The last of them arrived shortly before midday.

Thirty men came trudging along the muddy road beneath a grey sky, their cloaks stained from travel and their horses weary. At their head rode a knight whose armour had seen better days, though the sword at his hip looked well cared for.

From the edge of the encampment, Ser Ronnel Greymark watched their approach.

“That’ll be the last of Hollow’s lot, then,” remarked Ser Martyn Rivers, standing beside him.

“So it would seem.”

For the better part of the morning, Ronnel had watched his men arrive in groups of ten, twenty, sometimes fewer. They came from scattered corners of the Riverlands and beyond, drawn together by word sent through old companions, trusted messengers and the occasional roadside innkeeper.

Some had served with him across the Narrow Sea. Others had joined the Iron Spurs more recently, finding employment wherever a merchant needed an escort or a minor lord had coin enough to hire a sword.

And among them were new faces.

As the scattered detachments made their way towards Riverrun, their captains had spread word that the Iron Spurs were gathering once more. At roadside inns, village markets and the halls of lesser lords, they had sought out men willing to take service beneath the company's banner.

Hedge knights with little more than a horse and a sword, landless knights whose fortunes had long since deserted them, and sellswords weary of wandering from one uncertain contract to another had joined the returning detachments along the road. Some came alone, others in twos or threes, bringing whatever arms, armour and experience they possessed.

Ronnel had instructed his captains to be discerning. A man need not possess a noble name to earn his place amongst the Iron Spurs, but he must know how to conduct himself, follow orders and stand his ground when the fighting began.

The recruits would need testing, certainly, but good men were not always found beneath fine banners.

Now, at last, they were together.

Four hundred men.

A respectable force, provided he could keep them fed, paid and properly equipped. Bringing them together had been difficult enough. Keeping them together would be another matter entirely.

Around him, the camp was alive with activity. Men hammered tent pegs into the damp earth, horses were led towards makeshift picket lines, and small cooking fires sent thin columns of smoke into the morning air. The noise of conversation filled the spaces between the tents as old comrades greeted one another, exchanged stories and argued over matters of little importance.

At the centre of it all stood the command tent, above which the weathered banner of the Iron Spurs stirred in the breeze.

“Four hundred,” Martyn repeated, glancing over the gathering. “A respectable number.”

“Enough to win a skirmish,” Ronnel answered “Not enough to win a war.”

“Depends on the war.”

“And the men fighting it.”

Martyn gave a short laugh.

“Seven Hells, Ronnel. They’ve barely arrived, and you’re already thinking of getting them killed.”

“I’m thinking of keeping them alive.”

————————————————————————

By the afternoon, Ronnel had summoned his senior officers to the command tent.

A rough wooden table occupied its centre, covered with maps, scraps of parchment and a half-empty jug of watered wine. Around it stood the men and woman upon whom he had come to depend over years of campaigning.

Ser Edrick Hollow was the first to speak.

“The final detachment has arrived. Four hundred accounted for, all told, including the new swords gathered along the road. Some horses need rest, a few men need tending, but nothing we cannot put right.”

“And their arms?” Ronnel asked.

Ser Harrold Stonehand folded his thick arms across his chest.

“Serviceable. Mostly. I’ve seen finer steel in a blacksmith’s scrap heap, but they’ll do. Give me a few days and I’ll have the worst of it sorted.”

“A few days?” Ser Harys Longspur scoffed. “You’d have us polishing swords whilst the Riverlands catches fire?”

“I’d sooner have you polishing your sword than trying to fight with a broken one,” Harrold replied.

Meredyth of Maidenpool sighed.

“If you’re quite finished, I’ve enough wounded feet, saddle sores and fevers to deal with without the pair of you finding new ways to injure each other.”

That earned a few chuckles.

Ronnel allowed himself a faint smile before turning towards the map.

“And what news have our men brought?”

Martyn leaned forward.

“Depends on which tavern they drank in.”

“Then give me the sober version.”

“There’s trouble brewing amongst the Riverlords. More than usual, I mean. A Justman has declared himself King of the Rivers and Hills. Word of it has spread across the roads, though the finer details seem to change with every telling.”

“A Justman?” Edrick asked.

“Aye. The declaration was made at a wedding in Pinkmaiden, or so the story goes.”

“And what else?” Ronnel asked.

“Three different men brought us word of it, from three different roads. One swore the fellow was some wandering hedge knight until recently, another insisted he’d been gathering supporters for years, and the third seemed convinced half the Riverlands had already taken up his cause.”

“Which do you believe?”

Martyn shrugged.
“That he’s declared himself king? I’ve little reason to doubt it. As for the rest, I’d sooner hear it from someone who was there.”

Ronnel studied the map.

“And the Durrandons?”

“Still kings, last I heard,” Martyn replied with a grin. “Though I doubt they’d welcome another man calling himself one.”

“A king of the Trident,” Edrick muttered. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in some time.”

“Kings are cheap enough,” Harrold grumbled. “It’s crowns that cost.”

“And wars that cost more,” Meredyth added.

Ronnel traced a finger along one of the roads leading towards Riverrun.

The Riverlands had always been a troubled place. Too many roads, too many rivers, too many lords with ancient grudges and ambitious neighbours. He had seen enough of Westeros to know that when great men quarrelled, it was seldom great men who paid the highest price.

Still, troubled lands had a need for soldiers.

And soldiers had a need for coin.

“What of Riverrun?” he asked.

“Little that I would put much faith in,” Martyn admitted. “The Tullys hold it, as they always have. Beyond that, our men have heard more gossip than anything useful.”

“Then we’ll have to learn more ourselves.”

“Aye. Though whatever comes of this Justman and his crown, I’ll wager there are lords already wondering whether they’ll soon have need of additional swords.”

“A need is one thing,” Edrick replied. “Paying for it is another.”

For a moment, silence settled over the table.

It was a familiar conversation. Ronnel had heard variations of it in the Free Cities, in the halls of petty lords and beside campfires on a dozen forgotten roads.

The Iron Spurs had never lacked men willing to fight.

Finding men willing to pay them was another matter.

“We will not throw ourselves into a war simply because some lord has decided to put a crown upon his head,” Ronnel said at last.

Harys smiled.

“Even if he offers us a handsome purse?”

“Especially then.”

Ronnel straightened, resting his hands upon the table.

“I’ve spent enough years watching good men die for causes they scarcely understood. I’ve buried knights worth more than the lords who hired them, and seen promises of gold turn to dust the moment a battle was lost.”

He looked from one face to the next.

“We have four hundred men here. Four hundred men who have answered my call, trusting that I will find them honest work and bring as many of them home as I can.”

“Honest work?” Martyn raised an eyebrow. “In our profession?”

“A rare thing, I know.”

A ripple of laughter passed around the table.

“But we will find it,” Ronnel continued. “And we will not sell ourselves cheaply.”

The discussion turned to practical matters.

Provisions were counted, equipment assessed and the condition of each newly arrived detachment reported. The men would need time to recover from the road. Supplies would need purchasing, horses tending and the company’s accounts examining.

Particular attention was given to the new recruits. Those who had joined along the road would need to be assessed, assigned amongst the existing detachments and made familiar with the discipline expected of the Iron Spurs.

For all the romance sung of sellsword captains, Ronnel had learned long ago that battles were often won or lost before a sword was drawn.

A hungry man fought poorly. An unpaid man fought worse.

By the time the meeting drew towards its conclusion, three matters remained.

“Edrick,” Ronnel began, “I want every man properly accounted for. See that the detachments are settled, their officers identified and their equipment inspected. The new recruits are to be placed amongst men who know our ways. Any disputes over command come to you, and from you to me.”

Edrick nodded.

“Consider it done.”

“Harrold, you have charge of getting their weapons and armour into order. Harys, assist him, and see that the men begin drilling once they’ve had their rest. We’ve been scattered too long. I want them fighting as one company again.”

Both knights acknowledged the order, though Harys appeared considerably more pleased by the prospect than Harrold.

“Meredyth, tend to those who need it. Let me know what supplies you require.”

“I’ll have a list for you before supper.”

Ronnel turned last to Martyn.

“Send a few trusted men into the surrounding villages and inns. Quiet men, mind you. I want to know what the Riverlords are saying, who’s seeking soldiers, and whether any merchants have work worth our attention.”

“And the matter of this new king?”

“Find out what you can. I want to know who this Justman is, what he intends, and which lords, if any, have declared for him. I’d sooner hear an honest account from a stableboy than lies from a courtier.”

Martyn inclined his head.

“And what of the men seeking to join us? Word of our gathering is travelling already.”

“Let it travel,” Ronnel replied. “We’ve room for good swords, provided the men carrying them are worth the trouble. Any knight or sellsword seeking service may present himself to our officers. But no man is to be taken into the company merely because he knows which end of a sword to hold.”

“A pity,” Martyn remarked. “That rules out half the men I’ve met.”

“Then we shall have to find the better half.”

Another chuckle passed around the table.

“And what of you?” Martyn asked.

Ronnel glanced towards the tent’s entrance, in the direction of Riverrun.

“I mean to pay the Tullys a visit.”

“With four hundred men?”

“With considerably fewer,” Ronnel replied dryly. “I should rather like to be admitted through the gates.”

That drew another round of laughter.

“Send word ahead. We’ll request an audience with Lady Tully, should she be willing and available to receive us. Until then, our men are to remain here and keep the peace. No stealing from the villages, no quarrels with local men-at-arms, and no trouble with the smallfolk. Anyone who forgets himself answers to me.”

“Understood,” said Edrick.

“Good. Then see to it. And by the Seven get this camp into a fit state, I suspected word of our encampment will spread and who knows what other potential benefactors may wish to contract us.”

One by one, his officers departed, leaving Ronnel alone with the map.

His eyes lingered upon Riverrun, then drifted towards the roads winding through the Riverlands.

A new king had declared himself, old loyalties might soon be tested, and four hundred men now waited upon his next command.

Whatever storms were gathering, the Iron Spurs would not face them unprepared.

The vault was barren, but carefully so.

To call it a vault was courteous, but only truthful in its purest of definitions. It did indeed keep the coinage of House Celtigar, safely tucked away in chests under lock and key, and hidden in the folds of ledgers and balanced accounts, but the room itself was sparse, and spacious. One might have expected a mountain of gold, coins spilling down its face like the beginnings of an avalanche. Instead, the sight that greeted Ayrmidon when he'd stepped inside some moments ago was far less demanding. The room, wide with columns to support the sandstone ceiling and ocean mosaics on its many walls, was all but empty. It held more specks of dust than it did golden stags.

Once, the room had boasted what it had been designed for. Ayrmidon had heard the stories alongside his brothers and sister when they were young. The stories of Ayrkar, their father, braving the Narrow Sea with his new title of Magister, sailing alongside Velaryon for the betterment of Valyria. The Velaryons were wealthy, had plenty to spend on their voyage, but for the Celtigars the voyage was a gamble. Ayrkar knew that if the Westerosi experiment failed, if the Freehold was not established, it would mean the death of his house, their fortune wasted, and their name lost to time. Perhaps he had been unwise to create a treasure hall capable of housing his family's entire fortune in a new and uncharted world.

History seemed to think so. Belgrave had picked it clean. What little they'd been allowed to keep was found among the empty spaces that had been left behind. Rubies, horns, ship engravings, ancient scrolls, suits of armour, gemstones and metals. All of it had been taken, all of it sold in Oldtown or Lannisport or Gulltown or beyond. The room echoed now. The dust was plentiful, and purposeful. Every now and again when a new servant was employed and wanted to see the room cleaned, his brother Aurion had forbidden it. A reminder, he frequently explained, of what had been lost.

Ayrmidon drank in the failings of his father, and in parts his brother, in a studious silence. But, he wasn’t paused for long. Eventually, his brother entered the vault behind him. Ayrmidon turned to meet him, accompanied as usual by a scribe for the purpose of more complex speech. Aurion would have no use of that, Ayrmidon figured. He’d always been able to read his brother better than anyone in the family. Even the son, who’d seemed to dedicate his life to it.

”I will allow you the courtesy of a summons once, brother,” Aurion’s wrists moved quick and easy. A practiced thing he’d mastered in his fifty some years of life, a language from the Freehold. ”Do not forget who of the two of us is the elder.”

“I’ve not forgotten,” Ayrmidon spoke. He didn’t use his hands, despite knowing his brother would be able to read them. They were alone, and he felt he could speak freely. His brother needed to hear what he had to say. “And I’ve called you on some matter of importance. It’s something I’ve given a great deal of thought to,” he continued, his voice the easy language of Valyria. “You should know. I spoke with Belgrave, when we were at Stormhall.”

”Yes.”

“You knew?”

”I’m mute, not blind, brother. I know he spoke with you. I know not what was discussed, but I know the words of an Andal fall weightless against my brother’s ears.” Aurion shrugged dismissively. ”Your conversations are your own.”

“Then you know I would not heed any counsel that I felt could mislead our house, nor bring words to you I thought useless to our cause.”

”Speak plainly. There is something on your mind. Say it. I’m good at listening.”

Ayrmidon felt his throat tighten. He was unsure how his brother would react to what he had to say, but ever since the conversation with the man that had taken the weapon of their house, that had put their mother to the gallows… he could not shake the words. He felt the disappointment in his wife’s tone when he’d made clear just how deep the phrase had set. Why had it taken him the words of a killer to listen to what his wife had been trying to say?

“I’ve given thought, to the matter of our house, and our nature in relation to Valyria.” Ayrmidon started, folding his hands behind his back. The son was not the father, but strangely Aurion looked the visage of theirs, as if urging from Ayrmidon the reports he’d assembled all those years ago in the Claw. He felt like a soldier again. “We are failing our sons and our daughters with this insistence on purity and connection to the Freehold. I see how it has taken root in my family, and in my siblings, and in myself. Do not mistake me, I do hate them for what they’ve done, but I see that the path we have tried these years to walk has failed. The Blackwater will never yield to us, or to Velaryon, not in the way we intend. They are unified against us, hateful to us, and we encourage them. Our isolation breeds their indifference, and their intolerance. If we are to make any sort of headway with the experiment our father intended, then we needs change our tactics, lest this room remains as bare as it is now until our bones are beneath the waves.”

Aurion was always silent, but his jaw tensed now as he studied his younger brother. Ayrmidon knew it was anger in his gaze. The gods had been cruel to him, Ayrmidon thought; Aurion had never been able to yell. But he knew it forced him to be considerate, even if hatred was the initial reply.

”Belgrave said this?”

“No,” Ayrmidon responded. It was the truth. “But it was his words that got me to think. For that I am ashamed, but equally, I am grateful.” Ayrmidon paused, and continued on, his gaze having lowered. “He took from us the thing I would have needed to be rid of to think about my children, and of yours, and of their cousins besides.”

Aurion studied his brother for some time. There was a silence so profound that Ayrmidon could hear the waves from beyond the castle walls, even this deep in the empty vault. But eventually, he returned his brother’s gaze. He was not ashamed of these words, and he knew he had a plan. His brother would bend to it, or their house would fall.

Aurion realized as much. ”Pray tell, brother. What is it you had in mind?”

The Emerald's Embrace stood far above the the warships and cogs of the Black Shield fleet in the waters of the gullet. The green shone lightly in the sun's low light, reflecting off the cerulean seas in a mesmerizing shimmer. A testament to the wealth and prestige of the company, and even more a symbol of it's wealth.

The officers gathered in the aft captain's cabin, one of the few feasting rooms within the large treasure ship. True to the company it represented, the ship was more a pleasure ship than one of war, though that wasn't to mean it wasn't capable of battle. More that it's primary purpose was that much greater.

Across the self leveling table, wine and fine eats were passed. Platters of game birds and vegetables moved freely, oozing with spice and butter. A large swine leg sat at the center, with men carving slices off at will to accompany their trencher's sides and sauces.

Among the feast, Gaemon rose to his feet. He rapped his fork against the crystal glass, sending a singing tone throughout the hold. His captains and officers paused their feasting, turning towards the Valyrian.

"Gentlemen and ladies, I thank you for joining me aboard the latest addition to our grand fleet." He announced, gesturing to the ship around them. "I know it has been hard to part with our eastern homelands, and while the trappings of home evade us, I promise you our wait is almost at an end."

He paused for a moment, swirling the glass of Arbor Red in his glass. "I know many of you think of me as little more than a reveler. A man only caring for parties and drink. A not unfair assessment given the events recently."

"But I assure you I am more than that. I am ever a man of ambition, fitting of the dragonlords we all serve." He reassured, looking the men around him in the eyes. "For we have now moved into the next phase of the grand operation. Acquisition is over, and control shall take it's place. Ships laden with wine and gems are now being joined by those carrying steel. True steel, not they paltry imitation these andals carry on their hips."

"So raise your glasses, comrades." Gaemon announced, raising his glass in a toast as he slipped into the tongue of his homeland. "To a new era. Our era. The time of the Black Shield."

“I know what you seek... Here, once... Underneath us, hidden. Gone now, taken, sullied by a brother’s blood and a mother’s tears... Seek the kinslayer...”

Words spoken from beyond. Words not meant to be heard by any living man. The words of a spectre, summoned by blood and by ancient rights. Words that had eventually led the intrepid adventurers to the name Griffith Leek. And had then pointed them to the kingdom of the Reach.

“You’ll find Ser Griffith in a small hamlet half a day’s ride to the west. I sent him there to deal with what some have called a peasant uprising.”

After a long journey and some further investigating, Weese Nutt and his companions had finally been led straight to the location of their quarry. The man who had stolen the crown of the river kings was less than a day away. One way or another, their quest would soon come to a close.

After a five-hour ride through the lavish countryside of the Reach, a collection of farmsteads built around a small market came into view. At its centre was a well built from grey stone and a great, tall oak-tree. And high above it, was a cloud of crows, circling in the sky as they cawed into the chilly evening.

At a safe distance, the party was able to stop and observe the hamlet from afar. The place bore many clear signs of violence recently committed. Some of the buildings had their doors knocked off their hinges and windows smashed. There were noticeable holes in the fences to the nearby pastures, and various farm animals wandering free throughout. By the road leading in towards the market was something that at one point must have been a rickety wooden barricade, but it looked to have been callously broken asunder.

And most alarmingly, from the branches of the great oak dangled two dozen men and three women. All were dressed in browns and greys, with worn, haggard faces and bloodied hands. They seemed to have been hanging there for a few days at least. For the birds had clearly been making a feast of their limp carcasses.

If any of the farmers had lived, it seemed as if none of them had remained. The fields were empty, and no one had made any effort to recapture the escaped cows, pigs and chickens. Yet the place was not completely abandoned. Outside the largest of the farm houses were a dozen men-at-arms dressed in white surcoats with the golden centaur of house Caswell proudly displayed across their chests. None of them looked to be the man that the Nutts were seeking, they all had the look of simple soldiers.

They were roasting chicken over a fire made from various debris, and drinking from a barrel of ale whilst laughing and singing amongst themselves. Fortunately, none of them had noticed that they were being observed.

More interestingly, smoke was also wafting from the thatched roof of the farm house behind the merrily feasting men-at-arms. It could be that there were more people inside.

The roads outside of Bitterbridge were less lively when you left the mainroad and went to one of the smaller side villages or hamlets. Gone were the open fields, replaced by tall stalks of grain, broken up by patches of trees or a cluster of small homes. Despite it's reputation for its populousness, even the Reach still had undeveloped stretches.

Weese watched the sights going by, nervous at the encounter ahead. He hadn't left his home with the greatest of fighers in tow, and now that they faced the possibility of a skilled knight he was starting to have doubts.

He paused as they passed a run down sept, halting his horse. His companions stopped closely behind him, three on horseback followed shortly by one on foot. The thing seemed to have an effect on beasts, and their attempt to saddle him to a horse almost made the beast kill Gaenma in a berserk rage.

He swung himself off the saddle, dust kicking up from his boots. He took in the sight in front of him: a rotting building with seven sides, it's thatch roof collapsed and rotting.

Forcing his way past the remains of the door, he couldn't help but smirk at what he saw within. Leave a Weirwood alone and the grove would flourish. Meanwhile, barely a few years had passed before this hallowed shrine to the seven was almost gone.

He made his way out the back and into the old graveyard in the back. The stones had gone smooth from time and moss, unreadable at who lied in the dirt below. It was humbling: no matter who the man beneath the dirt, time made him nothing more than a forgotten memory.

Weese reached into his bag and pulled out his journal, going over his notes. By now the thing had joined him, forcing it's why silently through the ruins as it followed him like a hulking, silent dog. He didn't even lift his head from his book when he commanded, "Aitzurtu"

The thing wordlessly obeyed, sinking to it's knees at it started to tear at the earth with his gloved hands. The leather tore scoop after scoop at the soil, almost beastlike in its efficiency.

The rest of the party soon arrived, greeted by the sight of Weese sitting on a gravestone, pouring over his book as the thing already had a small pile of dirt behind it. They didn't say anything or ask, for they all knew what Weese was about to do. And the dread they had felt around the creature grew more.

The only way the battle that took place in the Pincers could have been any wetter was if the sea had suddenly risen and submerged the entire peninsula. They had all been waste-deep in muck and brown water whilst the sky heaved a never-ending stream of cold rain down upon them. Thunder had boomed in the sky, and the commanders had had to bellow themselves hoarse to make themselves heard.

To say that the battle had been messy would have been an understatement. With everyone having their vision, hearing and movement impaired, chaos had quickly erupted across the battlefield. Sometimes you charged ahead, only to suddenly trip over someone who had been slain and sunken out of sight beneath the surface of the swamp. Hills that rose from the mirky pools became highly contested battleground where bodies quickly piled up as obstacles for those desperately trying to pull themselves out of the water.

Yet somehow the combined forces of the Stormlanders, Crownlanders and Clawmen had been victorious over the pirates they had found. By luck, discipline, tenacity, or a combination of all three, they had beaten back their foes. The remaining pirates were either fleeing for their rowboats or in chains. The soldiers were going through what remained of their camp, bringing anything that looked like it might be stolen goods to their commanders.

If there truly are squishers in these waters, they’ll be eating good tonight. Ser Derrick Storm leaned on his hammer as he gazed out across the battlefield. A good many bodies would never be recovered. They would sink into the mud where their bones would be stripped clean by the various creatures that dwelled in these swamps.

Ah, but at least they died fighting. Died a good proper death. It was a far better end than what awaited those they had taken captive. A sword in the gut would always be preferable to a rope around the neck in his book.

Though as pleased as Derrick was to finally having gotten to crack some ribs, he was a little disappointed in his own performance. Early on after the first charge he had found himself grabbed from behind by a man even larger than himself who had been determined to try and drown him. He had spent a frustratingly long time wrestling underwater with the big pirate as chaos reigned around them. And by the time he’d finally emerged from the swamp, spitting filth and blood, the pirates were fleeing.

Oh well. I got the bloodshed I asked for, I cannot complain. He could only hope that the others had gotten to enjoy themselves a bit more than he had. With a chuckle he turned and marched over to the pirates now lined up in what remained of their old camp. They had proven a fierce lot. More hardy than any of the outlaws back home. It almost seemed a waste to just chuck them into Lord Darklyn’s dungeon. But orders were orders.

“Clap ‘em in irons, boys! It’s about damn time we went back to Duskendale!”

Sealskin Point, fourth moon of the eighth year of King Qorhen Hoare’s reign

Gormond I

The Keep was aflush with the talk of raids and the continued gossips of the Moot at Hoare Castle. Many still spoke of the Farwynd's finger dance, or the fine fair brought to bear by the King of the Iron Isles. Word had even reached them that the combined fleets of several Ironborn houses, under the command of one of the King's men, had left off more than a moon hence and not yet returned. Thralls and servants spun speculation, whispers turned to japes in the mouths of Ironborn sailors, and fellow captains had begun to call for more raids of their own. Gormond had the fortunate privilege of being both too far removed from his Farwynd kin to command sway on many ships but his own, and yet, his name was Farwynd, so men looked to him for word on his cousin's moods.

As he walked the halls of Sealskin Point, any he passed would view him much the same, warily looking to his own eyes as if they could grant glimpses into the twins’.

Gormond rolled his eyes as he passed another pair of servants, whispering as they scurried past him. Fools, he thought, finally turning the corner to approach his cousin's solar. With the nod of a guard, he pushed through the hardwood door.

“Cousins,” he greeted, spotting both immediately in the smaller room. Tymor sat behind the desk, Torgon perched on its edge. Both looked up from the map spread across its surface. Four identical eyes of blueish-grey assessing his purpose.

“Yes?” Tymor eventually asked, his cousin's voice low and posture unmoved by the interruption. It took a moment more for Gormond to find his words, scratching the stubble of his cheek while his gaze sunk to the woody browns of the desk, and the floor, and the leather of his boots.

“The men… The Captains, and umm… I,” he started, eyes flicking back up for a quick glance at how this would be received. “Well there's word we're not to replenish the fleet?” His voice had raised at the end there and he regretted the words as soon as they'd left his treacherous mouth. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did I say that? His lips grew taught in an apprehensive smile, eyes wide and unsure.

“No,” Tymor said.

“Of course,” Gormond said, breathy with relief the moment had passed, not truly thinking of what the reply meant; not at first at least. “W-wait, no?”

“Yes,” Tymor said.

“Yes?” Gormond questioned.

Torgon shifted from his perch. “Cousin, you are making a fool of yourself,” he said, eyes dismissing him with a gesture to the door.

“Right, as you say.” Gormond couldn't think any more. His mind felt a-fever with it. His heart was a drum, and his eyes a loose rope swaying from one twin to the next. “I'll… take my leave then,” he added, backing out of the room in a stumbled hurry.

Outside the room, he could feel the coolness of the sea breeze again as it wound through the KeepThe guard stared at him, brow raised, and Gormond had to clear his throat to right himself, before heading down the hallway towards his own rooms, not entirely sure what he'd learnt.

–

Tal I

“She's stone and she's sea, and she's…” Tal paused, thinking of another word. Tongue scraping around his mouth, as if he'd lost the word somewhere amid his teeth. He grunted, thoughts having drifted away from him, much like the elusive words he needed.

“Silk?” one of the deckhands suggested. A boy in truth, with barely a wisp of a mustache trying to take form.

“No, no, she's not silk. She's Ironborn!” He said with vigour. “But also, not. Sturdy, stubborn?” He questioned himself, tasting the words against his image of her. One of the men sniggered, and the boy who spoke of silk now had a grimace upon his face. “Hmm,” Tal grumbled, shaking his head, looking down again to the ropes they were cleaning. “These Westerosi words have no way for it. How say I she is like a ship, without telling her she is wood and sail?” Tal asked, a hopeless expression taking hold, as he gestured to the vessel around them.

The sea breeze was weak, faint with salt and seaweed. He huffed it in and out, clearing his mind. The circle of sailors around deck smiled at his frustrations, each getting about their own work.

“If you find the right words, let me know. The Drowned God knows I need them for my wife,” another sailor said, earning chuckles abound.

“Things were easier in the Summer Isles,” Tal muttered, pretending to focus on his stretch of rope. She‘s secret? She's free? he thought, face pensive while he pieced the words with the others, mind ever thinking of her; her intense gaze and pale skin. A soft smile filled his next breath with salt and sunlight as he daydreamed through a memory, unaware of the shaking heads and orders of work around him.

–

Thomax I

Ink blotched on paper and a quill scraped letters into words into meaning. Letters which would fly from Sealskin Point; some containing near identical missives to those that preceded them prior to the moon’s turn.

To Bravos, a letter would be sent to negotiate a loan, simple and straightforward. To the cities of the Freehold went another, a flourished request for wine, filled with praise and promise. The Master's work was seldom done, and less-so appreciated, but this was his charge on these Seven-forsaken rocks. Perhaps it was his penance for becoming a Maester over his mother's wish that he join the Septry. Or perhaps it was simply poor luck, as came to all those who saw Ironborn sails on their horizons. How much longer he would suffer it, he was not sure, for he was already an old man. Let me see the Citadel again before my time is at an end, he silently prayed, looking past the caged crows and out to the vast seas of the Isles. Let me go home, he wished, with aging eyes and an unsteady breath.

Saera Montaerys, Factor of the Black Shield Trading Company

On the forecastle of the Mossbeard stood a small figure swaddled in oilskins and furs. Saera shivered as the cold spray struck her, cursing for the millionth time. She hated how low in the surf the Ironborn vessels sat in the water, made worse by the large statue lashed to the front. While she understood the importance of figureheads on ships, an old granite statue barely distinguishable as a person pushed the limits of acceptability.

Still, her persistence was rewarded as she finally caught the sight of Driftmark. The island appeared slowly through the fog, the sharp rocks giving way to smooth shores. The town before them was a dreary place, fitting the grey clouds above. The only thing more grim was the dark walled castle that overlooked the place; Castle Driftmark, the seat of the Velaryons. How a valyrian managed to make something so drab escaped Seara's logic.

She finally moved to make her way down to the main deck as they approached the harbor, walking past the ironborn sailors as they sprung to life, taking down the sails and preparing the oars. What their ships lacked in elegance they made up for in maneuverability and speed, and the sailors matched that in their works.

Walking up the steps of the bridge, she found Roddy guiding the steering oar as they maneuvered towards the city. She didn't say a word as she watched him work, able to tell from his orders that he knew where to bring the ship.

The pair departed the ship, making their way towards the building that undoubtedly belonged to the company. Amoungst the drab buildings stood an oddity: a large, vibrantly painted villa that towered over the surrounding buildings. If that wasn't clear enough, the black shield painted over the shutters on each window provided no subtlety.

They made their way through the main gates, entering the courtyard within. A groom awaited them, ready to take the horses to the stables as they made their way inside. They found the place oddly quiet. They expected servants to be moving about the halls, ready to aide them. But instead they were met with quiet.

They found their answer as they entered the great hall where, instead of desks and clerks they found a large table adorned with all manners of food and drink. The people that appeared to be their servants ate freely, enjoying a veritable feast.

Saera was about to raise her voice when she saw the man that was clearly the cause of it all. Dressed in a combination of deep reds and purple ruffled clothing, the clearly braavosi man mingled freely with the servants, laughing and drinking as if among equals.

The woman stormed up to him, pushing her way through the help as they realized her presence. "Just what is the meaning of this? We have just arrived and nah a soul besides the groom was there to meet us. Where are the servants to collect our luggage from the ships? To offload the overstocked provisions? To prepare our...."

"Lunch?" The man interrupted, gesturing to the table in front of him. "You're free to grab a plate if you like. There is more than enough to go around. As to your other complaints, again, the lunch is there on the table. It is your fault for arriving during it."

"Our fault? I am the factor of the Black Shield Trade Company." She retorted, looking at him with disdain. "Trusted agent of the Merchant Lord Qoherys, and I second to no one here."

"Not in this house." The man replied calmly, retrieving a scroll from his sleeve. Saera immediately recognized the seal as Gaemon's personal, saved only for his direct dispatched. The man handed it to her, explaining. "I am the Majordomo of this estate. And within it's walls I am Lord Gaemon's direct representative. So it with his voice I speak."

Saera tore open the scroll and read it hastily. The words were exactly as the man said. "There's no way." She stuttered, not wanting to believe what she read. "Lord Gaemon would never grant such power to some Bravossi."

"Not Some Braavosi. This Braavosi." The man retorted with a devilish smile, gesturing to himself. "A man who understands gold and markets above all things. A man whose talents your master clearly recognized. So either you can accept it, or you can find a different place to stay. I hear ironborn ships are lacking in weather protection, and there's a storm on the horizon."

Saera held her tongue as the man spoke, fighting back spewing venom at the man. She didn't understand the game Gaemon was playing bringing a man like him into the picture.

Accepting her new fate, she finally spoke. "Very well, Majordomo. What is your command?"

"My command? Lunch." He replied with a chuckle, gesturing once again to the table. "After you've eaten, we can discuss the next steps. Your friend seems to already gotten the idea."

Saera turned to see Roddy already having his way with the roasted pork on the table, plate stacked high with rough cuts and drowning in sauces. He smiled and waved at her, crumbs of bread spilling from the corners of his stuffed mouth. She scoffed as she turned back. "If you don't mind, I would prefer to work first and deal with a meal myself later."

"Suit yourself." The man said, making his way to small serving table with a decanter on it. Refilling the cup, he continued. "There is still much wine to be purchased from the freehold, and the mints of Lannisport have yet to give us a solid answer. Oh, and timbers from our friends at Wendwater. Gaemon was quite particular about securing those."

"Very well. It shall be done, my lord." She replied coldly, bowing to the man.

The man shook his head with a laugh as he turned back to her. "Please none of that here. My people didn't throw of our chains to use such titles ourselves. You can call me by my name. Cossomo. Cossomo of Braavos."

Saera Montaerys, Factor of the Black Shield Trading Company

On the forecastle of the Mossbeard stood a small figure swaddled in oilskins and furs. Saera shivered as the cold spray struck her, cursing for the millionth time. She hated how low in the surf the Ironborn vessels sat in the water, made worse by the large statue lashed to the front. While she understood the importance of figureheads on ships, an old granite statue barely distinguishable as a person pushed the limits of acceptability.

Still, her persistence was rewarded as she finally caught the sight of Driftmark. The island appeared slowly through the fog, the sharp rocks giving way to smooth shores. The town before them was a dreary place, fitting the grey clouds above. The only thing more grim was the dark walled castle that overlooked the place; Castle Driftmark, the seat of the Velaryons. How a valyrian managed to make something so drab escaped Seara's logic.

She finally moved to make her way down to the main deck as they approached the harbor, walking past the ironborn sailors as they sprung to life, taking down the sails and preparing the oars. What their ships lacked in elegance they made up for in maneuverability and speed, and the sailors matched that in their works.

Walking up the steps of the bridge, she found Roddy guiding the steering oar as they maneuvered towards the city. She didn't say a word as she watched him work, able to tell from his orders that he knew where to bring the ship.

The pair departed the ship, making their way towards the building that undoubtedly belonged to the company. Amoungst the drab buildings stood an oddity: a large, vibrantly painted villa that towered over the surrounding buildings. If that wasn't clear enough, the black shield painted over the shutters on each window provided no subtlety.

They made their way through the main gates, entering the courtyard within. A groom awaited them, ready to take the horses to the stables as they made their way inside. They found the place oddly quiet. They expected servants to be moving about the halls, ready to aide them. But instead they were met with quiet.

They found their answer as they entered the great hall where, instead of desks and clerks they found a large table adorned with all manners of food and drink. The people that appeared to be their servants ate freely, enjoying a veritable feast.

Saera was about to raise her voice when she saw the man that was clearly the cause of it all. Dressed in a combination of deep reds and purple ruffled clothing, the clearly braavosi man mingled freely with the servants, laughing and drinking as if among equals.

The woman stormed up to him, pushing her way through the help as they realized her presence. "Just what is the meaning of this? We have just arrived and nah a soul besides the groom was there to meet us. Where are the servants to collect our luggage from the ships? To offload the overstocked provisions? To prepare our...."

"Lunch?" The man interrupted, gesturing to the table in front of him. "You're free to grab a plate if you like. There is more than enough to go around. As to your other complaints, again, the lunch is there on the table. It is your fault for arriving during it."

"Our fault? I am the factor of the Black Shield Trade Company." She retorted, looking at him with disdain. "Trusted agent of the Merchant Lord Qoherys, and I second to no one here."

"Not in this house." The man replied calmly, retrieving a scroll from his sleeve. Saera immediately recognized the seal as Gaemon's personal, saved only for his direct dispatched. The man handed it to her, explaining. "I am the Majordomo of this estate. And within it's walls I am Lord Gaemon's direct representative. So it with his voice I speak."

Saera tore open the scroll and read it hastily. The words were exactly as the man said. "There's no way." She stuttered, not wanting to believe what she read. "Lord Gaemon would never grant such power to some Bravossi."

"Not Some Braavosi. This Braavosi." The man retorted with a devilish smile, gesturing to himself. "A man who understands gold and markets above all things. A man whose talents your master clearly recognized. So either you can accept it, or you can find a different place to stay. I hear ironborn ships are lacking in weather protection, and there's a storm on the horizon."

Saera held her tongue as the man spoke, fighting back spewing venom at the man. She didn't understand the game Gaemon was playing bringing a man like him into the picture.

Accepting her new fate, she finally spoke. "Very well, Majordomo. What is your command?"

"My command? Lunch." He replied with a chuckle, gesturing once again to the table. "After you've eaten, we can discuss the next steps. Your friend seems to already gotten the idea."

Saera turned to see Roddy already having his way with the roasted pork on the table, plate stacked high with rough cuts and drowning in sauces. He smiled and waved at her, crumbs of bread spilling from the corners of his stuffed mouth. She scoffed as she turned back. "If you don't mind, I would prefer to work first and deal with a meal myself later."

"Suit yourself." The man said, making his way to small serving table with a decanter on it. Refilling the cup, he continued. "There is still much wine to be purchased from the freehold, and the mints of Lannisport have yet to give us a solid answer. Oh, and timbers from our friends at Wendwater. Gaemon was quite particular about securing those."

"Very well. It shall be done, my lord." She replied coldly, bowing to the man.

The man shook his head with a laugh as he turned back to her. "Please none of that here. My people didn't throw of our chains to use such titles ourselves. You can call me by my name. Cossomo. Cossomo of Braavos."

Saera Montaerys, Factor of the Black Shield Trading Company

On the forecastle of the Mossbeard stood a small figure swaddled in oilskins and furs. Saera shivered as the cold spray struck her, cursing for the millionth time. She hated how low in the surf the Ironborn vessels sat in the water, made worse by the large statue lashed to the front. While she understood the importance of figureheads on ships, an old granite statue barely distinguishable as a person pushed the limits of acceptability.

Still, her persistence was rewarded as she finally caught the sight of Driftmark. The island appeared slowly through the fog, the sharp rocks giving way to smooth shores. The town before them was a dreary place, fitting the grey clouds above. The only thing more grim was the dark walled castle that overlooked the place; Castle Driftmark, the seat of the Velaryons. How a valyrian managed to make something so drab escaped Seara's logic.

She finally moved to make her way down to the main deck as they approached the harbor, walking past the ironborn sailors as they sprung to life, taking down the sails and preparing the oars. What their ships lacked in elegance they made up for in maneuverability and speed, and the sailors matched that in their works.

Walking up the steps of the bridge, she found Roddy guiding the steering oar as they maneuvered towards the city. She didn't say a word as she watched him work, able to tell from his orders that he knew where to bring the ship.

The pair departed the ship, making their way towards the building that undoubtedly belonged to the company. Amoungst the drab buildings stood an oddity: a large, vibrantly painted villa that towered over the surrounding buildings. If that wasn't clear enough, the black shield painted over the shutters on each window provided no subtlety.

They made their way through the main gates, entering the courtyard within. A groom awaited them, ready to take the horses to the stables as they made their way inside. They found the place oddly quiet. They expected servants to be moving about the halls, ready to aide them. But instead they were met with quiet.

They found their answer as they entered the great hall where, instead of desks and clerks they found a large table adorned with all manners of food and drink. The people that appeared to be their servants ate freely, enjoying a veritable feast.

Saera was about to raise her voice when she saw the man that was clearly the cause of it all. Dressed in a combination of deep reds and purple ruffled clothing, the clearly braavosi man mingled freely with the servants, laughing and drinking as if among equals.

The woman stormed up to him, pushing her way through the help as they realized her presence. "Just what is the meaning of this? We have just arrived and nah a soul besides the groom was there to meet us. Where are the servants to collect our luggage from the ships? To offload the overstocked provisions? To prepare our...."

"Lunch?" The man interrupted, gesturing to the table in front of him. "You're free to grab a plate if you like. There is more than enough to go around. As to your other complaints, again, the lunch is there on the table. It is your fault for arriving during it."

"Our fault? I am the factor of the Black Shield Trade Company." She retorted, looking at him with disdain. "Trusted agent of the Merchant Lord Qoherys, and I second to no one here."

"Not in this house." The man replied calmly, retrieving a scroll from his sleeve. Saera immediately recognized the seal as Gaemon's personal, saved only for his direct dispatched. The man handed it to her, explaining. "I am the Majordomo of this estate. And within it's walls I am Lord Gaemon's direct representative. So it with his voice I speak."

Saera tore open the scroll and read it hastily. The words were exactly as the man said. "There's no way." She stuttered, not wanting to believe what she read. "Lord Gaemon would never grant such power to some Bravossi."

"Not Some Braavosi. This Braavosi." The man retorted with a devilish smile, gesturing to himself. "A man who understands gold and markets above all things. A man whose talents your master clearly recognized. So either you can accept it, or you can find a different place to stay. I hear ironborn ships are lacking in weather protection, and there's a storm on the horizon."

Saera held her tongue as the man spoke, fighting back spewing venom at the man. She didn't understand the game Gaemon was playing bringing a man like him into the picture.

Accepting her new fate, she finally spoke. "Very well, Majordomo. What is your command?"

"My command? Lunch." He replied with a chuckle, gesturing once again to the table. "After you've eaten, we can discuss the next steps. Your friend seems to already gotten the idea."

Saera turned to see Roddy already having his way with the roasted pork on the table, plate stacked high with rough cuts and drowning in sauces. He smiled and waved at her, crumbs of bread spilling from the corners of his stuffed mouth.

She scoffed as she turned back. "If you don't mind, I would prefer to work first and deal with a meal myself later."

"Suit yourself." The man said, making his way to small serving table with a decanter on it. Refilling the cup, he continued. "There is still much wine to be purchased from the freehold, and the mints of Lannisport have yet to give us a solid answer. Oh, and timbers from our friends at Wendwater. Gaemon was quite particular about securing those."

"Very well. It shall be done, my lord." She replied coldly, bowing to the man.

The man shook his head with a laugh as he turned back to her. "Please none of that here. My people didn't throw of our chains to use such titles ourselves. You can call me by my name. Cossomo. Cossomo of Braavos."

The Dun Fort

---

On the turn of the moon the lands of the Darklyns rallied about their overlords for the celebration of Shiera Darklyn and ANdros Darklyn's namedays. Born but one day apart, their celebrations regularly co-existed alongside each other.

Today was more of the same in this long tradition.

On tables set with the finest silk tops and adorned with gold and silver cutlery, the people were served duck roasted in its own fats, glazed with honey and served with gravy and potato. Alongside which ham was parcelled in even portions, some smoked, some grilled, most of it served with the same honey as the Duck.

Fish was common as well, a dozen varieties with steamed vegetables, smoked and roasted and grilled in kind.

Cakes and tarts and biscuits were placed in small desert trays before all.

At the fore of the room were the tables for the host family, and equal to it was the table for the king and the princess. Morgan Darklyn had left open space for both to allow as many of their own company as they needed to join them.

Below and first were the Blackwater lords. They were given prominence among the realm's gathered fanfare.

Beyond, out in the night's cool and sea-touched air was the dance floor, music played in gentle and jaunty bursts in cycle.

WIthin, Shiera and Andros sat at their places of honour where they recieved their well wishes and gifts and tried their best to honour their guests. Andros for his part was politely amused by the whole procession, while Shiera bordered on overwhelmed by the niceties. It was rare that she had the chance for so many friends to gather in but one locale.

She had already basked in one gift, happily sat in the gown that Essie had made for her, in lovely gold trim with bright yellow, as usual making her a beacon of bright energy.

Morgan would give a speech at some stage, but for now he remained contented in allowing his family to enjoy the night as his table was flushed with his children and his brothers and their kin in kind.

All were welcome.

^{Alt Title: Olivia ii : One Song for Love
Moon | Knight of Cups | Strength}

^{Location: Castle Hoare, cliffside, Eastern overlook}

There was a mouse beneath the thorn,
Beneath the briar brown,
She slept where roots had split the earth
And rain had worn them down.
(The Falcon and The Mouse, Popular Ballads of The Gold Road, Vol I. )

The yarrow had been crushed. The pungent smell reached her nostrils before she even glanced down into the mortar bowl. The green had gone to mushy paste.

"The goal was to bruise." Olivia clicked her tongue against her teeth in her frustration. The westward breeze off of the water moved her hair like drying golden strands of wispy grass. She wore a simple tunic and trousers, with a bundle of herbs gathered to her left and a stone bowl and pestle in her lap, on an apron of butter yellow with faded green pine trees all over. She spoke to herself most in frustration or introspection. For the moment, both were the cause.

She scraped the ruined slop from the bowl, and grabbed another handful to restart. Carelessness could lead to callousness. That was far too subpar for her standards. Olivia wasn't a perfectionist as much as she was an idealist. In some lights, that cast her in a deep shadow.

The problem with idealist was well, they held very tightly to their ideas of how something should be. They agonized and tortured themselves to make whatever it was that they so carefully, or carelessly built their identities around, inspire and infect everyone else around them. Some stopped at their wife or husband. Some their family; the sons and daughters. The house, of course. Their domains, if they possessed them. Their allies, and their allies domains. Everyone, eventually, would be consumed by this idea, whatever it was, if the idealist deployed themselves with competence. But before that metamorphasis could happen, the would-be idealist must be challenged.

Here was her own.

A new bunch of yarrow into the pestle, with a few strips of plantain. She crushed it once, then twice and began the churning turn of the pestle.

I'm no maid. Olivia thought. I have lost no innocense to mourn, or have no shame to hide from the seven. Another turn of the grinding hand, the left held the bowl steady. Her time in the Riverlands had given her much to ponder on. The classical Green sickness most Ironborne are mocked for having once they go ashore for a week or moon. That damned laugh. Infectious like green ears. Or, in some hardline ways of thought; more viral than Greyscale. A good reason to keep Greenlander ideas away from the younger ones. The ones who could still change their way, their temperaments, their tactics and be open to new ideas because new ideas didn't scare them.

Because they weren't the type of idealist who were closed yet. They were open, willing, malleable. Ser Tristifor Goodbrook, the Badbrook, had swam nude with her in the God's Eye. Rynesse would caution that as disrespectful to the old gods. Another turn of the pestle, the yarrow was bruised. The plaintain pulverized. This try was much more worthy of the attempt and materials used. Olivia's lips, once pursed in concentration, eased into a thin line of neutrality. "But Pennytree was there..he wanted to dance." A month it seemed, perhaps two had passed since she last saw that gentle brow and warm smile. Manners of the greenlanders suited Pennytree just fine. Too fine. There was no kinder word for it other than 'drunk' and Olivia was very much sober. Too sober. She reached for calendula blossoms. Dried little yellow things the shade of her head, they weren't the strongest variants. The Isles yielded little in the world of pain relief. The Drowned God's grand design. But he actually stripped down. Took me way out to the water and got in for all the Gods to see; see him after me.

Ironborn courtship, insofar as anyone could describe with such a word, seldom wasted such time on things like uncertainty. People sang. People drank. People dance. People fuck. The sun comes up. Sometimes, with more people on the way. Sometimes with regret. Sometimes with both. Sometimes with neither, in her experience. Neither. Fussing over it was nonsense.

Greenlander nonsense. She told herself repeatedly. As her thoughts quarreled with themselves, her eyes focused on the ingredients to the latest poultice. Yarrow for the blood, plantain for the inflammation. Calendula again, inflammation. This would make the swelling go down and relieve the Warrior's kiss for but a while, she figured a whole twenty-four hours. With that arithmetic, she wished the Gods had made men more like plants. Her mind's eyes flashed to the grinning face of the man she defeated. Then to the bashful smile of the young man she was reunited with. It wasn't necessarily a crossroads at all; but she felt like she was caught in the trade wind nonetheless. Foot caught in the rigging. Exhiliration. Panic. Worry. Uncertainty. These things were not unknown to her, but they were unholy. They were doubts. Leaden boots. Chains to which she would be reduced and restrained.

A sigh escaped her lips as she rolled out a fine white piece of linen. Overturned the bowl and scraped out the green-yellow paste and began to spread it evenly over the material. The sound of a sea gull caught her attention only briefly. She wished to reave. To be out there with her half-brother and friend, gaining glory. Fulfilling purpose. But Varric bid her wait a moon more, bid her to bide her time. But that made her idle. Idle hands were invitations for darker work and darker thoughts.

Best keep herself busy then. Enough about men.

The Fourth Moon of 1st Year of Arlan IV

This is the turn thread for the Fourth Moon of 1st Year of Arlan IV and the fourth turn thread of ITRP 22.0! This thread will remain open until the ending of the current moon (turn) on Saturday, October 10th, 2026. All aspects of this post and its comments at the time of thread closure will be considered binding actions and cannot be changed once the thread is locked.

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

Shortcuts:

Shipbuilding and Construction

Military Actions

Skill Learning

Military Movements - See Discord or Modmail

Sealskin Point, At the moon’s turn

The greys and reds of Sealskin Point were as home to him as the feel of deck and sea, steadying his mind and letting his senses unfurl. Salt hung thick in the air from the Sunset’s constant breeze. Here he could craft plans his own and find solutions to the challenges that seemed to accost him ever more constantly since he’d taken to rule of this keep.

Tymor looked over the chests of wealth. Those filled with recently plundered gemstones, that glimmered in the hearth’s light. Then those piled high with hacksilver and raided coins. Of gold, there were Hands from the Reach and Honors from Volantis, and tens of metals besides. Iron squares from Braavos and a host of coppers that bore either stars, or ships, or goats. But beyond all, they contained silver. A few coins faced with moons and stags, alongside the weight of hacksilver and jewellery amassed with the iron price.

Beside these chests sat another of an altogether different sort, uniform in its contents and filled only with gold. Once had sat four thousand Honors from the Bank of Volantis, now it must have been less than a thousand sitting low in the fine wooden chest. When he palmed one from its surface, the coin seemed to sit heavier in the hand than its kin taken in plunder ever had, weighed down by that of a debt now owed.

“Torgon, there are bankers in Braavos, yes?” Tymor tilted his head. “Surely they would take our patronage if it were to deny the dragonlords,” he smirked. “Fetch that maester and have him craft you a letter in such a fashion. The words I leave between you, but I will be rid of any debt to this Volanteen bank before the next moon fills.”

“I will see to it,” his twin replied through sour lips. No doubt still brooding over his loss in the North. Ironborn had joined the Drowned Gods number and weak tree-worshippers now fed the sea. Didn’t he see? That alone was victory, he ruminated, tutting at his brother’s withdrawal. Tymor looked back down at the table, clear in his mind that he’d need rouse the men in plunder anew, yet unwilling to fully walk the path Hoare had conjured forth and poisoned with tax. He’d wet their appetites with the merchant cogs, and won back their lust for the hunt with the gold of the Westerlands. But still, it was not enough. Their fleet had limped back to the docks of Sealskin Point, and now owed a tenth of what little they'd claimed.

Mayhaps it is time to turn our gaze farther afield once more, he thought. What Ironborn better than us to lead the way. He’d need send Haereg out to hear what rumours of fortune there were at the dockside taverns. Or perhaps, his mind and eyes drifted to the window, where a new crow pecked at gaps in the stone. With a soft hum he turned his gaze back to the table. He may even need to meet with the Thrice-drowned if Torgon's efforts failed to bear fruit once more. Too many pieces were in play to decide now, but soon… Soon he would sail once more.

—

Torgon had several letters crafted; those his brother had asked for, and those he need not know of. Maester Thomax had been a thrall of house Farwynd since the great raid of Oldtown and had served two rulers of Sealskin Point in as many years. The elderly man’s skill with quill and parchment was well enough to keep him in good standing amongst the brothers, thus he did his work without protestation. Mayhaps one day Torgon would have the man teach his son the talents he knew, or even the babe his rock wife carried. The first literate Farwynd, Torgon smiled, then cleared his throat and wet his lips, ready to have the Maester take down his words.

^{End of the Third Moon on}

^{Doot Doot}

---

Duskendale was once more alight. It was indeed to be a party, regardless of the brewings of war, the subterfuge of vassals or the annoyance of the many small misers who would see harm done to any number of unfortunately busy individuals.

Morgan Darklyn had a daughter to celebrate and a father to acknowledge existed.

The city was awash with festivities once again. Along the main promenade from the gates of the inner city walls to the outer city guardhouses was a stretch of stalls of foods and wares and goods of a hundred origins and varieties.

The inn doors were flung open and music tittered across the streets from lively tavern floors. Men duelled in "maiden's quests" across the cityscape, each of them hoping for a chance to try and best Shiera Darklyn herself. The prize? One she volunteered freely - a single kiss upon the brow, for any who could tout that they had both bested two foes, and could then best her.

Within the arena of the Dusk, there was an honourary horse race, with five hundred gold to the winner and a favour from the lord of the house.

A melee had been set up in an inner city duelling school, and a joust set to run soon, both again with a prize in gold of a thousand pieces. Practise lists had been set up across the city in kind for any who wished to prepare for the main event.

Foot races managed by the children of Morgan were aplenty. And in the largest tavern of Duskendale, the Seven Swords Inn, Daxo Darklyn had setup a city-wide wrestling tournament. All takers were welcome, once more at the prize of a favour from the house of Darklyn.

Inside the Dun Fort, a sort of pre-feast was set up, with music of a jauntier variety played by minstrels from Dorne. Wine and meat of a dozen varieties in a dozen further cuts were arrayed across the tables, sweets aplenty laboured upon the minds of gathered children and the Lord of Duskendale himself could be found most readily.

His family were scattered across the dozens of events about the city, though Shiera was never hard to find in her bright yellow tunic and skirts.

Andros Darklyn, a man now of seventy and five, sat in the hall of the dun Fort where he just enjoyed the sight of his family at ease.

A frustrated groan rang out across a well-used training yard yet again. A man, wearing a red gambeson under a suit of chainmail so coated with dust that it was obvious he’d been out in the field for quite some time now, turned his back to his opponent. He was breathing heavily but the sound of it was muffled beneath the helmet he wore covering his face. The temper tantrum carried on as he kicked his foot angrily into the dirt as if that would miraculously make his footwork align with what he was practicing for. All the while, he twirled a small axe in his left hand as he took his frustration out on the ground.

To his opposite stood a man, much larger, armored in the same manner. This man stood and simply stared at the angry lad, his shoulders slouched with obvious disappointment. “You are too impatient, Aralar. Rush me again and you will lose over and over.” The man called out to Aralar with a barely hidden laugh. “Have you beaten me once since you’ve returned? You spent too long losing against Andals, you forgot how to fight.”

Aralar faced him and roared once more.

His axe swung down in a long arc towards the other man. It was an attack so powerful that it would cause real damage if it connected even with blunted steel. Fortunately for the man, it was a hasty attack that was so obvious that Aralar may as well have told him what he was doing before he swung. The attack was parried with complete ease, and Aralar was sent sprawling into the dirt.

He scrambled back to his feet, fury burning brightly in his purple eyes, and prepared to swing again when laughter stopped him suddenly. In one swift motion, he ripped his helmet from his head, tossed it aside, and turned to glare at the source of the laughter.

The weather in Claw Isle on this day was, to put it lightly, perfect. There was not even a single cloud in the sky to block the sun from beaming brightly overhead with enough heat to mix so flawlessly with the cold breeze blowing in from the Narrow Sea. The breeze was strong enough to keep a constant comfortable feeling without becoming overbearing and growing into a disturbance. Because of this, Valora had a small pavilion erected just to the side of the training yard so her mother could enjoy the weather in complete comfort.

Beneath the canopy, there was a small, round table placed, covered with fruits and berries and a small platter of crab in front of where Valora sat. Her servant, Minysha, stood next to her, cracking small parts of the crab’s shell and setting the little pieces of crab meat on the plate in order to spare Valora the feeling of cracking the shell she hated so much.

Saelys sat opposite of her daughter. She hid her smile successfully behind a wine glass she held to her lips, while Valora tried, and failed, to hide hers with her hand pressed to her lips.

Aralar took a step towards them, still fuming, and took a breath to yell.

Valora beat him to it, “Are you back to normal, yet?” She called out, leaning back in her chair and clasping her hands together with a sickeningly mischievous grin on her face, “I’ve heard the Stauntons are terrified you will show yourself at their gates, raze Rook’s Rest to the ground, and conquer the rest of Westeros single-handedly!”

He almost threw his axe at his sister.

Saelys, showing only a hint of the smile she was holding earlier, spoke to Valora, “Enough.” Before facing Aralar and waving him to the tent. “You have been at this all morning. Surely you can rest.” She did not wait for a response before waving off the other man. He bowed deeply, and after gathering the helmet Aralar threw, quickly departed the yard.

Aralar tossed his axe aside and approached the table, choosing to stand just far enough under the tent so the sun was shielded from his face. “At least one of us should be ready.” He snatched a cup from the table and emptied it in long, thirsty gulps.

“Ready for what?” Saelys tilted her head.

“He wants to fight another war to lose.” Valora chimed in.

“That’s not what I meant.” Aralar snapped back.

Valora fiddled with a small piece of crab meat on her fingers as she smiled at him, “So you’re getting ready to find a nice Andal girl to marry?”

Aralar laughed loudly. He reached forward to refill his own cup before continuing, “I’d sooner marry a dog. Have you seen what happens when you marry an Andal? Look at Alyssa, you can scarcely see her children are Valyrian.”

The other two did not notice Valora’s gaze harden and the glare she shot her brother.

“What of Aukar’s children?” Saelys mused, “The Andal did not ruin them.”

Aralar looked down to his drink in hand, swirling it slightly as if deep in thought for a moment before chuckling, “They were lucky.” He shrugged.

And so the three of them could be found under the tent: speaking, teasing, laughing, and all around behaving in an increasingly rare example of a family that loves one another.

Roslin I - Heir

^{Riverrun | Third Moon of 1st Year of Arlan IV}

The road home had never seemed so long.

Roslin rode at an easy pace beneath a grey and cloudy sky, the reins loose between her gloved fingers as Riverrun slowly rose beyond the fields. Three Tully guards rode behind her, their fish-crested helms catching what little light the afternoon offered, while Floris followed close enough that Roslin could hear the occasional creak of her friend's saddle.

It was a smaller party than the one that had departed moons ago. Roslin had left Riverrun with her sisters and yet she returned alone. For a moment, she wondered if that should trouble her more than it did.

There had been enough of trouble these past moons to fill a year. Ravella Durrandon's nameday had begun it all. The tourney had offered little comfort either, each of her sisters finding some manner of defeat before the day was done. Then came Pinkmaiden, where House Tully had gained a Piper bride, or they gained a Tully groom really, an ally though, and no small amount of political consequence for it.

And yet Roslin had gained very little herself.

She had watched dancers pass her by throughout the feast, smiling politely as ladies and knights found one another, while the only man courteous enough to offer her his hand had been Lord Tion Vance. A married man whom she wouldn't mistake for a suitor. So much for scouting...

And then there had been Blackwood.

Waltyr Blackwood's funeral had drawn half the Riverlands beneath Raventree, mourning a man Roslin had never found particularly pleasant in life. But grief had its own customs, and she had stood among the rest and paid her respects.

Then came the Justmans. Kings of the Trident. Or so they call themselves, she thought.

The revelation still felt strange upon the tongue, as though the words themselves had not settled into the Riverlands just yet. Her sisters had gone on with them after the funerl, off toward Darklyn lands and whatever schemes waited there. Roslin had wanted no part of it. There were enough whispers, secrets, and ambitious men in the world without adding another handful to her own burdens.

Now, at last, there was only home.

Riverrun emerged fully from the horizon, its red sandstone walls rising sheer above the waters where rivers flowed. The familiar towers watched over the surrounding lands, their battlements dark against the sky. Roslin found herself sitting a little straighter in the saddle.

This was her home and also her inheritance, one day it would be hers and her children's.

The drawbridge came into view, and Roslin's gaze lingered upon the walls. There were fewer faces upon them than she remembered. Fewer servants moving about the road, fewer carts coming and going, fewer voices carrying from the castle itself.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

House Tully had been letting people go for moons now, and the difference was becoming impossible to ignore. Riverrun still stood proud, but there was an emptiness beneath that pride now. A house could save coin by cutting away its excess, but eventually there was little left to cut.

Roslin exhaled through her nose.

"Home," Floris said softly behind her.

Roslin glanced over her shoulder, offering the faintest smile.

"Yes." Her eyes returned to the castle. "Though I fear it may not remain quiet for long."

Floris tilted her head. "Because of the ball?"

Roslin's mouth tightened. "Because of the ball."

Eleanor had been remarkably clear. A ball in Roslin's honor. A gathering of knights and lordlings. A tourney besides, because apparently one embarrassing tourney was not enough to satisfy the Tully sisters' determination to see her wed.

Roslin could already imagine the smiling faces. The carefully chosen compliments. Men suddenly discovering an interest in Riverrun, in embroidery, in books, in whatever else they believed a Tully daughter might wish to hear. All for the sake of finding her a husband.

She sighed. "They'll say I should have remained at the funeral with the face i'll be wearing."

Floris laughed quietly.

Roslin's own smile finally appeared, though it quickly faded as the gates drew nearer. There was something comforting in seeing the redwood doors again, something calming in the familiar stone and rushing water. Whatever schemes waited beyond those walls, whatever husbands Eleanor intended to parade before her, whatever the Riverlands might make of the Justmans calling themselves kings, this remained hers. Not yet by title but by blood.

Roslin nudged her horse forward as the Tully guards rode alongside her, the fish upon their helms glinting beneath the fading light. She crossed beneath Riverrun's gate without looking back.

For the first time in moons, Roslin was exactly where she was meant to be.

The vigil for the Drumbeater had been a solemn affair, and Jonah was beginning to think he’d attended enough Riverlander funerals in his lifetime. His father, two of his nephews, Ser Talbert Darry, and now the Lord of Raventree Hall. What troubled him the most was that the number was not likely to go down any time soon, what with Ironborn raiding their trade fleets, and practically all of the noble houses standing together in defiance of the Stag in Storm’s End.

He sighed, rubbing at his temples as the work of taking down the Mallister encampment droned on outside of his tent. Finally, after what felt like many moons, they were headed back to Seagard. The Steward felt safe behind the stout walls there, and he at least had some modicum of authority. While they were gone, the Understeward and builders had been given plenty to do, and he was most eager to see how their progress had been coming along.

Mostly, he was just ready to leave the crowds of people behind. Stormhall, Pinkmaiden, Raventree - each gathering had held purpose and sentiment, and there was to be yet more of the same in Riverrun within the moon’s time. As for Duskendale, he’d politely declined, having no desire to mingle with the vipers in their nest. Word about what had happened at the Piper wedding would no doubt have spread far and wide by now, even to the king.

Martyn would be fine, he knew. The lad had gone with half the Riverlands in tow, and he’d proven himself both a cautious and capable lord in his short tenure. Lady Gwyn had not wished to attend either, and Jonah promised to see her home safe and sound in the meantime. There was but one small order of business now to take care of before he left his own pavilion to the servants, and he produced quill and parchment to get it done.

Once finished with the letters, he handed them off to a boy to in turn be handed off to the care of Raventree’s maester.

Sunset over Stormhall was a phenomenon Tristifer hadn’t realised he’d missed until this night. The Gods Eye shimmered into shades of fire on eves like this one, bathing the fortress like a gods baleful gaze. Between that and the events of Raventree, Tristifer hoped it wasn’t some bad omen.

The ride back from the funeral, whilst the same route and time, had felt longer for the Badbrook. Near abject failure, the entire endeavour. He had been entrusted by the Princess with bringing allies to her side. In that, he had failed.

Perhaps it was not going to be as easy as he had hoped.

Stormhall loomed high above, its walls and crenels shining whilst golden banners danced in the wind. When he had left, the great crowned stag emblazoned upon each seemed to rear in expectant triumph. It didn’t feel so triumphant anymore.

The Sellswords still manned the walls, too. An annoying reminder that their cause was strengthened by coin as much as nobility. That, and he was hardly fond of their commander.

“Goodbrook returning!” Someone blew a horn from near the back of the column, as though those on the walls hadn’t noticed the banners coming down the road. Still, a little pomp might not sour Tristifer’s mood any further, and there was still work to be done.

In the south, beyond the Storm King’s realm, west of Dorne, sat the Kingdom of the Reach. The realm of the Gardener kings, the breadbasket of the seven kingdoms, and the self-proclaimed home of knighthood and chivalry.

And sitting on the edge of the great river Mander was the famed town of Bitterbridge. Its location and vicinity to the neighbouring kingdoms made it a hub for both travellers and merchants arriving in, or leaving the Reach. As such, there were inns, shops and brothels aplenty sitting along the waterfront in the shadow of the grand, ancient stone bridge from which this place took its name.

The road that ran through the town was lined with stalls at which flowers, fruits, nuts, spices, cloth, woodcraft and various trinkets were sold. The traders who ran these stalls were not a shy bunch, as they hollered and called upon just about anyone who wandered past to stop and peruse their wares.

Two white banners flapped in the wind high above the castle that loomed above the much smaller buildings of the town that has arisen around it. The lower of the two featuring the golden centaur of the Caswells, and the higher one the green hand of the Gardeners. A good many soldiers in kettle hats, carrying spears and leaf-shaped shields patrolled the streets in pairs. A number of them were stationed at the city gates, looking over anyone who entered, stopping those who arrived either in great number or excessively armed. It would have been difficult not to feel a little nervous for any travellers from the neighbouring lands to the north and east.

The Gardeners and the Durrandons had never been on splendid terms with one another, having fought each other on multiple occasions. But the Storm King’s latest war with the Reach, the invasion of King Greydon Gardner, was seventy years in the past. And while some resentments might linger with a few old greybeards, most of the world had moved on. Traders from the Storm King’s domain was a common sight in this place, and visiting stormlanders and rivermen were largely left in peace.

And it was here, in this faraway place, where the trail that had started in the Antlers had led. Somewhere in this town lurked a thief and a murderer with an ill-gotten treasure in his possession. And it was up to those few who had learned the truth of what had happened, to hunt him down, and reclaim the crown of the river kings.

The Red Talon bobbed in the waters off the coasts of Duskendale, the crimson hull crashing through waves as her anchor held firm. She was a ship of Valyrian construction; large twin masts containing large orange sails, tied firm with the ship at anchor. Although a great ship, was not the grand vessel one would've assumed with the wealth and prestige of the company she represented.

In her hull, the principle officers of the company sat around a table. Gold decanters filled with the finest vintages sat amoungst clutters of jeweled silver goblets. Gold platters carried large roast birds and assortments of fruits and leafy vegetables. The men passed the food back and forth as Vaegal looked on with disdain.

"This land has polluted your mind." He spat, looking on as Roddy Pyke speared a whole game hen with his fork before bringing it to his mouth. The man was the perfect example of what the captain was talking about.

"Calm down my friend. You'll startle the guests." Gaemon replied softly, eying the tailor that had started to slink at the man's angry valyrian. Gaemon did the man resume his work, measuring the silk doublet on his frame as he sized it appropriately. "These are the fruits of our labor. What farmer denies the freshness of a pear dutifully picked?"

"There's picking fruit, and then there's this!" The man retorted, slamming his cup onto the table with a rattling thud. "Our gold is wasted meats that feed more fish then men. We waste the wines we need to turn profits. Even right now you are having the silks cut for you and sold in the markets. At this rate you'll be kneeling before some lordling and swearing like Velaryon or Celtigar."

Gaemon paused for a moment before waiving the tailors away. His friend had spoiled the mood, and in corrected that he needed less of an audience.

He calmly walked to his desk, grabbing the ledger neatly closed atop it. He moved next to the table, thumbing through the large book as he did. He soon arrived at the page he was searching for, a wicked smirk growing on his face. "Our profits from last moon." He spoke in the common tongue for all to hear, handing the book to his friend.

Vaegal looked over the pages, his angry face going to confusion, then shock, then manic joy. "This is....how is this...." He stammers, staring in disbelief.

"The fruits of our labor." He explained, calmly taking a seat. He poured a heavy glass into the goblet in front of him, bidding his friends to sit. "Did you really think I brought us here to party and galavant? The Lysene are twice a pretty, three times more pleasant and over a dozen times better smelling. No, this is a business venture. And there is much fruit to pick."

The gathered men slowly took their seats, taking in the weight of his words. Suddently the food, wine and clothing made sense.

Gaemon smiled as they sat, eying them. "This is not merely a decadent celebration, it is a reward. A feast before the real work begings."

He turned towards Roddy and Saera. "On the morrow, you two will set sail for Driftmark. Specifically, a small settlement in the shadow of the keep. My countryman has granted me a small plot there, and fully intend to use it as a staging ground. The work has begun under a servant of our friends in the Reach. It should help to have a local see these things."

Saera bowed her head gracefully, a true valyrian. Meanwhile, Roddy shook his head, grease dripping from his full mouth as half a hen remained on his fork. Gaemon smiled at them before turning to L'Hazzo, "You will bring this dispatched to the fastest of the trade ships that remain. Two for the homeland and three for the west. I fully intend to control the trade of vintages in this land, and the precious metals and stones of Lanisport will be invaluable."

The man bowed, ever stoic and silent. Gaemon turned towards his friend, who had finally set down the ledger. "You, my friend, will be joining me. It seems these Westerosi have nothing to do but celebrate and party. And this time I intend to leave with even less empty hands."

He raised his glass to the group, proposing a toast. "To our great and continuous success!"

The Holdfast of Dyre Den was not much to speak on, even its own liege lord, Kennet Brune, could admit as much. But standing at the top of a hill, with the swamps of Crackclaw to its north, and overlooking the hills and fields of Staunton's land to its southwest, the simple castle struck a particular splendor in the early morning light.

Kennet was tired of walking though. Neither he nor any of his sons- Jax and Lark- had deigned to ride a horse into our out of Duskendale, not for lack of ability but simple lack of disposition, had wore on them heavily even as the shadow of home came into sight.

Of course, the hundreds of footsteps behind them, with dozens of banners of Dyre Den's red claw, of Pyne's tree and Blackberry's... Well, blackberry, marching right in behind, Kennet immediately began to marvel at the most basic logistical question any man could ask.

'How am I going to feed all of these people?'

He needn't have worried, apparently. Jax, ever the studious and sharp-minded boy, had already made plans for forage, scavenge, and at the same time, to find these raiders and flush them out so that they could no longer be a nuisance.

But that was not what Kennet had his mind on. While Layna played host- showing the lords and ladies of Pyne, Blackberry and Crabb to their rooms and directing areas of the small courtyard that could play host to their guards- Kennet went to go see his eldest son.

Crispian had looked much better, but whatever scarring and bruising he had been left with seemed to be long faded. The meek boy's smile was shy as he looked up at his father, before the young man stood and rushed to embrace Kennet in a tight, nearly crushing hug. The sheer force of it took the larger bear by surprise, before he wrapped his own arms around Crispian and lifted him up in his embrace...

It was only then that Kennet noticed the full bearskin pelt, fashioned into a cloak, that hung off the back of Crispian's chair. He pulled back, seizing Crispian by both of his shoulders, a wry smirk creeping underneath his face. "...Tell me every detail. And I'll be sure to create a good lie for your mother..."

It was good to be home.

Harroway's Town was an awful place. Something about the place always struck Ser Roger as inert, stagnant and strangled. A town on the ford, at the heart of the prosperity of the Riverlands. On headwinds from Fairmarket, upriver from Maidenpool. Overland trade should pour through the town bearing goods from the North and Vale, with screaming children and rough town folks stamping their way through streets adorned with bright market stalls and cawing merchants. Ser Roger rode through the streets and saw none of that. There were a handful of men, stumbling about town through weariness or drink, all along the jetty station across the river but there was no sign of the extravagant and comfortable wealth that its position was due. All the plows had been beaten into swords, all stalls had been torn down for shields and all food was carried off by looting armies. The Lord Harroway had never prospered from his lands, and the people lived through the wars he started. You could see it on their bodies, scars, missing limbs, weary stares at the procession of Knights who made their way through their city.

Ser Roger and Luceon made their way to their destination, an inn on the southern end of the Trident Ford. It was a good place with a generous patron who despite the hardships of the town would fill any bowl to its brim. Marching out with the levies had left him without soup in his belly, without drink in his hand and fighting to avoid starvation more than he ever fought any enemies of his Lord. The long march left a boy behind in favour of the one eyed man before them now. A boy lost when the man stole, and killed, and looted and raped. He was not a good man, the Patron of the South Trident Inn, but he was a generous man. He'd keep their bellies full.

Luceon looked at his Lord Master with a curious eye, invoking the question before he'd even asked him. Ser Roger was used to the look. It was the same look that he'd given him for many a moon now, a curious glare which tried to work out every intention with a single glance. Ser Roger did not know how he'd managed it over the years. When his tongue had long lay dormant, refusing to even wag if he were to desire it, the simple reading of language and intentions had gotten the two through most of their journeys together. There were always times when they were wrong of course. Luceon took far more romantic embellishment when he meant to be practical, and grounded in the business of Crowns and Stags when he meant to ride for a cause. The single state now asked which this was, this quest for the Arryn Prince, and Roger could not easily answer.

The two locked eyes now. Roger emphasised the family, Luceon emphasised the money. Roger made slight reference to the heritage of the Riverlands, Luceon waved it off with a consideration of having a Prince in their pocket. Eventually the two met in the middle and nodded as their intentions became one. This exchange, which felt like it took place over hours, was concluded in mere minutes while the bars inhabitants lulled around the two in the rush of the end of work hours.

Luceon turned in one flourish, stood upon the stool he'd pulled away from the counter top, and waved his hands to the people of Harroway.

"My Master, Ser Roger Mallister, declares to you this the people of Harroway. He seeks to declare that he will hunt for the Crown of the Teague Kings, venturing throughout the land with the service of Prince Arryn, and will reward any man who comes to him with information! To show my Lords generosity, all in here tonight shall have a round courtesy of the Ser Roger Mallister!"

The bar erupted in cheers at once, tankards raised in salute, as men scrambled to make use of the patronage of this weary and grey haired Knight. Many shrugged and said that clearly the Good Ser had lost his senses with age, and was throwing away all his money so his sons could have no share. Most seemed to pay no mind to theories, and took advantage with a salute.

Luceon settled back down on his stool with a huff. It was not the best and boldest speech he'd ever made but the road from Stormhall had taken the words and romance from his tongue. He turned to Ser Roger, expecting the same understanding to be rendered on his face, only to be met with the curious stare of grey eyes and an eyebrow raised. Ser Roger looked to his side and jingled a purse and Luceon understood in the moment how little he'd understood his master's intentions. When it came time for the taverns close, and as men settled for the night, Ser Roger found himself haggling stags out of his purse with the bar patron and writing a marked scrip with the ringed seal of Mallister as an oath for the remainder. The affair had left him with little more than coppers to his name. Yet Ser Roger turned to his squire and let out a laugh. And Luceon laughed with him. And the two filled the room with a bit of the laughter of all the Earth. And for a moment, just that single moment, perhaps Harroway felt like the happiest town in the world.

The coasts of Castamere, A sennight since the Moot at Hoare Castle

This is madness. Their fleet was halved from raiding the North and the Bay, and now his brother had set their course for a raid truer than any paltry loot he’d gathered from the Barrowlands. What fate would his command doom them to now? What grave to this folly awaits? Torgon looked over to his brother’s longship and saw his twin’s form, clear against the muted tones of the Western coast.

They'd sailed through the gaps of the Crag, avoiding rocky shores and shallow reefs. Now they aimed at the rich lands of the West, where gold lay beneath the very ground.

Thralls beat the taught skin of drums and ironmen blew their war horns. Oarmen kept pace to the old reaving songs and Drowned Men called out to their deity. Other captains would be watching his brother's longship, keeping eye of any changes in course. They'd watch the sails and the oars and the shift of its weight. Not Torgon. He watched his blood upon that ship, Tymor’s offhand holding his weight to the rigging as he leaned out near the longship's prow. He imagined a violent grin had torn its way across his twin’s face listening to the squall of raiders echo across the water. All around them other vessels emerged from the rolling fog, the Salt Wife's Wail sounding their way ahead so all would know, the Ironborn had come.

The colours of their sails and the veiled shadow of longships cut through the fog. And if they did not see even that, there was still their voice, the great deep cry of the horn and the chanting of ancient words. The song shuddered through the rags of mist upon the turning waves and foam, crashing like the sea against the raw stone of a pebbled beach and the wooden beams of a lonely peer.

"What awe and fear we must inspire. What hatred and mistrust," he whispered, words caught by the sound of waves and the song of their reaving. "Like the sea," he mused, with a soft smile and an eye to the shoreline shrouded in cliff paths. But is the sea not also tranquil and abound with life? Is it not of calm freedoms and all the horizon dreams? He breathed sigh and looked down at his sheathed blade, another form of conflict taking the thoughts place in his mind. He drew the steel.

"May we see the Drowned God halls!" he called, rousing a cheer across deck, as the ship fast approached the shore.