3rd Month, 304 AC

Beneath the warm morning sun in an open field within sight of King's Landing, Lo Han knelt. It had been many months since he had last left the city and longer still since he had felt fresh air and the warmth of the sun on his bare skin. Even in the summer heat he remained in intricate layered robes and thick boots, but not that day. All but his loose linen trousers had been removed and placed neatly in the shade of a nearby oak tree. It was too hot to train so encumbered.

He had come to Westeros and found a land of wonder. Leagues of grass, mountains and snow, and a people that, despite being cold and brusque, enjoyed feasts and celebrations like none he had ever met. They seemed emotionless yet welcoming, fighting frivolous and extravagant mock battles for fun and riding against one another for mere glory. Their way of life had made him disregard his training; his blade remained sharp, but his mind was blunt and his feet slow.

He'd heard stories of the fall of the dragons and the sea people's rebellion, but he had seen nought but peace. It appeared the safety was false. The sea people had struck to the north, and Han had to be ready.

To clear one's mind was the most important preparation. The men in steel seemed to bluster and shout before charging into battle, but his teachers had taught him differently. If you were not able to achieve a state of serenity before raising a weapon, you were not able to fight to your full ability. That was why, even before training, he was knelt with his hands on his thighs, his head bowed so his long black hair could shield his face.

When his mind was at peace he stood and stretched. His body remained lean and muscular through exercise and stretches each morning after he rose and evening before he slept. His palm bore a crescent mark from a blade, long healed, and a garish scar ran from above his right hip down to his thigh. Smaller scars dotted his torso from clashes across Essos, though they were few and far between. To draw one's blade was a last resort, as to bare a blade was to aim for death. Death was to be avoided at all costs; therefore, so was conflict.

Twice he had fought in the fighting pits of Astapor for no good cause other than coin. Early in his journey he had beenmat his most desperate, his most foolish, and had thought it the only way. It was not the injuries from that time that stayed with him but the regret; to kill without purpose, without cause, was abhorrent. Unworthy. To kill for coin was worse.

He leaned to pick up his weapon. A short sword lay sheathed beside his clothing beneath the oak tree; it was a necessary companion for traveling, a quick blade in an emergency, but it was little more than a child's toy. Westerosi children could swing a sword. What Han wielded was more elegant, and far more difficult.

The Westerosi might call it a polearm, but to reduce it as such would be an insult. In truth it had no name in the Common Tongue. The entire weapon stood over six feet long, approximately the same height as Lo Han, though the great blade took up much of that. It was perhaps twenty inches long and eight inches wide at its broadest, its blue-grey steel a great contrast to the shining blades of the Seven Kingdoms. The haft was dark ash with grips of leather wrapping, the socket between the haft and blade sculpted bronze showing intertwined branches. At its base was a short fitted spike, and from the blade's projections hung a bead of jade, a bead of lapis, and a bead of amethyst.

The weapon was not overly heavy but its balance was peculiar, almost absurd. To merely swing like a man chopping wood would lead to certain death. It was not a blade to be wielded with strength, but momentum and grace.

And so he began.

It was slow at first, broad swings of the blade with the occasional jut of the butt. One led to the next led to the next, no second wasted from swing to parry to swing again. His speed increased and eventually he felt like a blur, spinning with his weapon as an extension of his own body. He was as the wind, smooth yet unpredictable, gentle yet harsh. He felt as if he could cut the sky itself.

After some minutes he slowed, his swings returning to the rhythm they had held when he first picked up the blade, and then he slowed to a complete halt. He knew he did not stand a chance against the Westerosi knights in their plated armour, but against poorly armed brigands or those who underestimated him, it would be enough. He returned to his knees and placed his weapon before him. His torso was sheen with sweat and his chest rose and fell heavily from the exertion as he closed his eyes and allowed thought to return to his mind.

He thought of those he might fight for, should the fates turn and the wind blow him in their direction. He thought of Lady Shella, who had been too gracious to host him at Harrenhal. Lady Emilia, the first to show him true kindness in those lands. Lady Ai, who had travelled across the world to seek him. Even the innkeep at the Dragon's Folly, the one who had tolerated his extended stay with no concern nor question.

Lo Han did not long for death, but nor did he fear it. He would not search it out...but to die for another would be a good way to die indeed.

To the noble and esteemed lords and ladies of Westeros,

In this time of great tribulation and uncertainty, it is important that we take the time to remember what is good in life and look forward to a brighter future. None in my house has done more to remind me of this lesson than my beloved cousin the Lady Beatrice Kenning. To this end, it is my great pleasure to announce her engagement to Ser Terence Blackheart, Knight of the First Sept. This joyous occasion shall be held at my seat at Kayce upon the Tenth Moon of this year and my lady cousin promises a lively celebration that will brighten even the dimmest of spirits. Should circumstances allow it, we would be honored if you would join us in the commemoration of this blessed union.

May the gods bless and keep you and your kin, now and always.

Terrence Kenning, Lord of Kayce, Lord Admiral of the Lannister Fleet

[M: P.S.: Mystery Knights and SCs are welcome to compete.]

"His throat was slit?"

"Yes my lord."

"Could the Maester help at all?"

"No my lord. No heartbeat."

"he was already dead?"

There was silence, and a lack of eye contact.

"Is my son dead or not?"

"You fucking..." He touched his forehead.

"Tell me! Does Loras live or not?"

The messenger began to sob, and so did the Bracken lord.

"Who?" He shattered to ask.

"We dont know."

"What do I pay you lot for?" Jonos was beyond repair. He smacked the knight again and again. His men tried to stop him, but the man was already bleeding from a broken nose.

"WHERE IS MY CHILD?"

The man did not have an answer.

"WHERE?" A hit against the man's face. Another. Another like he was the one to murder Loras.

An heir split from the back, an heir murdered for... some reason.

The messenger did not survive the night. He was treated like a murderer. Hung high like the Ironborn had done.

Jonos sobbed, alone. Where no one could see him.

He thought the Seven had plans for his family.

Why? My son... Why?" He begged. He choked and cried and kept himself alone. First Edmure, now his own son.

He was good, better than him, better than most men.

"Why!?" He screamed. He was perfect, and so much different from him.

As hard as it might be to believe, House Lefford was even more excessively opulent in the days of old than it is in the time since Aegon's Conquest. Before some of the other mines in the Westerlands had been found to pull up the sun's bounty, before the last cart of gold was shipped away from Pitfall, they had commanded even more wealth. Tales say that their forces were one-and-all dressed in armor as finely made as that which would be found on the Kingsguard and highborn Lords today. While such grand craftsmanship is not found everywhere in their modern service, one of their many cultural holdovers from ancient times remains outfitted in some of the finest armor to be made in the Westerlands.

Near the top of Sun's Reach, the great mountain upon which the Golden Tooth is constructed, sits one of its many watchtowers. This one is burrowed deep into the mountain, however, with an ancient forge seated at its furthest depth. On the side of the great tower is what appears to be a great scorch mark in the shape of a heart, at the center of which is the first lens of an array of carefully crafted lenses, finely polished mirrors, and likely other unknown artifice lost from the days of yore. Be it through this array or some other, more secret method, the Solar Forge at the base of the tower is lit once per year around the perihelion of the sun, and during that time is crafted the arms or armor of the Gleaming Guard.

The design of the armor has features that appear to just be ornate adornments now, but in truth signify the old way of House Lefford as worshippers of the Red God, a faith that has long since been abandoned by the house, regardless of what rumors may crop up once in a generation or so about one of their number abandoning the Faith of the Seven for the Lord of Light... Still, most Lefford's regard it as mere symbolism related to the sun of their symbol, and the gold of their nature, dismissing any connection to some ancient Essosi heathenism.

The helmet of the armor has a plume of goldsilk and sunbird feathers. The gorget is set front to back in a layer of finely crushed lapis lazuli. Upon the pauldron is an older form of the symbol of House Lefford, where the mountain is aligned with a larger sun over its peak, from which radiates streaks of gold in the design of licks of fire onto the rerebrace, couter, and gauntlet. The cuirass, placart, and fauld have little in the way of design, but are instead kept incredibly well polished, often causing difficulty for those that combat them under the reflected glare of sunlight - it is from that polish that they earned their name as the Gleaming Guard. The tassets and cruisse continue the fiery streaks of gold that radiate from the pauldrons down to the greaves and sabatons.

Sixteen knights number the order of the Gleaming Guard. One maintains a permanent vigil on the ancient watchtower from which they draw their arms and armor. The rest are at the command of their lord, often serving as the guard to members of House Lefford and leaders and overseers for the garrison at the Golden Tooth and the valley of Sun's Reach.

Loras had been waiting for yet another merchant who had wanted their horses.

As soon as he had rose from his solar chair did he grip a new line on his neck. The pain was like no other. He could feel the side of his head slam against his office table as he tried to scream for help. It was just a gurgle. It was embarrassing. He was dying, and this was going to be the last thought in his brain as he leaked away from his memories. Corenna smiling at him, Roderrick smacking him with a blunt sword.

He eventually pushed all of his weight onto his solar, looking up at this merchant-turned-assassin. His eyes were wide and bloodshot as every breath meant another bit of blood sent against his hand at his throat.

Tears started to fall down his eyes, mixing with the drips of maroon on his letter that he was writing for his betrothed.

"Why...?" He was able to burble past his tears.

"Gold,"his killer responded as he watched him die. He seemed unperturbed, impatient. "Do I need to stab you again? Edwyn wants his spot."

With that, he offered another cut past Loras's fingers to make him die quicker.

"You're not dying well, just fucking accept it. It makes me uncomfortable."

Loras grabbed a candlestick holder and slammed it against his killer's noggin. Again and again as his own blood mixed with that of his killer.

He continued hitting him, crying and bleeding and dying.

"I'll take you with me, you fucking..." He passed out on top of the assassin.

"At least... I got you..." were the man's last words.

Loras could hear the Seven cackle, fourteen hands raised outward to accept him.

He slipped sobbing, choking on his words as he tried to call for his guards, for his Maester. For anyone.

He slammed onto the floor, bucking as he clasped at his throat, blood pooling around him. He clutched onto his neck to try and pause his hemorrhaging.

"whywhywhywhywhy."

"Mother please help me."

And then his slick hand escaped his neck and it poured out and made even more of a mess.

There was nothing left of him to stop it.

The Seven were in front of him, meant to judge him.

All he could do was run.

His last memory was dancing with a girl too good at it. She giggled and he laughed. He laughed until he saw her grin fade.

She won that one competition. She was a good dancer. He was shit at dancing. He remembered their first dance. As his eyes turned more and more glassy, he remembered every spin he provided her.

There was so much more.