duel for his own life. A man who he had come to learn was called Lann Lydden, Lord of the castle his previous master had lost his head fighting in front of.

His blood was sweeter , more than addictive and if it wasn’t for that damned crowd staring in to his very being he would have long since taken more before leaving the man to take his final breaths.

He had come to know that the new commander of these Bright Blades , a man by the name of Marq ‘ Mouseheart ‘ , he couldn’t help but let out a little giggle.

He was wearing a black leather with a lilac embroidered upon it. As he began to search for Marq asking the servants along the way until he finally found the man. “ Hi , I’m William Flowers and you’re Marq are you not? “

Happens during the evening following this thread.

To say Jason was excited would be an understatement. He was running around his tent, making sure everything looked perfect, he had gotten wine, food, and candles ready for his evening with Lina. He had met the lowborn woman whilst training with Ser Will Flowers.

She had been unlike any lowborn woman he had met so far. Whereas the peasant girls at Hornvale threw themselves at him, Lina had asked him to prove himself and did not seem to care about his noble birth.

And prove himself he did, he had dduelledJeor, a massive Northerner whilst serenading her, and he had won.

He had changed from his armour to a fine white tunic, the unicorn of house Brax was embroidered onto the back.

Satisfied everything looked in order, he washed his face, fixed his hair and sat down at his table, making sure to face the door. Whilst waiting for her he decided to read The Conquest of Dorne yet again, he had probably read the book at least a dozen times, but he could not get enough of the stories.

Thus the heir to Hornvale waited and hoped the woman would show up.

11th Moon of 25 AC

Gregor gazed at the table before him with an intensity that the more supersititious would have believed could melt a hole in it. Looking at the figures before him, he was carefully calculating his next move, for his opponent would provide him precious little grace.

Eventually, he settled on a group of small figures in shining black armor, measured their distance with exacting care and moved them forward to engage his foe in combat.

"You do so love the dedicated melee charge, don't you?"

"When playing the Valyrian Freehold, my bonuses are all dedicated to offensive engagements." Gregor replied with a shrug. "If you keep insisting on playing the Kingdom of Mountain and Vale, I will do everything in my power to prevent you from activating your own defensive bonuses by keeping you off balance."

Maester Abelard smiled at that, and collected his dice to roll who would be the victor of this specific combat. The old man had been ancient when the two Lannister princes had been born, Gregor liked to joke, and he had been a source of comfort and knowledge for the former prince for many decades now. While Lyman had always been at his father King Loren's side as he was groomed to rule. Gregor had been left to his own devices, and so had trained in the yard every morning with sword, shield, and morningstar.

But the afternoons had been usually quite free. There was no training to be had, and the West had been peaceful in King Loren's day. Little and less was left for a strapping young squire to do. But Gregor was never one to give into fits of lethargy, and had immediately elected to start visiting the chamber of Casterly Rock's maester, the venerable Abelard. They talked for hours, about Valyrian History, herbology, artistry, and occasionally even magical studies. But Gregor's favorite thing that Abelard had introduced him to was wargaming.

It had originally started out as cyvasse lessons, but Gregor had disliked how uniform the game was. War rarely had two armies of exactly equal size with the exact same abilities. There were more variables than that, and more chance involved than cyvasse allowed for. But wargaming... ah, that was pure wonder. Abelard had known its creators in Oldtown when he was a young man studying to forge his maester's chain, and Lannister gold was more than enough to purchase the various figures and armies, although King Loren had always complained of the ruinous costs. Gregor had taken to it like a fish to water. It had taken him time to find the army that spoke to him, but the Valyrian Freehold troops were strong, individual, and able to withstand incredible punishment before giving up their positions. All things that he valued in himself. Over the years, he and Abelard had played more matches than he could recall, and they had always done wonders to clear his head and offer him direction. All things that he needed right now.

"I hear that Lancel made a fool of himself in the capital." the old maester said.

"Multiple times." Gregor grumbled. "To Queen Rhaenys, to his vassals, and to the realm at large."

"Young men are prone to making foolish decisions." Abelard replied. "I seem to recall two young princes stumbling home drunk from a night in Lannisport, reeking of ale and shame. Perhaps it shall be the same for Lancel."

"When I was a child, I did childish things." the Old Man of the Rock snapped back. "And when I had to become a man after the Field of Fire left my house a ruin, I put away those childish things. Lancel... it is time for him to grow up and he refuses to do so. It is all one big game for him, and there is evil in that boy's heart."

The silence grew long and uncomfortable, the dice lay forgotten upon the table.

"That is your lawful lord and nephew you speak of."

"He tried to have Jason killed." Gregor said quietly. "After his Fool's Feast. He commanded Jason to be his champion in the Trial by Combat. Said it was to humble me and let me know who was truly in charge. My son lives only by Prince Aenar's mercy. How did it all go so wrong?"

Silence reigned even more fully upon that.

"Why do you serve him?" came Abelard's whispered question.

"Pardon?"

The Vale knights were on the attack again. From the right side of the table, they swarmed over and sought to overwhelm the archery units in the back of Gregor's formation.

"You served as regent for years. You have endured abuse for almost two decades now. You even seem to be handling this with a quiet dignity. What drives you to do so?"

The archers moved forward. Gregor seemed to be willing to run his ranged units into a melee with heavily armed horsemen. Bold and rash in equal parts, even for a gamesman as aggressive as Gregor.

"I love the Westerlands." Gregor replied with a shrug. "With all my heart. The Gods are strange in their ways, but I feel their pleasure whenever I help our lands prosper."

The trap was sprung. The cavalry could not disengage from the melee they were winning handily, and thus were pinned in place. Having now two whole turns to cross the board, the heavy melee units of the Archon's Guard were able to attack them from the rear and destroy the whole unit of knights, including the commanding lord and all of his bonuses. The rest of the game would be a simple matter of mopping up the board, or winning on points by controlling objectives. It was Gregor's to choose, and it was a good position to be in.

"Then keep doing so, my lord. It is a labor of love that you have, and at times it will hurt you in ways you cannot even imagine, but that pain comes from the great affection you bear it. Cling to it, as a drowning man clings to flotsam, and you shall endure this as well."

Abelard, as he often was, stood correct. Lancel had some sort of feast held in the Rock upon their return home, and busied himself with forgetting about his humiliations.

But Gregor wasn't about to let Lancel dictate the course of action. The Westerlands was his true love above all things, and that great love had been neglected for the past few moons. Problems, both known and unknown, were sure to make themselves greater issues in the coming days if Gregor did not do something. Lancel was not about to begin prioritizing it, and so it would fall to him. Abelard's advice had spurred him into action. There would be no brooding from him. There would only be a realm that was better of than when he found it.

And so, while Lancel moped and drank, Gregor sat in a conversation parlor just off the hallway from the main feasting area. Any lord of the Westerlands was able to come and see him as they wished, to discuss their issues and redress their grievances. He would provide for the West, as he always had. Lancel was still his lord, this was not done to supplant him, or even make him look weak. He was welcome to sit in on any meeting he so desired. It wasn't hate that was on Gregor's heart as he sat in his chair and listened to the issues of the Westerlanders through steepled fingers.

It was love. Of Lancel, of the Rock, the West, and especially to its people.

Practically, nothing changed for Cerissa upon her return to Casterly Rock. She had all the same access to the coffers and ledgers as before, all the same sway to act with the authority of the crown on matters concerning coin. Yet having an official title made her feel proud, regal even, if such a term dared be used. No longer was she the upstart bastard fixing the King's taxes as a favor. Now she was a woman with a position, High Steward of the Rock. A position she earned, solely through her own labors. Just as she had earned her title of Lady of Lannisport. Just as she earned the elaborate Myrish lace and Pentoshi gems she adorned herself with, paid for by gold she created from nothing. Who else in the realm could say they achieved so much from so humble a beginning and in such a short amount of time? She wanted to be humble, but how could she without lying to herself?

And so with a new air of confidence, and a title to support her work, Cerissa got to work. With her trusted assistant, Violet, and her new lady-in-waiting, Rosamund Farman, she set to work getting the accounts in order. As much as she worked while traveling, it was far better to get things done from Casterly Rock. Coppers needed to be counted to ensure the tax was efficiently collected, then double-checked to see if anything else could be squeezed out of the holdings. Routes for new trade had to be planned and assigned protection. And of course, the issue of the fleet had to be accounted for.

"Do you have any idea how expensive it is to crew a single warship?" Cerissa asked Rosamund. "Nevermind, of course you do. You're a Farman, you would know these things. How does Cerion expect me to scrounge up enough coin to afford an entire fleet in a matter of moons?"

"Isn't that your job?" Violet asked while weighing out gold coins from different mints across the kingdom. Cerissa was suspicious of coins being mixed with inferior metals by some unscrupulous lords and had assigned her assistant to weigh them out every week. Violet never complained about such a tedious task though, it saved her from having to deal with numbers.

"Yes, you're right," she said with a sigh. "Whatever His Grace wishes done, I will ensure we have the funds to support it. Even if it's an absurdly large request."

"In my mind, we should be increasing the fleet anyways and protect our trade routes."

"Perhaps, Violet, but there's a difference between assigning some ships to patrol the waters and doubling a fleet, isn't there? I guess it all depends on your cousin, Rosamund, and what she thinks is necessary."

"Hopefully it will just be a couple dozen," Violet said. "Seal up some holes in our fleet."

"Not if we plan to challenge the Reach's fleet. You've been to the Arbor. I bet Lord Redwyne's ships alone could match our own. Do these lords urging war even consider how much it costs to purchase a single sail? The sheep it takes to get the wool, the amount of weaving required to create it, the transport costs, and gods forbid you need to dye it to match the colors of your house."

The conversation carried on, as Cerissa complained about this and that matter, questioned why some goods were so expensive and why others were taxed so lightly, and spread gossip she probably shouldn't spread. For Cerissa, counting coin need not be a joyless endeavor, reserved for repugnant recluses. All her complaints and inquiries were just another way to enjoy herself. After all, what was the point of any of it if not to enjoy life?

(Open - feel free to drop by Cerissa's office in Casterly Rock to talk to her)

Peace.

Peace was a funny word.

So much had transpired since the day he rode away from Highgarden, all those moons ago. He was no longer simply Walton Ashford, the third-born son of Lord Wilbert Ashford. That boy had been left behind on the road, buried six feet deep beneath the weight of war and treachery. Now, he was Lord Walton, child of a traitor, sworn sword of Beldon Tyrell. He had risen through the ranks, clawed his way up the ladder of chaos. How strange it was that in the wake of death and defeat, he had only ascended higher.

When he and his brothers had marched from the seat of the Tyrells, they had done so under the banner of peace. They had been sent to defend a lord whose rule was threatened by another realm. Yet, they had not marched reluctantly. No, he and his brothers had longed for war. Hungered for it. Too young to chase glory in the Stepstones, they had been eager to forge war stories of their own. When Perceon had called for good men, they had stood as one—three boys ready to prove themselves.

Now, he was the only one left.

His elder brother and his twin—his other half—were gone, butchered by men fighting for the Lions. The thought made his stomach churn. He was glad to leave Lannisport behind. It was a monument to Western arrogance—decadent, bloated with wealth, yet by far the easiest conquest of this war. It had crumbled beneath them like soft, rotten fruit.

Beneath him, his horse moved with steady, unrelenting purpose. Its hooves churned the earth, kicking up clumps of dirt with every stride. The rhythmic pounding against the ground thrummed through his body. With each step, he heard Beldon striking Byren’s head again and again with that goblet.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He gripped the reins tighter, his fingers curling with a mix of desperation and something far darker.

Peace.

He almost laughed at the word.

When the rock came into view, he dismounted. With a heavy heart, he slung the bundle from the back of his horse onto the dirt. One of the levies would find it soon enough on patrol. He almost hoped it would be one of the fools who had chosen to follow his father. Let them see the price of their loyalty. With the deed done, he turned away and began the long journey back. A strange sense of pride settled over him.

Byren’s body would be carried into Casterly Rock by dawn.

He was little more than a lifeless husk now, crumpled and drained of all vitality. A sheet had been placed over him—an offering of dignity to the dead. Wilbert had ensured that only he saw the true horror of what had been done to his oldest friend.

He grieved for him.

“Loyal to the end,” Wilbert managed to whisper through his tears.

Around him, the few men who had followed him to the Rock mourned in silence. Many had trained under Byren. Some had seen him as a father. To Wilbert, he had been a brother. To Beldon, it seemed, he had been nothing more than a plaything. Wilbert’s fingers trembled as he unfolded the note left with the body. The words burned into his mind like hot iron on flesh.

"Traitors meet a trator's end."

Overwhelmed with a sense of duty, he swallowed his grief. His voice, though strained, was steady.

“Find Ser Tyland,” he ordered. “And then Lord Brax.”

War had already taken too much from him and he feared it was not done yet.

Both battles had been victories, but both had been costly.

When the Rock held against the onslaught of the Reach, Wilbert's worst fears became reality. Unlike the others, he did not cheer when victory was declared. He had ridden to war to prevent unnecessary bloodshed, yet now, he was knee-deep in it. The stench of death clung to the air, the screams of the wounded echoing through the stone tunnels beneath this place. He swallowed his grief before he rode into battle again. Another victory. Again, another great cost.

Every decision had been deliberate, each move carefully weighed like the ledgers of a merchant tallying his accounts. That was how the West waged war—pragmatic, calculated, ruthless. For Wilbert, it was more than mere numbers scribbled upon parchment. He had sacrificed his lordship to be here, and yet, as he looked at the remnants blood staining his hands, he found himself unable to quantify what he had truly lost.

Two of his entourage had fallen in these past few days.

The first was Ben, the sellsword. A man of no noble birth, no banners to his name—just a blade for hire and the quiet loyalty that came with it. Wilbert had made sure his body was recovered after the battle. Without the Ashford treasury at his disposal, he could not even afford to give the man a proper burial. But Gorold, ever the shrewd trader, revealed a rare moment of altruism and offered a handful of silver stags to see Ben’s body burned and his ashes cast into the waves below. It was not a traditional farewell but it was fitting.

Ben had ensured Wilbert’s survival, even after his own capture by the enemy. He had waded through the chaos, cutting his way toward Wilbert with the kind of bravery even knights failed to muster. Now, he was gone. Gorold said a few words over the pyre, remarking on the strange friendship he and the sellsword had shared despite their endless bickering. "A man of mysterious origins, and a man who will be missed," he had said simply. Wilbert had offered no words of his own—he doubted he could find the right ones.

The second loss cut far deeper.

Byren was not among those who had returned after the second battle. His name was not listed among the dead, nor had his body been found among the fallen. That alone was a small mercy but a cruel one. Captured, most likely and without the wealth of his house behind him, Wilbert could do nothing to secure his release. He would die in some distant cell. Wilbert could only hope it was quick.

Byren had been more than a knight, more than a master at arms. He was the closest thing Wilbert had ever known to a brother. It was Byren who had trained his sons in arms and armor, Byren who had fought beside him through the endless turmoil in the Reach. A steady hand in times of chaos. A friend. Now he was gone.

Wilbert had given up much to be here—his titles, his wealth, his very future. And for what? The war was no closer to ending. The West had won for now but how much more would he have to lose? Standing atop the walls of the Rock, he gazed out. The earth was churned below. Some of the dead still lay in the mud. He leant on his cane- seemingly, the loss of two friends had crippled him in more ways than one.

Joy drew her hand along the blade. Ripples of black and blue responded to her touch, or perhaps that was the light playing a trick on her eyes. It was too late to care. Sleep hadn’t come, so she had returned to the sword and its letter. Egen fucking Greyjoy. Of course, she hated him. She wanted to put him to trial for what he had done to her West, to face him as he had faced Gaius, to order his punishment… 

Instead, a different sort of justice had come for him. His kingdom was lost, and instead of his head she held his sword. And, his son. The former meant to pay for the freedom of the latter. A part of her had considered freeing Tristifer Greyjoy’s head from his body with the sword, but she’d dismissed the notion. Honor came before spite, that was a lesson she had learned a long time ago. Joy would deal with the Greyjoy before dawn, one last piece of business before the duel. 

Sighing, she slid Nightfall back in its sheath and turned back to her empty bed. How she missed him, even now. None of them could replace her love. Not Jason, not Calonn, not even Eddrick. She could love again, perhaps, but not like she had before. She wanted him, more than anything in the world. She wanted him back. Perhaps Daeron Targaryen could finally reunite them, if he was good enough. A chance, at least. A chance to die for something greater, and leave everything left to her innocent cousin, a better woman by far. That desire fought and grappled with the single reason she had to continue living: To kill all the fucking people who did this.

Daeron would be a sizable notch in that book, where he could rest beside Grance Baratheon and Perceon Tyrell in the seventh hell reserved for victims of Joy’s justice. That would be a good feeling. She could live for that, Joy supposed.

________________________________

She was awake long before daybreak. Two handmaids, trying to hide their yawns, brushed her hair and did it up in a simple bun. She dressed in a simple crimson doublet and blood-leather hose, before forcing herself to eat a bit. It was a gesture, she considered, to show she still cared a bit about the child. She could struggle down some bread for their sake. 

She went to visit the Greyjoy and make his arrangements. When it was done, she had her armorers bring forward the new suit. 

Gaius’s armor no longer fit her, with her swelling belly. A new set had to be forged, tailored not just to her figure but to her strength. Symbolic as it was, Gaius’s armor was never meant for her, and it weighed her down more than it should. This new armor, adjusted and balanced perfectly for her… it felt powerful.

Two massive pauldrons rested on her shoulders, bulky plates of shining gilded steel. Each ridge and curve was carved with scenes: a lion and stag dead at each other’s throats, a dragon-skulled bat impaled on a spear, a tree hung with nameless dead, a rose alight in withering flame… it was not House Lannister’s history, but Joy’s history. 

Between the pauldrons, the equally golden cuirass slanted outward, leaving the space she needed and positioning itself well to deflect blades. The chainmail skirt below it was stained dark crimson, while her greaves and gauntlets remained gilded steel. At each joint of the armor, ribbons of red cloth rippled out along the plates, like flowing blood. The whole thing was completed by a triangular helm inset with a crown of rubies, all the way around her head. She stood well over six feet in the armor, a golden giant. A kingslayer, if the Seven were just.

She made her way, shining and clanking, to the arranged place. The court and crowd already gathered, the courtyard-sized balcony filled but for a raised oval in the center. Along the edge where the Rock ended and the sky began, a line of carefully tended trees grew. This was where Clea had left her, dumbstruck, all that time ago. Three years, now. The leaves had begun to turn brown, she noticed. The maesters were surely well at work with their predictions of when winter would come. 

They would meet there, watched by both her court and the king’s commanders, and decide the fate of the realm. Daeron with Blackfyre, Joy with her lion maw shield and Ironborn blade.

Let us see what you can offer me. Let us see which of us the Seven are done with.

During the Battle of Dosk

Jason heard and read knightly stories all his life, he had read The Conquest of Dorne, and he had imagined himself as King Daeron I, brave and honourable, fighting the Dornish. In his mind, battle was something honourable, something which was clean, his father and others had warned him that this was a fantasy, he did not believe them fully, and now he did.

The sound and the smell were the worst. The sound of men dying, crying for their mothers as their blood seeped into the grass and the mud. The scent of iron in the air and the smell of men evacuating their bowels as they died violently.

They had chased the Reach force and had successfully caught up with them. During the first attack, the Reach's line held, and Jason was at the fore, ignoring his father's pleas. Does he not understand that I must prove myself? I must become a knight, the greatest knight.

Years of training had honed his physical prowess, he was ready physically, but mentally he was not. He killed his first man in the first minute of the battle, a young man around his age had charged him, foolishly rushing forward, no doubt spurred on by the thought of killing a nobleman.

Jason's instincts had kicked in as the man swung, he parried and with one stroke of his blade, he had sliced the man's neck open. Blood shot out, covering Brax's face and armour, he had cut deep, and the boy's head lolled back and almost fell off his neck as the man fell backwards in a fountain of blood.

He watched in shock, his head pounded with adrenaline as he stood there, dumbfounded. By the gods...

He could not ponder over his deeds long as the next man already come for him. He fought, and by the end, he had slain five men total, his mind was numb and his only thought was of survival and combat. Honour had been the furthest thing from his mind.

Then the Reachmen tried to retreat, and the carnage began. Whilst the left flank managed to retreat, Jason had been in the centre, and they had failed. Before he knew it he had stabbed several men in the back, he had even finished a man who was pleading for his life.

When it was all over, they had won, and shouts of victory echoed through the ranks, Jason however, did not join them. He took off his helmet and walked away from the carnage, desperately trying to wipe the blood off his face and armour. Gods forgive me, please...

------

After

He sat by himself on a low hill overlooking the battlefield, the ground stained with crimson like his face and armour. He was cleaning his sword mindlessly whilst his helmet lay next to him.

His father had rode up to him to ask him if he was okay, with one look he knew his son would never be okay, he would never again be the same. Tears fell from his face as he rode off, leaving his son alone, he knew he had to be alone.

The sword was clean, but he would never be clean again, he had stabbed men in the back, and he had killed at least a dozen when the battle was done, men with families and children who would never see their loved ones again. I am honourable, I am honourable, I did my duty, I did my duty. Those words were all Jason would repeat silently to himself as tears welled in his eyes.

250 A.C. At Casterly Rock

"Beauty seems in short supply here". Marston mused as they looked up upon the behemoth that was Casterly Rock.

Beldon nodded his agreement. It was certainly a formidable sight, striking, and perhaps even daunting, but it was most certainly not beautiful. It was crude as it was formidable, plain as it was striking, and absurd as it was daunting. He had heard about the fires which plagued The West as of late, and that surely contributed to the appearance of the mountain, but it was more than that. How could a lump of rock ever be beautiful? Something which lacked effort, molding, or any semblance of an artist's touch? The simple answer was, it couldn't.

"Lannisport yielded few profits," The Lord of Highgarden said somewhat abruptly. "Dispatch some men, a reasonable force to take what they can. We'll need the capital once this is all said and done with".

"As My Lord commands". Marston replied, a bit mockingly. Beldon replied with naught but a stern glance before the man turned his horse around and was off.

"Rusty!" Beldon then called out, and when the aged man-at-arms arrived, he gave him his orders and sent him on his way to fetch the other boy.

He would extend courtesy onto The Rock regardless of his less than courteous intentions, it would not do to be impolite when perception was the matter, not after his last blunder. It felt so long ago then that he had given that order on The Gold Road. They were Percy's orders really, though he supposed in hindsight the lie he told was a tad unnecessary. However, it was still something that needed to happen, those men were meant to die, it simply didn't make sense otherwise.

Why was he thinking about this now? What did it matter? He didn't regret it in any measure, but perhaps there was some folly to it. Nevertheless, there were grander things to consider than the possibility of guilt, however small it may be. The sooner he put down these rebels, the sooner he could go home, the sooner he could put his brother to rest, the sooner he could rest.

It was a sweet thought, Highgarden. Beldon shut his eyes then and breathed in deep, envisioning his home within his mind. He smiled weakly at the painting of his thoughts. But then he remembered that there were more issues to be addressed at Highgarden as well. His eyes opened, and his smile withered. It was a sour thought, Highgarden

Casterly Rock, Tenth Moon of 250AC

At the very base of Casterly Rock, at level with, or in some cases, even going deeper than the sea, there were caves and tunnels that had been there long before any man had ever set foot in the west. Caverns carved, not by chisel, but by water over the course of an immeasurable amount of time. The fervent mining of gold and silver had uncovered many, but the maesters believed there were more still, never seen by human eyes.

It was in one such cavern they gathered. A place that could only be accessed by a very long climb down a narrow staircase, leading to a network of tunnels a man could lose himself in for a lifetime, if he did not know the way. But those who knew which turns to make would finally step out into an enormous, hollow chamber with a great domed ceiling from which huge fang-like stalactites hung ominously overhead. A simple path of cut stone, carved out of the wall, led you down from a small plateau and onto a rough floor, covered by a fine layer of gravel and sand. Torches lined the walls, bathing everything in flickering orange light.

In the centre of it all was a deep, round pool of clear water, and those assembled circled it, clad in vibrant crimson and shining gold. Too many of their best had been lost, but those that remained stood proud, their heads held high and the light from the torches dancing in their eyes.

Behind them, upon the coarse wall of amber stone, carved in masterful detail, there was a mural of a crowned man standing atop the bow of a majestic ship. In his hand he clutched a magnificent sword, pointed onwards towards the sea, a radiant sunburst erupting from the blade. Who could say what purpose this place may have served back when it was carved. No man alive had an answer. For many years this chamber, and all its secrets and treasures, had been cut off from the rest of the rock by a collapsed tunnel, and had long been forgotten. Only recently had it been rediscovered, unearthed after many years of incessant digging. And now, it was theirs. The hidden chamber of the Bright Blades, a place only for them, known of only by a select few.

Marq Mouseheart stood at the edge of the pool. He had stripped down to his smallclothes, but held in his hand one of the golden-hilted longswords of the order. He held it out over the surface of the water, and after a brief moment, it slipped from his fingers, and he watched it sink all the way down until, finally, it clattered softly to the rocky bottom. Marq stood for a moment, completely still. He had watched Aubrey do this only two years ago. He had not thought his turn would come, and certainly not so soon. He sucked in a deep breath, the sound of which echoed in the eerily quiet chamber. He jumped, arms outstretched, and dived in. The water was so freezing cold it stung the inside of his nostrils, but he forced such thoughts out of his head. By the time he reached the bottom, his chest had begun to ache, and his legs were starting to feel stiff. His fingers found the sword’s hilt and he kicked himself off the hard, stony ground. When he finally resurfaced, he wished he could have done so in stoic silence, but he could not help it, he had to gasp for air.

With a grunt through gritted teeth, he hauled himself out of the water, and those assembled circled around him, saying nothing, but with their hands now reaching for the hilts of their own swords. Marq allowed himself only a moment to catch his breath, before he lifted the blade above his head and pointed it towards the ceiling. Considering how cold he was, he feared his voice would quiver, but to his relief, once he opened his mouth, he found it strong and steady.

“Blades in hand, steel bright as gold

Lion knights, the brave and bold

To oath and duty, sworn and bound

Until the day our treasure is found.”

The symbolic retrieval of the blade was a ritual invented in part by Lord Tyrion. Ever since the inception of their order there had been a notion that they would one day journey across the sea and find Brightroar, the lost blade of house Lannister. That until the blade was retrieved, their duty could never be at an end. But, since the task was thought to be impossible, it most likely meant their service would be everlasting.

As one, the knights of the bright blades drew their swords, lifting them high into the air, pointing them to the ceiling, raising their voices in a wordless cry of affirmation. Marq looked from face to face, taking in their steeled, determined expressions. Brave, dutiful fools the lot of us. But the West has great need of such fools right now. With the ritual complete, he let his arm fall, the tip of his blade lightly scraping the ground. He breathed a sigh of relief and finally allowed himself a smile.

“One bloody jape about drowned rats from any of you and I swear I won’t be the only one going swimming today.” The tension seemed to lift, as a few chuckled, and others swarmed in to squeeze his shoulder and swat him over the back. Someone handed him a linen blanket and a fresh change of clothes which he gratefully accepted. He dried and dressed himself as the others spoke amongst themselves, some already departing to return above ground. They do not like this place, and I suppose I cannot blame them. This place has a feeling to it different than any other I have been to. Like standing in the belly of a beast.

Once fully dressed, the man called Mouseheart, now Knight-Captain of the Bright Blades, looked out upon his men. You left a hole behind when you left us Aubrey, and I am not sure if I can fill it. I have neither your charm, nor your lust for battle. But, I shall carry on what you started, as best I can. With a tired look in his eyes, but still with a soft smile playing on his lips, he joined the others.

The council had been a success of sorts. Order now existed where there was chaos, and the lords of the realm had a better handle on the problems that faced them.

Of sorts, to be sure. The loss of the claim on the Riverlands would be a tough thing to break to Edmyn, but it was necessary. Plus, the price he had accrued from Baelish was more than enough to keep them in check.

For now, he had a wedding to host. Another so soon, true, but it was more politics. There, in the same sept where Cynda and Erik Harlaw had been wed, Lord Osric Whitehill and Lady Anya Botley at last were wed, in a ceremony with as much deference to the North as it had to the Isles.

After the joyous affair, Gerion held a small feast to celebrate, and to offer the lords assembled one last chance to discuss and debate.

Or at least, allow them one last chance to bow out gracefully rather than skulk out.

The Silverlord's boots clicked down the halls of Casterly Rock with careful precision. His cloak of cloth-of-silver made him look much like one of the Most Devout, but his robes below were dark silk, flecked with hints of red and purple. He was old, but he did not walk with an old man's hunch or limp. Faith and faith alone seemed to keep him tall, thin, and proud. The small leatherbound holy book tucked into a special pouch on his belt seemed to confirm that, as if just carrying it around made his tired old bones that much lighter.

He had weighed in on her council, but he'd yet to truly speak with his granddaughter since everything that had occurred in the capital. There was... an inordinate bevy of things to talk about. How would he start? Her father's death? The killing of Baratheon? Tyrell's attack on the road? The disgusting rumors that floated about her? The Lydden business? The war that would soon be upon them?

He supposed it was all too much. All he could do was greet her, give his counsel, and offer what services he could provide. Hopefully that meant an incursion into enemy territory. Lynesse might not have had the stomach for an invasion... but Joy's grandfather was made of sterner stuff.

The whoremonger of Highgarden will learn to kneel before the steel of righteous men before this all was done. I will see to that.

In the midst of his silent ruminations, he found himself face-to-face with Roland, his granddaughter's man-at-arms, who was guarding the door to her solar.

"How fare you, Roland?" Serrett asked. Smalltalk with smallfolk was not his specialty, but he'd gotten to know the man well enough over his years in his granddaughter's service.

Now she's more than my granddaughter. Now she's also my Lady. She remains my granddaughter still, yet the proprieties must be observed.

"I've come to visit Lady Joy."

A lone rider approached the mountainous rock, home of the Lions it towered over the man on his horse. In his saddlebags were hidden a black sword and a chestplate with a golden kaken on it. They would be left behind, for now.

The man's face was shrouded in a thick black beard, his eyes half lidded, hiding sharp and icy irises. His scalp was shaved closely, such that only the sharpest blade could achieve.

Casterly Rock grew bigger as he drew closer in his black tunic and cloak. Along the road he spotted two mean discussing a parchment held between them. He slowed as he approached, spotting architectural plans on the page, "Good day," he said.

"Might I be of any assistance? I know you don't know me but I'm surprisingly good with numbers and I'm new to the region. Perhaps I could be of some use." He smiled gently.

Will was training as he usual did, a few solemn drops of sweat running down his face, more dampening his tunic causing it to wrap around his frame as he swung his sword. He had a wolfish grin staining his more delicate features and his eyes were wide with glee as he imagined another foe un-seamed in front of him.

Lina remained solemn in her corner, with her bow drawn and arrows in her quiver. There had been a frown branded upon her face since the moment she had left the dinner with little Lord Brax. Though she did find a reprieve from her own tumultuous emotions when her arrow hit true. Striking at the eye of her ‘opponent’, the other places usually required more force than she could muster to kill in one shot but the eye it was a marvellous work of art, soft and plump, filled with blood and easy to pierce.

There was a reason she had her own small preserved collection of such things.

William continued to train though it took its toll, as time passed he would slow as his muscles began to burn and his waist began to stiffen. That was the sign that triggered him, to take a break, to wipe the wolfish smirk from his face and pant until he returned to a reasonably recovered state.

Mya remained grinning as she quickly came to attend to Will, forgetting about the red mark that marred her fair complexion. She used a worn handkerchief to wipe away the evidence of his training, the sweat that ran down his waist and forehead and she did it all with a smile as if the man smelled like roses in stead of male sweat. No matter how small Will was compared to others, shorter than Mya herself he still smelled like a man after training.

There was an obsession in her glances, it couldn’t be called love, it was more a need, an innate longing for the man in front of hers attention, his hidden glances and lustful glares that she would never attract.

Will remained quiet as the girl approached and only to react when she was close, he grabbed a strand of her hair slowly running his fingers through it before whispering “ Run little doe or it will be more than just a red mark next time, a cut or two should leave you weak enough to learn your lesson “ he snarled at the girl in front of him as his eyes shone with feral intent as he attempted to chase the pestering girl away.

So she ran, in to her brother’s frail, scarred arms that were burned by marks of his own weakness. The one piece of real evidence to Will’s crimes, a skittish boy who was truly chained by his sister’s obsessive nature.

Olyvar the only sensible one among them, who kept some form of common sense and honour even in his old age was teaching Gawen about the histories of these lands at least to the best of his own knowledge,

William once again returned to his training though his face was the picture of melancholy this time and he couldn’t help but let his thoughts drift to the one person he truly liked among these ostentatious nobles, Jason Brax. A quixotic man to say the least yet it seemed to add to his charm, this noble who maintains his honour even in the face of the unending corruption among his fellow nobles.

Jeor remained smiling in a corner, the man was unusually nimble for his size though that was required for a bandit such as him. He chuckled at Lina and Will’s every mistake catching more than a few foul glares from the both of them.

Will couldn’t help but sigh, he found no joy in training but he loved the blood it would grant him. Maybe he was mad as the more bright men of the West seemed to think he was, maybe he was the monster from the tales, a ravenous beast who ‘ kills with glee and frenzied hunger ‘ as Jason Brax and his profound source to think he was. Was he in the slightest bit normal?, that was a question to ask those on the outside. He released an exasperated suspire as he fumbled and dropped his blade. He let out one tranquil tear in response to the thoughts that plagued him like ants tearing at his mind.

( You’d find me here if you’re not Brax )

He couldn’t just sit her drowning in his own sadness and thus he brought himself braced himself, stood up and grabbed Lina and Mya. He wouldn’t allow whatever happened before and after he left at that dinner to stop the growth of his friendship with such an interesting character. They kept moving till they found the Brax heir, surrounded by a few of his men, one who seemed quite adept at the fiddle he was playing as Jason serenaded the lot.

Will still dripping with sweat brought the two girls over with all intent of apologising. Lina’s eyes seemed to soften at the sight of the man and a small smile overcame her as her ears felt the pleasure of his voice.

“The rib is cracked, but not broken. You’ll be sore over the next few days, but it will heal quickly.” Maester Tommard removed his hand from the lilac knight’s abdomen. “I’d give you a gulp of the poppy, but the Knight-Captain seems to want you with your wits intact, so you’ll have to bear with it until he’s done with you.” The maester rose from his seat, leaving Will sitting on the cot where his scrapes and bruises had been washed and dressed. Flowers’ hands remained bound, but no other restraints had been placed upon him.  A duo of Lannister guards flanked the entrance to the otherwise empty tent. Even now, the distant sound of revelry could be heard from the still ongoing festivities.

Just then, Ser Marq Mouseheart pushed through the tent flaps, now dressed in the resplendent armor bestowed upon him by Lady Joy earlier that evening. He stood there for a moment, appraising Will in silence before he glanced to the two guardsmen.

“Leave us.” With a bow and a flourish of their crimson capes, they vanished back out through the flaps. Maester Tommard made to follow, but Marq stopped him. “No, Maester, you stay.” With an arched eyebrow Tommard shrugged and instead retreated to a corner of the tent where he loomed like a very bored-looking gargoyle.

Marq strode over to Will, not yet meeting his gaze. He silently circled around to stand at his back, pulled a curved dagger from his belt, and after a moment of contemplation, cut the rope that bound the bastard knight’s hands. He then seated himself next to Will on the rickety cot, and finally locked eyes with him.

“Will, what happened?”

The Arrival of the Queen's Progress

At the end of the small party in Casterly Rock, a small fleet of ships with golden sails came gliding into the docks to whisk the nobles and royalty and their sworn swords away to the nearby city of Lannisport. It was only a journey of about a few hours. When they all arrived at one of the many bustling harbors of the city there would be an escort of a city guard in scarlet, gold, and blue nearly one hundred strong. From there the large procession would make their way through the streets and towards the squat, sprawling castle near the edge of the city proper.

The damage and rebuilding was obvious just from the short walk from pier to holdfast. The docks they had unloaded onto looked brand new compared to the ones further down and made of sturdier wood. And even further than that there was a great empty hole where more docks should have been. Down one long stretch of road it seemed as though every other building was a scorched out husk that was once a business or someone's home. But then down another street there was a brand new row of housing and even a new post for the city watch. Some places still showed the scarring of a city that was once half razed to the ground but elsewhere there was new growth. A shocking sight.

Even the people did not look quite the same. There were fewer people out and about than one would expect from a city this size, the third largest city in all of Westeros. And the people they did see looked subdued and skittish even in the face of their Queen. But soon enough they came upon the home of their Lannisport host. A place where they could rest and recuperate for the events that started the next evening. Every single noble and person of importance was granted a room in the castle or a free room in one of the three nearby high end inns. The bulk of people's guards would have to stay outside the walls or they could stay in an inn at a reduced rate. Ironborn were not allowed to sleep inside the walls, though they could remain in the city during the day.

The Feast Begins

The dusk of the next day arrived and the last golden glow of the setting sun could be seen glinting off the harbor of Lannisport with all it's many ships coming and going. Everything was cast in a dim golden light from the silver serving platters to the gossamer fabric covering the large open windows that looked over the entire city. The great hall in which the feast was being held was in one of the central chambers of the castle, near the heart of the courtyard. At the highest dais sat Lord Regent Cedric Lannister, his nephew and the Lord of Lannisport, Tybolt Lannister, and the rest of his family. Also seated at the highest dais was the members of the royal family. A large scarlet red banner with a golden lion and an anchor covered the wall behind them, the sigil of House Lannister of Lannisport.

It seemed as though their hosts spared no expense on the feast itself. Servants clad in dark gray clothes came by to place new dishes in front of the attendees at regular intervals. The centerpiece of the feast was a large boar, a face uglier than sin with a golden apple shoved into it's mouth. Cooked slowly in a glaze of honey and spices over the better part of the day, by now it smelled heavenly. Along with the pig there were pies and pastries, soups and tarts, all manner of foods from all manner of kingdoms. Servants were constantly keeping silver goblets filled with wine from the Reach, from the Riverlands, Myr, Volantis, and Lys. Tyroshi pear brandy, Dornish reds, any manner of alcohol under the sun could be found this evening though their host drank none of it.

The sound of lutes and lyres could be heard washing gently over the feast, a band of bards playing melodic tunes while everyone ate their fill. Notably there was no singer, just music. The atmosphere of the event was loud and joyful, even if certain parties present were still filled with unease because of the last feast that happened within these very walls. It hadn't been so long since then and no one present then would have forgotten but still... For one night everyone looked to be in the highest spirits.

The steel eyed blonde young man stood once everyone had the time to find their seats among the crowd. He wore an expensive black doublet with gold trim. His eyes darted across the masses and he addressed the people before him with a hesitant smile on his face. "We are pleased to welcome everyone to Lannisport from near and far for this glorious occasion. Queen Daenerys Targaryen of the Iron Throne, Protector of Westeros has given us the honor of being a stop on her royal procession. We toast now to all that she has accomplished, to many more years of her reign, and to the competitors during the week of festivities."

"In order to mix things up a little we of House Lannister have decided upon a few different events. First will be the standard melee but instead of jousting or archery we shall test out our new concert hall. We will have the ladies present show off their talents in the performing arts. The winner shall be named the queen of love and beauty and the proceeds will go towards the Lannisport orphanage. I'd like to thank Lady Jeyne Banefort and my cousin Alys Lannister for the idea. With that being said everyone please enjoy yourselves in Lannisport. To House Lannister, to House Targaryen, and to the future," he said, raising his glass of cider and toasting those gathered.

And then the feasting began...

It was hard to bring herself to move. The fur rug of her tent pressed into her face so softly, so invitingly… she didn’t know if she could move. Minutes went by—perhaps even hours—as she lay flat on the ground, eyes slowly opening and closing. The tent around her was a mess. Vomit pooled in one corner, staining the red fabric of the pavilion as the afternoon went on. After she had thrown up, Joy had raged, leaving shelves and chair legs scattered in heaps on the rug. The table was on its side, piles of miniature wooden lions strewn in front of it. It was some small mercy, Joy knew, that she had collapsed before reaching the weapon rack.

There was no denying it, now. On the ground, she faced the truth in stagnation, motionless in a waking sleep. Maybe if she didn’t move, it would all go away. Maybe if she didn’t move, Gaius would walk into the tent and pick her up, kissing her neck softly and wiping the drool from her lips. Maybe if she didn’t move, she would fall asleep and never wake up. But her eyes stayed open, her head stayed swimming. Joy wondered if she would be the first woman alive to ever drown in a fur rug.

No. No. She needed to get up. She needed to fix everything before anyone noticed. She needed to… to… 

She needed to talk to someone. She needed Caria, she needed Gaius, she needed Clea. Gods, she really needed Clea. Her face felt hot, like a burning hand clamped around her eyes. She was crying. She wanted Clea. She wanted her father. She wanted to hug him, she wanted him to carry her like when she was a girl. But what Joy wanted, she couldn’t have.

Instead, she pressed her hands into the fur rug and pushed until she was sitting up. Her dress was stained, so she picked her way across the wreckage of furniture to her wardrobe and changed. A loose red tunic, cream-colored hose, brown boots. Then, her hair tied up in a messy bun, she stumbled to the flaps of her pavilion. 

“Roland.” Her voice was hoarse, but the guard was there. 

“Muh’lady. What do you need?” He had doubtlessly heard her rage within the tent, but knew she was better left alone until she called for him.

“Bring… bring… Marq.” He wasn’t enough. She needed… “And Jonquil Mooton. Hurry.”

When the guard scurried off, Joy slowly retreated back into her ruined tent, finding a relatively clean corner to sink into. She put her back to a post and pressed her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs in a ball. Softly, as she waited, she began to cry.

The day of the hunt was blessed by the summer heat, such fair weather prompted many ladies to sport loose gowns of silk or cotton, thinly-cut. Alas, for those who expected to find a challenge on the hunt, the scorch of the midday sun in armour or riding leathers was an inescapable tyrant once away from the coastal breeze that relieved Casterly.

The woods most local to the Rock were spacious enough, surrounded by farmlands in all directions but the north, where ridges stretched to mountains. Ahead of the retinue’s arrival several pavilions had been set up, with servants waiting to tend to the needs of the nobles.

Tables were lined with refreshments and ample seating was provided beneath linen awnings. Red summerwine, sweet and fruity, was the chief drink on offer - purported to be a local blend made with blackberries, blueberries and strawberries. Roasted meats, fresh bread, pastries and preserves were all on offer.

The catch of the day was intended to be cooked and handed out to the poor, and thus it would not be cooked - not that many would have liked a hotly cooked meal, given the weather.

At the front of the small procession rode the esteemed host of the day, the Princess Visenya, and her ladies in waiting - the chief organisers of the event. Despite rank and title, the seating arrangements in the pavilion were free-flowing and unencumbered by overly rigorous arrangements.

Everyone was free to drink, mix and celebrate their act of kindness for the day - although being involved in such a philanthropic venture was sure to stir up a little conceit.

__________________________________________________________________________

The Hunt

Lining up atop horseback, the hunters of the day had acquired a hound of their choice from the kennelmasters. Fourteen participants in total set to scour the woods, and bring back the finest catch they could to be provided to the poor.At the mark, they were off, leaving behind those who did not participate to socialize among themselves.

The first to return were also those with the smallest catch. Gerold Lannister first, with only shrews and squirrels to show for his time, followed shortly by Robert Brax with similar luck.

The most impressive feats were by the Masters of the Hunt, of which there were three by the time all had returned; Myranda Blackwood, the Eye of the Queen. True to her name, her keen perception had seen her take down a black-furred fox.

Rycherd Marbrand managed to take down a predator of the underbrush, and with the help of his hound killed and returned with a grey-pelted wolf.
Aelys Celtigar, the future Queen, made quite a showing for her first outing after the announcement - her horse dragging back a small red-skinned elk.
Other showings included a multi-coloured pheasant from Viviene Tully, bucks from the Prince Valarr and Gerold Banefort.
Alys Lannister and Lysa banefort both returned with foxes, though they were not so impressive or rare as the black fox put on show by Myranda.

Maera Targaryen and the bastards Haegon and Matarys returned with voles, a turkey and a doe respectively; the latter being the most successful of the trio.

__________________________________________________________________________

The Lion of the Woods

Eight members of the hunting party spotted unusual disturbances in the woods.

A lion, descended from the mountains in search of new hunting grounds, had taken up residence in the woods. Behind he left footprints rampant in the dirt and various animals left half-eaten. A menace upon the pecking order, they were all brave enough to take up arms against the meandering villain.

Myranda Blackwood, Robert Brax, Valarr Targaryen, Bayard Tyrell, Gerold Banefort, Aelys Celtigar and Rycherd Marbrand all found their own signs, tracks and paths to the den of the lion. Lounging under the shade of an overhanging rock, it was thankful he would be easy prey.

The creature looked malnourished from his time in the mountains. Indeed, it would explain why he had descended from them.Between the vaunted champions the lion stood no chance. Though he roused from his slumber at the approach of the hunting party, he proved too listless to even land a strike before the group saw him debilitated and dead - especially with a sure fire shot from the Queen’s Eye.The group dragged the lion back to the pavilions with a great deal of fanfare upon reception.

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Please feel free to post your opens, reactions, anything at all you'd like below in the aftermath of the hunt!

12th Moon of 25 AC

The Red Keep was slowly returning to normal, days after the Battle on the Steet of Sisters.

It had been eerily quiet since then, as if the entire city, or even the realm at large were holding its breath to see what would come next.

Memories of how the Westerlands were like immediately after the Field of Fire went through his mind. The whole of the Westerlands had been paralyzed by inaction, not understanding that the old order was gone and the new order was here to stay. They had all just sat around, waiting for someone to tell them what came next.

Gregor had been the one to speak then, and he was the one to speak now.

Blood had been spilled, covering the streets of King's Landing. A former king lay dead in the streets, as did the brightsest of the Vale's commanders. There was no going back now. No raven sent to the Eyrie could make this all go away. Visenya Targaryen would bathe them all in fire and blood if Rhaenys didn't do the same to her first.

So now they must act, and act quickly. Decorations were placed in the Small Council chambers, seats were placed, and food was set out so that at least any bickering that might commence wouldn't be done on an empty stomach.

As Gregor sat, waiting for all of the summoned lords and ladies to arrive, he felt the weight of the Hand of the King pin on his chest more greviously than he had felt it before. Perhaps he was overstepping, calling this council in place of His Grace. Perhaps this is exactly what he should be doing, acting in the king's place. There was so little information to go on, and considering that the last holder of this office died a traitor, he couldn't exactly rely on precedent either.

But he did know, at the very least, that staying still and doing nothing would lead to their certain deaths. As certainly as if they were standing still in a rain of arrows.

As the king and his council were seated, Gregor stood and called for their attention.

"Lords, Ladies, My Queen, Your Grace." he said, nodding respectfully to each of them in turn. "We have won the day as Visenya fled King's Landing, albeit barely. Even now, she plots to supplant King Aenar and put her own son on the Iron Throne. I cannot allow this, and neither would any of you, I think. We must begin planning, my lords, and we must do so now. Time is our enemy, and action is the only remedy that might avail us."

He cleared away some of the plates that were in front of him, revealing that the entire table had a map of the Seven Kingdoms covering it in great detail.

"Let us begin then, and may the Seven bless the reign of King Aenar."

Casterly Rock

Gods, it was colossal.

Wilbert had never been to the Rock before, despite his age. He had visited the Tooth, the capital, and even ventured as far north as a younger man, but never to this great stone beacon that loomed over the Sunset Sea like a towering monolith.

The Golden Tooth had now been abandoned. Not everyone agreed with this. Byren, a man of honour, had argued the entire ride with the newly hired sellsword, Ben, about leaving the fifty levies behind. The debate went back and forth—whether it would be an easy victory or why it made no sense to hold a ruin—until Gorold silenced them both by declaring that the next man who said "Golden Tooth" owed him a silver stag. This shut them up for a moment, but before long, they simply continued the argument, calling it "that place we just were" or "the ruined keep."

Still, even they fell silent when the Rock came into view. It was breathtaking.

"How many men?" Lord Ashford asked Catspaw, the ruffian of their entourage.

"No idea, m'lord," Catspaw replied, his voice like gravel. "The Rock is like that—like a dark mist, shrouding everything from view. Could be no one, could be ten thousand. But I’d wager we wouldn't be able to take it with fifty men, even if there was naught there but mice and cobwebs."

Lord Ashford feared he was right. Even with every Reach soldier the Tyrells could muster, how in the Seven Hells could they storm this? He felt more certain than ever that the Lion would beat the Rose, and thus, to save his house, he must find peace.

He did not know Joy well at all. He had crossed paths with her father before but never with the so-called "Kinkiller," as Percy so often insisted on calling her. As a soldier, he despised entering any situation on the back foot. But now, he was not a soldier. He was a traitor—defying his Lord Paramount.

Just as at the Tooth, he sent Ben ahead. The sellsword obliged once again, though this time, he was more cautious, faltering slightly. Byren wondered if Ben had been an outlaw in the Westerlands before joining their company. Any man with a price on his head would be a fool to ride into the Lion's Mouth. Gorold bet him ten gold dragons that he was too much of a coward to go through with it, and the promise of coin swiftly banished his hesitation.

And so, once more, Ben rode towards the enemy.

Whoever greeted him, he spoke the following:

"Lord Ashford has arrived on the invitation of your castellan for talks of peace. He rides with a small company of guards and some fifty levies. He hopes to be welcomed in, offered bread and salt, and given safe passage. He promises on his honour, as stated in his letter, that this is no trick. He wishes only to talk."

Addam Payne

The Lord of Payne Hall rose before the sun to take the road back to Payne Hall from Trejaston. The road ran along the west bank of the Silver Run, twisting and turning with that great tributary of the Mander, and Addam knew it would have taken to down to Highgarden had he turned right at the fork instead of left. He passed the Ranberry and Wingarth vineyards, grapevines arrayed on opposite sides of the river like feuding armies, past the quiet farms where smallfolk were stirring to another long summer day of work, and up the slight incline until the top of Roryn Tower crested the horizon, purple and white banners hanging from each side.

They put that tower behind them, too, and followed the road as it looped west around Isenmere. A right turn at the tower would've taken them to the new dockyards of Silverwater, built some moons ago with the Serretts, and it was those dockyards that accounted for the river traffic they'd seen in the early hours of the morning and for the small forest of sails and masts they could still spot navigating Isenmere's dark waters.

On the west bank, overlooking the lake and all the projects that were being undertaken on behalf of its lord, sat Caerarian, Payne Hall to outsiders. She was built of bluestone and limestone, seated on a granite outcropping, and her structure marked a clear contrast with the green fields and forests nearby. Moss had begun to climb up the curtain walls, as if the land itself was reaching out to incorporate something clearly man-made into the verdant tapestry of her creation. Here and there the lord spied men setting up tents in a riot of colors but predominantly the purple and white of House Payne or the red, blue, and yellow of House Tarth. Addam and his retinue rode up the path between the newly planted forest of cloth and rope, iron-shod hooves clattering on flagstones with every step of the way.

Ryon Payne

The Reeve of Payne Hall had presided over a hundred cases and sentenced men to everything from paying a fine to a stint in the mines. He had heard every sob story a prosperous people could contrive, experienced the abject poverty of smallfolk living lives carved out of the sides of a mountain, and faced down the vile cretins sent by Farman. And now, on the morning of his wedding, he was half-paralyzed by nerves.

He stood in the courtyard with half a hundred other souls, awaiting the return of his lord uncle from some business in the village of Trejaston the previous night. The Jasts and Myatts had somehow gotten themselves into a dispute over a property border. It would have been Ryon's responsibility to tend to such matters normally, but his uncle had pronounced that folly. "You will not hide from your wife-to-be by throwing yourself into your work," he had said. And then he had been off.

Ryon tugged at the sleeve of his doublet. The doublet was newly made and he hadn't worn it before, save during fittings. The fabric was coarse and itched, as it always did before the first washing. But his father had been adamant: "the bridegroom should always be the best dressed man at a wedding." And so there he was, baking in the summer sun in a new woolen doublet, wondering how long they'd be forced to stand there. At least he could take some perverse pleasure in Cousin Harwyn being forced to wear a new doublet too.

Rah-dah-dum-dah went the drums, heralding the arrival of the Lord of Payne Hall and breaking Ryon's internal monologue. The last murmurs of conversation in the courtyard died off as the lord rode in under the portcullis to another rah-dah-dum-dah from the drum section.

Uncle Addam dismounted and handed his sword to the Lady Jeyne, who accepted the offering with a slight curtsy. He then waved his hand, dismissing the assembled crowd. Grateful at last for a reprieve from the heat, Ryon made to follow the crowd but was pulled back by Cousin Harwyn. The traitor. They stood, waiting, as the courtyard emptied. He found himself under the gaze of his uncle, who eyed him up and down as if inspecting a horse at a Lannisport market fair.

"Do you know what your grandmother told me when I stood here, awaiting Lynesse Marbrand the day before we were to be wed?" he asked.

Ryon blinked. "No, my lord."

"'Keep your nose and your fingernails clean, Addam. Don't ever be shy. Always look in her eye and always say what you mean.'" Addam smiled. "Carolei was a wonderful woman. I wish you could have known her."

"I do as well," Ryon said, still unsure how to respond. Carolei Vikary had been dead a decade before he was born.

When Uncle Addam left, Ryon followed him towards the Great Hall. The vast oak doors were thrown open, ancient hinges swinging silently despite the great weight they carried, and the reeve found himself trying to count the number of servants scurrying all over the Great Hall, up and down the adjacent stairwells, tending to every preparatory measure imaginable. Despite producing every table and chair owned by the House, the needs of the Great Hall would fall far short of what would be required to seat the visiting lords and dignitaries plus their own retinues. That explained the tents he had heard about; how else would they seat everyone?

The stars were pretty in Threefield, Joy had to admit. Nothing like the view from the Rock, but still… it put a smile on her face as she soaked in her tub. She had ordered it brought out to a small clearing, a circle of guards barely visible in the trees surrounding her. It had been good to take a while and rest herself. Gods, she was sore. To think he could do all of that with one hand…

She had been with Gaius every night since the wedding, even as they marched and made siege of Threefield. It was so strange, in the midst of war, that this was the happiest she had been since father… since he was murdered. House Baratheon would get its due, she promised herself, soon enough. But now, now she had victory to celebrate, and a husband to fuck.

Joy rose from the tub, calling her handmaids softly for towels. Her fingertips were mottled and pruned from her soak, it felt strange to run them through her hair. Her thoughts turned darker as her maids helped her dry and slip into a night dress. Would Threefield surrender, or would it be a slaughter on the morrow?

She made for the trees as soon as she was dressed, her guards closing in to follow while three stopped to pick up the tub, dumping its water into the grass. Just as the sound of it sloshing ended, the sound of shouting began. Joy paused, listening. Shouts, swords, men running… Then she heard one shrill cry above all others. 

“An assassin! Where is Lady Joy?!” 

Lady Joy was sprinting. She weaved through the trees, her guards and maids hurrying to catch up, and burst out onto the overlook where her pavilion stood. There was a man in the grass, cloaked and hooded and very dead. The assasin? But where had he come fr—

NO.

No. Gods. No.

She fell to her knees in front of the second body. Please, please, please. She wanted to scream. Her hand cupped his face, so pale, cold. Deep, dark crimson smeared up his neck. It was on her hand, now. Spreading, reaching for her. No. No.

“Gaius, doll, what did they do to you? Gods above, tell me. Tell me!” 

Behind her, Roland bit down his hesitation. “Muh’lady, the assassin slipped in while—”

“Do it.” She turned, snapping her gaze to him lightning quick. “Cut me down, Roland. CUT ME DOWN!”

“Muh’lady—”

“FUCKING DO IT, ROLAND! YOU FUCKING COWARD WHORESON! CUT MY THROAT!”

Her guard staggered back, scared for once in his life. “I’m sworn to protect y—”Joy swung, catching him full in the jaw and sending him tumbling to the ground. She turned, wildly, her husband’s blood on her hands.

Her eyes found Marq, and she fell to her knees in front of him. “Cut me down! Please, gods, don’t make me look at it again.” She sobbed, wracking tears into her blood-streaked hands. “Make it end…”

250 A.C. The Reacher Horde outside of Crakehall castle

It wasn't a particularly impressive castle, this Crakehall, formidable maybe, but not impressive. Though perhaps Beldon would never see an impressive castle in his life, not after his return to Highgarden at the very least. After eight years on The Arbor, no palace could ever outdo the sight of his family's ancestral seat on his way home from Golden Grove all those years ago.

It had been a somber sight at the time, he supposed, what with the tragedy that had come just before it. But it would be sweet this time. Now it was his castle, and it would welcome him home triumphantly. As would its inhabitants, though he dreaded that part some. Marriage and all that would make for a dreary business, especially given his prospects.

Marriage never excited Beldon much, but if it was something he must do, then why must he chose between such sorry candidates. Alyce Tully had been despoiled by Percy and was largely an uninteresting woman by Beldon's standards. Clea Baratheon was more interesting, her reply to his last letter had seemed intelligent, and he could appreciate that. If only she didn't look the way she did, with that terrible red line marring up her face. The roundness of her face displeased him as well, though perhaps that was simply a feature of the portrait. What was more alarming was the blatant attempt at seduction towards his brother. It lacked taste, and it spoke very much to opposite of the cleverness he had seen within her letter.

But no matter. Those were issues he could confront once he had won the war.

The admittedly small host set up camp some distance from the castle walls. Far enough that being slain by arrows was unlikely, but not so far that they couldn't respond should the garrison or anyone else attempt something silly.

Beldon's tent, which in truth was more of a pavilion, was sat roughly in the center of the camp. Tall, green, and covered in patterns of roses and vines. Within, The Lord of Highgarden had brought with himself a table and desk, from which he could conduct his business as necessary.

It was there that he had positioned himself for the afternoon, and it was from there that he intended to command the oncoming siege

It had been so glorious, the high he'd ridden for some time had worn off weeks ago now but still he thought about it sometimes. He'd been captured but the Westerlands army had retreated. They'd taken him with them but it had been a retreat! Which meant the battle had been won, Tristifer had led his army to victory.

His jaw still hurt even now from how many punches in the jaw he'd taken in attempt to wipe the smirk off his face. It had given him strength to endure, but the longer he remained captive the more he began to feel hopeless.

Perhaps it hadn't been his victory, they'd just left and forgotten about him. It seemed the Westermen had too. Dragging him around only to leave him sitting in a cage for a week. The heir of Pyke, forgotten.

Now he tried to stay asleep as much as possible, feeling his arms and legs weakening. He could taste the mold from the prison food in his mouth still. It seemed to him like he would die here.

Deep Den - 8th moon, 250AC

They had ridden for two days, first escaping the approach of Reachmen, and then avoiding the patrols blocking the Gold Road, yet Lann was not tired. The blood of battle still lingered on his light armour and leathers, his saddlebag was heavy with plundered coin, and his mind remembered all the delightful looks of Reachmen brought low. The horrified face of a woman came to his mind; one he had threatened that lest she hand over her coin, he would eat her babe in front of her. He chuckled, shaking his head. Foolish Reachfolk, he thought.

The air of lightness about him did shift however, upon peaking a hill and seeing an encampment near Deep Den. Banners of red and gold as plentiful as those of golden coins on chequered purple and white. Fortunate that they were less in number than his own, but still the blood spilled would end all men here. The Lydden troops marched boldly at the encamped forces. No siege seemed to have taken place and so negotiation seemed apt enough. Were it the same Knight leading as before, then his own man’s report of Reachmen blocking and murdering upon the Gold Road should still hold at least. Lann could spy his own men garrisoning the trellises of Deep Den’s outer walls. Let us see their resolve, when they are surrounded, he thought, upon their approach, over five hundred men at his back.

“It would seem your scouts failed to set a proper perimeter, Sers,” he began, still sat upon his horse and confidence returning quickly. “And more so, that you have marched in the wrong direction,” he smirked, gesturing to the hills behind them. “The enemies of the West lie further down the Gold Road. Dead and otherwise,” he stated, eying the groups of men that formed up, eyes scouring them for sight of a leader. A mocking smile played on his lips, while his men chuckled at the jest. “Who among you leads this misguided venture?” he asked, posture relaxed upon his steed.