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

[heretic]

Tyramear
Many leagues southwest of Greycrown Keep, approaching Steppe Hill

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

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

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

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

Mera
Northwest of Moonhome—the caravan mid

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

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

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


Banion
Northwest of Moonhome—the caravan rear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alyssa Corrett
Northwest of Moonhome—the caravan lead

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

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

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

Maester Adwin
Northwest of Moonhome—the caravan mid

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

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

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

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

Marcus
Northwest of Moonhome—the caravan mid

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

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

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

Allyria Gargalen
The Gates of the Moon

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

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

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

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

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

[Rhyvurg]

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

[Harmony]

Allyria Gargalen

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

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

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

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

[Old Overholt]

Banion

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

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

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

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

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

[Space Lawyer]

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

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

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

[Sahe]

Mera


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

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

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

[dmarks]

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

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

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

[DukeGod]

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

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

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

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

[heretic]

Lady Alyssa

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

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

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

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

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

Maester Adwin

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

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

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

Marcus

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

Marcus, Adwin, Mera

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

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

Mera

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

Banion

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

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

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

Allyria

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

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

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

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

Tyramear

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

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

[Rhyvurg]

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

[Harmony]

Allyria Gargalen

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

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

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

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

[DukeGod]

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

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

[dmarks]

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

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

[Space Lawyer]

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

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

[Old Overholt]

Banion

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

[heretic]

Allyria

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

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

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

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

Lady Alyssa and Maester Adwin

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

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

Initiative

Adwin 15
Alyssa 13
Pearse 8


Maester Adwin

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

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

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

Lady Alyssa

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

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

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

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

Marcus

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

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

Tyramear

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

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

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

Banion

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

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

[Rhyvurg]

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

[Harmony]

Allyria

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

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

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

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

[Old Overholt]

Banion

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

[DukeGod]

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

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

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

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

[Sahe]

Mera chuckles slightly as Walda continues with her questions.

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

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

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

[Space Lawyer]

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

Read Target
Awareness (Empathy): [roll0]

[heretic]

Tyramear

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

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

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

Marcus

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

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

Mera

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

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

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

Allyria

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

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

Banion

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

Adwin

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

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

[Old Overholt]

Banion

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

[Harmony]

Allyria

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

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

[Rhyvurg]

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

[dmarks]

Alyssa has a +4 bonus vs Read Target from Courteous

Alyssa's disposition is Amiable.

Status roll for initiative: [roll0]

Persuasion (Convince +1): [roll1] best 4. Charismatic and Compelling mean +2 to roll and influence 5 (will +1)

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

[heretic]

Lady Alyssa

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

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

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


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

Marcus

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

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

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

Banion

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

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

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

Allyria

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

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

Tyramear

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

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

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

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

[Rhyvurg]

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

[Harmony]

Allyria

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

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

[dmarks]

Alyssa smiled at Pearse kindly, and thanked him for his honesty. Neither position was safe, and though playing both sides always brought danger, she thought perhaps Roger was treading a sensible path. Though that ledger may indicate otherwise... she mused.

She entered Moonhome with her chin up, and made certain to keep a watchful eye on her son. Just because she had played the knight outside, did not mean there were not enemies aplenty in the home of their lieges.

"Thank you, master steward, a cinnamon tea would be lovely." Though wine after their journey was not an unappealing thought. Still there would be time enough for that, and she must make sure that Morris was on his best behaviour. She entered her son's room without knocking and busied herself making sure he had picked the right set of clothes for the evening.

"Come darling, that shirt is for travelling with Lord Roger, not dining with him. I know it's smart,
but we have to look our best tonight, and you'll need something clean and practical tomorrow. This one is for tonight,
the blue one." She picked out a dark blue shirt and passed her son the newly made black trousers and belt that had been prepared for the trip. "Now, are you prepared for tonight. Do you have any last questions? Don't be nervous, just be polite and I will step in if you can't think of what to say. All will be well, I promise."

[Sahe]

Mera could see the respect that was in Ser Myles eyes, when he looked at her. She wasn't that angry girl anymore that desperately needed to proof to everyone that she could fight. She had proven that, fought and blad in a war an war and had prevailed where many others had not. For a short moment she was proud of herself for the recognition she got from the seasoned knight, but that moment faded quickly when Ser Myles turned his attention back to Marcus, talking about when the puppy would earn his spores while they rode into the keep. Mera clenched her teeth in anger and gave Marcus a look with envy and scorn, before she got down from Redfoot and helped Walda down as well. Together they brought the horse to the stables to have her fed and watered.

"Is everything alright?", Walda asked Mera cautiously while they were relieving Redfoot of the saddle and baggage.

"What do I have to do that they accept me?", she asked the peasant girl with barely contained rage, knowing full well that she didn't have an answer to that question.

"I have fought just as hard as anyone. Harder. And that...pup only would have to wag his tail and they would knight him", Mera continued venting her frustration and then let out her anger by punching against the wooden wall of the stables with a cry on her lips. Maybe she still was that angry girl.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

"And here I thought tasting raw fish was the true test of manliness," Banion says, looking back to Dryn with a wide smile as he references their prior conversation and song. Bearing those yellowed teeth of his in a somewhat disturbing smile, he returns his gaze back to Ketter and adds, "So be it! I look forward to sharing at least a mug of ale with you later on, Ketter."

...

Upon learning of his roommate for their stay in Moonhome, Banion grins, ruffling the young man's hair as they view their room. "Danny boy, let's make the most of our time here in Moonhome, eh?" he tells the lad before marching into the smokey, but hospitable makeshift quarters. "I wouldn't be doing my job if you father didn't hate me for it in the end," he then adds, turning about on his heels as he examines the roof. He lets Danny choose his bedding and make himself comfortable, the rogue taking time to stow his gear in the corner of the room and examine the walls/floors nearby. Finding a loose board, Banion first looks over his shoulder to make sure Danny is preoccupied with acquainting himself with the room. Then, he proceeds to count out more than enough coin for him to thoroughly enjoy his evening before depositing the remainder in hiding. There's no need to carry around extra coin and lose it to unscrupulous characters (like himself) or dalliances of his own. His extra money stored away, Banion stands up and wanders back over to the boy, offering him 10 silver stags while saying, "Why don't you run off and find yourself some entertainment, huh? I think I'll probably do the same."

Whether or not the young man accepts the coin before scampering off, Banion leaves the quarters and heads for the streets, intent to put the time before the feast to good use. Heading for the closest house of ill repute, Banion indeed seeks out a bit of warmth and entertainment after a frigid trip to Moonhome. Perhaps one of the entrepreneurs will know a little something about the going-ons or gossip in Moonhome. Regardless, he won't end up empty handed.

[Space Lawyer]

Adwin takes a few moments to himself after settling in ensuring that all his chests made it safely to his room. Most people, common or noble, had no idea of the value of the scribblings and notations in his books, but even the dullest could ascertain the wealth to be had from selling off the various herbs and vials. After double-checking the locks, Adwin wanders around the castle for a bit, appreciating the architecture and the thought that went into this castle's design and placement. It was a proper fort, as a castle should be, not some vainglorious lump of stone that claimed that name. At the same time though, it was comfortable enough. Keeping the cold winds of the mountains out was no easy feat.

Ah well, quite enough of that. Adwin sets off in search Maester Medgar, to make his greeting as was proper.

[DukeGod]

Tyramear simply nods along. He doesn't talk to the knight, though his presence there is telling. It means he probably won't arrive too late for the tournament, if a competitor is here

Once the folk arrives he stands up and goes to work, fetching his bag of herbs and stuff from the stables. While he carries a good amount of stuff on himself, it's on the saddlebags that the most important things are kept.

"Thank you Rick. Alright, I'm not sure either of you heard of me. I'm Tyramear. I'm not a maester, so please don't call me that. I might leave before you're fully healed, but if I do so I'll leave instructions as to what you're supposed to do. I expect you to follow them, even if you're already feeling better." There's a rather stern look at his lecture. Then he gets on to the actual examinations.

First he'll go through all four. Better to see if their conditions are similar after all, people who live close tend to develop the same thing.

Heal checks for Diagnosing.
[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]
--
Heal Checks for treatment
[roll4]
[roll5]
[roll6]
[roll7]

[heretic]

Marcus

After a few minutes, the young serving man returns with a large copper bowl of water clutched to his chest. When you don’t seem to notice him edging the door open, he clears his throat and addresses you. “Shall I place it on the table m’lord?”

Lady Allyria

Torwyll clears his throat and responds. “I be must needing to earn the privilege of being riding milady’s steed.” At that, you reach the mouth of the garden where the cold-shriveled hedges open back up to the yard. Ser Torwyll raises your hand to his mouth and plants a gentle kiss thereupon. Returning to the common tongue, he addresses both of you. “My fair ladies, keep me in mind when you give your favors.” It is traditional in tourneys, even in Dorne, for ladies to give a kerchief or flower or some other small token to a knight to wear in the tourney.

Until now, Myranda has been the center of attention, on account of her eligibility and presumed dowry. But Randa has but one one favor to promise, and some of the knights have started taking an interest in Alayne and you as well. Ser Torwyll’s overture is the most forward one you’ve received, but you’ve caught the eye of others—Ser Wallace Waynwood, with his stutter, Targon the Halfwild, and the pretty hedge knight Ser Byron, whose curly blond locks are lovely as any maiden’s. Even the savage mystery knight with the stone scepter on his shield once offered you a white rose, his face hidden behind the impassive grate of his helm. Alayne has her own crop of admirers—Ser Roland (the manlier Waynwood), Ben Coldwater, Randa’s brother Andar, and others, but not Harry the Heir, even though rumor has it that Lady Waynwood has promised him to Alayne (he may be the heir, but he is still a ward of House Waynwood). So far, these knights-gallant have remained demure and at arms-length; they signal their fancy with smiles, unusually deep bows, and the like. In contrast, Myranda’s admirers fight each other with blunted steel.

Lady Alyssa

Morris fusses a bit with his clothing, grumbling under his breath like a little child, but he obeys you, wriggling into the blue doublet and hopping sideways on one foot as he pulls on the black satin trousers. “Should I ask put the question to him directly regarding the Lord Protector or should I wait and see if he brings it up? Father always said to respect my liegelord, but he also said to never let him lead you blind.”

Mera

Walda does her best to console you. “We will show them soon. At the tourney, you’ll put them in their place.”

The stable is cavernous, deep with rows of horses and the high loft packed with fodder for winter. In addition to horses—simple palfreys and garrons, as well as warhorses—there are some sows and chickens within, as well as some caged hawks and other great birds (a heron, a phoenix, and some others), and even a striped zorse from across the narrow sea.

Your room is at the top of one of the wall towers. It’s got plenty of space, with a bit four-poster bed large enough for you and Walda, and maps covering the walls. They bid you to come to the feast in an hour’s time.

Banion

Danny’s eyes widen as he counts the coins, biting each one in turn. Soon after, he scoots down the ladder and disappears to the outdoors.

Stepping out into the cold once again, you soon locate a dirty eating hall, marked with a wooden shingle depicting a boy lowering his trousers to reveal that he has a moon for a backside. Inside, you find two-score common folk bending their elbows along two long tables. They’re serving some shards of stale bread, salted and singed for flavor, but only as a hold-over until the feast. Ale, however, can be found in abundance. One of the “walls” appears to be naught but some oak struts filled in with cask after cask of ale. The frontside of the building must be a brewer’s business. Over in the corner, a long-limbed singer is belting something out and strumming hard on a lute.

Sitting down, you take in some of the talk of the castle:

Someone named Harn is at his wit’s end trying to clean the droppings from the Lord’s menagerie.
Leah the maid is swollen with a bastard, but she won’t name the father.
Ser Myles called for a hot needle to lance an arse-boil, in preparation for the tourney.
“The eunuch” is known to pass shaved coins, many of them from strange foreign lands.

This reflects a Knowledge (Streetwise) roll that I made in secret.

Maester Adwin

After wandering the keep for a bit, you find Maester Medgar on his way back from Lord Roger’s solar. By the lines on his face and his gnarled hands, he’s a good twenty years your elder, his blond flaxen hair thinning. The good maester breaks into a smile when he recognizes you by your chain. His own reveals links of silver, iron, copper, pewter, gold, and a double link of black iron—his expertise is war, history, banking, and ravenry. “Maester Adwin! In the flesh.” He deposits a handful of vials on an alcove mantel and shakes your hand. “We have much to discuss. They tell me that Lord Morris has pacified a mountain clan. A bold action indeed!”

Tyramear

Your patients present with myriad ailments. The first man is stricken with bloody flux, and readily accepts your commands to switch from water to wine and to leech himself daily. The second man presents with a gaseous humor imbalance of some sort—he wheezes and coughs as if his neck were cut (it’s not). After an hour reddening his face over a pot of boiling water, his symptoms have begun to subside. The woman’s shakes are a mystery, but leeching the bad blood is not a bad way to start. Finally, the little girl begs that you cure her swollen brow, an old infected cut of some sort. Soon enough, their on their way, having left you with a motley of payment—two dozen copper pennies, four silver stags, a two stone bag of russet potatoes, a new flint, and a beaverskin hat. Rick seems to have already taken his cut, as he makes no moves to further lighten your share.

As you’re accounting for the haul, the door to the inn swings open and in trods Ser Two-Eyes, who has donned a thick, ragged travel cloak over his mail and doublet. “Healer,” he intones toward you. “Lord Ronnet wishes to treat with you. Come ready with your salves and such. There is no urgency, but his lordship may have a need for your examinations.”

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus looks over. "Oh, yes please. Thank you." Ever since he ha learned the truth about his family, the stories of what his uncle had one to the smallfolk around Clegane Keep took on new meaning. Before he had assumed they were lies, typical peasants speaking ill of their betters. Now he knew it was probably all truth, and vowed to always treat people with respect regardless of how they were born. He washes quickly but thoroughly, trying to make himself presentable for a feast in a foreign land.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

After fetching himself a mug of ale and seating himself on one of the benches, Banion gnaws at the stale bread on occasion, the rye going well with the bitter beverage - but his enjoyment seems to only come from the ale itself. He keeps mostly to himself, his eyes scanning the room looking for building dice games or easy marks that he might be able to catch after the feast. His ears tingle at the gossip spread about him, but he acts disinterested, sometimes looking down into the depths of his mug of ale or turning to watch the singer in the corner with far-off, wistful look. He exhibits some moderation and control over his drinking, imbibing just enough to take a bit of the edge off, but leaving him of sound mind and body.

He thinks about the rumors he's heard silently. "Harn... cleaning up manure from the lord's private zoo? Unless he's somebody, that doesn't mean much... Pregnant maid? Since when has that been news? Local politics. Lancing of boils? That might come in handy when gambling on the tournament... A eunuch passing shaved currency from foreign lands? Now that... that might be something."

Summoning up his most sociable characteristics, Banion looks for the source of the eunuch rumor. Raising his voice slightly, trying to appear agitated, Banion interrupts the group discussing the shaved coins. "Was one of you mentioning shaved coins?" he asks, trying to find the exact person who spoke. "I had two different kids today..." Banion holds up his free hand, extending two fingers, while the other hand clenches the handle of his mug. "... trying to come up and offer me some hunks of metal I'd never seen before for some eggs I was selling. Told them I only take what's issued by the crown. You say some bastard missing his twins is trying to put one over on us?"

[Space Lawyer]

Adwin shakes the fellow maester's hand heartily. He knew the man well-enough by reputation and correspondence. If nothing else, it would be nice to have a conversation with someone whose idea of economics didn't focus on looting by swordpoint.

"Indeed! It was quite a fight; our champion versus theirs. Not exactly a reasoned debate, but the mountain clans seem best pacified through displays of violence and strength. If nothing else, they'll be loyal if promised a good fight and worthwhile rewards. Though, admittedly, this not all too dissimilar from the prevailing situation across the land."

Rolling Awareness(Empathy) to make sure that this isn't a false friendliness.
[roll0] Result: 18

We probably don't need to engage in an intrigue, since there isn't anything Adwin is trying to accomplish. If it matters though, Adwin is Friendly towards Medgar.

[dmarks]

Alyssa smiled back, charmed by her son's innocence and desire to please. By the gods, I wish he could always remain so, and I be here to protect him. But that could not be. She would have to watch him grow up (if she were lucky, after all she had thought the same about her eldest son) and leave her protection.

"Perhaps steer clear of politics to begin with. Ser Pearse may not have told lord Roger of his conversation with us, and Roger may be displeased with Pearse's indiscretion. It would be indelicate to rile them, and silence might win you Pearse's respect: he is cousin to Lord Roger after all, and a useful ally to have."

"No, there will be time enough to discuss Roger's thoughts on our Lord Protector later, Pearse is not wrong to say that the lords Declarant would not take kindly to the Egen's supporting Baelish. But don't worry about it yet. For today we must only comport ourselves well and be courteous to our liege."

Standing up, she smoothed the various ruffles that Morris had already managed to get into his clothes. "If you are ready then I would have you recite the names of the Egen household again. Come and stand at my chamber door, I will be getting ready."

She turned away and entering her own suite gathered up a dress to match Morris's own dark blue shirt, and hers was slashed with black, and the underskirts too were black. She was a widow and would not parade gaily, though she would also refrain from parading that grief before her fellows too openly. Despite the intracies of modern fashion, Alyssa prepared alone: her stark Northern upbringing had never quite allowed her to indulge in a maid to dress her and braid her hair, save on her wedding day and a few special occasions. She was quite capable of making herself look presentable, and with her aunt returned, she had no intention of playing the fop. Mara had ideas about how ladies should act, and would not hesitate to set her niece straight if she felt Alyssa was growing soft.

"Are you ready son?" Alyssa called out as she finished. "Remember that we should await the steward to call us to dinner! Don't go rushing off."

[Harmony]

Allyria

Allyria kept her mouth silent, not really understanding this northern tradition of having to 'earn' everything, even if offered. Their knights would probably have starved to death if the vows didn't include hospitality from their Lord, attempting to earn the right to eat. "Oh, I most certainly will." she said merrily and watches as he leaves.

"So what did you think?" She asked Myranda in quietly, just loud enough for Torwyll to hear that they had started gossiping.

[Sahe]

"Right we will show them", Mera replied, the words of her friend soothing her anger. She gave Redfoot a friendly clap and a rub to let her know that everything was alright and went on to leave the stables, signaling Walda to follow her. On her way out, she noticed the many exotic birds, eyeing her with suspicion. She had to think about the shipping manifest Banion had showed her, the talking bird that didn't reach it's destination would certainly fit right in with this strange collection. But she didn't really know what to do with that information.

When she reached her quarters, high up in the tower, Mera started washing herself and preparing for the feast, paying little attention to the comforts and details of her room, though she was pleasantly surprised to see that there would be enough place for her and Walda. A part of her had feared that the peasant girl would've been quartered with the servant staff.

About an hour later, Mera and Walda left their room for the hall. Mera wore the fine northern garb and an axe and a dagger were hanging quite visibly on her belt. Ever since the Red Wedding she had gotten a bit paranoid and liked to be armed in halls and at feasts.

[heretic]

Allyria

Myranda bats her eyelashes at you, grinning. “He’s so sweet! He even knew you speak . . . what is it? Braavosi, that's a low Valyrian dialect, right? That shows more wit than half of my suitors.” She gives a wistful sigh. “If only he were of better stock. The Peakes are a proud, old house, but from very far away and I reckon he’s from an especially distant branch if he’s running about up here instead of down there. I've also never heard of him.” She lights up again as she remembers. “But what did he say? I didn’t understand any of it at all. I was dismal at learning any of the Free Cities dialects. My brother tells me that Ser Torwyll speaks to his horse like a Dothraki! Can you believe it?”

Banion

The two men sharing the rumor are sitting across and to the side of you, well within reach for conversation. They have the look of craftsmen about them, with their canvas smocks and weathered hands. “Aye, you can’t miss him. Bald as your eggs—not a shaft on him, hair or otherwise,” the pock-faced one says. “I say he means to make fools of us. He kens the value of those coins and we don’t,” the brown-bearded one adds. “We haven’t tried to pass them ourselves.” The other interjects. “But we don’t yet know he’s shaved them. They’re all queer shapes anyway, so p’haps they’re meant to be that way. We could weigh them maybe, and judge them that way.” The bearded man shakes his head. “Make him exchange his whore’s coin with someone else. Once he returns with stags in hand, we’ll do it. Or better yet, make his master treat with us. At least Lord Stallicho speaks our tongue and his purse is fat with familiar faces, just as the Seven intended . . . not some harlot.” That provokes a good-natured guffaw from the pock-marked man. “You name yourself more pure than the Unsullied? It’s. In. The. Name.” He accents each word of his last words with a thump on the table.

After a spell, you hear a sept bell ring out the feast and the eating hall begins to clear. Only some of the smallfolk beside you at the table will find themselves at the feast tonight, but the whole lot still moves toward the keep, the better to catch a glimpse of the visitors.

Adwin

Medgar takes up his bottles again and gestures with his elbow for you to accompany him as he walks. “It is good that you found a path toward reconciliation with the clan. I fear that the wars that have consumed the remainder of the seven kingdoms will not leave us untouched—it’s best to preserve our strength while we can. The realm still finds itself with a few kings too many. Stannis has burrowed into the north like some weevil, while the Iron Islands have shifting the crown from the old squid for his brother. We seem to have an abundance of queens as well—King Tommen is little more than a raggedy-doll being pulled between his mother and his wife. Such chaos will not serve.”

His tower chamber is not unlike yours, filled with books and bottles, and instruments of measurement and science. You spy on his table three small pots of dreamwine, as well as some milk of the poppy and a few other healer’s supplies. Once he’s deposited his effects, he leads you back down to the feast, still complaining about politics. “Dorne is aflame as well, after the loss of their prince, and there’s no leadership to be found in the usual places. Tywin Lannister? Dead. The Starks? All dead except the little girl they’re marrying to the Boltons. Hoster Tully? Dead, along with all the useful Tullys, including our own Lady Lysa. I tell you, Grand Maester Pycelle has lost control of the situation.” You recall that there was serious talk at the Citadel of replacing Pycelle some year and a half ago, after the Grand Maester was imprisoned by the Imp (the talk dissipated when Lord Tywin released him).

You don’t think he’s leading you on with any false friendliness, although Medgar speaks with more frankness in person than in writing, as any prudent man does. Words may be wind, but ink stains.

Alyssa

Morris takes in your advice and begins reciting Egen names off, while cocking his head to the side and staring at the ceiling. He manages to get all the ones he should be expected to know, although neither of you can remember the name of Talla Egen’s child. Soon enough, the steward presents, bearing a warm towel for you to cleanse your hands, and leads you down to the great hall.

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

The great hall is a mighty place, with high rafters, three roaring hearths, and several long oaken tables. At the head of the lord’s table sits Lord Roger, nineteen and whip-thin. He’s resplendent in a white surcoat and blue mantle, pinned at his left breast with a fist-sized silver sun-moon-star cluster. Lord Morris takes the seat of honor to his right, with Lady Alyssa beside him. Beside her sits Roger’s boyish cousin, Pearse, then Maester Adwin, then Talla Egen (widow to Ser Vardis) with a gibbering child in arms, then Marcus Clegane. To his left down the long table are his champion Ser Myles Stone, his eleven-year-old sister Perra, Maester Medgar, Mera Stone, one Stallicho Hestirah (whose accent and lacy, flowing shirt mark him as a foreigner), the Egen steward Brandon Tollett, and Ser Gorlen Waters.

Lord Roger calls the feast to order with a toast of Arbor gold. “Friends, let us raise our cups, in honor of our leal bannerman, Morris Corrett.” Elbows bend in the hall as folk up and down the tables taste the wine. “And to his stalwart mother, Lady Alyssa. Welcome to our hall all of our friends from House Corrett. Finally, to our beloved Lord Alyn, may the Father judge him kindly.” With that, he claps and the feast begins.

The first course is capon, stuffed with onions and summer squash, and lying on a bed of lemon slices. After that comes a thick, salty stew of cod, served in a hot trencher. The further courses blend together a bit, but there’s a rack of ribs, rubbed and roasted with eye-watering spices, strawberries and cream on butterbread, crumbled cheese atop venison, and rich lamprey pie.

Anyone who has read or discussed the manifest can make a Difficulty 9 Awareness (Memory) test to recognize Stallicho Hestirah's name when he introduces himself.

Above the Salt—Alyssa, Mera, Marcus, Adwin

Lord Roger fills you in on the latest news from the realm in between bites. “The crown is moving to pacify the remaining holdouts of resistance. Riverrun has yielded to the Kingslayer, and Edmure Tully is a prisoner of Casterly Rock. No word on the Blackfish.” Left unsaid is that Ser Brynden is well-loved in the Vale. “Tommen has sent the Knight of Flowers to take back Dragonstone from Stannis, but thus far the castle holds. Oh, and the Ironborn are reaving in the Reach, and have sacked the Shield Islands. Garlan Tyrell is gathering his strength to smash them, if they’ll stand and fight. Closer to home, Lord Lyonel Corbray has taken a merchant’s daughter to wife. Littlefinger’s match, it’s said. While it’s not surprising that the Corbrays were seeking a fat dowry, the guest list apparently included three of the Declarants—Templeton, Waynwood, and Belmore. The peace is looking stronger by the day.”

Below the Salt—Banion

Most of the choice dishes have been plundered of the best bits by the time they make it to you, but the fact that they make it at all marks this for a great feast. The men about you are telling bawdy jokes and tossing scraps to the hounds, making merry the way men do.

I’ll leave it up to you as to who you want to sit with. There’s a good mix of Egen men-at-arms, servants, and lesser retainers, as well as the remaining Corrett entourage. There are perhaps three bald men who at first glance could be the eunuch. With a Difficulty 6 Cunning test, you can narrow it to one, based on knowledge that the eunuch doesn't speak the common tongue.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus listens intently as Lord Roger speaks of what's happening in the vale, trying to appear the model guest but at the same time aware he's a tall siting down as some men are on their feet, and the hounds on his breast aren't likely to win him any friends here. The food is good enough, and his hunger wars with not wanting to seem a glutton, o he takes less than he would like, relying on the number of courses to eat his fill. He never had much taste for fancy cooking, to him the best seasoning for meat was itself. But he's hardly of a mind to enjoy it, waiting for Lord Roger to mention Dorne, or some other sin his family was associated with. He knew it wasn't doing him any good to dwell on this so much, but the sudden revelation of Gregor's true nature had him seeing judgement in every face.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

As the attendees are introduced, Banion stands near the seat he took after entering the hall, his cup of wine held in his right hand, just in front of his chest. He appears in good spirits – most likely from the stop at the tavern earlier to “liven him up”. He smiles as some of the Corretts are introduced and shifts to look around other revealers gathered to get a glimpse of individuals he is not familiar with. When ‘Stallico Hestirah’ is introduced, however, Banion stands upright. “That name…” he thinks to himself as his jaw firms and his eyes set on its owner. Studying the man up until Lord Roger’s call interrupts his train of thought, Banion commits to memory Stallico’s general appearance.

Among the lesser knowns at the feast, Banion takes the opportunity to indulge in “common” practices and rabble rousing as the host speaks. As Lord Morris and Lady Alyssa are introduced, the man raises his voice in a dull roar of celebration and applause – egging on others in his company to give the Corretts their due. When all has settled and Banion has swallowed the last gulp of wine in his initial pour, the man does not immediately sit, but instead weaves his way through the crowd, taking the shortest route possible to one of the maids bringing about wine for other guests. He deftly snatches two cups, thanking the woman even as she protests his actions that delay her fulfilling her duties, and moves back to the general area he once was standing before.

Roaming slowly and quietly through the rows between tables, he studies the bald men that have gathered, listening to their conversations and inspecting their garments. It does not take him long to deduce which one might be the ‘eunuch’ that was spoke of before. Looking for a spot to squeeze in near him, either next to him or directly across from him, Banion makes his way towards the table – a cup in each hand – and slides down near the follicly-challenged individual. As he does so, he grunts out as if expending a great deal of effort, “Ooooye! Thought it was going to take forever to get something tasty.” He sets the cup down in front of the eunuch and then feigns surprise as he looks at the other man’s face, taking in the sight of him. “Wait a moment… you’re not Zandren! What happened to Zandren?” he scoffs. Narrowing his eyes, Banion leans in a little and asks, “Who are you then?”

[Sahe]

Mera had half wished to be seated below the salt, where she could keep an eye out for Walda. From what she knew, these events either ended with men getting too drunk and forgetting your manners or a king and his followers being brutally murdered. In either case, she'd rather be close to her. In the war she had learned ways how to fend off overzealous men, it wasn't that she didn't think Walda couldn't take care of herself, but she was still worried.

As the feast began and people started to eat and the latest rumors and news where shared and discussed, Mera found herself once more remembered that she had fought for a losing side in the war and that her brother and Eldric died for nothing. She was distracted however, when the foreign man to her left introduced himself, seemingly wanting to start a conversation. The man's name seemed familiar to Mera, but she couldn't quite knew where she'd place him. Maybe she had read about a man named like him in a book once.

"Well met, Stallicho Hesteriah. My name is Mera Stone, Lord Corrett's sister. What brings you all the way to Vale and from where, if I may ask?"

[dmarks]

Knowing her son's penchant for following his own whims, Alyssa seized on Roger's words and steered the conversation in her own direction: "You are well informed in Moonstone Lord Roger, how come you by all this news?
I must confess we had not heard the half in Greycrown keep. But I thank you for sharing the news. It is good to know that the Vale may stay peaceful."

"It sounds as though the young king is holding on with the tips of his fingertips," Alyssa could not imagine the worry his mother must have for him. She did not know much of queen Cersei beyond the stories of her beauty and those other vile rumours Stannis had spread, but she couldn't imagine how hard it must be for the queen to try and protect her children as they sat on the most dangerous seat in the world.

Alyssa was surprised by Roger's crass discussion of money. She had not paid attention to the Corbray's finances, but she would never have been so base as to discuss them so openly. Unless there was a reason? Still, that titbit regarding the Corbrays was interesting enough. "Do you expect that the lords Declarant may yield to Baelish then before the year is out?"

[DukeGod]

"Yes yes. Not an unusual request when I pass through, specially in weather like this. If you would ride ahead and carry the message that I will arrive in his castle soon? Steppe Hill's surrounding woods are in some ways wilder than the rest of the one in the Vale, there is stuff I could gather. And I do believe I've promised my shadowcat a hunt. I will spend some hours of the morning gathering, and make way to the lord's castle 'fore the sun is peaked"

Putting everything he used back into it's proper place, Tyramear goes into the woods to gather herbs and mushrooms and other interesting things, whistling to keep Balericat's attention and simply humming in a specific pattern, that he knows the shadowcat's ears will hear but that the surrounding animals won't find threatening whenever he spots some game for him

And true to his word, 2 hours later, he returns to the inn, picks up one last snack for the road and rides White Socks again into the road. Time to do what he had truly come for, treat the Lord's daughter and get information

[Harmony]

Allyria

"Yes! Yes, it was." Allyria nods eagerly in agreement, her eyes wide of excitement. "Well... he's probably not after a marriage..." she starts defensively "more likely just after gaining my favor. And station of birth has little to with how you perform in a tournament." Maybe a bit to defensively. She would have to watch him a bit more, to see if his comments about falcons and peacocks held true. Giving ones favor was a far more tricky job than she had first thought the first time she did it, which had ended disastrously and she hadn't heard the end of it for half a year. That was among friends though, and in good nature. Up here, among strangers and weird customs, it might be much worse.

"Oh, he complimented my horse mostly. I offered him to ride it, but he declined." She replies before quickly changing subject. "Shall we return?"

[Space Lawyer]

Adwin happily digs into the feast. If he kept up like this, in a few years he'd be one of those waddling maesters that all the men-at-arms openly mocked. He listens to the news from around the Seven Kingdoms with great interest. If one duty was paramount for a maester assigned to a House, it was to accumulate knowledge and use it for the benefit of the House. For now, he remains silent. It was the job of the nobility to talk, and the role of the maesters to listen.

[heretic]

Allyria

Myranda nods. “Yes, let’s.”

Together, you make your way back to the group of people surrounding the quintain. It appears that little Sweetrobin has departed with his maester, and Littlefinger himself is also absent. Alayne is speaking to broad-shouldered Ser Ben Coldwater, stroking her chestnut hair as she talks. Further down the bench, Harry the Heir is studiously facing away from them as he scrapes at a shirt of mail he’s got laid across his knees. A few others are standing at the fence, watching Mychel Redfort take a pass at the quintain. The small group includes Andar Albar Royce (Myranda’s brother), Roland and Wallace Waynwood, Gaelen Grafton (his armor steaming from exertion), and Mya Stone, the Eyrie’s trail guide. Mya is a little older than you, but knows little of the world beyond the Vale and the mule’s paths she knows so well. She dresses as a man does, in breeches and mail.

It’s no accident that she’s here for this tilt. Myranda once confided in you that Mya loved Ser Mychel, and he loved in return. But his father commanded him to marry Ysilla Royce of Runestone, and so he did.

Above the Salt

As the meal goes on, various side conversations break out, though you can easily hear what the others are saying with a little concentration.

Mera

This Stallicho smiles when you address him, clearly pleased that someone has taken an interest in him. He wears a flowing pink shirt with lace frill over a thicker white wool vest, as well as a pair of thin silver hoops through each ear, and keeps a pair of fine dirks belted high on his waist. His hair and skin remind you of Dorne, but you’re sure he’s not Dornish. “My fine lady, I hail from the free city of Myr. With Lord Roger’s blessing, I’ve come as an envoy to bridge the narrow sea and bring our people closer together.” He gestures around the hall with his knife. “The bounty of the Vale must be impressive indeed to cause such a mighty castle to be constructed here. Back in Myr, we have few castles like this one—instead, we have the walls around our city, and some wooden forts in the Disputed Lands.” Returning his eyes to you, he continues. “But tell me, how did you get that scar? I would wish to avenge your honor, except that you seem ready to do the deed yourself with your little sister there.” He points to your axe.

Lady Alyssa

Roger looks a little uncomfortable as he explains. “My good lady, news from King’s Landing often passes through Lord Protector Baelish first, and he relays it to the principal houses, who inform their bannermen. I normally send such news on to Greycrown Keep, but with your arrival imminent, I decided to inform you in person, rather than use a raven.” He waves away a platter of capon. “No fowl for me today.”

He seems to be telling it true. With only so many ravens, lords and maesters typically devise to send their letters to the mightiest houses first, understanding that these lords will pass the information down to their bannermen.

When you ask about the Declarants, he furrows his brow. “It seems as though the Declarants are making amends with Littlefinger, but it’s difficult to tell whether this is some sort of misdirection. I confess that my study of politics is still developing, and I do not know the Declarants well enough to anticipate their moves.” He saws some meat free of a strip of ribs as he considers. “I know Lord Belmore the best of the lot. He seems the gregarious type, ever handy with a likesome boast. He’s been true with me, but one never knows if such behavior is a veil for his true purposes. As for the others, I know them not. Lord Hunter is grey of hair, but still new to his seat. My father told me that Bronze Yohn has a long memory and longer pride. He is not like to give in. He almost succeeded in pushing the Vale to war with the Lannisters.”

Roger’s understanding of the political landscape is certainly a bit undeveloped. There will be much and more to learn at this tourney, where essentially every Vale lord can be expected to attend. Of the Declarants, you can count Lord Belmore as a friend, though not close. Roger is right about his personality, although you’ve known Belmore to be quite shrewd beneath his mask of mirth. An opportunist if there ever was one. Yohn Royce is his opposite in some ways—he projects a stern demeanor, more like bestow praise only when warranted. His word is steel, like a northman’s. The blood of the First Men still runs strong at Runestone, as well as at House Redfort, Bronze Yohn’s closest ally.

Marcus

Luckily the courses keep coming and you’re not like to eat the Egens into starvation if you fill yourself. After feeding her child, Talla Egen sets him down and lets him todder off to find his favorite hound. Glancing over at you, she rips off a chunk of bread and dips it in the cod stew. “You served the Lannisters of the Rock, did you not? Tell me, did you ever come to know the Imp, Tyrion Lannister?”

You sense some confrontation approaching. It’s well known that Talla was widowed at the edge of Lannister steel. Or Lannister gold, morelike. It was a sellsword who finished him off, during Tyrion’s first trial by combat.

Maester Adwin

You take in the various conversations, as does Maester Medgar. Every once in awhile, he throws a look your way—especially at the talk of Petyr Baelish. You’re beginning to get the sense that Medgar loves the man not.

It seems Alyssa is speaking of the Declarants with Lord Roger. You’re not yet studied enough in Vale politics to have mastered the intricacies of how the Declarants will proceed. Perhaps Medgar can assist on that front.

This Stallicho Hestirah is certainly a flamboyant piece of work. It does seem odd for a representative of Myr to find his way to Moonhome, and not to a house with a natural port—Runestone or Gulltown are both more populous and powerful. Of course, you’re pleased to find a Myrmen under virtually any circumstance, but it does seem odd that he’s here. You’ve heard tell that Tyrosh and Lys are preparing to make war on Myr, and that the Golden Company has broken its contract with Myr, leaving the city without its principal mercenary company. Then again, Stallicho never said he was representing the city itself, but only “our people.” A vague phrase that leaves much to the imagination.

Banion

Stallicho will not be hard to remember. He’s the only man in the hall wearing a lacy pink shirt and silver hoops in his ears. His hair shines black with some kind of oil, and you catch sight of a gold tooth when he smiles.

The first toast is a fine yellow wine, but after that they switch to a sour red below the salt. You procure a pair of cups without issue and maneuver your way to the eunuch. He’s seated down near the end of the table near the hounds, in and amongst a group of bawdy maids and some amorous young men. Despite this, he keeps to himself, eating silently. He wears a quilted tunic without adornment, and sits with the ramrod-straight back of a trained soldier, though he is without any weapon.

When you sit and speak, he meets your gaze with some confusion. He says something in a foreign tongue, but you catch the name “Stallicho.”

Tyramear

White, unbroken snow spreads out in all directions, blemished only by a few paths that the smallfolk have hewn out with spades, or the footprints of lone travelers. The sky is largely clear; the storm appears to have spent itself during the night. Balericat bounds out, crunching through the snow until he makes the treeline and finds earth. The trees above have caught most of the snow, their branches are sagging heavy with ice. Beneath them, you manage to find a few of the mushrooms you were seeking. They crack off all woody and brittle in the cold, but serviceable nonetheless. Balericat is stalking something up ahead and rushes off. He returns with a limp beaver in his jaws. There must be a stream up ahead. You find it rushing strong, wending its way around a weirwood—rare to find south of the Neck—with a red face carved into the trunk. The face looks sleepy, as if just waking from a nap.

Upon your return to the inn, Rick leads you up the stone steps and across the pitifully narrow drawbridge into the tower. The ground floor is arranged as a common room, with tables, chairs, and a hearth. A handful of shaggy Lipps guardsmen are relaxing there, dicing and sharpening weapons. They wear faded doublets over leather and mail, and their cloaks are all different shades of green, brown, and off-white. One of them rises and replacing Rick, leads you up the steps that spiral up wide around the room. Here you find a group of knights and lordlings standing about a large slab of table painted with a map of the Vale. The floor below is covered in old, torn rushes and the walls are decorated with bearskins and arrow-slits stopped up with straw.

The men break off their conversation to take notice of you. As they do, you can hear women’s voices coming from the floor above. Your escort introduces you. “This is the healer, m’lord. They call him Tyramear, and he hunts with a shadowcat the way other men hunt with hounds.” A short, broad-shouldered man steps forward. You haven’t seen him in some time, but Lord Ronnet Lipps looks about the same as you remember: stocky of build, curly of hair, and imperious of demeanor. “Well-met, healer. My smallfolk are grateful for your service—I must admit we have not had a maester here in many years.” Around him are two boys of perhaps twelve and fourteen (both with the same curly brown hair), a shaved-pate knight with a beaver’s dam sewn over his heart, and the two Frey knights, who share a pinched and weaselly mein. One you recognize from the inn and the other is identical, except angrier, with shorter hair and the black eyepatch. Each of the Freys is attended by a squire, sallow youths showing Frey and Waynwood sigils on their breasts.

Lord Ronnet continues, his tone becoming uncertain. “My good healer, we seem to require your attention for an . . . unusual matter, one that . . .”“—some blackhearted coward has gelded our squires.” It’s the one-eyed Frey who cuts in. “We had them attended by a maester, but in our thirst for justice, the riding seems to have aggravated the injuries.” Lord Ronnet suffers the interruption icily, but at the same time seems relieved to be spared the indignity of describing the unsavory details.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus takes a drink from his cup, glad for a moment to collect his thoughts after such a question. He knew what people said about Lord Tyrion, and he remembered when he didn't believe what people said about his uncles. Just because you didn't want to believe something, doesn't make it false. But he also knew something about being judged for things you had not done. "In the West there are more stories about him than anywhere else I've been, even King's Landing, when he was the Hand and held off the army of Stannis Baratheon. I met Lord Tyrion myself once in Lannisport, when I was a boy. He was not the deformed thing peasant gossips label him to be. He was drinking, and made a joke about my height compared to his. He struck me as someone who labors under the reputation of his family. A strange, unfair custom here in Westeros, blaming someone for the actions of their family, things they had no hand in and share no guilt for. But we still kill for it. Were not two Lannister boys murdered by Robb Stark's bannermen, just for their name? How far did Tywin's shadow stretch that it cast his face over so many? I will say this for the Imp though. Most men don't have the stomach to mock a Clegane to his face."

[Harmony]

Allyria

Allyria pauses to watch Mychel take his pass, standing on her toes to get a better view. As he connects, she applauds and moves towards the small crowd, placing herself next to Mya and beams at her. "Wonderful horseman, isn't he? Do you think he has a chance of winning?" She asked warmly, giving the Usurpers daughter her full attention. Being a Stone wasn't her fault, and it seemed like Mya had already carved herself a place in the world, which was more than could be said about many others, including Allyria herself. There was something compelling about that, and the way she carried herself, with mail and all, perked Allyria's interest.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

"Stallicho?" Banion asks, playing the part of surprise and then confusion - as if he understands part of what the eunuch is saying. His brow furrowed, he then looks towards the area where the dignitaries are seated and then back at the man. "No, he's Stallicho..." Banion says, pointing vigorously towards the man in the pink shirt. "I heard it when they announced him." He then points to his chest with a repeated motion and goes, "Banion. Banion." Then, pointing back towards the eunuch, Banion asks, "You are...?" The rogue's eyebrows move upward on his face, showing a look of expectation and curiosity.

[Sahe]

Mera did her best to refrain from breaking out in giggle and laughter as Myrish man spoke. A man calling her a "fine lady" and wanting to defend her honor. It was absurd. With many others she would've gotten angry, but with Stallicho she just found it rather comedic. Maybe it was the accent or that the wine was already showing it's effect.

When the foreign man had ended, she had an amused smile on her face and went on to explain. "My dear Stallicho, nobody here calls me a fine lady. I am a bastard daughter carrying a sharp axe on her hip, as you noticed. I am as much a warrior as anyone else in this hall calling themselves that, though many underestimate that. Like the Red Knight in Ashefort who gave me that scar. So your observation is correct, I am quite capable of avenging my honor myself", Mera said in a serious tone and then added with a softer voice, "though I like 'Little Sister' as a name for my axe. I never gave it one."

She pulled out her axe to let the man inspect the weapon, "I brought it home from the war, blackened steel and a handle of ironwood, with the sigil of a minor house in the North. Are you a warrior yourself, Stallicho?"

[dmarks]

"You give me much to think on," Alyssa replied truthfully. Though Roger might not know the players, he was a step ahead of Alyssa when it came to the news of the day. There was danger in entering this tourney unprepared, and not just for the combatants: when two sides were poised for conflict, a stray word could lead to drawn swords or worse.

Still, she had not played with Pearse for nothing. She believed she knew Roger's allegiance, and she might gain his trust if he believed her an ally. "For all our sakes, I hope that Bronze Yohn stays his hand. The Lord Protector deserves this time to prove himself, and I have seen what damage these wars can do: we don't want our Vale brought into the Lannister's wars."

[heretic]

Marcus

Your answer seems to have confounded Talla a bit. Perhaps she was expecting either a stronger condemnation or a stronger defense, rather than the honesty you served up. “If only one of your kin had championed the Imp, my Vardis would yet live. They never would have bid him duel the Mountain or his brother. Leave that for Corbray, Bronze Yohn, or the Foulben.” She thinks for a spell. “Family is a slippery thing. The Lannisters started a war to take back the Imp, and how I hated them when he walked free. I hated Lady Lysa too, for denying us our vengeance. Yohn Royce had the best of that argument, but Lysa’s skull was as thick as her waist.” Her wild-haired child returns and she pops a strawberry in his mouth. “But now, those same Lannisters hunt the Imp with all their strength, even after he saved their crown and their city from Stannis. They forgive one Kingslayer, but not the other—it all turns on whose king you’re slaying, I suppose. I still hate the lion queen, but at the same time, I want her to catch Tyrion and finish him for good. Then I want the Queen Margaery to put her in a septry until her hair turns white and falls out.”

She seems to have let go of her anger against you, however. Your talk of the sins of family served to remind her that you ride beneath the Corrett banner, and by extension, the Egen banner. There’s been no news of Tyrion’s whereabouts since murdered his father and slipped the city three months ago, just before he was scheduled for execution.

Allyria

Ser Mychel is resplendent in his burnished steel plate, which has been set with the dusky reddish color of his house by some skilled smith. His helm is snout-nosed, and flares out from the cheeks with swirls of ornamental steely fire. When he coaxes his black destrier into a smooth charge, he looks half a comet, with lance leading ‘flaming’ helm, leading his rippling white cloak, embattled with red on the border. His strike is no less magnificent. The quintain spins a time and a half, which is no small feat, given the creaky pivot. Mychel straightens from his saddle-crouch and slowing to a halt, dips his lance graciously to the crowd.

Mya seems a little on edge, even after the strike. “He is one of the best, blast him. I don’t doubt he’ll win his Wings. He might win the whole thing too, if he gets a little lucky.” She turns to regard you. “But don’t be mistaken—that was his best strike yet. If he rides the way he did when he squired Ser Lyn, half the men here could unhorse him easy as you please. I can’t decide whether it would please me to see that or not. He does deserve to lose, though I couldn’t bear to see harm befall him. Let someone break his shield like he broke his vow to me.” Her words are bitter and unrestrained, full of emotion.

Banion

The eunuch’s jaw slows to a halt, hanging open a bit as he tries to understand your gesticulations and words. Eventually, he grasps your meaning. Swallowing to free his tongue, he taps his own chest and announces, “Grezno Dalhak.”

One of the maids shifts herself onto the lap of a wispy-cheeked squire, much to the squire’s delight. His compatriot turns away and hides his wounded pride by engaging in your conversation. “This one’s Grez-no-balls, and he’s bodyguard to that sellsword.” He nods up at Stallicho. “He doesn’t speak much of the common tongue, I’m afraid. It’s a shame, really. His voice is so sweet and boyish that we might have taught him to sing a few of our songs.”

Alyssa

Lord Roger leans a little closer. “Aye, we mustn’t be drawn further into that folly. But unfortunately, your house has already seized the folly by the tail.” Morris folds his arms, frowning. Lord Roger continues. “I require more discipline at Greycrown Keep. I can’t have Corretts running off to cross blades with Lannisters, Freys, and Baratheons whenever their blood runs hot.” He looks you in the eyes. “Your son Jon’s flight to war was ill-done. We lost a valuable ward, Eldric Blackfort, we lost the heir to House Corrett, and most importantly, I lost goodwill with the Eyrie.” Morris has been slowly reddening throughout Roger’s speech, which Roger has delivered with an airy breeziness unbefitting Jon’s death. Before Roger can continue, Morris interrupts him. “My brother was a good man, ser! Uh, milord, I mean. How dare you compare his life to your, your ‘goodwill’ to this Baelish!”

You expected Roger to signal his displeasure with Jon and Mera’s foolish march to war, but not this club-fistedly. The boy is still much a fledgling, with the scent of summer on him. Even without the handicap of rotten manners, you expect it will be difficult for Lord Roger to fully quench the hate for House Frey that boils in Morris’s veins. And if Morris’s anger at the Freys is a blaze, Mera’s is an inferno.

The Frey issue has been lurking in the background for some time, but this tourney threatens to add fuel to the fire. While the tourney isn’t like to attract interest from the Riverlands, House Waynwood will be present. The Waynwoods have married a handful of daughters to House Frey, and Lady Anya Waynwood keeps some Frey wards, if memory serves. If the Waynwoods’ blood runs as hot as Mera’s, there could be trouble. And there’s also the small matter of Lord Baelish’s second set of titles—Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Trident. It’s an easy pair to forget, because Littlefinger has never set foot in Harrenhal, nor taken any obvious steps to rule the Riverlands. But once Morris remembers this, he may hold Baelish responsible for Walder Frey’s actions. After all, Littlefinger was awarded these titles before the Red Wedding, by law making Walder Frey his bannerman at the time . . .

Mera

Stallicho smiles and you catch a flash of gold in his teeth. “Oh, I’m a proper terror. Slayer of ribs—” he snags a chunk of ribs from a passing servant and deposits it on his plate. “—widowmaker to lampreys—” he spears a lamprey with his knife and begins sawing it into pieces. “I’ve laid low towers of grilled fowl and drained moats of gravy. If you were a pile of salad with pine nuts and goat cheese, you would be quaking in your seat.” He takes a bite of lamprey pie and chews happily. “But I’ll admit, I’ve never tasted lion. Do you recommend it?”

In the background, you overhear the heated exchange between Lord Roger and your brother.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus nearly chokes when she suggests her husband being pitted against Gregor of all people might have meant he would survive. From what Marcus heard, Vardis volunteered to fight for the Eryie, and the honor of a knight wouldn't let him withdraw. If anything, that sellsword had spared her having to watch her husband die a much more brutal death. Falling through the moon door was mercy compared to fighting the force of nature that was the Mountain. Sometimes Marcus still dreamed of what his uncle had left of Oberyn. He can't bring himself to look at her as he says what he must, even if it might sting just a little. "There has been enough death in these wars to scour Westeros clean of life if everyone had their satisfaction. Let the gods take whom they may, my Lady, so you might live to see justice done to the survivors. The south is a nest of vipers, it would be better to act when their venom is spent." Now he does look, and does his best to seem sincere, hoping she believes him. "But a man of the Westernlands is the reason you are a widow, whether he was guilty or innocent. If you would permit me, should you ever find a way to get what you want, this man of the Westernlands offers his meager aid."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Banion repeats the name quietly to himself, his lips moving to mimic the sound he's heard while his eyes focus on Grezno's. Banion is unable to get anything else out before he's interrupted by the man with details to share. Glancing over at the rebuffed squire, Banion listens to what he has to say, casually looking back towards Stallicho as it's mentioned he's a bodyguard, not just some random delegate or adviser. "I'm sure he does," Banion replies simply with a smile. Refocusing on Grezno, Banion flashes him a cocky, knowing smile as he lifts up his cup in a salute to the foreigner. "To new faces," Banion says in a small toast before taking a sip of his wine. After gulping down a swig of the bitter beverage, Banion turns his attention back to the talkative squire and inquires with a head jerk in Grezno's direction, "What else do you know about our friend here that he'd share if I could understand him?"

[Harmony]

Allyria

"Oh." Allyria is briefly stunned by the refreshing honesty and directness. "I'm sure he'll place after his ability." She lowers her voice not to be overheard "But I'll be rooting for a broken shield too." She smiles and winks at Mya. If it was true what Mya said, and Allyria saw no reason to think otherwise, she had very little sympathy for those who couldn't keep oaths. "You know, I've never been up to the Eyrie, is the view as breathtaking as they say?" She changes subject reluctantly, but this place is far to busy to gossip further.

[dmarks]

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

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

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

[DukeGod]

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

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

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

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

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

[Sahe]

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

[heretic]

Banion

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

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

Marcus

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

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

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

Mera

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

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

Lady Alyssa

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

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

Allyria

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

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

Tyramear

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

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

[Rhyvurg]

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

[Harmony]

Allyria

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

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

[Old Overholt]

Banion

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

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

[dmarks]

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

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

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

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

[Sahe]

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

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

[heretic]

The Feast Ends—Marcus, Banion, Mera, Adwin

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

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

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

Lady Alyssa

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

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

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

Allyria

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

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

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

[dmarks]

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

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

[Rhyvurg]

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

[Harmony]

Allyria

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

[DukeGod]

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

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

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

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

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

[Sahe]

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

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

[heretic]

Tyramear

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

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

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

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

Allyria

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

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

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

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

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


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

Mera

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

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

Lady Alyssa

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

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

[Old Overholt]

Banion

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

[Harmony]

Allyria

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

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

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

[dmarks]

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

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

[heretic]

Banion

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

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

[Sahe]

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

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

[Old Overholt]

Banion

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

[DukeGod]

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

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

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

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

[heretic]

Allyria

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

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

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

Tyramear

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

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

Moonhome—nighttime

Marcus

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

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

Lady Alyssa

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

Banion

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

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

Mera

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

The Road—daytime

Day One

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

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

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

Day Three

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

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

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

Day Seven

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

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

Day Twelve

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

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

Mera

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

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

Alyssa

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

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

Banion

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

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

Marcus

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

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

[Rhyvurg]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Moonhome—nighttime

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

The Road—daytime

Day One

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

Day Three

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

Day Seven

During a stop to rest the horses, Banion entertained a few of the younger or more bored travellers - including Danny and Perra - with some dexterous skills of the hand. At first, he displayed a profound mastery of rolling a copper penny through his fingers from thumb to pinky and back again in fluid motion. Then, he did a few simple disappearing tricks, causing a silver stag to vanish when being exchanged from one hand to the other and then "reappearing" behind a child's ear, out of a cupbearer's nose, and even in Dryn's boot. Finally, using an empty cup, he demonstrated how he could "force" the coin through the bottom of the cup by slamming it against his hand. (A visual for those of you curious: http://s3.crackedcdn.com/phpimages/pictofact/5/5/2/463552_v1.gif).

Day Twelve

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

The Journey

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

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

[DukeGod]

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

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

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

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

[Harmony]

Allyria

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

[Sahe]

Moonhome - nighttime

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

Moonhome - morning

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

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

The Road - Day Three

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

The Road - Day Seven

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

The Road - Day Twelve

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

[heretic]

Allyria

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

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

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

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

Tyramear

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

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

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

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

Mera

The Journey

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

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

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

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

Banion

The Journey

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

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

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

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

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

Marcus

The Journey

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Harmony]

Allyria

Allyria frowns at the comment of a bastard wife, but just as she's about to give her view on the case, the subject is changed by Margot and Allyria soon forgets about it. She listens dutifully, and she has a brief shortness of breath, not from the thoughts of Harry, but from the implications would mean for her - and her house - before the heavy stones of duty brings her back down. "A bargain was made between my father and Alyn Corrett. I will not make plans to renegade on that." She states firmly. She wouldn't, but if Morris didn't make up his mind soon, her father was bound to take some action, and maybe she could suggest this?
She ponders the line of succession, but makes no comment on it more than "No, I didn't know that.", but she doubts Doran would claim the throne if such a thing occurred, or that his claim would be accepted anyway.

[Rhyvurg]

Though he had nothing to say about House Egen, this talk of taking a possibly unusable pass was concerning. "My lord, perhaps it would be prudent to send someone to see if this pass is, um, passable. If it is not, we look the fool and might arrive late for the tourney."

[Sahe]

When Mera was summoned by Morris, she was a bit surprised. He had sent her away when they faced off the Howlers and he still had made no official statement if he recognized her legitimization by the late King Robb. Both things that created friction between them atop of Jon's death. On the other hand he had named her Champion for House Corrett, even if it may have only been to spite Lord Roger.

When all had gathered in her brother's tent, she waited patiently for him to finish. "Milord, if you wish I could ride ahead with Ser Gorlen and Walda to scout out the pass, make sure we do not lose any time", Mera said, making sure to properly address Morris.

"As for the Egens...the night of the feast I and Walda fol...overheard Ser Pearse and Ser Myles talking. From what I heard they are loyalists to Littlefinger and want to try steer Lord Roger on that course. Maester Medgar opposes them and seems to have a great deal of influence over Roger. He's a Florent and wanted Rufus to back Stannis, which would still be his plan with Roger. They see him as a liability and want to dispose of him once they have found some allies. They also mentioned Tyrish mercenaries and Talla's marriage as if that was already secured. Oh and Brandon Tollet appears to have a lover named Maisie."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

When summoned, Banion removes himself from his duties and responsibilites to freshen up a bit - splashing some frigid water on his face and cleaning his hands. Otherwise, he attends the audience with Lord Morris as requested and in a rather timely fashion.

Upon entering the tent, he remains towards the walls, lingering near one of the poles about the entrance. He doesn't appear keen on the idea of taking a seat on any of the saddles for one reason or another, sticking the shadowed corners of the makeshift hall. Folding his arms about his chest, he does however seem to make an effort to keep himself warm.

The rogue listens intently as the logistical plans are laid out, his eyes watching Morris' hand movements as he gestures to the table and his invisible map. When he and Mera are singled out, Banion looks towards Morris' half-sister expectantly. She's of closer relation to the lord and thus should probably speak first by all social conventions.

When Mera as finished, Banion adds in his gravely voice, "I can attest to only the mercenaries, m'lord. Ss-..." Banion starts to say something, but seems to get hung up on a word, elongating out the 's' sound until he can get past whatever word he's trying to say. "...ssseems the late Lord Egen contracted with these 'Bright Banners' some time ago for quite the penny so I'm told. They're set to arrive within two months time with three or four hundred men... possibly some heavy armament as well. From what I can tell, it doesn't sound like the Egens hired them to merely guard mountain passes. That Essos Dandy seems to have an itch to do some pillaging while he's here."

[heretic]

Allyria

Ysilla purses her lips and begins to change the subject, but her aunt Margot cuts in again, clearly not ready to give up on the idea of you and Harry. “You honor your father with your obedience—a true lady. I did not mean to suggest that you defy him. Instead, I only meant that his earlier pact is now void.” She fetches a sweetmeat from the dish in the center of the table and pops it in her mouth, chewing. When she speaks, she covers her mouth with her hand. “Suppose your father instructs you to woo the Young Falcon. Best to have planted the seeds of romance already, I would say. And if in his wisdom, your father finds a better match, there’s no harm done. A whisper here or there, a dance, a favor, a blown kiss—words are wind, and in a year these little moments will be nothing more than a half-remembered dream if you do not allow yourself to be pursued further. Why, I must have tied mine own favor on a dozen different knights, but the years have washed them from my ken and all I remember now is my Royce unseating Ser Jonothor Darry—a Kingsguard knight!—and crowning me Queen of Love and Beauty.” It takes you a moment to realize that Margot’s brother and husband share a name.

Ysilla has composed herself again and chimes in. “Yes, best not speak of betrothal until you’ve word from your lord father. But you need not be idle, either, as my aunt says.” She turns to Ser Andar. “Brother, do we have some ravens for Dorne?” He nods. “Just a few—Sunspear, Starfall, Yronwood.” She smiles back at you. “I’m sure my lord father would see fit to part with one of them for you to use. You could bring your father up to speed on the news of the Vale and explain the situation.”

Truth be told, you don’t fully know your father’s plans for your betrothal. His last letter was guarded, clearly written under suspicion that Maester Adwin or Lord Corrett might break the seal. In it, he denounced the Lannisters (it was written just after he returned home after witnessing the Red Viper’s demise and the Mountain’s confession) but asked you to remain under Morris Corrett’s protection and to await further word. He could be seeking a replacement marriage even now, though you expect he will at least ask your permission before promising you away. He did you an unkindness by securing Jon Corrett without introducing you or asking your thoughts. How much of that was the distance between Braavos and Salt Shore and how much was your father’s northron ambitions, you may never know.

Tremond Gargalen is made of fire, pride, and ambition, befitting a man with a cockatrice on his banner. It’s said that only two men could cow him: Arthur Dayne, whom he squired and who forced him to depart for home instead of dying a hero’s death at the Tower of Joy, and Oberyn Martell, who matched him for wits and bravado. The Red Viper's death threw Tremond's plans askew, and left him with no one to bring him to heel.


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

Morris listens to the suggestions about the pass. “I fear we are already at the crossroads—we take the north pass in the morning. Some of you can scout it tonight if you wish. Mayhaps you can see if the way is blocked and save us a day of wasted travel.”

His rubs his cheeks, no doubt wishing he had a bit of beard to turn winter’s slap, as Mera describes the news of Moonhome’s politics and the mercenaries and Banion follows. “You tell of much and more. Medgar, a Florent? Would a man forsake his vow so easily?” Morris shakes his head. “And foreign mercenaries? He told me Stallicho was a friend of his father’s . . . perhaps not a lie, but not the full truth either. We will have to watch him closely. Roger seems to be foundering in his rule and his advisors are a pit of snakes, each with their own designs on him. But with his retainers pulling in opposite directions, even the slightest nudge could send him staggering to one side or the other.” He looks around the room. “The question is which side is sweet to us, and which is sour. If you had asked me half a year ago, I would have called our spears and marched on the Twins, damn the odds. If Littlefinger objected, I would have painted the Eyrie steps with his brains.”

He unclenches his fist. “But that was then and my blood has cooled. I understand that disobeying the Eyrie can have consequences, as my forefathers learned in the Blackfyre Rebellion. Baelish may be half a Lannister, and up-jumped, without the manful character required for rule. But rule he does. I do not know if the Lords Declarant have the strength to see him gone, especially after their promise to leave him undisturbed until the new year. Before you leave to scout the trail, tell me--what path would you chart? Is it folly to hold onto grief and revenge? Or milk-blooded to forget the dead so easily? Is it wise to force Roger toward the path I choose, or presumtuous and disloyal?”

[DukeGod]

"Those I served are dead"

Not by his hand but...

"I suppose that these days, I've chosen a place and I'm trying to improve it, so, I'm my own master where it counts. I own a number of favors to one family of the Vale though, Corrett."

"Information is quite the payment, something I learned dealing with unsavory types while earning the meager chain links I have"

Tyramear searches around his bag for ingredients of Moon Tea, and already maps out the likely path to the tourney and through where they'll pass that he might get what he doesn't have

"Bah, don't get me started on maesters. Love for knowledge, right. More like love for sitting their asses and pretend to be helpful. Most maestes are about as good as a stack of books, assuming you're lettered aniway. Leave them one day in the woods and their knowledge will get them killed thrice."

[Rhyvurg]

Intrigue were not Marcus' strong suit, he knew as much about politics as a dog does about carpentry. But his lord asked... "Bide your time. Learn which of his advisers' goals suit you, then nudge him their way. If you act too soon, you can't take it back. You have to be sure. Taking sides too early can put your House in danger as you make enemies you did not anticipate."

[Sahe]

"I will do so, Ser Gorlen sure will be thrilled to be yet on another scout ride with at night", Mera replied with a wink to Morris suggestion and then continued to listen. His brother was worried and rightfully so. They where heading into a pit of snakes, this much was certain the night she listened in on Ser Myles and Pearse. But she knew no right answer either. She had no love for Littlefinger, the Lannisters or Stannis. Her King was dead now, stabbed in the back alongside her older brother.


"If you called our spears to cast down vengeance on the Freys you know I mine would be the first in line, brother", Mera said, not noticing that she hadn't addressed him as her lord, "but you're right crossing Littlefinger is dangerous. He came from nothing and is now one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms. But our time for vengeance will come", Mera made another pause and looked reassuringly at her brother, "As for Roger...I do not know. I'd like to say, do what father would have done, but I don't think either of us really knows about a lot of things he did or didn't do. I do not trust Medgar or Pearse or Myles...maybe the decent thing to do would be to speak with Lord Roger and tell him about the meddling of his advisers. You are of the same age and despite your differences have a lot in common."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Banion, after sharing what knowledge he was able to gleam from Stallicho and his manservant, remains quiet after Morris calls for input and advice. He wraps his arms about his chest, cupping his elbows with his hands, as his eyes look to those who speak out and offer up their words or their service. For whatever reason or reasons he might have, the rogue remains quiet - his face devoid of emotion, showing nothing but mild interest in what is said.

[heretic]

Tyramear

Jeyne clasps your hand, sealing the pact. “I’d not mention any love of House Corrett near our Frey guests. They maintain that it was a Corrett knight who gelded their squires. Now come, we make ready for the tourney.”

Downstairs, the Freys have made themselves scarce, leaving Balericat alone to gnaw on a bone.

Day One

The Frey host is a relatively small one. There’s Lord Ronnet, his big-bellied, greying cousin Ossifer (the house’s first champion), two younger household knights (Ser Mortyn and Ser Nosbert), their four squires, Jeyne, Meryam, Jesselyn, and Daya the handmaid, the two knights Frey, their gelded squires (who ride in a wagon), and four rugged men-at-arms who give every indication of being seasoned woodsmen. They wear beards a-face, boiled leather and fur beneath their cloaks, bows on their backs, and carry great two-handed axes with walking spikes bottoming the handles. At first, Lord Ronnet threatens to banish Balericat, on account of his effect on the horses, but he relents once you tend to the situation. The Lipps’ haven’t the gold for destriers or extra mounts, so Ossifer walks, keeping his red-and-white dappled courser fresh. Lord Ronnett is ahorse, as are the Freys (who keep an extra mount each), and Ser Mortyn and Ser Nosbert. The rest walk, while the unfortunate squires sit in the wagon, which is hitched to a pair of old garrons. The path wends its way up higher into the mountains, promising cold and mysticism.

Day Six

You’re high up now, following a nigh-invisible game trail that the Lipps woodsmen know even in the snow. The path zigs and zags up and down the crags and slopes, at times following the edge of a low mountain peak or caldera rim. You’re making for the lowland entrance to the Vale, but cutting out leagues of travel by refusing to descend and take the long arc around the mountains.

It’s hard going. The air is thin, and the wind whips it into your face, ice crystals and all. Jeyne wears a veil ‘neath her cloak’s hood, a blank, flowing cloth that sometimes snaps taut to reveal the ethereal outline of her statuesque face. Provisions are meager and the salt beef has frozen hard, requiring a boil before it can be chewed. The rhythmic rocking of your ride has been lulling you into a trance of late—your vision sometimes swims and you can almost see out of Balericat’s eyes.

Day Eleven

Over the course of the trip, you’ve heard the Freys tell of the gelding their squires received at the hands of a “Corrett knight.” They say they were out riding patrol, when their camp was set upon by a band of outlaws led by a knight showing the grey crown of Corrett on his shield and wearing a helm forged in the snout of a hound. Evidently, the Frey knights themselves were not present—they never quite explain that part—but the Corrett knight claimed vengeance for the killing of Jon Corrett by gelding the squires in place of their masters. After nailing the grisly trophy to the top of a tree, the band of robber knights rode off to the east. At first, the Freys blamed Sandor Clegane, a famous swordsman and turncloak, until they heard tales of outlaws having seized his distinctive helm.

Night Fifteen

Tonight, the group makes camp beneath the boughs of an old faceless weirwood tucked into the cracks of the mountain.

This night, you awake to find yourself facing a grey-robed man, his face obscured by a mask of dark steel—Valyrian steel—with a ring and rod to match. “Tyramear.” His implements and his voice mark him as Archmaester Marwyn, one of your instructors at the Citadel. Marwyn oversees the forging of Valyrian links, marking study in the higher mysteries. Unlike most maesters, and certainly all the other Archmaesters, he’s got a fair bit of true life experience and doesn’t spend his days in the library. He’s known to have traveled to Asshai by the Shadow, to keep the company of whores and dock-wizards, and to drink all manner of foreign elixir. A dangerous man by any measure, and considered half-mad by the remaining Archmaesters. You earned your link from him, but didn’t stay long enough to ingratiate yourself among his acolyte hangers-on.

“They’re making ready the chain, with no place for our link.
Save the Vale from flames.
Beware the tinder—a Southron Girl made of Fire and a Northron Girl made of Ice.
Recoil from the Mad Hawk and the Bold Mouse, the Golden-Arm and the One-Eyed Dreamer.
The Dragon has three Heads, and three Shadows.
See that the Heir does not kneel before he sees them.”

He speaks loudly, and when no soul stirs, you realize this must be a waking dream.

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

Morris acknowledges Mera and Marcus’s counsel. “As you say, I will keep a weather eye on Littlefinger’s grasp on the Vale. Speaking to Roger of his advisors carries its own risks, but I will think on it.” Morris rises, signaling that the meeting is over. “You have shown me that much and more can be learned from a lord’s servants and retainers. Banion, make yourself useful at this tourney. Find friends beneath the banners of the Lords Declarant and Littlefinger’s houses—Grafton, Corbray, Lynderly, as well as Littlefinger's own household. I’d know the whisperings of their armsmen, grooms, maids, and armorers.” With that, he dismisses the group back to the outdoors, where day’s last rays of light have almost entirely faded from the sky, revealing stars underneath.

The North Pass (Anyone who wants to scout. If on foot, make a Difficulty 9 Endurance check to keep up.)

The way to the north pass is thick with tree and an unblemished crust on seven inches of snow, which gradually gives way to shale and hard-packed earth as you descend into the pass. It’s hard to say in the dying light exactly whether the full length of the pass is clear—visibility has dropped significantly. But one this is clear. Up ahead by some half-mile, there’s a campfire glowing in the middle of the pass. Between you and the fire, the terrain is hard to perceive, but there’s a lonely stand of trees, some skeletal bushes with no leaves, and a few low boulders. By it’s size, you imagine the fire would be fit for a small group of three or four people.

[Sahe]

After Mera had left the tent of her brother she gathered Walda and Ser Gorlen for the scouting mission. She was pretty sure Ser Gorlen wouldn't be too keen on it, but he was an excellent rider and she had to admit, that by now she had at least developed some respect for him.

Once they had packed up the three left the camp to scout the north pass. Walda and Mera on Redfoot, huddled together under Mera's thick cloak and Ser Gorlen on his garron. The descent wasn't easy between the dwindling light and fresh snow, but got better the further they descended down the pass. Mera enjoyed this time with Walda, away from the caravan and alone, safe for the presence of Ser Gorlen. She felt a bit watched ever since she had been named Champion of House Corrett, or maybe it was that she was still uncertain if Myles or Pearse knew she had listened in on their them. Either way, Mera felt like she could breathe a bit more freely.

Eventually they could make out a camp fire up ahead in the dark prompting them to halt for a moment. It was difficult to gauge from a distance, but the fire seemed to be from a small group of maybe four. These could be others travelling for the tourney, but also highwaymen or mountain raiders. Mera felt oddly remembered about the night she scouted out the Howlers with Ser Gorlen.

"We need to get closer, I'll try to get closer to get a look at who's lying in camp up ahead.", Mera said and then dismounted from Redfoot. Out from under her thick cloak and away from the warmth of Walda's body against her back, Mera noticed how cold it was. She turned to Walda, "Walda, if anything happens or if I tell you to run. You turn around and hurry back to the camp. Report to my brother. The same to you Ser Gorlen. If someone is setting an ambush, Lord Morris has to know."

And with that Mera carefully closed in on the camp making use of the natural terrain, while doing her best to ignore the cold.


Equipment Mera took with her:
- Bow and Arrows
- her axe
- knifes and dagger

she's dressed warm, but not with her heavy cloak.

I take it this is requires a Stealth (3) test: [roll0] (oh crap)

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus is quick to volunteer to help scout the pass, anything he could do to aid the Corretts that didn't involve hurting people. Mera choosing two others made it slightly awkward, he knew she resented him for the Howlers, and he wasn't sure how to salve that wound. But she was Lord Morris' sister, and he ha sworn his service to this family.

The cold was no major barrier, and the snow didn't even reach the top of his boots, though he knew lesser, well, normal men might have a rougher time of it. Keeping up with the horses was easy, the chill keeping him cool in his armor. Upon reaching the pass and seeing the fire, he quickly reaches out and grabs Mera's shoulder as she makes a very loud approach. "Let me. Men in the wild are less likely to seek violence with me than, well..." He doesn't say "woman," but his meaning is clear. As capable a Mera was, she was still a very pretty young woman, and if whomever was there thought she was alone she might be forced to defend herself, but when a giant wearing three hounds on a yellow field approached, men tended to adopt a more peaceful mien. "I mean, if they are hostile, you can reach me faster with a horse than I could get to you on foot." He stops, hoping she buys it.


[roll0]

[Old Overholt]

Banion

"That I can do, m'lord," Banion says with a firm nod of his head from the back of the group as Morris makes his request known. "... with zeal," he then adds, marking the words with a ****-eating grin. As they are dismissed, Banion is one of the first to depart the tent, having remained near its walls. Rubbing his hands briskly together, he makes his way towards the lower parts of the camp to warm himself by one of the fires with the usual rabble he surrounds himself with. He passes some jokes along with the men on watch, more just lads lingering about with their spears at the ready.

[heretic]

Marcus

A moment after Mera slips from your grasp and disappears into the night, Ser Gorlen exhales. “She always has to take a closer look, doesn’t she? It was the same way when we scouted the clansmen. We may need your axe soon, Clegane.” Walda rolls her eyes. “She’s got more stones than you, Ser Campfire-Counter.” “Very funny, squire. I make her for but one Stone.” "Aye, horse-brain. How many does that leave you with?"

Waters is a small man, stunted in height and valor, but an exceptional horseman. He’s said to drink to oblivion most nights and could rival King Robert in bastard-making. All of that never bothered Lord Alyn Corrett, who put the knight to work scouting and riding the remote reaches of the Corrett domain. You’ve never seen a finer rider, except maybe the Knight of Flowers. Despite all that, Waters never outrode his bastardry or aspired to greatness at arms. Otherwise, he might have been Corrett’s champion at the tourney.

Mera disappears into the shadows and snow.

Mera

The way is thick with new snow, necessitating a slow approach. Hugging what little cover there is, you approach to within forty yards. Up close, you have a better view of the fire. There’s a single figure sitting before the fire, a man. He’s got something bubbling in a helm suspended by a branch over the fire. Behind him is a skinny rounsey covered in a threadbare blanket. Other than that, there’s not much about—a saddle and a deflated saddlebag, a shield. Just then, your foot goes through a soggy branch buried beneath the snow. It gives way audibly, with more crunch that crack.

The man stands fluidly, revealing more of himself. He’s even shorter than you—perhaps he’s a boy—with some bristly orange hair and a clean-shaven face. He wears the dinted, featureless breastplate of a poor knight and when he hefts his shield, you see a white mouse with red eyes over a wavy red and blue. It’s not familiar, but the red and blue are close to the Tully colors. “Show yourself!” The voice is a man’s; low and stern, calm and yet fearless. He’s got a hand on his sword-hilt, but he hasn’t drawn yet. His eyes are plainly fixed on you, but you’re no more than a silhouette to him.

Banion

Watch duty is inevitably dull. Dake guffaws loudly at your joke, plainly glad for the relief. One of the Egen men chases you around the perimeter after you catch him shaving his balls with one of Dryn’s spent arrowheads. Just when it’s died down, Maester Medgar erupts out the flaps of Lord Roger’s pavilion, cursing under his breath, and hurries to the nearest fire. The Egen men surrounding it pay him little mind as he rummages in his sleeves for various bottles and tiny sacks, hunched over the spitting embers.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus silently watches Mera go, wishing he had been faster, the only visible movement from him was the cloud of breath seeping from his helm. There was no telling who was at that fire, and she could get hurt before anyone could reach her. Or it was nothing, some trapper making camp who had no interest in harming anyone. The bickering does not help, but he was in no position to reprimand people almost a decade his elder, and one a knight. A craven, honorless knight who's only exception to mundanity was his ability to flee from danger, and who's assignment riding the far edge of Corrett land had no doubt contributed to the abandoned children he left in his wake. If men like him could be anointed, it was small wonder his uncles had as well.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

"Careful there, maester!" Banion calls out to Medgar as he overs over the embers, searching himself in an agitated and frantic state. The words come out in a jovial, teasing tone as opposed to genuine concern for the man's safety. "You don't make for very good kindling, but I've known few fires to be terribly picky," he then adds with a subtle grin as he rubs his hands together. "Lose something?" Banion inquires after a brief pause, noting the other man's searching of his robes for something.

[Sahe]

"Seven hells!" Mera muttered under her breath when the branch broke under her feet and the young man at the fire noticed her. For a short moment Mera didn't react, weighing her options. She could run, she had some headway and could probably get away, but she was curios and it seemed like he was alone. Lifting her arms, Mera slowly approached him out from the darks and walking into the dim light of his fire, but keeping enough of a distance so she could draw her axe should he decide to become unfriendly.

"Don't be alarmed, I mean no harm to you. My name is Mera Stone and I was sent to scout if the pass was clear. Who are you Ser?"

[heretic]

Mera

He remains poised with hand on sword-hilt as you move into the firelight. “Well met, Mera Stone. I am Ser Shadrich. Men have been known to call me the Mad Mouse. Not that you would recognize my name—I am a hedge knight from Shady Glen in the Reach. I’ve sworn my sword up and down the Reach, Crownlands, and Westerlands, and even took to sea in the Greyjoy Rebellion. That is, the Greyjoy Rebellion of nine years past, not the sad little fit the Ironborn are throwing right now.”

Up close, you can see he’s at least twenty years older than you. His narrow face is lined and weather-beaten, with wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His pointy nose is unbroken, but he has a scar beneath an ear.

“In any case, my point is that I have never been to the Vale until now and am perforce unknown here. As it happens, I too am wandering the pass. The way is clear from here to the Gates of the Moon, though I cannot say whether it’s passable on the other side.” He relaxes a bit, lowering his shield some. It seems you’ve satisfied him that you’re not a clanswoman raider. “Stone is a bastard’s name out here. You must have a highborn parent—what house do you serve? And how did you catch that scar?” He points to your face.

Marcus

Down below, you see movement by the fire and then Mera’s telltale silhouette moves up to the camp, backlit by the fire. Ser Gorlen lets out a low, rattling groan. “Alright, it’s up to you to save her if she needs it. There can’t be too many of them down there.”

Banion

The grey-robed maester glances briefly up while he continues to rummage. “Here, hold this.” He shoves a couple small sacks into your hand, each full of some sort of soft substance—sand, powder, grain, or crushed herbs perhaps. They’re each small enough to fit inside a closed fist, as are the little teardrop-shaped bottles in Medgar’s hands. He works feverishly, unstoppering a bottle to add a couple drops to some powder a little mortar-bowl, which he starts grinding with a stone pestle, all while still gripping the extra bottles with his bottom fingers. “Now, the sweetsleep. Just a crumb, from the red sack.” The chains around his neck clink as he nods toward one of the sacks in your hand. Each one is a different color, some bright and some dark in the light of the fire.

It's said the maesters forge a link for each corpse they open with razors during their training. Some maintain that a maester adds a link to his chain for each book he’s read, or for each mark he can make on a page. Others swear that a maester earns a new metal for each maiden he deflowers, despite their oath forswearing women. Or perhaps each link stands for a different castle that the maester’s ravens have visited. Whatever they stand for, Medgar has more types of metal around his neck than you’ve ever seen.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus keep his eyes on the camp and Mera. "Don't be ridiculous Ser, you have a horse, I am afoot. If something happens clearly you should charge into the fray first. Otherwise it might seem you have no care for the well being of House Corrett's champion."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

At first, the rogue of House Corrett seems unsure what to do as the sacks are thrust upon him. He's able to grasp most of them initially, but starts to fumble one. Luckily, he nimbly catches it before it topples over - saving him from the verbal wrath Maester Medgar would undoubtedly launch on him. Securing the bags in his hands, his brow scrunches as he tries to figure out exactly how he became the assistant and what exactly the maester is putting together right there on the spot. As his fingers gently probe the outsides of the miniature bags, he seems completely caught off guard when the man makes the request for the crumb of sweetsleep. "Huh?" Banion asks with wide-eyed confusion at first. Only after a few seconds - and probably a clarification from the maester himself - does Banion finally clue in on what he is supposed to do. Blinking his eyes and then quickly focusing on the bags, he starts rotating his hands until he can see the red sack, he does his best to brace the remaining bags against his chest with his left forearm while his left fingers hold onto the bag. Using his right hand to open the sack and pinch a generous crumb of sweetsleep, Banion asks in an uncertain tone, "Having trouble sleeping, maester?"

[Sahe]

"That are a lot of question, Ser", Mera said as she stepped a bit closer to the warmth of the fire, "My brother is Lord Morris of House Corrett, we're bannermen to House Egen", Mera added to provide the man with some context. House Corrett wasn't that well known especially outside the Vale. "As for the scar, a parting gift from a Lion Knight at the Battle of Asheford. What about your scar? And what brings you to the Vale? The tourney I take it?"

[heretic]

Mera

Ser Shadrich stands quietly, allowing you to speak your part. “Normally, when a man creeps into my camp, I ask only whether he should depart shorter by a head or a foot. By that measure, questions are hardly a concern, though I’ve been told my tongue is as sharp as my blade.”

“Your Vale houses were all unknown to me until I came to the tourney. They’re waiting for House Egen and a few others. Corrett sounds familiar, but so do they all.” When you speak of your scar, he smiles. “Ashford. So you rode with the King in the North. I myself received a little scratch from a lion—”he touches the scar by his ear“—but I fought for Stannis until the folly on the Blackwater. That was enough of war for me. Aye, I’m here for the tourney, and p’rhaps to find service with a lord for the winter.”

Marcus

Ser Gorlen seems a little astonished that you would suggest he take the lead. It’s not uncommon for men to be confused when you answer coolly in such situations. They always want you to volunteer to choose confrontation, whether it’s answering an insult in a winesink or volunteering to lead a charge. Everyone wants to prod the big man into action. While Gorlen sputters, Walda butts in. “If there’s trouble, I’m going in before the both of you. She left her spear for me.” She tells it truly, hefting the spear for effect.

Banion

Medgar accepts about half the sweetsleep into the mortar, reserving the remainder on the course threads of his sleeve. He busily grinds the grains of sweetsleep into the paste, then pauses to pluck the excess sweetsleep and return it to the sack in your hand. Speaking in between his movements, he addresses your question. “When duty replaces rest, one tends to have trouble sleeping.” He reaches under his belt and slides forth a stoppered skin. “But this is not for me.” He pours into the mortar, the red wine pulsing forth with a soft glugging noise. He stoppers the skin and tucks it beneath his neck as he stirs the mixture together. “Now, the cup. The one by the fire.” After a moment, you notice a pewter cup sitting by the fire. Once it’s within reach, he empties the medicine-wine mixture into it carefully. Only then does he take back all of his bags and vials, which he replaces in his sleeves, snug ‘neath his belt, or by the fire. Thus unencumbered, he hurries back toward Roger’s pavilion.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus inclines his head, but his eyes are locked on Gorlen. "As you say."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

While his hands packed with various herbs, medicines, and other items of interest, Banion fights the mild urge to pocket one of them. Surely a maester's assortment of supplies could catch him a quick penny and the maester would probably be none the wiser. However, given the circumstances of traveling with Lord Roger and his direct involvement in assisting Maester Medgar, Banion shakes the idea from hi mind and instead focuses on the other man's work. He aides him in gathering the cup and remains quiet while Medgar completes his tonic.

The maester's response, while not directly informative, does lead Banion to a reasonable conclusion on who the sweetsleep is for, especially after the maester returns to the tent. Now left standing in the cold, a bit shocked by the flurry of activity, Banion snorts, causing his shoulders to rise and fall quickly as his body jostles. "Must not have enough duties if you can't sleep," he murmurs before passing by the fire. Headed towards his tent, he whistles quietly to himself before seeking shelter and, hopefully, a quiet night's rest.

[DukeGod]

Day One

Well, Tyramear would much prefer if the squires had stayed at Steppe Hill but it seems the knights would rather have them on wagons. He supposes they WERE following his orders. His time with the Lipps isn't that bad, aside from some recent bad blood over Ronnet's stance on having Balericat around. The man seemed to have a good head above his shoulders! Lord Alyn himself had trusted Tyramear with the beast, and Ronnet should really follow his liegelord's decision and that would be it.

Well, fine. He promised the lord that the horses wouldn't see Balericat to be spooked. Actually maybe that was the wrong thing to say since the lord seemed a bit iffed, as if it was something of an implied threat. He keeps his promise though, Balericat is only really seen in glimpses amidst the trees and mountains from that point on, and never by the horses.

Tyramer walks. He could ride, but there's no point in tiring the horse more than necessary. They're going at a walking speed aniway. He does place all his bags on the horse. Garrons are strong after all. During most stops he also loads more and more stuff into the horse as he finds random curious things, from useful to not. Herbs and fruit and plants, to simply colored stones.

Day Six

How weird a feeling. He feels as if he should too know the trail the woodsmen follow. He has traveled these passes too, and his memory is good, but he's not so certain of where they are. His thoughts are cloudy, and he is sure he rarely sees where he goes now. At times, the landscape shifts abruptly, or even the time of day seems to change, shadows becoming light or appearing out of nowhere. Has it really been just a day?

He's not like this...something is wrong, Tyramear is sure, even as something like the outline of an elk seems to be somewhere in the edges of his sight...

Day Eleven

That story is getting annoying, though he is glad he kept his silence through all the tellings of it. After the second time he even had formed a bit of an argument. If the helmet the bandit was wearing was stolen, what was to stop him from also stealing the shield and them just mistasking him for a Corrett? He was glad he didn't voice it, for not that long after the obvious counterpoint jumped to his mind, the man HAD explicitly claimed to have acted in revenge to the Frey's killing of Jon. Well he can actually start to guess who could possibly be that bandit, but better to wait and talk to the man before paying him a beer in congratulations

...

Actually, after hearing the story for the twentieth time in half as many days, he'll make it two beers...

Night Fifteen

At the sight of Archmaester Marwyn, Tyramear's hands go to the chain bracelets on his wrist. Small, much better than the nonsensical huge links the other Maesters like to wear so much on their backs, as if to ensure they'll all have crooked backs.

He is...frustrated, after Marwyn speaks his fill and leaves. Well, trust the man to dump a Prophecy on someone who really was already occupied and then just disappear.

Once the waking dream is over, and Tyramear truly wakes up, looking at the stars, he doesn't bother going to sleep, just stares at the sky and thinks over the words.

Bad call, the next morning he's a bit tired and chooses to ride...

[Sahe]

Mera raised an eyebrow as Ser Shadrich answered. So the path was clear and he had already been at the tourney, what was he doing up here then.

"I couldn't help but notice your shield, Ser. The colours suggest the Riverlands, but mouse seems like an unusual choice. And you must be a bold one at that, there are many falcons in the Vale", Mera said, keeping the conversation going, "If you have already been at the Gates what are you doing here and alone at that?"

[heretic]

Tyramear

Day Nineteen

After a steep descent, the party has picked its way to the foot of the mountain road at the valley floor. Balericat lead the way, and for once, the your fellow travelers profited from his surefooted and pathfinding. The road itself is a dusty, flat thing, beaten down by the feet of a thousand travelers, but largely un-scarred by wheels and hooves. Some say that the true winner of the War of the Five Kings was the Vale, simply by failing to march off to death. Had that occurred, this road would be torn and cracked by fodder-wagons and iron-shod destriers.

Day Twenty-One

Today, you’ve gained the Bloody Gate. It’s a familiar expanse of battlements set into the walls of the narrow pass, with a double-towered gatehouse boldly standing athwart. Every seam appears to hide an archer’s slit, and the bulbous ends of catapult-arms are visible above some of the crenellations. Lord Ronnet commands that a horn-blast announce your arrival, as a courtesy. A rider comes to greet you, shouting the traditional challenge of “Who would pass the Bloody Gate?” and receiving Lord Ronnet’s response.

Inside, you find a warm bowl of barley and mutton soup and a place down below the salt in the cramped hall. The garrison appears to be made up of equal parts Arryn men, in sky-blue cloaks and silvery helms, and Waynwood men in green livery and blackened half-helms. Apparently their commander is Ser Donnel Waynwood, the Knight of the Gate. Ser Donnel is himself already at the tourney, seeking his Wings. His castellan is Ser Victor Hardyng, a liver-spotted greybeard who nods off more than once during supper. Presumably this Hardyng is a cousin or uncle to the prodigal Harry the Heir.

In any case, the small hall is soon filled with murmurs of gossip and the clink of pewter tankards. The Bloody Gate boasts no maester or rookery, but apparently momentous news arrived from King’s Landing by way of a note from Littlefinger. None of the remaining men have the letters to read the message (save the sleeping Ser Victor), but the note is said to tell of the High Septon imprisoning both Queen Cersei and Queen Margaery on charges of lewdness, fornication, incest, murder, and high treason. The story is garbled, but it roughly corresponds to Stannis’s accusations regarding King Tommen’s legitimacy, with a good measure of adultery thrown in. If the accusations are true, then it seems that the two queens managed to bed half the court and the Kingsguard to boot. It’s said that Lord Randyll Tarly has ended his siege of Storm’s End (held by a skeleton guard loyal to Stannis) and is marching for King’s Landing, with Mace Tyrell’s army close behind for support. Lord Ronnet takes all of this with surprise, and refrains from joining in when the men begin to speculate about the details of the queens’ reported treasons.

Banion

You drift to sleep easily once you’re snug beneath your cloak and furs. Visions of candied fruits dance before your eyes, like the kind you used to lift out of the kitchens before special feasts or weddings. Suddenly, they sprout legs and flee, just before a mounted knight pounds into view. His helm is shaped like a steel baker’s hat and his lance is a very long spoon. Luckily, he manages to rein up before plunging into the moat of gravy that rings the bread-bricked castle. Turning back, he faces the army behind him, which bears the banner of crossed drumsticks. The slingers haul bags of pease to the fore and the siege commences.

Mera

Ser Shadrich drags a finger across his shield, indicating the wavy lines of blue and dull red-brown, each three fingers thick. “The brown is for the lands I’ve crossed, the blue for the rivers. ‘Tis true that men may scoff at the mouse. That is often their last folly. But I’ve seen many a man fall in battle and never once did the mark on his shield save him. The flaming heart did not protect us from fire on the Blackwater, no more than Rhaegar’s dragon turned Robert’s warhammer.” He doesn’t name himself bold, but his words are ****-sure enough as to make no matter.

“As for the falcons, there is little to fear. A hedge knight can always find service when the lords meet in such numbers. They tend to come away insecure and fearful, in want of swords . . . or brash and battle-lusty, in want of swords. My little jaunt up here is just for pleasure. They say that if the night is clear, Alyssa’s Tears shine like gold in the light of the yellow harvest moon. And there’s nothing I love more than gold.”

The waterfall known as Alyssa’s Tears is difficult enough to see in the daytime, and you doubt that any reflection would be anything more than a glimmer.

Marcus

Gorlen’s mount shuffles a bit forward and backwards, betraying the emotions of the rider. Mera remains below, apparently still conversing with the campfire’s occupants.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus begins to pace, growling to himself. What was taking so long? The camp was either dangerous, or it wasn't.

[Sahe]

"With the eyes of a falcon perhaps", Mera says in response to the Mouse's explanation about what he was doing up here, "From up here you may see the Tears glittering in the sun on a clear day, but I'm afraid you've fallen victim to the babbling of stable boys and wet nurses."

Mera was sceptical about how honest this hedge knight was, so she continued to tease him, "You're risking a lot, coming up here for a grand tale of a novel sight. Tell me Ser, have you also been north of the Wall looking for grumkins and snarks?"

[heretic]

Mera

Ser Shadrich places his shield on the ground and crouches down to the fire to warm himself. "If they're named for their demeanor, I should prefer a snark to a grumpkin. But if I caught a mystical being, I surely would take it south, the better to ransom it to some lord's menagerie. The say that Ironborn have plundered the North, and from what I've heard, the northron lords never had much coin to begin with."

Single Mera post to help speed things up.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Outwardly, Banion appears fast asleep. His face twitches and sneers as different visions flood his mind, but he remains blissfully and peacefully wrapped in his warm furs. The remainder of his body does not stir, neither alerting others to his heavy dreams no causing him to jostle himself awake by hitting or kicking something in his physical space.

Inside his dream, Banion seems to maintain loose control over his actions. He watches with amazed curiosity at the knight as he charges back against an enormous army of figs. Taking a few steps back, he his shifts his attention between the knight and the figs preparing to lay siege to the castle of bread. Watching the green "boulders" fly towards the ramparts of the doughy structure, he waits to see what damage they cause with morbid curiosity... as well as what response the castle might have for its attackers.

[Sahe]

"I doubt you'd fetch a high price for snark Ser, there is plenty of that to go around south of the Wall already, even here on this freezing mountain pass", Mera said with a smile which quickly faded. "And considering the Ironborn they can drown with their god for all I care. Though they're still better than Freys, at least they don't offer you bread and salt only to stab you with the knife they used to cut it." There was contempt in her voice and for a moment she paused and just looked into the flames of the small fire.

After a moment she looked up again and sighed. "Well Ser, the night is growing darker and should report back to my lord 'fore the morning and hopefully get some rest myself. So I wish you a good night we surely meet at the tourney again, Ser", Mera said and turned around to leave the way she came.

[heretic]

Mera

Shadrich lets out a guffaw at your snarky jape. “I look forward to seeing you at the tourney. Perhaps we will meet in the melee—I fear that I am not seeking Wings. They would look silly on a mouse, methinks.”


The Party—Mera, Banion, Marcus, etc.

With news that the pass is clear, the group breaks camp and prepares once more for the road. A few motes of snow spiral lazily to the ground as men stomp out firepit embers and cinch up knap-sacks and saddlebags. Lord Roger mounts up and leads the way with his seahawk perched comfortably on his arm. Presently, he looses it and the proud bird circles up and up until it nearly disappears. Behind him, his falconer tends the cage, where the other two birds sleep.

It's not long before the castle comes into sight. It’s a squat, powerful bulwark of grey stone walls spanning between thick, rounded towers. Out in front of the gates, three dozen colorful pavilions have been raised, and there are nigh two hundred men and women milling about, tending horses, scouring armor, shucking nuts, and the like. As the party draws near, a trumpeter sounds a clarion from one of the towers and shouts out the arrival, though he’s too far for the words to carry.

Among the tents, you can see that most of those camping outside the castle gates are lowborn servants and soldiers, squires, and lesser knights. They take great interest in the party’s arrival, lining the sides of the central path to the gate in order to gawk. A few shout out words of acknowledgement, joking challenges, and the like.

Marcus

The sigils you spy fluttering on pennants or painted bright on shields are largely unfamiliar—gulls, stars, waves, candles, hawks, and wagon wheels are all in attendance. A few stand out, including the runes of House Royce of Runestone, the bells of Belmore, and the ravens-clutching-hearts of Corbray. All are ancient houses known even in the Westerlands; boasting royal intermarriages, past Kingsguard membership, and other high honors.

All around, you can feel the eyes of the onlookers on you—sizing you up, taking measure, and whispering back and forth. For their part, the knights you catch sight of seem to be young, strong men with few greybeards among them. This is a tourney for hungry men eager to make their name. A good omen.

Mera

You don’t spy too many familiar faces among the pavilions. These are mostly servants and squires, with some mangy-looking hedge knights and highborn champions among them as well. You do catch sight of Ser Jaime Wydman, a lean, powerful man with dark chestnut ringlets falling about his shoulders. He’s standing near a few men in Wydman livery, watching the procession go by with his bright blue eyes. You expect Ser Jaime is favored to win his Wings. He’s well-decorated from prior tourneys, perhaps more so than any other Vale knight save Ser Lyn Corbray, a notorious terror. House Wydman’s lands are not so far from House Corrett’s, so you’ve met Ser Jaime and his brothers and sisters a few times before. A couple boys in Belmore purple look vaguely familiar as well, though you can’t place their names. Squires, no doubt.

Banion

Passing through the pavilions, you begin to be able to put some of the knights into categories. There’s a couple haughty types with the air of command about them, but they’re outnumbered by some of the rougher kind. It’s said that any knight can make a knight, and some have been known to bestow the title in return for little and less. One tent in particular stands out as a den of ill repute. Unlike most of the other pavilions, it isn’t colored and shows no coat of arms on a pennant or hanging shield. Instead, the drab sailcloth is unadorned. The men coming out of it to watch the party pass by having a common charm to them—they’re pox-scarred and scruffy, greasy-haired, and quick with a jape. One of them is waxing a shield showing an immodest eggplant between two onions. In the back of the group, a man in mail and a full steel greathelm steps out to observe the procession, retiring only after the full group passes and the other hedge knights return to their tent.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus follows the Corrett party to their camping place and sets up his tent. He knows he's being watched, of course he is, but those with lineage on their side seldom had the talent to back it up. Marcus saw no reason to be concerned about victories the ancestors of these men had won, and by the time the tourney was over they'd feel the same.

[Sahe]

Mera took another lance from Walda and gave her a confident smile. This had been the third lance she had broken against Ser Jaime who had been equally unsuccessful in unhorsing her. She couldn't believe she had made it this far. At the beginning of the tourney she had been content to just being able to compete, but now that victory was just out of reach, she wanted to win. For the fourth time, Mera lead Black Bolt to the starting position and gave a respectful nod to Ser Jaime who returned the gesture, before lowering her visor and setting for a charge once again. The two horses barreled down the field, the riders lowered their lances and then they clashed. Wood splintered, metal creaked and a gasp went through the watching crowd as Ser Jaime lay in the mud still trying to process what just happened as his squires rushed to help him up. But all that barely mattered to Mera, she threw away the shattered lance and the sweaty helmet and made a victory lap, grinning, laughing and soaking in the jubilant cheers from the crowd until she had reached Walda. She got down from Black Bolt and went over to her and kissed her passionately in front of everyone.

Mera gasped and sat up, waving her arms around as if to defend herself from an attack when suddenly ice cold water was splashed into her face, "What? Who? Where? How?" she asked while trying to get her bearings and seeing Walda laughing, "Wake up Champion! Today's the day and you gotta look the part." Mera sighed and let herself fall back into the covers, which was immediately punished by another splash of water. "Hey! No more sleeping!" "Ok, ok I'm awake." "What did you dream about anyway?" A small smile appeared on Mera's face, "I won...I won the tourney and everyone was celebrating..." "Well, if you want that to happen you have to get up. I'll get us some breakfast, if you're not up by the time I return, I'll bring more water!", Walda said and rushed out the tent. Mera's eyes lingered for a moment on the entrance where Walda had just disappeared while her mind went through the last few moments of the dream she just had. Just thinking about it made her go red and she was glad nobody was here to see it.

The Arrival:

Mera rode besides her brother at the head of the caravan as they arrived at the castle, Mera missed the warmth of Walda at her back, but sharing a horse wouldn't be a good look for the champion of Hosue Corrett. She wore some of her best linen and Ser Gorlen's helmet and armor, that Walda had taken extra care to polish and crowned with some blue and white feathers, while a streamer that flew the Corrett colors was decorating the shaft of her spear. Mera felt like all eyes were on her. It was no question, that she was the House Corrett champion, but Mera could see it in some of the people's eyes that they couldn't fully comprehend it. They were skeptical, dismissive, but that made Mera just more determined to show them what she could do.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Passing by the makeshift wall of gawkers, Banion smirks at some of the acknowledgements and murmurs. When he hears words of challenge, the man makes a few crude, silent gestures back in the direction of the jokes - exhibiting a playful and much less refined nature that his lord and his immediate family might not be able to get away with so easily. Riding near the back of the train also gives him a bit more freedom in how he chooses to travel. Sometimes, it's good to be the smallfolk.

As they ride by the unmarked pavilion, Banion takes special note of the characters seeming to congregate about it. Riding alongside Dryn, Banion makes a small gesture towards the man polishing the shield as he looks over to his traveling companion. In his gravelly voice, the rogue murmurs, "Someone seems to be quite pleased with himself... We should get you a shield like that. A green bean between two radishes." With a quick gesture, Banion swats his left hand towards Dryn's chest, marking the end of the jest.

Regardless, Banion sticks with the party until they've made camp as it would be improper for him to just saunter off at present. There will certainly be time for him to rub elbows later on and adhere to Morris' request of him.

[heretic]

Mera

As you pass under the gatehouse, a guardsman up above rattles a spear with a small copper bell attached. A soft shower of white and blue rose petals fills the air as the lords and champions make their way into the courtyard. Inside, you can see the jousting lists formed by a simple fence painted white as bone, as well as scaffolded, sheltered risers for the lords and ladies. Back behind the tourney grounds, they've put up practice lists and quintains besides. A number of knights are taking turns at the straw foeman, while others are practicing their swordplay with blunted steel. You spy a Corbray, a Waynwood, and a Ruthermont, among others. By the number of liveried servants in the yard and their muted response to your entrance, you apprise that your party is among the last to arrive.

A handful of grooms have mustered from the stables to greet the party. Lord Roger and Morris dismount, offering up their reins so that they might seek out Nestor Royce and pay their respects for his hospitality. Ser Myles dismounts as well. He points toward a shingled hut that’s been erected out in the yard. “I believe that’s the master of games there. We’d best enter ourselves into the roll of champions.” Following his gaze, you notice that the hut has an open-shuttered window, where a long-necked, thin maester is bent over a curling scroll spread on the sill.

Banion

Dryn helps you raise your tent, but only after extracting your agreement that his sigil would be a mighty tent-pole rather than a tiny green bean. A few footmen and servants from elsewhere in the camp have sauntered up to watch. There’s a stripling boy with a badge showing a red castle—a groom or waterboy of House Redfort, by the looks of it—as well as an older footman with hair like straw succumbing slowly to frost, and a woman approaching thirty in a thick wool dress. The footman is liveried in brown, with a splay of white arrows stitched over his breast, while the woman is unadorned.

The older man speaks first. “Well met. I’m Hoke. You serve House Corrett?”

Marcus

By the time your tent is up, there’s a small crowd of onlookers. There’s perhaps a dozen of them—a few small children pausing from some chore to gawk at your stature, four giggling maids in matching pastel shawls and dresses, and five men that you take to be knights, plus a squire. Three of the knights are rough-looking, unshaven and in need of a bath. They’re wrapped in traveler’s cloaks, which obscure the bulk of their armor as well as any sigil. The other two have the look of nobility about them, in poise and garb. The first is perhaps five-and-thirty, an-average sized man with close-cut black hair and the yellow stars of Templeton standing boldly against the black of his thick surcoat. The other is a lean man with broad shoulders, his loose brown curls falling to his collar and framing a clean-shaven face with bright blue eyes. His breastplate is forged in the likeness of a man’s muscled torso, libertine, with gold rings piercing the steel nipples. Overtop his shoulders hangs a thick great-cloak with a rich mantle of wolf’s fur. Beside him is his squire, in Belmore purple. The knight with the brown curls offers his arm for you to clasp. “Well met, Ser Clegane. You’re far from home indeed. I am Jaime Wydman, a knight of the Spitkeep and champion of my house. I must confess, I do not know your name.”

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus dusts his hands off, trying not to scare the kids, or make a fool of himself in front of the maids. His shield is leaning against his axe, stuck into the frozen ground, with his helmet on top. He finds himself thankful for the cold, even the long march hadn't made him sweat. Looking at the knights, he gives the rough ones an appraising look. No laurels to rest on there. Crude, unrefined, but that only made them hungry, daring, these were men to be respected. And less likely to afford horses, so he would almost certainly be crossing blades with them in the grand melee. The other two however, had more weight on their shoulders. Reputations to uphold, both their and their families'. Defeat would be taken more personally, insults as well. And growing up with money, meant tutors. These men had been trained by experienced blades. Marcus takes his arm. "Marcus, ser. But I am not a knight myself. I have not earned it."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Begrudgingly – only to antagonize Dryn further – Banion relents on the comments regarding sigils if but to leave the man in better spirits while assisting him in the raising of the tent. Even if the commentary was biting, the two seem to have returned to status quo by the time their work is complete. Stepping back to give the tent a visual once-over, Banion rests his hands on his hips and gives the structure a discerning eye. Sleet, snow, cold – it will need to keep them comfortable for the next few days, not to mention look at least somewhat presentable to honor their lord.

The rogue seems somewhat startled when he hears that man’s voice behind him, not having noticed that gathered trio behind him. Pivoting on his heels, he spins about to look upon the man. Eyes running over the older footman and back up again, Banion takes a moment to gather his thoughts before responding, “It’ll do for the likes of me.” Glancing briefly to the man’s company – the young boy with the House Redfort crest and the woman in the wool dress – Banion returns his attention to Hoke and responds in an amicable tone. “But yes, I do. Banion… Banion of Greycrown Keep,” he then adds firmly in introduction. “What is it I can do for you, Hoke?” the man then inquires, cutting to the catalyst for Hoke’s introduction.

[Sahe]

"Right", Mera answered Ser Myles as she dismounted from Redfoot and gave the reigns to a stableboy. "We should see the good Maester so I can begin humiliating all those cocky knights and put them in their place...the dirt", Mera said with a toothy grin on her face, not making any efforts to contain her excitement.

Leading the way across the yard to the hut, she stepped in front of the Maester with confidence, "Greetings Maester, I am Mera Stone, I'm entering the tourney as Champion for House Corrett."

[DukeGod]

Day Nineteen

Nothing to think about. Just the road. Agree, nod. Ignore. Tyramear doubts he's a good road companion sometimes

Day Twenty-One

Cheer up. Party.

They're almost there.

This tourney is important, everything is pointing to that. He considers how to quicken their pace but any suggestions will probably be shot down

Tyramear excuses himself from the party. During the night he tries to see through Balericat's eyes, letting the shadowcat scout forward himself. He'll let him go to the tourney grounds and meet up later.

[heretic]

Tyramear

The snow shines bright in the light of the moon, crunching beneath your paws as you lope after the scent of man and horse. Their smell is thick, even in the cold—it wafts from half-buried ash-pits, piles of frozen droppings, and discarded bones, most of which they haven’t even cracked. Most of these stinks are buried in snow and scattered on either side of the low two-legs path at the center of the valley. As is typical, the path has no shelter or place to hide. It leads to what you sense as your destination—a great stone man-hill, filled with horses, dogs, men, and above all, fire. Even though the hill is a quarter night’s walk ahead, you can see the burning glow from here.

Just then, you spot movement in the sky. A great eagle is swooping out of the night, straight at you. Lit by the moon above and snow below, its broad wings are as dark as its beak and talons are light. But it’s the eyes that make your every muscle tense and the fur along your spine bristle. Unmistakably, this eagle has the eyes of a man. He lets out a piercing shriek as he comes.

The eagle is going to either attack you or swerve. It’s up to you to dodge, crouch and try to swat it away if it keeps coming, or aggressively leap to take it down. I’m also open to other options. I’ll leave it up to you, but no matter your choice of action, you need to roll the appropriate dice: Agility (Dodge), Agility (Quickness) and Fighting, or Athletics (Jump) and two Fighting rolls, for the respective options I floated. IIRC Balericat has standard Shadowcat stats, so he has (listing only relevant stats) Agility 4 (Dodge 1) (Quickness 2), Athletics 4 (Jump 2), and Fighting 4. The full entry is on page 220 of the Game of Thrones Edition Rulebook

Marcus

Jaime Wydman smiles relaxedly, seeming to realize for the first time that he is several years your senior. “I have a feeling you will win your spurs soon enough, Marcus. As fortune has it, Lord Protector Baelish has decreed that the melee will be fought on foot, so that the defeated might be spared a trampling. He must have listened to the maesters in this, for they never cease yammering about broken arms and cracked skulls at tourney. Or perchance he fears that his friends will suffer a mortal wound in the bedlam.” He tugs his heavy cloak more tightly over his paudroned shoulders. “Our Lord Protector knows that on the field of valor, his gold only goes so far. Much and more is left to chance and skill at arms. Anyhaps, you will surely tower above the rest afoot.” Looking towards the other knights present, he admonishes, "sers, you would do well to yield if battle brings you and Marcus together. Leave him to those who who have earned their laurels." He finishes with a cocky smile. The other knights shift uncomfortably, their eyes and feet conveying their displeasure at Wydman's mockery, but they remain silent.

Banion

Hoke seems to find sweetness in your brevity. “My Lord Hunter wishes to receive Lords Egen and Corrett in his champion’s tent for mulled wine and roasted chestnuts. Lord Redfort and Lord Royce will accompany. We can show you to the tent now so that we might make ready whatever your lords require. I’ve overseen the mulling of the wine myself and can attest to its richness, but you may make your own inspection of the accommodations.”

Mera

Ser Myles follows you up to the hut as your mounts are led off towards the dark-shingled stable that stretches along the inside of the western curtain wall. The maester looks up from his scroll, causing a few long wisps of black hair to briefly dislodge and flap freely in the breeze, tethered only by their fleshy anchorage. He combs them back across his scalp with a rebukeful hand. After you speak your bit, Myles identifies himself as well.

The maester looks you up and down. “Corrett and Egen entering a bastard apiece is it? Some will certainly have things to say about that. And a woman besides.” He lifts a lantern up from below and places it, already lit, beside a bottle of ink to warm it. “I am familiar enough with Ser Myles’s honors and deeds, enough so as to make the proper recordings. Less with your accomplishments, Mera. Woman warriors have appeared in our history before—Danelle Lothston, Queen Visenya, and Nymeria—though it is more common among savage peoples, and it’s said they are disfavored by the Gods. Brienne of Tarth won the honor of joining the false king Renly’s Rainbow Guard, and he was struck down soon after."

From your knowledge of tournaments, the master of games often arranges the pairings so that the most storied competitors face unskilled opponents in the early rounds, thus ensuring that the best riders do not face one another until the final handful of tilts. This maester, insults aside, wants to know your skill at arms so that he can fit you into such a plan.

[Rhyvurg]

There it is. The arrogance of high birth. Assurance their abilities would surely surpass those born with less coin, as if the gods gave a better sword arm based on how much gold your family had. But Marcus, boy that he still is, knew better than to ever say any of this. Not yet, anyway. "I was unaware there is a sept near at hand for a vigil. I would make a poor knight regardless my Lord, I have not the coin for a horse, and I'm not much in the saddle. I prefer solid ground under my feet." He didn't miss the comments regarding Baelish either, were there men here who would use the tourney as an excuse for murder? He glances at the other knights. "I have no doubt those who have the courage to enter the melee will comport themselves commendably. But I have to say, yours is a rare bravery." He takes a step closer to Ser Jamie. He would not be thought meek by men like these, who slighted the honor of other knights. He would make that title mean something again, one felled ego at a time if he must. "Wanting to fight me fresh, no wounds or weariness to slow me? Most men in Westeros would piss their armor at the idea of facing a Clegane in such a way."

[Sahe]

As the maester was talking an urge in Mera rised to punch him on the mouth. But she knew she couldn't do that and so she composed herself, called those remnant memories of her dream from this morning back into her mind and responded, "If the gods disfavored women like me, they wouldn't let us win tourneys. And I'm likely more experienced than half the men here. I fought in the Battle of Asheford and some skirmishes for the Young Wolf and I survived the Red Wedding."

[DukeGod]

Tyramear's heart accelerated, but Balericat's remained calm. The duality was a weird experience. He was anxious, to the shadowcat it was just another hunt of sorts, with prey that foolishly tried to reverse the cycle. Cats ate birds. Time to remind this one of the laws of nature

Of course, at least part of those thoughts were his dream fugue mixing in with his companion's instincts. By The Warrior but this was weirder than usual

Alright, he trusts his feline instincts. Cats take down birds, so he springs across snow to pick up speed, meeting the eagle halfway with a leap!

Thx for the stats.
Athletics (+Jump): [roll0]
Fighting 1 [roll1]
Fighting 2 [roll2]

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Banion seems a bit puzzled at first why this message is being relayed to him. While it's certainly clear to those that have been in camp that the new arrival is with House Corrett, he must not figure himself that noticeable or that important to receive such a request. Nevertheless, he keeps his eyes focused on Hoke as his jaw shifts a little to the right - the man listening to what he is told. When Hoke has said his piece, Banion quietly looks towards the woman and boy that have joined Hoke to gauge their reaction to the news. It's only a brief glance towards either of them, those his eyes linger on the lady just a bit longer. "Lords Hunter, Royce, and Redfort," he repeats as his attention finally returns to hoke. "I think I can remember that," Banion then assures the older man. "But yes, lead on - I'll follow you so I know the way."

Clearing his throat, Banion looks back towards Dryn and says dryly, "If anyone wonders where I've wandered off to, you can tell them I'm accompanying one of Lord Hunter's men." He starts to turn to leave with the trio, but then appears to remember something. Swiveling back at his hips to look at Dryn once again, Banion adds in a joking tone, "And oh - do remember to put up the wash." Giving his friend a wink of the right eye, he then turns towards Hoke and motions with his right hand for the man to escort him to the tent where the meeting will be held.

[heretic]

Tyramear

You spring into the sky. The eagle backflaps, trying desperately to climb up and to the side. Time seems to suspend as you rise, your spine uncoiling and your eyes widening as your body stretches to its full reach. Your claws hook it on the wing and body and you pull it easily into your jaws. By now your hips are higher than your head and you have to twist before landing lightly back in the snow on all four paws, the eagle clamped firmly in your mouth with its wings akimbo.


Your attacks both hit and did enough damage to defeat the eagle. It’s up to you as to whether you killed it immediately, or whether you’ve merely grabbed it in your mouth. I’m also open to this being a conflict between Tyramear and Balericat. If this is a situation where you think Balericat would instinctively kill the eagle and Tyramear wants to spare it for now, roll a Difficulty 15 Will (Dedication) test to spare it. It’s also possible that Tyramear has trained Balericat to return live prey, in which case the test should be easier or perhaps not necessary. Anyway, all of that is dependent on how you see Tyramear and Balericat’s relationship, so I’ll leave it to you.

Mera

The maester rubs his chin as you speak. “As you say, you’ve indeed seen more war than most here.” His finger traces down a column of names on his scroll. “Ser Myles, you shall face Ser Creighton Hersy. May the Seven bless your lance. Mera, you will face Ser Gwayne Waxley. May the Seven bless your lance.” He dips a quill in his ink and begins to etch your names into some blank spaces of the scroll. “Now, the rules. You will ride as many tilts as is required for one or both knights to be unseated. If both are unseated in the same pass, the bout will continue afoot with blunted weapons. You may carry those or have your squires run out to arm you. There are sixty-four knights in the lists, competing to become the eight Winged Knights. Each knight is eliminated by a single loss. The first eight knights to win three times will earn their Wings. They will then continue to compete until we crown a champion to be their Lord Commander. The melee will follow the next day and take place on foot, in order to shield against injuries. Oh, and during the joust there is no expectation of ransoms. If you wish to put your armor and mount on the line, that is between you and your opponent. The melee will have champion’s purses, but no ransoms. All by the Lord Protector’s order.”

You’re generally familiar with houses Waxley and Hersy, if not the names of yours and Myles’s opponents. House Waxley is house of landed knights from the town of Wickenden, on the Bay of Crabs. They’ve amassed some wealth as sellers of scented candles. House Hersy is closer to home, making their seat at Newkeep, to the northeast of the Egens. They’re an ancient Andal house of a similar stature to the Egens, but without any banner houses of their own.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your brother and Lord Roger emerge from the keep, both looking very cross.


Banion

Dryn smiles. “Methinks I’ll attend as well. We wouldn’t want to forget any of the finer details.” He falls in with you behind the trio of Redfort and Hunter servants. They lead you through the camp towards the higher ground near the gatehouse of the castle. Up here, the tents are somewhat grander, constituting full pavilions in some cases, and adorned with all manner of colorful pennant and flapping checker-flags. Lord Hunter’s pavilion is on the uglier side, a brown and white canvas monstrosity bulging out in a circular manner, like a comically squished barrel. You count at least eight armed footmen posted around the outside, glowering impassively at passersby. Hoke breezes easily into a side-entrance, leading the way for you.

Inside, a mighty iron stove dominates the center of the tent, its chimney poking up through the canvas ceiling. Two older lords are seated at a mighty table covered in little wooden knights, painted with the heraldry of various houses. A dozen empty stools surround them. Around the sides of the tent there are a few suits of armor are mounted on wooden stands, as well as a small sideboard table cluttered with platters, knives, loaves of bread, and nuts. Hoke leads you first to the stove, where a pot of wine is mulling. Dryn insists on sampling it, to be sure it’s up to your lord’s standards. Next he shows you to the servant’s sideboard, in order to inspect the chestnuts and other available items, which include cheeses, blood sausage, and salt fish.

As you make your way about the tent, you overhear some of the lords’ conversation. The first speaker has a thick mustache and pointed beard, both of which are going grey. He wears a fine ermine cloak over a shirt of silvery mail, a long sword at his hip. “I want him unmasked, sooner rather than later. You’ve done it before and you can do it again. Are you sure your sons know Harlan’s face? I will not take chances.” The other man is even older—his eyes are a little bleary and his voice strained. “My sons are knights, Lord Hunter, not catspaws or mummers. They are ill-suited for such activities. I suggest you find another way. In the meantime, you are well-guarded. I remind you, I have offered my men to assist in protection and food-tasting. You will not come to harm.”

Marcus

Jaime Wydman doesn’t give an inch as you step forward, looming over him. “As it happens, I have fought a Clegane before. And I did not piss my armor.” He watches your face carefully before continuing. “It was at the Hand’s Tourney, not two years past. I overthrew three knights that day—a rank-smelling hedge knight, Ser Colin Florent, and Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard. For my fourth tilt, I drew the Mountain That Rides. I was sure I would defeat him. After all, House Wydman’s words are Right Conquers Might, and there was no man as mighty as Gregor Clegane. Alas, we unhorsed each other and I was forced to yield or be hacked apart by a blunt sword as tall as I am.” He crosses his arms. “I prayed to the Crone for wisdom that night and she revealed my sins to me. I had lain with a whore, a follower of R’hllor, the Red God. She smeared ash on my lance and said it would strike with the strength of a bound demon.” He shakes his head. “I laughed at her and thought nothing of it, but it was unchivalrous and unholy to accept such a dark blessing. Since that day, I have atoned for my sins. And as it happens, the Seven saw fit to strike Gregor down in a holy trial by combat. Right conquered might the day his soul departed Westeros, as it always will.”

[Rhyvurg]

"I know what happened to my uncle, I was there. Well you might be in luck, I doubt there are any R'hllorian women here, so you will no doubt do well." Marcus was fairly certain this man would single him out in the melee at this point, but it never occurred to him to be more cautious. "I wonder what excuse you will find at the end now? My uncle was a brutal killer, there is no shame in being afraid to fight him."

[DukeGod]

Kill it is the thought that goes through both minds. Their jaws snap shut, pushing sharp fangs into the bird's frail body.

Tyramear tries to get it to spit, but Balericat is proud at his new kill, taking out one of the larger birds of prey. With a mental sight, he lets the cat keep his trophy. Though he keeps reined the urge to eat it. Let him do that when their minds are no longer together

For now, he simply chooses to resume going ahead, carrying the thing in it's mouth.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The rogue smirks as he watches Dryn sample the wine. His friend knows how to get the most out of any such offer, drawing out the process to imbibe the largest sample he can afford on the grace and patience of hosts. It's a comical process to watch as Dryn stirs the pot, ladles a generous portion, breathes in the aroma, takes in a small sip... and then another, which is promptly swishes about. Dryn's eyes shift to the representative of Lord Hunter, as if to give a disapproving or thoughtful stare before he proceeds to take another sip. Standing upright, Dryn looks down into the pot, contemplating the concotion before taking a larger gulp of the wine, tilting his head back in the process. Remaining quite still as he lets the warm nectar slide down his gullet - much better than anything he would be having on his person - Dryn finally looks back to Hoke and nods approvingly. All the while, Banion is left smiling and attempting to keep his laughter contained. He's mostly successful in hiding his mirth by turning his attention, idly it seems, to the table of food. Picking at the sausage, he pops a bit in his mouth and chews on it delightfully - his mouth slightly ajar as the amusement over Dryn's antics complicate maintaining a steadfast face.

Grabbing a handful of nuts and cheese, he walks about the perimeter of the tent, as if inspecting it for secondary entrances or hidden weaponry. He admires the suits of armor hung up while munching away on the small amount of snack he procured. All the while, he keeps his ear turned in towards the two lords speaking, eavesdropping on their conversation while not trying to stand out. When the assurances have been made to Lord Hunter about his safety and some air fills the conversation, Banion looks back towards Hoke and says, "I see no problem with our lord attending, but I cannot speak for his plans. I'll assure him that it is, however, quite a welcoming event." A warm smile is given towards Hoke, Banion trying to show some genuine appreciation for the hospitality.

[Sahe]

So this was it, she was officially in the tourney now. She turned to Ser Myles and grinned at him, "Don't you dare get unhorsed before we meet in a tilt, lest you miss your chance to lose to me". Granted Mera wasn't sure she could actually do that, or even come that far. She had quite some experience in the field, but there were many more knights and warriors here more experienced in the tilt.

When she saw her brother and Lord Roger emerge from the keep, she excused herself from Ser Myles and the Maester and approached them, they looked angry and worry came to Mera's mind. Did the Lord Protector decree another thing, like, that a bastard woman couldn't joust? No, not everything was about her!

"Milords, something wrong? I have good news, it's official now, I'm in the tourney and will ride against Ser Gwayne Waxley in my first tilt."

[heretic]

Tyramear

The eagle’s bones crunch easily as Balericat bites down. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you hear a man screaming wildly, unheard by Balericat’s ears. For a wrenching moment, you feel him inside the cat with you, causing the cat to twitch and tremble. But his grip is tenuous and you oust him with a collective snarl.

As you pad forward, the man-hill swells great before you, until it swallows nearly the entire horizon. Up close, you can see that they’ve lain many soft-hide boulders near the front of the stone hill. A few fires burn around the perimeter, revealing the garish songbird colors of the soft-hides, as well as the glint of hard-claws near and at the ready. There are horses too, their scent thick and juicy, and hounds. You spy a pile of them laying atop one another inside a trap of branches. Suddenly, there is wind and you need to move.

Make a Stealth 5 (Sneak1) check to avoid disturbing the hounds. Since it’s night, you get an additional +D.

Marcus

Wydman’s blue eyes narrow slightly. “I shall have no need for excuses tomorrow. You’ll find I’ve won my Wings before the sun sets. Only four knights here have ever earned a champion’s laurel—myself, Ser Lyn, Strong Sam Stone, and Harry the Heir. And Harry’s victory was in a squire’s tourney. Sam’s was eight summers ago, when I was a babe in arms. Old men and green knights.” You’ve heard tell that Harry Hardyng is heir to the Vale, and Ser Lyn is the deadliest knight found therein, but that’s the reach of your knowledge.

Ser Jaime ponders your statement about your uncle. You can hear the soft rasp of his pauldrons as he raises a hand to stroke his chin. “You speak ill of him, yet you would invoke the name Clegane to inspire fear. You have some of your nuncle Sandor in you, methinks. He also eschewed knighthood and hated Ser Gregor, yet profited mightily from the fear the Clegane name inspires, even taking his moniker and his helm from the house. A mighty fighter, to be sure. But remember that hatred—even of the wicked—cannot extinguish that which the Seven have anointed as righteous.” He septuaflects, tracing a seven pointed star across his lewd, steely-muscled breastplate, clinking past one of the gold-pierced nipples. “Any man who puts aside his white cloak, his city, his king . . . his honor, is undone.”

Banion

The wine is pleasantly hot, and when Dryn draws his ladle, the scents of nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and peppercorn fill the air. The cheese is sharp and pregnant with little green sprigs of something, and pairs well with the blood sausage. Hoke’s face remains impassive, but he frowns with his eyes at you and Dryn take your “sample” of the food. He escorts you back out almost eagerly, perhaps realizing that you could hear some of the conversation within.

Once outside again, Dryn leans into your ear. “That was Lord Redfort speaking to Hunter. It seems the rumors are true then—they say Hunter’s brothers offed ‘is father and now they’re after him. Of course, the brothers say it was Lord Hunter that did the offing and only blamed them for it. Lord Hunter seems more like to spill wine than blood if you ask me.”

Outside, the neighboring tents show a bright red fort on white and the black iron studs of House Royce on bronze. A number of servants and hangers-on are about, herding sheep, plucking fowl, buffing lances and shields, washing clothes in a tub.

Mera

Your brother offers a distracted smile. “Well met, sister. Waxley won’t know what hit—”“I won’t stand for it!” Roger bursts in. Glancing between you and Morris, he starts marching back out toward the tents. Hurrying to keep up, Morris fills you in. “Lord Baelish has reverted the Corrett and Egen rights to the Meltwater back to Eyrie.” “AND SOLD THEM TO THE BELMORES, WHO ALREADY HAVE RIGHTS!” Water rights are precious things, and while you’re not experienced in such negotiations, you know that Littlefinger’s move is a drastic step. Without lawful rights to trade and fish on the Meltwater, the Egens and Corretts will be largely cut off from the other houses on the inner Vale. Roger stomps forward in silence, no doubt moments away from another outburst.

Morris resumes his explanation. “We suspect that this is the price Lord Belmore named to set aside his allegiance to the Declarants—and there is talk that the Waynwoods and Templetons have also abandoned Bronze Yohn. Belmore doesn’t need those water rights himself, but he is within his authority to resell them . . . likely back to us, since we need them most. This arrangement is meant to be less crass than Littlefinger directly paying off Belmore with chests of gold. And he expects us to accept this unmanning without complaint—what was it he said?” “He said ‘House Egen has always served the Eyrie with honor and distinction, and we will once again be relying on your loyal service, By Day Or Night, as you say.’ As my bloody arse will say!” “Our honor is our weakness. Baelish needs to pick someone’s pocket to buy off Belmore. Why not the house that only serves and never complains?” Roger swats aside the tent-flap at the entrance to the Egen tent and the group proceeds within.

The loss of water rights represents -3 Wealth for House Corrett in game terms, as well as -6 for House Egen, assuming it goes into effect as planned.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus ignores Wydman and instead focuses on Jamie. "Gregor was a monster, but House Clegane was founded by an act of heroism. Sandor abandoned his oath, but his grandfather was crippled protecting his lord. From the beginning, we were not men to be taken lightly. I do not hide from my name, nor do I intend to let two broken men decide how the world will treat me for it. I will show Westeros the folly of judging a man by the deeds of his family."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The rogue doesn't seem to mind the frown he's given when sampling the food - instead, giving Hoke a 'What can you do?' look by raising his eyebrows briefly.

Upon being escorted from the tent and left on their own, Banion walks slowly along with Dryn away from the tent as he listens in to the information he's told. Nodding his head quite slowly in a show of understanding, Banion remarks in a low tone as he eyes the bits and pieces of snack in his left hand, "I don't see a man willing to kill his own father being that frightened of his brothers." The remaining nuts are thrown in his mouth and he crunches on them thoughtfully as his eyes wander to the smallfolk and various unnamed working outside the tent. "Of course, we bring this generous offer and news to Lord Corrett. I don't see any concern for his safety or well-being. But I'd be lying if I said I knew why they wanted to speak with him," he then mentions, the pace of his words slowing as his eyes seem to fixate on an older woman vigorously scrubbing travel clothes of one of the Redfort house members. "Major houses just throwing their weight around I suppose..."

[DukeGod]

Oops, the wind will carry his scent. Best not be here if anyone notices it

Steath 5 (Sneak 1) +D Night [roll0]

If he finds himself in the camp, now it's time to get focus back again. He'll try to concentrate on his sight or hearing, searching for familiar sight, like the Corrett banner hanging from some tent, or maybe the voices of the tournament goers.

Guiding the shadowcat to either of those tents

Rolling Awareness to find a friendly tent
[roll1]
+2 Notice just in case [roll2]

[Sahe]

As she listened, Mera furrowed her brows. The other side of tourneys and similar gatherings, while the warriors fought for honor and glory in the lists, the lords and ladies made politics and spun their intrigues. Mera had little love for Littlefinger and while she wasn't as outraged about the situation as Roger Egen.

"Why don't we start complaining then?", Mera asked as they entered the Egen tent, "I wouldn't be where I am today if I hadn't been complaining. We could throw in our support for the Declarants, show Lord Baelish, that he cannot bully us around."

[heretic]

Mera (day)

Lord Roger throws himself down in the largest chair that has been arranged around a table. The pavilion is of middling size, featuring a pair of beds, the table and four chairs, three covered braziers of coals, and in the corner, Myles’s armor and effects. Morris takes a second chair, leaving the third for you. The fourth is taken by Stallicho, who appeared partway through the tromp down from the castle.

“Oh aye, we should complain,” Roger agrees. “We’ll arrange a meeting with the Declarants—Bronze Yohn, Redfort, or Hunter.” Morris cuts in. “The only trouble is that the Belmores are more powerful than we are, especially if they can persuade the Wydmans to their side. Littlefinger knows that even if we switch, the Declarants have been weakened. He's daring us to choose the losing side.” House Wydman is not sworn to Strongsong, but they often support the actions of their Belmore neighbors.

Roger thinks for a moment. “Aye, that might be. But we have the Howlers.” Stallicho clears his throat. “And the Bright Banners.”

The Cat (night)

You nimbly skirt the pack of sleeping hounds and begin searching for something familiar. It’s quiet in the camp, with all the two-legged men inside their soft-hide boulders. However, the winter air still holds some familiar notes, which you can follow, nose first, among the tents. It’s a hint of perfumed leather, or a certain stain of soft-hide . . . and eventually the musk of the healer’s pack-leaders.

Just as you approach their tent, you hear the piercing clanks of hard-hide, accompanied by the unsteady crunch of a two-legs man coming through the snow. He is barely familiar, like the memory of a long-lost dream. It’s a weakling of a man, wearing soft-hide about his body, and strands of hard-hide links around his neck. In his hands, he carries a blazingly bright fire-stick and some crystalline orbs. He’ll never see you with his night-blindness, but it looks like he’s coming for the pack’s boulder, or the one just beside it.

Make a Will (Dedication) check at Difficulty 15 to recognize the man (whom Tyramear knows by sight). Also, your Awareness roll should have been 7 dice, take the 5 highest, rather than 5+2. Bonus dice always result in dice being dropped. No need to reroll since your base result was so high.

Banion (day)

Dryn nods his agreement regarding your assessment of Lord Hunter. “I expect he’ll want to recruit Egen and Corrett to the Declarant cause. The Declarants have been the talk of the Vale for some time—I expect the only thing more interesting for people to flap their gums over is if another king gets killt.” Dryn slows as he sees you eyeing the washer-woman.

She’s making quick work of her task—she’s got half a dozen pieces of Redfort livery pinned to latticed drying-racks that are set up in the meager sunlight, and heated by coals from below. There are a couple more sullied ones, but she appears to have run short of lye and disappears further into the camp to find some.

Marcus (day)

Ser Jaime Wydman’s nods slightly as you speak, his face breaking from haughtiness to something closer to respect. “Marcus, forgive me. I see now that you’re riding a new course. I thought . . . I thought you were here to stamp about, rage against chivalry, and lay men low, like your uncles would have done.” He clasps a fist to his chest in farewell. “May you strike true in the melee, Marcus.”

Behind him, you see Lords Egen and Corrett storming into their tent, with Mera and Stallicho close behind.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus returns the gesture. "Thank you, but I think Lord Corrett is having difficulty with something..." Tucking his helmet under one arm and hefting his axe, Marcus walks to his Lord's tent.

[Old Overholt]

Banion (day)

Dryn nods his agreement regarding your assessment of Lord Hunter. “I expect he’ll want to recruit Egen and Corrett to the Declarant cause. The Declarants have been the talk of the Vale for some time—I expect the only thing more interesting for people to flap their gums over is if another king gets killt.” Dryn slows as he sees you eyeing the washer-woman.

She’s making quick work of her task—she’s got half a dozen pieces of Redfort livery pinned to latticed drying-racks that are set up in the meager sunlight, and heated by coals from below. There are a couple more sullied ones, but she appears to have run short of lye and disappears further into the camp to find some.

Banion

As the older lady vanishes into the camp, Banion's attention returns to the conversation at hand - his eyes shift to fix on Dryn. He appears to have heard most, if not all, the conversation as he picks up without missing a beat. "And wouldn't that be something?" he asks in rhetorical fashion, an impish smile creeping across his face for a brief moment. Then, almost as an after thought, Banion reaches out and gives Dryn a hearty, but playful push on his closest shoulder - turning the man slightly as he does so. The move appears to be intended to make sure he has Dryn's attention and remember something that Banion tells him. "Don't let me forget to bring something back from this tournament, eh?" Banion requests of Dryn before he starts to walk towards the Corrett tent once again. "And not the bloody drip like Waters, huh?" Banion adds in mocking distaste.

[Sahe]

Sitting down at the table, Mera continued to listen to the two lords. Roger seemed a lot more impulsive than her brother.

"How well known is our alliance with the Howlers and the Bright Banners even?", she said when they were brought up. Mera was quite sure that the peace her brother negotiated with a mountain clan would stir some things up, if it was known and House Egen hiring a band of mercenaries renown for their castle cracking abilities certainly send some signals.

"If it's too much of a risk, maybe we can dare Belmore to wager the water rights in the tourney should I find myself riding against their champion.", Mera added as a jest.

[heretic]

Banion

Dryn throws an arm around your shoulders and walks back towards the Corrett tent. “We’ll bring back a plump pouch of silver if we’re lucky. Donnel Waynwood rides sweetly, and doubly so when my purse is on the line.” Up ahead, you spy lords Egen and Corrett storming into the Egen tent, with Mera and Stallicho in tow. Dryn frowns and quickens the pace, allowing you to slip into the tent along with Ketter, who arose from a perch outside the tent.

You quickly gather that Littlefinger has granted House Egen’s river ownership to House Belmore, leading Roger and Mera to favor the Declarants.

Marcus

The line of onlookers parts to allow you to pass. You find yourself following a few others in—the Corrett men Dryn the Redtooth and Banion, as well as a long-haired Egen serjeant whose name escapes you.

Inside, you find the lords seated around the table with Mera, coiled and at ease in her seat, and the flowery mercenary Stallicho, who is wearing a deep burgundy robe with a poofy, thick ruff of feathers about the neck. His belt is wide, shiny, and black, with a steel buckle nigh large enough to secure a castle gate.

Lord Egen appears somewhat despondent, ruing some decision that Lord Baelish has apparently handed down benefiting House Belmore over the Egens and Corretts.

Mera (and Banion, Marcus)

A few others file into the tent—the Egen serjeant known as Ketter, Banion, and Dryn.

Your brother speaks next. “Lord Belmore might be greedy enough to try that. But what would we offer up against the river-rights? We would risk much and more only to gain back what is rightfully ours. Who rides for Belmore?” Dryn answers quickly, displaying a gambler's mastery of the tourney's competitors. “His son Baragon and his nephew Royce. Marwyn Belmore, a cousin, is also competing, but he serves Nestor Royce. They say Baragon is skilled.”

Stallicho fills the silence. “To my fiery lady’s question, your alliance with the Bright Banners is not well known, except to Lord Baelish.” Somehow, you can't imagine that Stallicho has been covert about his presence in the camp. Roger nods, signaling Ketter to bring some cups and wine. “It was Lord Baelish that suggested to my father to hire the Bright Banners. So he knows, and when their ships make for Moonhome, the Coldwaters could take note. My father always reminded me that nothing passes upriver that goes unseen by Coldwater’s watchers.” House Coldwater sits at the mouth of Coldwater Burn and is sworn to Bronze Yohn Royce, the leader of the Declarants.

When Roger admits that hiring Stallicho and the Bright Banners was Littlefinger's idea, Morris's eyes narrow and he glances uncertainly at Stallicho. You realize he's intimidated by the older man's airy wit and self-assured flamboyance, and doesn't know what to make of what Stallicho has just revealed.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus listens as he arrives, but when Roger says Baelish suggested hiring the Bright Banners in the first place, he perks up. "My Lord, earlier today some knights suggested there are some who might use the tourney as an excuse for murder. Baelish knows we have an army of mercenaries, and a hill clan, then makes a decision that would set us at the Belmore's throats. Perhaps House Corrett is not the one he seeks to bring low."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

"I prefer not to place my bets on anyone else's skill," Banion says with a smile, verbally removing himself from the possibility of gambling alongside Dryn. "... you might as well leave it to chance," he then adds dryly as they near the tent.

A firm nod is given to Ketter as the duo approach the tent, following the small procession inside.

Upon entering the tent, Banion at first seems a bit surprised by the gathering - pausing in his tracks briefly. Regaining his wits after a second or two, he shuffles off to the side, remaining towards the sides of the tent while allow others more pertinent to the family and relevant to the conversation at hand to move towards the center. Wrapping his arms about himself in an attempt to warm up from being outside, he clasps his hands about his elbows. Watching and waiting, he listens to Lords Roger and Morris discuss the water rights.

[heretic]

Mera, Marcus, Banion

The tent's occupants listen to Marcus's suggestion. Morris interjects first, while Roger is content to listen for the nonce. "Aye, mayhaps Littlefinger fears that Belmore made a false promise. Paying him with our water-rights could be intended to force a conflict between us, all to weaken Belmore. But what is this talk of murder? I would hear of it."

[Rhyvurg]

"A knight named Jamie Wydman suggested Baelish decreed the melee to be on foot, at the suggestion of his maesters, for fear his allies might avoid...accidental trampling. It might have been mere speculation, but it does make sense. There are too many against him for him to afford to lose anyone, especially those who's sword arms he bets his life on."

[heretic]

Lord Corrett responds. "Wydman said that? Hard to know what to make of it. He's a knight's knight, and he like as not has absorbed plenty of tourney talk. But he's a bit off isn't he? They say he beds septas to 'gain the favor of the Gods.' I cannot recall learning that lesson in the sept." Morris slides off one of his boots and begins kneading his calf. Beside him, Roger stirs from a reverie. "It's all too confusing. I wish we could just fly away, back to Moonhome."

Dryn refocuses the conversation. "Aye, it's well known that every Wydman sits a fine lance, but Ser Jaime is known to hold superstitions--mostly superstitions tied to, well, manly conquest. He lays with septas to become holy. He'd best avoid bedding a baker's wife, lest he turn to dough. But truly, I did chance to notice his squire in Belmore purples."

"A connection to be sure, though I doubt it's significance. The Wydmans idolize knighthood, honor, and tourneys. I doubt they have any aim here other than winning glory in the lists."

[Rhyvurg]

"Perhaps, my Lord, but there is merit to the suggestion. We could learn much about whom Baelish fears based on who his followers attack first in the melee, and those they single out once wounds have slowed them."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

When Dryn speaks up regarding Wydman, the rogue raises his eyes to his friend - seemingly amused about the rumors of the night. A sinister sort of smiling-sneer crosses his face, Banion murmurs to Dryn, "Most devout indeed." That said, he remembers where he is and immediately silences himself, casting a quick glance to the gathering of the lords.

[DukeGod]

Balericat's mind is slipping back to instincts. This is harder at night, when something seems to just scream to be instinctive rather than logical, and also when his own mind is asleep. It's completely different of course, time spent Warg Dreaming is hardly spent resting as if you were fast asleep (though it can at least soothe a bit, kinda like napping on really bad ground)

They are methodical about it, listing all the details from the silhouette, that he can see in the dark, and listing them against those who belong to people he can clearly remember as friendly

[roll0] Will (dedication), Diff 15

[heretic]

Marcus, Banion, Mera

Morris nods in approval. “We’ll keep a weather eye on Baelish’s men. But to do that we must needs know who they are. We can assume he holds the Graftons, Corbrays, and Lynderlys close. Marcus, seek out other highborn knights who favor Baelish—start with the wavering Declarant houses: Templeton, Belmore, and Waynwood. I would know the same of the hedge knights. Banion, go among them and find who they serve. Lord Roger and I will speak directly with the remaining Declarants.”

The Cat

Crouching low, you track the path of the two-legs as he moves between the soft-hide boulders. The light of his fire-stick illuminates his face for a moment or two and some memories flicker across your mind as you lay in your tent. No. You’re crouching outside in the night, on four paws, every muscle strong and limber. Not laying asleep like a cub. Nevertheless, an alien sound echoes in your ears.

Maester Medgar . . .

That’s right. You’ve seen this soft-belly gatherer before—he has a grey hide and wears hard-hide around his neck. Only some two-legs do that. But this is not the grey-hide two-legs from the Man’s home. This is the other one, from across the wide river. The Man shook his hand and shared his meat, many moons ago. You can still feel where he gripped your paw and taste the burnt meat—no, it was the Man that did those things. Sometimes it all gets addled.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus hesitates, he was not one for intrigues, he had no patience for it. "I...will do my best, my Lord."

[Sahe]

Her brother was right, they couldn't afford to lose anything when trying to regain the water-rights. She might be a good rider, but it was still too big of a risk.

As her brother was giving out tasks, Mera noticed how he left her out.

"Mylord, should I talk to Lord Belmore about the water-rights? Maybe, if the right crowd is gathered and I say the right words I can coax him into wagering the rights for nothing or only something symbolic. If he demands something of equal value as a wager from us he'd have to admit his champion could lose to a girl...we could use that. If that fails, maybe we could try and negotiate a deal for our water-rights by offering them a cut from the ransoms we'll get for a year instead of a large sum of gold. It might be easier on our coffers."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

When his name is called and his duty given, Banion looks towards Lord Morris directly, takes two large steps towards him - but still quite a distance away - and bows his head in a sign of acknowledgement and acceptance. He looks as though he is going to say something, but hear's Mera provide her thoughts on how to assist with House Corrett's efforts. He looks towards her until she finishes and then looks towards Morris, curious as to his response.

[heretic]

Mera, Marcus, Banion

Morris addresses the proposal. “If you can secure this wager, I will bless it, and back it with House Corrett’s coffers. House Belmore does not boast the strongest knights in this tourney.” He sighs. “However, it would take a twist of fate for you to be paired against a Belmore. There are only two or maybe three of them in the lists, among sixty-four. And even as you defeat Gwayne Waxley, the Belmore knights might themselves perchance fall in the first round. . . but see what you can do. They have no small measure of pride and you may find some profit there.”

The lords stand and after Dryn conveys the invitation from Lords Hunter and Redfort, they prepare to make for Lord Hunter’s pavilion. Dryn falls in after them, as does Ketter.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The tasks delegated, Banion gives Dryn a nod of the head as he escorts the Lords to their gathering. The rogue himself is one of the last to leave, lingering about until anyone of note has left. When everyone has departed the tent - save but for a page or servant - Banion relaxes, expelling some flatulence he's withheld in the presence of Lord Morris and others. Exhaling through his nose and letting out a soft grunt, he seems to take a small amount of pleasure in the relief. Fanning the air behind him with a few quick swats of his right hand, he then proceeds to walk briskly out of the tent and towards the thoroughfare.

First thing is first - he must tend to his master's business. Proceeding along the main walkway, Banion returns to the unmarked pavilion where he had seen the large congregation of hedge knights, namely that peculiar shield with the eggplant and onions. Those looked like his kind of people - folk he could converse while just being himself.

[Rhyvurg]

Excusing himself,. Marcus seeks the Belmore's camp. But instead of approaching them directly, he speaks to those nearby, servants who could have been in earshot of what they were discussing or seen who's been coming and going.

[heretic]

Marcus

OOC: I went ahead and did this as a montage to speed it up, figuring you'd visit them all.

You find the outskirts of the Belmore camp easily enough. Their tents are numerous and of the deepest purple. Lord Belmore appears to have set out an absurd steel bell the size of a cauldron beneath his stout banner-pole to boot. Outside one of the servant’s tents, a pair of men are turning a trio of chickens on a spit over a fire and squeezing lemon juice out onto the crisping skin. Over to the side, a woman is brushing out the mane of a fine destrier. A squire boy is crouched with his back to you, waxing a shield showing the six bells of Belmore, but with the colors reversed on the left half of the shield—purple bells on a silver field.

…

The Templeton encampment is less sprawling than the Belmore’s, consisting of just a long pavilion and single circular command tent, both black with yellow door-flaps. A group of smallfolk have gathered in a circle and are singing and clapping out “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” as a few Templeton knights dance with a trio of women—you spy Talla Egen dancing close with the Knight of Ninestars himself: Symond Templeton, a beak-nosed weakling in a black surcoat. The other two are unfamiliar, younger men, but all wear the black stars on yellow bars.

…

The Waynwoods appear to have brought an especially large soldiery, based on the cloth barracks that they’ve pitched near the gates of the castle. Their encampment smells somewhere between a tavern and a latrine, with a good measure of stable thrown in. You count four different knight’s shields that are laid out for display in the customary display, indicating four challengers—three Waynwoods variations and then Harry the Heir’s unmistakable Hardyng checkers quartered with Arryn blues. But the evidence of chivalry ends there—aside from the hedge knight’s grotto, this is by far the least orderly section of the larger tourney camp. Men are milling everywhere, dicing, scuffling, drinking, or simply passed out in the snow. They nearly all wear the deep green Waynwood cloaks over boiled leather and mail, although you spot a handful of white-and-reds with the checkered cloaks of House Hardyng.

Banion

You find the hedge knight’s tents exactly where you left I them, pitched near the outskirts of the camp. They’ve set a community fire between the stained canvases that serve as their winter hedge. A half dozen men are huddled close, boiling water or softening salt meat in their helmets. A pretty girl hangs on one of their arms, whispering sweet lies in his ear. Just inside the circle of tents stand the horses, which have been staked up close together and covered in blankets and other scrap cloth that looks like it might have once been a foeman’s banner. There are perhaps five-and-twenty mounts in evidence, of which perhaps ten look to be warhorses.

You spy the eggplant and onion shield laid out along with several others outside the largest tent, which is emitting its own plumes of smoke, suggesting another fire within. A moment goes by and then a scraggly-faced fellow sways out and begins to relieve himself into a crumbling bank of yellow snow.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus takes a breath, steadying himself. This...was not something he was familiar with, wheedling people wore on his patience. But, the Templetons seemed to be more jovial, in a friendly way. The Waynewood camp was mostly drunk anyway. He approaches the singing smallfolk, clapping along. With luck he could strike up a conversation, comment on Baelish's preparations, and get them talking.

[Sahe]

Mera nodded when her brother agreed to her plan about the water rights and left the tent. Outside she took a few deep breaths of the winter air and looked up into the gray sky. She suddenly felt a huge responsibility resting on her shoulders. Others left the tent and Mera wondered for a moment if she should ask Marcus to accompany her to speak with Lord Belmore, but she felt that would only undermine her. No she wanted Lord Belmore to underestimate her, not intimidate him with the presence of a Clegane. So instead Mera sought out Walda. The champion of house Corrett a girl and her squire a peasant girl, how could his knighted champion not defeat her?

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Banion approaches the hedge knight tent like he's one of them. He walks confidently and with purpose towards the main flap. His eyes briefly wander to the gathered men about the fire, lingering briefly on the young woman in their company. A variety of thoughts run through his mind, causing him to smirk for the briefest of moments before snapping his attention back to the tent. "Barking up the wrong tree," he murmurs almost inaudibly to himself before dismissing his thoughts.

Seeing the man step out of the tent to relieve himself, Banion pats him heartily on the shoulder as if he were a long time friend. It might even be jarring enough to cause the man to misfire a little depending on his physical state and balance. Passing him by quickly without second thought, Banion ducks into the tent while announcing out loud, "Right! I'm looking for a dark horse in this tournament to make some money with. Who's the one with balls big enough to put them on his shield?" Standing upright, Banion sucks in a little air through his mouth as he rubs his hands together, prepared to either receive a knife to the throat, an awkward stare, or (hopefully) a laugh.

[heretic]

Marcus

As you approach the Belmore camp, the squire boy lays off waxing his shield and looks up at you. “Well met,” he squeaks out in a high-pitched voice. He studies your tabard for a moment. “Black direwolves on yellow—are you a Stark cousin?” Behind him, the men turning the spit have taken notice of you and are gawking a bit at your size.

. . .

The Templetons finish their dance to the cheers of the gathered smallfolk. Talla Egen takes notice of you and spins flirtatiously away from Ser Symond Templeton and into your arms. She’s wearing a sleeveless, woolen dress of pale blue, slit on the sides for riding, as well as white gloves that go to her elbow. “Sers, I’ve found my bear!” The group erupts into laughter. One of the younger Templeton sons offers his arm to clasp. “Well met, Ser Bear. Or should I say, Ser Bear-hound?”

The Knight of Ninestars himself looks a bit cross following Talla’s retreat from his arm—a jealousy that Talla no doubt intends—but still greets you with good humor.

. . .

A wayward man-at-arms in Waynwood greens slams into your chest, the fool. He bounces off and lands flat on back before you. Another soldier sitting on a log lets out a long laugh and thumps his spear butt on the ground. Some others take notice of the interaction—half comedy and half confrontation.

The man on the ground pushes his iron half-helm off his head, where it was sitting askew following his fall. “Well bugger me with a knight’s lance!”

Mera

You find Walda in the small tent that Morris has lent you. It’s a small thing, and drab. Years of weathering have drained it of whatever color it once held, leaving it a sort of mottled brown-tan, not unlike one of Ser Gorlen’s tunic’s after a long ranging. Inside, Walda has piled furs and blankets high on the makeshift bed, prepared a censer of hot coals, and set out your borrowed armor beneath a thin cloth. A single lantern beside the bed lights the tent from the inside.

Walda is squatting on the edge of the bed-furs, weaving something out of horsehair. When you enter, she rises to embrace you. The peaked roof forces her to stoop for her first stride or so, until she reaches you in the center. “Mera, I couldn’t make the armor-buckles obey. I’m sorry.” She smells like the road, but with a hint of nutmeg and vanilla. You suspect she may have borrowed a pinch of spice from the cooks.

Banion

The scraggly-faced man turns when you pat him on the back, searching your face for recognition and not finding it. However, he makes no move to stop you as he sprays hot relief into the snow.

You barely get to notice what’s all going on in the tent before roaring out your challenge. A score or more of grubby faces look back at you in slight confusion before they all try and speak at once. The tent is completely packed with them, except for the fire-pit in the center. The group is made up of all manner of grubby smallfolk, freeriders and hedge knights in battered armor, a few mean-looking children, and more. They’re all trying to say something, but you can’t follow any of them in particular.

“Ayyyyyyyyyyyy—”“—Big Balls Ben, it is—”“—much money could the likes ‘o you—”“’nother round, I say!”

Some are hefting horns of ale, rattling pouches of coin, or pounding the ground with their fists. As their greeting washes over you, you take a measure of those present. There are perhaps ten of them that look to be of the right age and vitality to be hedge knights. There’s a burly man in black mail with a salt-and-pepper beard and red bulb of a nose. Beside him is a pretty-looking young man with flowing golden hair and a sword on his hip. A bare-chested man with thick shoulders and brown hair sits, grinning at you, his hand resting on a helm wrought in the unmistakable likeness of a snarling dog, missing an ear. In the back, a tangle of bare legs protrude bawdily from beneath a pile of furs, cloaks, and other belongings.

Once the pandemonium dies down, a strapping young man, no older than eighteen, rises. “I’m Big Balls Ben and I’ll be taking a ransoms by day and maidenheads by night!” The tent explodes into another clamor.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus smiles slightly. As much as he wants to redeem his family name, perhaps now is not the time to flout it, especially in front of a child. "They're not direwolves. Must be boring, having to do all this work when people are having fun."

. . .

Marcus goes pale when the girl dances over to him, trying not to look at the bits of leg she's flashing, his hands hovering around her waist but not sure what to do. "M-my lady..." When the other man offers his arm Marcus takes it gratefully. "And to you. I apologize, I did not mean to interrupt."

. . .

Marcus helps the man to his feet. "Steady there my friend, seems you tripped." He helps the man to a seat.

[Sahe]

Mera's tent was nothing special, many knights, especially those named champions for their house would sneer at it. It didn't proudly present the Corrett colours and reminded Mera of Ser Gorlen, but she didn't complain. She was a bastard and had camped in worse conditions during the war. Now she had a tent all to her own, well to her own and Walda. Mera was sure most knights wouldn't sneer at sharing a tent with the peasant girl, low birth or not.

Mera entered the tent and saw Walda working at something. Before she knew what happened, Walda caught her in an embrace. Mera closed her eyes, noticing the hint of nutmeg and vanilla under the smell of the road. Mera wished this moment could last forever, holding the other girl maybe a bit too tight and a bit too long for what was appropriate among friends, but there was no one here to see.

After a long moment that was all too short nonetheless, Mera released her squire: "Don't worry about the buckles, we'll find a solution, now I need your help with coaxing Lord Belmore into wagering the water rights against nothing but his honor..."

A few moments later Mera and Walda left the tent and headed for the Belmore encampment. Mera noticed the ridiculous Lord Belmore displayed beneath his banner and headed straight for the largest tent.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Grinning from ear to ear at the young hedge knight's bravado, Banion gives the relative 'boy' a tip of the head in acknowledgement as he exhales a sigh of relief. Banion looks towards the other knights and hanger-ons gathered in the tent, noting the revelry and the 'wealth of talent' the tent offers. Making his way slowly over to the area where Big Ben has been sitting, Banion tilts his head a little to the side, attempting to drawn Ben out from his table to an area where the two can talk. "I like that spirit... I'd have a word with you Big Ben if you'll indulge me," the rogue states.

If and when Big Ben steps into an area where the two can have a minor expectation of privacy with low chatter, Banion tells the young man, "There's plenty of coin to be had for the right talent... and being able to take instruction. Tell me, though... why do the Seven favor you above the rest of these..." Banion looks out over the small crowd. "... 'fine' competitors. Indeed, that one over there..." Banion nods in the direction of the large fellow with the snarling dog helmet before looking back to Ben. "... looks like he could drive you clean through until next week without a second thought."

[heretic]

Mera

Walda returns your hug, turning her face into your hair a bit. After the moment has passed, she follows you out of the tent, bearing your shield and other knightly accoutrements.

The purpose in your walk must be apparent, because more than a few onlookers turn to observe your march. A few follow along on the sides, curious to see what will happen. Soon enough, the Belmore encampment is before you. Their tents are at least as numerous as the bells on their sigil, but there is no mistaking Lord Belmore’s tent from the others. It stands at the center of them all, a palatial dome that smells of roast beef and pride. By now, a half dozen gawking onlookers have fallen in behind you, and the various Belmore footmen and maids have stopped what they’re doing to watch you.

Despite all the attention, nobody moves to stop you as you throw aside the velvet curtain to the tent. Inside, you find a dozen Belmore lordlings and ladies in the midst of a toast, silver goblets of wine raised high. You know some of them. There’s Ser Baragon Belmore, thick-limbed, with a face full of red whiskers. His wife, Lady Alysanne, appears halfway through a pregnancy. A dumpy uncle named Ser Harlaw is there as well—you recall he visited Greycrown Keep not long ago. And of course, in the center of them all is the purple sack of lard known as Lord Benedar Belmore. He’s lost an inch or two of height since you last saw him (though his waist has ably widened by more than that) and the red of his beard has almost entirely succumbed to the grey of age. The rest you’ve never seen, although there’s a younger-looking knight type with the same Belmore red hair and a face full of freckles in place of whiskers.

For a moment, they remain frozen with their cups raised high, waiting for Lord Belmore to finish his toast. Instead, he addresses you. “I heard tell that Lord Egen sent two bastards to champion his house, but I see his boldness did not end there. Come, tell me your name and why you’re here in my tent.”


Could you provide a quick description of Mera and Walda’s appearance in terms of armor, weapons, etc., just so that I can get a sense of the mood that Mera is setting? For instance, is Mera wearing her own armor, Gorlen’s, or no armor? Does she wear a helmet, carry it, or leave it behind? I could see several approaches all being appropriate.

Marcus

The boy ponders your question. “I get to have fun too—if this shield doesn’t crack ‘neath lance- and sword-blow, Ser Royce says that he’ll give me a steel sword.” He turns his hips to show off the wooden practice sword tucked into his belt. “My cousin didn’t wear steel ‘til he was thirteen.”

In the edge of your vision, you see Mera and her squire Walda march up to the Belmore tent and throw the door-flap wide open. No doubt she means to challenge Lord Belmore for the water-rights.

. . .

The knight clasping your arm is blue of eye and black of hair, with a wide, flat face and pointed nose. He’s wearing a black wool surcoat, slashed with a wide-barred yellow X with a pair of black stars in the center. “Luceus Templeton. Men call me Twinstar.” At this, the third Templeton lets out a guffaw. The laughing man looks to be Luceus’s older brother, with the same flat face and blue eyes, though his hair is longer and he’s grown a beard around his mouth. His tabard shows a single black star at the center of the yellow bars. “My brother mislikes waiting for fame and glory. Haven’t they told you that the singers only invent names and sing songs about you after you perform some heroism?”

Luceus shifts his shoulders uncomfortably. “When I unhorse my brother, we’ll see which of us they sing songs about.” The bearded Templeton rolls his eyes, but offers no protest as Luceus continues. “You must be Marcus Clegane. We chanced to glimpse you during Lord Egen’s arrival, and the lady Talla put a name to your face.”

Talla steps out around your arm. “I was just bending the Knight of Ninestars’ ear as to your formidability.” She removes a kerchief from some secreted place in her dress and lets the breeze unfurl it. Egen white and blue billow forth, with a yellow smiling sun in the center. “I daresay I’ll have difficulty deciding whose arm I should tie this thing around.” All three pairs of Templeton eyes follow the piece of cloth.

. . .

The soldier takes your arm and rises easily enough with your help. “M’thanks, ser. Can I show you to someone?”

Banion

A low rumble of conversation resumes as you take a seat next to Ben, who is rather quick to defend his talents. “I mean to be the last man standing in the melee. They don’t call me Big Balls for nothing!” As he realizes he hasn’t really answered your question, his tone turns a little whiny and apologetic. “The blasted master of games won’t let me tilt on account of, uh, never having entered a tourney afore. But I saw battle on the Blackwater and took a hostage for King Joffrey. That’s how I got my horse and armor, as well as my knighthood. If it’s the joust you’re after, then ye should put it on Stone Scepter over there.” He points to the bare-chested knight with the snarling dog helm. “He’s a mystery knight, so nobody has his ken. He’s good with the lance and better with the ball-and-chain. And he doesn’t show that hound’s helm outside the tent either, so as not to draw attention. He wears a different helm for when he goes out.”

He points out a few other knights as well. “That’s Ser Byron with the long hair, he’s one of Baelish’s men. And so is Ser Morgarth over there.” He indicates the burly man in black mail. “Even Ser Shadrich is like to be overlooked.” He points to a tiny man with reddish hair in the corner. “Byron and Stone Scepter are jousting, but we’re all in the melee. The master of games can’t keep us out the melee. I don't know about the rest here. They answer to Stone Scepter.”

[Rhyvurg]

"Well, that'd be a fine thing, I was much older than you the first time I had my own sword." Never mind it probably weighed as much as this boy does now. "Say, you must see all kinds of comings and goings, I wonder if you could help me. I'm looking for someone, a friend of mine told me I should meet him, said he was a fine fellow. But, my friend couldn't make it, had some family troubles he had to settle, you know how that can get. If you could tell me if he'd been by, that would be a big help, I'd sure appreciate it."

. . .

"Yes, I would be Marcus. You shouldn't worry too much about fame, some times it...comes back to bite you. Well, it certainly seems Littlefinger is out to win some friends with this tourney, isn't he?" When Talla speaks of her favor, he goes pale again, having no idea what to say, or if he should be quiet, or do something...

. . .

"Perhaps you can. I've heard talk your Lord is wavering his his allegiance to the Declarants, is that true? If he is I might just lose a friendly wager to an unsavory c*** and the idea of his smug face as he takes my money turns my stomach. But, if Lord Waynwood is standing firm, it'll be his coins in my hand instead."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The rogue looks to the Stone Scepter as he's pointed out, his eyes narrowing on the beastly figure as Ben begins to fill Banion in on the individual. His gives off a bit of a smile, pleased that he seemed able to pick a contender from the crowd naturally, but says nothing on the matter. Instead, when Ben begins to point out other 'worthy champions' in the tent, Banion looks to them, noting their faces and appearances in a more casual manner than he did with the Stone Scepter before returning his attention to the young man. Banion's face displays a sense of contentment with what Ben has told him - a warm, self-satisfied smile crossing his lips.

"You've got some healthy competition in the melee if I understand it," Banion warns Ben playfully. "If I'm not mistaken, I believe a Clegane under House Corrett will be entering the melee as well. You take him down..." Banion leans a little to his left as he reaches to his right side, producing a pair of gold dragons from his purse, pinched between his thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger. "... and these are yours, plus whatever you can drink and eat for the remainder of the tournament." Banion then goes about pocketing the coin, having shown his ability to cover his wager and the seriousness in which it was placed. He pats the purse, making the small collection of coins jingle a little - an audible cue to Ben that there is money to be made.

"What else can you tell me?" Banion then asks somewhat slyly, a grin upon his face. He glances back over his shoulder towards the man indicated as the Stone Scepter and then back at Ben. "How does a mystery knight have such a following? Seems to me a man who commands that kind of loyalty can't be much of a mystery."

[Sahe]

Mera noticed how she and Walda caught some attention on their way towards the Belmore encampment. Mera had left the armor behind and instead wore fine linen, her heavy riding boots the coat Lady Maege Mormont had gifted her for her service. Thick as it was and lined with black fox fur, it was fit for a Lady or Lord of the North. The kerchief Morris had given her was bound around her upper right arm and an axe hung from her belt, while she carried the feather adorned helmet under her arm. Walda was dressed in simple, warm clothes. A dagger almost long enough to be called a short sword hung on her hip and she carried Mera's spear and shield that proudly presented her personal sigil, a snake wrapping itself around a spear with the Corrett colors. As it was custom for a bastard, she had them reversed.

Entering the tent, she took a short moment to size up anyone present and tried to remain calm at the condescending words and tone of Lord Belmore. "Lord Benedare, my name is Mera Stone, champion of House Corrett and I am here to talk to you about the water-rights to the Meltwater."

[heretic]

Banion

Ben’s eyes flash eagerly at the sight of the gold. “I’m your man, oh yes. They say this Clegane is great, but Bronze Yohn is taller and Lord Nestor is close. Men have felled them in melees past and I’ll make like a wood-jack to do the same.” He glances around at the rest of the tent before answering your next question under his breath. “Stone Scepter is a sell-sword. I never knew him until last week, but they say he sacked villages and stormed holdfasts down in the Riverlands. In war, men learn to follow. I served under a lord with a banner for some time, but there’s more coin to be had riding where you please.”

He rubs his nose. “And of course, he came up with that helm. No soul is brave enough to ask him how he got it, but it’s the real thing. I’ve seen the Hound with mine own eyes, back in King’s Landing, and that’s his helm. Bloody coward, he was in the end.” He thinks for a moment. “You shouldn’t speak of it outside the tent. Stone Scepter doesn’t want to bring the other Clegane down on us before the tourney.”

Mera

Lord Belmore’s beard ripples into a self-satisfied smile. “Why, I too was just about to speak of the very same!” He looks about the tent and the others take this cue, laughing at his jape. Clearly, you’ve interrupted maner of celebration of the theft of the Meltwater rights.

Once their laughter subsides, Lord Belmore addresses you. “Now I suppose Lords Egen and Corrett have sent you to beg me for rights to the river. Alas, I would be loath to act against the Lord Protector’s edict without good cause . . . ” His voice drips with smugness, like a child bragging about a candied apple before the other children. But behind all that, one wonders what “good cause” means. . .

Marcus

The boy stands up, happy to help. “Aye, sir, what’s his look?”

. . .

Ser Symond Templeton clears his throat and his son Luceus speaks up again. “Well, I find myself already betrothed, but I would wear your favor on behalf of my father. Of course, a woman’s eye is ill-suited to decide between myself and Marcus—you’re large enough, man, I’ll grant it. But no man stands tall when he’s flat on his back. Put us in the yard and the choice is easy enough.”

Talla’s mouth curls into an innocent-yet-devilish grin as Luceus issues his challenge. The other Templetons stand a little straighter, tensely waiting for you to respond.

I’ve decided the Templeton exchange is now an intrigue between Marcus and the Templetons, with Talla also involved. Luceus won initiative and achieved a result good enough for 2 degrees of success, or 6 Influence, reduced to 2 by your starting disposition of Indifferent and its DR of 4. You’re now at 7/9 Composure and it’s your turn. Luceus’s goal is pretty transparently to get to you agree to duel him with blunted steel. If you choose not to just agree and do it, go ahead and identify your goal for the intrigue and an action you’re taking. Keep in mind your drawbacks, which penalize you for not opening with Intimidate.
. . .

The soldier brushes some dirt off his cloak, flapping and snapping the hem, sending little muddy clumps flying off in all directions. “Lord Waynwood ain’t doin’ much wavering, being dead and all.” He cracks a smirk. “It’s Lady Waynwood that rules in Ironoaks. But I fear for your purse, friend. Littlefinger has won our Lady’s favor and it’s hardly a secret. After all, she holds Harry the Heir. That rat-bastard Littlefinger is nothing without Harry and he knows it. Little lord Robert is many uncertain years from producing an heir, and Ser Harry is already pumpin’ out bastards left and right. Every man, woman, and child here can see that the future is in the hands of Waynwood and Hardyng.”

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus frowns. "Well see that's where I'm having the problem, the letter got damaged on the way here, all the wet, y'see? I couldn't make out most of it, but I know he's a man of course, shorter than me, dark hair, I think it said scar...how about you tell me who you've seen about the camp here, I'll tell you if it sounds familiar. You'd really be helping me out."

. . .

Marcus arches an eyebrow, his fluster from Lady Talla's attention wavering. "I think you'll find when I lay down I'm still taller than most, where it counts." He resists the urge to add 'ask your mother.' "But you should be careful Ser, sometimes an easy choice can have a hard bite on the other side." Marcus is inexperienced, one might say woefully so, with women, but knows very well how to deal with other men.


Okay I only skimmed these rules before so bear with me.
Marcus uses Intimidate, with his drawbacks it's -4D to do anything else (he is never getting laid, I swear). He's not trying to lie so I guess Persuasion, but he's fecking terrible at it.
[roll0] Persuasion to Intimidate


. . .

Marcus shakes his head. "Damn, I guess I'll have to win it back during the joust. I hear the Corrett champion's mean with a lance. Well, good day my friend, try to find softer things to land on if you get and drunker." Patting him on the shoulder, Marcus leaves. One down.

[Sahe]

Mera casually rested her hand on the head of her axe, oh how much she wished to pull it out and split Lord Belmore's skull with it, but Mera remained calm, "I was not send to beg, I was not even really send. I came here to challenge you to a wager. Should I defeat your champion in a tilt you will hand back the Meltwater rights or should we never meet in the lists, whichever champion makes it further." Mera made a pause and defiantly fixed her eyes on Lord Belmore.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The rogue tips his head at Ben's insistence on not speaking of the Stone Scepter or his helmet outside of the tent, but says nothing on the matter - only giving the young man a stern, acknowledging stare to show he understands the severity of it all. Reaching into his pouch, Banion fumbles around while he locks eyes with Ben. "You remember my offer now, Big Ben..." he says before fishing out ten silver stags, an amount he figures is respectful enough of the man's time and position - enough to have a decent time that evening. "Just don't get over-zealous now," Banion then adds with a fiendish grin before rising from his seat.

[heretic]

Mera

The various Belmores shift uncomfortably at your challenge, which seems to have taken them by surprise. Lord Belmore’s tongue appears briefly from within his beard as he licks his lips. “You dare to challenge my knights? Why, such a thing . . . chivalry would hardly permit . . .” The younger knight whose name you don’t know saves him. “Perhaps if there were some other prize were the Belmore champion to prevail? Lords Egen and Corrett have brought several beautiful women to this tournament—Allyria Gargalen, Talla Egen, as well as the widower lady Corrett. If the lords consent to terms, we could arrange a marriage.” You’ve seen Allyria around the castle, keeping the company of various ladies. The dornishwoman was once betrothed to Jon Corrett, but has remained affiliated with House Corrett in the meantime.

Ser Baragon seems to mislike this idea. “There’s small honor in riding down a girl, Royce, and even less chivalry in winning a bride at the point of a lance. Rhaegar Targaryen taught us all the folly of that path.” You’ve never heard tell of Rhaegar Targaryen jousting a woman-warrior, so he must be referring to Rhaegar's fateful choice to crown Lyanna Stark his Queen of Love and Beauty after winning the tourney at Harrenhal.

Marcus

The boy furrows his brow as he tries to remember. “I beheld a great many folk coming and going. There was a hedge knight looking to buy a mule, a great cask of wine, and some dark mahogany stain. Ser Shadrich was his name, and he had a scar. Ser Marwyn has been here, with Lothor Brune, and some Templeton knights. The lady Alayne Stone walked through, and all the men stared. She walks through the camp every day. Jaime Wydman came to see the septa very late last night, and some ladies from Wickenden came calling on Lord Benedar.” You’ve heard that Ser Marwyn Belmore is captain of the guard here at the castle, serving under Lord Nestor Royce, Littlefinger’s staunchest ally. Brune is one of Littlefinger’s men as well.

. . .

Luceus take your manful insult in stride and gives as good as he gets. “Clegane, if defeat is what gets you up, consider my pole-ax your mistress!” A few onlookers give an “ooooooooh” at that. Ser Symond appears a little distraught to see his son sink to such talk, but he makes no moves to prevent the escalation.

Talla pulls your arm to lower your ear to her level. “Put him in his place, Marcus. For me.” Her breath is sweet and hot in your ear, and you can feel gooseflesh rising on your neck where her nose brushes you. Come to think of it, the idea of old Symond Templeton with the likes of Talla Egen is absurd on its face. And his son is annoying. Men have been testing one another in the yard every day, so it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary to have another bout, just to put the pipsqueak Templetons in their place and protect Talla from them . . .

I see only one rank in Persuasion, which would mean you should have only rolled 1d6, but either way, you fail to move Luceus. He responded, again achieving two degrees and two influence, taking you to 5/9 composure. Talla decided to also influence you, achieving four degrees and dealing 9 points of influence. This reduces you to 0/9, meaning that Talla has achieved her goal of instigating the duel in the practice yard. You could also take points of Frustration to reduce the amount of Influence you’ve taken, but that would likely just prolong the same outcome by a round.

. . .

The Waynwood soldier mock-salutes by clapping a fist to his chest, before smiling and walking off. One down.

Banion

Ben accepts the coin eagerly, disappearing it into his waistband. As you rise, Stone Scepter leans over and says something to the man next to him. The man stands and follows you out of the tent. He’s a weedy sort of fellow a little taller than you, with a patchy beard and a pair of dirks strapped to his belt. His arm catches yours. “Gambler, be sure to hold your tongue out there. I would hate to see the odds spoilt for all of us.” He releases you, but you catch his meaning easily enough. Not much goes in such close quarters that is truly secret. They must have seen you flashing the coin at Ben.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus smiles. "You know, I think Ser Shadrich might be him. I thank you for your help, and if the shield does crack, well, maybe I can get you a sword anyway." So, two men close to Littlefinger. That could mean something, and gave him names to ask about. Waving goodbye, Marcus looks about for others who might have overheard something during their visits.

. . .

Marcus does not manage to keep from blushing when Talla whispers in his ear. "Ser, if you're so eager to get your bruises before the tourney even starts, I will oblige you. Just be sure to let me know when you've had enough, I wouldn't want a bit of sport to knock you out before you've had a chance to win your fame." Marcus walks to the practice yard, more relaxed than he'd been in a week. This was something he knew.

[Sahe]

Mera scoffed at the words of the young knight, "My dear Ser, a woman is not a prize to be won, we are not mountain clan barbarians, now are we?" Mera then turned her attention back to Lord Belmore, "I will not negotiate a marriage without any of the Ladies present, they can do that for themselves, so the only hand I can offer in that fashion is mine..." Mera doubted that Lord Belmore would even consider that, she was a bastard daughter, legitimized by dead king who was considered a rebel. Granted if something where to happen to Morris, she could be used to make a claim on Greycrown Keep, albeit a weak one. Mera hoped Lord Belmore would drop the matter, just the thought of having to marry some man was disturbing, even outright repulsive to her.

[heretic]

Marcus

The boy knuckles his forehead and returns to his work. Over by the spit, two serving men are still attending the roast chicken. A woman in a shapeless, heavy wool dress is tending to the hooves of a warhorse. Another middle-aged woman is crushing lavender into a row of six freshly cleaned chamber-pots.

. . .

Over in the yard, you find a few knights breaking from their sparring. A stocky, nearly bald knight sworn to the Royces of Runestone helps you find a serviceable blunted longaxe, meant for the two-handed grip of a lesser man. He mutters some encouragement to you, but his white scrub-brush mustache smothers the meaning. The others—Redforts and Coldwaters, by their colors—stand aside as you take up the axe and an extra kite shield you find leaned up against the weapons rack.

The Templetons arrive a few minutes later. Ser Luceus leads them. He’s clad in a nearly full set of plate, polished to a bright sheen. A seven-pointed star is etched into his breastplate, echoing the Andal knights of old, who carved such stars into their flesh. Beneath his arm, he carries a visored helm of black iron adorned with a front-to-back horsehair crest, dyed bright yellow. His shield is round and has nine stars. Behind him trail the remainder of the Templeton group: the older brother, their father, their squires, and a handful of servants and onlookers. Talla has arrived separately, along with two ladies and a lordling you don’t know.

As the group takes their places off to the side, Ser Luceus dons his helm and strides over to the weapons rack. “I see your mistress here, Clegane!” He selects a blunted pole-axe as tall as you are, no doubt seeking to counter the reach that comes with your size. Luceus is not taller than six feet, giving you at least half a foot on him in height and probably four stone in weight. So armed, Luceus takes up a position opposite you in the yard and palms his visor shut with a gauntlet of lobstered steel. He turns the pole-axe to use the hammer-head, rather than the axe, and bends his knees into a fighting stance. “May the best man win, Clegane!”

He waits for your nod and then moves at you, faster than expected. His pole-axe comes smashing at you from your left, but you get your shield up and maintain your footwork. The blow rattles your shield-arm and armor, but does no harm.

Luceus wins initiative. Luceus uses the Aim action in addition to an attack, landing a 13, which hits you for one degree of success. He deals 9 damage, all soaked by your armor rating of 10. See dice rolls thread for Luceus's rolls. Blunted weapon combat works as normal, except that you can automatically shrug off any injuries afterwards, and any wounds you take count as regular injuries.

Mera

Your retort, as well as the rebuke from Ser Baragon seem to have left the younger knight, Ser Royce, a-flounder. “I only meant, if Lord Corrett agreed, we could have an accord, a friendly competition to bring the houses closer—”“Your meaning was plain enough, cousin. Now be quiet.” Both men fall silent as Lord Belmore takes a step forward.

“Mera, Royce has made a fool of himself in my own tent. I will not allow a joust to usurp a maiden’s choice of husband, whether that maiden is you or another of Corrett’s entourage.” The smugness in Lord Belmore’s voice is gone, replaced with stern resolve. “While I do not doubt my son and nephew’s skill, I cannot risk the Meltwater rights against nothing. Horses are known to stumble, armor cinches known to break.”

“As such, I’ll need a modest prize of my own.” He looks you in the eyes. “If you defeat Baragon or Royce, or if you advance further than both, you will have your rights to the Meltwater. If you should fall instead, all that I require is that you speak on my behalf to Lord Corrett. It’s no secret that behind the vanity of this tourney lies a power struggle unlike the Vale has seen in some years. It’s why Nestor Royce holds this castle as a lord instead of a steward, and it’s why Lord Corbray’s debts are being forgiven. It’s why Bronze Yohn Royce knighted Ser Harry so quickly and it’s why your Meltwater rights, well . . . melted away.” The tent is very silent now. You knew that Littlefinger raised up Nestor Royce to a lordship for his support, but until now you hadn’t heard why Lord Corbray supported Baelish. Bronze Yohn knighting Harry is something you were only slightly aware of, but now the motive seems obvious. Harry may be an important piece in the Vale’s game of thrones, but he is still only a piece, subject to manipulation like any other.

“Your brother trusts you enough to make you his champion. All that I require is that you swear on your honor—and on whatever else you hold dear—that if you lose the wager and the time comes to choose sides, you counsel your brother and Lord Egen to support my position, whatever that may be.”

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus walks into the practice yard, (https://youtu.be/NjFDLGhtGIk?t=8) testing the heft of his borrowed weapons. Putting his helmet on he walks in a small circle, working his shoulders to loosen up. This wasn't about Talla, insults or friendly competition, though he'd never tell Talla that. This was about making a statement before the melee. Well, if Luceus wanted his armor scuffed up and his pride bruised, Marcus would oblige him. The smaller man was fast, his axe clashing on Marcus' shield, but his armor took the hit. Resting his weapon on his shoulder, he raises it up high then brings it down, no tricks, no maneuvers, merely letting his weight and strength smash through the smaller man's guard and bring the blunted blade into his shoulder, between pauldron and breastplate. Had he been using his own castle-forged weapon, the man might have lost his arm. As it is, Marcus suspected a bone might be broken.

[Sahe]

Lord Belmore certainly gave Mera some interesting information. Information Mera was sure her brother would like to hear. His offer was tricky. The Corretts had a reputation of standing by their word and while Mera was a bastard she was cut from the same cloth. It was not unlikely that he had also figured out that Mera aspired to more than simply a few tilts in a tourney and that knighthood to her meant more than a title.

Mera hesitated for a moment contemplating the deal. All things considered it was a small ask and in the end Lord Belmore's position and Mera's council to her brother might even align by themselves. And it was only council, though Mera knew that her words had sway on her brother. Eventually though she nodded, it was a chance to regain the Meltwater rights without having to plunder the Corrett coffers and if she succeeded she wouldn't have to advise her brother on Lord Belmore's behalf anyway. "I accept your offer, Lord Belmore and I swear on my honor, that I will uphold my end of the wager should I lose."

. . .

Leaving the tent, Mera let out a heavy sigh a bit uncertain of the consequences of the deal she made and feeling a lot more weight on her shoulders. Until now for her this tourney had just been about showing up some knights and earning glory for herself and her house, after all there was no chance that she would ever be considered for Lord Roberts personal guard, even if she won the bloody thing. But now she actually had a responsibility, she turned to Walda, "come on, I need to report the news to my brother and then we need to figure out that buckle situation."

[Old Overholt]

Banion

As Banion is stopped by the man, feeling his arm grabbed unexpectedly, the rogue turns to look upon the 'messenger' with a stern glare. He's wise enough to keep his tongue, but certainly tries to convey the silent message that should he feel so inclined to try that again, he will most likely be drawing back a bloody stump.

Banion listens to the message that's given to him and then nods his head in a singular bow of the head. Feigning a bit of a smile, he assures the man, "Trust me brother, the last folk I'd want to spoil anything for is you lot." Banion's eyes flick towards the flap of the tent for a moment before refocusing on the taller man before him. "You give my well-wishes to your brothers. I'll be hoping you all do better than the rest expect of you," he then adds before turning to take his leave.

Feeling as though he has gathered some insight into hedge knights and their loyalties, Banion makes his way from the camp, pausing briefly once again to look over the shields and mounts gathered at the entryway. Drawing in a deep breath - the air mixed with horse dung, body odor, and whatever savory meal they've been boiling/cooking - he smiles broadly, shakes his head and continues on back to the Corrett space.

[DukeGod]

Uuugh. This scouting mission was growing heavy on his mind. Distinguishing between his and Balericat's was becoming difficult, their selves blending too much

He urges Balericat to follow Maedgar, trying to keep track of time. If the man didn't show anything interesting, he'd consider whatever he got enough, call back his companion and end the link

[heretic]

Marcus

Your blow smashes into Templeton like a steel edict. It’s only command: kneel. He falls to one knee, his hand darting away from his weapon to steady against the ground. Yet somehow he rises, just as you wrench your axe free from the mangled steel around his shoulder. You catch a glimpse of gritted teeth behind the slits in his visor as he raises the pole-axe for another blow. “NINESTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARS!” he roars.

This time, he steps back and swings low, hoping to sweep you from your feet. You see it coming, though, and manage to hike your nearest heel up. The pole-axe rips out a divot of earth, but doesn’t touch you.

He’s using the Pole-arm Fighter I quality to try and knock you down during his attack. See dice roll thread for his roll, which suffers a -D penalty due to taking a wound from your hit.

Mera

Lord Belmore motions for a servant to bring you some wine, so that you might clash cups together, sealing the bargain.

. . .

Outside, Walda bubbles up with everything she has been holding back. “Can you believe that pimply boy thought he could marry you, just like that? I was ready to slap him!” Darkness is falling as you make your way back to your tent.

Banion

The chill of the night is beginning to set in as you make your way back to the Corrett tent. Inside, you find Morris, Maester Adwin, and Allyria Gargalen, the beautiful Dornishwoman who was betrothed to Jon Corrett before his tragic death. The three are cupping hot bowls of chicken, lentils, and onions. Morris looks up. “Banion, what have you learned?”

Tyramear (morning)

The haze of the dream lifts as your eyes flutter open. Around you, the Lipps camp is making ready. A pair of squires is brushing out the coat of Lord Ronnet Lipps’s courser, the better for a shining entrance. There’s a sense of urgency, since the Lipps party is quite late. The Freys’ gelded squires yelped and squealed at every bounce and buckle in the road, making for slow going. Beside you, a bearded man-at-arms douses some coals with the wretched contents of a chamber-pot.

You find Balericat laying on his haunches with a dead eagle lying between his front paws—a deadly reminder that your dreams are like no other man’s. Sometimes it’s simple to keep your hidden life on four legs separate from this one, but today was not made for simplicity. Aside from last night’s dream—you, lithe and limber and covered in fur; the anguished shriek of a man erupting from the beak of a bird; the sight of the camp laid bare to your night vision—there’s the waking prophecy that came to you earlier, in which Archmaester Marwyn asked you to save the Vale. In addition, there's Lady Jeyne Lipps, who promised you information for moon-tea and seeks to find a husband at tourney, in defiance of her father's plans. And then there’s the Freys.

The twin knights have saddled up quickly, opting to break their fast later. You sense a tension in them, no doubt fueled by their imminent presence near Lord Morris Corrett, whom they blame for the gelding. Lord Lipps forbade them from challenging him, but you have seen ample evidence that these Frey aren’t much for subtlety. Vengeance on the other hand . . .

Once the whole party is prepared, including the comely Jeyne Lipps and her entourage of handmaidens, the three Lipps knights, and handful of other servants retainer and at-arms, Lord Ronnet puts a spur to the flanks of his mount. “We’ll be there before noon, men. Ho!”

[Rhyvurg]

Still he fights. Marcus had hoped to end it quickly, give him a taste of what could happen to him so he'd back down before he got himself hurt, but Luceus had too much pride. Well if that's what he wanted, that's what Marcus would give him. As his foot comes down from evading Luceus' swing, he drops it back behind him, settling into a crouch before launching himself forward, ramming shield first into his opponent with all of his strength and bulk behind him.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Pausing just inside the test as he sees the trio gathered, Banion gives his lord and master a respectful, deep bow of the head, his eyes briefly averting to the ground. After the proper amount of servility is displayed, he brings his eyes back up to bear on Morris with the hint of a smile on his lips. "The hedge knights are about as scattered as you might imagine, m'lord," he states simply at first. Drawing in a breath as if to continue, his eyes flick towards the Dornishwoman for a second or two - enough to take in the distraction - before remembering why he is there and what has been asked of him. Refocusing on Morris, Banion clasps his hands under his midsection - right over left - and continues. "A good number though have Lord Baelish's patronage... Ser Morgarth, Ser Byron... I'd imagine any one of them looking for a bit of coin could easily have their loyalty swayed. There's a large, 'independent' coalition of them from what I gather, but I can't say where their loyalties lay." Banion clears his throat with a little rumble from the top of his chest. "... but if they're hedge knights, they're likely listening to or following someone's lead, ready to fly whatever banner when called. I have my suspicions and they're a protective lot, so I thought it best not to be so direct at present. I'll be watching a few of them tonight and the morrow - see what they're about."

[Sahe]

Mera shot a look at Walda, "Please do not hit one of the Lordlings here...I like your pretty head where it is, atop your head not atop a spike", Mera said teasingly and then looked up ahead again, feeling a little warmth on her cheeks. Thankfully it was already quite dark the last light being a fiery streak of red and orange in the sky.

They came up on the Corrett camps and Mera stopped for a moment hearing a familiar voice. She had seen Allyria twice over the day, but both times they haven't had an opportunity to talk. With a grin on her face Mera turned around to Walda and grabbed her by the hand. "Allyria is here feasting with my brother! Come I have to introduce you!", Mera said pushing on ahead into her brother's tent and pulling Walda with her. She brushed past Banion who was giving a report to Morris who she barely acknowledged with the shortest of looks. "Allyria!
, Mera exclaimed with excitement and rounded the table to embrace the young Dornish women in an embrace, before sitting down in the chair next to her. They hadn't seen each other in ages and so much had happened, Mera didn't know where to start, "have you heard? I am the Corrett Champion! And I may not be a knight, but I have a squire...sort of. Her name is Walda. We rescued her from Mountain Clansmen, who had kidnapped her...and then her father didn't show up so she came with me and we became friends and...Walda?" A stream of word blabbered forth from Mera's mouth like a spring, but when she turned around to look for Walda and wave her over the young peasant girl was nowhere to be seen. The excitement washed away from her face and was replaced with confusion and Mera felt a sting. Why did she leave? Had she done something wrong? Sure she had not exactly behaved courtly, but there was no one present she wanted to impress with her, frankly lacking, sense of them. She turned back to Allyria and leaned closer to whisper in her ear, "There I something I want to talk about with you...later somewhere private."

Mera then focused her attention on her brother whom she had mostly ignored until this point, "Milord, I bring good news and information. Lord Belmore agreed to give back the Meltwater rights should I defeat either Ser Baragon or Ser Royce in the lists or should I advance further than both", for now she left out her end of the deal, she would tell him if it became relevant, for now she didn't want her brother second guessing her every word wondering if she was talking with Belmore's tongue or her own, "Lord Belmore also provided some information. Apparently Lord Corbray's debts were forgiven for his support for Baelish and Bronze Yohn knighted Harry the heir. I assume to assure his loyalty."

[DukeGod]

Lord Lipps had confided him he wanted to reach the tournament site before noon. Hardly unexpected. Tyramear wondered if the jousts had begun or if they were still in the other competitions. Probably the latter, the knights would never be around here if there was even the most minor possibility of missing the jousting

Well, he'd have White Socks well prepared then. Tyramer feeds him amaranth leaves, which always gets the horse happy and willing to push hard on the road. He's been holding out on those leaves, with winter here they'll be harder to get

Meanwhile he sprinkles his morning tea with other herbs and spices. The kind that throws away sleep. The knights are practically mounted as he digs around saddles for bread, cheese and whatever meat he can scrounge. Fools. Ronnet will not depart without his daughter, and her entourage will likely take a while to eat. Still, he makes sure his food is something he can eat mounted in case he is wrong.

[heretic]

Marcus

Templeton clashes shields with you as you bull into him, but he’s not as strong as you and your charge sends him crashing to the ground.

He’s an easy target down there, with his limbs splayed everywhere and no shield, though it’s a bit unchivalrous to strike a man while he’s down. But he’s not yielding either—the man is struggling to get his legs under him even as you recover your breath.

You’re dimly aware of how the collective cheers for Templeton died when he went down, and you hear a whistle of encouragement from someone.

You knock him down and still have a lesser action left. If you attack him, you get +D since he’s prone. It’s also going to take him an entire turn to stand back up thanks to his armor, so you can go ahead and take your next turn too. If you hit him for 2 DOS or more, he’s going to offer to yield. CD: 6.

Banion

Morris takes in your report. “Hmmmm, yes hedge knights can be a dodgy lot. Baelish has a reputation for wealth, so it’s no surprise they’d fall in with him. Keep your eye on them.”

Just then, Mera bursts into the tent with Walda.

Mera

Allyria stands, her face breaking into a wide smile. “Walda, well met!” As you take your seats, she interjects once or twice into your stream of words. “Yes, I had heard—”“—kidnapped?—”“—she slipped out, p’rhaps to make water—”“—of course!” She gives you a knowing look before turning her attention back to Morris and your report.

Morris rubs his chin, no doubt wishing he had a bit of hair there to make it more dramatic. “This confirms our suspicions of Corbray. It seems that Ser Lyn Corbray is the only one of that house opposing Baelish. Odd, given his reputation for losing coin, but fitting for his contrariness. As for Bronze Yohn, that explains much and more. Allyria has uncovered another of his moves: apparently Baelish is plotting to marry his bastard daughter Alayne to Harry and Bronze Yohn encouraged Allyria to win his heart first. It seems Yohn is more concerned with Harry than maintaining his alliance.”

Allyria chimes in. “An alliance of a different kind is not far from his mind, though. He also sought to bind Dorne to the Vale through an imagined marriage between me and Harry. An unstoppable alliance, his son called it, to bring the Lannisters to heel peacefully. He also reminded me that Doran Martell stands second in line for the Iron Throne, after Princess Myrcella . . . a ward of Sunspear. Littlefinger may be playing the Game of Thrones, but Bronze Yohn has Iron ambitions of his own.”

Tyramear

The Lipps party lingers long enough for Lord Ronnet to indulge himself with some fried eggs and black blood sausages, hot from a steamy griddle. After that, the group hits the road with renewed vigor.

It’s a familiar path, though it strikes the eyes differently in the daytime. Soon enough, the castle is in sight, with a cluster of colorful pavilions and such splayed out near the entrance.

There’s a pair of travelers on the road as well. One man hails your party. Both look to be foreigners—a master and his servant. One man’s smile flashes with a bit of gold. He’s wearing floofy sleeves of aquamarine beneath a black vest done up with silver chains. His black mustache is well-waxed and there’s silver bands hanging from his ears as well. To his right stands the pauper to his prince, a shorn-headed man in dull quilted armor and a spiked iron cap. The prince wears a pair of dirks, while the pauper has a spear and shield. The golden-tooth speaks. “Well met, my lords! Isn’t she a beautiful, plump castle? See how every battlement and parapet is framed just so from this vantage?”

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus takes slow, deep breaths. He wanted to crush this man into the dirt, beat his spirit into submission along with his flesh, but if he showed too much now, it would make him more vulnerable in the melee, reveal too much. Instead he paces back and forth, then walks over to Luceus and offers his hand to help him rise.

[Sahe]

Not long ago, Mera had felt a slight sting at the thought of Allyria marrying some Lord of the Vale or even her brother, now that would be even her preferred option. It would mean her friend would stay close, "Have you met Harry then? Because if you have I'm sure you already won him over without saying a word...isn't that right Banion? Brother?", Mera said teasing the two men. Allyria was a true beauty, turning men's and at least one young woman's head wherever she went.

Stealing a piece of chicken out of Allyria's bowl Mera continued to her conversation with the Dornish, "in a way, being a bastard is not so bad. At least I do not have to worry about men pushing to marry this or that lord to form an Alliance. Would you even want to marry this Harry?"

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The old rapscallion still near the entryway rolls his eyes up and to the right, as if in thought, when Mera launches into her blabbering. He looks like a father letting their child run loose for a moment, trying to ignore or get past whatever mischief they might be causing. Taking a deep breath in through his nose, he proceeds to tuck his right thumb into his belt before exhaling and letting his eyes drop back to Morris and the table in general. "Unless there is anything else I can assist you with, m'ord, by-your-leave?" he inquires in his gravelly voice. "I'll unlikely being staying in the encampment tonight, but will make all efforts to return in the early morning."

[heretic]

Mera

Morris turns as red as the comet when you make reference to Allyria’s charms. He suddenly busies himself with scraping at his bowl with a spoon and guzzling from a cup of water. Allyria, for her part, gives a gracious, but knowing laugh. Turning to your other remarks, she says, “I’ll grant that most bastards are unlike to be used in political marriage, but lucky Alayne Stone has found herself in just such a predicament. Under normal circumstance, the best she could hope for would be a hedge knight, like that Ser Shadrich who’s always sniffing around after her. But being Littlefinger’s bastard is something different, I suppose. Otherwise Lady Waynwood would never let Harry marry so low.”

“As for my prospects with Harry, I’ll confess I’m intrigued. Harry is handsome, not stupid, and they say his sword works well enough. Being heir to the Eyrie isn’t half-bad either. But my father betrothed me to a Valeman once without my leave. This time, I intend to do the betrothing.”

. . .

When step into your tent, you find it dark and very warm. “Mera?” comes Walda’s voice from within. “Sorry I had to run off. Earlier I heard Morris say he wouldn’t need a bath, so I told Bella you wanted her to make it here instead. I had to run quick to make sure ‘twas hot enough.” The steam tickles your face and you can dimly see the lip of the wooden tub, which has taken up nearly the entire floorspace of the tent. “And then I thought it might be too hot, so I got in to see if you would get boil’t.” You can feel her tunic beneath your feet. “And now it’s too warm for me to get out.” Her face stands out fair against the gloom, above where the water laps at her shoulders and her hair flows seamlessly into the bath. “I hope I didn’t ruin it.”

Marcus

Luceus is still thrashing to gain his feet when he see you offer your hand. He becomes still and then drops his pole-axe and grasps your hand. The assembled crowd breaks into applause as you hoist the defeated knight to his feet. Templeton’s squire drags the pole-axe back to the weapons rack while Luceus lifts free his helm. Your struggle was brief, but his face is covered in a sheen of sweat. Perhaps it’s the injury, or the fear after you put him on his back.

“Well struck, Clegane. Your arm is strong, but your chivalry stronger.” Pulling off a gauntlet, he works his fingers into the mess of steel where you struck him. “Here, a token to remember our bout.” From within the damaged plate, he pulls forth a battered rondel, forged in the likeness of a Templeton star. “My smith will be busy enough as it is, and the shield will cover that spot well enough in the joust.” Wincing with pain, he sidles off to his entourage.

You feel someone at your side. Talla is there, tying the Egen colors around your spaulder. A few others have come forward as well to introduce themselves and offer words of encouragement. The mustachioed bald man is Sam Stone, master of arms for the Royces of Runestone. Bronze Yohn’s other champion, Ben Coldwater, introduces himself as well. Stone is a very solidly built man for his age, stocky and thick, clearly a skilled warrior, while Coldwater is less seasoned and proportioned more normally.

. . .

Bells and trumpets awaken you. It’s time to make ready the joust, and after that, the melee.

The Champion

You’re awakened by the chime of sept-bells and distant harmony of trumpets. It’s time. Walda is asleep, still clutching tightly to you as if she can hold fast the night, lest it flee before the sun. Pleasantly, you notice that she finally did master the buckles on your armor, which she helpfully left loosened just enough to permit the breastplate to be donned and then easily tightened into place. You can smell eggs, onions, and honeyed ham being fried in butter somewhere. A tasty appetizer, but the finest course today will be served by the master of games: the slew of boy-knights unlucky enough to draw you, a war veteran and master of the lance, in the tilts.

Outside, you find your lances as you left them—twelve feet of polished wood, unbanded to shatter, and wrapped with cloth on the grip. They’re longer and lighter than what you’d carried in war, but that’s no distraction. You found in your practice with Ser Miles and earlier that the tourney lance is easy enough to adjust to.

All around the camp, people are making ready for the events of the day. Lords and ladies are making for the castle gate in their finest winter clothes, while knights and squires are preparing their mounts and armor. Morris is talking with Maesters Adwin and Medgar, and looks quite distracted. Beyond him, you see Ser Oswyn Upcliff, in polished plate, the left side of his pock-marked face obscured by a haute-piece lacquered in the likeness of a crashing wave. His courser is grey as slate, caparisoned in sea-green quilt. A helmed knight in featureless, scarred armor dips an arm to you as he rides by. His other arm holds his shield, which shows the Stone Scepter—the mystery knight you’ve heard some talk of. Further on you see Jaime Wydman holding his arms up while his squires adjust the straps on his absurd, muscle-rippled breastplate with its golden nipple-rings.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus takes the token. "Remember Luceus, it's not your arm, it's your will that matters." He's very glad for his helmet when Talla is at his side, all these people seeing him blush is not how he would want this to end. He nods and offers what polite greetings he can to those who introduce themselves, doing his best to not seem rude or aloof. Before turning in he calls on Lord Morris and tells him, briefly, what he had heard of the three Houses he'd been asked to look into. Returning to his modest tent, he crawls in, removes his armor and pulls his blanket around himself, wishing he'd thought to purchase a second.

================================================== ===============

In the morning, Marcus struggles to don his armor in his tent, then with a growl of frustration steps outside in just a pair of leggings, ignoring the cold as he gets dressed. He had better things to do than worry about propriety, anyone sniggering behind their hands had better keep it there. He affixes Luceus's rondel to the inside of his shield above the handle, where he could see it and be reminded not to lose his temper, that how he won was as important as winning, if not more so. The last to go on is his bright yellow surcoat with three hounds on his chest, and his cloak on over that. He walks the Corrett camp perimeter a few times, warming himself up in his armor, before seeking a bite of food.

[Sahe]

The Evening:

Mera sat a little more with her brother and Allyria, discussing Vale politics and potential suitors, while eating and downing a cup of wine or two. After a while Mera excused herself to lie down. She had to rest, tomorrow was a big day. When she returned to her tent she found it close and hot. She could not believe when she saw and heard Walda. This had to be one of her wild fantasies again, but she didn't even have that much wine. "You could not ruin this for me, even if you tried", Mera said with a dry mouth and began to undress, while thoughts raced through her mind. Walda could have just tested the water with her hands, so had she planned this situation or did she just want to take advantage of the hot water. Mera was confused and excited as she climbed into the tub and sat across from her squire.

Moments passed, in which they just sat in silence and looked at one another. Mera was very aware of where their legs touched in the small tub and could not take her gaze off the other young woman. There where things she wanted to do, things she wanted to say, but she was too afraid, too afraid that she was wrong and misunderstood Walda. So she kept silently staring, until suddenly water splashed into her face. Completely taken by surprise Mera wiped the water out of her face and gave a feigned impression of outrage, she looked at Walda who displayed a mischievous grin and then splashed Mera again with some water and giggled, "c'mon Champion, defend your self!" "You'll regret this!" Mera exclaimed, but with no anger in her voice, lunging forward at Walda and dipping her head under water, but immediately pulled her up again. Snorting out some water, Walda resurfaced and looked at Mera smiling. Mera noticed how close they suddenly were, she could feel Walda's breath on her skin, her hand running along the scar in her face and then their lips touched.

============================================

The next morning:

Mera awoke to the sound of trumpets and Sept-bells, heralding the new day, the day of the tourney where she could show the Vale that she was worthy of their respect as a warrior. The bells also reminded her of Septa Tanselle and how she would have some very choice words if she found out about what had happened last night in this tent. Mera quickly banned the Septa from her thoughts, she had rarely if ever listened to her lectures so why should she start now? Mera gently released herself from Walda's tight embrace and turned around to look at the peasant girl. With a gentle gesture, Mera brushed a strain of hair out of Walda's face and then crawled out of bed to get dressed.

A few moments later Mera left her tent. She had already donned the surcoat in Corrett colors and the armor under which she wore her usual Gambeson. She still wasn't quite used to the heavier armor and wanted to walk a few paces to get a feel for it. So Mera went to get some breakfast and held her eyes open for the competition. Stone Scepter passed her acknowledging her with a salute she returns. As he rode on ahead Mera hoped she would not have to face him too soon. He surely was of the more intimidating opponents, unlike Ser Jaime Wydman who's ridicolous pompous plate armor made him look more like a fool than a warrior.

When Mera returned to her tent, a plate with some eggs and fried honeyed ham in hand that she had smelled earlier, Walda was already there and taking care of Blackbolt. Mera would have preferred to ride Redfoot in the tourney, but this was also a matter of prestige. There would be talk enough about House Corrett and their female bastard champion with the Dornish blood. Having her ride a lower breed would just make things worse. Setting down the plate Mera suppressed the urge to embrace Walda and give her a kiss. "Good morning champion", Walda greeted Mera and continued, "I hope you had a good night's rest?" Mera nearly chocked on some ham, but heavily gulped it down before answering with a grin, "Yes, I had a...a wonderful night." Mera then got closer to Walda and helped her with saddling Blackbolt. "Are you nervous?", Walda asked as she looked at Mera. "No", Mera said to her own surprise. She had expected to feel nervous, she had before, but now that the day was here, she felt mostly excited, "well, a bit nervous, but more eager to send some boy-knights into the dirt. You know...I should've asked Allyria for her favor, I don't think she has given it to anyone...wouldn't that be a sight?"

[DukeGod]

"I'm a learned man, yet all I know of architecture is that the Citadel has many stairs. But don't tell the Maesters I said that." Not that it mattered. He had stayed far far away from the...marble? link.

"Do riddle me this. If they were framed just so from this vantage point then surely, the builder chose this point for a reason. Would another expert be capable of telling why? Or of course, I'm sure you also have prodigious knowledge of a man's mind"

Tyramear is careful not to call the man a Lord. He doesn't look like one. Probably some foreigner, and some of those hated to be called it

It rather improved them in his eyes...

[Old Overholt]

Banion

As promised, the rogue serving House Corrett returns from the edge of camp in the early morning. He wanders down the main thoroughfare, leading past some of the regal tents of the landed families, with a slow, not-a-care-in-the-world walk. He's dressed warmly - or the best he can manage with what he brought along - probably indicating he planned on a short trek through the cold. As he draws closer to the Corrett encampment, anyone outside the tent can see Banion looks a little worse for wear. His head is lowered, his eyes slightly scrunched to shield themselves from the approaching daylight. He throat rumbles with the sound of someone calling up phlegm and mucus before spitting out a large wad along the muddy trail leading to his destination. He draws a deep breath in through his nose, the viscous liquid in his nasal passages vibrating loudly before he stops. He glances up occasionally as he draws closer to the tent, each look brief in nature, as if just to make sure he's on the right path.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus, on his circuit of the camp, sees Banion approaching. "Banion, are you...ill? You don't seem like you had a good night."

[heretic]

Marcus

A few passersby gawk at you as you dress out in the cold, but the morning is busy enough that few take notice. Everywhere, knights are making ready to compete. It seems that Jaime Wydman is not the only Ser here who favors ornamental armor. There’s no shortage of crested helms, colorful feathers and streamers, and other garish accoutrement—you see an Upcliff with a crashing wave sprouting from his collar, Bronze Yohn Royce in his namesake runic armor, and a Peake wearing a solid band of gold on his arm and a Dornish yellow silk around his neck.

The Champion

Walda looks just a shade cross when you mention wearing Allyria’s favor. “I heard that she gave it to Torwyll Peake, so you’re a Sally Too-Late!” She straightens the blanket beneath Blackbolt’s saddle. The courser slowly turns his head towards you, now accustomed to the touch of your hand and spur.

You follow the smell of breakfast to a cookfire around which Morris, maesters Medgar and Adwin, Ser Myles Stone are huddled, with a handful of Corrett servants darting about with bowls of food. Myles is sopping up egg yolk with a folded biscuit, turning his head about to bite down without getting any on his hideous beard. Someone hands you a bowl of fried eggs, ham, and onions, well-seasoned with ground peppercorns and topped with a pair of fresh biscuits. Morris folds you into the conversation. “Mera, it seems that Lord Roger has taken rather ill. The good maester here tells me that his lordship lost a hawk—”“—eagle—”“—lost an eagle in the night and is beside himself with grief. Best to keep the full details to ourselves.” Lord Egen does love his birds. Morris cuffs your armor. “But why am I bothering you with this—may you ride with the grace of the Warrior today!”

The group makes for the castle, with Myles peeling away to fetch his horse and shield.

Tyramear

The party moves toward the castle as the foreigner answers your question. “The builder sought to defend the foot of the mountain, and the way to the high castle in the clouds.” He must be referring to the Eyrie. “But where one man builds in stone, his foe can built castle-smashers of wood and leather sinews.” He points happily to the ground. “THIS is where the foe will build.” Lord Ronnet raises an eyebrow. “Are you in the business of . . . building?” The foreigner’s smile glints gold.

. . .

You come upon the colorful pavilions of soft-h—of canvas, silk, and wool. You can see half the colors of the Vale laid out, but precious few souls. The tourney proper must be starting inside the castle now.

You can extend the conversation with Stallicho as long as you’d like, but I wanted to provide the opportunity to advance to the castle and interact there as well.

Banion and Marcus
. . .
Deferring here for two reasons : (1) to avoid stepping on toes for the Marcus/Banion interaction and (2) I'm not sure if what Banion did last night and I don't want to accidentally mess it up. Should we flash back to it, have you summarize it yourself, or preserve the mystery?

[Old Overholt]

Banion

As the massive young man comes into his path, Banion slows his pace before coming to a complete stop - within easy arm reach of the Clegane. Lifting his head so that he can look up at Marcus' face, Banion squints to account for the increased light in his eyes. The gesture gives him a pained look as his lips part and his yellow-stained teeth appear from behind his lips.

Marcus can smell a number of things on the man, the first of which is alcohol. Marcus has encountered Banion once before on a bender, and while the rogue is certainly aromatic, his present state fails in comparison to that instance. He seems to be in a better physical shape than Marcus' memory of that meeting between the two. Banion, who Marcus can recall smelled absolutely vile in that congress - not just alcohol, but all manner of filth that assaulted the senses - could barely stand and talked nonsensically. Half the time, he seemed to be speaking to himself or some apparition about money, but it really didn't make sense to Marcus at the time. He might recall little bits and blurbs of the conversation: something about a shipment of cloves and cinnamon, a special delivery, a riverbed near Greycrown keep, someone going to sleep or resting, and then multiple references to an unnamed woman who Banion seemed to be both infuriated with and understanding at the same time. What Marcus does clearly remember is Banion collapsing forward, burying his forehead into Marcus' chest, and passing out mostly upright... and whatever Marcus did with the poor sod thereafter. It was widely known Banion would occasionally be found in the oddest of places, passed out after tears such as these.

This, however, was a more pleasant encounter. Banion stares at Marcus for a few seconds, processing what was said to him as if he needed to translate it. Eventually, in a rough voice, his throat still not completely clear of the night's debauchery nor fully awake, Banion grumbles out pleasantly enough, "It went well enough I suppose." Sniffing once again, he looks about the outskirts of the camp where he ran into Marcus, trying to take in the general activity about them. He asks in idle conversation, "The Sand Snatch ready to ride?" The question posited, Banion refocuses his attention back on Marcus as he clears his throat with a low rumble before looking Marcus over. "Are /you/ ready for the day? You've got a few people anxious to meet you today," he quickly adds with a bit of a grin.

A gust of cold air comes up from behind Banion, blowing two more scents in Marcus' direction. One is fairly recognizable: onion. Probably from some stew or soup. It was a staple ingredient of many meals and fairly common. Banion seemed to enjoy it in bountiful proportions. The other was somewhat more difficult to place: something sweet. It was an oil or perfume, that Marcus was sure of, but beneath the alcohol, the onion, and the other smells within camp, it was probably impossible to pick out specifically without less subtle means.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus rolls his eyes and helps the man into camp. "You need water, not wine, and as much good food as you can stand." He finds a place for the man near a fire. "I suppose it's too much to ask you to bathe. And." He squeezes Banion's shoulder slightly too hard. "Please keep a civil tongue in your head about Mera." He goes to get something to help the rogue feel more human.

[Sahe]

Hearing that Torwyll Peake would be wearing Allyria's favor was a bit of a disappointment, but what concerned Mera even more was that Walda seemed a bit upset when she mentioned the favor...or was it just Allyria? She thought about last night and how Walda had suddenly disappeared, "to secure the bath", but obviously there had been more to that. Could it be that Walda was jealous of her friendship with Allyria?

Her thoughts were interrupted when they found Morris and the others at breakfast. Mera simply shrugged when she heard the news about Lord Roger and his bird. Some would see this as a bad omen but even then, Ser Myles should be more worried. She was riding for House Corrett and there had been no Stonecrown crushed last night. "It is a good thing then, that Ser Myles is riding for Lord Roger and not his birds", Mera quipped and began guiding Blackbolt towards the castle. Mera was excited and only slightly nervous.

[heretic]

Banion

Cold air punishes your throat and chest as you make your way about the camp. You hack up some mucus, each strand a memory of last night. There’s a bit of campfire in the first wad, from when you returned and sat by the hedge knights’ tent-fire. You made a few friends and a few wagers, and learned ever more. The young knight who calls himself the Knight of the Apple Tree confessed that he’s here to duel a Ser Lothor Brune, who killed half his family. Another tastes like a woman’s lips. A camp follower was more than happy to lighten your purse in return for a kiss and whisperings about how she espied Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse buying dark dye for his hair—a humorous thought, the vanity of an aging hedge knight. When someone told Stone Scepter that you had been seen around Marcus Clegane, he pulled you over, asking you what the young Clegane thought of his uncle Sandor, and of the Hound’s helm in the hedge knight’s hands.

Marcus

As you make your way to the tourney field, you see that most of the highborn lords and ladies are taking up seats on the scaffolded risers, while the servants and footman stand in the commons. There’s also no shortage of squires, grooms, and knights posting on the other side of the lists, closest to the action.

This is sort of an interesting crossroads—does Marcus see his path to redemption involving seizing status symbols like sitting up with Morris and the other highborn lords and ladies, or is he more inclined to the commons or a lone spot on the other side of the field.

The Tourney (Banion, Marcus, Mera)

The scaffolded risers are filled with all the nobility of the Vale, or near enough as to make no matter. Their colors—bright doublets and dresses, as well as banners hanging out for the larger contingents—bring life to the otherwise bleak castle courtyard, with its dark stone and neat piles of snow. On the center of the field lie the whitewashed lists to separate the champions. At either end of the field, an arching pavilion has been erected so that the upcoming champions may have somewhere private from which to make their entrance. On either side of the lofted scaffold-seats stand the commons—a sparse offering of servants, retainers, hedge knights and followers. No town adjoins the castle, and peasants are not wont to travel with winter about to set in. All around the edge of the field are squires and grooms, ready to rush in and do their duty.

At the high place of honor sits Littlefinger, his bastard daughter Alayne, and in between them, the small Lord Robert. Petyr Baelish is genial today, chatting with Lady Waynwood on his right, and offering up nuts from a bowl to those around him. Alayne is less well-dressed than her father, in a demure dress of white wool, but she has brushed her powerfully brown hair to a shine and is taking the primary responsibility for placating Robert, whose nasally whines occasionally echo painfully out into the yard. He’s a tiny, quavering boy with red, runny eyes; swallowed by his long-sleeved doublet and picking at the tie that someone has used to sweep back the mane of hair that he’s cultivated. It’s said he starts to shake if any man approaches him with a blade, and so the household has given up on shearing him.

Before the matches begin, Littlefinger’s septon trudges out before the crowd and opens the ceremonies. He speaks of duty and honor, of how the favor of the Seven can show itself in martial contests, of heroes new and old, of the murder of Lady Lysa, of how Lord Robert requires the protection of the finest knights that can be found, and of how the Lord Commander of the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights will be blessed to be joined by seven holy brothers. Eventually, he ends his remarks with a prayer for the righteous to prevail and quits the field, to much applause.

When the first champions come running from their pavilions, the scaffolds creak as all rise to cheer them on. On the north end of the field comes Ser John Templeton, cantering forth on a white gelding caparisoned in yellow and black. Templeton himself is in shining plate and a simple black iron helm. His only ornamentation is the two black belts that crisscross his chest, studded with nine black iron stars. After riding halfway down the front of the risers with an upraised fight, Templeton returns to his end of the lists, accepting a lance from his squire. Meanwhile, Ser Omer Donniger is prancing sideways and backwards on his copper charger, showing off his horsemanship. His armor is simple, and he wears a riding cloak stitched with the Donniger rising sun. He too takes up his lance, twelve feet of pine capped with an iron coronal forged in the shape of a fist. They dip their lances carefully to honor the little lord, and the yard becomes very quiet. At a trumpet blast, they’re charging on, lowering their lances slowly onto target as the crowd cheers. Both men strike well, breaking their lances. Donniger reels in his saddle, then slumps forward, while Templeton shrugs off his hit. On the second pass, Ser Jon unhorses his foeman with a clean strike to the chest. Donniger is rattled, but is able to walk off the field unassisted, leaving behind his cloak as a token.

After that, the tilts come a little more crisply, without so much showing off beforehand. Mychel Redfort overthrows Oswood Moore on two passes. Torwyll Peake bests Oswyn Upcliff in three, wrenching the absurd lacquered haute-piece off his fallen foe and delivering it to Allyria Gargalen. Ben Coldwater and Albar Royce (of the Gates of the Moon) ride six passes, breaking three lances each before Royce takes a shard of lance to the groin and is forced to yield. Other matches stand out for the skill of the knights. Strong Sam Stone hits like thunderclap, sending a knight of Ruthermont to the dirt on the first lance. Jaime Wydman is very, very good, overthrowing Uther Shett with ease. Lyn Corbray comes out in gilt armor reminiscent of the Kingslayer’s, and he hits Corben Sunderland so hard that they had to drag him off to see the maesters.

The Champion

You have a fair amount of time to take in the preliminary matches before you must retreat to the north champion’s tent. By your best guess, Strong Sam Stone of Runestone has the best lance control (though Lyn Corbray is close) and Ser Jaime Wydman has the best seat you’ve ever seen aside from Ser Gorlen Waters. His younger brother Steffen is also an exceptional jouster, dropping a hedge knight in one pass.

Feel free to respond to any of the above, then go for it with your rolls. I think you’re at 6DB1 on the attack after adding in Expertise and Woman Warrior and subtracting one bonus die for proficiency? Make an Animal Handling (Ride) check as well, in case you get hit hard enough that you need it.

[DukeGod]

"I will tell you though, we are tired from the road. What do you say we take this conversation to the castles, feast, and then we can argue our tongues out?"

Tyramear dismounts and keeps Balericat close to himself. Rogue shadowcats in castles tended to scare away the foolish people

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus chooses to watch from the commons, his height letting him see over the throng. Thunking his axe into the ground, he hangs his shield and helmet on the haft. He cheers on every hit, and claps loudly when Sam Stone unhorses his enemy on his first pass. Someday that might be him, but not today.

[Sahe]

As they entered the castle Mera felt like people where shooting her strange looks and whispering behind her back. She tried her best to ignore it, not long and she would show them she could wield a lance and give them something to whisper about. While she waited for the spectacle to begin, she let her eyes wander. She spotted Littlefinger and his bastard daughter at the place of honor. She was pretty, but not like Allyria or even Walda. Much less pretty was Lord Robert, he looked sickly, as she had heard and even at a distance Mera wasn't sure if he needed really needed a Brotherhood of Winged Knights, a Brotherhood of Winged Maesters would do him better.

The Septon appeared and swung his speech. It made Mera feel guilty again about what happened between her and Walda the other night. She looked at her squire that proudly held up Mera's spear with the Corrett streamer and wondered if she felt the same. The trumpets sounded again and the crowd cheered as the first contestants came out of the pavilions pulling Mera from her thoughts, the jousting was about to begin.

While waiting for her own turn, Mera payed close attention to the other contestants and took note of their skills. She remembered that silly dream about winning the tourney she had a few nights before. Seeing who she would have to defeat for that she was quite sure it would remain just that, at least for now, not that she wouldn't try though. While waiting she payed special attention to Ser Baragon and Ser Royce, those where the two she had to defeat.

When Mera's turn came, she entered the pavilion and Walda made sure one last time that Blackbolt's saddle fit properly and that all the buckles on Mera's breastplate were tight and secured. Mera felt nervous, in a few moments it would be decided if she was the joke of this tourney or make a fool of her opponent. Walda seemed to sense Mera's unease and hidden from the world by the pavilion's tarp and Blackbolt's back she kissed her. "Go get them", Walda whispered and for a moment Mera felt like she could conquer the Seven Kingdoms if Walda just asked her to. Then she mounted her horse and rode out.

As she entered the field she was greeted by booing from the crowd greatly contrasted by Ser Waxley's display with his burning lance that was received with loud cheers. Mera did not care, she knew she was not a favorite. Mera tipped her lance to the high place of honor and then closed her visor as she led Blackbolt into position. Trumpets sounded and Mera gave Blackbolts the spores, charging down the field like thunder towards Ser Waxley. She brought down her lance, holding it steady and eyes fixed on her target. They hit each other almost simultaneously with splintering wood. Mera reeled from the hit, thrown off balance and struggling to stay on Blackbolt's back, but she managed to stay on top and bring her horse to a halt at the end of the field. She turned around to see what had happened to her opponent. Ser Waxley was lying in the dirt on his back with his Destrier standing a few paces away. Opening her visor to let herself breathe, Mera showed a triumphant grin, now she had given the people something to talk about.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Fuzzy Memories From the Night Before…

When the Stone Scepter had approached him, Banion was friendly and hospitable – thanks to drink and good company. He did everything he could to placate the man in a jovial manner. He assured the knight that no mention of his presence was made, either to the Clegane ward or his master. Banion noted that he shared the allegiances of some of the other notable knights in the room with Morris, but that the Stone Scepter went unnamed. On that note though, Banion recalls referencing the Corrett lord’s interest in knowing the intentions of the hedge knights as it related the Lords Declarant and Petyr Baelish, but did not urge the Stone Scepter to share any more than he had.

The Morning of the Tournament…

After gathering him – swishing his mouth clean with some of Dryn’s quickly souring red wine and gnawing on some salted fish – Banion washed his face and hands with some non-potable water. Accompanying Marcus into the commons, Banion stood next to the much taller ‘boy’. His attention drifted from the matches, his eyes instead scanning the group about them. If Marcus should ever look at the man, he seems completely disinterested in the jousts, if not absolutely bored by them. On occasion, he’ll bring his hands up to give a half-hearted pat of his hands. But otherwise, Banion seems more intrigued by people watching, like he was looking for someone or something in particular.

[heretic]

Mera

Victory flushes through your body, dulling the pain of Waxley slamming your shield-arm with his lance. It was a good tilt apiece, but you managed to bring your lance across better, allowing for a more solid strike. At the end of the list, you find yourself face-to-face with Stone Scepter, who spurs himself forward to clap hands with you. “Well-struck, Stone-crown!” he yells from behind the impassive grille of his helm.

Turning back to the field, you can see a fair bit of surprise in the stands. Alayne Stone is clutching her chest in exaggerated, lady-like shock, while Littlefinger smiles and claps politely. Lord Robert is grinning and smashing his hands together to recreate the moment of impact. Lord Waxley has his head in his hands, and Lord Belmore is deep in thought, his face slack. Morris and his group are all on their feet cheering, and the commons look happy as well.

Walda comes running down the length of the lists to help lift aside rope barrier so that you can ride off the tourney field. “Great hit! He fell off right quick! They say you’ll face Breakstone or Pryor next.” The Pryors present are of little consequence. It’s Edmund Breakstone that you’ll be facing next. From what you’ve heard, he’s a capable knight—three and twenty, squire to Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard, and later, Strong Sam Stone, a veteran of sorties against the hill clans.

You spy Marcus Clegane among the commons.

Marcus

Mera rides through Gwayne Waxley like it’s nothing, sending the knight tumbling to the ground amid a spray of lance shards. His squire snuffs the mummer’s trick lance in a pile of snow and runs out to help the man up. There are cheers around you, as well as yells of surprise.

Several of the knights still lingering around the field honor Mera’s performance with clapping or some other signs of respect. Among them are Stone Scepter, who also congratulates her in person, Torwyll Peake, who cups his mailed hands to shout encouragement, and both of the other bastard knights present—Ser Myles Stone, of course, and Strong Sam of Runestone. Others show less grace in their responses. Royce Belmore spits on the ground, while Donnel Waynwood upturns his cup of wine in disgust. Jaime Wydman just laughs uproariously.

Banion

The commons are alive with excitement and chatter. Each unhorsing prompts a shuffle, as wagers are settled and new ones made. Your view of the field itself is somewhat cramped by the sea of heads and shoulders before you, though the action before you is more int’resting anyway.

When Mera’s name is called out, you hear a man loudly offering five to one odds on “the Sandsnatch,” as well as a number of ribald comments. When the trumpets sound, you catch a glimpse of the riders streaking down the lists, lances dropping. Wood splinters and the crowd roars. Soon after, coin starts to change hands. You recognize Ser Myles Stone’s squire collecting a small fortune in silver—likely reflecting a stake only a knight could put up. “Waxley’s got to turn in his spurs after that one—”“—she up against next—”“—one to two odds on Egen’s other knight—”

While most of the commons are engaged in the matches before you, you notice a few whose attention is clearly elsewhere. The camp follower you spoke to last night is whispering in a Waynwood footmen’s ear, and allowing his hand to creep beneath her tunic even as she deftly lightens him of his purse. Shadrich the Mad Mouse keeps stealing glances at Littlefinger’s high booth, barely registering the jousts before him. He’s left his armor behind, and is dressed in heavy woolen browns. A swaying member of the castle’s staff is preparing a doomed attempt to refill his wineskin instead of running off to the privy. There are a few other familiar faces about, including some Egen and Corrett footmen, Littlefinger’s hedge knight with the red nose and black mail, and Hoke, the Hunter servant.

Tyramear

Lord Ronnet orders his men to raise the tent while he hastens onward to the tourney grounds, with his greying, butterball champion Ser Ossifer in tow, as well as his two household retainer knights. Stallicho trails after them, still trying to impress the lord with his knowledge of warcraft. Jeyne and her handmaidens set a fire so that she can wipe the grime of the road from herself with hot water.

The two Frey knights wander off to the side a bit, staking up their extra mounts and pulling a canvas over the top of their wagon. One squire appears to be relegated to guard duty, while the other helps them saddle up their warhorses. You’re sure they mean to soon confront Lord Corrett and demand recompense for the gelding of their squires.

You can hear the faint sounds of a crowd’s excitement from up behind the castle walls. They must have already started jousting.

The Tournament (Mera, Marcus, Banion, possibly Tyramear)

Jousting resumes apace, with Stone Scepter crashing his way to victory over Ser Martin Elesham on the third pass. Ser Myles Stone defeats Creighton Hersy after taking a brutal hit. Baragon Belmore and Beneford Ruthermont ride two spirited passes, but on the third, Ruthermont’s horse stumbles and throws him. Belmore offers his opponent a grace, but Ruthermont has broken his leg and cannot continue. Littlefinger’s maester awards Ser Baragon the match. The hedge knight Ser Byron the Beautiful unhorses Royce Belmore moments before falling himself, forcing the match to continue afoot. Alas, Belmore finds himself snared by a stirrup, whereas Ser Byron proves that nothing will restrain him. The maesters drag Royce Belmore off, bloody and beaten, with stirrup and saddle still attached. Soon after, Lucas Corbray prevails over a Pryor of Pebble, to the cheers of Littlefinger’s section. The next match spells the end of House Pryor’s other champion as Edmund Breakstone thunders through his opponent, lifting his foeman from the saddle with his first, sweet stroke. This time, it’s the Redforts, Breakstones (Redfort bannermen), and Royces of Runestone that rouse to their feet for House Redfort’s champion.

Ser Harry Hardyng appears next, in shining silvery plate and a sky-blue cloak, his helm tucked under one arm. Beneath him is a snow-white destrier, huge and spirited. The crowd rises in respect for the heir to the Vale, some light applause breaking out. Harry is square jawed, blue of eye with sandy blond hair, cut short. He lowers his helm about his head, showing off the steel falcon crest as his opponent, one of the Sunderland knights, emerges from the other tent to little fanfare. Harry takes up a white lance and five passes later, Sunderland is overthrown, though they only broke four lances between them, three of them Harry’s.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus claps and cheers loudly when Mera rides, more so when she unhorses her opponent. He notices a few who are less pleased, and hopes they'll be in the melee and not the joust. If the Seven are kind, Belmore and Waynwood will find themselves under his axe soon enough. Either way, a few more turns like that and Mera will force any doubters into silence.

[DukeGod]

Well, it seems the newcomer was already ingratiating himself with a Lord. Good for him.

Tyramear hands one of his waterskins to Jeyne, commeting on how it's her special tea. He trusts her to keep her end of the bargain (though he's not sure when he should visit. She seemed like she wanted to keep herself busy in this tournament...)

Then he slips away, keeping Balericat constantly to his side, even as he approaches the jousts

And arrives in time to see a few...possibly exciting matches to end

He looks for one of the Corrett. Better to pass on the information of the Frey knights. He hadn't seen the opportunity to arrange an accident yet. Maybe one of his knightly companions would know who they'd face and he could slip something into the opponent's weaponry...

[Old Overholt]

Banion

"Music to my ears," Banion murmurs with a bit of a smile to no one in particular as he looks about the hustle and bustle of the commons. The man himself doesn't appear to be eager to engage in any ad hoc betting - he already put his money up the night before, betting with the knights themselves to provide them the proper motivation rather than wagering on someone who has no investment in the outcome.

Spotting the nymph he chatted with the night before, he quickly notices her 'light-fingeredness' and grins at the sight. He was able to fully appreciate the fine art that she practiced and felt no need to interrupt her or warn her unsuspecting mark. Instead, he turned his attention to the other intriguing folks gathered in the main area until his focus fell upon the man rumored to dye his hair. Seeing the man's eyes drawn almost single-mindedly to something else, Banion traced his line of sight back to Littlefinger. Banion too kept an eye on the Lord Protector, curious if the Mad Mouse was awaiting any sort of cue from Baelish or if he was simply preoccupied with something or someone in Baelish's presence.

[heretic]

Banion

Examining Littlefinger’s booth closely, you can’t quite make out who or what has Shadrich’s attention—there’s Littlefinger himself, an older lady with a dignified air, the little snot-nosed Lord of the Vale, Littlefinger’s bastard daughter, and a couple of young page boys. After Harry the Heir unhorses his opponent, the brown-haired Alayne stands and excuses herself from the booth. Suddenly, the Mad Mouse is edging through the crowd, moving toward the back of the commons and the remainder of the castle yard. Curious.

Tyramear

Jeyne accepts the waterskin, tucking it into her saddlebags with a nod.

Together with Balericat, you trudge up to the gatehouse. You find it unmanned, with the portcullis reserved and the doors open. The castle yard has been neatly prepared for the tourney, with the snow carefully shoveled and packed into blocks, and a great scaffold raised for viewing the tourney. You can see a couple hundred gathered in the commons, and a variety of knights standing about the rope that marks the boundaries of the lists.

A few men take notice of you and Balericat, but they do not raise the hue and cry, at least not yet. As you round the field to get a look at the stands, you begin to scan for familiar faces. First, you spy Marcus Clegane, towering over the commons in full battle regalia. Second, you spot Ser Gorlen Waters atop Blackbolt, his lordship Corrett’s favorite courser. Waters’ face is obscured by his helm, but he carries himself as if flush with victory, which is a surprise—Waters has never distinguished himself in a tourney before, despite his formidable riding abilities. Finally, you see Lord Corrett himself up in the stands, seated with his mother, Maester Adwin, and a few other nobles you do not know.

The remainder of the stands contain virtually every lord and lady of the Vale, and no doubt the knights present are the best that the Vale has to offer. You recognize a few faces here and there, but most of those present are from the true Vale, not the outskirts that have been your home for the past few years. Beyond the tourney field, there’s a stable, a sept, some thatched dwellings, and the mighty lump of a keep.

Marcus

There’s a bit of a commotion as some drunken idiot tries to piss into a waterskin and instead soaks his neighbors. As the hubbub subsides, you spot a familiar, unique pair tromping across the grounds. The man is somewhat nondescript, dressed in well-worn traveler’s garb, but it’s his companion that awakens your recognition. Sleek and powerful, the shadowcat slinks forward beside him, its tail low and hips swaying slightly with each step.

You don’t know Tyramear well, but he’s served as House Corrett’s roving healer and gamesman since before you arrived in the Vale. He’s known to have a wild thumb, capable of calming any beast, feral or trained. It’s said he knows things too—enough to forge a wristful of links at the Citadel before departing. Last you heard, he was dispatched by Lord Corrett to investigate the health of Jeyne Lipps, to determine whether she was sick, as Lord Egen claimed when he declined to pursue her. He must have returned.

The Tourney—Banion, Tyramear, Marcus, Mera

The next few matches come at a more relaxed pace.

Luceus Templeton takes down the Knight of the Apple Tree, who rips off his helm and ungracefully attacks the whitewashed list-fence with his sword, before fleeing the field in tears. A near half-hour passes while workers fashion a repair.

Ser Gaelen Grafton, the pride of Gulltown, throws his lance aside at the sound of the trumpet blast, riding at his opponent while pounding his breastplate, inviting an unchallenged blow. The crowd surges to its feet at Grafton’s display of valor and vainglory. Ser Dermot Donniger obliges him, landing a bruising hit on Grafton’s shield and sending the knight reeling amid the spinning shards of lance. The cheers are thunderous when he keeps his seat, and the commons has its new favorite. Having proved his mettle and daring-do, Ser Gaelen rides normally thereafter and defeats Donniger on the third pass, accepting his opponents spurs as a token of victory and rousing the crowd to a standing ovation when he rides the length of the viewing stands to accept.

Other victors include Targon Half-Wild, Andrew Tollett, the hedge knight Ser Morgarth, and Donnel Waynwood, the Knight of the Gate.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus can't help but laugh when the Apple Knight runs off in tears, and Ser Gaelen's bravado gets a cheer, but mostly he wonders what Tyramear might have seen on his way here, and how Mera would do in the next round.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Seeing the Mad Mouse hurriedly leave his spot as there is motion in the stands, Banion's curiosity is piqued. "Enjoy the show," he mumbles, maybe barely loud enough to be heard by the Clegane nearby, before departing the other man's company. As best he can manage, Banion starts to tail the aging knight in an attempt to find out who is he is going to meet or what he is going to fetch. The Mad Mouse's interest in a member of Littlefinger's inner-circle seems to be more interesting than the spectacle of the tournament at this time.

OOC: 11 or 14 (if furtive/agility bonus applies) on the sneak check (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsinglepost.php?p=22998760&postcount=14).

[Sahe]

As the blood rush subsided Mera heard the crowd cheering. Cheering for her, Stone Scepter even rode over to her congratulating her in person. She took off her helmet and shook her sweaty boyish hair. She looked in the crowd and saw many familiar faces smile and pay their respects, ignoring those who had different reaction. Walda ran over to her, also congratulating her and helping her get off of Blackbolt. Mera suppressed the urge to kiss her in front of everyone, she didn't have to give everyone more to talk about.

Once they had taken care of Blackbolt they returned to the tourney field to watch the other jousts. Mera was impressed with Ser Gaelon's display. She should've thought of that, but now it was too late that he'd done it. For a moment she thought what dramatic display she could try. "Maybe I should try something like that? Some dramatic display, like...throwing away my breastplate before the next joust or appear bare chested covered in warpaint instead...what do you think?", Mera mused, turning to Walda.

[DukeGod]

The tournament was proving amusing...He didn't expect, the Lord Corrett to let Gorlen borrow Blackbolt...something was odd there but he can't quite put his finger on it. His job was hardly to hear all the whispers in the Keep. That was just his hobby, and he certainly didn't recall Gorlen ever planning on joining the tournament. And the man is removing his helmet and...

Oh...It was Mera. Well that certainly made sense. Of course he'd need to have words with her. And some threats, because if she lost that courser, by the Stranger he'd have her act as replacement until he could find a proper one to train. The only horses harder to find then good Cousers were good Garrons like White Socks.

Oh well, the fun part was over. Tyramear walks to Clegane, making sure to use Balericat to clear the way as necessary. Time to get everyone working.

[heretic]

Banion

You slide out behind the diminutive knight as he makes his way back behind the scaffolds. You can see the girl Alayne up ahead, walking towards a privy-shack. The Mad Mouse continues toward her, but doesn’t hail her before she slips inside. From your vantage point behind a low wall of snow, you watch him approach within thirty feet of the shack, straight out from the door.

You can see them clearly from your hiding place, but you may have trouble hearing them from here. If you would like to get closer, make another Slealth (Sneak) check, with the Furtive bonus. Remember Furtive also lets you reroll your ones.

Mera

Walda laughs. “How about you appear bare-chested after the jousting.” She takes hold of your knee, fussing an armor strap. “In the tent.” She cinches it tight. “With me.” She releases you, grinning suggestively. “Let’s leave the showing off to fools like Ser Gaelen and Ser Gwayne.”

Behind Walda, you spot an unexpected sight: the traveling healer Tyramear is loping across the field with his mighty shadowcat. Presently, the crowd in the commons shies away a bit as Tyramear draws close to the hulking Marcus Clegane, who is standing in full armor with his axe planted in the ground before him. Last you recall, Tyramear was off to visit House Lipps. They must have just arrived.

Marcus and Tyramear

The master of games has called a pause for some reason, and most of the onlookers have shifted their attention to Tyramear and Balericat. Mayhaps they think there is some mid-joust entertainment forthcoming from the tamed beast. At first, the commons titters with oohs and aahs for the sleek cat, but as Tyramear gets closer, they begin to back away, leaving Marcus alone to meet the healer.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus walks over to the healer, holding up his hand. "Tyramear, I almost thought you wouldn't make it. Did you have any trouble on your way?" He's very much aware of the cat, it made him uneasy how much control the man had over the beast, far beyond what mere training can accomplish.

[Sahe]

Mera returned Walda's suggestion with a wolfish grin, "you're right...that's a much better idea."

Behind them was some commotion so Mera turned around to see what was going on and spotted the healer Tyramear and his companion Balericat. She signaled Walda to follow her and explained why she was walking towards the man with the beast, "that one with the Clegane pup is Tyramear, he's been in service of the Corretts for quite some time now. He's a healer and good with animals. That tamed shadowcat, Balericat, follows him basically everywhere."

They arrived and Mera greeted the two men, "Clegane, Tyramear, have you seen my joust? I knocked Ser Waxley straight on his ass, next up is some Breakstone of Pryor...oh, you visited House Lipps? Any news? How is Jeyne?"

Mera didn't know Jeyne Lipps that well, but they had met before at feasts and other gatherings before the war. She had always enjoyed Jeyne's wit and quick tongue. She could not imagine and hoped not that she had fallen ill, how the Egens had claimed to refuse the wedding.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Banion lingers near the snow wall for a moment or two, acting as though he were counting a bit of coin in his hand that he might have won from a wager - away from the crowd. His eyes flick up and to the side to check on the Mad Mouse and the tent, waiting until there is an opportune time to move from the wall and towards the tent. He keeps his head low, as if he were preoccupied in thought, to shield his face and not draw any suspicion that he was actively pursuing the knight on his secret rendezvous.

OOC: Sneak roll (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsinglepost.php?p=23034061&postcount=15) was 18.

[Rhyvurg]

"I did see, you handle a lance well Mera." Having no idea of Mera's...preferences, Marcus might have chosen his words poorly.

[DukeGod]

"Some trouble. You know how life is on the road, have to threaten a couple of hardheads every now and then.

Tyramear scratches Balericat's behind the ears for a bit

"Mera. Well met. I have not, having arrived just now in fact. Additionally, I don't have a clue who that is, seek out a maester with a red-gold link if you're curious, they study heraldry. I did, Jeyne was fine, her suitor-to-have-been is the one with problems. Probably.

He scans around, and if he thinks anyone is approaching too close, clucks a bit with his tongue, signaling Balericat to snarl them away

[heretic]

Tyramear, Mera, Marcus

By now the crowd has retreated enough so as to put them out of earshot, giving you the privacy to speak among the four of you (the fourth being Walda) without being overheard.

Banion

You slink forward without the Mad Mouse taking note, and manage to find some cover behind the tent. After a couple minutes of waiting, Alayne emerges from the privy-shack. She takes one graceful step out, before freezing at the sight of Ser Shadrich. They stare at each other for a moment and Ser Shadrich bows slightly, one arm on his chest and the other dipping toward the ground. Alayne crosses her arms and speaks first. "Why do you keep bothering me, hedge knight?" Her voice is clear and confident, with a hint of derision. Shadrich recovers from his bow. He's a few inches shorter than Alayne even at full height, but he carries himself as boldly as you've ever seen. "Pardon me, Alayne. I heard you desired a certain chestnut dye. I happen to have some." Alayne's eyes narrow and her chin dips, spilling her brown hair across the white collar of her wool dress. "You bought it all up, you mean. My father's servants have been seeking it and someone keeps buying it out from under them."

Shadrich tosses a lock of red hair aside and offers a false smile. "I was staining a chest and kept running dry. But now I'm done and have some left over. For the right price, it can be yours." Littlefinger's daughter considers him for a moment. "My father has paid you more than a fair wage. You would gouge us over this?" Shadrich's smile falls, but his eyes still gleam. "I can assure you that this is the finest chestnut dye to be had in the castle. Indeed, my knowledge of dyes is deep. I was not always a knight. Once, long ago, I was a common laborer earning my keep painting the hulls and staining the sailcloths of the royal navy and staining their sailcloth--ships like Little Bird and Queen Cersei. I know what makes the dye sink in. And I know what makes it come out."

Alayne is silent for a moment, her face impassive. "I will buy this wondrous dye, Mouse." Shadrich smiles widely. "As you say, my lady. Meet me during the feast tonight." Alayne starts walking quickly, breezing past Shadrich with long, graceful strides. "Sorry, I didn't catch that. Mice are such quiet creatures."

She continues back to the risers, with her dress hiked up a few inches to lengthen her stride. Shadrich watches her go, then wanders off back toward the tourney field, making for a small group of knights standing at the rope barrier to the lists.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Banion idly listened to the conversation between Alayne Stone and Ser Shadrich, pretending to occupy himself with whatever personal matters he may be tending to in public. His face obscured as he remained turned away from the pair to promote the appearance of disinterest, his eyes narrowed as the topic of 'chestnut dye' came up and dominated the conversation.

Why would chestnut dye be of such importance to this girl? Is it really dye that are talking about?

Puzzled, but still interested to hear the conclusion of the discussion, Banion noted the potential agreement for the pair to meet later on that evening at the banquet. This would certainly be a good opportunity to observe the exchange and any fallout that might occur from that. As Alayne makes her way briskly from The Mad Mouse, Banion too begins to move along three or four seconds later.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus lowers his voice. "Things do not go well here Tyramear, House Corrett has lost rights to the Meltwater, and it might be a plot to arrange for us to bring low the Belmores. Littlefinger is well aware of Corrett's sizeable army at present, yet he seemingly sets us against our neighbors."

[DukeGod]

"Hmm. I suppose I will have to move and shake some. If events align just right...perhaps Littlefinger could stop acting against us"

"Mera, I'm sure you were already planning to, but this will go much easier if you can win the tournament"

Of course, getting Littlefinger to stop being an enemy, probably meant making him an ally

Much could be said of the idea. How much of it good?

"Oh, also, I've met with some Frey knights. They seem to think a Corrett attacked them on the road. Anything you might know of that?"

[heretic]

Banion

You arrive back at the tourney grounds. Immediately, you notice the crowd drawn back away from Marcus Clegane, Mera Stone and her squire, and the traveling healer Tyramear, whose fearsome shadowcat is close at hand.

OOC: Feel free to join the conversation.

[Sahe]

Walda snickered as she heard Clegane's comment. "Oh, Mera can handle more than just lances well", she said with a coy tone in her voice. Mera also struggled to contain her amusement, luckily for her they quickly returned to more serious topics that sobered her mood.

"I don't know what to do about Littlefinger, but I may be able to win back the Meltwater rights if I beat the Belmore champions in this tourney. And Tyramear I think if I actually win this tourney there may be more trouble for us. Do you really think they would accept a woman into the Brotherhood of Winged Knights?"

When Tyramear mentioned the Frey knights, Mera's eyes went wide and she looked around alarmed.

"Edmure and Edmund Frey? Was one of them one-eyed?", Mera asked urgently but already knew the answer. Apparently they were looking for quarrel with the Corretts. "Edmure and Edmund killed my brother Jon at the Red Wedding", she said as an explanation to those who didn't know who these two particular Frey's were.

Clegane, Mera continued in a commanding voice without missing a beat, "inform my brother and stay at his side side. If Edmure and Edmund are here they sure didn't come with good intentions. Walda, Tyramear with me, we need to gather the Corrett guard and inform them of the threat."

She turned around, one hand resting on her axe, ready to draw it at any moment, while she walked towards where they had left Blackbolt and her arms. If someone where to look in Mera's eyes now they could see grim determination and below that a lust for vengeance and blood.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Arriving as Mera departs, Banion lifts his right hand up to his face and begins to gnaw at the fingernail on his pointer finger. Using his bottom teeth, he scrapes some of the dirt and much out from beneath the nail while looking between Clegane and Tyramear, Banion's eyes fixing on the latter as he does so. Nodding his head in the man's direction, acknowledging his presence, Banion drops his hand from his mouth and states, "Was wondering when your ugly mug was going to show itself... Scarring off the children now are we?" Banion tilts his head in the direction Mera left without removing his gaze from the man.

[DukeGod]

"Why, are you running out of inspiration for your lonely nights at the tent? Well catch whatever sight you need now, because I intend to share my fire with those ladies who think knights are manly. Despite not knowing what they do with squires of course"

Tyramear gives a broad smile, clasping Banion's forearm and trying to pull the man into a hug.

"Well, of course I'm scarring young childrne like little Mera, folk tell tales which means I have a reputation to uphold!"

He sighs, as the girl gets serious. Oh fine, let the somber and grim mood be die in the feast, probably for the best

"Of course, lady."

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus nods when Mera speaks, but waits for her to leave before speaking himself. "I think her need for revenge is affecting her judgement, not even Freys would be fool enough to cause trouble here, not without some way of justifying it. If she provokes a confrontation, the Freys can claim they were merely defending themselves if it comes to violence."

[heretic]

Mera

Your veins turn to fire when Tyramear confirms the presence of Edmure and Edmund. While many moons have passed since the fateful Red Wedding, the two Freys are never far in your dreams, often appearing to ambush you during a feast or celebration. Many a night, you’ve awoken in a cold sweat, groping for steel.

It is madness for them to present themselves here! Their claim about being attacked on the road by a Corrett knight is laughable—the household knights are too far from the High Road, and too well-behaved besides. If someone were going to attack them, it would be . . . you. No other sworn knight of Corrett has the temperament for it, not even Ser Stanly. No doubt this is some contrived slander, another lie on top of the lies about the Red Wedding.

A quick scan of the tourney grounds doesn’t reveal them. Not that that a treacherous Frey would approach out in the open. Over the past couple days, you’ve noticed one or two squires of Frey serving the Waynwood knights, but none older than twelve or so.

With Walda by your side, you soon gather up your weapons—castle-forged steel, deadly sharp. Tourney weapons will have to wait. Just as you return to fetch Tyramear, you see Morris hurrying to join the group, with Alyssa Corrett, Allyria Gargalen, Maester Adwin, and Pearse Egen close behind him.

The Group (Mera, Marcus, Banion, Tyramear)

Lord Corrett quickly joins you, with Allyria, Allysa, Adwin, and Pearse in tow. Over on the field, they’ve finally resumed the tilts, drawing the crowd’s attention away. It looks to be Ossifer Lipps against Marion Moore. They ride three tilts as you confer, with Moore breaking every lance. At the end of the third pass, Ossifer dismounts and heaves vomit from below, barely lifting free his visor beforehand. He yields.

“Tyramear, you’ve returned.” He gestures behind him. “This is Pearse Egen, by the way. Now someone tell me what’s going on. Something about Freys?”

Tyramear

You catch Lord Corrett’s meaning well—an Egen is present, so keep tight about your spying on Jeyne Lipps. It wouldn’t do to have Lord Egen know that his bannerman is checking up on his excuses.

The huge black dogs on the yellow of Marcus Clegane’s sigil remind you that the Freys may find yet another omen over which to accost the Corrett party—they claim that the mysterious attacker wore a helm forged in the likeness of a snarling hound. Daft, to be sure, but these Freys appear incorrigible in their idiocy. Speaking of omens, you have your own portents to unravel: the Mad Hawk, Bold Mouse, Golden-Arm, One-Eyed Dreamer, the Southron Girl made of Fire, and Northron Girl made of Ice.

Marwyn's appearance made clear that the political balance of the Vale is made up of more than rote allegiance and pact. The lords here think they know the position of every piece on the board, and every ledger and loyalty dictating their movement. But things are never so simple in love and war. Not with Jeyne Lipps racing her father to betrothal by any means necessary. Not with eagles screaming like men when they die. Not with you behind the cat’s eyes and the cat behind yours. This whole affair is more masquerade than Cyvasse, a symphony with no songbook. Nobody knows who the real conductor is until the crescendo at the end.

[Old Overholt]

Banion

Mirroring Tyramear's gesture, Banion takes his arm in similar fashion while extending a pleasant and cordial smile. A brief, but brotherly hug is exchanged before Banion pulls back and eases his grasp on the man's arm to the point his arm falls away if Tyramear similarly lets go. "Careful now you don't go and earn yourself too much of a reputation... or I'll have to start saying good things about you to keep you out of the cellars with me," he states before Lord Morris' approach catches his attention. With the young lord's arrival and the urgency in his tone, Banion moves aside and lowers himself in a respectful bow - nothing overly formal, but more than enough to show respect in public. Raising himself back up, he steps to the side so that he can face Morris and allow the man to take 'center stage' in the group that has gathered. No standing to Tyramear's side, he looks between Marcus and Tyramear as the topic of the Freys is brought up. He has no knowledge of the matter, and looks to them expectantly.

[Rhyvurg]

Marcus coughs before replying. "My lord, Tyramear told us some Frey knights were here, according to Mera they were at the Red Wedding and she seemed to think they might cause trouble or even threaten you."

[DukeGod]

"Well, perhaps I should report the full story. As you know, my Lord, I left Greycrown Keep to wander the Vale, doing my last trip to visit far away and in need folk 'fore winter arrived. My travels took me to Step Hill. There, I happened upon a pair of knights from the Twins, who, then, humbly asked me to heal their squires, which I of course did. Alas, enmity started, for they, ignored, nay, more than that, contested my advice on how to better treat the wounds on the squires...I had half a mind to shove my silver link in their eyes, but you can hardly trust a Riverunner from those parts to keep their hands off silver" the last part is mostly muttered, but intentionally, in a volume a person paying attention could reasonably understand, as Tyramears fiddles with the very silver link he talks about

"They did threaten to attack me, though Lord Lipps did put them in their rightful places and reminded them of their oath to stir up no trouble in Step Hill. The Lord asked me pay a visit to his bedridden daughter, in the hopes I could do something and get her in shape of coming to the tournament, I'm proud to say, I was successful, and then he did invite me to travel along with him to the tournament. My wandering was mostly over by then, as snow was starting to fall, so I agreed, as ever, I will spend my Winter in Greycrown of course. I may be Wanderor, but folk there call me neighbor. Well, in our journey here I learned of their stories. They accuse the House of nigh treachery Lords. Claim a man in a dog's helm, wearing the grey tower, ambushed their camp and wounded their squires so as to harm their chances in this tournament. Pfah! As I'm sure the Hounded would give up his helm, no sir, his corpse's hands would surely lock around it. Of course, they never claim where they were to fight off such invader, but I that I do know. Fetching brown pants, surely as they are now, after seeing our Champion joust!"

[Sahe]

Mera returned, riding on Blackbolt taking advantage of the height to have a better view, keeping watch for the Frey knights. May the Seven have mercy on them should she spot them, for she would not. Walda had not said a word, sitting silently behind her in the saddle. Mera was sure that they sure caught some attention riding around with weapons of war. But Mera didn't care, the tourney was suddenly merely an unwanted distraction, something that seemed stupid and dumb, when justice for her brother and Eldric seemed so close.

Another feeling that had crept up in Mera was that of fear, fear of losing Morris or Walda.

[heretic]

The Group (Mera, Marcus, Banion, Tyramear)

All eyes turn to Marcus when Tyramear mentions the dog’s helm. After the Wanderor finishes his tale, Morris speaks. “Treachery? Us? AFTER THE RED WEDDING?!” His lordship’s body shakes with rage—a sight that might be terrible to behold if he weren’t a fourteen-year-old stripling. “Lies upon lies! They must have known Marcus had taken service at Greycrown Keep, and spun this hound’s helm tale so that they might confront us.” Pearse opens his mouth to interject, but Morris ignores him and continues. “If they accuse, we must be ready. We will defend the honor of Corrett with steel, if need be. Defeating two accusers requires two champions.” He looks to Mera and Marcus. “Can I count on you?”

The maester, Pearse, and Allyria remain silent for now, but the lady Alyssa Corrett places a hand on her son’s shoulder and speaks. “As terrible as this news is, we must remain cautious. I see little gain for House Frey in opening a new chapter in this feud.” Morris squirms free of her hand.

Marcus

The mention of the Hound's helm catches your attention. That snarling steel dog is as much a symbol of your house and its misdeeds as Gregor's huge stature—feared in war and peace alike. They say your uncle hated his own face, that he brushed his hair to fall across the burned side. But while his hound's helm masked his burns made him fearsome to behold, it could not hide his cowardice at the Blackwater. He fled from there and they say he has been seen raiding in the Riverlands, though others claim that some brigand stole his helm to impersonate him.

Mera

From your vantage atop Blackbolt, you have a commanding view of the tourney grounds. Some others have noticed your retrieval of weapons. Strong Sam Stone has a watchful eye on your group. Yohn Royce is speaking to him softly, leaning in and up to reach the mounted knight. A few others are observing as well—your next opponent (Edmund Breakstone), Lord Belmore, Littlefinger and his daughter, a group of hedge knights that includes Byron the Beautiful and Stone Scepter, and Lyn Corbray, who sends his squire away to fetch something as he watches. You still see no sign of Freys.

Morris thinks they will present themselves openly, but as the Red Wedding proved, one should never trust a Frey to observe law or honor.

Banion

How many hound’s helms can there be in the Seven Kingdoms? Or in the Riverlands and Vale? Something tells you not many.

Tyramear

This tourney is at least as interesting as the road. The effects of a duel could reverberate outside of the accusation itself—should Mera be wounded or worse, the chance to reclaim the Meltwater rights could be jeopardized, and yet a victory could secure her acceptance among the knights present such that they could make an exception to the whole “Brotherhood” of Winged Knights affair.

The sun has dipped just enough behind one of the peak-roofed curtain towers so that its rays split as they fall across every piece and player in the castle yard; Littlefinger and his daughter, who looks down with a cold, icy stare, the mounted knights in their gleaming armor, who might as well be made of wood, Clegane’s powerful shoulders, and Mera’s fiery visage. Somewhere, you hear the call of a sea hawk. Your cat’s ears swivel to pick up the echoes, and each one sounds more and more like a man as they fade away to nothing.

[Rhyvurg]

"Of course my lord." Marcus nods, but his expression darkens. Was it Sandor? Would he be directly blamed for his uncle's crimes? Or was this a fabrication to frame him and by extension the Corretts? Or, was the story true but unrelated to him at all?

[Old Overholt]

Banion

The rogue remains mum on the topic at hand, letting Tyramear share his knowledge with Lord Morris while Marcus and Mera prepare themselves - mentally and physically - for what Morris asks of them. Banion simply folds his arms about his chest, perhaps in an effort to shield a bit of the cold wind now that they stand there in the open, and looks between the interested parties.

[DukeGod]

"My lord, if you would, wait a spell before calling out. A duel proves much, but not enough, if we are to be beyond contest, then I must first, move some pieces. Clegane, Mera, help me find those Frey squires"

[Rhyvurg]

"If they're just arriving their camp should be on the outskirts, but they might be staying with someone else."

[Sahe]

Mera looked at Morris with grim determination: "I would have rallied our troops and marched them directly to the Twins if you had let me many moons ago. Of course you can count on me. I'll fight them both alone if I have to."

Mera wondered what Tyramear wanted with the Frey Squires, but where there squires where, maybe their knights wouldn't be far. Without further hesitation Mera spured Blackbolt and they rode out of the gate, looking for the Freys or at least their squires.

[heretic]

The Group (Tyramear, Banion, Marcus, Mera)

The young lord's curls bounce about his forehead as he nods, his face taut and severe. "I knew I could rely on you both. Now hurry to your business with the squires." He beckons to Ser Oswell Moore, who begins to stride over. "I will return to my place up in the stands. Should anything happen, look to me there." Ser Oswell arrives as you depart, loosening the sword in his scabbard as he leans in to listen to Morris recount what is happening while they, and Pearse, Alyssa, and Allyria return to the stands.

Banion

OOC: I’m not sure if you wanted to follow the group to go find the Frey squires. If so, the below narration also applies to Banion.

Tyramear, Marcus, Mera

The three of you make for the gatehouse, with Walda and Balericat in tow. Away from the excitement of the field, the curtain wall and surrounding buildings are stark and bare, without so much as a soul tossing out a chamber pot. The only movement you see is up at the top of the gatehouse, where a sleepy-looking guardsman stands up slowly and takes up a spear with a copper bell attached. He gives it a good shake, letting the bell clang out, though the field is too far for anyone there to hear. “Comes now House Frey and its two champions!” A shower of white and blue petals cascade down from the guard’s perch, pirouetting through the air as the two Frey knights ride out from ‘neath the gatehouse.

Each of them is armored in old, serviceable plate with the towers of Frey enameled on their chests. Their helms are tucked under their arms, leaving their chinless, weaselly faces open for all to see. They’ve swords on their hips, and the one-eyed knight carries a lance, its butt holstered in his stirrup and a blue and grey Frey pennant billowing forth from the tip. His brother holds a kite shield showing a personal coat of arms in four quarters—two of the quarters show the towers of Frey, while the others show a bloody, severed direwolf’s head and a pair of crossed swords, respectively. Their horses are white and brown-speckled destriers, kitted simply with saddle, bit, and bridle. Behind the knights walk a pair of squires, of Waynwood and Lipps. One looks to be fourteen or so, almost a man grown, while the other is a few years younger. The squires carry a number of blunted practice weapons, shields, cloaks, and other accoutrements.

Mera

Your pulse quickens as you recognize the murderers. Edmure is on the left side, wearing a navy blue kerchief about his head as an eyepatch, his weaselly face framed by stringy brown locks that fall to his jaw. Edmund is on the right, his longer hair gathered behind his head and lain out across the front of his armored collar. They’ve got that snide, haughty Frey look about them, just as they did during the Red Wedding before the slaughter started.

Memories of that day jump unbidden to your mind. Edmure and Edmund spilling wine on themselves as they played drinking games with you out in the yard. Eldric toppling over in laughter as Edmure tries and fails to pull Eldric’s sword from the ground where Edmure had convinced him to plant it. You losing a boxing match to a Bolton serjeant whose ribs seemed to be made of chainmail. Edmure’s maniac smile as he suddenly drew a dagger and grabbed Jon’s head from behind . . .

Marcus

The Freys certainly strike you as the nefarious-seeming type. The one-eyed knight in particular gives you an unwelcome stare, no doubt taking note of the sigil on your tabard. You’ve happened to meet a few Freys in your time, and many of them have the same rodent’s look. Your mother never had much positive to say about the Freys, except for a certain Arwood Frey, whom she considered “more Crakehall than Frey” and had a great fondness for.

Tyramear

You immediately notice that one of the squires is actually one of the Lipps knight’s squires—it looks like they brought just one of the gelded squires up, and borrowed another from Lipps to make their grand entrance.