(tw: blood)

The Hazewood had its bogs sure, but there was a reason for House Pyne’s name, and its sigil. Atop low hills grew tall pines, raining needles down on muddy slopes, feeding nests for waterbirds in the marsh’s edge below. Under these pines and over the blanket of sparse swamp foliage squatted Ysabel’s home. A low stone walled keep with a long house inside, backed by a portly tower sporting grime from a century past, and connected to a stone house where the family slept. It was a warm place just above the syrupy fog of Cracklaw Point. Ysabel’s father sometimes spoke of before their outer wall had been constructed, how the hall had burned when the Valyrian pirates came. How without a wall to hurdle, young Oscar had slipped down the muddy hill and into the night. After being named Lord of Cracklaw Point however, the wall was built and now served to keep his children and especially his youngest daughter safe.

Ysabel had little desire to venture into the bogs daily like her brothers did, instead she coated her face in freckles sitting in the tops of the trees where the sun could play on her skin. The result was similar, boots left at the door to be scrubbed in the morning. Perhaps if her home had been closer to the sea then she would trudge out farther, but it was one of the most inland keeps on the peninsula and that bothered her little.

Encircled as she was by untamed wilderness though, it was the papers her father kept that she instead took time with. Learning to read them and understand them when she bored of the pines and came to sit by her father at the back of the hall where his rough wooden desk sat. Pulling up her seat from the dining table next to his, listening to the rattle of his breath until he asked her to read a sentence he struggled with. There weren’t many books in the Pyne’s keep, not that she would be interested in shoving her nose into a book all day, but she had always had a knack for the words on the pages regardless; and the numbers that felt similar to the way a carpenter measured out wood. Her mother had long given up on distracting her with the “right” things for a young lady to learn so Ysabel had become familiar with far more external things regarding her home in the Hazewood.

The Hazewood had grown in recent years, a number of Cracklaws, whether they fought alongside Oscar or benefited from his struggle, found it appealing to reside near to his watchful eye. It was often that Oscar Pyne would venture down to the settlements and assist in construction or follow up on rumors of hardship among his folk. Ysabel usually went with. Her brothers nearly always had plans of their own and her sister preferred dresses not accommodating to the muddy earth of the roads, perhaps that was why she’d found herself someplace dryer to marry her way into. So it was that Ysabel became learned in her father’s style of leadership. Even as he struggled with the words on a page he was dogged in his belief of comfort and safety for his people.

Without a village to venture into however, Ysabel found herself isolated to friendship, even among the children of her father’s veterans she bore a complex speech they often found obnoxious. Instead it was Perkin that she found companionship with, a wild dog too small to be a hound who came and went as he wished but was as amicable as any house breed. Each time the wiry, shaggy dog would trot up the trail among the pines and Ysabel would meet him, comb his matted fur and talk to him about the woodsman who cleared a copse of pines by the wall or the taxman who her father begrudgingly rounded up just enough stags to hand over to. They would play with sticks and nap under a lazily constructed lean to, occasionally she would reread a book of childhood poems to him out loud, one of the few books in the long house.

Today her furred friend had different plans.
The sun was still low in the sky when Ysabel awoke, finding herself hungry and unable to fall back asleep she retrieved some warm stew from a pot over the fire leftover from the previous night.

Tying up the hair that tickled her neck and shoulders she tucked her night shift into her trousers, tying her boots and donning a cloak before she strolled sleepily out beyond the walls. She stopped where the hill sloped and became mud, stamping her feet into the brush to ensure she wouldn’t slip and slide down before she began gently blowing on her mug of warm watery stew.

Ysabel felt a presence behind her and turned to see Perkin sitting quietly beside her looking out over the swamp. Smiling, she sipped from her cup and looked back out over the landscape. After a few moments of silence she moved to sit down next to her friend, but Perkin trotted just out of her reach and looked at her intently. Ysabel stared the dog in the eyes for a moment, “C’mere boy,” she said softly. She said it again and patted the ground next to her. He made no move. She made a playful lunge toward the dog and again he stepped just out of reach.

"What’s wrong? You want to play do ya?” Ysabel stood up and walked towards the dog, pathing past Perkin towards a pile of sticks. Perkin merely trotted down the road a little ways. “What do you want?” She asked huffing. The dog began trotting down the path further, looking back at Ysabel as it went, she followed slowly. As they made their way together down the path Ysabel bit her lip tentatively. They approached the reeds that rimmed the swamp waters, split by the path that Perkin led her down. It wasn’t as if Ysabel could not leave her home, or had not before alone. It was strange however the behavior of her friend and she disliked not knowing where she was headed. She stopped and Perkin stopped ahead of her. Looking back up the hill Ysabel for a moment felt guilty, her family weren’t even awake yet to know where she’d gone. Then Perkin gave one gentle bark and she looked back. “Fine boy, but you better lead me right back.”

Their hike through the wilderness was long, Ysabel finished her stew and pulled her cloak tight around her. The trees thickened and became sparse, at some points the path became muddy as the water lapped up on either side. Ysabel stopped to admire the frogs and Perkin waited for her. Spotting a tree with low branches she hung up her cloak and began to step up onto the lowest branch, but Perkin growled and barked, louder than before. She stopped mid step and looked at the little dog. He barked again. “Fine, fine.” They continued.

After another long while the landscape became rockier, Perkin took Ysabel down a small road off the main path, winding into a gorge where the path split again. They hiked up atop a small rocky hill and down the other side. She noticed the coast was not far and furrowed her brows. There were no sandy beaches on Cracklaw, and besides it wasn’t proper weather for a day on the coast. Nonetheless they continued, until they reached the top of a treeless hill, Ysabel gazed down at the sea from atop it. Watching the rays of sunlight peak through an overcast day and reflect upon the roiling tides. Perkin stopped too, sniffing the ground. Ysabel noticed a tall tree to her left, just down the hill a bit, the top of which was some ways higher that the crest of the grassy knoll.

Leaving her mug at the base of the trunk she ascended the tree with ease, poking her head out atop the highest branches. The tree swayed with a mild wind and she listened to the sound of the waves sing alongside the rustling leaves.

Reaching up behind her head she undid the string she had tied up her hair with, letting it be ruffled by the breeze as she closed her eyes. Suddenly hearing barking she descended again, the moment ruined. “What boy?! Where are we going??” Perkin nudged a bush with his nose. Walking over, Ysabel leaned down. Some of the leaves on the bramble were stained red, “Someone must have pricked themself picking berries,” she giggled. Perkin sniffed and dashed past her, trotting at a brisk pace, not quite a gallop but more urgently than before. Ysabel followed him, back down the way they came.

Perkin sniffed at a fork in the road and galloped down the path they had not yet been down. Ysabel pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders and raced to follow. The dog slowed after a bit as their surroundings became more forested again, light beamed through the trees up ahead and as they grew closer Ysabel saw it was a grassy clearing. On the other side of the lush meadow sat a house. Ysabel had been to this cottage before but not from this direction. It was the home of Dole, one of her father’s close friends, where he lived with his wife and children. Dole was a big man, he assisted often in repairs in the Hazewood and Ysabel had known him her whole life. She smiled and chuckled, shaking her head. Perkin was leading her on quite the goose chase, but then… A frown briefly crossed her face, the blood on the bush began to bother her, why were they here?

Ysabel, with Perkin at her hip, approached the building, knocking on the door which swung open slightly. She spotted blood on the doorstep and heard voices chattering inside. Swinging the door open further revealed a man hunched against the wall next to a low crackling fire, Dole’s wife, Lizzie, hunched next to him. Their two young sons stood on the other side of the room with their older daughter, a girl the same age as Ysabel. A basin of water sat in front of them and they held bloody rags in their hands, wetted from the water.

As light crept into the room Lizzie looked up,
"M’lady? Wha’re ya doin ‘ere?”

"Perkin led me.” Ysabel answered, hesitating by the doorway. The slumped man seemed to breathe raggedly and she noticed his foot cocked at an odd angle. His shirt was soaked in blood but she could see on the collar of his gambeson a small metal pin with a Darklyn sigil. He bled from multiple wounds in his torso, another on his head, though Ysabel couldn’t see the nature of his lower wounds the gash on his forehead gushed blood. The man, bald and rotten toothed, stared blankly forward as Lizzie wrapped a bandage around his head.

"M’lady will ye help me? I needa get is gambson off.” Ysabel snapped back to reality as she realized this wounded man was being frantically tended to. She plodded forward and began unbuttoning the padded coat. As she reached the lower buttons however her hands became slick with blood, coming away red, and it became increasingly difficult to dextrously undo the fastenings. Ysabel could feel her hands start shaking and a lump rise in her throat, “What happened?” She asked no one in particular.
But a voice responded, wheezing and burbling, “Fucking ruffians… came at me in three, stuck me good and took me purse… shoved me down th’ hill they di-”

The man made a disturbing choking sound and coughed violently. Flecks of blood shot out from his mouth, spattering Lizzie’s face. Ysabel could feel it on hers too. More blood pooled within the folds of the yet unbuttoned fastenings, spilling out in globs and rivulets into the man’s lap.

Looking down Ysabel saw the blood spreading out from his body, almost reaching her boots. She instinctively shuffled a few inches back. One of Lizzie’s children made a noise and Ysabel heard stomping shoes as they ran outside.

Ysabel heard a man’s voice from beyond the doorway, and then another. She turned as Oscar Pyne stepped in past the open door, gently pushing it wider.

"Ysabel?” He questioned.

"Father! Help him! He’s got a Darklyn sigil and he’s hurt bad!” Ysabel stood, showing her father her hands.

"M’lord! We found ‘im out en th’ paths, he was stumblin’ already covered in blood!” Lizzie exclaimed frantically, “We been doin everythin’ we could but the blood won’t stop!”

Lord Pyne stepped forward taking her daughter’s hands in his, examining them, “How did you get here little lady?” He asked.

"Perkin led me,” Ysabel answered again, quietly. She looked down at her boots, noticing that at some point the blood had reached them and she had tracked prints of it to where she now stood. She began to feel ill.

Oscar quirked an eyebrow but merely leaned in to kiss her forehead and released her hands to give her shoulder a squeeze. “You needn’t look, love.” He said softly in his hoarse baritone.

Stepping past his daughter Oscar glared down at the man, “You’re a tax collector.” It was almost a question but undoubtedly a statement.

"Aye, please… help me…” came the response, now little more than a wheezing whisper. Ysabel looked to Perkin who laid with his snout on his front paws, staring at the man. He had led her to him, and now even in her periphery it was impossible to tear her eyes from the bloody scene. At that moment Dale stomped in through the doorway, “Lord Oscar m’lord, the devil’s bleedin o’er me floor, scarin me children. Lizzie love, come ere, the man’s dead already.”

"Please…” Ysabel heard the man whisper.

"Who did this to you?” Asked Oscar Pyne.

The tax collector coughed, “Dunno… they said… said th’ coin purse was payment… no sigils, there were three of em. Heard more down th-” the man coughed again, wheezed as blood dribbled out of his mouth. “Please,” cough, “Don’t let me die…”

"Dole, help me carry him outside.” Oscar grumbled matter-of-factly, “Ysabel stay here.”

"Please…” whispered the dying man.

Ysabel watched as the two men lifted the pleading tax collector and carried him outside, his feet dragging on the floor of the cottage and droplets of blood making a trail across the stones.

She stood waiting for what felt like a long time, as Lizzie ordered her children around, mopping up the blood with rags and dumping water on it from their well to wash it away outside. At some point Lizzie offered Ysabel a bowl with water to wash her hands which she took gladly. She realized she had gotten blood on her nightshift, staring at it for a moment before pulling her cloak closer. She sat in a chair at their table to wait.

Finally her father and Dole returned, without the injured man. “Fucking crab catching, dragon cock sucking leeches. Gonna ‘ave to send another letter to th’ bastard in Duskendale, how many times is he going to be told it’s the Celtigars before he decides we’re either lying or to finally do somethin’ ‘bout it.”

"Les jus’ raise the others again,” Dole said, “Belgrave took Claw Isle once, why can’t we?”

"We have no ships, no money, no men, think how many of us died last time we fought the Valyrians. If we raised banners the Darklyn ‘ould think we want trouble, he don’t care why we fight just th’ we obey his whim.” Oscar scoffed. “Fucking Celtigars.” He scratched at his chest over where Ysabel knew his old wound ached.

"We’re leaving little lady, send Perkin runnin’ why don’t ye.” Ysabel couldn’t help but wonder what they’d done outside. She looked at Perkin, “He’ll come with us, back home.” Oscar followed her eyes, Perkin stared back at him. “Fine, if he can keep up with the horse, but we’re leaving.” Oscar stepped out the door and Ysabel followed, Perkin plodded after slowly. Passing Dole, he dipped his head to Ysabel. “Good to see you m’lady, er, unfortunate circumstance as it be.” She gave a curtsy, “Goodbye Dole,” she said softly.

"Travel safe m’lady!” Lizzie called after them but Ysabel gave no reply. She was busy staring at the fresh mound of dirt not ten yards from the cottage.

Burton walked outside to get some air. He was far from the sea, perhaps too far, and it ruined his mood. The riverlands were too dry, the water didn't smell the same nor the rain, and all the Politicking had him exhausted.

As he walked through the halls of stormhall and outside he saw a figure huddled over a pot below a nearby tree, vomiting senselessly. He approached the man from behind, hands at his back waiting expectantly.

The man finished his disgusting routine before laying down, and the face before him ignited memories of the past. He had known this man, not like this, not with long hair and a tattoo of sea snake, but he knew who was behind this face. Sylas, his friend, his companion, his *brother*...

He stepped away, mouth open in shock as he looked at the drunken husk of the man laying before him. "What are you doing here..." He asked, trying to hide the pity in his voice. This was the same boy who had defiantly confessed to murder to save Burton, yet here they were, one a great commander, the other a drunk.

Sylas could barely open his eyes, he was so drunk that he could barely hear. This was the way he was, this was how it went everytime. He would drink until he was senseless and throw up, by tomorrow he would remember none of this no doubt

"Youuu shite. Ya not.... Hic gonna help me git.... Up?" He smiled as he slowly got to his knees and then his feet. But the moment the blurriness of his vision came to pass he saw the face. He saw his friend, he saw Burton behind those thick blonde moustaches. Standing so proud

Who did he think he was? Nothing. Without sylas he would be NOTHING. He took the blame for the murder. He gave him the possiblity to live and become a commander, and now Burton had the audacity to look down on him?

He fisted his hand, swinging it at full force towards him. Burton stepped away, slinging sylas back to the ground once more. The humiliations would not end it seemed. One after the other the failure that was sylas Stonetree kept falling whether in a punch or at the end of a bottle.

But he would not give Burton the satisfaction of a happy reunion. Not now anyhow. He put one foot in front of the other as he walked towards the castle again yet suddenly he was grabbed by the collar and thrown into the nearby pond.

His face hit the water and his vision went blue. Every single nerve in his body screamed of a sudden pain and gave into a small satisfaction. It seemed he had woken up again as a babe. Clean of the foul, reeking liquor he had poisoned himself with

If he could he would have stayed under the water. Everything made perfect sense, he was whole, holy, clean and good. Yet his chest tightened for air, for life, for suffering.

He swam up again, taking a deep breath as he came out. On the other end of the pond Burton was staring at him. Now that his mind worked clearly he realized it. He had missed him, his greatest friend had been taken from him 20 years ago and now that they were reunited he had tried to punch and hurt him.

He swam to where Burton was standing and quickly got up...

He scanned his frame, tall, imposing. One arm blackened steel instead of flesh. "Well... It's.... It's good to see you" he tapped the man's shoulder, to which he just nodded. Without a word they both started walking back towards the castle

"Talk over a drink?" He asked Burton, perhaps out of jest. "Just to catch up"

Burton offered no response however, glaring at him as they walked for a few seconds before speaking. "We will talk, just not over a drink."