Winds of Winter II: Whispers in the Vale (IC)

[heretic]

Tyramear
Many leagues southwest of Greycrown Keep, approaching Steppe Hill

The snow is falling in great sheets before you, flexing, rarefracting, and condensing as the wind’s fickle breath snaps it about. Beneath you, White Socks plows on with his characteristic sure step. It’s not yet a blizzard, but just the same, you’re happy to be nearing your destination. The lands of House Lipps are familiar to you enough—you’ve been here before to ply your trade as a healer and to swap stories with the trappers. Without a castle to protect them, the smallfolk of Steppe Hill are a knobby, hardy bunch. More likely than most to accept a healer like yourself, instead of a maester.

You’re here to assess the health of the maiden Jeyne Lipps, daughter of Lord Ronnet Lipps. You don’t know her, but she was almost betrothed once to Lord Roger Egen, who demurred on account of her “sickly health.” Lord Alyn (may the Father judge him kindly) was suspicious of his liegelord’s explanation and sent his catspaw Banion to observe her. One might as well examine a gem’s flaws with a sooty loupe. Banion is many things, but he is not learned in the humors and substances of the body, and his report, that her health is strong, is as reliable as a coin flip.

Thus, you are here to do the job right, even after Alyn’s passing. True, it was the Lady Alyssa who bid you to finish Alyn’s business, but your dreams foretold this would come. Lately, they have been filled with strange contradictions—sailing ships made of heavy gold that float easily on the sea, a one-eyed crow drinking a cup of red wine like a man, and a dragon hatchling bursting from an egg, only to reveal he is made of snow. Now, you too live an irony. Normally, healers obey the living to dance with the Stranger, but now, you follow a dead man’s command toward a woman who seeks no medicine.

The wind reverses once more, and briefly, the motes of snow are transfixed in the air instead of falling in curtains, allowing you to spy the top of a tower up ahead. It’s the north tower, one of three held by House Lipps. You recall sits amid a circle of huts and the inn known as the Sow’s Ass. Beside you, Balericat leans up to rub his snowy face on your boot, cleansing the icy scales from his cheek.

---

Mera
Northwest of Moonhome—the caravan mid

It’s been an easy go of it for the last couple days, as far as winter journeys go. The caravan of two-dozen odd servants, soldiers, and retainers has made good time through the winding mountain passes. In wintertime, many of the passes and short-cuts are impassible with ice. Despite Ser Gorlen’s best efforts to locate a faster route, your party has been confined to the deepest trails and canyon-beds, where the ground is still soft and the snow hasn’t piled deep. Your first destination isn’t far. By the order of Lord Roger Egen, the caravan makes for Moonhome, to meet and treat with Lord Roger, before plowing on to the tourney at the Gates of the Moon.

Your squire Walda is sharing your saddle, seated just behind you. She’s like as not never been down this far on the inside of the mountains. Many smallfolk never travel far from where they’re born, especially those with flocks to tend. Despite her humble beginnings, she's picking up squiring rather quickly. Already, she's mastered blade-sharpening (axe, spear, and knife), bow-stringing, and shield-waxing. You're planning on teaching her fletching next, as she's already versed in caring for animals. Since you've taken her on, your kit has never looked so good and Redfoot's mane shines as bright as you've ever seen. As you walk, she peppers you with questions. “Is the Gates of the Moon a mightier castle than Greycrown Keep? Will you ride in the tourney? Will Ser Artys Arryn be there? Will the King be there?”

The tourney to name the Brotherhood of Winged Knights is the subject of much interest among the caravan—not in the least because Morris has yet to name House Corrett’s champion. However, circumstance has limited the number of eligible lances. Denys Stone and Dogsbane Hoyne were left behind at Greycrown Keep to keep the peace with the Howler clan. Ser Oswell Moore rides just a few lengths ahead, but considers himself too old to take on the duty of protecting young Lord Robert Arryn, and has therefore withdrawn from consideration.

---

Banion
Northwest of Moonhome—the caravan rear

The peaks and ridges rise all around, dwarfing the caravan as you ride along the low pass. They’ve gotten a heavy dusting of white since you last laid eyes on them, as if from a celestial baker-marm’s sifter. One only hopes that this godsome baker-marm finds herself in good temper; you’ve found that her earthly sisters are fond of chasing you with rolling pins.

Next to you on horseback, Dryn the Redtooth is belting out Follow Me Up To Strongsong in an earthy brogue. True to his name, the Redtooth’s cure for travel chills is wine, well-mulled.

“Lift my son o’er your face, brooding o'er the old disgrace when
Old Lord Ruth’rmont stormed your place and drove you to the Burn.
Shett said victory was sure, soon the Runestone he’d secure
‘Til he met at Giant’s Moor with King Robar the Bronze!”

As journeys go, this one is excellent. There are plenty of soldiers to scare away mountain raiders, grooms to tend your horse, and even Lenn the cook is along to keep the Little Lord (and everyone else) well-fed. And of course, there’s Dryn’s company.

“Curse and swear Lord Corbray’r, Rob will do what Rob will dare
Now Ol’ Ruthermont have a care, fallen is your star low
Up with halberd, out with sword! On we’ll go for by the lord
Bronze Robar has given the word. Follow me up to Strongsong.”

You have been to Moonhome just a handful of times, none of them particularly eventful. It’s a stout fortress, but not as grand as Greycrown Keep. But this time, you’ll be examining more than the winesink, stable-loft, and gaol-cell. Some days ago, you lifted the manifest from the ship Sunset Wind—an old order of Alyn’s. Lady Alyssa tells you that the scrawlings on the device indicate that Ketter of Moonhome, an Egen Serjeant, disembarked with one Stallicho Hestirah, a mercenary with the Bright Banners company.

“See the swords of weirwood tails, a-flashing o’er the Andal pale
See all the children of the Vale, beneath o’ Royce’s banner.
Rooster of a fighting stock would yet let the Eastern ****
Cry out upon the First Men’s rock, fly up and teach him manners!”

Alyn’s purpose for obtaining the manifest is unclear, but what is clear is that House Egen has business with mercenaries, and may have trafficked in other unusual items aboard, including blue dyes, wool carpets, silk screens, myrish lenses, and a talking bird.

---

Alyssa Corrett
Northwest of Moonhome—the caravan lead

Little Morris looks a right proper lord in his brigandine doublet, the steel strips enameled with the Corrett blues and whites. He’s got his finest cloak on, a dark, heavy thing with bear’s fur lining the soulders. True to his northman blood, he lets it hang as it pleases, instead of clutching at it like a swaddled babe, even as the wind picks up and brushes little flurries off the frosted peaks. He may be only fourteen years old, but he’s learned how to give a lordly look and sit a lordly saddle.

It’s just as well, for this will be his first visit to Moonhome as the head of house—the last time Morris treated with Lord Roger Egen, they were both boys, dashing around the Keep and playing wiggly-piggly under the Sadmaester’s drooping eye. Now he carries steel on his hip where there was once wood, and he's too high and mighty to let his mother wipe dirt off his face with her thumb. While one hopes for the best with this visit, Morris can be as unpredictable as a tray of water in a servant’s hand—flowing one way before inexplicably tilting and streaming back again. Boys his age are prone to flights of fancy, but it’s even worse when you plop them on a chair and make them lord of a castle. So far, Morris’s endeavors have not led to ruin, though they have come close. He marched to war with the Howler clan, but his army returned unbloodied, having secured peace vows and hostages. He lusted after his dead brother’s betrothed (a dornishwoman, of course—he is his father’s son, damn it!), but suddenly sent her away to attend court. One hopes his service to his liegelord will follow a steadier course.

“—and one of these cousins married my lord grandfather Alyn.” Morris glances over to you, then sensing no objection, continues his recitation of facts about House Egen. Roger Egen is only three years older than Morris and only slightly longer in his rule. The man is withdrawn, not known for deeds or travels. His letters say little and less, merely repeating news from the Eyrie or elsewhere without embellishment. They say he has a dovish mien; that his hand is better fitted to a falconer’s glove or writing quill than a sword, and that he makes little effort to treat at the Eyrie. This last tale is a surprise, given House Egen’s storied reputation of leal service to the Arryns. Mayhaps Lord Roger cares not for Littlefinger. He has given no indication as to his leanings on the dispute that has divided the Vale. And yet a ship’s manifest recovered by the lock-smith Banion shows House Egen courting sellswords from the Free Cities. Clearly, something is afoot in Moonhome.

---

Maester Adwin
Northwest of Moonhome—the caravan mid

You were but a child during the last winter, and as the saying goes, you still have the scent of summer on you. It was not so noticeable from within Greycrown Keep, where the mighty bastions and battlements rebuffed the wind, and the servants kept the hearths roaring with timber. But out here in the deep passes, the icy wind seems to blast right through your cloak and leathers, leaving behind a fell chill that grows with each gust.

The seriousness of this journey justifies the discomfort. Lord Morris is young and headstrong, and in need of wise counsel. Lord Protector Petyr Baelish’s rule has already brought the Vale to the brink of war with the Lords Declarant, and the Arryn line is not secure. Lord Robert Arryn is a small boy, and according to Maester Colemon’s letters, sickly besides. You can see that this tourney is Baelish’s device to bind the great houses of the Vale to him, by holding close their finest knights and binding their honor to Robert’s life. But at the same time, bringing together every lord and vainglorious knight is a recipe for gamesmanship and acrimony. To make matters more delicate, your liegelord Roger Egen is himself barely a man grown, and like Morris, new to his rule. He’s said to be a bit of a recluse, his views unknown.

Hopefully the other maesters will share their wisdom on how best to see the Vale through this period. Maester Coleman has called a Conclave to take place at the tourney, and nearly every maester is expected to attend. Though they are strangers to you (except Maester Helliweg of Runestone, who taught healing at the Citadel), the prospect of meeting them fills you with comfort. After all, the Citadel was your life, until recently.

Lenn interrupts your thoughts with a particularly loud curse at the wind. He’s bound himself up with furskins, which hides his prodigious gut well, but also makes him appear almost perfectly round. His stirrups are cinched high to reach his short legs, which straddle his dappled garron like a wishbone bowing beneath the weight of a sledge. “What do the stars say about this bloody wind? I’ve sailed the Shivering Sea and felt nothing like this! It’s the bloody comet, isn’t it?” He’s referring to the red comet that’s been hanging in the sky for two years.

---

Marcus
Northwest of Moonhome—the caravan mid

“The walls of Pyke were higher still—tall by land and towering by sea. Aboard Sea Demon, I was able to behold both Great Wyk and the castle at Pyke. We arrived late to the siege of Pyke and so we contented ourselves with laying low the rope bridges with pitch-arrows and shot.” You’re trudging along between the northron warrior-woman Mara Snow and the master-of-arms Ser Oswell Moore, who sits high on a black gelding. Moore is a stocky man with close-cropped white hair, currently hidden under a leather coif. His tabard breast, fast to his plate, shows the bronze speartip of his house, quartered with the grey crown of Corrett. When Ser Oswell heard you served as a cabin boy during the Greyjoy Rebellion, he made quickly to bend your ear. The way he’s been going on, you get the sense that he rarely finds a ready audience. Few Valemen served in that war, so perhaps it doesn’t loom as large in the memory as it does in Lannisport, where the glow of the ships burning lit the town for a day and a night.

“Oh I remember Pyke,” Mara Snow chimes in. “I was over the walls not long after that half-mad Red Priest and his flaming sword. Twas a hard fight.” She leaves it at that. You were but eight years old at the time, and remember little but seasickness, shouting, and the dying men brought belowdecks. The Lady Lion never saw battle, but she took many wounded aboard after the storming of Pyke. Those were the days—back then the Clegane name stood for valor and glory, the allegations from the Rebellion merely a slander from distant Dorne. Now things are different. Both your uncles have disgraced themselves and the House with their murdering and desertion.

Up ahead in the column, you can see the wild-boy Kase riding a donkey, struggling to keep up with Lord Morris’s stallion. While the boy is Lord Morris’s ward and cup-bearer, he stands for a turn in House Clegane’s fortunes as well. Surely, the tale of your victory over Pimmen, son of Pard will spread beyond the Vale. The bounty of that duel has been sweet indeed. A mountain clan pacified. Wards taken. Vows sworn. A lord most pleased. And glory for House Clegane, however small it may be. Your uncles have done much to bring wreck and ruin to the good name of Clegane, but it may yet be salvaged. The hunt is not over.

---

Allyria Gargalen
The Gates of the Moon

Your time here in the Vale has not gone as planned. On top of losing your betrothed before even meeting him, his brother Lord Morris got the brilliant idea that you would make a good courtly emissary to the Eyrie, as you have the “woman’s touch” required to charm the Lady Lysa Arryn. Alas, you never got past the Gates of the Moon.

Myranda Royce lets out another sputter of laughter before quenching herself, barely maintaining her poise. You’re seated on cushioned chairs, up high on a frigid castle wall. Down below in the yard, two knights are clashing with shields and blunted swords. On the left is Ser Lothor Brune, in a battle-scratched steel breastplate and grilled greathelm, his shield painted bright with a bear’s paw above three apple cores. On the right is Uther Shett, his formerly-new plate showing dings and dents and the white gull of Shett barely visible on his shield, having been scoured off by Ser Lothor’s blows. Today is not Ser Uther’s day. The pimply youth is one of Lady Myranda’s many suiters, and thought to distinguish himself with a grand bout in the yard. A grand bout requiring a grand opponent, he picked Ser Lothor Brune, Littlefinger’s right hand man and a war hero of some kind. Ser Uther’s swordsmanship is not so grand.

They struggle for a few moments, and then Ser Lothor delivers a solid blow to his foe’s outstretched arm, putting Shett’s sword in the dirt. ‘Randa jumps up and applauds, suppressing her laughter and distain. “A splendid match! Ser Uther, you were so brave to challenge Lothor! Such gallantry!” Ser Lothor hands his sword and shield to his squire and lifts free his helm. Beneath, his short tangle of grey hair is damp with exertion, but his lined face nearly expressionless. He offers a curt nod to his opponent. For his part, Shett is doubled over, leaning on his shield and working his helm free. Presently, it slides off his head and clangs to the ground. Wheezing, he wills himself upright and offers a dazed smile. “I’m glad milady is pleased! The Apple-Eater landed a few good ones, I’m afraid.”

This is hardly the first bash-fest of a duel you’ve observed. When you first arrived here, you found that Lord Nestor Royce had forbid any ascent to the Eyrie following Lady Lysa’s murder. (People you’re expecting to meet seem to have a way of turning up dead.) Once again in limbo and waiting on word from House Corrett, your boredom was cut short by the arrival of a six-thousand-man army laying siege to the castle. During this time, you learned the taste of the local northron politics. Lord Nestor Royce, a cousin to the main branch of Royce, was granted the Gates of the Moon as a permanent seat by Littlefinger in return for keeping the army at bay. The army itself was raised by six Lords Declarant opposed to Lord Baelish’s rule. You were made to take rations of oats, parley, and pease porridge as the siege dragged on, but at last it ended when the Declarants disgraced themselves by showing steel at parlay. They soon departed. Throughout this time, you whiled away many an hour gossiping with ‘Randa or watching Ser Albar, her idiot brother, practice against Ser Marwyn Belmore, the lanky captain of the guard. You got a few bouts in yourself, though you could tell Marywn didn’t want to hit a girl until that time you got him good in the nuts.

Your thoughts drift back to the present when you hear your name. Ser Uther is bowing to you. “Lady Allyria. ‘twas a good bout, was it not?” It was not.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus tries to listen patiently, but this man talked like his tongue was trying to escape his mouth. Marcus would rather forget his time at the Iron Islands, but he had no grand tales of his own, merely a single victory. An important one, that had saved many lives and helped bring peace to the lands of his sworn lord, but telling a story of a duel that most here were present for would do nothing but delay Ser Oswell. And so, Marcus listened, nodding occasionally. Marcus' armor clanked an shifted around him noisily, with a cloak thrown over it that didn't reach past his knees. Somehow, the Clegane tabard over his armor remained remarkably clean despite the long road, the black hounds a stark contrast to the yellow field, but he had not replaced or repaired the shield slung on his back where the mountain champion's sword had marred it. He planned to keep that for as long as he could. He considered every stroke turned by the shield as a hundred soldiers spared. His axe serves as a walking stick, such was it's length even for his prodigious height. Not for the first time, he considers purchasing a mount for himself, even the hill savages had mules. But his funds were limited and he could not count on more for the time being, so practicality won out over comfort. His breath slides out from under his helmet, a puff of white in the cold. "I only saw Pyke from the sea my lord, and seldom at that. My ship never saw combat, and I was a boy besides. We mostly saw to aiding the wounded."

[Harmony]

Allyria Gargalen

Allyria quickly found her wits and beamed a smile at young knight."It was a roaring performance, Ser Uther. Like two bears going at each other." It was, she thought. No finesse, just savagely attacking one another, with the booming sound of iron against wood, until a weakness was found due to exhaustion. But, she didn't want to offend, and hoped he would take it as a compliment. "Is your arm alright?" regardless of their flailing, if the blows landed wrong, at least judging from the sound of the impacts, it seemed like they could crush bones, practice swords or not.

She wanted to tell him that he exposed to much of his frame, that he needed to test his opponents defense and reactions rather than flail away. Instead of giving as little ground as possible, trying to overextend his opponent to create a weakness and then strike. His biggest flaw though was his overconfidence in choosing an opponent, she had seen it in the footwork of the two men which one would win before the first blow was struck. But men in the north seemed quite sensitive about being approached by a woman on these matters, so she kept her opinion to herself. She had tried to show them instead a few times, but she felt they mistook her dance for a youthful spirit and her unwillingness to connect the blows she would have landed as an expected weakness. She felt horribly embarrassed about the incident with Marwyn. She regretted it ever since, but it was so infuriating when he didn't take her serious and she had already marked several hits - which he seemed to ignore - so she just might have lost her temper a little bit and let one land. She hoped he at least had learned to never let his guard down again. At least Myranda had enjoyed it, but she wasn't sure it outweighed the pangs of guilt.

She met Uthers eyes. The discomfort it seemed to cause here in the north, at least among those not reared to lead, had been weird at first, but at least it got their attention. "Do you want me to take a look?" she offered softly. She really didn't know much about broken or bruised limbs, but somehow according to the strange local customs, it seemed more plausible that she knew how to treat wounds than she knew how to ride. She expected it to be alright though, he had used the arm when he removed his helmet and shield. But then again, he seemed to have that certain level of stubbornness, and chances were he would pretend it didn't hurt until there was permanent damage.

Standing up, it was nearly painful how cold she was, how slowly her limbs reacted, and even more strange how she had accustomed to not feeling it. Living here was like spending the a night in the desert, but without the blankets to keep warm in. She wanted to ride, she wanted to dance to get her heat up, but most of all, she wanted a properly cooked meal. Even Lenn's meals had more character than whatever it was they called the barely edible food served here.
She glanced at Myranda, offering her a chance to intervene if she was interested, even though she knew Myranda didn't quite fancy the man.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Riding at the rear of the caravan has it's advantages and disadvantages. While those in the rear are typically "down wind" and must pass whatever excrement has been left along the road, there are fewer prying eyes and less likelihood of drawing the ire of someone in a position to do something about bad behavior. Banion seems to be relishing in that fact. Leaning forward as he rides, his arms folded in front of him and resting on the horn of his saddle - right over left, he gives a toothy, stained smile as he listens to Dryn sing. This is not the first skin of wine the pair of shared since they started the journey and it very likely will not be the last.

Finished stretching his back - no doubt stiff and sore given the jostling that is only expected with such a rocky path - Banion slowly rises back to a proper seat on his mount as Dryn enters the last verse of Follow Me Up To Strongsong. The rogue even sings along, albeit more softly than the Redtooth. He watches the line of the caravan, taking note of their progress and looking for riders coming down the ranks with news. With the song finished, Banion extends his right hand out to Dryn, signalling for the skin, which he takes when offered and guzzles down a warming and satisfying gulp. Gritting his teeth as the spiced wine runs down his throat and fills his belly, Banion lets out a soft hiss before handing the bag back to its owner. "It's amazing you can taste anything anymore after drinking that day in and day out," he tells Dryn in an aside. "... too much sourleaf, not enough cinnamon," Banion then adds, giving his thoughts on the batch.

While he idly converses with Dryn, the thief's mind begins to wander to his prior mission to the Sisters. Recollections and images flash through his brain: the feel of the hay he slept in above the pig sty, the smell of the salty sea breeze, the look of the astonished harbormaster's face, the lighthouse he purchased and brought back with him. His lips hid his teeth once again, but the smile on his face grew wider and warmer - an uncommon look for the man. Yes, someone might say Banion was downright content and even... happy? His hands rubbed at each wrist in turn, first his left, and then his right. The scars from repeated use of manacles itched sometimes - the skin having a memory of its own.

Perhaps figuring the silence was getting to him too much, Banion takes the opportunity to choose the next song. He launches into a deep, gravely rendition of Bessa the Barmaid, inserting his own unique lyrical changes in here and there:

There once was a beauty from the Vale;
On whose bust was written the price of ale;
But my heart did hurt when I lifted her skirt;
And between her legs, I discovered a tail...

[Space Lawyer]

Adwin shivers, trying to draw himself deeper into his cloak. He'd spent most of his life in the warm and humid air of Oldtown, surrounded by candles and books. Now here he was, trying not to freeze to death out on some muddy trail. What a change.

"No, Lenn, I'm afraid not. That visitor is simply a rock, though it may very well have been sent by the Seven as an ill tiding. I'd give more credit to the coming of winter,
the wind blowing over fields of snow, and the simle fact that we're stuck on this accursed path. Might as well be drawing the wind right to us."

Hopefully they would make it to the Gates of the Moon sooner rather than later. Arriving early would give the party a chance to claim the finest spot for their encampment, and allow Lord Egen to have time to compose himself. Making a strong first impression would be critical. Regardless of Littlefinger's plotting, this tournament would likely be a subject of discussion for some time and being fondly remembered in the reteelings would advance the house considerably.

[Sahe]

Mera


Mera let out a hearty laugh when she heard Walda inquiring about Ser Artys Arryn in another stream of questions, "The Falcon Knight has been dead for centuries Walda, he was the founder of House Arryn, the Lords of the Vale", Mera said to the other girl, "now wouldn't it be something if he attended the tourney?", she continued to tease. She sat on her trusty Redfoot and behind her, Walda, both of them wrapped in the heavy winter cloak to share the warmth it provided, chatting with her squire to pass the time.

"As for the King, I doubt it and after all which are you talking about? The Lion or the Stag? All the important lords, ladies and knights from the Vale will be there, in fact most of them will be from the Vale. Men like the Clegane Pup that is travelling with us will be the exception. Allyria will be there and I can't wait to see her again and for you to meet her...", Mera's voice trailed off a bit there and for a moment her eyes rested on Morris, riding at the head of the caravan. She loved her little brother, but he had done some questionable things since he had become Lord. Negotiating a piece with the Howlers and even worse, putting their fate in the hands of a Clegane. First leering after Allyria, which just didn't feel right for Mera, and then sending her away. Mera suspected he did it out of jealousy because Allyria and Mera's friendship. And then of course, there was the matter of her name. She had the letter of a dead king, making her officially a Corrett, but as long as Morris as the Head of House didn't acknowledge the letter, it was as useless as nipples on a breastplate.

After a few moments Mera noticed that Walda was still waiting for more answers from Mera. "As for the Gates of the Moon, I guess you have to judge for yourself", Mera continued as if nothing happened, "and I will try to enter as many contests as possible at the tourney. I doubt they'd let me in, but everyone who is important in the Vale will be there. It's my chance to make my name known and test my skills against the best fighters the Vale has to offer."

[dmarks]

The lady of Greycrown barely noticed the rolling of her horse beneath her as she studied her son. She had never thought to see him in such a position, always thought that Jon would become a lord when he was ready, or that Moris's fancies would pass with age. But have been and mayhaps don't get the job done, as they say. She had been strong for her husband, and she would be strong for her son, that was certain. Perhaps though, his fancies could be curbed, at least until he was a man in truth. She had enough of a mess untangling what her husband had left to her without these new problems.

"You have the right of it son," she counselled. "And remember your courtesies. Even if you forget who married whom, and when, remember to respect your liege lord, for men will forgive a great many things to those they like, a very few to those they disdain. Now show me your manners son,
introduce yourself as though I were Lord Egen."

She could feel her aunt's gaze on her back, and knew the old woman would have a grin as wide as the valley itself. Just so long as the woman kept a look out for any more of those clansmen and didn't interrupt Moris, then at least Alyssa would be glad she had come all the way from Bear Island. Knowing she had the loyal warrior to protect her -last remaining son- (those words still hurt) was a comfort.

[DukeGod]

Finally Tyramear thinks, raising his arm to rub away some snow from his own face. He'd made haste to here, bribing White Socks with amaranth, thankfully found in most of the forest, resistant weed that it is.

But once within Lipps's lands, he could slow down. Take his time to help the populace, let word of his presence reach the Lord. He wasn't a complete stranger, but most lords didn't really remember him unless he had worked some small miracle with an illness the inknosed maesters were lost with

As a matter of fact, might aswell draw some attention now.

Fond of a show, Tyramear lights his lantern with strong oil, to make the fire burn hot, and sprinkles it with copper shavings. It wouldn't produce the bright green flame he'd get if he used the proper powders, but it'll be discernably different from a normal lantern. Hanging it from his saddle, he kicks White Socks back in motion towards the tower

[heretic]

Lady Alyssa

Morris looks a little relieved when you point out that liegelords judge their bannermen by more than their matrimonial recall. Taking on your next challenge, he composes himself as if addressing Lord Roger. “Good morrow, my lord. Your hall is splendid!” It’s too informal, and shallow besides. He screws up his face and tries again in a graver tone, bowing towards you in his saddle. “My liege, it is an honor to behold your …” He clutches his face with a hand, laughing at how obsequious he sounds.

The path switches back around a high spur of stone. As you navigate 'round it, rocking gently in your saddle, Moonhome comes into view. It’s a sturdy castle of pale stone, with seven elegant towers springing forth from its walls, and an inner keep peeking out from behind. It’s an older castle than Greycrown Keep, but smaller and less grand. Where Greycrown Keep rises boldly in the center of the pass, framed by the mountains on either side, Moonhome is tucked away, dwarfed by the mountains around it. Down by the gate, you can see a few distant specks. Riders come to hail you, no doubt. Someone behind you lets out a whoop at the sight of the castle.

The riders make for you at a fast clip, crossing the distance in no time. In front is Pearse Egen, a cousin to Lord Roger. He's long-limbed and gangly but not yet a man grown. Next comes Myles Stone, master-at-arms in Moonhome and a bastard to some distant Arryn. He’s tall and broad as you remember, but with less pepper and more salt in his beard. It’s an ugly cut, resembling a dead muskrat stuck to his mouth on an otherwise clean-shorn face. You don’t recognize the third man, but his long hair is tangled and he doesn’t look highborn. All three are done up with heavy leathers and cloaks, as well as the Egen livery on their chests: a yellow sun, white moon, and white star on blue over white.

Pearse bows to Morris from his saddle. “Lord Corrett. It’s a pleasure. My Lord Cousin bid me escort your party to the castle.” Morris handles himself well this time, at least. “Of course, Pearse. I look forward to the famous Egen hospitality!” Pearse turns to you next. “Milady, please accept my condolences. The loss of Jon and Alyn was tragic indeed. Our septon lit a brace of candles before the Father each night for a fortnight when we heard of their passing.”

As you speak to Pearse, the other two riders take their leave to visit with your retainers.

---

Maester Adwin

Lenn looks a little crestfallen that you’ve punctured his superstition. “Aye, an ill tiding from the Seven it may be. Though mayhaps it was dispatched by another god. They say the priests of the Lord of Light can summon daylight from candles and infernos from embers.” He leaves the rest of this senseless theory unsaid, which is perhaps just as well. A hue and cry raises from the van and for a moment you think there’s an attack. But no, it’s the sight of Moonhome, your intermediate destination before the tourney.

You haven’t laid eyes on it before, but it’s a fine castle of white limestone constructed in the Andal style with rounded towers (seven of them, another Andal touch). The pass is too wide here to defend with a central castle, so Moonhome is set aside, forcing invading armies to choose between laying siege or suffering raids to the supply train.

The castle is a welcome sight. You can only imagine the comforts within: steaming baths, hot stew, mulled wine…and the introductions between two new lords.

---

Marcus

Ser Oswell clears his throat, no doubt about to regale you with another tale of times past, but he’s cut short by a cheer raised up ahead. You turn the switchback around a huge boulder and behold the valley opening to flatlands, and a fine castle holding the northern side. As with most Vale castles, you haven’t visited Moonhome before. House Egen is similarly distant, although you remember seeing an Egen knight ride a likesome tilt or two during King (then-Prince) Joffrey’s nameday tourney. They’re said to be an ancient, noble house, and close to the Arryns.

---

Marcus, Adwin, Mera

Soon enough, some riders from the castle greet Lord Morris up ahead, and the remainder of the column catches up, bringing you together.

One of the Egen riders makes his way down the line, greeting various servants and soldiers who seem to know him. He’s a bit past forty, but still with the strong frame of a fighting man. Ser Oswell names him as they clasp hands and embrace. “Ser Myles! It’s good to see you again, you rascal, you!”

---

Mera

You’ve met Ser Myles several times. He won his spurs in Robert’s Rebellion and has served the Egens ever since. As he approaches, Walda whispers in your ear. “Is he a knight? Will you unseat him in the tourney? He’s really big.” He is tall, but on foot Marcus would overtop him, as would the Avalanche or the Greatjon . . . or the Red Knight from Ashefort. You recall Maester Adwin saying that Ser Myles will indeed champion House Egen in the tourney.

---

Banion

Dryn brandishes the skin as he finishes the last verse of Follow Me Up To Strongsong, swinging it in time. After passing it over and accepting it back, Dryn defends the honor of his wine. “Not enough cinnamon? All that time in the Sisters must have addled your tongue. You’ve eaten enough pickled fish by now to piss vinegar and seawater!” Dryn takes the last swig from the skin and tucks it away among the others. Despite his drinking, or perhaps because of it, Dryn is popular among the garrison and an able leader. He’s also powerful skilled at sobering up in a hurry. He once drank you under the table at the Lost Key just before Lord Alyn unexpectedly ordered an archery demonstration for Lord Wydman. Dryn outshot nearly all his men, damn the circumstances.

When you start up with Bessa the Barmaid, he laughs and tries for a jest. “Ah, I see you tasted all kinds of fish at the Sisters! No wonder you want to scourge your mouth with cinnamon.” Very pleased with his jape, Dryn nevertheless joins in on the song, bringing it to a lilting finish.

There’s a commotion up ahead and presently, a rider bearing House Egen’s sigil on his chest trots to the end of the caravan. He looks familiar, but you can’t name him. Some Egen guardsman. Dryn clasps his arm, grinning. “Ketter! Your skin glows like a Dornishman’s! Have you been commanding the garrison at . . . Sunhome?” He must be thinking himself very clever at this point. This Ketter was a passenger on the Sunset Wind.

---

Allyria

Ser Uther smiles at your description of the bout. “Thank you, milady. I say the bout was blessed. The two of you are so angelic, it was as if I fought before the eyes of the Maiden herself.” At this, Myranda whispers to you, “my god does he lay it on.” She’s right. To Ser Uther, she clutches her breast and gives a wordless “awwwwwww!” He retires, demurring on your offer to tend to his many bruises.

Myranda gives a great sigh, unleashing all the air and tension she’s been holding inside while the knights competed. “Can you believe he did that? One of these lunkhead suitors is going get killed—making kissy eyes at me during a tilt, or challenging some bloodthirsty killer like Corbray.” Ser Lyn Corbray is a deadly swordsman, humorless and spiteful. He slew Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard on the Trident and regularly kills men in duels. “And gods help me, I will finish the next man who calls me a maiden! Seven above!” Myranda was widowed under most unfortunate circumstances.

Down in the yard, you see a small group making its way toward the practice lists, where a number of knights taking turns riding at a quintain. Among them are Petyr Baelish, his daughter Alayne Stone, Maester Coleman, and a few others. They’re moving slowly enough that you expect that Lord Robert is with them. Littlefinger’s household is quite strange. His ward, Lord Robert is a tiny, fitful waif of perhaps seven years old—prone to sickness and seizure, despite Baelish’s best efforts to hide it, and afeared of too many items to remember. (Blades. Singers. Wagons. But most of all, he fears Harry the Heir of House Hardyng, a dashing and stalwart knight who, by the vagaries of Andal succession, stands next in line.) Baelish’s bastard daughter Alayne is smart, beautiful, and demure, but sometimes she gets haughty and you can tell she’s jealous of your dresses, both for the cut and the fit. The household is rounded out by the Arryn’s old maester, the freerider Ser Lothor Brune, and two young wards, Gyles Grafton and Terrance Lynderly.

‘Randa brushes a chestnut curl back into place. Below, Ser Gaelen Grafton is riding to the end of the lists. “Shall we join them or take it in from up here?” She examines her nails. “I expect some tripping-over-his-sword oaf to accost me either way.”

---

Tyramear

The flickers of green in your lantern must give you the appearance of a will-o-wisp floating through the snowfall. Soon enough, a hooded man appears and waves you in to the stable. He doesn't see Balericat yet, who’s slinking along low to the ground. ((OOC: I’ll leave it up to you to direct where Balericat goes here. Some of the Lipps smallfolk remember the pair of you and won’t be as alarmed))

The inn’s stable is tiny, with White Socks filling the third of four stalls. Two other stalls are taken up by a mighty roan destrier and a less majestic black rounsey. Both show signs of good care, and there are fine saddles and spurs hanging up beside each. These are a knight’s horses, if you had to guess. There’s a loft as well, packed with bales of straw. Once inside, the man lowers his hood, revealing a shaggy tangle of hair, and greets you. “I’m Jorn. Are you the healer? I saw your lights. They say there’s a healer who travels these lands with power over wick and flame.”

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus almost starts when he hears shouts from up ahead, but hill tribes would surround them, not hit just the front. He tries to disguise his motion as shaking off the snow, and moves closer to the front with the others. The sight of their destination is a relief, it would be good to have a meal and a drink, and to see who would be competing in the tournament. Marcus himself was considering entering the Grand Melee, he had no horse to joust with and wasn't comfortable enough in the saddle to have his first attempt be in such a public setting.

[Harmony]

Allyria Gargalen

Allyria just manages to avoid rolling her eyes as she gives Uther a new smile. She can't help but agreeing with Myranda's assessment. His actions reminded her of that of children, but this was supposed to be a knight of the Seven Kingdoms. He must have qualities she hadn't seen yet, but swordplay and flattery clearly not among them. Perhaps he was a great horseman?

She let Myranda finish her rant. "I know right, and the way he was more worried that you wouldn't watch than he was about Ser Lothor." she reinforced - but Myranda was right, this could end badly at any point. "Oh, and to be clear, it was me he referenced as the Maiden." she teased, trying to both lighten the mood and quell the queasy feeling that surfaced whenever Myranda's dead husband came up and the association of Jon it brought along with it.

Just about to change the subject to something more interesting than Myranda's suitors, she catches glimpse of Littlefingers entourage. Lord Baelish had also just suffered the loss of a beloved, which made her sympathize with him.
It seemed that rebellion ran thick in the Vale, because no sooner than Lady Arryn had passed, banners were raised in defiance. They claimed they wanted to serve Lord Robert, but she assumed they meant to control or even dispose of him - just like the Vale had rushed to overthrow the rightful king a generation before. Of what she had heard and seen of young Robert actually frightened her, though. That power, wielded by fear was a recipe for misfortune. It seemed Lord Baelish had a good hand with him though, so he might yet turn out to be a good and just Lord.

"Let us join them. Please, anything that's not freezing in place here." she replied, shivering. She then turned to Myranda and made her most face as serious as she could. "And like the Warrior, I shall protect your honor against such fiends." she said, poorly mimicking Uther voice. She follows with a dramatic bow and offers her hand for Myranda to take. She immediately felt bad about mocking Ser Uther, a knight, even like this in private and could feel her cheeks heat up.

[DukeGod]

"Aye, tha' be me. Tyramear, wand'ring healer." First things first, see to his animals. Tyramear throws an apple to White Socks. And some meat for Balericat. The shadowcat gives him the dirty look, it wanted to hunt, but he couldn't just set him loose in the lord's lands. Too much opportunity for things to go right.
"Maybe tomorrow, if we find something living I'll try to keep it that way till night, then you can catch it". The cat growls and starts to eat. Good enough

"Truth be told I travel around everywhere. Mostly the Vale, and specially more these lands aye. So tell me, how's things round here? I saw snow, and figured a white raven was soon to perch on the maester's tower. Doing one last trip 'fore winter."

[dmarks]

Her blood ran cold, and all the Winters of her Northern home raged in her heart, but by an effort of will Alyssa sat her horse mildly and nodded to the obsequious lies. "I thank you for your concern, it is a balm to know so many cared for their passing." This septon has likely never heard their names.

"How go things in Moonhome? I hope you have enjoyed such stability as our Lord Protector brings." The question was neutral, for Alyssa knew that opinion on Baelish was deeply divided. She would see what she could learn from this cousin before they stepped within their liege's home. She only prayed that Morris would stay quiet and let her work.

[Space Lawyer]

Adwin takes his place to the side and rear of his lord, as is appropriate. As maester, he was dispense hard-earned knowledge, and guide his assigned house through wisdom. At least, tht was what the maesters at Oldtown had kept repeating to him. So, he'd very well try his best at that.

So, this was Ser Myles. He certainly lived up to his reputation - tall, brawny, and clearly used to a life grasping a blade. Whoever faced him in the tourney would be in for a memorable challenge.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

"You know me, Dryn... I'll try anything once," Banion replies in his raspy voice, a fiendish, knowing grin on his face as he participates in a little self-deprecating humor. The rogue portrays a man in good spirits, for whatever reasons he might have. The grin lingers as he turns his eyes to the source of approaching footsteps, seeing the rider slow as he nears Dryn and his compatriot extends his greetings. As he watches the two men exchange pleasantries, amicably grimacing when Dryn makes the pun-like joke, Banion's brain sparks with the mention of the name 'Ketter'. Yes - he had heard that name read aloud to him not along ago, the eagerly anticipated 'reward' of fetching a document from the north sea. His head cocking back slightly, as if taken by a little surprise, Banion looks the Egen guardsman over and waits for a moment of silence in their conversation to interject. "Who's your well-tanned friend here, Dryn?" Banion finally asks.

[heretic]

Allyria

Myranda lets out a snort when you crown yourself the Maiden, cracking a churlish grin. “You’re lucky that it was just Uther Shett-For-Brains you had to convince on that count. He’s not one to know the well, liberated reputation of the Dornish. But rest easy, Allyria. You’re far away you’re your maidenly home, and every Ser you meet here will believe you when you tell him you’ve never seen such a handsome lance. Not all of us have that luxury!” At your suggestion, you both rise and Myranda undoes the slip-knot she’s twisted in the back hem of her dress to keep the wind out. She giggles at your impression of Ser Uther as you approach the steps. “Save me, Ser! Deliver me from these suitors.”

Together, you descend the stone steps down to the yard. Myranda grasps your hand to steady herself on the way down. Like many northern women, she’s had no training in swordplay or footwork, and lacks the poise necessary to master the steep, uneven steps. She alights on the ground heavily and together you approach the group.

Ser Gaelen Grafton cuts a prim figure in his plate, which is well-polished, the enamel over his heart showing a blazing yellow tower on a black and red field. His blond hair falls to his jaw, and he tousles it to the side before dropping his helm over it. A moment or two later, his squire hands him a lance, which he couches with the point high. A cheer goes up as he gives his horse the spur, letting the tip of his lance dip as he picks up speed. He leans into the lance at the last moment and delivers a solid blow to the wooden target shield. The practice dummy squeaks and groans as it swivels well past a half-turn, coming to rest facing more or less the opposite direction. It was well-struck, but not the best you’ve seen so far. A smattering of polite applause ripples on both sides of the lists.

You notice for the first time that Lord Symond Templeton and Bronze Yohn Royce are seated on the opposite side, deep in conversation. Both are (were?) Lords Declarant, but the status of this alliance is in some doubt. For the last week, the gossip around the castle is that Lords Declarant have quarreled since three of their number—Templeton, Waynwood, and Belmore—attended Lord Lyonel Corbray’s wedding. Apparently House Corbray (save Ser Lyn) is a staunch supporter of Littlefinger’s rule and the alliance had planned to snub the nuptials.

---

Lady Alyssa and Maester Adwin

“Moonhome is strong, though we are still working through our own losses. My Lord Uncle was a beam of light through dark night, and his brother Ser Vardis died too young as well.” Pearse’s façade falters a bit when Alyssa makes reference to Lord Protector Petyr Baelish. “Our Lord Protector is a good penman. He writes my Lord Cousin once a week . . .” Perhaps realizing it’s not for him to spill his cousin’s secrets, he awkwardly changes the subject. “Roger—Lord Roger, that is, will be most pleased to see you. He was resting when I rode hence, as he was out hawking this morning, but he will no doubt receive you at the gate.” Morris remains silent, taking the conversation in as you get closer to Moonhome.

Spoiler: OOC: Intrigue?

Show

OOC: I take it you’d like to initiate an intrigue against Pearse? If so, what are your goals?

Initiative

Adwin 15
Alyssa 13
Pearse 8

Maester Adwin

This Pearse can’t be much older than Morris—unripe, untested, and uneasy in conversation with his elders. It’s a little surprising Lord Roger would send out one so young to greet guests on his behalf, but on the other hand, the Egen court has run thin in recent years.

From what you’ve studied, it seems the elders of the house have taken a turn for the worse recently. The former lord Rufus, Roger’s father, drowned just before you arrived in the Vale. His Lady Wife Balerya, joined the Silent Sisters not long after. Rickard Egen, Pearse’s father, is stricken with gout and confined to a bed in Gulltown. And the stalwart Ser Vardis, Jon Arryn’s captain of the guard, perished in trial by combat, helping kick off the war that they (at the Citadel) call the War of the Five Kings.

Come to think of it, Maester Medgar may be the only remaining greybeard in the Egen court.

Lady Alyssa

It’s unfortunate that Alyn isn’t here to question this pipsqueak himself. His relationship with his liege house was certainly turbulent at times, but he always knew how to squeeze profit from an Egen. Years ago, he nursed the grandiose fantasy of overthrowing the Egens and being raised up to a direct banner of House Arryn. Luckily, he gave that up early on and settled for smaller victories—encircling House Lipps (a historical benefactor of House Corrett’s loss of lands) by strengthening House Wydman, their geographical rival, or assisting Lord Rufus Egen at the Eyrie in return for ever-widening favors.

But much of that washed away with the death of Lord Rufus and the removal of High Steward Nestor Royce at the Eyrie. Since then, Alyn schemed against his new lord, Roger, seeking to bypass him by speaking to Ser Vardis, and constantly seeking information about his reclusive lord. He even went so far as to seek out knowledge from Ser Jon Hersy, for whom Roger squired, what kind of wine he liked, and all kinds of other shards of pointless trivia. It all amounted to very little.

Alyn’s sources are unanimous that Lord Roger is not much of a warrior and never even bothered trying to earn his spurs, though he has a passion for hunting and falconry. You can still hear Alyn cataloguing this useless trivia. He was fostered to House Hunter prior to squiring Jon Hersy. Roger favors green doublets and feathered caps. Roger takes a strawberry in his summerwine. Roger probably played Grumpkin in the Moat when he was small. Little help any of this proved to be. The only threads you're pulling now are the those from the manifest and those related to Jeyne Lipps. House Lipps sought to marry their daughter Jeyne to Roger, but he demurred, telling Alyn that she seemed prone to illness. The healer Tyramear should soon get to the bottom of that mystery.

Roger's mother and father were easier to grasp. Rufus moved at a tortoise’s pace, but he saw it true more often than not; he overruled Alyn in choosing Robert in the rebellion, and in convincing Ser Waymar Royce to take the black rather than duel for Ser Vardis’s position at the Eyrie. Balerya was a fast friend before she left. She reminds you of women of the north in many ways. The Blood of the First Men flows in her veins and beneath her impeccable, ladylike presentation, she is made of sea-spray and weirwood.

---

Marcus

This Myles Stone strikes you as seasoned knight, if a shade past his prime. He stands a half a head shorter than you and perhaps three stone lighter. The sun, moon, and star of Egen, shine even brighter on his breast, for they fall against a black field, instead of the blue and white. You’ve known men like him before. Bastards are often wilier than their highborn counterparts, forced to depend on skill and grit instead of inheritance. If memory serves, the current Master of Ships is a the Bastard of Driftmark, Aurane Waters. No doubt Ser Myles will be serviceable enough in the lists, but woe to him should you meet in the melee.

After engaging a few pleasantries with Ser Oswell, Myles turns to you, his eyes glancing from your face to the hounds on your chest. “I see the Cleganes grow as great as they say. Back in the rebellion, I lost an eating contest to man with three dogs on his chest. We near emptied King’s Landing of fowl between the two of us.” He pauses for a moment. “Tell me, how does a westerman find his way up here? You must have known our Lady Lysa (may the Father judge her kindly) was famous for her mislike of Lannisters and their. . .” He almost says 'dogs,' but finds a better word. “. . . bannermen.”

---

Tyramear

The shaggy-haired man introduces himself after you do. “I’m Rick and this is my stable. My sister tends the inn.” He steps back when you toss the meat to Balericat, but doesn’t raise any issue. “We’ve had no white ravens yet. The Lipps haven’t no maester, so we hear our news from the Corretts' riders. But this is awful sharp for autumn. Me bones tell me there’s not more than a month left afore the white raven sings winter’s name.”

He gestures toward the wall adjoining the inn. “Come, I’ll rouse Becca so y'might sup.” As you make your way over, he fills you in on the events of Steppe Hill. “We’ve had more mountain clan raids as of late, and too much snow to give chase. There’s a tourney at the Gates of the Moon and Lord Ron is sending his cousin Ser Ossifer. He’ll mayhaps send others besides—there’s two lowlander knights bickering over it. I call them Ser One-Eye and Ser Two-Eyes. There’ll be a few sick ones for you to see. Maybe even some highborn. They don’t tell the likes o’ Rick when someone import’nt swallows a chill.”

You have some ken of the security of these lands. The Lipps’ hold a couple dozen knights retainer who patrol the hills, but they’re mostly a show of claw and fang, all snarl but no bite. The real Lipps protection comes from the militia of trappers and mountain men that can assemble on just a few hours notice. Their lot is in furs, game, and horn, as few crops grow on the rocky, cracked ground.

---

Banion

The appearance of Ketter has sharpened your wits a bit; he’s a fleshly reminder of your purpose at Moonhome, and of the larger, vexing knot that you’ve only begun to unravel. Ketter looks the part of an Egen serjeant, if a little rough around the edges. His leathers are well-oiled, and in good repair. His woolen tabard is clean, showing a pristine white moon stitched to his breast. Above the collar, he’s less kempt—his long brown curls are a tangle and his razor seems to have forgotten that hair can grow on the neck. You would place him a few years younger than yourself and Dryn.

At your suggestion Dryn makes introductions. “Banion, this is Ketter, serjeant of the Nightguard. Ketter, before you sits Banion, an able hand to the Corrett household and abler travel companion.” Ketter clasps your arm. “Well met, Banion. You’ll find a warm place in our hall soon, no doubt a welcome respite from this fearsome cold. I would boast of our wine cellar, but I fear that when Dryn crosses the threshold, it shall no longer be the mightiest reservoir to be found inside!” They have a good laugh at that.

[Rhyvurg]

"An eating contest might be the most benign conflict a Clegane has ever taken part in, Ser." Marcus stands up slightly straighter, taking full advantage of his height. "The Vale is a land in need, winter is here, the hill tribes will be eager for conflict ever since the Lannister's...short sighted decision to buy their services with arms. They are more dangerous, and the cold will make them desperate. The Vale is a place where a man of the west can do the most good to redress the mistakes of others."

[Harmony]

Allyria

Allyria face freezes in a sheepish grin as Myrande has her tirade. Remember, north of Dorne, every unmarried woman is a maiden, her mother had told her before she had left her home for her first travel across the narrow sea, and she had been reminded of it every time before she set out. She might have let on a bit to much with Myranda, or the woman simply assumed, but she really had no answer to that. She always felt it highly unfair that the men she had slept with would be seen as "worldly" here, while she on the other hand would be seen as a damaged goods. She clenched her fist and drove her nails into her palm until the pain drove her anger away. Fortunately, it seemed the northerners had some unwritten rule about not asking specific questions, at least not to someone of her station, so they could continue living in their fantasy. She would just have to play along with that game, until she was finally married.

That Myranda appreciated her joke made her feel a bit better about it, but she still regretted it. There was always a strangely satisfying feeling in helping Myranda down the stairs, perhaps because it was the only time she actually had physical contact with someone here - even the northerners greetings were stiff and distant affairs. She loved how Myranda's face contorted into concentration, and the small look of panic when she realized that Allyria was watching her and not where she was putting her feet. She always brought her down safely though. By now, she knew every step here, even though she would need to be a bit careful with them as sometimes ice-patches wouldn't melt away if it was a cloudy day. She had nearly hurt herself badly one of the first days here, and had since quickly come to respect the treacherous nature of frozen water. "There we go." she gave Myranda a smile as they reached ground level, and hesitantly let go of her hand.

She stopped to watch Ser Gaelen. I was one of the showmanships the northerners were actually excellent at. The horses they rode had none of the grace or speed of Rhaegar, but there was something undeniably both majestic and terrifying about the animals as they accelerated. A shriek of excitement escaped her throat. The suspense leading up to the loud bang as the lance hit the shield felt like a lifetime. It was a good clean hit and she applauded fervently. There was something about how the horse and rider became more than their separate parts, and instead became one. Sure, in Dorne, they would perform more fancy tricks, but it was always showing the horses and the riders skill separately. "I think Ser Gaelen would be a good match for you." she whispered, still enamored by the performance and failing to remember, or caring, if he was married already or not.

Once the excitement dies down, she looks for Lord Baelish entourage again. She had been sent here to make an impression on the mother of Lord Robert, and since there had been no word of recall, she assumed her work here was still important. She was still uncertain why she had been sent away, as she had been quite certain that Morris would arrange their marriage with haste by the way he had looked at her, but instead of the proposal as she had been expected when formally summoned, she had been sent away. It might have been Alyssa, but she didn't think so. That rejection had hurt. She pushed the thoughts aside alongside with wiping a tear away, silently blaming the wind.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Banion reciprocates the gesture, clasping Ketter's arm in much the same place as he does his, and offering him a chuckle at the joke in Dryn's expense. Glancing over briefly towards his friend with the red teeth to gauge his reaction, Banion resettles his eyes on Ketter, studying the features of the man's face for a quick second before replying, "I'm sure I will, and then fill her well before the night is through." He chuckles for a brief moment before letting go of Ketter's arm and adding, "Just about anywhere would be better than this frigid trail. Present company can only do so much." Another sidelong glance is cast towards Dryn and a sarcastic pucker of the lips sent towards the career military man. Attention finally returning to Ketter, Banion inquires, "And how go things in Moonhome, serjeant? What preparations have you all been making to appease the masses descending on your home these past few weeks?"

[DukeGod]

"To tell you the truth? They don't tell the likes of me either. Well not usually. Here in Steppe Hill they do, same thing in Corrett lands. Earned me name in these places."

Tyramear goes with Rick. He doesn't mind letting the man wake his sister up. Lowfolk wouldn't see a little disturbance like this as something that should get in the way of making business.

Once inside he makes his way to a table, he sits down and fishes some coins from a pouch as well as a small amount of crushed dried chamomile flowers

"Tell your sister to make a tea of these, it'll help her sleep again. My apology for coming so late. Anything else you think I can help you folk with?"

[Sahe]

Mera chuckles slightly as Walda continues with her questions.

"Well, if I get the chance I'll try, Walda. And yeah, he's a big guy, I have more respect of his experience than his height. And remember girl, size isn't everything, so never judge a man by how big they are. They gotta know how to use that size to their advantage", Mera said trying to hide a grin. She was very much aware of the double meaning of her sentence and it was fully intentionally. Not that she had actually much experience, though not for a lack of opportunity. In the war she had been surrounded by men and seen all forms, sizes and shapes. Her personal conclusion was that none of them were very appealing.

She listened to the exchange between Ser Myles and the Clegane puppy. Last time she saw him had been before the war. She remembered how she eagerly challenged him to a duel with blunted steel. He had refused and laughed at her, clearly not taking her serious. That's when she hit him hard on the knee with her training spear. She remembered being very angry and also a lot of people laughing in the yard, if at the expense of the humiliated knight or the angry girl that wanted to play soldier, she didn't know anymore.

Mera lead Redfoot closer to the two talking Men, "Ser Myles, I heard you will champion for House Egen in the tourney. Besides, how's the knee?"

[Space Lawyer]

For the moment, Maester Adwin simply observes Pearse, trying to get a sense of the man. It was always best to know what one was getting into.

Spoiler: Roll

Show

Read Target
Awareness (Empathy): (5d6)[4][3][1][1][3](12)

[heretic]

Tyramear

Soon enough, you’re spooning through a bowl of potato soup in the small common room while Rick polishes the pennies you’ve paid him (five for you and two for your companions) and Becca boils some water for the tea. When you ask if he needs anything, Rick thinks a moment. “For a couple ‘o silver stags, I’ll spread word tomorrow that you’re here. Both our purses will fatten. What’d’ya say?”

Soon after, everyone retires. Your room is small, square, and furnished only with a straw mattress piled high with furs. The hearth is spitting and crackling as the firewood warps under the flames. There’s a window, but it’s been blocked on the inside by a neat little bale of hay sitting on the sill.

Spoiler: OOC: Warg Dreamin' (on such a winter's day)

Show

Go ahead and roll to see if you get a warg dream.

---

Marcus

Myles nods knowingly. “Out to atone for the crimes of your countrymen. A noble calling, to be sure. They say the Hound has gone rabid, riding outlaw in the Riverlands.” He brushes a gloved hand over his beard. “Now tell me, where did you earn your spurs? It must have taken a tall man to dub you in the usual manner.”

Ser Myles makes no reaction to your mention of the mountain clans. Perhaps House Egen has not faced the same encroachment that House Corrett has. It also appears that he’s unaware of your victory over the Howlers.

---

Mera

Ser Myles leans over in his saddle to clasp your hand in greeting. “Haha, my knee is in good shape. It hasn’t seen a smiting in years like the one you gave.” It’s flattery, but good-natured. You seem to detect a newfound respect behind his eyes.

Like so many of the others, your time in the Young Wolf’s army has changed how he sees you. The change tends to take one of two distinct flavors: first, the salt of grief and blame for Jon’s death, and second, the peculiar succor of respect. This last one has tasted strange indeed, after a near-lifetime of brushing-off as a girl, or more often, “that girl,” “that boyish girl,” or “that bastard girl.” Where their eyes once slid easily over you, dismissing without seeing, or lingering just enough to leer or censure, they now meet your gaze almost as an equal. Almost.

You remember Eldric once telling you of the time he saw Ser Myles tilt with Ser Gorlen Waters, a contest deemed the Stalemate of the Bastards. Neither could unseat the other—Ser Gorlen couldn’t land a clean hit to save his neck, and Myles couldn’t knock the master horseman from his saddle, despite breaking over half a dozen lances on Gorlen’s shield.

---

Allyria

The crowds resume their chatter following Ser Gaelen’s graceful strike. Myranda raises her eyebrows when you suggest him as a suitor. “Do you think he fancies me? That would be a fruitful match. I would spend like a Lannister.” The Graftons are rich and powerful, and Ser Gaelen will likely soon take a wife. He has been polite to the two of you, even charming at times, but hasn’t tipped his hand as to his intentions yet. Then again, he only arrived five days hence. Among the eligible menfolk, Ser Gaelen stands at the fore, behind only Harry the Heir in terms of traditional desirability. This crop of knights is young for the most part, and most have yet to marry. Almost all of the older ones present—Myranda’s brother Albar, her cousin Andar, Lothor Brune, Strong Sam Stone, and Roland Waynwood—are taken, except Ser Lyn, who knows the touch of but one Lady, belted fast to his hip.

Presently, Alayne departs with the maester, each of them holding one of Sweetrobin's hands. He’s shivering mightily beneath his furs and complaining loudly about something in his little voice, but the wind steals the words, leaving just the squeals to reach your ears. Behind you, a voice interposes. “Pardon me, milady.” Behind you is the young knight from the Reach. It takes you a moment to summon his name—Torwyll Peake. He’s not more than a few inches taller than you, with curly brown hair and blue eyes. His short-sleeved tabard is cut for a larger man, causing his mailed arms to sprout forth from the shoulders like thin mushrooms from a great stump. His belt is wide and cinched tight to the last hole, the better to secure his bodkin and sword, which have matching hilts of black leather. “Would you care for a stroll in the garden, Lady Allyria? I once traveled to Dorne as a boy and I wish to hear once more of its many beauties.”

---

Banion

“My goodman, the servants have been busy. We’ve doubled the slaughter, procured a few expensive fistfuls of spice from the Free Cities, cracked the rinds on some new cheese, and scoured the great hall with vinegar and boiling water. I daresay this will be a feast to remember. We can even expect some choice lordly items to descend below the salt. Lord Roger takes his meat simple and bloody, but for guests, he bids the chefs to produce a motley of exotic flavor—more than enough for the lordlings.” Dryn chimes in. “And the wine?”

---

Adwin

The boy doesn’t appear to quite know where Alyssa is approaching from. Her mention of Littlefinger clearly got his attention, but he’s unsure of her intentions. In the meantime, he resumes prattling about hawking. “Yes, Lord Roger bagged a late pheasant—a fine prize given the weather. It was not far beyond yonder fork. . .” He continues on, waiting to see if either of you returns to the topic.

Spoiler: OOC: Intrigue

Show

Dropping the lowest result due to the bonus die, your result is 11, which is a success. Pearse is also using Read Target, but he’s targeting Alyssa and his attitude is Friendly. I’m assuming your attitude is somewhere in the Amiable/Friendly range, due to the ally relationship between the houses?

[Old Overholt]

Banion

"Spices from the Free Cities you say?" Banion asks, clearly not expecting an answer - only offering a pleased smile and a glance towards Dryn as he asks about the wine. Chortling to himself as he allows Ketter to answer Dryn's question, Banion then looks back to the representative of House Egen. "Well, we certainly look forward to your master's hospitality. It's quite generous of him. But you say he only takes his meat 'simple'?" Banion says, his eyes narrowing slightly as he grows a little inquisitive. "Does his stomach ail him or is that simply his choice?" he inquires.

[Harmony]

Allyria

"Of course he does." Her claim is made in a merry tone. Not that it would matter, a marriage would be to secure alliances, not out of love or happiness and Allyria was uncertain what Myranda's father's plans were. Still, the woman had married once for duty, maybe she could have a say the second time she was sent off. "I'm sure you could charm him witless, if you put your mind to it." she continues, encouraging Myranda.

When a voice calls for their attention Allyria turns around slower than Myranda, expecting it to be another of her companions suitors. Pleasantly surprised when she's the one the being addressed she lights up, beaming at him. "That would be lovely, Ser Torwyll." she says, and turns briefly to Myranda, giving her a glance to wordlessly ask her to chaperon the promenade. Returning to Torwyll she bombards him with questions before they reach the gardens. "Where you did you go? And don't say just Sunspear, Dorne is much bigger than that. What did you think of the food? Did you ever ride a sand steed?" It wasn't the first time she had been asked for strolls in gardens, even though it was the first up here in the north, so she suspected there was something more to it. She hoped Myranda didn't mind that she was getting some attention for a change.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus is slightly slow to respond. He may have a man's height and girth, but he's keenly aware his voice is still a boy's, having not reached his twentieth year. He wished someday to be knighted, though he had never been a paige or squire as was tradition, but he imagine he'd have to get a horse and actually try his hand at jousting at some point. "I have not received the honor of being knighted, Ser. I would like to, someday, after I have earned it. But I fear I have years of honorable service until I am worthy."

[dmarks]

Spoiler: OOC Intrigue

Show

Alyssa has a +4 bonus vs Read Target from Courteous

Alyssa's disposition is Amiable.

Status roll for initiative: (4d6)[1][2][1][3](7)

Persuasion (Convince +1): (5d6)[5][5][5][6][6](27) best 4. Charismatic and Compelling mean +2 to roll and influence 5 (will +1)

"Ah, Ser Pearse, don't be coy. My family is sworn to your lord remember. But after what has happened to my husband and son, I hope you cannot fault me for wanting to know what I'm taking my son into.
A mother's love in times of war is a terrible burden. Do tell me, how is Lord Roger's relationship with the Lord Protector?"

[heretic]

Lady Alyssa

Pearse is overborne by the force of your questioning and quickly spills the stew. “Well, my Lord Cousin was wary at first, but he intends to support Lord Baelish, at least for now. However, the Declarants don’t know that and we’d best keep it to ourselves. Lord Belmore is powerful and we fear he could close his roads to our caravans.”

You’ve reached the gates in due time and now the raspy portcullis is rising, whining with every ratchet-pull of the chain. Once it’s up, the Egens’ steward, Duncan, steps forward to greet you warmly. Duncan’s scrub-brush mustache has gradually overtaken his mouth, so much so that his face barely moves when he speaks—a mummer without a hand-puppet. He leads you to the central keep and then up to your quarters, which are betwixt-doors with Morris and Maester Adwin, and just down the hall from Lord Egen’s solar. The apartment is on the small side, but richly furnished with a darkwood table and chairs, canopied bed draped with silken sheets and furs, rugs to shield your feet from the cold stone, and a privy secreted behind a small door.

Duncan stands ready at the door while your handmaiden Val carries in your effects. “Can I bring milady anything hot before the feast? Mulled wine with cloves or cinnamon tea perhaps?” The feast begins at sunset, perhaps an hour and a half hence.

Spoiler: OOC: Intrigue

Show

Your result is a 22 (the best four), +1 for Amiable, +2 for Charismatic for a total of 25. This is sufficient for 4 degrees of success and 20 influence, which is enough to overcome Pearse’s DR and drain his Composure to 0. I also applied a penalty to Pearse’s Intrigue Defense in recognition of your strategy of springing the question on him when he’s isolated and out of his element. This penalty didn’t end up mattering though, given how well you rolled.

---

Marcus

As Moonhome grows closer, you get a better look at its features. It’s a powerful castle of bright stone, hewn smooth and well tended—though not as large as Greycrown Keep. There’s a light up in each of the seven towers, and the overhanging battlements are bearded with a bit of ice. A falcon floats in a lazy circle high above them. Myles dismounts as you wait for the portcullis to raise and places a hand on your shoulder. “You’ll have your spurs soon enough, my man. If you put enough Sers on their asses in the melee, they’ll dub you on the spot, the better to mask their comeuppance.”

You’re met at the gatehouse by a host of liveried servants who greet you and lead you toward your accommodations. Inside the walls, the smallfolk are stepping lively, splitting wood, carrying bags of meal, and stoking a smoker of unmortared red brick, which is exuding a wispy plume of savor. Further in, they’ve established a rickety list, with a strawman quintain and some hanging rings. Beyond there, a couple of guardsmen are sparring with blunted steel.

A boy-faced servant leads you toward the base of one of the wall-towers and onwards to your chamber. Lord Morris must have put in on your behalf, because they’ve given you a fine room at the height of the tower. It’s a broad space, with fresh rushes on the floor and a fire already in the hearth. Besides the bed, which is large enough for two and neatly trimmed with thick linens and furs, there’s a table, chairs, and bookshelf. The walls have two lantern-sconces and are done up with tapestries of the Father and Mother, as well as a thick-paned window sealed tight with pitch and pine. Your escort apprises you that the feast will begin at nightfall, in the great hall. Judging by the length of the shadows below in the yard, there’s another hour or two left of daylight.

---

Banion

Ketter gives you a slightly condescending look, no doubt assuming you’ve never had much cause to taste a spice fancier than salt, pepper, or overripe cheese. “Aye, spices that will set your tongue aflame, unquenchable by water or even ice. Some start sweet, but slowly overtake your throat with fire. Others are faster-upon you. No man is the same after tasting the eastern spice. As for my lord’s stomach, taking a steak rare is a sign of manliness!”

Presently, you arrive at Moonhome and are shown to your quarters. Most of the men-at-arms and servants, including you and Dryn, are brought to stay in some daub houses inside the courtyard. You’re made to share the peaked attic with Lenn’s son Danny. They’ve prepared a pair of badly-squished feather beds with some moth-eaten linens, which is far better than you were expecting. It’s not drafty at all in here, thanks to the slate roof and to the high walls surrounding the yard. The attic is a bit smokey, on account of an unruly flue, but otherwise quite pleasant if you don’t mind crouching as you walk.

There’s another hour or two before nightfall and the feast, and Danny soon scampers off to explore.

---

Allyria

Ser Torwyll cracks a wide smile when you accept, and offers you his arm as you make your way to the garden. Myranda takes your meaning and falls in beside you. “Oh, I’ve been to other places in Dorne—the Water Gardens, when I was young, and Lemonwood besides. I can’t claim to have ever ridden a sand steed, though I would like to someday claim that honor.” His knowledge is impressive for a man from a Marcher house. Some of those with seats past the Prince’s Pass have carried the prejudices of old, and don’t care to consort with the Dornish. Myranda cuts in. “Have you done any riding at all, Ser Torwyll? I don’t recall seeing you take a turn at the quintain.” Ser Torwyll laughs easily. “Lady Myranda, peacocks may dazzle in the yard, but the field is the falcon’s domain. I expect the Brotherhood of Winged Knights to include more falcons than peacocks.”

Before she can respond, he surprises you by switching to Braavosi, which he speaks almost as well as you do. “It is said you are naming your horse Rhaegar. Milady’s intelligences cuts as deep as her beauty. The Silver Prince was gifting my Lord Cousin three strings from his harp—a blessing that his Lady Wife was bending into a flower and he was wearing on his breast until King’s Landing was falling. Now it is lying in a dark drawer somewhere.” Myranda looks a little cross to be left out of the conversation, but she’ll soon get over it.

---

Tyramear

You awake to a rooster crowing from the stable rafter. With the window insulated with the hay bale, the sun had no opportunity to beat the rooster to the feed. Downstairs, Becca has prepared you a bowl of hot oats with a chunk of honeycomb plopped in as well. There’s another man sharing the table with you, evidently the knight that Rick calls “two-eyes”—seeing how he’s got ‘em both. He’s a pointy-faced young man with stringy dark hair falling to his shoulders and the sigil of House Frey embroidered on his travel-stained doublet. He acknowledges you with a nod but otherwise busies himself with sucking the last of the oat-milk-honey slurry from his bowl.

Soon enough, the knight retires and Rick returns from the outdoors, bringing in tow four sickly folk, two men, a woman, and a little girl. He brusquely bids them to sit and await your examination. “There was another, too ill to stand, but pass’d in the night. May the fath’r judge ‘im kindly. Now, I put in word at the tower that a healer’s here. They may come forth to fetch ye.”

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Feel free to interact with the knight or Becca if you wish—I don’t mind flashing back to finish that up.

Go ahead and roll a Heal (Diagnosis) check for each person you’re treating, followed by a Heal check to substantively treat them, should you land a diagnosis.

[Rhyvurg]

"Could I refuse, I would, I have not earned knighthood. Mere strength of arms should not be enough." Taking his leave of Myles, Marcus follows the servant up into the tower, removing his helmet as he walks. He briefly wonders is this choice of accommodations is meant to have some subtle meaning, but decides it doesn't matter. He looks the boy in the eye as he speaks, and nods when he finishes. "Thank you. Could you fetch some water and a basin, please?" Assuming the young man does as he's asked, Marcus begins removing his armor, checking the leather for signs of wear as he always does. He piles it neatly in one of the chairs, and sets his axe next to the bed, ready at hand thought he doubted it was necessary. He was wearing practically nothing if and when the servant returns, but Marcus chooses to act like he doesn't see him this time.

[Harmony]

Allyria

Taking the offered arm, Allyria lets him lead while she enjoys the sensation of physical contact and being at the center of attention. "You're well-traveled, Ser." she compliments. "You should visit Salt Shore the next time you're there. It doesn't have the beauty of the Water Gardens, it doesn't have the rows and rows of lemon trees, but it's got everything else you could imagine. Wine and silks from across the world. the most beautiful girls and men you could imagine." She instantly regretted the men part, having briefly forgotten where she was. Fortunately he shifts to talking about sand steeds, and may not have noticed.

She follows the exchange between Myranda and Torwyll. Was she jealous? No, it seemed more like her normal quipping. Allyria is completely taken by surprise as Torwyll switches to Braavosi, but quickly recovers. "All men must die." she offers in a melancholy tone. Suddenly, she came to the realization that he must have studied her and prepared for this walk. She could feel her heart beating faster and that pleasant sense of warmness spreading inside her, this was by far the most exciting thing that had happened since arriving to the Gates of the Moon. "If you ever want to ridden a steed of deserts, you need only request." Inwardly cursing, she senses that her grammar was off, but there was no Master Tycho here to correct her here, flaunting that annoying smirk of his. Torwyll must see her as a fool. "The large pebbles..." she stopped and started over "The landscape here offers poor riddening, but it would be a pleasant exchange."