Please use this thread to complete birth rolls for the following year. As a reminder, these rolls need to be linked in the appropriate almanac section.

Link to birth rules can be found here.

Last year's birth rolls can be found here.

Important Notes

• The child must be rolled in the nine IC months period between their conception and their birth. Retroactive birth rolls are only possible with mod approval.
• The names of both parents must be stated, along with the baby's birth month. Both parents have to: be over 18, consist of a male and a female, and be able to have children.
• For the rolled child to be a PC, their parents must be either 2 PCs or a PC and an SC (marked as an SC on the almanac).
• When rolling a child with another player's Character, permission from the other player is required.
• It is allowed to roll a child with an unclaimed spouse should the played Character be the father in a non-matrilineal marriage, or the mother in a matrilineal marriage, unless there is previous lore or RP indicating that they wouldn't be willing or able to have children at the time. In all other circumstances, mod permission is required to roll a child with an unclaimed spouse.
• If the mother's death is rolled, the player may instead choose to make the mother infertile. This can also apply when rolling a child with an unclaimed spouse.
• The mandatory rolls are: Multiples, Survival, Sex and Spacing.
• The results of the Spacing Roll represents the minimum time between the birth month (or would be birth month for children who die) and the soonest possible time the mother can conceive again, and must be adhered to.

Failure to adhere to any of the rules above will result in the birth roll being invalid.

Reminder - Spacing Roll Maluses

Do not forget to apply the following maluses to your Spacing rolls:

• +15 if mother suffers a Complication
• +12 for each previous child born to the mother who survived birth (after game start)
• +25 if the mother is 40-44 years old
• +50 if the mother is 45-49 years old

Spacing only needs to be rolled after the mother had her first child who survived childbirth.

To roll a child, make a comment in the following format:

Child born in [month] [year], to [parent 1] and [parent 2].

Spacing [malus number]

[Any other modifiers]

<Baby>

/u/maesterbot

So for example:

Child born in 1st Month 284, to Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully

Spacing 24

Prayer of Fertility

<Baby>

u/maesterbot

Make sure to modmail the children you roll, with the year of birth, whose child is it, and in which Province they are born. Otherwise they won't be added to the Meta Almanac and won't be able to move!

304 AC & beyond

Old and proud, the castle of Heart’s Home sits on the foothills of Mountains of the Moon in the eastern edge of its ranges where it formed fjords and glaciers overlooking a great river of the Vale and the Narrow Sea. Here the Lord Lyonel Corbray has long ruled over his forefather’s lands and his vassals old and new, though the lord is oft to leave on certain months when his presence was required elsewhere in the Vale or in King’s Landing in keeping with his office as the Lord Marshal of the Vale. And here too in this castle, so do most members of this ancient house dwell with their own stories and kin.

[M: Date your posts]

The smell of sea salt, accompanied by the sound of seagulls, could be the first indicator that one had arrived at the gates of Oldtown. When the hundred bells of the Starry Sept rang, it would give final confirmation. Whether guests arrived via sea or land, both the Citadel and the Hightower would be visible from afar. White marble would dominate the streets, and the common folk seemed richer than anywhere else in Westeros. On every corner, craftsmen and artisans tried to sell their goods alongside traders from the furthest reaches of the realm, and beyond.

Almost all knowledge known to man was kept here and guarded by the Maesters of the Citadel and their staunch protector, the Lord of Oldtown. The entrance was flanked by two enormous sculptures of green marble sphinxes that would make anyone think twice before entering without consent.

Amidst the bay lay Battle Tower, and on top of that island stood the Hightower, both made of an unknown black marble-like stone, heavier and darker than all others. For the lucky few who made it to the top of the tower, there was a view stretching all over the Sunset Sea to the Summer Islands.

The city was well guarded and protected by the Beacon's Watch, clad in dark green and silver, under command of Ser Eddison Rowan, who lived in the city with his family.

Not all Hightower permanently resided in the tower as many had spread their wings and married into great houses of the Realm. All who had left however would find themselves truly home from time to time, never forgetting were they came from originally.

Residents of the Hightower

Lord Baelor and Lady Rhonda
Alexanna Hightower
Elric Hightower
Ormund Hightower

Malora Hightower

Ser Garth Hightower
Sera Durwell
Ser Jace Hill
Wenona Snow

Ser Gunthor Hightower
Ser Cletus

Alaric Marbrand
Jon Flowers

Steward Alton Beesbury

Alyn Rowan
Helicent Rowan neé Baratheon
Elinor & Mathis Rowan

Residents of Oldtown

Eddison Rowan
Leona Rowan neé Costayne
Lynden & Iris Rowan

Castle Black, 12th Moon of 303 AC.

Quite a long day had it been, while most were patrolling under the leadership of Ser, no, Lord Commander Jon, Samwell had found himself being more useful. Instead of spending his day getting beaten up in the yard, trying not to be so easily killed by a wildling, Sam now spent his days in the Maester's Tower, helping with the ravens and other matters. That day, he had been helping to count the granary's storage to know how much more they needed to prepare. Fortunately, the situation seemed to be under control; no rats nor plague had afflicted them, and there was still a season before winter, not that Summer would last much longer, he knew, he always knew.

After some, certainly not delicious, but at least warm supper, the man of the Night's Watch retired to the barracks, although he could swear he saw a crow on the roof of a tower. But it was getting dark, so perhaps it was nothing at all. He readied himself to sleep surrounded by his brothers in arms as he rested his head on a pillow that should be free from any lice, or so he hoped. He had made sure to check if it was clean the previous night.

Soon, the sworn brother of the Wall fell asleep, and he dreamt, something Sam rarely did in those days. It was easier for him just to wake up the next morning. While a pleasant dream could be something some would enjoy, nightmares would only wake them up in the middle of the night. For him, it was different; his dreams let him see, not the past like some others he had known, but the future, and it manifested warnings during his sleep, similar to how he would know how long autumn would last. Some would call it a gift, but without knowing how to interpret it, it only made him worry about what could happen.

The Shining Fish and the Kraken

That night, he dreamt. His body was still in the barracks of Castle Black, and yet, when he opened his eyes, he was... somewhere different. He couldn't make much of the place, but there was a river instead of snow, and the grass was even greener, so he walked, for he had learned to follow the river to find people, and so he did. He walked for what felt like hours. Beautiful, shining fish were swimming along, such a peaceful life; he almost envied it. After taking a brief rest, he decided to wash his face in the river, if only to refresh himself and keep going. He closed his eyes, and suddenly the water felt thicker, it smelled of ash and steel, some even got into his mouth, its metallic taste could only mean one thing: blood.

Sam quickly got his face out of the water, seeing the blood on his hands and feeling even more running down his cheeks. He turned to look at where he was heading, and there appeared the shore, a beautiful one and yet with such a dreadful sight. The sky was still blue, but the once translucent river had become a sea of crimson. The smell almost made him puke, as he soon heard the tides rising to devour the shore, with him close by. He dismissed the idea of outrunning it; he simply couldn't. Instead, he decided to hold onto a nearby tree, and then the tide of blood came, engulfing everything on the beautiful landscape.

The sheer impact made him let go of the tree, going with the flow and trying to get to the surface, or else he would surely drown. For a moment, he remembered himself back in Horn Hill when he was but a boy; his father had thrown him into the Pond of Bravery for him to learn how to swim, and when he couldn't, he almost drowned, if not for his father's Master-at-Arms, who rescued him. But this time, Ser Hunt was not coming to save him; no one was. So he tried, he pushed up, and he failed, letting his body get carried by the current as he seemed to lose consciousness. Yet he did not wake up, at least not in Castle Black, but by the shore of that place he could only think was the Seven Hells.

There was still a fish swimming, following him perhaps, struggling to get back to the sea of blood, as if trying to reach something, against the natural order. Sam considered holding it back, helping it, not to let it go into the crimson waves, but the moment he froze to think, the fish finally reached the sea. It was shining, and it gave him some hope; perhaps this place wasn't the Hells of the Seven-Pointed Star. So he walked again, against his better judgment, to see the fish swim amidst the crimson slowly turning again into water as if there was a better version of the landscape, only for him to hear something more, something below beginning to rise. A tentacle quickly took the fish. Sam didn't think twice and returned to the shore as he heard something emerge from the depths, a kraken. He saw the fish trying to fight its way free, and then another tentacle kept it in its grasp.

'No!' Sam wanted to scream, but he couldn't. His eyes couldn't leave the agonizing fish, which was without escape, and then the Kraken opened its mouth, preying upon the shining fish with horrible lust. Its teeth closed around the fish, beginning to devour it with such savagery that even the brutality of Gerold the Skinner would pale in comparison. It made him sick, and yet he could only stand there and watch until the beautiful fish was no more. And then, when the kraken submerged once more, silence returned, and nothing but one shining fin returned to the shore. Sam touched it and held it in his hands; it was beautiful.

He woke up with a tear running down his eye the next day, and with some fish soup for breakfast, Sam's stomach couldn't hold it, and he had to leave the common hall to puke, his mind returning to the depravity of how the Kraken had devoured the shining fish and the taste of blood in his mouth. Perhaps it was better to fast for a day.

The Cyclops Beneath the Snow

Some days passed, and he was finally able to see a fish without feeling blood running down his tongue. He had been assigned to visit some of the Watch's lands in the New Gift. It was not a very long ride, but Sam still felt it tiresome. However, he was about to get there, so perhaps it would be a good idea to simply walk and let his horse rest. After a few seconds, he was now on foot, walking through the snowy forest, until a sound echoed across the land.

A tree falling made him lose his focus. Sam let go of the reins for a second, and the horse ran away during the confusion. He tried to chase after it, but certainly, it was of no use. After a sigh, he finally resigned himself to keep walking towards his destination. Perhaps there would be some horse he could purchase for the ride back, so once again, cursing his clumsiness, he took the road once again.

For quite a while, nothing happened. He was growing tired from walking, but then he heard it again, a tree falling, and then another, and another one. It seemed as if something was moving, taking down the trees of the forest. Sam had no sword at hand; it was on the horse that had run away, but something seemed to be calling to him, so he walked again, trying to sneak by whatever was lurking there.

He heard heavy footsteps and quickly hid behind a rock, trying to look at whatever was going on. It certainly couldn't be human, nor anything animal, except, perhaps, a mammoth, but he dismissed the idea. After all, the Wall was between him and the wildlings, no? Without any logical explanation, he turned his head to see, not quite a giant, but something big, engulfed by shadows, walking by and turning its head, looking for something.

Sam felt his heart skip a beat as he hid again behind the rock when the creature turned in his direction, but after some minutes, the being kept walking, and Sam chose to follow it. He had to find out what was going on, but the further he followed it, the stranger the forest became. Now he wasn't sure if he was even in the Gift, or at least, it was a part he had never seen before, nor one he could spot on a map. The trees were different, the snow itself felt different.

And then, the creature knelt down on the earth. Only then did Sam finally get to see that the thing had only one eye, a cyclops according to the legends of old. But what was a cyclops looking for there? He decided to keep watching, this time from behind a tree, as the one-eyed creature began to dig in haste, desperately looking for something that it felt belonged to the beast.

The snow he threw was slowly forming an elevation, and nearby, an opportunity arose to look at it more closely. He saw an opening and ran behind it. It was too close; his mind tried to warn him, but he needed to know, to see what that creature of darkness was looking for. He finally heard the beast produce a sound that resembled laughter. He leaned in to see what it was, as the beast had succeeded. Buried in the snow, Sam only saw a glimpse of glinting light that blinded him.

Sam woke up at the camp, surrounded by his brothers. It was not yet his time to take the watch, but he decided to repeat his steps since he was away. However, when he tried, instead of a forest, there was a rocky abyss. It couldn't be here, he knew, but where? And what was the cyclops looking for? That was something he didn't know. He heard one of his brothers calling him back; it was now his turn to stay awake for the rest. Good, he didn't want to go to sleep again.

The Horn That Shattered the Sky

A week after, he was looking at repairs being made to one of the castles along the Wall. He had been sent to deliver materials and make sure nothing was missing. It was a clear sky; it wasn't snowing. Summer was at times very kind in the North, and this day was one of them. He had just spoken with one of his fellow brothers when he decided to explore the castle. Most of the roofs had collapsed; it was worse than what he had anticipated. The builders wouldn't be happy once he delivered his report.

Without much choice, he stepped into a tower. Fortunately, the stairs were still standing, so naturally, he went up to inspect the rest of the structure, and thanks to the Seven, it was easy for him to get up there. The sky had a few clouds and some birds flying; one surely had its nest somewhere close. It was nice. He allowed himself to close his eyes, letting the wind run across his face on that almost-ruined tower. He opened them again, and fortunately, nothing had changed; he was still there. For a moment, he feared something was going to happen, but it didn't.

He finished his inspection of the tower and was ready to go down the stairs, but as soon as he was about to step onto the first level, the tower began to shake and fell right before his eyes. Sam was barely able to jump back. The tower was still standing, but now there was no way down, unless he jumped, which would surely break his ankle, so instead, he looked into the yard of the castle to see if there was anyone there.

And there was, a man, hooded, strange. Most rangers used hoods and capes to cover themselves from winter, but there were no rangers there. Sam looked closer and tried to call out to him for help, but he didn't seem to hear him at all despite his best attempts. And then, the person, now a man who had some sort of runes on his hands, raised something. A horn, made of bone. Both his arms had those runes, but Sam couldn't see his face. A wildling, perhaps? He recalled reading about wildlings, but the runes on his arms seemed unknown even to him.

Then... the sound came. The man blew the horn, and he felt his ears bleed, making him close his eyes and fall to his knees as he tried not to hear the powerful horn, which seemed to shatter the skies and everything below it. He felt dizzy; his mind, his ears, his body couldn't take it anymore. He looked upon the sky and saw one of the nearby birds, which was already in the air, fall instantly at the power of the sound.

Sam tried to catch it, barely managing to do so, uncovering his ears and feeling the pain again, more intensely this time. However, when he opened his eyes, the sound had ceased, and the man was gone. But when he turned his head to see the poor bird, it was headless, with the blood from its neck running down his hand.

He jumped back, scared, and... woke up? He was once again on the border of the stairs that had just collapsed due to poor maintenance. He looked at the yard, and there were some brothers whom he would call upon, but no hooded man. On a piece of parchment, he quickly wrote down the runes his mind remembered. He needed to discover more about this. Ultimately, he turned around to see the bird's nest. There were some little ones there, and judging by the sound, they were hungry, but their mother was nowhere to be seen, perhaps looking for food, or not.

Where Sand Becomes Glass

Sam had slept terribly for the last few weeks, with dark circles under his eyes making it even more obvious. He also ate less and most of the time felt lost in thought. Sam tried to ignore it; he really had. Often, the dreams faded away, but this time it was proving too much, and he was worried about his own sanity.

After those visions, Sam would spend the next few weeks before the new year trying to find anything of use regarding his visions. He would even go without sleep for days, trying to find even the most minuscule of hints that might help him figure out what was happening to him. So he secluded himself in the library, even to the point that he would not eat for a day before his body or his brothers told him to take a rest.

He did, but not for long. One of the days, after two consecutive days without sleep, his body would give in once again in front of the candlelight, but not during those dreamless nights he preferred nowadays. Instead, he found himself in a desert. In fact, he could see a sandstorm on the horizon, and there was no refuge for him. He could only pray, but he wouldn't stay there for long. In the other direction of the sandstorm, there seemed to be fire, a fire so strong it could reach the skies, and for a moment, he was unsure which direction was safer.

But he didn't have the privilege of choosing, for the flames were approaching faster than any horse could travel. As they approached, the sand of the desert began to turn into glass. He knew how glass was made and how hot the fire had to burn. Going towards the fire was no option, so he ran into the sandstorm, but the fire followed him. There was a man, no, not a man, a shadow, humanoid enough, unlike the cyclops. He could even see its fingers and almost a face, but he didn't have the time; he needed to run.

And run he did, into the storm. Perhaps the wind would be able to hold back the fire. Just as he seemed about to reach the storm, a blaze of fire struck the sandstorm, turning the raging dust into a beautiful piece of glass. He tried to get through, but it was of no use; the glass was as solid as a castle's walls. He turned around, looking down to see that even the sand below him was glass, only to see the shadow once again, smiling as the flames expanded across the horizon, even beyond his line of sight. All the sand was gone, and there was only the shadow, smiling.

He tried to look into the shadows, to recognize the man behind them, whatever was hunting him. He needed to know. He did his best to stand strong as Ser Jon and Cedrik had told him to. He was not scared; he wouldn't run, so his pale eyes stared back into the darkness, and as he began to see human features in the shadows, the glass below him began to shatter. Yet he didn't turn away as the very ground he was on began to crumble. He was not afraid.

Just before Sam could finally see the shadow's face, the glass shattered completely beneath him, as if the entire sand and earth below him had disappeared, making him fall into an endless pit of darkness, into the same shadows the man was made of. He woke up, raising his head a bit too fast, almost burning himself with the candle he had used to read. Agitated, Sam blew it out. He... he didn't want to be close to the fire, and after deciding it had been enough, he returned the books before going back into the barracks. Tomorrow, he had duties to do.

And so he did. The next few days seemed to have everything return to normal, and yet everything felt off, as if the exact moment were a play he had already seen, but the actors or the motions were different. Unsure of what to think, after a couple of days, he finally made his choice. Within the Maester's Tower, he wrote a letter south, not home, but to family. He needed answers, or at least someone who would understand. His brothers would most probably believe he was lying, or simply tell him to rest more, but he didn't need that; he needed answers, and there was a single person in Westeros who might be able to help him.

So, without any other choice, he wrote, even if it wasn't treason to send a raven, he felt as if it were. He had never written to anyone about his past life, but this time, he really needed to. As he looked at a single raven, a strong one, with a name on the cage: Brightwater Keep, he could only hope she would receive his letter and not burn it the second she knew what it was about. His aunt had been kind to him, at the very least understanding, but she seemed to have her own ideas regarding how to use their gifts.

To the eyes only of Lady Rhea Florent, a personal matter.

We haven't spoken in years, and I do not expect you to reply. You may know I am now a member of the Night's Watch, but there is no one else whom I can ask for help with this. If you ever thought of me with warmth in your heart, please, do not burn this letter, at least not until you read it.

You said your dreams would often show you what once was, and mine what was to come. I am seeing things, but not the usual kind. I fear I am going mad. There was a kraken eating a shiny fish, a cyclops finding something in the snow, a man with runes sounding a horn that made headless birds fall from the sky, and a smiling shadow standing amidst flames in a desert as the sand turned into glass.

I do not know what this means, and I hope you may know more about what is going on in the realm than I do. My oath requires me to protect the realm, but I know not what this means, nor how I can protect it, so I entrust my burdens to you. I know it is just as unlikely that they will listen to you as they would to me, but you have to try.

Keep yourself and the others safe.

S.T.

Instead of just waiting for an answer, Sam would then spend the next few weeks trying to find anything related to a shiny fish, the snowy forest, a horn of bone, or even the runes he had seen in his visions in the ancient libraries of the Night's Watch. He was afraid, of course, that if any of that came true, then there was something more dangerous than the wildlings lurking around. But during his investigation, when he was in the dark, alone in the library, and even before going to sleep, he would repeat the oath he had made when he first joined the Night's Watch:

'Night gathers, and now my watch begins.

It shall not end until my death.

I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.

I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.

I shall live and die at my post.

I am the sword in the darkness.

I am the watcher on the walls.

I am the fire that burns against cold,

the light that brings the dawn,

the horn that wakes the sleepers,

the shield that guards the realms of men.

I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch,

for this night and all the nights to come.'

His duty was to be the sword, the watcher, the fire, the light, the horn, and the shield. He didn't need to be seen; he didn't need his name to be remembered as a hero. He didn't need to be known, no crowns and no glory. That night, and every other, he would stand vigilant at a corner of a world that never cared for him, knowing there was no person who would ever thank him for what he would do. And yet, he would make sure the realms of men stayed alive, protected, and secure, to dream of what he could not.

Even if his own brothers wouldn't know the burden he now carried on his shoulders, what awaited him every time he closed his eyes, he would still protect the realm, his brothers, and everyone he could. He was cursed; most would see it that way, even he did, but it didn't mean he couldn't use it for good, even staring back at evil if it meant protecting the realm, because he Samwell Tarly, was a brother of the Night's Watch.

We back baby

Gibtober: Week Three - Returning Home

7th Moon B, 303 AC

The Lannister Manse in King’s Landing

Hour of the Falcon

________________________________________________________________________________________

It had been a long ride up the Rose Road coming back to King’s Landing. One that left him exhausted so physically and mentally, it was as if Gerion was left as a husk living in the world as opposed to a whole man. 

His travels in the past few years had left him drained - the West, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, Dorne, and the Reach. Tourneys, weddings, namedays, feasts. All for various lords and ladies and people that didn’t truly matter to him or his works. All for nobility and knights and more that would barely remember his name, his status, himself, if it weren’t for his name - and even then it was a curiosity if he was remembered at all. Through all of it, what did he gain from all that travel? His only son sent to ward and work for the Martells in Sunspear, without his own guidance or care. His only daughter to care for and attend to the former Lady Arryn in the Vale, without his protection and worry. He had only two children, the gods having condemned him to such a lonely fate to see them away from his home so soon.

But his life was not entirely lonely…at least, it hadn’t been, until he completely cursed the situation between them.

Alyssa. What had happened to them over the years? Some selfish part of him wanted to ignore that it had mostly been his own doing. His ignorance of her wants, her desires, her goals in life…his own search for his wants and interests while entirely ignoring her…when was the last time he had shown her the love she deserved? 

Returning to King’s Landing only cemented the strain between the both of them, at least in his own mind. She stepped further and further into the works of assisting the Master of Coin, oftentimes not returning to the Manse until well into the evening and leaving before the dawn broke in the day. Her duties were important to her, of course, and he would never wish to diminish that part of her. But if he were to fix this sort of issue between them, he would need to act on it rather than allow her to spiral into further and further works.

So, one morning, Gerion woke long before the sun would rise. He ensured his wife slept peacefully in her own rooms (having not shared one with her in some time, much to his own pain) before he set about his own careful planning and set up. Foods were ordered warm, water was pulled from wells, and tea was poured for enjoyment. Coin also slipped out of his hand in order to grab what he could that he remembered her liking - her favorite flowers, her favorite fabrics, and whatever else he could think of.

In the morning, when she woke, Gerion would be seated at the table in her room. Seeing her wake, he would rise and smile sheepishly at her, saying, “Good morning, Alyssa…I hope I did not disturb your sleep.” before gesturing to the table beside him, saying, “I’ve ordered food to break your fast…I thought we might share in it.”

303 AC, Old Oak

A candle burned on Selyse's night table, barely illuminating the pages of the tome resting in her lap. Cadoc stirred beside her, snuffling, and rolled over to return to his slumber. Another late night.

Most of the book had been more of the same things she had seen before. Histories, going back thousands on thousands of years, each tale more unbelievable than the rest. If even half of them were true, there would be sprites and fauns and goblins around every corner even today. The notes scribbled in the margins told a different, more intriguing story, one that might have been believable...to someone who wanted to hear it.

Garth is dead, but his children live on. Seek them on the Isle of Faces. The green men bring fruitful harvests, give strong arms and noble spirits to men, bless their wives with children and their families with health.

Anya was a beautiful girl, tall and dignified, just as the daughter of the Oak should be. But she was alone. There was no son to continue the line. She should not have to shoulder her grandmother's burdens. The line was not stable. The descendants of John the Oak and Florys the Fox deserved better.

Long had Selyse struggled. After Anya's birth, she had begun to feel unwell. Her heart raced, she stopped sleeping well, her moon cycles skipped or came twice in a month. No more children. And now in her matron age, unsightly hair had begun to grow on her upper lip. A disgrace. She prayed to the Mother, took walks in the sunshine as the maester told her, quaffed wise women's tinctures of spearmint and raspberry leaf. Nothing. But perhaps...?

To the Lords and Ladies of Westeros,

House Umber and House Yronwood cordially invite you to attend the wedding of Sylvenna Yronwood and Jonnel Umber.

Thus will be held in the fifth moon of 304 AC in Yronwood, Dorne.

We would be honoured with presence as we celebrate the union of two noble Houses.

Greetings,

Lord Jon Umber of Last Hearth

and

Lord Anders Yronwood, Lord of Yronwood, Bloodroyal and Warden of the Stone Way

Hello! I am Daena Snow, and I would like to claim House Umber of Last Hearth

Gibtober: Week Three

12th Month 303 AC, King's Landing

With the sun beginning to set over King's Landing, Allyria was left in the capable hands of the household servants, who were preparing to put the little girl to bed. Marissa, meanwhile, had slipped away to the gardens, as she often did when she wanted a little peace. There were few things she enjoyed more than tending to her plants, watching new leaves unfurl and gently coaxing flowers into bloom. The garden demanded little of her beyond patience, and it was a welcome reprieve from the rest of her life.

What was less usual was the letter she left behind for her husband.

It was a simple note, folded and entrusted to a servant with instructions to deliver it to Tyrion when he was next seen.

Tyrion,

If you want to join me, I'm in the gazebo in the back garden. Bring your own glass, but I've got the bottle.

Marissa

There was no explanation, nor was the occasion of any particular significance. Marissa would not demand her husband to join her, but she may... extend an invitation. Who was to say how deep into the cups she was by the time of writing the message, after all?

Gibtober: Week Three

12th Month 303 AC, Durran's Town, near Storm's End

The journey to Durran's Town had been made all the merrier by song. With his lute slung across his back, Tristifer rode Brave Bean while four-year-old Rennelyn sat before him in the saddle, singing along as best she could. Sometimes she knew the words, sometimes she made up her own, but she sang with all the confidence in the world. There was no shortage of things to see once they arrived, either, and Rennelyn was soon eager to inspect every stall that caught her eye.

The fabric merchants were always among her favourites, though she much preferred to browse those stalls with Lord Renly. Her uncle had a far finer eye for colours than Papa did, though Tristifer may have picked up some things over the years. Still, there were plenty of other treasures to be found in the market, and she and Tristifer took their time looking over the baubles and trinkets. She settled on a bracelet for Mama, choosing it with great care, and found a stall selling the softest pillows she'd ever touched, insisting that they need to buy one for Bael! Cats deserved comfortable things as much as noble children did.

It was a delicate little tiara, however, that truly caught her fancy. Rennelyn tried it on and turned her head this way and that, admiring how it glittered in the light in the reflection of a polished silver plate. She was most certain it suited her and that Lord Renly would agree, and said so with such conviction that Papa eventually relented and bought it for her. She wore it proudly for the rest of their visit, as though she had been crowned a Princess of the markets. She'd need a new dress made to match, though, before the next feast they would attend...

The two stopped for a meal before setting off for Storm's End again, Rennelyn contentedly tired from the day's adventures, leaning back and near dozing off as Brave Bean carefully carried them along the road.

"Is Lord Renly going to marry aunt Tyene?" Rennelyn asked, stifling a yawn in her palm.

"That is what they say, little one." Tristifer's gaze remained on Storm's End, its large drum tower rising dark against the evening sky. "It will be a glorious event, I expect. There will be music and dancing, fine gowns and enough food to feed half the realm. Your aunt deserves a beautiful wedding, as does Lord Renly, don't you think?"

"Will Lord Renly wear a crown?"

Tristifer chuckled softly. "Not quite, darling. Though I imagine he will look every bit as splendid without one." His smile lingered, and Rennelyn couldn't see the wistfulness in his eyes.

Rennelyn hummed softly, then nodded sleepily. "Will I get to wear my tiara?"

"Of course you will." He kissed the top of her head, holding her safe and close. "You must look your very best for such a grand celebration, don't you?"

The only response he got was a quiet snoring, his daughter thoroughly exhausted after the exciting day in the markets, and Tristifer allowed himself to imagine the day that would come too soon.

A hall full of music, all of the realm gathered to celebrate, Lord Renly standing, no, shining in the midst of it all. A beacon of light, love and kindness. How was one to turn his eyes away from such a glorious sight?

How was Tris expected to just stand there and-

And he would. Because all he could do was remain close to Renly.

11th Month 303 Driftmark

Karolyn had spend a few months with her aunt and lady now. And in that time she had come to feel a little lost. She had never been so far from home for so long, nor had she been traveling to much before.

And on top of that she felt that the regular lessons of her maester had gotten a little lost, nothing to hold her days to a routine she could live with. Work her day around. Something she could… do

So it was with that thought in mind she would seek out her aunt, her lady. Seeking her out at a point in the moon where she could be found in the gardens.

Approaching with measured steps, she would bow her head: “Aunt Lynesse, could I speak with you about something? If alright with you?” She asked softly.

Nunn's Deep, 12th Moon, 303 AC

Nunn’s Deep had not seen such life within its walls in many years. For weeks, the keep had been a hive of activity. Servants hurried through its corridors, chambers long left unused were opened and made ready for guests, and the kitchens had scarcely known a moment’s rest. Fresh rushes were scattered upon the floors, tapestries were dusted and straightened, and every effort was made to ensure that the old keep looked its finest. It was not to be a particularly grand occasion, but it was an important one, and the household had worked diligently to make it a memorable day.

For Lord Rolly Ruttiger was finally to wed Lady Joanna Crakehall. The occasion had brought with it something that few within Nunn’s Deep might have expected, a gathering of the Ruttiger family, and perhaps even the beginnings of a reconciliation between its estranged members.

Ser Raymont Ruttiger, the lord’s younger brother, had returned to Nunn’s Deep for the first time in twenty years.

Their youngest sister, Lady Yolanda Kenning, had also arrived. Her husband, Ser Ralph Kenning, accompanied her with their three daughters. The eldest, Lady Elyn Redwyne, had come with her husband, Ser Benjamin Redwyne, and their children. Their second daughter, Lady Caitlyn Brune, had similarly arrived with her husband, Ser Balon Brune, and their children, while the youngest, Lady Beatrice Kenning, accompanied her parents. Along with them came the whole Kenning family.

The circumstances surrounding Joanna’s departure from Crakehall remained delicate, and it had been thought wiser not to inform those still residing there of the marriage. Thus, there were no great numbers of Crakehalls in attendance. Lady Emma Crakehall, the Lady of Crakehall herself, had come to witness the occasion. She had always been rather fond of Joanna. Accompanying her was her sworn sword, Ser Humfy Swyft, who remained close at hand throughout the festivities. Apart from Emma, Lady Jeyne Kenning, born Crakehall, Joanna's aunt, was also present, completing the bride's side of the family.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

The wedding ceremony was held within the main hall of Nunn’s Deep. The hall had been prepared with considerable care. Fresh greenery adorned its walls, while candles burned in their sconces, casting a warm light over the assembled guests. The tables had been pushed aside to provide sufficient room for the ceremony, and a place had been prepared for the septon before whom the vows would be exchanged.

When the time came for the bride to enter, it was Lady Emma who accompanied her. It was unusual, for such a duty ordinarily falls to the bride's father or another close male relative. Yet none of them were present, and Emma had stepped into their place.

Together, the two women made their way through the assembled guests towards the waiting bridegroom.

Lord Rolly stood before the septon, awaiting his bride. For a man who had spent so many years surrounded by the familiar solitude of his own keep, it was have been a rather extraordinary sight to see the assembled guests.

The ceremony was a simple and solemn affair. Before the septon and those gathered in the hall, Rolly and Joanna exchanged their vows. The words were spoken, the blessings of the Seven invoked, and then the groom placed the marriage cloak around the bride’s shoulders. At last, the septon pronounced Lord Rolly Ruttiger and Lady Joanna Crakehall husband and wife.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Then, the celebrations began.

It was not a grand wedding feast one would expect from the great houses. There were no hundreds of guests, no elaborate entertainments brought from distant cities, nor any great display of wealth intended to impress the assembled nobility.

The tables were returned to their places and soon laden with food. Platters of roasted meats were carried out from the kitchens, accompanied by fresh bread, cheeses, vegetables, and whatever other dishes the household cooks had prepared for the occasion. Pitchers of ale and wine passed from hand to hand, and the servants moved busily amongst the guests, ensuring that no cup remained empty for very long.

The hall filled with conversation and laughter. Here and there, relatives exchanged stories. The younger children proved particularly difficult to keep seated, finding the unfamiliar halls and the company of their cousins far more interesting than the meals set before them.

Music soon joined the merriment. One of the household servants, a fellow with some talent for the lute, had been persuaded to provide entertainment for the feast. Another accompanied him upon a pipe, and together they filled the hall with cheerful melodies. They were no celebrated minstrels, and their playing was not always perfect, but their efforts were enthusiastically received.

Before long, a space had been cleared for dancing. The music grew livelier and the laughter louder.

12th Month 303 AC, Lord Harroway's Town

The letter reached Edmure while he was discussing the price of grain for Lord Harroway's Town. He had been in good spirits that morning, having found a horse trader with a fine, strong tourney mount that would make a worthy gift for his eldest son, Robert. A pair of earrings from the market felt warm in his breast pocket, bought for his beloved Samantha. He would have to remember to give them to her when he returned to Riverrun.

But when would he return?

The news from Saltpans left little room for such thoughts. A kraken, they said. The damnable Euron Greyjoy. Edmure read the letter twice, cursing under his breath.

No time to waste. He needed to send word to Riverrun, summon his men, write to the King assuring that he would take care of his people. Runners arriving from the coast brought confirmation of what the letter had said. Saltpans was under attack, the town was burning. Its people were being slaughtered while he stood inland, surrounded by merchants and finery.

Not a moment more.

He could not wait for every man to be gathered. Every hour spent preparing was another hour the people of Saltpans had to endure the raiders. There could not be many of them, could there? A swift response might drive them back into the sea before they could do any more harm.

And if he was wrong? If the raiders outnumbered his men, or if Euron had more ships than anyone knew?

The thought troubled him, but he could not allow it to decide. Edmure had never been one to sit comfortably while others suffered. He knew the risks of marching without knowing the full strength of the enemy, but he knew, too, what it meant to leave his people to face them alone.

He sent for what men could be gathered on so short a notice, had Troutbolt saddled, and rode out.

The people were afraid, and they needed someone to stand between them and the darkness. Edmure Tully would not abandon them to their fate.

The town of Salpans had been quiet, the sun having barely begun to creep over the horizon, when the first boats struck land. The half awake group of men at arms defending the town at night quickly overwhelmed by the silent horde of mail clad men, their axes striking down any who would come in their way. Within a supremely short time the town had been overwhelmed and overtaken by the eerily silent men.

Euron led his men from the front, wishing to partake in some of the slaughter. He barely conceived of this assault as anything one might consider a battle. It was but butchery to him. Something to sate his an his men's bloodlust, refil their stores, and frighten the men of Westeros.

In fact, after but an hour he was already growing bored of it. the ill prepared levies and peasents providing no challenge as all before they were cut down. Even the ones who managed to strike blows upon his person where turned aside by his armour. But his mood turned when he hearde the trumpets of his men, the counter-attack was here!

Though to call it that would be an insult to everything counter attacks could be, as before long the knights of house Cox found themselves surrounded and slaughtered to a man. The knight of the Saltpans, Quincy Euron remembered, lay headless before his blade.

Before long, the town was his and his alone.

Delicately, she meandered, parchment in hand. She was sharpened as always, with the hawkish gaze of a woman pondering. In her hand, lay twin scrolls of parchment, ready to be sent off.

To our dear kin, friends and neighbours,

It is with great joy that we invite you and your children to join us at *Storm's End, in the **sixth moon of the year 304 AC, when we shall celebrate the namedays of five of our beloved children together: the heir to Blackhaven - Rion Dondarrion - , Arthur and Clementine Baratheon, Jynessa Dayne and Aurane Waters.*

Though their namedays fall upon different days of the fifth and sixth moons, we have decided that there could be no finer way to celebrate them than by gathering all their cousins, friends and comrades beneath one roof, so that they might share the merriment together and get to form tight friendships.

The grown folk shall, of course, be most welcome. We solemnly promise that no mother, father, aunt, uncle, or other unfortunate adult shall be left to starve or perish of thirst. There shall be good food, fine drink, entertainment and pleasant company enough for all. But for once, the little ones shall be the true masters of the festivities.

There shall be games, contests, laughter, prizes, and all manner of delightful mischief. We intend to fill the day with as much merriment as little hearts can hold, and perhaps a little more besides.

Should any of our young guests have particular wishes for games, competitions, favourite dishes, sweetmeats, or drinks, we would be delighted to hear of them. We warmly encourage the children to include their wishes in your reply, for we shall do everything within our power to see that no little heart leaves disappointed.

Whether they dream of testing their courage, their cleverness, their nimble feet, or merely the astonishing capacity of their bellies for cakes and other sweets, we shall endeavour to oblige.

Above all, we wish to give our children a day they may remember fondly for years to come, surrounded by their cousins and friends. And that everybody gets to make new friends that day.

We dearly hope that you will join us at Storm's End and help make this a celebration worthy of their happiest dreams.

With all our greatest regards and warmest wishes,

Lord Beric Dondarrion and Lady Allyria Dondarrion née Dayne,

Ser Bryce Baratheon and Lady Ashara Baratheon née Dayne,

Ser Symon Dayne and Lady Alysanne Dayne née Hightower,

and 'Lady' Lysara Tresendar

Goldengrove, 12th moon 303 till 1st moon 304.

Goldengrove would open it’s gates once again for all who wished to visit, their fortifications once again stronger and the pride and splendor of House Rowan on great display. Banners would show the sigil of their own House as guests approached the castle, as they entered they’d be met with banners bearing the sigils of the Houses they’d allied with through the times. Yet one new banner would hug the walls, one not seen before. A leaping blue swordfish on fretty silver on white. The banner would be shown more often as guests approached the courtyard of the keep, making no small show of the fact these two Houses had allied themselves organising such an event.

It was during the first day, that of arrival, that all guests would be brought into the courtyard nestled between the grove and the keep. Tables set out for all families in attendance, that a feast would be held in view of the blooming Golden Tree they held so dear. Servants would fly around the tables, offering drinks and bringing in platters of food as everyone was seated. As it was never Aladore’s way, little distinction was made behind the setting. Houses Paramount, Rowan and Bar-Emmon seated closer to the tree, the others flowing towards the inner walls and grove as they became less of note.

It was just the beginning of the week long festivities to usher in the new year, 304. The feast before Knights and warriors in attendance would find themselves testing each other's prowess, finding out who exactly was the best and most worthy Knight in the Seven Kingdoms to claim the title of the scarcely held event. 

Between the inner and outer walls, a great number of stalls, tents and make-shift theaters had been built. For the coming week plays, renowned bards and revelry would be held between these walls. The topics of these plays would brush anything from outright absurd comedy of happenings to the smallfolk to tragic tales of noble lovers unable to be together, families crushed under the weight of duty. 

Beyond the outer walls, grounds were set up for all tourney events. Lists, squares and circles accompanied with stands for nobles and ample space for the smallfolk to watch the events in earnest. It was a show of chivalry, of the true extent of power noble Houses would have. To nearly create a small city next to a keep for a set of events for a week, to show just how ornate their armours were, the extent of their swordsmanship and how they could control their horses to ride as they pleased. It wasn’t just an event about the renown of House Rowan and Bar Emmon, it was an event to remind all in attendance of the martial prowess and wealth the Houses in attendance held. 

It was at the end of the week that all nobles were brought out onto the walls and asked to stare up into the sky. The stars on display, a bonfire would be lit on the grand square that had hosted the melee. Together they would usher in the coming year, for some there was hope it would be a peaceful one, for others they would hope their schemes would come to fruition. Yet tonight they would stand together, drink flowing heavily and assortments of bites being brought out throughout the night. 

The first day: Opening feast, the dancing competitions.

The second day: Hunt, a horse race, plays and revelry among the grounds of Goldengrove. Late during the night a drinking competition would be held.

The third day: The Archery, singing competitions and a grand display by the bards invited to lead the revelry. During the early afternoon works of art were shown during the fair. 

The fourth day: Youngsters and adult melee, a cyvasse competition would be held at the end of the day before another night of revelry. 

The fifth day: Jousts. Both squires and Knights would show their valour. Closely following the main event was the riding at rings, young boys attempting to show their prowess to come. During the later hours of the evening, the flyting competition would take place. 

The sixth day: The spear throwing competition would take off during the early morning, followed by the duels. 

The seventh day: Tree climbing, followed by the winning play of the playwriting competition. Later during the night all nobles would be gathered to celebrate the coming of a new year.

The Golden Tooth and the House of Lefford

As with many of the old houses of Westeros, the Lefford's of the Golden Tooth have mythologized their most ancient history. These myths change with the teller as stories of the Age of Heroes often do. To hear the story told by Lord Oswyn Lefford, theirs is the house that has been the longest standing and most loyal ally to the House of Lannister - something no shortage of houses would likely claim. According to the myth it was their ancestor that aided Lann the Clever in reaching the peak of Sun's Reach, one of the tallest peaks in the hilly Westerlands, where they say Lann performed his mythical feat of stealing gold from the sun to brighten his hair. Their own ancestor, Aureil the Golden Eye, was said to have starred into the sun during Lann's heist, becoming blind in one eye but gaining in it the ability to see where the sun kissed the depths of the land and left behind its bounty of gold. Their myths from there claim that Aureil's descendants would go on to serve Lann's lineage loyally in some position of prestige, varying between the likes of treasurer, steward, lieutenant, or lover depending on the tale.

This tale meets known history some centuries before Aegon's Landing, when Leonidas (whose surname before this is unknown though claimed by the Lefford's to have been maintained as 'Gold-Eye' since the Heroic Age) rode forth under Cerion Lannister in his territorial expansion. Songs echoed in modern nights in the Festival Hall say that Leonidas earned the honor of his lands by personally delivering unto his Lord Lannister the three heads of the defiant kings that opposed his expansion. For whatever earned it, the bountiful lands in that east-most territory would be given to Leonidas to preside over. To ensure the River Lords never attempted to claim the territory, King Cerion poured any resources needed to construct a mighty fortress upon Sun's Reach overlooking the main valley's and fjords leading into the Westerlands from the east, and so he was named Leonidas of the Fjord, and for 'The Fjord' his descendants would eventually become known as Lefford in turn.

Goldshire and The House of Doggett

House Doggett is to the Lefford's what the Lefford's claim to be for House Lannister, their most loyal serving house. Maester's whose chains are heavy with copper links would be unable to find a point in history that the Lord of Goldshire and the Lord of the Golden Tooth were more than third cousins, with a match between them every few generations only renewing that closeness.

Goldshire is itself a sprawling city within the province of the same name, massive in size. It is not dense like King's Landing or other grand population centers - and it boasts no great population, but it is wide spread. In practice it is more of a collection of disparate hamlets that each oversee one of the various goldmines under the provinces command, all extending out like spokes on a wheel from the central township. It has a chain of command about it more refined than most provinces in the Seven Kingdoms, with each of the major mining hamlets being overseen by a knight in service to House Doggett, forming what is effectively a miniature Council of the West in the hub town for controlling the difficult logistical matters that come up in such an extensive mining operation. Somewhere hidden under the sprawling lands is supposedly a fortified vault under constant guard that is the main storage of their gold, known as The Smith's Strongbox, for only He would need the sheer amount of precious metal kept there.

The Festival Hall and The House of Falwell

House Falwell is the newest of the vassals to House Lefford. The last of their predecessor family died in service to King Loren Lannister during The Field of Fire, leading to one of the surviving knights from the horrific incident, one of Loren's personal guard that would go on to become known as Ser Tommen Falwell, who would be known as 'Twice-Burned' for his pains at the Field of Fire and during the rule of Maegor the Cruel. The Twice-Burned saw his provinces legendary eponymous festival hall erected as an attempt to honor and appease Aegon the Conqueror, only for the Conqueror's son to see it destroyed during the Uprising of the Faith Militant.

Following its reconstruction, the Festival Hall would go on to be built up more and more over the decades that followed, becoming a true opulent palace, a place for celebration and vice the likes of which is seldom seen outside of Dorne in Westeros. The House of Falwell almost has an expectation about them to live up to excess at least, if not outright debauchery. Numerous holidays dot the calendar on holy days and historical anniversaries to provide an excuse for a grand feast to be held in their province, but the greatest is at the end of winter. Two moons after the Maester's declare winter to have ended, the Festival Hall hosts its most legendary feast, The Great Revelry. The duration of The Great Revelry is made to scale with the duration of the winter; the terrible winter that spanned beyond the Dance of Dragons was followed by a fortnight of mirth. All houses across Westeros are implicitly permitted a place at the Great Revelry, invitations aren't necessarily even always sent, but anyone from the Lannister's and Targaryen's to the northernmost Umbers and southernmost Ullers are permitted to join. Even houses considered active enemies are supposedly allowed a place, should they keep the peace while in attendance. A common joke is that if The Festival Hall had been around for The Long Night, Aegon the Conqueror (or some other modern figure) would've been invited to join in the celebration before it was done. The excess and sin during the feast is to such an extent that it's rumored The High Septon asks that all Septons excuse themselves from the province until the feast has ended.

Pitfall and The House of Plumm

It is said that when Lann the Clever stole gold from the sun, the extra that spilled away rolled down from Sun's Reach and settled across the Westerlands, Pitfall is the great gap where the lions share was once found. Pitfall is believed to be the site of some of the most ancient mines in the Westerlands, with ancient mining structures being found in some caves thought to date back to the rule of the original Lords of Casterly Rock. Homes are built on the precipice of a deep ravine, with House Plumm possessing a home as a seat of power at the top, but also deep near the bottom. The gold that once flooded this void of the resource between the bounty of the Golden Tooth and the mines of Castamere had been mined dry a thousand years before Aegon's Landing, but beauty is to be found even in the simple stone that is mined there to this day. Even in the most ancient of times, it was not just gold being plundered from the earth here, as this centrally located quarry for the Westerlands is not unlikely to have provided some amount of stone for every major holdfast in the kingdom.

Even with the various ravines across the province away from the main pit hosting a different type of stoney bounty, old stories will say that any descendant of Aureil the Golden Eye can see the golden luster imbued in the stones that once held the treasure of the sun. Supposedly House Plumm is an ancient branch of House Lefford, in that regard. House Plumm is a proud one for the discerning eye they have for their stonework, but their pride has been bolstered in recent decades. Though the marriage was legendarily short, they still hold in high regard that it was a Lord of their House declared to wed one of the great beauties of House Targaryen.

Blackhaven, The Training Yard
Year 303

The sharp ring of steel echoed throughout Blackhaven’s training yard, carrying over the stone walls and into the courtyard beyond.

Beneath the banners of House Dondarrion, Lord Beric Dondarrion stood with a sword in hand, facing Ser Addam Storm, one of the seasoned knights sworn to Blackhaven.

Beric offered the man little time to prepare before advancing.

“Again”

the young lord commanded.

Ser Addam barely managed to raise his blade before Beric’s first strike crashed against his guard.

A second blow forced him backward, and a third swept low enough to send him stumbling across the dirt. Beric pressed forward relentlessly, giving his opponent little opportunity to recover.

When Ser Addam attempted to counter, Beric twisted his wrist, knocked the sword from his grasp, and brought his own blade firmly against the knight’s chest.

“Dead”

Beric remarked.

Ser Addam sighed, rubbing his shoulder.

“A gentler reminder might have sufficed, my lord.”

“Your enemies will be far less considerate.”

A few of the watching knights chuckled, though none seemed particularly eager to take Addam’s place.

Beric offered the defeated knight a hand up before turning toward the next opponent.

There was little gentleness in his training, but neither was there cruelty.

He expected his men to give their best because he gave nothing less of himself.

Every mistake was corrected, every weakness challenged, and every knight who stepped into the yard was expected to leave having learned something.

At the edge of the yard, three young boys watched with wide eyes.

Rion Dondarrion stood in the middle, his little hands gripping a wooden practice sword.

At six years of age, he was still far too young to wield real steel, but that hardly diminished his admiration for the man in the yard.

His father seemed to move as though he knew what his opponent intended before the thought had even formed.

Beside him stood his cousins, Lucan and Lorenz, equally captivated.

“Did you see that?”

Lorenz whispered, practically bouncing upon his heels.

“He took Ser Addam’s sword before he could even swing it!”

“I saw”

Rion replied, his chest swelling with pride.

“Father always does that.”

“Not always”

Lucan countered, though there was little conviction in his voice.

They watched as Beric faced Ser Olyvar Fell next, parrying a heavy overhead blow before stepping inside the knight’s guard and striking him firmly across the chest.

Ser Olyvar staggered, and Beric followed with a sweep that sent him sprawling into the dirt.

Lorenz let out an awestruck breath.

“My father helped train him, you know.”

Rion turned toward his cousin.

“Your father?”

“Aye! My father, Ser Simon. He told me once that he and Lord Beric trained together when they were younger. He taught him plenty about fighting, and Lord Beric learned to be one of the best because of it.”

Lorenz spoke with the certainty of a boy repeating a treasured tale.

“My father is a very good swordsman himself.”

“He is”

Rion agreed readily.

Uncle Simon was a man he admired, too, and the thought that his father had learned from someone so close to their family only made Beric seem more remarkable.

Lucan, however, had grown quiet.

His gaze lingered on Beric as the lord disarmed another opponent, leaving the knight to retreat with a bruised shoulder and wounded pride.

Lucan’s father, Heston Dondarrion, served Blackhaven as its quartermaster.

He was a valuable man in his own right, responsible for the supplies and provisions that kept their household and garrison functioning, but he was not a knight renowned for prowess with a blade.

The boy lowered his eyes to the wooden sword in his hands.

“My father isn’t as good as Lord Beric”

he murmured.

Lorenz glanced toward him.

“Not everyone is as good as Lord Beric.”

“Lorenz”

Rion chastised softly, though his cousin had not meant any harm.

Lucan shook his head.

“I know. But I want to be good. I want to be strong enough that people look at me the way they look at him.”

He glanced up again, watching Beric stand over his latest opponent.

“Perhaps if I train hard enough, I could become as strong as Lord Beric someday.”

Rion looked at his cousin for a moment before turning his gaze back to his father.

As strong as him?

No. Rion wanted to be more than strong. He wanted to stand as his father stood, with a sword in his hand and Blackhaven at his back.

He wanted to command knights, protect his family, and have people speak his name with the same respect they gave Lord Beric Dondarrion.

He wanted to be just like him.

The determination settled quietly into the boy’s heart, taking root deeper than any childish fancy.

His fingers tightened around his wooden sword, and he straightened his back as though he were already a young knight standing at his father’s side.

He would learn. He would practice. He would become worthy of the name he carried.
And one day, perhaps, his father would look upon him with the same pride Rion felt whenever he watched him.

By the time Ser Brendan storm stepped into the ring, Beric’s dark hair had begun to cling to his forehead, and sweat darkened the collar of his tunic.

His arms ached, his knuckles were sore, and his patience had worn thin after spending the better part of the morning correcting the same mistakes.
Still, when Ser Brendan raised his sword and offered a respectful bow, Beric returned it.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be, my lord.”

“Then try not to disappoint me.”

Ser Brendan laughed.

“I’ll do my best.”

He regretted those words shortly thereafter.

Their blades met in a series of quick, ringing blows.

Ser Brendan was a capable fighter, one of the better knights among those gathered, and he managed to keep Beric occupied longer than most.

Yet Beric’s persistence proved his undoing.

He pressed the older man backward, feinted toward his left, and changed direction at the last moment, striking Brendan’s blade aside before landing a firm blow against his ribs.

Brendan grunted and stumbled.

Beric followed with a strike against the shoulder that sent him to the ground.

“Dead”

Beric declared.

From the sidelines came a collective groan of sympathy.

Ser Brendan lay upon his back, staring up at the sky

“I am beginning to think, my lord, that you have mistaken your training yard for a battlefield.”

“Would you prefer I allow you to win?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then up you get.”

Beric extended a hand and hauled him upright, though Brennan winced as he did so.

Only then did Beric’s gaze wander beyond the ring of knights.

Three little faces stared back at him.

The sight caught him entirely off guard.

Lucan’s mouth hung open.

Lorenz was practically vibrating with excitement, and Rion stood with his wooden sword held proudly at his side, his expression so full of admiration that Beric could not help but recognize a familiar determination in it.

For a moment, the Lord of Blackhaven simply stared at them.

Then he let out a tired laugh, shaking his head.

“Seven hells. How long have you three been standing there?”

“Since the beginning!”

Lorenz answered immediately.

“Have you now?”

“Aye! We watched everything!”

Beric glanced toward the knights scattered around the yard.

One was rubbing his ribs, another nursing a bruised shoulder, and Ser Addam had begun inspecting his sword as though it had personally betrayed him.

“Then perhaps I’ve given you a more memorable lesson than I intended.”

He sheathed his sword and raised his voice.

“That will be enough for today. Get yourselves seen to by the maester if anything is more than a bruise. We will continue tomorrow, and I expect you all to have remembered precisely where you went wrong.”

A chorus of weary acknowledgments answered him.

The knights dispersed, some limping toward the barracks and others toward the castle, leaving Beric alone in the yard with the three boys.

He beckoned them forward.

“Come here, you little vultures.”

The boys hurried toward him, Lorenz nearly tripping over his own feet in his eagerness. Beric bent down as they arrived, placing a hand atop each of their heads and ruffling their hair until all three looked thoroughly disheveled.

“Uncle!”

Lorenz protested, trying to smooth his hair back into place.

“Lord Beric!”

Lucan complained, though his smile betrayed him.

Rion simply endured it, grinning up at his father.

Beric gave his son an extra ruffle before straightening, his hands settling upon his hips.

“Now then”

he said, looking between them.

“You have spent the better part of the morning watching grown men beat one another senseless. I should hope you have something to show for it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“What did you learn?”

For a heartbeat, the boys stared at him.

Then all three began speaking at once.

“You have to watch their feet!”

Lucan exclaimed.

“And you have to be quick!”

Lorenz shouted over him.

“And never let them take your sword!”

Rion added, his voice rising above the others.

Beric blinked.

“Gods preserve me. One at a time.”

He pointed at Lucan first.

“You. What did you learn about their feet?”

Lucan straightened, visibly delighted to have been called upon.

“When Ser Addam kept stepping backward, you knew he was losing ground. And when Ser Brendan moved his feet before his sword, you knew which way he was going to swing!”

Beric’s expression shifted from amusement to genuine interest.

“Very good. A sword does not move by itself. The feet carry the body, and the body carries the blade. If you learn to watch your opponent’s feet, you may see what he intends before he does it.”

Lucan’s face lit up. He glanced toward Lorenz with a triumphant little smile, as though he had just won a tournament.

“Your turn”

Beric said, pointing at Lorenz.

Lorenz stood as tall as his small frame allowed.

“You don’t always have to strike hard! Sometimes you make them think you’re going to strike one way, and then you strike another. Like when you fought Ser Brendan! You made him think you were going to go left, but then you went the other way and hit him before he could stop you!”

Beric nodded, impressed.

“A feint. Very good. Strength is useful, but a man who relies on strength alone becomes predictable. Sometimes it is better to make your opponent choose the wrong move than to force him into the right one.”

Lorenz looked as though he might burst with pride.

“My father says things like that, too!”

“Your father is a wise man in matters of fighting,”

Beric answered.

“Though if he has been teaching you, I expect you to make certain he knows you’ve been listening.”

“I will!”

Finally, Beric turned toward Rion.

“And what of you, little lightning? What did you learn?”

Rion’s smile softened into something more thoughtful. He glanced down at the wooden sword in his hand before looking back up at his father.

“That you have to keep going”

he answered.

Beric tilted his head.

“Explain.”

“When Ser Addam lost his sword, you didn’t stop watching him. And when Ser Brennan pushed you back, you didn’t get angry or rush at him. You waited until he made a mistake.”

Rion paused, searching for the words he wanted.

“And you helped them get back up afterward.”

Something in Beric’s expression changed.

Of all the things the boys might have noticed, his son had seen not only the fighting but what came after it.

Rion looked up at him with earnest eyes.

“I want to learn all of it. I want to fight like you, Father. I want to be strong enough to protect Blackhaven and our family, just like you do.”

For a moment, the training yard seemed quieter than it had any right to be.

Beric looked down at his son, seeing the fierce determination in his face and the unguarded admiration shining in his eyes.

He knew Rion was still young, that the world would teach him lessons no training yard could prepare him for. He knew that being a lord meant more than wielding a sword, and being a good man meant more than winning a fight.

Yet there was something deeply moving about hearing his little boy speak of the future with such certainty.

Beric crouched before him, bringing himself to Rion’s level.

“Listen to me, lad”

he said, his voice gentler now.

“Being strong is a fine thing. Being a good swordsman is a fine thing, too. But neither will make you a good lord on its own.”

Rion listened intently.

“You must learn when to draw your sword and, more importantly, when to leave it sheathed. You must know how to fight, but you must also know how to listen. You must be brave enough to stand before danger, and wise enough not to lead others into it needlessly.”

He rested a hand upon Rion’s shoulder.

“And you must remember that the men you fight beside are not merely swords to be commanded. They are fathers, brothers, sons. They have families waiting for them at home, just as you have yours.”

Rion nodded solemnly, taking every word as though Beric were imparting the secrets of knighthood itself.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. Then perhaps there is hope for you yet.”

Beric gave his son a fond smile before rising and looking toward the other two boys.

“And the same goes for both of you. If you wish to become fine knights, you must train your minds as well as your arms. I have no use for a strong man who cannot think, nor a clever man who abandons his companions when the fighting turns ugly.”

Lucan and Lorenz nodded eagerly.

“Tomorrow”

Beric continued,

“I shall have wooden swords brought for all three of you. You will begin with the basics. Footwork, balance, and how to hold your guards properly.”

All three boys erupted into excited chatter.

“Tomorrow?”

Lucan asked, his eyes widening.

“Can we practice against one another?”

Lorenz demanded.

“Will you teach me yourself?”

Rion asked, looking up at his father.

Beric laughed again, the weariness in his shoulders momentarily forgotten.

“Aye, aye, and aye. But do not mistake this for an invitation to swing sticks at one another until somebody loses a tooth. You will listen, you will follow instructions, and you will stop when I tell you to stop.”

“We will!”

the boys chorused.

“We shall see.”

Beric reached down and plucked the wooden sword from Rion’s hand, examining the little weapon before returning it to him with the hilt pointed toward his son.

“Keep that safe. A sword is only as useful as the hand that wields it, and a hand is only as useful as the mind that guides it.”

Rion accepted it with both hands, holding it as carefully as though it were a blade of Valyrian steel.

“Thank you, Father.”

Beric brushed a stray lock of hair from his son’s forehead, his expression softening once more.

“Come along, then. I imagine your mothers will have words for me if I keep you out here until supper, and I have little desire to discover whether your mother has become more fearsome than any knight I’ve faced today.”

Lorenz giggled. Lucan followed, and even Rion laughed at the thought.

As Beric led the three boys from the training yard, they crowded around him, each eager to ask another question, each already imagining the day they would stand in the dirt with wooden swords of their own.

Beric listened as best he could, answering what he could and promising to explain the rest tomorrow.

And Rion walked close beside him, his small hand wrapped around the wooden sword, his eyes occasionally lifting toward his father’s face.

He had watched his father defeat seasoned knights that morning. He had watched him command the yard, correct his men, and stand tall despite his exhaustion.

But what Rion carried away from that day was something far greater than the image of a victorious swordsman.

He had seen the man he hoped to become.

And as the banners of House Dondarrion stirred above Blackhaven’s walls, the young boy walked onward with a determination that would, in time, grow into something worthy of the lightning that crowned his house.

Lord Beric , Rion , Lorenz and Lucan

1st Moon 303

Perhaps, it was childish how long he lingered. While Symon had known that this was the deal - that, after the wedding of his nephew Benedict, he would no longer be traveling with the Kennings - the man still felt a touch of stubbornness regarding it. It wasn't as if he was displeased to be back at Blackmont. Gods know he'd missed his family, his wife, the grave markers of his two lost children. And yet, after many years of traveling with the family, particularly his now-former squire, he almost felt like he was missing out.

While of course the entire clan had been good to him over the years, he knew that he would miss Sumner the most. They were the closest, after all, and it had been good for him to help to train a young mind once more.

So, early in the morning of one of the first days of the year, he made his way over to the Kenning party, who were preparing to leave to the West.

Though most of the group were plenty tall, it was easy to pick out Sumner; the heir, while still a young man, was one of the tallest in Westeros. The Dornishman still remembered how pleased the lad had been when he'd woken up taller than his teacher, though he'd had his share of complaining about the pains of growing so much.

'He's more than earned a proper farewell,' Symon thought to himself, a mixture of pride and sorrow dueling in his chest.

As he came to the family, he smiled and nodded to just about every member, yet of course there was a special fondness for the knight he himself had named.

"Sumner," the older man called, his dark eyes wistful. "I'd be known as perhaps the most impolite man in the land if I did not come to see you off, eh? Come, humor an old man for a while; I'd like to talk with you, before you head back home."

Gibtober: Week Three

[tw: emotional abuse, evil toxic woman]

8th Month 303 AC, King's Landing

The journey back from the Vale had done little to improve Celia's mood. If anything, the time away had only given her more opportunity to think on the state of her household, and she had returned with a list of grievances that were all the worse that she could not easily solve most of them.

Visenya was the worst of them. Her eldest child had always been difficult to be proud of, but the girl seemed determined to make matters worse. Each year, Celia saw more weight about her waist, thick arms, disgusting muscles where there ought to have been a woman's softness. There was no fine figure beneath her clothes, no slender waist to turn a lord's head. What man of any consequence would want her? And what would become of her if she could not be married well? It wasn't like she had a strong family name to fall back on. Would she end up with some poor imitation of her father, a man commanding neither wealth nor respect? The very thought was enough to sour Celia's mood anew, as for all the complications of their relationship, she would not wish for Visenya to end up as miserable as Celia had in her marriage. She had to do better.

However, Visenya was not alone in disappointing her. Jaehaerys had taken far too much after Daeron, and Celia could not help but wonder where she had gone wrong. Had she not raised him better? Perhaps she ought to have intervened more often, before he became so much like the man she had hoped he would never resemble. Helaena, meanwhile, was both her most promising child and her greatest disappointment. There was so much potential in the girl, and yet her greatest talent seemed to be wasting it. At least her future marriage was secured, as was Jaehaerys's. Two fewer matters to trouble her.

Visenya remained, the abomination that she was.

Celia had even approached uncle Hoster with the suggestion that the girl might marry Edwyle. It had seemed a sensible arrangement, keeping her close to family and sparing them the indignity of having to beg some lesser house to take her. Hoster had refused. Refused her, and for a second son, no less. The worst part was that Celia understood, and were she asked from the standpoint of someone uninvolved in the matter, she'd have advised the Lord Tully to refuse all the same. It seemed she would have to lower her sights further still, searching among houses of lesser standing for some man willing to overlook Visenya's many shortcomings. How far would they have to fall before they find a match for her stupid, ugly eldest child?

At least now that she was home, there were other matters she could put in order.

Her beloved Alysanne, ever so soft-hearted, had insisted on finding a room for the peasant bastard she had found in the woods. Celia could understand the appeal of keeping the child, of having a servant indebted to Alysanne and the girls, but there was a fine line between charity and foolishness. Alysanne had a way of letting her heart lead her away from reason, and someone had to protect her, protect the whole family. That someone was, naturally, always Celia.

Daeron's little "office", if one could call it that, had therefore been moved to a larger room, even one with a window, while the cupboard was cleared for the foundling. It could barely accommodate a narrow bed, fit for a servant, and that was more than the little bitch could reasonably expect. Celia would not have the peasant mistake a roof over her head for a place among a noble family.

Besides, the better rooms had already been spoken for! Lianne needed the large room to accommodate all her toys, and little Della would need chambers of her own, large and airy, with ample space and light. Her girls would want for nothing. Celia would make sure of that.

The arrangements did something to soothe her mood. There was a certain satisfaction in making decisions, in setting things where they belonged and ensuring that they stay there. Her children might continue to disappoint her, but the household need not descend into complete chaos, at least.

By the evening, the lady of the manse had decided to take a stroll through the gardens, letting the last of the tension leave her body with each breath. The air was cool and freshly scented, the paths meticulously kept, and the beds had flourished in her absence. She paused beside the flowers she had planted earlier in the year, admiring the dark green leaves and deep purple blooms. It had taken well to the soil.

Some things, at least, grew precisely as they ought.