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

[dmarks]

Though Morris's response may have been born of fire, Alyssa felt a fury grip her that was purely ice. This fool was their liege? She had been treating him with respect and a careful hand when she should have grabbed him by the ear and taught him respect. Alyssa's eyes bored into the man, the boy, who would so shame her son. Casting aside her caution Alyssa coldly announced: "My son stood up for what he believed in, and fought for a man whose cause was just. He did not wring his hands or crawl on his belly for lords he did not care for. His only folly was trusting to his liege to protect him, and sitting at table with malicious fools." Alyssa stopped short of naming the man, but these insults still sought their target as a flight of arrows.

She knew she could have kept her composure, played politics with the man and learned his true goal. Perhaps he had only meant to goad her, still she would not allow the name of her son to be defamed by a lord who was meant to be their ally. And at least she had distracted from Morris's own outburst.

"I am tired, the journey has wearied me. I think I must retire early. Morris, will you accompany your lady mother to her chamber?"

[DukeGod]

As always, his eyes are drawn first to the weirwood. What properties could it have! Perhaps a thousand medicines, countless panacea. And yet no follower of the Old Gods would stand for it. If he was entirely too sure it wouldn't hurt the tree, he'd try to sneak at night and gather some sap, maybe some leaves, a piece of bark...yet for all that he knew that such things didn't damage normal trees, the thought of magic possibly existing made him shy away from conclusions in such matters.

"I see" He didn't. And was rather glad for it

"Well, I suppose we might as well start with the basics for injuries in rough riding. This will be bad mind you, I'm not sure they'll ride for some time. Or move really. Closer to the rivers, there are some youths who try to ride wild horses. Bareback. Fill a barrel with water, throw a good amount of salt in it, let it mix nicely and have them take a bath in the thing. It'll be painful, but stop the wound from going bad, which is the major concern right now. I'll take a better look at them once we're...somewhere more appropriate?"

And now, back to introductions. He had rather ignored the Lord, but the wounded should always take priority

"Lord Lipps. I'd ask if you are well, but I can tell, my professional opinion is that you are. I'm Tyramear, Wanderor. Blessings from the gods. Old and new" - he remembers to add the final part, moments after the sentence is over

[Sahe]

Mera barely heard a word Stallicho said over the argument that was going on in the background. It was pretty clear to her, that he spoke in metaphors, at least for the part about the lions. She had no witty comeback to that or any idea how she'd fit Frey's into food metaphors, but she barely payed any attention anyway. How did this little wimp dare speak about her family and friends that had passed, how did he dare speak to her brother like that? He had no right, that little boy that was playing Lord. She turned to Stallicho, "Honestly, Ser, I think they taste all the same unless it's personal", and downed the rest of her cup suppressing the urge to follow up on Lady Alyssa and lay into Lord Roger, most likely in a much less courtly and much more insulting way, that would likely end up with her head on a chopping block. Her anger was palpable though and she had the urge to hit something or someone. She looked through the crowd, searching for Walda, maybe some squire was getting inappropriate with her already and she could break his nose imagining it was Roger Egens.

[heretic]

Banion

The squire swipes his neighbor’s cup to join your toast. “I’d guess he’d share something like this.” He clears his throat into a fist and then speaks in his attempt at a eunuch’s high voice. “Excuse me ser, I seem to have lost a wee bit of myself some fifteen years past. Perchance you’ve heard of a witch’s brew that will set me to rights?” Abandoning this mummery, he returns to a normal voice. “It’s said he’s Unsullied. A type of warrior eunuch slave bred in Slaver’s Bay, all the way across the Narrow Sea and then some. They say the Unsullied feel neither fear nor pain. Only, Grezno’s not a slave anymore, and I name him a coward to dirt itself. He bathes thrice per day. Lord Roger decreed that he must receive a salary and remain a freedman when he returns across the sea, the better to honor the Crown's law. Lord Stallicho didn’t seem too pleased about that, but he’s gotten over it. I expect he simply raised the cost of his mercenaries by the price of the eunuch.”

The feast has died down a bit around you. There's some sort of drama about the lord's table, but down here only a few have taken notice. Among them is the eunuch, who stares silently up at the table, alert and ready. The burnt bottoms of trenchers are being cleared away, and the dogs have scoured what flesh they can from the bones on the floor. The hearth fires are guttering low, thanks to the servants tactfully withholding additional logs. It seems the feast is nearing its end.

---

Marcus

Talla smiles. “You are wise beyond your years and station, Marcus. Most men your age want nothing more than glory, lust, and coin. Aye, maybe some land if they’re brightest of the lantern-headed lot. But still, a woman’s grief is a powerful thirst, and I require blood to quench it. The realm will hardly bleed dry for lack of a dwarf's butt of blood, standing so short. And what better way to preserve a cup of red than the ice of a cold banishment for the queen.”

She stands from the table, preparing to collect her sleepy child. “I too will be attending this tourney. If any Lions appear, perhaps I will have want of your aid, though I hesitate to call anything about you meager. Their house is known for impetuous words and my honor may require defense.” You’re quite sure that if any Lannisters do appear, it will be Lady Talla slinging the impetuous words. “My coz has bid me to hold close my favor at the tourney, the better to inflame the suitors. But I won’t hesitate to be-laurel the first man to split a Lannister helm. Good night, Marcus.” She plants a kiss on each of your cheeks and takes her leave, though the feel of her fingers on your jaw lingers.

She exits the hall just before the outburst between the lords.

---

Mera

Stallicho’s winning grin freezes into a clenched, false thing as Roger’s churlish rebuke echoes throughout the hall. He sputters some normal-seeming response to what you said, but you expect neither of you really heard it. Maester Medgar has his face in his hands and Alyssa and Morris are rising to leave. Roger’s face has gone red as an apple and he seems to understand that he’s stepped in something with an un-lordly scent. As he leaves, Morris claps you on the shoulder, leaving behind a kerchief of blue and white and grey. Though he said no words, you are sure of his meaning: you will ride for House Corrett in the tourney, and Roger Egen will be made to watch.

Casting about the hall with your eyes, you catch sight of Walda, standing an the end of a table with some of the smallfolk. She’s in the midst of telling a story that involves miming some bowlegged rider attempting to dismount—you surmise that must be Ser Gorlen. Her audience is guffawing by the end.

---

Lady Alyssa

Roger reels as though struck. His maester, who had half his face in a palm as soon as Roger began, fully buries his face in his hands. Further down the table, all eyes are on Roger. He’s reddening, perhaps realizing that his words were sandpaper, when silk was required. As you gather yourself to leave, he weakly offers up, “you have my leave, my lady.” Morris rises with you and follows you from the hall.

Morris seethes all the way back to your chamber, where he pauses to light a taper outside. Inside, he ignites an oil lantern and his fury. “How dare he! He would deign to sit in judgment of the dead like the Father, while simpering about like he knows anything about rule, like he deserves it more than us! I’ll get him good for this!” He’s pacing up and down the chamber, flinging his arms about as he yells, clenching his fists, swatting, and grasping at air to punctuate each thought.

---

Allyria

Mya turns fully to face you, which also has the effect of turning her back to the lists and Mychel. The knight has cantered to the other end and is dismounting and putting up his lance and shield. “The Eyrie is beautiful, but ‘tis only part of a larger whole. The mountain is the true beauty.” She gestures up at the Giant’s lance, which towers above. It starts low and wide, all around the Gates of the Moon, which guard the path up. It narrows as it rises, and the bristly scuff of the forest thins to nothing, like the top of a bald man’s scalp. Up there is naught but frost and wind and clouds. And the Eyrie, they say. Despite being at the Mountains of the Moon for a couple months, you could barely make out the Eyrie on a clear day, even when others pointed it out. Much easier to see were Alyssa’s Tears, the frozen waterfall that glistens off one of the minor peaks, flashing in the daylight like the High Septon’s crown.

Mya looks a bit wistful. “My lot has always been knowing the trails to the Eyrie and ensuring safe travels thereto and from. But the trails are too dangerous in winter for any travel.” She sighs. “I suppose the winter has taken my purpose, even if it hasn’t properly come yet, and left me rudderless. We’re a bit alike in that respect, I would venture to say.” Some might take offense at a bastard comparing herself to a lady, but you can tell Mya didn't mean it in that way.

---

Tyramear

The assorted men listen to your advice. Taking the lead, Lipps speaks in a lordly tone. “I thank you for your assistance, healer. This is most unusual, I understand.” He steps back and calls for a servant, whom he bids fill a tub with steaming water, well-salted. As a pair of them haul out the copper tub and take turns carrying up barrels to empty within, Lord Lipps takes his leave. “I’ll be up in the tower, healer. After you’re finished here, I believe my daughter and her handmaids may have need of you as well.” Soon enough, the tub is full and the squires are taking turns immersing themselves, wincing with pain, and otherwise following your directives. Their injuries were treated by a maester at some point, but have been exacerbated by riding. You estimate the wounds to be over a fortnight old, with less than a week in the saddle.

The twin knights of Frey look on with some disgust. Ser One-Eye is none too pleased with your diagnosis and prescription not to ride. “Healer, we require our squires accompany us to the tourney at the Gates of the Moon. We have business to attend there, and no knight should enter a tourney without his squire. More importantly, we ride for vengeance and our squires stand as evidence of the horrors they have suffered.” He touches his eyepatch unconsciously as his voice builds to a righteous growl. “Blood for blood--the Corretts must pay for their crimes!”

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus' face burns as her lips touch him. It was the first time a woman had...well, Westernlands women had no illusions about Cleganes, and there was no hiding his size. Honestly he had never given much thought to women, and now here he was blushing like a boy from a moment of kindness and...and then Lady Alyssa leaves after an altercation with Lord Roger, and Marcus is no longer worrying about Lady Talla's favor, or anything else of hers. Now he's worried Roger and Morris might decide to settle this with arms, and if they did, Marcus might be called on to spill the blood of someone in this room come morning. He had sworn his service to House Corrett, anything Lay Alyssa or Lord Morris asked of him, he would do. With no one addressing him at the moment, Marcus mutters excuses to no one and leaves the hall.

[Harmony]

Allyria

"Oh? It's so hard to tell from here." Allyria puts a hand over her eyes to avoid suddenly staring into the sun and glares upwards. "That waterfall does look like something else, does the ice make it justice?"

"Your lot?" She asks, before she realized the answer. "Ooh." She lowers her voice to a whisper "For a place that seems to scorn 'your lot', there's a strange abundance of you, and seemingly a lot of purpose reserved for you." Maybe she was too direct, she felt pangs of regret straight away. This didn't help her fit in, but when she repressed herself like that, a line was crossed. "You're right, we're the same I guess, lost at sea." she recovered. "Good thing we can row!" she exclaims a bit to loudly maybe, beaming at Mya.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Banion snorts and scoffs with amusement at the young man's impression of the eunuch, his eyes switching between Grenzo and the squire as if to see if the foreigner is understanding any of what is being said, looking for a reaction of sorts. When he's finished, Banion nods his head a few times, showing he has taken in what the squire has shared and murmurs aloud in his whiskey-soaked voice, "A fighting eunuch... huh." Slapping his hand down on the table, Banion pushes himself up. Looking between those gathered in the near proximity, he says with his cup in his hand, "Well, I'm off to find Zandren. You lot enjoy the remainder of the trough." Grinning for ear to ear, Banion departs to harass some of the waitresses and female attendants in the nearby proximity.

The squabble among the upper echelon causes a brief distraction in his pursuits, his eyes noting Grenzo being at the ready, but he waves it off as nothing further erupts and it is of no concern to him. Should one of them wish to share the going-ons, he'll hear about it.

[dmarks]

Alyssa swept out of the hall with an aloof grace. She kept silent whilst Morris nattered to her, but she sought to regain her composure before speaking.

As they mounted the final stairs to their rooms, Alyssa spoke quietly and with outward calm. ""We will not get him good for this. We will not grow angry with him. We will not whisper words against him. Roger is a fool, and fools are dangerous, but in the end, words, even insults are as wind, and we will not cause more strife for the sake of our pride. Do you understand Morris? We need not love the man, but we need not make enemies."

She entered her room and collapsed into one of the chairs, visibly tired. "I know it's hard son,
but remember that your father and brother were noble men, heroes, and simple words cannot take that away." She summoned Morris over and kissed him on the forehead. "Get an early night and tomorrow forget these things. If Roger apologises then we will be gracious, and if he does not, I still think he has learned his lesson. Don't let anger harden your heart."

She dismissed her son and sat in the chair awhile longer. It was hard to counsel such restraint when her heart beat with the same fiery passion as her son. Still she was no hot-headed youth, and surely she had taught Roger a lesson. That was enough. And she certainly had no intention of apologising for her own remarks...

[Sahe]

Just a moment ago Mera had fantasized about smashing her axe onto Lord Roger's plate and punching him in the face. Now she could barely contain a grin. Morris had chosen her as the champion for House Corrett in the upcoming tourney to spite Lord Roger, which was so much better than slapping him and was sure to hurt even more. She had thought she had to beg Morris to give her that honor and already formulated wild plans in her head about getting some knight at the tourney drunk and riding under his name. This was so much better though. She would officially compete against some of the best knights the Vale had to offer and could spite Lord Roger for his transgression while doing that. She was under no illusions, that no matter how well she performed, she'd never be selected for the Winged Knights. After all, she wasn't even a knight and had essentially thrown away one of the prestigious spots of the tourney and turned it into an opportunity of personal glory and recognition for Mera and House Corrett. This was huge and the recognition she had so desperately sought from her younger brother.

With a barely contained grin on her face, Mera bound the kerchief around her upper arm, proudly presenting the Corrett Sigyl to Roger Corrett to rub it in his face every time he'd look her way. Content Mera leaned back and kept watching Walda as she continued her performance about Ser Gorlen. She certainly had a talent, even from a distance she was a joy to watch, though Ser Gorlen himself might disagree, but who cared about him? Maybe she should also give Lord Roger her thanks before the evening was over. Without his blunt words, Morris might've not selected her.

[heretic]

The Feast Ends—Marcus, Banion, Mera, Adwin

With the stench of confrontation hanging uncomfortable thick in the hall, people begin slipping out to escape the tension. Servants hurry in to scoop away platters and bowls, still running with the juices of eel and fowl, as well as the cups and flagons that clutter the tables. Some of the hounds rise at the prospect of more scraps, and voice their approval. The clamor of it all echoes throughout the hall, allowing conversations to rekindle as people stream from the hall. Mara Snow has just finished an arm-wrestling match and is calmly holding her foeman by the ear while he digs in his pockets for coppers. A few others around them cough up a few last debts. Lord Roger remains at his seat, grinding his jaw and worrying at a kerchief in his fist. His maester has leaned in close, whispering in his ear with a kindly hand laid on his shoulder.

Elsewhere in the hall, Stallicho has fed a log into one of the dying hearths and is staring, glassy-eyed, into the growing flames. His eunuch has retrieved his master’s heavy cloak and stands in attendance beside him. Ser Gorlen snores gently, lying with a pile of fat, prostrate dogs.

Walda bids farewell to her new friends and falls in next to Mera, immediately fussing with and remarking on Morris’s kerchief. She’s a little tipsy, though not drunk. Pearse brushes by, on his way to deeper within the keep.

---

Lady Alyssa

Morris keeps pacing, rolling his eyes at your admonitions, but not biting back with anything. Finally, he stops moving and deflates as he sits. “I hope Mera puts Ser Myles on his arse.” Naming his sister as house champion is another rash move, but not the worst thing he could have done. The Egens granted their second tourney berth to Morris, and Roger may not take kindly to Morris turning around and giving it to a woman, and a bastard no less—although Roger may have forfeited the right to raise that objection when he named Ser Myles as his own champion.

There’s a knock on the door. You find a ruddy-faced Lord Roger facing you, with his wispy-haired maester at his side. It seems that the maester is playing peace-maker of sorts. You doubt that Roger has the sense to return and apologize all on his own. Roger clears his throat. “Morris, I apologize for what I said back in the hall. It was ill-done to speak of such things so, so . . . harshly. And in public. The cause of the King in the North was not entirely without merit.” You suspect these are Maester Medgar’s words, as much as Roger’s. He looks up from your shoes. “It’s just that there’s so much tension in the Vale, and we’re caught between the two sides. In particular, our access to river merchants is precarious. One word from Yohn Royce, and the Coldwaters close Coldwater Burn to merchants making upriver. Littlefinger can close the Meltwater through the Corbrays and Lynderlys.”

It is true that these houses sit further to the mouths of the rivers than House Egen, and therefore control access upriver. House Egen’s lands do not abut either river, but they hold an easement from the Eyrie for their caravans to travel overland to reach the rivers. In fact, you and Alyn were instrumental in negotiating these instruments on behalf of Rufus Egen. Back then, it was Nestor Royce who ruled the Eyrie. Things were simpler back then. The lesser Royce could be severe, harsh, and irritable, but he never acted rashly or unjustly.

---

Allyria

Mya smiles kindly. “Well, we’d best pick a direction then, I suppose.”

A chill has run through the crowd of onlookers as the shadows cast by the walls begin to creep to where they stand. The nights here are twice as cold as in Dorne. The group begins to disperse, the armored knights moving to the stables and armory to put away their weapons and armor, while the others make for the keep. You spy Alayne give Ben Coldwater’s arm a playful squeeze as he departs. Myranda hurries to join her and hear the gossip. Ser Harry and Gaelen Grafton drift off to put away their tourney swords, and you find yourself beside Ser Andar Royce.

The heir to Runestone is perhaps two-and-thirty, muscular and huge, with a mop of coarse black hair atop his head and a constant sprouting of stubble covering his cheeks. His belt-buckle, cloak-pin, and spurs all shine bronze, while his surcoat is a blood-red, his breeches black, and his cloak grey and mantled with wolf’s fur. He wears no steel but a short dagger on his belt, with a black leather grip. “My lady,” he intones in a deep voice, “could I beg a word?” Just then, you reach the door to the hall and he holds it open for you, sweeping his hand inside towards a side-hall illuminated by a long row of flickering torches. You sense that his objective is something other than courtship. Ser Andar is a married man, and has no reputation for dishonoring his lady wife.

[dmarks]

Though she had no love for her husband's get, she would worry about Morris's choice of champion another time. Especially given Roger's frayed appearance and keenness to make amends. Since he had spoken to her son, she gave space for Morris to reply first, though with a look that counselled him to heed her earlier words and err towards graciousness.

"Thank you lord Roger, it is well that we do not let words said in anger ruin this evening. We have all said things that we come to regret." She wasn't apologising as such, but hoped that this would take some of the embarrassment the youth must be feeling. "I thank you for your candour. There are no easy answers, else there would never be strife, but from my experience it is always better to master your fears, than to let them master you. Hard I know, but once you have done so, you will be a great lord. Perhaps we can speak of these matters further on our journey? You may not know it, but I assisted my husband in negotiating those first easements from the Eyrie. Perhaps I can help you come to a more secure solution?" And if she could find out what he had been scheming, then all the better. "In truth though, I am tired. I will see you tomorrow, lord Roger."

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus heads back to his room. He had no interest in contests of strength, not like that one at least, and though it might be fun, he was well aware it would only make him seem immature, like he had something to prove if he just butted in. It would be important to sleep well before traveling, he didn't want to seem like some shambling barely-aware drunk the whole way, and he had no horse to ride to mask it. It would also be a good idea to tend to his gear, since he had no squire to do it for him.

[Harmony]

Allyria

Allyria is just about to join the other women when she hears Ser Andar speak up next to her. "Of course, Ser!" her response is chirpy and she smiles widely at him. She can't help but shake the nagging feeling that something has happened. But no, if there were ill messages, surely a Maester would have delivered them? "Is everything alright?" she asks as she walks through the door he holds for her, keeping the question open enough. She walks into the side-hall, at least happy to be away from the chilly winds.

[DukeGod]

As a matter of fact, those squires would not be riding, no matter what those knights said. The small fact they were Corrett enemies didn't help one bit

"I don't like to repeat myself Ser, but I'll do it. Your squires will not be riding anywhere, for at least 3 days. A week would be more ideal, but I'm sure such brave lads will face the great pain and the possibility of needing their legs removed if it means not dishonoring their sers. Or, other limbs maybe"

He makes his voice heard quite well to the "brave lads"

"Now, if there's one thing I like even less than repeating myself is patients that won't listen, I'm the healer, they're the patients. If they don't listen to the healer, they're not patients so if I happen to hear that either of you so much as thought to get into a horse for the next 3 days, you're no longer my patients, which means I won't treat you. You wouldn't like that, seeing as there's no true healer besides me in many places of these mountains."

"And stop growling like that before I decide you damaged your vocal chords and brew myself some vile tonic to pour down your throat"

[Sahe]

The rest of the feast wasn't that eventful and Lord Roger soon disappeared after which the feast rather quickly came to an end. Walda found Mera and started fussing with the kerchief, sitting on Mera's armrest and making comments. With Morris making Mera the Champion of House Corrett, their roles as knight and her squire had become a lot more serious. Walda though was a bit tipsy and in a playful mood and Mera had downed her own number of cups by now. The two of them went to leave and return to their room in the tower, making their way joking and laughing trhough the keep, when Ser Pearse brushed past them, giving Mera a moment of pause and peaked her curiosity.

Putting a finger to her lips, Mera signaled Walda to be silent and grabbed her hand so she'd follow her. She turned around in the direction Ser Pearse had disappeared in and contained a giggle when she thought of all the naughty situations she might catch the knight in at this late hour of the night.

[heretic]

Tyramear

At your threat to administer tonic, the knights Frey swell up like a pair of angry towers. “Watch your words, healer, or—”“you’ll find yourself tasting a bit of Frey justice—”“—but only if your tongue goes back far enough to—”“—lick the noose biting into your neck!” Ser Two-Eyes wipes a bit of spittle from his lip with the back of his hand, while his brother tries to kill you with his stare. Their fury takes you aback for a moment. Sometimes you forget how touchy lordlings can be about decorum and honor, even when they find themselves at the mercy of your expertise. For their part, the squires continue to look miserable, but relieved that you’ve bidden them to rest.

A creak and shuffle of footsteps announces the return of Lord Lipps, who is hurrying down the stairs, his face a stern mask. “Sers, you shall shed no blood here or elsewhere in the Vale. You’ve gave me your word that you would not seek the Corretts, and neither will you harm this healer.” He alights from the stairs and continues toward the group. “And Tyramear is helping you. Did you never learn to not bite the hand that feeds?” He almost continues, but instead leaves that to hang in the air. The Freys mumble their apologies as Lord Lipps stands aside the stairwell and beckons you up. “Master Tyramear, my daughter will see you now.”

Upstairs, you find Jesselyn, Meryam, and Jeyne Lipps, as well as the handmaid Daya. The women and Meryam—Jesselyn and Jeyne are women grown, perhaps eighteen years apiece, but Meryam is a childish thirteen—are reclining on a large bed of furs, gossiping with cups of wine in hand. The room is gilded in the minimalist style of the Lipps, with some mighty antlers bolted on the wall above a shield and crossed swords. A single worn tapestry showing a map of the Vale hangs on the opposite wall and the light shining through the dull stained glass window throws a seven-colored rainbow across the rushes on the floor.

Jeyne beckons you toward her. At once, you take Roger Egen for the fool that he is. Jeyne Lipps is truly lovely, with flowing brown hair, big dark eyes, and a charming smile. She and her cousins are wearing matching navy dresses, which Jeyne has supplemented with a pink shawl. “Healer, it’s good of you to come. Tell me, do you have the makings for Moon tea?”

---

Allyria

Ser Andar’s face doesn’t look like he smiles a lot, but he returns your smile with good humor. “Everything is quite alright milady.” He frees a torch from the wall with a noisy scrape and leads you further.

You’ve had little occasion to speak yet with Ser Andar. He hails from the senior branch of House Royce, and they tend to make themselves scarce when Myranda’s about. The bad blood between Lord Yohn and the newly-raised Lord Nestor has not been excised since the standoff by the Lords Declarant some months ago.

Presently, you reach another door and Ser Andar opens it and stands aside for you. Inside, you find a group of Royce women awaiting you. Some you’ve met, and others you know by sight. There’s Ysilla Redfort, Ser Andar’s younger sister and married to Ser Mychel Redfort, Agnes, Ser Andar’s wife, and a pair of women that you take to be Yohn Royce’s sisters or cousins. Both of them have those steel grey Royce eyes, and black hair yielding to white. One wears a ribbon of red, white, and blue, the colors of one of the Royce banner houses. All four stand when they see you and beckon you, smiling, to join them at their table, which is set with a matching silver flagon of wine and cups, as well as a platter of grapes and cheese. Ysilla takes your hand. “Milady of Dorne, it is a pleasure to see you again. I hope that we can come to know each other better in the days to come.”

You were introduced to Ysilla some three days past in the great hall, but did not speak beyond pleasantries. You remember she has seventeen years, and is very proud of her match with Mychel. Today, she wears a bold red dress with pearls accenting the bodice. Her hair is twisted and pinned behind her head with a white enamel pin cast in the likeness of a falcon. (You’ve found many things in the Vale to be molded after falcons, hawks, and eagles.) Ser Andar takes a seat after you do, whilst one of the older women begins pouring for the table.

After you’ve exchanged the requisite formalities, Ysilla gets to business. “I am most sorry for your loss milady. Andar and I lost our brother in the war, but the hurt must be even keener to have your betrothed cut down on the cusp of your wedding day. A toast to our beloved dead.” The others raise their cups and drink. Ysilla continues, “Unfortunately, the Queen has sown salt on our wounds.” You have no doubt she means Queen Cersei here, although Margaery is Queen and Cersei is Queen Dowager and Regent. “We’re made to obey the likes of Petyr Baelish. A coin-shiner from King’s Landing jumped-up above his rightful station. And that’s not all. They’ve put a white cloak on a sellsword and given Stokeworth to another. They even gave Amory Lorch the command at Harrenhal.” You’re not familiar with Stokeworth, but everyone in Dorne knows that Amory Lorch murdered the children of Elia Martell, along with Gregor Clegane. It was no mistake that Ysilla mentioned his name. “All of this is to say, I hope you understand why my father and his allies chose to make their declaration. It is a shame to be ruled by Cersei’s creature, and a greater shame to share a liegelord with Walder Frey. These trying times must weigh on you. How are you holding up? Have you news from Dorne?”

Spoiler: OOC

Show

This reflects a successful Cunning check to notice that Ysilla has chosen examples of Cersei’s misrule that are designed to appeal specifically to you. Last Allyria heard from Dorne,
the Sand Snakes had been taken into custody after whipping half the country into a war fever. Allyria's more Gargalen-specific news will be a few months old, dated to when she was in Greycrown Keep and still receiving trustworthy ravens. Feel free to add flavor as you see fit.

---

Mera

Pearse strides down a curving side hallway ensconced with burning torches on the bend of the inner wall, while the outer wall is decorated with colored bricks forming an endless series of large moons. As Pearse walks, his shadow recedes slowly first from the waxing crescent, then the first quarter, then the waxing gibbous. You and Walda manage to keep up without letting your shadows extend to where Pearse can see them. Presently, he comes to a halt beneath the waning gibbous, where a man broad-shouldered man is waiting. You recognize Ser Myles at a glance.

Myles speaks first. “Your cousin can’t seem to hold court without pissing all over someone. Today it’s Morris. What happens when he takes aim at Yohn Royce, or worse, the Lord Protector?” “Patience, ser. He’s learning. Medgar and I both counseled that he establish his authority tonight. He was trying, it’s just that when it comes to issues of command and loyalty, he can act so . . . ” “Animalistic?” They begin to walk slowly away from you, but it’s easy to keep up. “Best not say that, ser.” “What of the grey rat? He backed your counsel for once?” “Aye, he knows we sit on a knife’s edge and we need the Corretts, doubly so now that they’ve armed a mountain clan. Trouble is, we don’t know what he’s playing at. He’s no friend of Littlefinger’s, I’ll tell you that. Which means he’s no friend of ours.” “I’ll tell you what he’s playing at. He’s so Florent, you could lift his robes and find a fox's tail wiggling behind his cheeks. He scabbed his knees begging Lord Rufus to back that rusty rod Stannis, and that’s his object still, only he’s got to move slowly.” “Mayhaps. Mayhaps not. He has much and more to say about the virtue of the Lords Declarant. He could undo us. A whisper here, a choice word there . . . Roger has more than one loaded crossbow within reach. Talla’s marriage. The Myrish mercenaries. The Corretts, if he can keep them.” “We need the maester still. Only he can control your cousin, and we need him controlled for the nonce.” “No man can tame my cousin, not for very long. We can re-measure our chained friend’s worth once you win your Wings, and I’ve befriended a lord or two.” They stop walking and Ser Myles clasps Pearse on the shoulder. You sense that one or both may return back towards you.

---

Lady Alyssa

Roger brightens a bit when you forecast that he will be a great lord, and nods his assent to further discussion of the easements. “I look forward to further discussions. Lord Morris.” He nods curtly to Morris, who returns a weak “Thank you, milord.” With that, Lord Roger takes his leave. Maester Medgar stays behind. His eyes have a tired, baggy look, and he’s stooping lower than before beneath the weight of his chain. “Patience is a lordly virtue, and I see that you have it in spades, Lord Morris. It will serve you well.” Morris squirms. Medgar ignores it and turns to you, giving you a grateful look. “We will discuss those heady issues on the morrow, my lady. I know that such decisions are best made under the steady hand of seasoned counsel.” He departs, leaving the two of you in silence but for the piercing cry of a falcon in the night.

Morris’s lordly posture collapses as he flops heavily down on the bed. “It’s not fair! Roger is a man grown and he gets to say whatever he wants and then ERASE it by saying sorry. I get half as much respect as him for doing twice as much.” He continues grumbling incomprehensibly into a pillow. His words are not without some truth. Morris surely has better sense than Roger when it comes to treating with vassals. But Morris is not without his own flaws—his penchant for decisive, spur-of-the-moment actions. Vile as Roger’s words are, words are wind. Roger’s misgraces thus far have been reversible—subject to the elasticity of his bannermen’s patience. When Morris steps false, it will likely be irreparable.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

A half a cup of wine that has turned more vinegar than refreshment, Banion watched the crowds disperse and others gather for late night conversations as he lingered against a wall. Based on his prior experiences, this is when "business" was usually done. Spotting Stallicho and his servant near the fire, the rogue decided this was his chance to explore that avenue a little further, having missed the opportunity to speak with the foreigner during dinner. Pulling himself up off the wall, Banion made a slow walk over to the fireplace where he stopped about ten feet away and pretended to admire the cloak Grezno was placing on his master's shoulders. Holding his cup close to his chest in his left hand, Banion then attempted to make contact with Stallicho while commenting, "Your man there..." He nodded in Grezno's direction to indicate who he was speaking about, even going as far as to stick his wine-bearing hand out a little as well before drawing it back in. "He's not much for dinner conversation, though it seems he did provide a bit of chatter for some of the guests. I don't suppose you're a bit more talkative than he is?" Banion looked at Stallicho expectantly, not sure if they other man was fluent in the common tongue of Westeros or not.

[Harmony]

Allyria

Allyria beams a wide smile at the gathering, which grows even wider as she notices the cheese and grapes. She feels her stomach agreeing, and her mouth watering up. She tears herself away from the distraction when Ysilla takes her hand. She was a bit surprised by it, but she welcomed it. "The pleasure is all mine, and I would very much like that. And what a wonderful dress!" she says with a joyous tone. Eating dinner as a family is something she miss terribly, and while this wasn't hers, it would do.

Her good mood spoils when Jon is brought up, and she joins the toast in silence. These northerners are a weird kind, she reflects. You were supposed to enjoy whatever was served, and then, once the meal and wine had lowered everyone's guards, you'd speak. She sliced a big piece of cheese and sampled it. The fine quality got her mood up again briefly until Amory Lorch's name was mentioned, when her eyes darkened. Beneath the seething anger she felt, she couldn't shake the feeling she was being manipulated.

"The country mourns their prince." She manages, but then changes her mind "Dorne remembers, and there's a debt to pay." There's an unusual coldness to her voice, but she knows in a heartbeat which side she would have sided with had she been in Dorne. She regrets it a few seconds after, she was supposed to keep a low profile. She takes the wine and drinks, maybe a bit to much for one go. "Otherwise, harvest is looking good, so there will be plenty of olives and lemons." She picks a few grapes, not planning to leave scraps. "One of my sisters got married and I'm an aunt to a few more." She wrinkles her nose, the word made her sound so... old, but she'd became an aunt before she turned ten. Not wanting to dwell more on her siblings getting both married and having children, while she was stuck here, she distracts herself by finishing her cup of wine.

[dmarks]

"Life is not always a fairly weighted game," Alyssa replied with a grimace. "But you should be proud of how you acted: I would say your restraint impressed Roger's maester,
and he may be able to provide favourable counsel to the Egens, to our advantage."

"For now, seek your bed, and be at peace. We will talk more on this in the morning, but I expect you to act as all this never happened."

[heretic]

Banion

Stallicho looks up from the fire, his gold tooth shining in the firelight as he grins. "Well met, stranger. I must apologize for Grezno's melancholy. He has never before traveled to your side of the Narrow Sea. He still squawks like a harpy and the falcons cannot understand him. I'm afraid it's too late to teach him anything new." He gestures to the fire. "Back home, a woman with flames tattooed on her cheeks taught me to look into the fire like this. She told me that with enough faith, I could glimpse the future. I visited her temple every night for a month to learn, but it was her nakedness I wanted to see. The last night fire was so bright I went blind for a day from staring. It was that night that she slipped out of her armor and into my bed. A sweet memory, but I never did get to see her."

He gestures again to the hearth. "Sometimes I try to envision her in the flames, but mostly I just see sparks and fire and smoke. Every once in awhile, my pulse quickens and the licks of flame take shape--a castle, a strange rune, a cloud. But never a woman." He sighs. "It's for the best, I suppose. If she did appear to me, wanton in the hearth, I might forget myself and end up like Grezno." He takes an iron poker and breaks apart a crumbling log, scaly grey on the outside, but shimmering red underneath. A spray of glowing ash erupts from the bright insides of the log, disappearing upwards into the flue. "Some might say the young lord was fiery today, but I sense more ice in him than fire. He's hard like the frozen peaks his hawks love so much, and when he cracks, it's thunderous." You're not sure if this is meant as a compliment or not, but Stallicho must be thinking the same, because he quickly adds, "'tis good to sell my swords to such a mighty lord."

[Sahe]

When Mera discovered that Pearse was not meeting his mistress but Ser Myles, there was a short moment of disappointment, but then they started talking and Mera's eyes went wide as she heard the plotting. Apparently Maester Medgar had a great deal of influence with Lord Roger and was a sympathizer of the Lords Declarant, Myles and Pearse seemed to oppose him and where conspiring against him. And apparently Talla Egen had married again? But who?

Mera absorbed and processed the information and noticed that the two men had stopped talking and steps where coming closer. The hallway they were in made a curve and Mera knew there were two doors, but other than that there was very little cover. If they would find them, they would certainly be most displeased. Mera grabbed Walda by the hand again and they quickly retreated the way they came. It seemed to go smoothly, but suddenly a gust of wind let a nearby torch flare up and blow some ash and soot right in Mera's face. She tried to fight it, but the next moment a loud sneeze suddenly echoed through the hallway and Mera froze for a second before Walda pulled her into the deep shadow of a doorway. With little hope, Mera tried to open the door.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Sipping on his wine - being a bit more cautious given its 'bold' flavor - Banion listens to Stallicho talk and talk. He has grown accustomed to listening as its sometimes the only meaningful way to gather information or just pass the time without giving up much of one's own self. Either way, Banion actively shows his interest by keeping his eyes on the man and nodding his head here and there. When the foreigner has finished though, Banion wastes little time returning to some of the points he shared. "Now that's religion I can get behind," he says with a devious sort of smile as he makes the double entendre and notes Stallicho's experience with the priestess. "But Lord Roger is enlisting mercenaries you say?" Banion acts surprised at this news, taking his eyes off the man with the greasy, black hair and looking in the direction of the now empty head table. Giving the question a moment to linger out in the open, Banion then looks back towards Stallicho with a feigned, worried or confused expression across his face. "Surely you're not here to keep the peace during the tournament?" the rogue then asks, seeking clarification before taking another sip of his wine while awaiting a response.

[DukeGod]

"Hmph. Frey justice? I'm sure I'll be as old as a valyrian steel sword when it arrives, knowing the reputation of the name."

The retort is not quite so loud. Really only a whisper for Lord Lipps to hear. He whistles, calling Balericat from behind the Frey knights back to his side, and enters the tower with him in tow.

...Moon tea? So this was why Roger Egen had abandoned the marriage? Jeyne was with child from another? Well he could understand it was a problem but really?

"Yes. Perhaps not quite all actually, but the ingredients are easy to come by here and almost anywhere, thus the distinction is rendered irrelevant. However, that particular tea isn't to be recommended so lightly. Would you explain to me whyever you want it, lady?"

[heretic]

Allyria

After a few introductions--the two older women are Margot Coldwater, married to Lord Coldwater’s brother, and Leona Hunter, who is newly the Lady of House Hunter after her good-father’s death--the Royce women and Ser Andar snack on the grapes and cheese as you recount the news from Dorne. Ysilla smiles brightly when you compliment her dress. “My lady is kind . . . and has great taste herself. That is an enchanting cut.” Before long, the tray is reduced to little crumbs of cheese scattered amid barren stems and puddles of grape juice. Ser Andar excuses himself briefly to fetch another course. A pair of servants return with him to bring in the heavier fare: cod fillets rolled in crushed pine nuts, baked in butter and garlic and served on a bed of corn flavored with coriander and lime, and legs of lamb studded with cloves and served swilling in bowls of herb gravy. The watery sweet white soon runs dry and is soon replaced with a Dornish red, dark as blood and more agreeable on the tongue.

After some light gossip, you’ve learned a bit more of the Royce goings-on. Bronze Yohn is championed at the tourney by Strong Sam Stone, Runestone’s master-at-arms, and by Ser Ben Coldwater, lady Margot’s son. Bronze Yohn decided not to send Andar to the lists, since those that win their Wings will serve for three years; too long for the heir to Runestone to be away from kith and kin. Dark scandal has engulfed House Hunter, with Lord Gilwood’s younger brothers Eustace and Harlan accusing him of murdering their lord father, who died suddenly at the age of eighty-six. Lady Leona suspects that Littlefinger is harboring the fugitive brothers, and has dispatched servants to spy on some of the mystery knights, some of whom are known to hide their faces.

After letting Leona finish airing her grievances, Ysilla sends Andar away to find some sweetmeats and takes the opportunity to turn the conversation back to you. “Enough talk of treachery. Have you made new plans to wed?” She grins excitedly. “My only regret from marrying is that I have to give my favor to Mychel right from the beginning. There’s no mystery to that, no excitement.” She puts a hand on your arm. “I saw that Ser Wallace was so happy you spoke to him the other day in the hall. It was precious, but you can do better.” Ser Wallace is sweet in a boyish way, but he has a terrible stutter that seems to get worse around maidens. He’s probably the fourth-most impressive knight from his house in attendance.

---

Tyramear

Jeyne rolls her eyes at you. “Must I spell it out? I’m a woman grown and I don’t take kindly to your judgments and disparagements, healer. I have a septa for that, and I find that she does her best spiritual work when there are several leagues between us. And keep your voice down. These things are best handled discreetly.” She hops up off the bed to discard her cup. “I know how to make Moon Tea myself, but this month’s snows covered up the places where I normally pluck the ingredients. I have half a mind to snare some great lord or knight at this tourney and it would be most inconvenient to arrive unprepared.” She puts her hands on her hips. “What is it you want? Silver? We can give you some of that, but not too much. We’re rich in furs and snow, not coin. Perhaps my septa could instruct you in pious bleating, but I see that your cup is already overflowing.”

Meryam’s eyes go wide at Jeyne’s castigations, and she clutches her mouth as if to keep from exclaiming. Jesselyn shakes with silent laughter. “My coz is not shy, healer. Best not test her.” “If you’re too shy, they try to marry you to some suet-brained lout and tell you it’s a good match because his ancestor was a petty king or bonked someone’s head off with a Valyrian blade. I'll not be a piece to be bargained with, or exchanged in a trade agreement. As far as I'm concerned, my husband need only have one trait: obedience. To me.”

---

Moonhome—nighttime

Marcus

The smallfolk whisper some among themselves as the hall empties, but they steer wide around you and you can’t pick out their whispers. Like as not, they’re reacting to the confrontation between Roger and Morris. Night has fallen without, and the dirt and grass cracks beneath your boots as you cross to your tower. Out in front of the stable, a handful of grooms are brushing down a few mounts. By the light of the lantern chained under the eaves, you spot a chestnut destrier, a roan charger, and a queerly striped beast with a bristly mane—a zorse, from Essos. It’s said the Brave Companions rode such animals into battle. After checking their hooves, the grooms move to stable the mounts.

Back in your room, you find a new log in the hearth and fresh water in the copper basin, clear and still, where you left it milky with travel-grime. Otherwise, the room is unchanged.

Lady Alyssa

Morris takes your compliment sleepily and soon retires, sending you back to your room next door. You find it as you left it, save for the chamberpot beneath the privy, which has been emptied and now smells of lavender. The bed is stuffed with goose-down and soon enough you find yourself dreaming of dark knights, bright moons, and a purple mummer pretending to tilt alongside them.

Banion

Stallicho smiles broadly. “House Egen is wise to seek security in uncertain times. It is a rare thing for us eastern soldiers to find our fortune in the Seven Kingdoms, but Lord Rufus made us a very fine offer.” You recall Lord Rufus was Roger’s late father, who drowned in the freezing waters when his boat capsized. “More free companies have made the same decision of late: Salladhor Saan, the Brave Companions, and others. My Bright Banners will arrive in two moons if the seas are kind. You’ve never seen a company like ours—banners like sails, spear-tip ribbons that stream on forever in the wind, all dyed with the bold colors of dead Tyroshis. We fill our dye casks by wringing their beards, and the living Tyroshis quake doubly hard at the sight of our flags.”

He puts up the iron poker and turns toward the door. “I will attend this tourney and learn the measure of Lord Roger’s friends and foes, but the Bright Banners are of little use keeping the peace.” Grezno hands Stallicho a pair of fur-lined leather gloves, and he begins to don them. “Our ‘swords’ are tall as a giant and built of thick logs, chains, and twisted rawhide. Our ‘shields’ can fit a hundred men and an iron-shod ram beneath them. We rain down fire and disease and all manner of hellish thing from the sky. We crack open holdfasts, forts, castles, and any other thing men build. Then, after some other brave fool has gone and died storming the breach, we arrive and find our plunder. Your Vale is full of plump nuts, and should it come to war, the Bright Banners will serve as a fine nut-cracker.”

Mera

The door opens inward with an unwelcome crack of wood slipping free of stone frame. It’s loud enough that Pearse and Myles must have heard it. You can barely see in the gloom within, but it looks as though this is somewhere between storage room and bedchamber. A single candle is burning on a handled porcelain saucer sitting on a small table. The rest of the room is cramped by tall stacks of barrels and crates, with a small lumpy bed sitting against the opposite wall. There's another door on by the bed, opposite the one you opened, but you can't see any other windows or ways in or out.
“Brandon?” whispers a woman’s voice. You can see the biggest lump on the bed rippling as she sits up. “You’re as loud as a belled oaf. I told you to wait!” From outside the door, you hear Pearse’s voice. “Um, is everything set to rights in there, Maisie?”

---

The Road—daytime

Day One

A cold sun rises over Moonhome, putting steam in the breath of man and horse, as half a hundred men and women make ready in the yard. Morris has dismissed a handful of Corrett servants and armsmen back to Greycrown Keep, so as not to bring too many mouths to the tourney. All told, the continuing Corrett tourney party is one two and twenty strong—Lord Morris, Alyssa, Maester Adwin, Mera (and Walda), Marcus Clegane, Ser Oswell Moore, Ser Gorlen Waters, Mara Snow, Banion, Dryn the Redtooth, Lenn and his son Danny, plus a groom, a cupbearer, a maid, and six men-at-arms. Lord Roger’s party is thirty in number—he’s attended by Ser Myles, Pearse, Talla, and Perra Egen, Maester Medgar, Stallicho (and Grezno), Moonhome’s steward Brandon Tollett, and Serjeant Ketter, as well as three grooms, a falconer, two maids, two cooks, and a dozen Dayguard men-at-arms, with blazing suns on their shields.

The Egens travel a bit heavier than the Corretts. Ser Myles is bringing no less than three mounts, including two destriers, and the Egen grooms have loaded a wagon with all manner of fodder and food, as well as Maester Medgar’s chests, three of Lord Roger’s birds (a sea hawk with black wings and a white belly, a dappled brown gyrfalcon, and a golden eagle with a thick barb of a beak) in their cages, and room for the child Perra to sit besides.

Once the mounts are trimmed with blankets, bit and bridle, saddle and saddlebags, stirrups, and other accoutrements of the road, the group shares a meal in the yard of hotcakes, honey, bacon, and eggs, all hot from the griddle. Some Egen septon waddles forth to bless the champions’ lances, and then the group is off for the road, riding out from beneath Moonhome’s portcullis.

Day Three

The party has followed a scrub trail along the eastern foothills of the mountains, picking your way through cracked buttes and shale slides, taking switchbacks around the steep ridges. The land is rough but familiar, and the path is a safe one.

Eleven-years-old, Perra pouts and whines about the cold, immediately forgetting her former pleadings to attend her first tourney. Lord Roger has been hawking every day, and his birds have never failed to please the cooks, bringing back white rabbits and a crow.

The column makes camp on a flat slab of stone, and the servants busy themselves with pitching mighty tents for the lords and kindling fires for supper. After a meal of beef and bean soup in a stale trencher, the camp quiets. Lord Roger retires early, loosing his faithful gyrfalcon for a night hunt, while Dryn feathers a bag of feed with arrows. Ser Myles takes up a blunted sword, vowing to take all comers. Ser Oswell Moore obliges, as do a few others, including Ketter, and Grezno. Ser Myles fights well, though he is not as fast as Oswell, nor as tough as Grezno, who suffers iron blows in only quilted armor.

Day Seven

Cracked boulders and shards of shale have given way to mere pebbles and gravel. You’ve passed into the lands of House Belmore and the terrain here is more favorable. Even the trail has widened into a true road, leading you to the Bridge of Bells over the Meltwater, the Vale’s mightiest river. The group pauses long enough to honor the Belmore tollmen with a purse of silver stags, and for Roger’s sea hawk to take a small river pike.

Onward again, the Giant’s Lance mountain looms up many miles ahead. Tonight, Medgar attends Roger in his tent while outside, Stallicho and Gorlen Waters compete at impressions, affecting the voices of the Egen septon, Grezno, and each other.

Day Twelve

Now many leagues from Moonhome, the ground beneath has softened and the mountains are a ragged blue-white horizon, no longer towering above you. You’re in the true Vale itself—the fertile meadows hidden from the rest of the realm by the Mountains of the Moon. Down here, it still feels like autumn, though the Giant’s Lance scrapes the heavens before you.

With the ground more hospitable, Myles paces out the length of a tourney list and marks it with a few stones. Enlisting the help of a Egen guardsman, he takes a dozen tilts at a wooden hoop on the end of the guardsman’s pole. However, he’s a better sword than lance, and he misses five times.

---

Mera

The septon had prepared two carefully woven laurel wreaths for the Egen and Corrett champions. He was dismayed to see Morris place it on your head, but Walda glared at him so deadly-like that he said the prayers regardless and blessed your lance. If Lord Roger objects to your selection, he has not shown it outwardly. He’s been sulking ever since his outburst, never far from his maester.

As the journey wears on, you get a fair bit of time to observe Pearse and Myles. Myles seems preoccupied with preparing for the tourney, riding up and down the column to seek news and gossip about other competitors. Every night, he tends to his armor and weapons, and sometimes practices as well. Pearse is more personable, joking with the Corrett knights and ladies, and drinking with the common men. Maester Medgar treats Pearse icily, taking every opportunity to use his superior age and learning to undercut and humiliate him.

Alyssa

You find Morris, Roger, and Medgar nearby on the road often. Roger is more relaxed out of doors, eager to show off his knowledge of the landscape and his command over his hawks, both of which are remarkable. He often rides with a falconer’s glove on and one of his birds wheeling overhead.

Medgar is more intent on discussing the news from Greycrown Keep. Morris fills him in on the details of the confrontation with the Howlers clan and their new fealty to House Corrett. The maester is an attentive listener, and always finds something to praise in response. When Roger is out of earshot, he confides in you that Roger has been resisting marriage and that Medgar has been pressing him to use the tourney to secure a betrothal. “If you come across any eligible maidens of appropriate birth, let’s try to steer them to Roger. Talla is also looking to find a husband herself, but she knows what she’s doing. I realize this is delicate, but while we’re on the subject, are you yourself looking to remarry?”

Banion

The road proves hospitable in such pleasant company. Dryn is openhanded with his wine, and Lenn and Ketter are full of stories from across the narrow sea. After your encounter in the great hall, Stallicho has sought you out on occasion to gossip about this or that. In keeping with his trade, he’s particularly interested in stories of the other castles of the Vale, asking specifically about Strongsong, Coldwater, and the Spitkeep.

Other times, he rides up with the lords, leaving Grezno back with you. The eunuch is more talkative now, and appears to be trying to learn the common tongue. Later, you learn that Stallicho commanded him to do so. The hairless man is determined, if nothing else. One night, he withstood Ser Myles hammering him with a tourney sword, advancing through the blows to land his own strike directly to the face of Myles’ helm.

Marcus

It’s hard work keeping up with the mounts, but your strides are longer than most, and you manage to match their pace regardless. A few others struggle on foot beside you—servants and men-at-arms, as well as Mara Snow and the eunuch Grezno. Talla occasionally dismounts to placate Perra, who rides nearby in the wagon, or to visit with you for a few moments. She’s left her own child back with a nurse in Moonhome, so as not to distract from her suitors. Once, after supper, Maester Medgar approaches you for news of King’s Landing and the Westerlands.

The landscape reminds you a bit of the crags in the westerlands, only on a much larger scale, and much colder. In particular, the Giant’s Lance is so much taller than anything you’ve ever seen before that it scarcely seems real. The Valemen are similar—lofty in their honor, ethereal and cold. Westermen are sooner to curse among themselves, or even scuffle if the occasion would allow for it. Both Pearse and Roger carry themselves with a certain untouchable poise, even though the former is gregarious and the latter quick to anger. Roger’s confrontation with Morris was over as soon as it began, allowing both lords to quickly recover their façade.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus wastes no time, removing his clothes and cleaning himself again and laying down to sleep within minutes of reaching his room. He rubbed his cheek where Lady Talla kissed him. She deserved better than him, but it was nice to dream. Upon rising, Marcus packs away what he'd worn last night and relieves himself before bathing and donning his armor. Not too easy by himself, but he's used to it. He idly wondered if knights truly appreciated having squires as he leaves three silver stags beneath the water basin, an apology for the almost brimming chamber pot he was leaving behind.

Day One
Down in the yard he throws his cloak over his shoulders again, to ward off the chill that armor would do little to keep out. He took food with the others, helmet under one arm, shield on his back. No modesty in his appetite now, not when he was getting ready for a long day's march keeping up with horses. He stows some bacon in his belt pouch for the road, and eat hotcakes wrapped around bacon, eggs and honey with both hands. Manners were all well and good at the table, but he would not ask the Lords to wait until he ate his fill. He wanted to be done before people started to mount up. The last thing he did before the parties departed was make sure his waterskin was full, and to stow it under his armor so it would not freeze, like some had dangling from saddles on the way here.

Day Three
As he traverses the path, Marcus wonders. Was this not the way from a well too do House to the heart of the Vale itself? The Eyre? In the Westernlands this would be a road, perhaps not paved but wide enough for two wagons and well cared for. He knew the Vale lacked the wealth of House Lannister, and mountains were certainly harder than hills to clear a path through, but infrastructure could not be ignored.

The child Pella's wagon was near where he walked, and truth be told she was grating his nerves a bit. If he found being carried so distasteful, perhaps she would care to walk and he would take her place? He had to remind himself several times how young she was, and they had a long way to go.

Marcus kicks a stump over to his tent and sat leaning against it as he ate that night, watching Ser Myles offer his challenge. Watching the knight use a practice sword, Marcus wonder if he'd need more than a heavy stick to take Myles' ego down a little. After a few bouts, he getss up and walks towards Ser Myles, not the axe but his trencher in his hand. He meets the knight's eyes unblinking and turns before he could be said to be challenging him, getting a second helping of soup, eating it with the last piece of bacon he'd saved.

Day Seven
Now here finally was a proper road. They must be getting closer to the Eyre now. Talla's visits were more than welcome, but Marcus had no experience with women, let alone a Lady. He tried to keep his replies short and as polite as he can, especially when Talla keeps Pella's complaining to a minimum.

When the Maester pesters him for news, Marcus tries to be polite but brief. He knew no details about Lord Tywin's passing, but he had plenty to say about Lord Tyrion's trial. He hadn't seen it, but it was all the city could talk about for weeks, all the way to his departure for the Vale. Some people said the Imp had cast curses on his family in the throne room, babbling spells. The trial by combat, that he had seen. The Maester's opinions on his silence be damned, he would not glorify his uncle's barbarity by spreading yet more rumors that added yet more blood to his name. Oberyn had lost, that was all he would say.

He was slightly more talkative about the Westernlands, but he spoke from the perspective of a boy training to be a knight, not a man who's aware of economics and politics.

Day Twelve
Here, in the Vale proper, Marcus feels true relief. He wasn't accustomed to cold, he heard a man can drop dead even when he feels warm but truly is freezing to death. The cloak comes off, rolled up and stuffed in his pack, and he removes his helmet, hooking it to his belt so he could retrieve his waterskin and pour some over his head. Warmed by his body it chased off the chill, as well as sluicing away sweat and what dust he'd managed to pick up. Feeling invigorated, he has a cool enough temper to merely watch Myles this time rather than remind him of the sorts of challenger he could be facing. No, this is horsemanship, lance work, something he was very poorly at, and something he knew he had to try to learn. Fear and respect were won in the grand melee, but glory was won in the lists. That was his best chance of gaining enough recognition for people to take notice. If he hoped to wrest the family's reputation from his uncles, he had to overshadow them somehow.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Moonhome—nighttime

Banion leans his head back, his eyes slightly narrowed, as he stares at Satllicho while the man blusters about his sellswords. Certainly, it sounds a bit over the top - and what representative wouldn't take the opportunity to instill a little 'legend' into the forthcoming horde of mercenaries? But at the same time, Banion has no knowledge to temper his expectations with, so it does indeed sound a bit daunting and ominous. When the man from Essos has finished, the most Banion can summon up at first is, "Right..." Clearing his throat as his mind tries to catch up with his lips, the rogue's eyes flicker towards the gloves Stallicho has placed on his hands and then back to the man's face. "Well, I'd imagine with a force as you've described, you could crack a lot more than nuts. But I'll wish you a good evening and leave you and your man to it," Banion adds, giving Grezno a brief glance before returning attention to Stallicho. "Perhaps we'll chat again on the road to the tournament?" he asks rhetorically with a smile he's just able to muster. Once pleasantries are exchanged and they've parted amicably, Banion returned to the street, bent on partaking in the revelry before the tournament that only the poor folk can enjoy and only return to his chambers in the wee hours of the morning.

The Road—daytime

Day One

Banion spent most of the day hunched forward on his horse, half-asleep and too groggy to do much of anything but just stare at the road ahead of them. He had been sure to swipe a few extra slabs of bacon to gnaw on slowly as they rode, lining his stomach with grease. It wasn't until well after lunch that the rogue returned to mostly normal.

Day Three

Lounging upon a saddle covered with quilting, Banion ate his supper while watching Dryn fire his arrows into the makeshift target. Occasionally, he'd make a joke or two about the man's aim, hinting that a slightly off target shot (and for most soldiers besides Dryn, it would be about as close to perfect as they could get) was due to an inadequate or poorly constructed fletching. Or even worse yet, maybe a deficiency in the man's fingers caused by some nocturnal tomfoolery. Dryn, like Banion, is no stranger to such jabs and has a few of his own for the rust-haired, unshaven bloke.

Day Seven

During a stop to rest the horses, Banion entertained a few of the younger or more bored travellers - including Danny and Perra - with some dexterous skills of the hand. At first, he displayed a profound mastery of rolling a copper penny through his fingers from thumb to pinky and back again in fluid motion. Then, he did a few simple disappearing tricks, causing a silver stag to vanish when being exchanged from one hand to the other and then "reappearing" behind a child's ear, out of a cupbearer's nose, and even in Dryn's boot. Finally, using an empty cup, he demonstrated how he could "force" the coin through the bottom of the cup by slamming it against his hand. (A visual for those of you curious: http://s3.crackedcdn.com/phpimages/p.../463552_v1.gif).

Day Twelve

As Myles practiced his jousting, Banion watched with mild interest, having challenged Dryn to a game of skill. The pair, along with the groom, and a man at arms, took turns throwing a knife at the ground in an attempt to crack a twig turned perpendicular to the soil. While Banion seemed to pull a few wins, Dryn racked up a few more wins - a feat that riled Banion a little, but which he seemed to turn into good-natured ribbing. After Dryn's fifth score, Banion shoved Dryn's shoulder with a devious smile and then jumped on his back while growling. "You're a dirty, goat shaming cheater!" Banion sneered before jumping off, at which the men had a playful bit of fisticuffs, taking had jabs at one anothers arms and chest, all while laughing and exchanging some names that caused a few of the maids to blush and children's attentions to be called away.

The Journey

Banion shared what little knowledge he had about the other strongholds in the Vale. While he was able to give an overall impression of the locations Stallicho inquired about, it seemed his expertise lied more in the streets and common areas of those castles as opposed to any meaningful strategic insight. Banion, in turn, would inquire about some of the major cities in Essos, asking about Braavos, Pentos, Tyrosh, and Myr specifically.

He didn't seem to mind catering to Grezno's inquiries either. Banion helped him with the common tongue, or as much as he could, being patient as Grezno struggled to form sentences. The rogue took this as an opportunity to pick up what he could of the eunuch's language as well, seeming to go tit-for-tat as it were in deciphering words, although Grezno appeared to have a head start on the Corrett jack-of-all-trades. However, Banion was able to piece together some awkward sentences in the foreign tongue as he and the bodyguard exchanged information, inquiring about where Grezno was from, how long he had served Stallicho, how many men were in the Bright Banners, and how many more mercenaries were coming to Westeros.

[DukeGod]

"Oh well that makes things remarkably simpler. You know, traditionally, I only help people who are ill, though I'm sure I can also strike a deal with some noble lady with fire between her legs."

Frankly, as flippant as he sounds Tyramear is worried. Lady Lipps is being quite unrestrained about her manners, but it's not like that really would just let him do the same, even though he is trying. If Lord Lipps was around he certainly wouldn't do such a thing

"For one I also need to go to the tourney, should be easier to enter with your entourage. I'd also like any information you can acquire during the tourney. Besides that you can throw in whatever you consider fair. Are you keeping all this a secret from your father?"

He tries to imply he's not being pious about the latter part, only seeing he can up his price

[Harmony]

Allyria

"Uhm..." Allyria struggles briefly to find an answer. "Yea, I guess I had some plans, unfortunately it seems I got sent here instead. It's apparently a bit complicated." Her cheeks flusters with the frustration of the situation. She nods in agreement at the statement of her favor, guessing that the northerners could go to war over simply jealousy. She beams a warm smile as Ysilla puts her hand on her arm, and reflexively cups it with her other hand. "Oh, he was?" The smile never leaves her lips, she's genuinely happy she's made someone feel good. "But simply talking to someone doesn't mean I'm interested in marrying them."

[Sahe]

Moonhome - nighttime

Mera suppressed a curse, of course someone was in this chamber and of course she woke up and Pearse was outside. Mera took a few quick steps towards the bed, a finger on her lips to signal the woman to be silent. "Ssshh, Maisie, if you don't tell on us, we will keep our mouths shut about you and Brandon", Mera whispered to the woman in the bed. It was a total stab in the dark, but the way Maisie had reacted, Mera suspected that she was a servant and Brendan Tollet's secret lover. She left Maisie what there was to tell about her open to Maisie's imagination and hoped that her assumption was right and that the presumed servant girl wanted to keep the affair a secret.

Moonhome - morning

Mera and Walda hadn't gotten much sleep after the events of last night and now Mera definitely felt the wine she had drunk. While Mera would've loved nothing more than to just turn around and sleep it off, she forced herself out of bed, washed herself and got dressed, also laying out some finer linen for Walda. She was the House Corrett champion and if Walda would act as her squire, she had to look the part. While Walda was getting ready herself Mera caught herself letting her look linger a bit longer than what would be deemed appropriate on the young woman's bare behinds. Slightly flustered, Mera left her chamber, making her way down to find her brother. She hadn't disturbed her brother last night with what she had learned, when she found him she gave him a casual greeting and slit a piece of paper into his hands on which she had written down her findings. She had done that last night before laying herself to rest, when the memory was still fresh.

When that was done Mera found her way back to the yard where Walda was already preparing Redfoot for the road. When everything was ready they joined the others for breakfast and the ceremonial where her brother placed a laurel on her head a Septon begrudgingly blessed her lance before they rode out.

The Road - Day Three

Mera had seen some tourneys before, but this would be the first time she would be competing herself. She knew for all the things Redfoot had carried her through she would be laughed at if she rode her trusty mare at the tourney. Others like Ser Myles brought no less than three destriers, all while boasting thick armor. As it stood at the moment she could be the best lance in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond and wouldn't stand a chance in a joust. So Mera approached her brother about the issue at the eve of day three, not far from where Ser Myles was crossing blunted steel with various contenders. It was only a short conversation, but Morris agreed to her points and suggested she'd ride his courser Black Bolt, aptly named for it's pitch black mane and fur.

The Road - Day Seven

Mera's way of preparing for the tourney largely revolved around accustoming herself to Black Bolt. The stud was taller and sturdier than Redfoot and used to her brothers hand. For the tourney it was important that the horse would respond well to Mera's commands. Black Bolt had more temperament than Redfoot, but it wasn't the first time she had sat on the studs back and the two of them worked better and better together by the day. Another problem Mera had however was armor. Usually, Mera relied on lighter armor, quickness and her shield, but in a joust she was bound to be hit, so proper armor was paramount. To get a proper plate in her size was out of the question due to both, the short time left before the tourney and stress it would put on Corretts coffers. There was another option however, Ser Gorlen was not much taller than Mera and while ring was no plate it would certainly protect her better than the gambeson she had. Only, she had to swallow her pride and ask him for help, not an easy task considering they didn't have the best of relationships. On the seventh's day she finally got over her pride and found him in the caravan. "Ser Gorlen, I know we're not the best of friends, yet I was hoping you could help me out", she started not wasting much time to get to the point, "as you know, I'll be competing in the tourney for House Corrett, but I lack proper armor. So I ask if I could borrow yours. It's a matter of honor and pride for House Corrett."

The Road - Day Twelve

As they reached the green of the Vale, Mera took advantage of the training target Ser Myles had put up and rode her own set of tilts against it with Black Bolt, fairing a bit better than him.

[heretic]

Allyria

Ysilla giggles. “I should hope not, but I fear that Ser Wallace may not grasp that nuance.” Growing more serious, she continues. “It is unfortunate to see plans upturned by the vagaries of fate. I myself suffered a milder dose of this—I was almost too late to mine own marriage. Can you imagine? A stalwart of House Redfort taking a bastard to wife?” She makes a tssking sound.

Her aunt Margot cuts in. “But fate can hold promise as well as peril. One must learn to seize opportunity when it arises.” Lady Leona adds her voice as well. “Why, I hardly dreamed of being the lady of Longbow Hall, but Lord Gilwood’s wife died the same year that my first husband did. Now look at me.” “As it happens, such an opportunity has presented himself at this tourney. You know him already, his name is—”“Harry the —”“Heir. He is most eligible, despite what Lady Waynwood will try to tell you.”

Somehow you sense that the Royce women were planning to suggest this all along. With Sweetrobin’s many ailments and few years, it does not take much imagining to suppose he will die without issue, leaving Harrold Hardyng (who is half Arryn) to inherit. The Young Falcon is nineteen, tall and well-muscled, with deep blue eyes and short blond hair. Over the last few weeks, you’ve heard tell of his exploits. He’s Lady Waynwood’s ward and squired Morton Waynwood, her eldest son. But while Harry rides for House Waynwood at the tourney, Lady Waynwood does not control him entirely; it was Bronze Yohn that knighted him just two months ago, at a squire-tourney, and Harry is said to have already fathered one bastard, with another on the way by a different woman. People have whispered that he is to marry Alayne Stone, Littlefinger’s bastard, but you have not heard an authoritative word as to that, and the two do not seem to like one another much.

“Such a match would potentially make you Lady of the Eyrie, and would help bind Dorne to the Vale. Both of us have suffered sleights at the hands of the crown; both of us are the only parts of the Seven Kingdoms untouched by war and famine. Together, we can bring the Lannisters to heel—force them to withdraw some of the lands and titles they’ve unwisely dispersed, and find justice for those they have harmed. And if fate deals more death to the Lannisters, we must not be caught flat-footed. . . did your maester ever teach you the full royal succession?” Margot begins ticking off names on her fingers. “Tommen has no issue or brothers, so his heir is Myrcella, whose heir is her uncle Stannis and his only daughter—rebels that we can disregard—and then we have to go back to Robert Baratheon’s connection to the Targaryens. The only Targaryens left are the Beggar King Viserys and his child sister, who are naught like to return from the east any time soon, if they still live at all. The Targaryen line is extinguished with them, all the way back to the descendants of the first Daenerys Targaryen, who married Maron Martell, the Prince of Dorne, which means that . . . ” You can see where this is ending. One must needs only subtract Tommen and Myrcella (currently a ward of Sunspear) from the succession to put Prince Doran Martell first in line for the Iron Throne.

---

Tyramear

Jeyne arches an eyebrow at your mention of fires between legs, but she lets you finish saying your piece. “It’s a rare man that names information as his price. Tell me, ‘healer,’ who is it you really serve? The master of whispers in King’s Landing? Or some Vale lord? And don’t tell me it’s your curiousity. You may wear a maester’s links, but you plainly didn’t love knowledge enough to set your neck to droop ‘neath a chain and your prick to droop 'neath a vow.” This brings an involuntary flush to your face, and for a moment, you’re not sure what she suggests. Jesselyn, still laughing at the whole interaction, takes her leave with Meryam to put away the cups downstairs.

“Well healer, do we have an accord? Name your master and you’ll ride in our party and have as much knowledge of me as you require.”

Once you’ve finished negotiating, she fills you in a bit on House Lipps’s approach to the tourney. “My father is a proud man, but he knows the house’s fortunes will not be won at the tip of a lance. Mother above, our sigil is a giant pair of lips. My father means to send his cousin Ossifer to the lists for pride and honor, but he’s not fool enough to waste both of our champion’s berths. Our other champion will be provided by the highest bidder. He may use this gold as my dowry to try and secure a strategic match. But not if I find my own man first.”

Spoiler: OOC

Show

I think my next Tyramear post will be a travel montage, if that’s ok.

---

Mera

The Journey

If Pearse realized anything was amiss that night in Moonhome, he gives no indication. Neither does Brandon Tollett, though he seems preoccupied with trying to convince Roger to attend to tasks of import, instead of constantly hawking and sleeping. It seems that Maisie kept her silence, and her absence from the entourage seems to have spared you some uncomfortable situations.

The rest of the group makes for better company, although Myles was a bit cross when you snare nine of twelve rings where he managed to hit only seven. Walda has been hard at work polishing Ser Gorlen’s ringmail, which he parted with in return for your promise to keep him out of the melee. In her clean linen, a fresh haircut, and with several weeks of real food in her, Walda is looking less and less mountain-raised and more like a household hand or even highborn daughter, albeit in squire’s attire. Having been taken with the roughspuns on her back, her wardrobe is limited to some of your old breeches and tunics, a heavy winter cloak, and a pair of simple donated dresses (a heavier brown wool with a demure cut and a lighter cotton that hugs her more tightly) that have been consigned to your saddlebags, as they are unfit for riding.

Unfortunately, the Meltwater and other rivers have proved too icy to wash away the travails of the road—or offer the excitement of another glimpse of ass. Grezno is the only one who dares enter the waters, and even he returns quickly, teeth chattering and knees buckling.

With the Gates of the Moon no more than a day or two away, Morris summons you to provide counsel (see below).

---

Banion

The Journey

Perra is delighted with your tricks, squealing and trying to force open your hands or dig in your pockets and boots for the hiding place. Danny pretends to not be impressed, but he is enthralled all the same. Dryn indulges in your catcalls and roughhousing, giving as good as he gets—“I don’t shoot alone, my friend. Ask your sister!”—and generally passing the time. With a party as large and well-armed as this one, the likelihood of a mountain clan attack is low and Dryn’s guard has been lowered to match.

Grezno is less fun, but still interesting. He’s taught you the Ghiscari names of a dozen foods, as well as some other choice words. In the course of your back-and-forth, he did the best to answer your every inquiry, though the translations are not perfect.

Grezno was born of the Lady of Spears in a city of red bricks somewhere to the east. Stallicho has been his master for ten years. The Bright Banners number some three hundred men and a hundred “without stem or root,” but they also bring a dozen “great ladies,” each with a terrifying name—Lazzra’s Long Whip, Beard-Taker, Firetongue Taena, Nut-Smasher, Red Tide’s Fist, Witch’s Sling, and others. It’s unclear whether these are actual women or merely the names of siege weapons. The entire company is “fighting the salt-water” after being hired by the “Fire-Eyes Giant” to fight for his “Sun and Stars.”

Stallicho is less forthcoming, though his knowledge of the free cities so greatly surpasses yours that you feel half a maester by the time he finishes. Myr, Lys, and Pentos are ruled by magisters—a wealthy council of nobles and merchants. Tyrosh is ruled by an Archon, who is similar to a king. Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys are often at war in the Disputed Lands between them, as well as on the Stepstone island on the narrow sea. Recently, Tyrosh was preparing for war with Lys, both hoping to court Myr as an ally, but now both have joined forces to fight Myr. Myr had retained the Golden Company, which is a mercenary company of Westerosi exiles numbering some ten thousand, but the Golden Company unexpectedly broke their contract and marched east for Volantis. Stallicho seems a bit apologetic for leaving his city to fend for itself, but justifies his actions by saying his arrangements were made in advance of the Golden Company’s flight. Still, it seems that his city is facing down two foes with ten thousand fewer soldiers than it expected to have.

Once you’re almost to the base of the Giant’s Lance, Morris sends for you and meets you in his tent. (see below).

---

Marcus

The Journey

When you approach Myles, he plants his sword in the ground and strikes a comically wide stance, his hands resting on the crossguard. You can’t see his face behind the flared lip of his breastplate, which reaches halfway up his face, and the snub-nosed, visorless helm that sits directly atop it, but you can tell he’s daring you to issue a challenge. When you don’t, he pulls his sword free and turns toward Grezno. The eunuch is armored in a simple quilted tunic and an open-faced helm with a spike atop it. He carries a long staff in one hand, and a round shield in the other. Their bout proves surprisingly less one-sided than one might expect. Grezno lands blows on Myles’s helm, breastplate, pauldrons, and steel skirt, while catching most of Myles’s blows on his shield. Nevertheless, he takes more than a few crushing body blows, and would have kept coming if Stallicho did not order him to yield.

The ensuing period of the journey is more seasonable in climate and road, and Perra's relentless chatter and other distractions do not weigh as heavy. The sun sets early, just in time for camp to be laid and Roger's gyrfalcon to be loosed from inside his tent into the night.

Just as you're making ready for bed, Morris sends for you.

---

The Tent—Mera, Marcus, Banion, Alyssa, Adwin

Morris has erected a low makeshift table from some shields, surrounded by saddles, which serve as chairs. A pair of lanterns cast their glow across the tent, which is otherwise filled with quilts, furs, and a bedroll. “Thank you all for coming. I bade Maester Medgar to bring me a map, but he appears to be once again preoccupied with mixing a drought for Lord Roger.” He points to a spot on the shield as if the map were there. “We’re going to be taking the north pass to the Gates of the Moon. This will get us there a day sooner if it is clear—and Roger swears it is, though I think it rash to assume so without any eyes on it. Ser Gorlen tells me it is usually impassible at this time of year. Anyway, we’ll soon be at the tourney and we’ll need our wits about us.”

He turns to Mera and Banion. “I understand that you two may have uncovered some of the mysteries of House Egen. Roger remains a clouded glass to me, and I fear that without understanding the Egens, we will become trapped in the machinations of the Declarants, the Lord Protector, or someone else. If anyone has observed something, it would please me to hear it.”