Hello Fire and Blood. It is I, Porg. I wish to claim House Toyne of Blackheart as a dynamic, please.

The characters are as follows

Lord Rickard Toyne, 46 years old. Lord of Blackheart and patriarch of the family. Might makes right and anybody who doesn't agree is a huge nerd

Ser Orys Storm, 26 years old, eldest son of Lord Rickard, also a bastard.

Addam Toyne, 24, heir to Blackheart. Studious, friendly and the opposite of his father. Also crippled from an horse riding accident that broke his leg and damaged his lung. Misliked by his father.

Ser Damon Toyne, 21, inherited his father's attitude, but not his strength. He pretends otherwise.

Maris Toyne, 19. only daughter of Lord Rickard.

Maegor 'the lesser' Toyne, 10, named in honour of King Maegor. Now a bit awkward.

Ser Baldric Toyne, 40, younger brother of Lord Rickard, current castellan.

Ser Bryce Toyne, 20, nephew of Lord Toyne

Argella Toyne, 14, niece of Lord Toyne.

Floris Toyne, 8, youngest niece of Lord Toyne.

Aelinor Toyne, 30, youngest sister of Rickard and Baldric.

Starting locations (Will modmail these in)

Rickard, Orys, Addam, Damon, Maris and Maegor KL with 10 raised MaA.

Bryce and Argella at Storm's End.

Rest in Blackheart.

Skills (Will also modmail these in)

Bloodline: Powerful build

Rickard: T1 Warrior. T1 Brute.

Addam: T1 Lawbringer. T1 Agriculturist.

Damon: T1 Warrior

The Keeper - 5th Moon, 54AC

Sisterton was a ruin when Alester Arryn departed the island of Sweet Sister. Aboard his ship had been his children and his knightly retinue, as well as his wife Rhea. She had been wrapped in linens and laid in a humble coffin deep in the hull. He left a strong garrison to keep the island under foot and would be back before long, yet there were matters of the heart which he had to settle before anything. From Saltstone Keep, he had sent word to Willow Wood that Lady Bella Blackwood needed to ride for the Bloody Gate. He needed to lay his eyes and hands upon her, fierce was his lust and love.

First came the burial of Rhea however. Slain by the cowardly malice of her father, she had perished saving the lives of his youngest, Gwayne and Alyssa. He had found them weeping and distraught coddling to the lifeless body of their mother. He beheld Rhea in a dress turned scarlet from her own blood, eyes empty and gone. It had aroused tears from him. Tears that his children had come so close to a similar fate, tears for the words he could not exact upon Rhea and the fate he had wished to deliver. Much like her father Steffon, their lives had been his to forfeit and yet they had slipped from him. Ser Cotter Sunderland had slipped from him as well. Somehow the captive had freed himself and fled. Where he was now was anyone’s guess. A bounty would need to be placed on his head, but that could come after.

Rhea was buried in the traditions of House Arryn. A small cairn in the dense pine woods which draped the foot of the Giant’s Lance had been constructed from granite and slate, far out the way and where the more distant cousins and their ilk might be buried. Alesander had protested that his mother might be buried so far and with such little honour, that she deserved to a cairn not low down the mountain where the lesser branches rested, but high up the mountain near the waycastles of Stone and Snow. But there in the foothills she would be laid to rest, prayers given.

It was the day after seeing his wife’s cairn constructed and a modest memorial ceremony conducted that Alester departed the Gates of the Moon. Alesander once again protested, but Alester was needed elsewhere. Deep into the Massif, where the Old Gods had heard him before in the midst of winter.

Word had been sent up to the Bloody Gate that Lady Bella Ryger was to be welcomed and escorted to his men who would wait for her where the Highroad split and a path down into the more distant lands of Arryn’s domain. It took most of the day for them to get there and waited another day for any sign of arrival. Camp had been made in a clearing not far from where Alester wished to see Bella. His retinue had been with him for years, and each of the men he considered closer in deed and heart to his true brothers as any of the other noble born children of Hubert Arryn. Yet even still, he had to lie about why they were here. He needed them and their strength to guard from any attempt by the clans to ruin his day, but what he planned could not easily be admitted to. They knew of his affair with the Lady Regent of Willow Wood. Some had even accompanied Alester to her keep many moons ago. But he still had to tell a fib that he merely wished to have her here and he could not yet risk having her seen in Gates or up in the Eyrie.

They sang and drank the night before Alester’s guard for her was spotted not far away. His lady love would be dressed in riding apparel rather than any proper dress befitting such a day he wished to give her. He would not outdo the bride before her own gods, so his own riding wear would suffice. He had his raven hair combed and let loose down to his shoulders and was clean shaven. Wrinkles crept around his eyes and streaks of salt shot through his hair, the sign of the years and the stress they had wrought unto him. The finest thing about him was the heavy sapphire set in a mantle of silver, and the long, sweeping damask cloak which displayed the silver falcon and moon of House Arryn. A cloak to drape her in.

As she would near, he would assume his place by the weirwood where he had slain a savage son of the nearby clan. It was only a short distance from their camp and through the thicket of trees. He bid his men to send her up the little track from the clearing to where he would wait for her in front of the tree with the sunken dark eyes.

From the Riverlands she would have travelled up and through the foothills which bordered the Mountains of the Moon, higher into the high road until coming to the Bloody Gate. Treated as a guest of honour, Bella and her retinue were escorted deeper and deeper into the mountains until the banners of Alester’s camp were in sight. Little would be told to Bella other than Alester was just a little further now. The Keeper’s right-hand man Ser Blackstone would be the only one to take Bella to see Alester. The High Steward was standing tall and proud in front of a great looming presence of the heart tree, the old white face bearded by mosses and lichens now. Around the tree and scattering off into the distance under the ancient forest canopy was an ocean of bluebells. Alester spied them approaching and bid Ser Blackstone farewell, leaving only Bella, the weirwood, and the son of House Arryn.

He met her with a bright, brimming smile and a hand extended out to hold her. His eyes were glassy and a great trembling of his hand. It had been a year and more since he had seen the face which he cherished so dearly that it accompanied him even in his dreams. Never was he able to give all of him to her as Alester had promised Bella a hundred times and more. But the gods had delivered him victory in the Bite and on the Sisters and dealt to Rhea their judgement for stealing away his flesh and blood to those wretched isles. His heart and his hand had been let loose, and it was to Bella they now belonged.

“Lady Bella Blackwood” he said with a voice laden with raw emotion, gravelly and hoarse, his expression the look of a man terrified yet proud to be before her. “It has been too long.”

7A

Arriving at the Gates of the Moon, Lord Alec Hunter along with his son, Ser Harlan, Ser Yorwyck Sunderland and his son's squire, Roland Corbray approached the Gates from the east.

The banner of House Hunter flew high in the wind as the party waited for the garrison to respond.

Tyson

^{Port Wrath, 8th Month of 54 AC}

Inland he'd had no choice but to go. To resupply the Rotted Knot and the two galleys that were to arrive in harbour within a few days time though Ty had need take an excursion to call upon an apothecary in Port Wrath if they were to be sailing anywhere soon. The blow that his Lord Cousin had dealt him in the chin had broken a tooth which had persisted in its sensitivity and the swelling. His jaw had yet to dwindle in size with a dull ache along the bone leaving him suspicious that a shard of the tooth remained embedded beneath the gum. His saliva still bore a pinkish hue. The wound was sore enough that he did not chance to smoke while they'd spent the weeks at sea else he was like to aggravate the split in his tongue let alone the gums that seeped. Nor did he partake any more than the necessary functions of eating, drinking and speaking.

Oft as he could, Tyson had retreated up the mast to his crow's nest overhead. Descending only when the Lord Merrick came adeck as he felt some obligation to act intermediary. Most instances of brushing shoulders with the man had earned a shove and a shout that Ty felt not in a position to protest lest the wroth be directed to the men in the Rotted Knot's employ.

As they had sailed, a bucket of water had been lowered repeatedly into the ocean. Not a drop of it of was fit for drinking yet Tyson took to swilling the sea water in place of his evening wine. Half a result of his finest vintages were stored in the quarters his Lord Cousin had commandeered, not keen upon the lesser barrels in the cargo or the grog for the men. Yet he had been taught early into his sailing career that the salt water while fickle in most aspects could aid in the cleansing of wounds when a man was without means of alternative treatment. The salt brought with it a stinging yet so too did it soothe. Some.

Better the fragment be extracted and drained before any infection took root. A process that Tyson was not enthused by as the removal of the bulk of the tooth had not been a particularly pleasant experience. The healer had need widen the wound to rid the shard from his mouth. The draught he had drank to settle him during the work only middlingly effective and the apothecary had denied the use of wine to ward the rest of the pain away as an inconvenience that need for now be endured. Two additional pieces of enamel to accompany the first that had been set to the tray. The last taken from Ty brought forth a groan of relief as the tension that had held his neck so stiff had abated enough to ease the sensation of swallowing.

He had been sent away with a bag full of ground herbs he was to steep in hot water over the course of the next week to stave off any infection that might occupy the gap of where the broken bits of his teeth had been. Ty resolving to sip it and sea water, reckoning that between the two he should manage a recovery quick enough. And what the two in tandem could not accomplish, the wine he intended to partake in ought soak up the rest.

Having had his purse pilfered by his cousin with no so much a copper left to him as Lord Merrick had made his way out the city and through the Mistwood, Tyson had need borrow the coin from his companions. Rife with frustration for the fact that Merrick had made a beggar of him when these last years had been spent fulfilling a goal of near-to-self sufficiency. He was within a stone's throw of accomplishing just that yet the bit of maintenance fees he need borrow from Gallowsgrey to keep his modest fleet afloat had come at cost eclipsed by the blade the Lord of the Gallows had pilfered alongside his purse.

He had needed to lean further upon Alinor and Ronnal as came to the cause of resupply for the ships. Tyson able to arrange the deliveries yet no merchant was mad enough to surrender their stock ahead of receiving payment. Work of such a sort that Tyson typically could conduct it autonomously yet the ferrying back and forth between vendors and his crew had slowed the process significantly enough that the invoice had not been cleared until the Violet Bolt and Driftwood Antler at last come ashore, trailing after his own vessel as they had idled in King's Landing during the time that Tyson had taken to divert to Dragonstone. Word issued to them to regroup in Port Wrath.

As the coin had not come from him, Tyson had deemed it fair to see to the loading of both galleys ahead of the Rotted Knot. Alinor's ship being the flagship, he frequently saw to replenishing it first while reviewing his sea charts. The antler oft required rechecking. Ronnal was a man of many admirable quality yet foresight was a broad blind spot for the Baratheon, Tyson had since first acquiring the fleet reviewed the manifest of the ship to ensure none of its inventory had been shorted, misplaced or misappropriated by the crew on loading and prior to departure. Most accounted for bar a few frivolous supplies meant to arrive imminently.

The Rotted Knot he had therefore left for last. It would take several days more for the last order of pickled preserves to be brought aboard though dried rations had been stored away already, along with the heavy grains that would sustain the sailors through rough seas to maintain their body mass. Ty had brought fresh wine aboard for himself and a few cured meats he was particular to, half of which he gave over to William Orren who he entrusted with overseeing the last deliveries while Tyson went ashore for rest in a local tavern.

Well into his cups when the boatswain came to call on him the save evening. He'd waved vaguely for Billy to join him for a round in the inn after his hard day's work but the man refused, his energy frantic, "That masked cunt," the man explained, "He doubled back to the Knot and ran your officers off. He thrust Jaime in the belly with that rippled blade he stole whilst the rest scrambled away."

Tyson had hastened then to secure his boots, chasing after his bosun yet the trek had taken too long. The lines that secured the ship to the dock undone before William had reached the tavern to report the theft in process being done by the Lord Trant. By the time they had descended themselves to the dock, the boat was adrift in the bay bound east in what could have been at best a skeleton crew who would within weeks be left scant of supply if Ty's assessment of what remained in the harbour was accurate. Merrick, he knew, would not chance to seek sanctuary in the south so adamantly did he despise the Dornish. And the ports nearest north were not like to receive him warmly if the energy in Dragonstone was any example. The whole purpose of Tyson being held on the isle being that the Lord Trant was too uneasy to be ferried to King's Landing in his crossing.

He stood, observing his purple sail through his Myrish lens be swallowed by the vast horizon to predict that the only viable route Merrick might attempt would be to skip across the Narrow Sea. The why of which he would not learn until after he had called on his companions to convene on the course they need urgently take to recover the Rotted Knot as not for a second had Tyson entertained the thought of surrendering his vessel without intent to pursue. That galley had been bought by his own coin, earned through his own sweat and blood. The stealing of his steel he had sustained with patience but the theft of his ship Ty would not suffer the insult of.

By chance he encountered a set of his cousins on the way who had been in close chase behind the Lord Merrick who had gained ground on them absconding through the woods near to the Crow's Nest. Less than a half hour shy of reaching the vagrant Lordling where he might have been halted in the harbour which had brought a bout of cursing out of Morrison who thought their chance to reclaim his niece lost. Until Tyson had issued the command to ready the two ships with sailed stained indigo for readying to disembark.

"Be aboard before the mooring lines are brought in should you seek another swing as Merrick," he instructed sternly as it would leave his kin less than two hours time to decide if their pursuit stretched no further than the continent they stood at edge of now. A wide world laid across the other side of the sea. Plenty of ground for the Lord to be lost in if left out of sight too long.

7th Moon A, White Harbour

The High Septon had been on the roads for a great many moons now - and soon roads were replaced by the open sea. By this point in his life, he was stranger to neither. What he was a stranger too was the chilly winds and cool weather of The North. Far from the warm embrace of Dorne and Oldtown, even the mildest cool day in The North seemed a winter in contrast to southern days.

Alas, the holy man endures and forces himself forth.

His flock in White Harbour and all lands under its dominion call to him - to The Faith for guidance and the salvation of their souls.

As such, as the sixth moon dawns, the High Septon and ten of his best holy warriors land within the docks of White Harbour. He does not travel alone - for he brings two septas and a unique holy knight to accompany him in the task ahead. The task of sowing the seed of The Faith's continued growth along The White Knife.

8th Moon, 54 AC

Lord Tywald Lannister,

I pray this letter finds you in good health. It has been some time since we spoke of my cousins taking service with the ladies of House Lannister, and I beg your pardon for the delay in their arrival.

They shall set forth to Casterly Rock in three days time. House Swann is honored to place them in your care, and I trust this small bond shall serve to strengthen the friendship between our houses.

With grace,

Ser Selwyn Swann
Lord Regent of Stonehelm

7th Month 54 AC, Red Keep

Invites had been sent across the realm, and now men and women from across the Seven Kingdoms had gathered in celebration. The firstborn child of King Jaehaerys, the child who in her mother's eyes signalled a new era for the royal house, had reached her first nameday. Even in Summer, the first year of a child's life was fraught with risk. To reach a milestone was an achievement in and of itself. Furthermore, with the Queen now heavily pregnant and due in the next couple of months, the royal family was growing and growing. If the Gods and Men alike were good, the strife of recent years would soon become a memory.

It was the Queen who had overseen the preparations for today. Drinks, dishes and delicacies from each of Jaehaerys' realm would be present; Northern ales and Reach wines, fish stews from the Iron Islands and game hunted from the Rainwood. This was a celebration of the realm as a whole, or at least that is what the Queen hoped and prayed for.

7th Month, 54 AC

A couple of days after the Nameday Feast, and the day before the Nameday Tourney, would be the Nameday Ball. Queen Sansa fancied herself a matchmaker, and relished in the opportunity to make her legacy forging bonds between the different Kingdoms that made up her husband's realm.

There would be a wide, empty space in the hall where the dancing would take place, a band set up playing slower music meant for slower dancing, Sansa not wanting any inappropriate behaviour spoiling the event. Three tables had been set up encircling the space; a table for the unwed and unbetrothed boys and men, a table for the unwed and unbetrothed girls and women, and a table for the betrothed and wed. Upon the dias was a table for the Queen, who would watch with self-satisfied pleasure.

Castle Volmark, the 7th Moon of 54 AC

Qhorwyn

Through the cloudy window near his seat, he could see the familiar hull bobbing gently with the waves as it sat at its pier. Anxious Maid, as fine an Ironship as any in House Volmark's possession, had sat without a captain for near a year now. Or had it been two? No, one year. Indeed it had been exactly one year, almost to the day, since Ivar had vanished without a word. That he had eloped with Clemence Harlaw had been obvious from the beginning, even as Qhorwyn had feigned ignorance and disbelief at that notion. Had his salt-brother been content to merely sneak into bed with the Arbor-born lass from time to time, leaving Theold Harlaw and the rest of the world ignorant of such affairs, the Volmark might have simply shrugged the scandal off, and even aided the lovers in remaining discrete. He had little love or regard for Cousin Theold, and had always been sympathetic towards his unhappy bride, so it would not have troubled him to find that their union was being 'sullied'.

Ivar had gone to far, however. Or perhaps more accurately, had allowed himself to be taken too far. Across the island, whispers and japes alike told tales of an intrigue involving Ashlen, aiding the runaway Redwyne to spite her rival for the Harlaw seat. If that was true, then perhaps Ivar was a hapless passenger instead of an instigator. An accomplice, rather than an instigator. Yet that would make little difference to Theold Harlaw.

For the past year, all of Volmark had been on edge. Qhorwyn had kept the guard doubled, had sealed the castle with more regularity, and had enlisted dozens of lookouts and informers. Not a day passed in which he did not expect spears or sails to appear on either horizon, bearing the silver scythe of his overlords. Seeking either answers, compensation, or bloody vengeance. That Ivar's involvement could not be proven, that the motivation for his disappearance remained unknown, would not matter to a scorned husband. A man of the isles would sooner die than see his ship, his sword, or his woman taken. Die, or kill.

He exhaled a breath he had been holding unconsciously, and turned his attention back to the table. His mother sat across from him, and was his only company aside from the pair of servants who attended to them. He had tried his hardest to avoid speaking to her about Ivar, and the current standoff he presumed Volmark and Harlaw Hall to now be in. She had been wary of his salt-brother, probably since his birth, and this mess seemed to validate all of her warnings which Qhorwyn had so often dismissed as prejudice and jealousy. It angered him, to know that she had been proven right. That the brother he loved, who he held almost as dearly as Boros, would put him and all the family in danger for the sake of an easily-raised skirt.

"I'm thinking of writing the Lord Mallister."

His tone was distant, almost distracted, even though he had turned away from the window and was looking at her directly.

"I believe he has sons, of age with Darla and Ysa. Seagard could be a good ally for us. I've always thought so."

Merrick

^{Dragonstone, 3rd Month of 54 AC}

Patience had oft been a penchant of his. Perhaps less so with certain divisions with his family yet in province and politics alike Merrick was a man most methodical. Seeking to take no action in absence of information in full. In the men he condemned, he made certain of the fault that found them caught in the knot of the executioner and that the rope he would hang them by had been wound whilst contemplating their crimes. To hold them accountable in full for the crimes they stood accused. Merrick may not have contested the the accusation that he was reprehensible as a person fore he hardly felt to be one, yet no man could claim him craven. When it had been his turn to be called upon he had in spite of his fear for open flame walked willingly into the den of the dragon to face his fate. A combat he had confronted fairly, emerging largely unscathed.

The few scrapes Merrick carried a small enough price to pay to cleave clean through a knight clad in white whilst the King squirmed in his seat with limited means to issue reproach. His scaled pet screeching for the fact that in casting judgement of Merrick's character they had made the grave mistake of presuming the Lord of the Gallows' skill to have eroded at the same rate as his morals. Were it not for the damnedable waiting on Dragonstone which reached into the very last reserves of the Lord Trant's tolerance for idling. The King had confirmed his entitlement to his freedom yet the delay of his release and the awareness that his pipsqueak of a brother had gone to Gallowsgrey to dismantle the structures Merrick had set in place would have driven most men wroth.

Fury was a frequent friend to the Lord whilst he languished in Dragonstone, the hours he was left to lament on his own dedicated entire into the nursing of his grievances. There was neither need to recant them aloud nor desire to dedicate those thoughts to the page.

Merrick's mind a crypt of feuds half dead that he did disturb often in a manner not dissimilar to demanding the bones of the late Meredith be brought from their place of resting in the bowels of Storm's End. Having battered the Lord Baratheon as black as the stag on his standard to stake his claim upon a corpse long ago decayed. Beckoning those remains that had been left to rot beneath the soil rather than picked clean by the beaks of buzzards as was the tradition of House Trant again into the bounds of the home that had birthed her. To the quarters that had been Meredith's in childhood which Merrick had meticulously maintained as a monument unchanged to her; the chest half packed, in dissaray, the planter set to the window sill that by now must be sprouting flowers. The harp leaned against the wardrobe. No piece sporting a speck of dust yet never was any item allowed to stray from where it had been left to lay.

A place only her widower had been privy to apart from Merrick, for a time. Until the Lord Rogar had saw fit to remarry; a necessity not to be avoided by a man of his station yet taken as insult all the same by the Lord Trant. It had not been lost on him that the Lord Baratheon's second bride had, too, a banner with field of blue. Lighter, brighter than those he bore on behalf of Gallowsgrey and the threads of the crest cast in white in the stead of black. A foil to a failure of a marriage, the memory of which Rogar had sought to set aside in taking an Arryn into his bed.

In face of this slight not unlike the mask that concealed his visage, Merrick had thrown a veil over his resentment. He had not griped, not stomped his feet nor faltered in his service as Squall to Storm's End. Lady Arwen had never encountered Merrick in the halls of her husband. He had uttered no ill word regarding the woman plentiful as they were within his head. Yet Rogar had taken issue in the fact that Merrick was not some mummer who could be goaded into smothering his frustrations. Not content that the efforts made not to outwardly hate the whore he had wed were not equivalent to acceptance the stag sought for his broodmare.

He ought to have then made the bid for Meredith's bones. But he had not done, extending to his once goodbrother the respect a widower was owed. Until those tensions had been brought to the brink wherein the tether of brotherhood between them had broken. Rogar deigning to interfere in the dealings of Gallowsgrey and those beholden to its authority. That the respect extended was not reciprocal all the signal Merrick required to issuing the reckoning that had hampered the Lord Baratheon in his hubris. Surrendering the remains of the wife he had set aside into the dominion of Gallowsgrey for safe keeping. That his daughter, whose namesake was tribute to the legacy of the Meredith long lost, had been conceived shortly after her remnants were returned had not in the mind of Merrick been a coincidence.

Ignorant of the fact that Morrison had already by then encountered the shrine of a sister he had never known in his effort to oust the rot that had taken root in Gallowsgrey. Sickened by the sight of the skeleton that had been arranged as if sleeping clad in a withered gown, tucked tightly beneath the knitted blanket. The joints the figure lacked sans sinew and muscle to keep the bones aligned he realized to be held in place by thread that had been meticulously applied to every fragment of bone that had been transferred to the Lord Trant.

There had been no question of what need be done after those initial agonizing heartbeats it had taken to appraise those quarters that told to Morris in a glance how irredeemable a creature his half-brother had become in isolation. Upending the chest of the garments, the baubles and the keepsakes that had been left neglected by the bones in the bed. Strewing the cloth every which way before bundling the remains of the first Meredith, as they were. Taking care only to orient the skull as he cradled them in blanket, lowering them in something of an unceremonious heap that he enclosed into the trunk that would be taken with the rest of the Trants that sought haven in Storm's End. By Morris' measure, it had been wrong to pluck the dead out from where they had been laid to rest. It had naught but negative effect on Merrick to have done if his household was any reflection upon him.

This decision motivated by what was an earnest effort on Morrison's part to put to right the wrongs endured by the denizens of Gallowsgrey. Yet even he would have had to acknowledge that no blow as dealt by Blackfyre could compare to the crippling of spirit the disruption to Merrick's monument was like to inflict on the man when no servant called upon to clean those quarters had been willing to cross the threshold.

The only solace from these bouts of embittered brooding as he awaited the extent of his brother's betrayal were the hours he was granted with his children; limits imposed that pressed upon his nerves. Yet the Lord Trant wasted none when his two youngest were ushered into his holding quarters though his focus tended to extend only to the little girl. It was so common an occurrence that Callum quite seldom even tried to engage his sire. If he was not shushed, he was waved away. And a glare from the eyes embed beneath the mask his father bore was oft enough to lull the boy into whichever silence he had imposed upon.

In most instances of visiting, Callum avoided furniture to settle instead to the floor. Occasionally with a book spread across his lap. His father appeared to prefer when Cal was given nothing to entertain himself at. And that this outcome was accepted by the boy tacitly did to imply this had been a behaviour trained into him. The girl by contrast suffered next to no limits apart from the fact that the Lord Merrick had habit of hovering around the girl, if he was not cradling her. He granted her charcoal for writing practice and paints for purpose of expression. When Merry was made too excitable he would bounce her on his knee until she burst into a fit of giggles.

The Lord was notoriously guarded with his person. So much of his skin afflicted with scar tissue from burns that he tended to cloak himself from head to heel. It was rare to catch sight of Merrick bare of gloves let alone of face, his mask especially the Lord Trant was testy over others touching. An exception extended to Meredith alone. Evident he did not favour the prodding yet on a few occasions when confined to his quarters he had allowed of her to dislodge the bindings to reveal the ruin of his face. Skin that had been scalded so severely that had in stretches melted, one of his brows fused to in part obscure his vision in scar tissue. The Lord had lips yet inconsistent in their sizing, and their shape. Having reached a temperature so high at pace so rapid that the pockets of fat had burst that left gaps where sometimes the roots of his teeth showed. Merrick was disheveled from his time in captivity, tufts of hair more grey than copper growing through the skin where the pores to reach the follicles had not been fused shut.

He misliked to be seen in this state. Oft angling his body so the acolytes that accompanied his children in their visitation could not observe else but the back of his head unimpeded. Setting his mask aside was in rare instances in the consideration of company shed by his own choosing. Merrick and his daughter did not dedicate much of their time together in conversation. The two communicating in gestures, and taps of their fingertips atop the table while the other laid a palm flat upon its surface that was sophisticated enough that Meredith was able to respond in specific, practiced patterns. Yet some topics were too dense for this method of morose code the pair kept necessitating dialogue direct. In these instances, Merrick would shed the mask and speaking he would duck to the level of his daughter to murmur in a sluggish cadence. Slower than the rhythm he took in addressing any other.

Merrick had by intention neglected to inform the servants on Dragonstone of his daughter's limitations. It would compromise her care, to an extent. Yet not drastically to her detriment nor could it be said he had not brought a steward in his own employ he did consider capable. Thomas there had been no sighting of since shortly after their arrival to the isle. For all Merrick knew, the man was in a cell or held in place with shackles if he had not outright abandoned his purpose at first sign of strife. If the acolytes of this isle were of any worth they may well have attuned to the fact that Meredith had not merely a tendency to ignore others but that she did not perceive most of who attempted to interact with her at all.

Her sense of touch and sight were without flaw yet for Meredith most sounds were muffled and what few came close to clarity were not heard by her with any consistency. Had Merrick an ounce of humour in his bones he might have gleaned amusement from that fact that he fought for silence in his home had found his favoured child in the one that had been rendered near to deaf. At prompting, by way of a boot in the back as Merrick had braced the whole of his weight atop the back of the Maester Duncan, he had disclosed to the Lord of the Gallows his suspicion that a tension in the temple had been the cause. A complication of the measles that Callum had first caught who had then spread as vermin did to his sister within weeks of her swaddling who had been born in the waning winter. So tender an age was she that the swelling in her brain when the skull had been still oft had warped her hearing canals. Or else compromised some complexity inside the ear that the Maester could not see.

Ugly was the irony of it all on which Merrick thought himself an authority in judging after his encounter with the King. The same Gods that had denied his daughter her hearing had then chosen him to champion his right to retain Meredith without compromise. Taking some solace in the fact that at least one aspect of the Seven asunder had in this disservice to his Meredith in the least spared her needing endure the drivel of the sycophants on Dragonstone that sought to attaint the bond between father and daughter.

Morrison

^{Gallowsgrey, 4-5th Month of 54 AC}

As a boy, Mors had ever done his best to suppress the excess of emotion inside of him that compromised the veneer of calm he fought so hard to keep. Of late, the veil that kept his composure intact was paper thin yet no matter how brittle the fibers beneath the surface held.

Barely.

But barely was better than breaking outright. Never had he before the authority to confront the corruption of the Lord Merrick nor had he the resources to act upon the concerns he had voiced with an implied pardon attached to actions he was yet to take. It did not dissuade Mors from maintaining the many cautions he kept as a constant. Now more than ever it was essential to differentiate himself from Merrick as came to the dispensing of justice, to not fall prey to baser instincts even on those deserving of reprimand. Morrison unsure if it had been excess or restraint he had shown in the hanging of three men complicit to the crimes of the Lord Merrick in Gallowsgrey yet he had not reveled in the work. The bodies cut down after the confirmation of an absence of pulse beset by the chill of recent corpse.

To treat even those condemned with the humanity of a quick, dignified death was the best that Mors could do to preserve his own. Even in that stood upon the precipice.

After escorting his kin clear of Gallowsgrey to separate them from the condemnations to come he had seen to the final pass of securing the spire. The bulk of the garrison made up of men who bore the heraldry of the dragon that would do the grim deed the Lord of the Gallows was deserving of should he somehow clear the Mistwood no worse for wear as he had done on Dragonstone or come from King's Landing, either of which was an unlikely outcome. In either instance, Ser Borys Baratheon would be awaiting him who was the only man in the Stormlands with a chip on his shoulder to rival that missing on Merrick. Likely, the Lord would not trust to touch upon the shore inside the immediate dominion of the King after absconding from the isle on which his safety felt tenuous to the Lord Trant and there were few harbours within the Stormlands to divert to.

It made no matter should Merrick order his cousin to guide his galleys to Stonehelm or to Port Wrath, Mors banking upon the likelihood of the latter, as each would force him to funnel through the gap of rivers that cradled the Crow's Nest. North of which Mors and the men lent to him by Jaehaerys would spend the next several weeks upturning. It had taken a hasty promise not to disrupt the trunks or roots of the trees themselves to appease the Lord Malegorn who had not in his heart the ability to abide harm upon topiary of any variety. Even for righteous cause. As the man was set to be his goodfather he could not risk to offend the Lord of the Mistwood so an appeal for Alayne's aid he had secured the employment of several rangers native to her father's fief and adjoining forests who could identify where would be most suitable to break ground for the digging of trenches. He intended to conceal the gap, and lay several low ropes in hope of ensnaring Merrick in a pit that would lessen the struggle of separating him from his daughter. The last he wished to do was traumatize his niece by slaying his sire before her very eyes. No more than he wished to be made the next victim of Merrick with a child the sole witness to his demise.

However unlikely it was that the Lord Trant might disembark at Stonehelm due to that path taking him into the proximity of Blackhaven, which was not like to be sympathetic to him with it known he battered his sons, Mors had accounted for this also. He had set men to patrol north of Fawnton to encounter Merrick should he attempt to display some cunning in skirting his way to his spire. There had not been need to ask Tanaquil to attend the leagues of grassland with the patrols he had assigned that laid in the lands between the woods and Gallowsgrey that the Lord hoped to reach. He had began to recount his intentions to the Lady when Tanaquil had told him plainly that those grounds made for fine hunting with a stare that chilled him to the core.

It was not ideal for women to be brought into the fold of such conspiracy yet with so few willing to take action against Merrick directly, he could not turn away the contributions of the willing. Tanaquil was no slouch as concerned hard work though the sharpness of her tongue was her most reliable weapon. He knew her not well but enough so that she had gone nose to nose with the Lord Rogar on several occasions without buckling, and had quarreled repeatedly with Merrick enough to maintain a grudge against the Lord of Gallowsgrey who had restricted her freedom of movement.

Alayne... it was different, he could not deny that to ask her accompaniment--however necessary to assist him in traversing the forest--was bringing her directly into the path of danger. He had given more than adequate warning. Morrison had never spoken so much in succession without her interruption ahead of the night he had gone to her to explain the sordid ordeal that had enveloped his family. The beatings, the broken bones that had warped the way Merrick's eldest son walked. The mutilation that had nearly rendered his sister Myriam's hands to tatters that had been close to crippling her.

He had that night confessed, too, to his intent to commit the sin of slaying his own kin if that is what would be required to recover the niece he feared indecency was being done to, "A misdeed there can be no redemption to absolve me of," Morrison had said, "And one I cannot commit lest there is a trusted hand to take charge of Meredith. Merrick will never cease pursuing her, Alayne. To take her is to paint a target upon yourself that will be mitigated by me standing between you and he. One you must not look back to await the result of."

Merrick

^{Dragonstone, 6th Month of 54 AC}

Quiet had been the encounter on the dock as the Lord Trant was at last granted clearance to depart for Gallowsgrey, ruminating on what headaches his half brother had left for him there. Merrick anxious to set as many league between he and this isle as he could. The departure stalled by two irksome encounters.

The first being the arrival of the Lady Myriam who had escorted Meredith to the dock with evident disdain that was matched by the Lord Merrick to see the silhouette of a single child when he had three residing on Dragonstone. Much effort as had been made to encourage Meredith to seek asylum the same as Merrick's sons had under the protection of the King, the girl had repeatedly and ardently refused to seek the company of any save her sire. Shrieking and sobbing in every instance of their seperation; it was hard to fault her for the intense mistrust. When the only face one recognized was one so ghastly, how could she seek assurance in those of strangers? Myriam she had no recollection of, absent within weeks of her birth. Not even Oleander was a figure she was familiar with as he had left alongside his auntie, even his name seldom spoken in their household. Callum was too meek, too misliked by the sire they shared to be capable of coercing her away from their father.

In the end, much to the chagrin of all involved, there had been no choice but to surrender Meredith again into the custody unimpeded of her Lord Father. A sight that Myriam had spared her nephews the heartbreak of by attending alone. Afraid that he might have attempted to corral them aboard the galley also. Accepting that while she had taken charge of the raising of Merrick's sons, the fate of the only daughter that the Lady Delilah had given him laid entirely in the hands of Morrison who had not disclosed to Myriam his intent yet.

Faith had saved one Trant. If there was any good left to these Gods that had seemed to forsake her family, Myriam prayed it would present itself soon before the full of her faith had fractured.

Second, somehow more vexing than the theft of his sons was the information that several men at arms from Dragonstone were to board the Rotted Knot alongside him, to escort a knight of the Kingsguard that had been ordered to attend Storm's End. An annoyance at a travel companion unwanted on water as much as land that had escalated to an afront at the clandestine corpse that had presented itself to embark. A confrontation to which was well warranted against so miserable a mummery, all the more that the creature insisted itself to be the same Aubrey that the Lord Merrick had slain. Yet lest he risk his own release or be goaded encounter with the soldiers that had clearly been deployed to incite a reaction from the Lord he had held the worst of his tongue. The temper of the Lord Merrick after this months long marathon of delays, disrespect and drudgery he had endured on Dragonstone took quite little to be stoked into an inferno keen to consume the first viable victim. One that had as keenly presented himself.

"Big man like you," said Tyson snidely in an attempt to cut the tension that had been accumulating in the harbour, tongue scraping at the back of his teeth that were angled in a crooked grin, "Shouldn't have no problem with the hauling of lines fond as you are of rope, right cousin?"

Slow moving as he was accustomed to with the Lord Merrick he did not anticipate the blow that caught him in the mouth. By time he sensed the need to brace for it, Ty had taken the brunt of the impact already. Fingers scraping for perch upon the mast he had been leaning against yet his nails snagged no more than momentarily as came close to toppling over yet before the momentum had carried him clattering to the deck, Merrick seized Tyson by the collar. Twisting harshly as the fabric constricted to cut the supply of hair through his gullet.

What little air was left in his lungs was forced from him as the Lord Trant struck the vagabond sailor with a knee to the stomach. The free hand wrenching at the buckle of his cousins belt to ease the tension that kept it taut to his hip. Yanking the leather viciously as it loosed hauling away the pouches attached that included Tyson's coin purse and the scabbards of two vastly different variants of swords that had hung from the strap, "Leather," he spoke the word with such disdain that it might well have been akin to a slur to Merrick as he abruptly loosed his grip upon his cousin, "Steel of this quality is wasted on a wretch such as you."

Ty hit the deck, unable to keep his feet though he caught himself with an elbow just ahead of cracking his head against a barrel. Cradling his chin before he was forced to spit the blood accumulating beneath his lip. A tooth that had been knocked loose went dripping down his chest with the rest of the stained spittle.

One of the blades, thin in the style of the Braavosi meant for water dancing which was in actuality Tyson's preferred weapon as he was small of stature, the Lord Trant tossed aside with sheath still attached to the belt. Its hilt skidding across the deck akin to the effort of an incompetent deckhand sent to holystone its surface. The secondary sword, broader and with rippled steel whose gemstone pommel had caught the Lord's eye in prior interactions with Tyson--when he had been ordered to remain ashore until the Lord's release--Merrick slipped scabbard and all from the strap which he held firmly too as he began to refile through the pouches. Having heard the clinking of metal from within one.

Without comment, the Lord Trant took possession of its contents. He'd had no time to bolster his own purse having been swept from Storm's End without warning to reach the den of these dragons. Having paid the upkeep of the ship they were standing on from the Trant treasury and Tyson's failure to to return with any profit of his own for a stretch of years, Merrick considered these tokens his due.

Tossing what remnants of the belt he did not pilfer from atop of Tyson, Merrick rumbled in a warning without inkling of remorse, "Keep clear of the cabin."

He turned then to his daughter who waited patiently by the railing just right of the gangplank she had ascended with the Lord Merrick. He extended his hand to her. Meredith reaching for it without an inkling of hesitation. And though her father did aim to direct her around the heap he had left her uncle in, Meredith opted to no to avoid him. Planting her heel atop Tyson's ankle which she used as leverage to vault over his other leg to reach the further stretch of deck. At three, she weighed not enough to burden Ty who did not so much as groan at the intrusion yet the flash of it was enough to demonstrate that Meredith was beginning to emulate the callous conduct of the Lord Merrick to imply her the echo of him, told for the time being small.

5th Month, 54 AC

King's Landing

Freya looked upon the gates of King's Landing with some mixed feelings. Undoubtedly, much was changed in the city. Winter had passed. The King was married and the Queen had bore their first child. Freya herself had delivered her first child to the world and he was healthy enough to make the journey with her.

But, with all those changes comes a certain amount of uncertainty. The Lady of the North couldn't truly know where she stood within the city since all that had transpired. It was true that her house was held in at least somewhat favorable standing. Her cousin remained on the King's small council after all and had to hold some sway in the city. But she couldn't say that same prestige extended to her. She had burnt many bridges with the southern nobility before winter had confined her to the North. But other bridges still held in tact and none were so important as that relationship she maintained with Jaehaerys himself. A relationship, to her knowledge, that remained healthy.

The uncertainty be what it may, Freya was looking forward to these next few months in the South. She'd found herself missing days long passed as Winter wore on and made such forays difficult if not impossible. The King had called his vassals for not one but two celebrations over the next few months. Wedged between was a hunt to be hosted by the Masseys. It would be a long while before she returned North again but fortunately they had the luxury of a well manicured manse within King's Landing to call home until Winterfell beckoned once more.

Throughout their stay all visitors would be welcome to call upon any of the members of House Stark at that very manse. Additionally, any Northern nobility who had ventured South would be able to find rooms and lodging within the walls of the manse.

[m] Freya, Osric, Alaric, and Walton Stark will be available for RP during the next several months and can be found at the Stark Manse within the city.

Armand Regnard is a 22 year old landed knight who serves house Whitehead. His family has been distinguished due to dishonorable ancestors, and Armand plans on changing that. He was raised in the ways of warfare and taught how to command armies from a young age. His mother died at childbirth leaving him as the sole heir to the family, and his father died during a Dorne raid when he was 19 leaving him the last surviving member of his family. Now he helps house Whitehead with keeping its military strong and organized, while trying to stay away from most of the court affairs. Armand has become known as an honorable man who acts benevolently towards the peasantry often seen exploring the town and visiting the attractions of the commoners. He is also a devout man who often septs, and prays for many hours.

Perks
Base Tier 1 
MaA Tier 2 
Bannerlord Tier 2 
Strategist Tier 1
Vanguard Tier 2
Warrior Tier 1 

The Lady of Storm's End

Arwen Baratheon rued the sun for rising again and again, and cursed the birds for daring to sing. Each day marched by her, sunrise to sunset, and it never ceased. Yet her world had stopped moons ago.

Five children she had birthed. Four girls who were her delight, but Ormund had been her promised moon and stars. He had lived only briefly, her swaddled bundle of joy slipping from this world before she could ever tell him how much he was loved and cherished. She had bore a male heir for Storm’s End after so many years and so many daughters. To have the Stranger take him was the cruellest of tricks the gods could play.

His death had sent Arwen into silent grief at first. She did not want Rogar, her household, her daughters or her own breath. She pleaded to swap places with Ormund, or to wake up from the nightmare which plagued her. Her bed had been her redoubt, the maw of grief swallowing her completely. Prayers and apologies and well wishes were all meaningless. Lady Baratheon wanted nothing then to forget. The maester had given her sweet sleep at first, but warned that any more after a time may render her unable to awake from sleep at all. For Arwen, such a thing would not be undesired.

Now, when she felt the breeze on her skin and watched the waves crash below the cliffs of Storm’s End it did not clear her mind like it once did. Arwen did not feel anything but a numbness which crept through every limb and digit. She was empty and she was broken,

She saw now in Rogar and others a pity. She had mourned too deep and for too long. The guards and the handmaidens no longer met her eye. Rogar’s shoulder was there for her, but she sensed from him that her presence had become a burden. She had abandoned her duties as a wife, lady, and mother. But how could one be such things when it seemed like nothing mattered? Her baby boy had been snuffed out like a candle.

Reviled by herself, pitied by others. Arwen had been proud and strong and defiant all her life, but never had anything wrecked her like this. Her jet black hair knotted and porcelain skin turned pallid. She had always been lithe but as she stopped eating she turned to skin and bone, the gauntness about her not dissimilar to her father. Some days she did not dress, and others she did not speak. On the days she forced herself to play the part of the Lady of Storm’s End it felt as if she watched the world through someone else’s eyes.

Empty of heart and stricken by a grieving affliction of the mind, Arwen Baratheon let the days slip by her. The world moved by and the birds sang every morning, the sun set every night. The stars seemed dim and the moon lacked lustre when she looked upon them. She dreamed of holding him, that little Ormund who fled her love. In the retreat that slumber offered her, she would find him in the crypts and take him up to the godswood and cherish him there forever and ever, just the two of them. When she awoke it was hard to stem the flow of tears. She yearned for the warmth and lust for life to return to her one day and the pain would fade. She longed for a sunrise she would not feel guilty bathing in. But her son was here and gone in the briefest of moments. Ormund had taken her heart, and Arwen doubted if it could ever be returned.

Seraphina Whitehead, mother of Silas, Xayah, and Adam Whitehead, 48: She is the patriarch of the family and remains one of the most devoted people in the House to maintaining their bonds. Following the death of Lady Tanya, she has stepped up to take care of the children and manage some of the day-to-day operations of the city.

Lord Silas Whitehead of Port Wrath, 27: Longtime Lord of Port Wrath and hardcore Targaryen loyalist. He has come to the belief that the Targaryens have apparently been meant to rule and thus remain unopposed thus far, though he also believes the seven who are one are fickle and may change in favor of another house.

Lady Tanya Whitehead, 32, Deceased: Allegedly from a great merchant house in Pentos. Lady Tanya was Silas’s most prized confidant and much of his world. She died along with his second son in childbirth on their way back from a feast.

Septa Xayah Whitehead, 30: Xayah is Lord Silas’s chief religious advisor and almsgiver. She is also tasked with overseeing the Silent Sisters of Port Wrath, who remain paramount in encouraging the city’s growth and keeping conditions sanitary.

Ser Adam Whitehead, brother of Silas, 24: Ser Adam is steadfast and one of the most trusted advisors of Lord Silas. Ser Adam has strangely resisted marriage and was granted a reprieve from pressure to marry by Lord Silas following the death of Lord Herrington Whitehead of Port Wrath (the former lord). Ser Adam is the High Steward and Master of Horse he maintains the day to day affairs of running the keep and staff.

Gemania Whitehead is a distant cousin from the Port Wrath branch of the family living by the port as opposed to at the center of Wheeping Town of Lord Whitehead 19: Following the Dornish destruction and attacks on Port Wrath fleet, she was orphaned and her mother seemingly insane was sent into the Silent Sisterhood.

Arcturos Whitehead, first-born son of Silas Whitehead and Lady Tanya, 8: Arcturos is a skinny and awkward son of Lord Silas. While hard-working and eager to impress the maester and his father, he is nonetheless increasingly coddled by his father following the death of his mother.

Crispan Whitehead, second son of Lord Silas and Lady Tanya, 5: He is the youngest child and is abundantly full of life and energy.

(Port Wrath as capital and S26. I am also looking for a co-claimant for my friend professional horse, who might be joining me to claim it together.)

Runestone, the Vale of Arryn. 6th Month, 54 AC.

Runestone was an old castle, one of the oldest in the Vale. The sept was not part of the original design, but had been incorporated some time after the submission of House Royce to the Kings of the Vale. It was in this sept that the future Lord of Runestone was to be wed to Lady Mariah Corbray, sister to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

The ceremony itself was nothing unusual. The bride wore her bridal cloak with the ravens and hearts of House Corbray, and when the elderly Septon Quenten concluded the ceremony, Ser Uthor exchanged the bridal cloak for one bearing the studs and runes of House Royce and sealed the wedding with a kiss.

From there, it was a short moment before the guests were led to Runestone's Great Hall, where the feast and a dance floor had been set up for their enjoyment.

Banefort, the Westerlands. 2nd Month, 54 AC.

From everything she'd heard, and especially considering how catastrophic her sister's repeated attempts at childbearing had been for her, Alayne had expected her pregnancy to be harder, more arduous. In fact, other than some illness in the early stages and persistent fatigue in the later stages, she'd found it surprisingly easy.

Labor, however, was another story. That was just as painful and drawn out as she'd feared, and by the time it was over, she was drenched in sweat, barely conscious, and her breathing was ragged. When the maester placed her son into her arms, however, she knew it had been worth it. She'd done what every lady in Westeros was meant to do- provided her husband his heir.

"Send for Ser Gareth," she told the maester. "Tell him we have a boy."

Lady Ramona Velaryon was seated down upon the round rug in her daughters’ favorite room to play in, a woven vision of perfect shells and rolling waves with a ship sailing in its center. Daella was just shy of half a year old, so she needed a bit of help from her mother to sit up and take part in the game. Her laughing and smiling, that she could take care of on her own. Mama would give answers for her, and her sister Harra was giving answers for her doll to make for a more lively conversation between four rather than two.

She’d sewn her firstborn the doll to keep her company when the baby needed the bulk of her attention. A warm brown fabric had been chosen for the skin, and soft woolen yarn for hair in one of Harra’s favorite blues. The twists held well enough to keep the strands from tangling, and it was cut long so Harra could braid and style it as she pleased. The doll had teal sea glass beads for eyes and pink thread for lips. Ramona’s sister had been a great help at making the small collection of dresses for Harra to choose from as she wished. Her girls were smiling, spring gently warmed Driftmark, soon the gardens would be full of rich blossoming flowers. Everything was perfect.

Ramona loved her husband deeply, so it was no wonder she leaned into his warmth and squeezed his hand that night when she struggled to sleep. She shut her eyes and buried herself in Jorgen’s breast while trying not to think of Maeve. White witch or not, the woman had given her a terrible fright and then the warrior’s sons had given her more reason to be afraid. Killed for ringing a few bells, and Kyra had looked faint when telling her about it. There were so many things that had frightened her, and those thoughts kept her waking. The struggles Harra would grow to know because of her foolishness, if she would lose her babe in her arms, shrinking away to keep Willow from snapping at her in one of her moods, the guilt of worrying she’d caused young men to die, whatever had caused her mother not to love her, and worst of all the small chance she was not even her father’s bastard. None of it in her control, all of it had driven her to tears a few times each.

But while she could not sleep, her eyes were still dry. It was all unpleasant to recall, but it did not drive her to panic as such thoughts once had. She had her sisters, she had her husband, and she liked not feeling so scared about every little thing anymore. She was a wife, a mother, and happier than many had told her a bastard had any right to be. Ramona knew many of her fears were just her worries looking to hurt her, and others were questions without answer. But there was one place she could look to learn the truth that may heal the oldest and deepest of those wounds. Whatever word lay on those pages could not hurt her so terribly that she wouldn’t recover. Seven above, she had worse to worry about when it came time to carry her fourth child.

She wasn’t going to be getting any rest for a while anyway, but at least Jorgen was so deep in his dreams little would disturb him. Ramona kissed his forehead and slipped out of bed, only walking over to the plush reading chair placed next to the bookcase he’d had placed in their bedroom for her journals. She ran her eyes along the rows, looking for the two she needed now. The one with the most worn spine, its leather bindings beginning to crack, and one she had never opened. Both were her fathers, she had reread his last entries countless times whenever she missed him. The seldom touched journal was written in the year she was born. Ramona wasn’t sure she was ready to read that one just yet, so she pulled another two from the years between off the shelf to buy some time.

She handled the first leather bound book gently; it had some loose pages that she did not want slipping out and onto the floor. Thumbing through blank pages from the back cover toward the front, she stopped when she finally reached his words.

___

Late 12th moon, 40AC

I am sorry to have to leave you all, but I still thank the seven for letting me have this time to say goodbye. My two boys, all my sweet girls, I will not stop loving you after the Stranger comes for me. From above I shall be well again, and I shall wait a long, long time for you to join me.

Barquen, I know you will find this page when you comb through my notes and papers. You shall make for a fine lord. Share these lines with your siblings; hopefully all this has been said already before my final sleep but I think it would serve you well to hear it one last time from me. Willow, my strong rosebud, do not fret quite so much. There is more to be enjoyed in life by living it than in trying to write out every moment for yourself so soon. Aubrey, you will soon be a man and then a knight. Keep holding your head high, and your honor higher. Ramona, my dandelion, my sweet girl, you deserve so much happiness. Let no one tell you otherwise. Emma, my dove, your best years are yet to come. Continue to blossom as you have been. Mina, starling, I’m sorry I never got to ride beside you and Silverfoot properly. Barquen has told me how well you are doing, keep at it and soon you and your mare will be the swiftest maids in the Reach together.

There is so much more I wish I could be there for, but I need not give you more reasons to cry. Boys, look after your sisters and see them all happy wives one day. Girls, keep your mother from feeling too lonely without me. Denyse, my love, do not rush to follow, take as much time in this world as you can. I love you all more than words can say.

___

5th moon, 38 AC

Honey is responding to Ramona quite well these days. She rarely stalls when given a command, and perks up notably when I take my girl to the stables for her next lesson in training the mare. They both look to be happiest out in the fields, but I would expect nothing less from a daughter of mine.

She’s come a long way now from the timid girl struggling to get her yearling used to wearing her saddle. Firmness does not come easy to her, but she has gotten enough practice to use it when she must. Gods, in a few years she will be a woman grown. She must have grown as quick as her Honey, there is no other way my little girl has shot up so quickly to this maid of twelve namedays.

I think she might enjoy bringing her horse new ribbons and small treats as much as she enjoys the rides themselves. Emma always wants to join in with the braiding, but Ramona gives her sister enough space beside her to help with the fun. She will be choosing her own horse soon, only moon I think before the foals are ready. For now, she joins us on her pony for the ride we take after Ramona’s lesson. Our own steeds do not mind dropping the pace after we’ve worked them for a few hours, so Thistle hasn’t much trouble keeping up, stubby little legs aside.

___

29 AC

Thank the Seven for Marisol. It is a great relief that I managed not only to find someone in Oldtown who understood my plight, but one who had been looking to make an extended stay here in the Reach. She has taken well to the keep and Denyse too appreciated how she can soothe little Ramona.

No longer will I have to subject my little girl to tears in failed attempts to remove the tangles from her hair. And I thought I had trouble with Willow’s when it had begun to grow. Even Denyse had no luck with it before. Now that her curls have been gathered and more gently parted, she looks even more beautiful when she smiles.

My greatest error was brushing it dry. It would split and tear and frizz beyond all reason every time I tried to neaten it. Most days her new attendant takes care of the tangles, but a few nights already Ramona has brought her comb to my bedchamber for me to brush her hair when she is right out of her bath. She enjoys the hair oils and mixtures  that Marisol has started showing her how to use, choosing between the scents I’ve seen brings her joy.

___

26 AC

Oh my little Ramona, how will I ever explain what I’ve done when you have grown. From the moment I held her, I could tell she was mine own. She will not be left behind again, not so long as I live to watch over her. But her eyes, her precious green eyes, she may have gotten them from her mother but there is so much more depth and kindness that she lets me into when my babe looks up at me.

When Jonolha had handed her over to me, she squirmed and whined so much I feared she may slip from my grasp. She hardly looked at the girl, for what rush she had to be rid of me when I had been called to her convenience I cannot say. All I know is I will give my daughter the love her mother cared not to.

We have been home now a fortnight, and I have been sleeping in what will soon be my darling’s room. She is such a sweet babe, ever smiling ever looking about her. Only I cannot hand her over to any of the maids or she will cry until I again hold her in my arms. Even when she must be nursed, I must stand beside the woman to soothe her else she becomes too distraught to latch. I promise, sweetheart, your papa is not going anywhere.

Denyse is not pleased, but she understands. I cannot fault her for being impatient for me to return to our bed, and our son, but he is happy enough with his mother and sees much of me in the day when we may keep the children together. I cannot leave my girl to weep. Barquen, Aubrey, even Willow, all the children before have clung to their mother. Not displeased with me but I have by no means been the favorite. She only has me, I won’t be leaving her alone.

___

25 AC

Fool that I was for thinking all this was over. The maesters delivered me a letter today, from King’s Landing of all places. In folly, I had dreaded opening it so I would not have to think of the business seeking to call me back to that maze of confusion. I thought, why must I travel again? I shall have to write back my refusal as I have a new son that needs me more than these trade arrangements have need of me. If only things could be that simple.

It was from Jonolha. She is heavy with child, due in a moon or two, and thinks it mine. She will be leaving in three to return to her home, without the babe whether I collect it or not. I think it a bluff but I am not willing to test her. She writes she does not have the patience for taking an infant so long upon the seas, so I might keep her without protest now that her adventure in the land of sunset is done with.

I leave in the morning, it will take me a moon even on my fastest Arrowchaser to reach that place. I have reign to name the child when it is born. I shall have to meet this babe first, but even if I do not think the child mine they may ward at Meadowcrown, for there it is not worth the stain on my soul to condemn the poor thing to those wretched streets devoid of any hope.

___

25 AC

Gods what have I done. The sun has risen twice over upon me after my crime and each time is as awful as the first. Forgive me, my love, for I have failed you more deeply than I thought I had power to. I wish you would never hear of this, but if I did not beg for forgiveness at your feet the moment I return to our home the guilt would drive me mad.

Strong spirits, unwisely strong, rekindled the frustration burning since we fought. I should have delayed my travels for business another day, another week, until we had settled things but that argument is so worthless to me now I know not how it had poisoned my judgement so long to begin with. I slept with someone, because she stroked my ego and told me all I wanted to hear without meaning a word of it. Shamefully, even when I thought her a whore by profession I had been considering going through with this betrayal, if I can be said to have been capable of thought at all in that state. No, she was merely traveling and, thought I scarcely believe it, in her lands love and lust are free to give marriage be damned. It matters not if she lied to me, regardless the sin is mine.

If I have one solace in this folly, it is that I shall not have to utter her name again. I shall be home soon and if we can make it through this mistake all will be behind us.

___

It was nearly as dreadful as she imagined, nearly. Ramona realized that reading the pages didn't sting as much, cut her as deeply as she always feared it would. The lady she had become was more sure of herself now. Even if she had been some other man’s sin, it would be far too late for that to matter now. At least not to her, not anymore. Ramona Velaryon nèe Flowers is and has always been her father’s daughter. 

Though it was no longer something she could deny, she had no mother. That woman had chosen to walk away, to not be mother to her. She can forgive it, alien as the thought is, but she will never understand it. In a world where Jonolha had wanted her, she may never have known her father, her sisters, her brothers, her husband… No, that was not worth trading the love she had known, the love that had seen her grow to who she now was. She began returning the journals to their shelf, still in order keeping the years of her life each in their place. At her desk was another book, with the leather cover having the shapes of flowers pressed into it. It was half filled, her own current journal, and she flipped it open to the next blank page to leave her ink to dry when she went back to bed.

___

5th moon 53 AC

Hello Harra, Daella, have you found my diary? Goodness how much have you girls read? Any you there, hello, don’t think I forgot about you too. Papa and I just haven’t named you yet, you’ll need to be patient for me to greet you properly later.

My little adventurers, whatever could you be looking for in here? It’s half poetry, very little of it any good, with a few half finished song lyrics here and there and the thoughts out of my head written all out of order. Well, I’ll not have you leave empty handed entirely. I love you all so much, and I’ll keep saying it till I’ve said my very last words. You all are my everything, my stars, my light, my life. Never let anything dim your shine, you are far too special for that. Stay close to one another, guide each other along. It is a special thing to have a sister, that means you will never be lonely. If you feel like it, you can show me you’ve found this page, I promise I won’t be cross with you. It will be nice to remember how sweet and small you both were when I wrote this.

With all my love,

You mama

___

As she put her ink and pen away, Ramona’s hand drifted down upon her belly. Another moon blood had been missed, and she knew well by now what that meant. She loved being a mother, and she could forgive slights against herself but not to her family. Her daughters, her precious babies, she will do everything for them, and they will never feel unwanted. Now while there are stars in the sky, not while she is beside them to love them.

6th Month, Runestone, the day before the wedding of Uthor and Mariah

Sansa founds the Godswood calming. She kept the Seven, true, but the Godswood was a reminder of her Blackwood heritage. The worries in her soul were soothed somewhat when lost between its trees. And maybe, the Old Gods could provide the peace of mind required to navigate her current turmoil.

She'd invited her parents to join her in the Godswood. By her side already were two of her guards; Luceon and Bennet. She trusted them, the most, Maris third. But the less involved in this the better. Kneeling before the tree, she gave up a quick prayer to the old gods and the new. A few minutes later, Qarl would come along with Minisa pushing him through the Godswood. They'd all been reunited before, Qarl completely enamoured with his first grandchild. But he knew something was weighing on his family, and he was intent on getting to the bottom of it.

Riverspring was engulfed in chaos, smallfolk scurrying or hiding as the DeVile minions marched upon the land at dead of night setting anything to the blade or torch, raids and skirmishes was frequent as The Riverwatch Militia had issue mobilising fast enough to deal with all the issues popping up around the land of House Sarwyck.

Disease set in Aftermath, corpses littered about, and crows feasted upon the dead with no end to their heart's content.

The Riverwitch Morlaine appeared from the nearby river which had bodies floating in it, she carried herself with a staff that had small rattling bones attached to her wooden gnarly blackened stick as the woman wore dark drab grey dress and hood with a thin black rag wrapped around her eyes.

Morlaine looked upon the Sarwyck family land that had its people scattered and afraid, Riverwatch Militia had less success in dealing with the matter head on as the cunning of Ser Daemon DeVile was not to be underestimated.

"The carnage and death, this is but the beginning of the endless March that feeds the one that dwells below the river" Morlaine said as she walked to a dying man lying next to a broken down wagon, seeing the finale breaths the man was taking made the riverwitch take pause to bear witness to the peasant farmer's end.

"You've lived a good life, but all rivers lead back to the end... Be with them, close your eyes, and return to the waters".

The dying blonde man closed his eyes and his body slowly stopping and succumbed to their injuries as they laid dead.

Morlaine looked to Riverspring and knew the Sarwycks would need a reminder of what they had coming their way. "Plague and fire, flesh burnt to a fine crisp... But all of this was foretold in the great prophecy as lives taken will be returned to the river beyond, for all rivers lead back home".

It was a saying that all rivers lead back home. Whatever it meant, it held great meaning to the people of Riverspring.

The old watery crone moved through the fields, walking over the dead or dying. Both sides of this feud had suffered as usual. Mostly, the smallfolk did most of the suffering in this conflict.

Spear-wielders of Riverwatch Militia was seen piercing dead bodies of the slain, ensuring that no DeVile minion escaped and would meet their end by a pointy stick.

The DeVile Minions had fought like men possessed by evil, their eyes was bloodshot red to the very end, the men and women that fought under the horned skull banner was mad as they was sick in the head.

At last they had arrived at Qarth, the Queen of Cities, or one of them at least. The first sight the adventurers would be met with were the city’s outer walls, three layers deep of high stacked stone. It was no wonder they had been anointed among the wonders of the world, each was carved with a different intricate scene in yet a harder form of rock. The outermost wall stood thirty feet high, and every animal one could imagine had been carved into its red sandstone banded with copper. Snakes, kites, fish, wolves, zorses, and elephants formed a petrified menagerie encircling the city. The next wall rose another ten feet higher, a war scene stretching across its contours, banded in iron. The final wall, composed of black marble studded with watchful golden eyes, loomed fifty feet above the sands and was carved with scenes of lovemaking. Most appropriate for the intent of this venture, though it was not quite a dothraki wedding they had on the horizon.

Once the gatemen permitted the group of westerosi wanderers to pass through the entrance to Qarth thrice over, they could behold the majesty of the city streets. Colorful buildings in every hue, green streets that could make you think they were paved in jade at a glance. Every inch was highly decorated, including a bronze arch fashioned in the likeness of two snakes mating, their scales delicate flakes of jade, obsidian, and lapis lazuli. The city has slim towers which stand tall, and balconies of houses are delicate and frail. Each square has an elaborate fountain in the shape of creatures like griffins, dragons, and manticores. The Qartheen people filling the streets stood tall and ghostly pale. They styled themselves meticulously, it seemed they made a game of how many riches one man could stack upon his fingers, wrists, and neck. Fine clothes of linen, samite, and tiger fur hung on every figure. The women’s gowns left one breast exposed, and the men of high standing donned beaded silk skirts.

This city of many splendors too had its dark underbelly, slaves trailed after their Qartheen captors and the House of the Undying served as the warlock’s seat of council. Danger and riches of great proportions lay around every corner of Qarth.

My Lord/Lady [name],

It is with great happiness that I may announce the marriage between my cousin Ser Derrick Norridge and Lady Elinor Hewett will soon be celebrated. I invite you to join us in the first month of the new year for a feast and tourney dedicated to the honor of the newlyweds. May the Seven bless your house as this couple has been blessed to find happiness in each other. House Norridge would greatly appreciate the opportunity to host you again.

Fly High, Burn True

Lord Barquen Norridge

Trystane waited until after the new Prince had completed his wedding and done with the various obligations that were expected of them all in assisting with organizing the event. But, once that time had passed he was determined that they moved onto important matters of actually running the realm.

And so, as the council gathered in Sunspear one afternoon, Trystane raised a matter before them all, "Dorne has suffered a substantial blow with this war having come and gone. After reviewing our records I believe we have the funds, particularly if all of Dorne works together, to invest in fortifying the two passes we still control, so that should it come to war the host does not need to march back and forth between the passes as it did this war."

"I also have a second investment to suggest, a road from Sunspear to Yronwood, along the Greenblood. It would foster the growth of infrastructure and economic growth in the lands it passed through, while also allowing the armies of the southern houses in Dorne to reach the marches faster, while Yronwood has already proven it's capability in holding the Stoneway both ends should remain safe, particularly if the passes are fortified."

Letters and signups in the down below

Highgarden, Fourth Moon 54 AC

Leona Pommingham nervously tugged on her braid - which was as usual slung over her shoulder and fell to her torso - as she waited in her room. Part of her was upset at herself that she was nervous at all. These last moons being alone in Highgarden - or at least without family, obviously the majority of her time was spent with Lady Kyra - had done wonders for her confidence. Especially planning the ongoing fair and festivities. The fact that things had gone well, that she had not screwed everything up and embarrassed both herself and her House, had made her beam with pride. Yet, said festivities had ended up drawing the source of her present anxiety and discomfort. She grimaced, and then rummaged through a storage chest placed at the foot of her bed until she found her leather-bound sketchbook, along with a moleskin bag that contained charcoal. She had had the idea to try her hand at charcoal sketching perhaps a moon ago, and she found that it helped her think.

Sometime this afternoon, there would be a knock at her door and then her parents would enter. This would be the first time she had seen either of them since the day of her departure from Thornfield Hill. For whatever reason, that day remained particularly memorable to her. Every detail remained sharp and crisp in her mind. That had not been an easy day for her, for a myriad of reasons. Obviously, the prospect of leaving home had weighed her heart down mightily, but her parents queer behaviors had only added to her general stress level that day. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. This was no time to think of times past and decisions made. She heard a songbird outside her window as she began working with the charcoal.

Leona always preferred going into a sketch with no prior idea of what she would work on, instead letting her mind find a worthy subject as her hands worked. She lost herself in the rhythm of drawing. The background became a vast hill, shadowed, with quick strokes to represent sparse brush clinging to its stony soil. A door penetrated the hillside, stocky trees to either side of it. Careful erasing work managed for a crude approximation of the Pommingham sigil carved deep into the knotted wood. Most of the time was spent on blending work, with her bare fingers, making sure everything looked exactly right, her fingers all stained black. She did not know why she had drawn this - the entrance to the familial crypts of House Pommingham - on today of all days, but she thought her technique was good enough, and that was what mattered the most in the end.

With a sudden start, Leona suddenly realized that someone stood in the doorway. She looked up quickly and the blood drained from her face as she recognized her mother. Lady Elyn Pommingham looked at the scene in front of her with amusement in her eye and a wry smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Her mother looked quite nice on that day, with a dress of soft red wool, there were vines embroidered on her bodice and golden thread on her sleeves. She stepped aside to let her father enter as well, who was leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane grasped tightly in his right hand. Her father’s garments were much more plain, as usual, but his linen doublet and cotton trousers both looked well-cut, although that did not do enough to offset the near-permanent grimace that lay on his face.

Nearly the instant she saw her mother, Leona nearly leaped from her seat as a furious flush filled her face. Even in the rush, she managed to place her newly finished charcoal drawing carefully down on the lacquered table before nearly sprinting over to the washing bowl. She could not avoid a grimace as she left stains on the handle of the porcelain pitcher when she poured- the fact that drawing with charcoal could result in such a mess was by far her least favorite part of the medium - but then quickly began to scrub her hands as soon as the washing bowl was full.

“Mother, father,” Leona said as she washed her hands roughly. “I’m sorry, this is not a very proper greeting, I fear I lost track of time.”

The water had been crystal-clear in its fluted porcelain pitcher mere moments ago, now it was darker than the muddy and sluggish waters of the Honeywine. She heard her father chuckle behind her, but it was her mother who spoke next.

“I did not know you had begun drawing, girl,” Lady Elyn Pommingham said, she sounded amused.

Leona lifted her hands out of the water, and saw that they were clean. She quickly dried her hands on the cloth stowed next to the washing bowl, and then grimaced, using the cloth to wipe off the handle of the pitcher as well. She turned around and could not hide her mild shock at the sight of both of her parents next to the table, looking at her charcoal drawing. A flush entered her cheeks.

“That’s quite a somber subject, daughter,” her father said as he wrenched his gaze from the drawing to her. She was unsure how to take that statement until he smiled. She laughed nervously in response.

“I thought it might be a good way to pass the time,” she said weakly.

“Bored already?” Her mother said with a raised eyebrow.

Leona shook her head to deny the assertion. She took a seat at the table, reluctantly, smoothed her skirts, and then turned towards her parents who both stood there, looming over her. She inhaled deeply, this would not be a pleasant conversation.

Ser Perwyn Pommingham sat on a rickety stool in a warm tent that billowed with a soft breeze, the early afternoon sun outside seemed like a fiery blaze. He grimaced as he rotated his left shoulder, bruised muscles complaining. He had performed his best today and still lost. He and Ser Ossifer Marbrand had fought to a tense stalemate with no broken lances for five rounds, and then two broken lances, just like that. If it were not for a smattering of squires inside the large tourney tent with him, he would’ve cursed loudly and perhaps kicked a few things. A bloody awful day, a bloody awful year.

He stood up and tested the rest of his body gradually, going slowly for fear of pain. He was alright, for the most part. You could not participate in a legitimate joust without at least your fair share of scrapes and bruises, and he had those. Plus in the final round the Marbrand knight had taken him by surprise, their blunted tourney lance exploded his wooden shield, then struck him low on his left shoulder, near his armpit. He could not move that entire arm without a sudden sharp pain, he would need to see a Maester before he left.

He fumbled through his bag next to the stool, until he found a leather bladder containing wine which he took a too-generous sip of. Some spilled into his beard and he ran his fingers through it while grumbling. He would need to wash tonight or his beard would feel sticky come the morrow, just another annoyance atop the rest.

Trying to calm himself, he thought about how his brother Olyvar had won the archery competition. A grand thing. He had been working hard with the bow and arrow these last few years. He was a fierce fighter with the sword, but Perwyn had proven himself the better more often than not, and Galad and Addam were more skilled than either of them. Olyvar had adapted finely to the bow, though, and although he would most likely find himself with a sword in hand if it came to real combat, at least for now his skill with the bow could earn him some gold.

Perwyn felt the anger in his gut rise again, but he tamped it down furiously as he drank the rest of the wine in the leather bladder, which he threw back in his bag, He had sulked too much of this year away, things may go poorly but he would not let himself stoop that low again. He thought of what lay a few moons ahead, in King’s Landing. The tourney to celebrate the princess’ nameday. Therein, perhaps, lay a purpose in life; if he had the skill within him somewhere.

He firmly gathered his things, suppressing his winces as best he could, and went to see to Stepper. He had performed admirably today, his loss was not of his noble steed’s doing. He was sure the stablemen here in Highgarden were well trained and trustworthy people, but he always preferred to care for his horse himself, and found a sort of calm in it. As he sat there lathering down Stepper - who seemed as exhausted as Perwyn had ever seen him - he tried to keep his attention focused on how to heal quickly and improve even more quickly. If he were to traipse from tournament to tournament, what was the point unless he put every effort on being as good as he could. Sulking could wait, if it went poorly, but for the first time since he marched away to the Red Mountains in the Third Dornish War, Perwyn felt a glint of optimism in his heart.

Leona sat there calmly stirring a dollop of honey into her hot tea, absentmindedly blowing the fumes of steam as she always did. Her mother and father sat there at the table across from her. Her mother - a flush in her cheeks as there always was when she was pleased - was sipping tea herself, and treating herself to a pastry kindly provided by the bountiful Highgarden kitchens. Her father had half an uneaten pastry on a porcelain dish in front of him, and had made no move towards it for many minutes. He had chilled red wine in a goblet of beaten brass that had been polished until it gleamed. He seemed pleased enough, though, and certainly had been nothing but acquiescent when talking to Leona. Same as her mother. That made Leona suspicious, but she tried to feel pleased, and tried to tell herself to feel pleased.

“I’m glad things are going so well here for you, Leona,” Lord Garth Pommingham said as he rose. He leaned stiffly on a wooden cane carved with vines and a singular pomegranate tree. The handle looked well worn from much use. After a glance and a pause, her mother rose as well, smoothing her skirts, and Leona followed. Her father looked at the half-full goblet of chilled wine on the table, and with almost a snarl, grabbed the goblet and finished the last of it.

“Yes, yes, we’re all very happy for you.” Lady Elyn Pommingham said with a motherly smile. She grasped Leona in a hug before she even had time to blink, and returned it with affection after a moment.

“We have to head back to Thornfield Hill now, I think,” her father said, with a glance towards the door. “A journey of a few weeks isn’t so bad when you’re younger and more fit, but,” he grimaced. “Besides, a lord should be in his keep, I should not dwell in Highgarden too long, no matter how hospitable the Tyrell’s want to be.” Leona’s mother sniffed sharply in response to that, and then smiled with a flush afterwards as if in apology.

The niceties and formalities of saying farewell lasted a few more minutes - and of course her mother had fit in a few more hugs while she could - and when Leona was alone she collapsed into her cushioned chair with a sigh. That had gone well, more well than she dared hope for. The initial feeling of apprehension about seeing her parents was beginning to melt away now that it was all behind her. That had gone very well, and things were going well here. She repeated that to herself several times, like how she had memorized things in lessons with Maester Hosteen as a child. She would remember that, and things would continue to go well.

She turned back to her tea, still hot, and took a grateful sip. She had finally figured out the right amount of honey for her, she thought. Just a small dollop. The best tea had a bit of a bitterness to it, or an earthiness, and honey could drown that out. Her charcoal drawing was still on the table, well-settled now after a few hours. She thought she had done well with it. She placed it neatly into a stout wooden box that she had acquired back home somehow; she figured it had once been used to store things in the vast cellars beneath the Pomegranate Tower in Thornfield Hill. For now, however, it stored her handful of drawings. Most were done with charcoal, one with paint, and one was a crude ink drawing she had been extraordinarily dissatisfied with.

Leona Pommingham sniffed to herself before sipping her tea again. Most things would continue to go well, if she continued to do her best, she had to believe that. That seemed to be the case lately, anyway. She hummed to herself absently as she sat there in the quiet afternoon sun, finishing her tea.

Lord Garth Pommingham, Lord of Thornfield Hill, swung into the dark-lacquered wheelhouse with a grunt and a grimace, his stomach roiled and it took all of his willpower to not hurl. He adjusted his posture with another grunt, and leaned against the windowsill, looking at the bustle of Highgarden outside. A fine visit, all things considered, even if the vineries of Highgarden were not agreeing with him today. Leona - his precious daughter - seemed to be doing well for herself.

That moment of satisfaction evaporated as he saw his palfrey being led further down the column by some fair-haired squire. He scowled. His place was on his horse at the front of the column, but being in the saddle more than a handful of hours these days drove him mad. The last time he had made this journey - when there was a feast and tourney held to celebrate their victory in the Third Dornish War - he had done it all in the saddle, but his knee had taken near an entire moon to recover from the swelling afterwards. Was that worth it?

Suddenly the doors on the other side of the wheelhouse opened, and his Lady wife stepped in and settled herself with a smile, smoothing her skirts and straightening her hair.

“That went well, yes?” She said.

“Yes,” Garth said with a smile.

He was trying to cherish this, something small going well. A child of his own enjoying herself, becoming her own person. It frightened him in its way, but honestly it had frightened him much more when she was younger. Now it was here, and there was nothing to do but hope he had done his job as a father. He thought she would do well.

It did not take long for their journey to get underway. They were not a numerous party, and required no supply wagons at all for their provisions, only a hefty wrapped bundle of food stored in a locked compartment at the back of the wheelhouse. Garth tried to look at Elyn - his wife - with a smile, trying to force himself to feel this moment, when so much else had gone wrong.

“Now we return home,” she said, almost sadly.

“Yes, now we return home,” he responded in a voice flatter than paved stone. The wheelhouse jerked ahead as the four-horse team began to trot forward, and Garth tried to think about anything but home.