11th Moon A, 303 AC

Driftmark - The Great Hall

Hour of the High Tide

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Upon the fourth night of the Eleventh Moon in 303 AC, the doors of Driftmark was opened to the noble visitors within and surrounding the Blackwater. Within, a wondrous feast of resplendent wealth welcomed them all to partake and enjoy that which House Velaryon had to offer.

The Great Hall of Driftmark had been transformed into a vision of maritime splendor, its ancient stone walls adorned with sea-glass teal and silver banners bearing the hippocampus of House Velaryon, embroidered in fine gold thread. Tapestries depicting sailing ships, curling waves, and sea dragons hung between the tall arched windows and stone columns, illuminated by hundreds of candles in polished silver sconces and candelabra. Ivory drapery, white roses, pale-blue blossoms, and silvery-green foliage softened the austere architecture, while the unobstructed windows offered sweeping views of the Narrow Sea. At the far end of the hall, a raised dais stood beneath an enormous Velaryon banner, its high table dressed in sea-green silk, silver embroidery, crystal vessels, and antique gold accents.

Long banquet tables stretched throughout the hall, covered in ivory linens and sea-green runners edged with silver, with polished chargers, fine porcelain, crystal goblets, and silver cutlery arranged for every guest. Low centerpieces of white flowers, polished shells, pale coral, and lustrous pearls adorned the tables, interspersed with slender ivory candles and miniature silver sailing ships. Along the walls, heraldic banners honored the assembled noble houses, carefully arranged to celebrate their guests without diminishing the prominence of House Velaryon. Harps, lutes, and fiddles filled the hall with graceful music, completing an atmosphere of refined magnificence befitting the ancient maritime dynasty and its dominion over the Narrow Sea.

At the entrance of the Great Hall stood the family of House Velaryon, Lord Aerion and Lady Cersei proudly standing side by side with their beloved children Rhaenys and Maekar. The family all together looked elegant, each swathed in the colors of their House with decorations of pearls and seashells and seahorses where they seemed most fitting. Each one that entered would be greeted warmly by the Lord of the House, “Greetings, and welcome to Driftmark,” He would offer, and his family would bow or curtsy almost as if on cue, “It pleases me greatly to see so many of the Bay's noble houses gathered beneath our roof. Come, seat where you please and enjoy the hospitality of House Velaryon. There is much to be enjoyed tonight, and I hope you will consider yourselves among friends while you are here.”

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The Seven Tides of the Narrow Sea

I. Amuse-Bouche

• Fresh oysters served in-shell with lemon, shallot vinegar, and sea salt
• Small oatcakes topped with smoked salmon, whipped soft cheese, and dill
• Roasted figs filled with soft goat cheese, crushed walnuts, and a drizzle of honey 

II. Soup and Salad

• Creamy soup of mussels, white fish, leeks, and potatoes, finished with fresh parsley 
• Crisp apples, shaved fennel, tender greens, roasted beets, and walnuts tossed in a cider vinaigrette 
• Leek soup enriched with chestnuts, cream, and a touch of nutmeg 

III. Appetizer

• Golden-seared scallops with browned butter, garlic, parsley, and a splash of white wine
• Crab cakes seasoned with saffron, spring onions, and black pepper, paired with a sharp herb sauce
• Roasted quail glazed with plums, red wine, and warming spices

IV. Middle Course / Warm Starter

• Lobster meat dressed in saffron butter with a little lemon zest, served with roasted fennel
• A warm pastry tart filled with wild mushrooms, leeks, thyme, and cream
• Mussels steamed with white wine, shallots, garlic, and parsley

V. Main Course / Dinner

• Sea bass roasted with lemon, fennel, herbs, buttered carrots, and turnips
• Rack of lamb roasted with rosemary and garlic, accompanied by a red-wine and plum jus, and glazed root vegetables
• Golden-roasted capon stuffed with chestnuts, apples, and herbs, served with a spiced cider gravy and roasted seasonal vegetables

VI. Dessert

• Sweet pastry filled with honey, almonds, and cream, perfumed with cinnamon
• Pears poached in red wine with cinnamon, cloves, and star anise, served with sweetened cream
• Leek soup enriched with chestnuts, cream, and a touch of nutmeg 

VII. Mignardise

• Honey-almond cakes with various berries flavoring the top served alongside browned butter
• Marzipan confections shaped into tiny lions, seashells, and silver-scaled seahorses, colored with natural fruit and spice
• Crisp miniature biscuits made with honey, almonds, cinnamon, and a hint of ginger

Drinks

• Arbor Gold
• Dornish Red
• Summerwine
• Lannisport Mead
• Apple Cider
• Pomegranate Juice
• Honeyed Lemonwater
• Spiced Herbal Teas

Verlaine Glenmore was tired of her brother incessant attitude of continuing writing his silly books. She had taken peek at his writing and thought them to be outright subpar and derivative from her own estimation.

The two of them clashed constantly and argued for hours, speaking only when important affairs was present and yet they steered cleared of one another, life was not dandy as the Glenmores preferred to avoid one another and use servants to speak to one another at times.

Even Verlaine despite her best effort would find themselves at constant odds with their own kin, she knew they thought her coldhearted and frigid, but she did all she could for her family despite no gratitude nor appreciation for her work.

Brendon Glenmore was locked up in his studies, continued to write books about places no one would ever know of nor care for, then again he tried to escape harsh reality the best he could yet knew deep within something needed to change.

Verlaine was in their room seated by the window pondering "Where could they be, I sent them out several days ago...Yet no word has reached back, am starting to worry now...Tsk, incompetent children...Should sent someone more capable to investigate, tsk" she took a swig from her metal goblet with wine within to pass the time.

"I swear nothing ever makes sense around here except for the things I do for these ungrateful bastards,"

A knock was heard from her door before a servant entered after Verlaine gave permission. Seeing the servant came with fresh clothes, they'd lay out on the bed of Verlaine, who'd dismiss them immediately.

Gibtober: Week Three

10th Moon, 303 AC

She woke long before the first light of dawn, as she had grown accustomed to doing these past few moons.

For a while, she remained lying down, staring at the dark ceiling above her. The sept was quiet at this hour, as everyone else was still asleep. She wished she could do the same.

With a sigh, she pushed aside her blanket and rose. There was little sense in lying there when sleep would not come. She dressed herself, tied her hair back, and made her way into the main hall of the sept, where she fetched a broom and began sweeping the stone floor.

She had been at it for some time when she heard footsteps approaching.

"You're up early."

She glanced over her shoulder to find the old septon standing a few paces away, watching her. There was little surprise in his voice. He had found her awake before dawn often enough that it had become something of a habit.

"Sleep's hard to come by," she answered quietly, returning to her sweeping.

The old man studied her for a moment. There was a sadness in her voice that he had heard far too often.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, child," he said gently. "There was nothing you could have done."

She stopped sweeping. He had said much the same thing to her before, and she had nodded then, just as she nodded now. Yet knowing something and believing it were two very different matters.

"I’ll try," she murmured.

The old man sighed. He seemed to wish to say more, but perhaps he knew that words would do little good. He offered her a smile before continuing on his way. She watched him leave, then returned to her work.

Three moons. It had been three moons since her father died. Sometimes it seemed as though it had happened only yesterday. At other times, she could scarcely remember what life had been like before. He had fallen ill so suddenly. At first, neither of them had thought much of it. A fever, perhaps. A few days of rest, and he would be himself again.

But the days passed, and he only grew weaker. With him unable to work, she had taken whatever work she could find. She swept floors, washed clothes, carried water, and ran errands for anyone willing to spare a copper or two. She would leave at first light and return long after sunset, her feet aching and her hands sore, only to spend what little she had earned on food and whatever medicine the local healer recommended.

She had prayed, too. Every evening, no matter how tired she was, she had come to the sept and knelt before the Mother, begging her to make her father well.

None of it had been enough. He had died one night while she sat beside his bed, holding his hand. Even now, she could remember how cold that hand had felt. For days afterward, she had done little but cry. She had scarcely eaten, scarcely slept. Every morning she had woken expecting to hear him calling for her, only to remember that he would never call again.

What was she supposed to do? She had no mother, no brothers or sisters, and no family to turn to. The little shop had been her father's, and she had neither the coin nor the heart to keep it going. Everything she had ever known seemed to have disappeared with him.

Eventually, with nowhere else to go, she had come to the sept. The septon had taken her in without hesitation. He had given her a bed, food, and work enough to keep her occupied. And so she swept the floors, tended the gardens, cleaned the candles, and helped wherever she was needed. It gave her something to do. More importantly, it gave her something to think about other than her father.

By the time she finished sweeping, the sun had begun to rise. She put the broom away and stepped outside. The morning air was cool against her cheeks, and a gentle breeze stirred the loose strands of hair about her face. Beyond the sept walls, Stoney Sept was slowly awakening. She could hear merchants preparing their stalls, the rattling of carts upon the cobbled streets, and the distant calls of men beginning another day's work.

She closed her eyes and turned her face toward the rising sun. For a little while, she simply stood there, letting its warmth settle upon her skin. A small, genuine smile came to her face.

There was still a whole day ahead of her, and she had no intention of wasting it. By the time the sun stood high in the sky, Bess had been through half the town. She had helped an elderly woman carry a basket of vegetables home, fetched water for a washerwoman, delivered a parcel for a merchant, and spent the better part of an hour helping unload a wagon of grain. Along the way, she had stopped to exchange a few words with familiar faces.

People knew her well enough. Some remembered her father and asked after her, while others simply greeted her as she passed. She answered them all with a smile, though she could not help noticing how often those smiles faded once she had turned away.

By the time she returned to the sept, the little pouch hanging from her waist held a handful of copper. She loosened its strings and counted them carefully before tying it shut again. Not much. But it was something. 

Every coin brought her a little closer to leaving. She had made up her mind some time ago. There was nothing left for her in Stoney Sept. Her father was gone, the shop was closed, and she had no family waiting for her here.

Yet somewhere across the Narrow Sea, there was someone she still wished to find. Someone who had once promised to return. Perhaps he had forgotten her. Perhaps he had found a new life for himself in some great city across the water, among strange people who spoke strange tongues. Perhaps he no longer remembered the foolish girl who had sat beside him upon a bench outside the sept. But perhaps he did remember. Perhaps he was lonely, too. And perhaps he needed her as much as she needed him.

She held that thought close as she made her way to the writing chamber. There was work she had left unfinished the previous evening. The septon had been kind enough to let her practise her letters upon scraps of parchment, and she had taken to spending whatever free time she could find there.

She settled into the chair, drew a sheet of parchment toward her, and reached for the quill. That was when her eyes fell upon the flower. It lay beside her things, dry and wilted, its petals long since faded. It had lost whatever beauty it once possessed, and the stem was so brittle that she feared it might break if she touched it. Yet she had never found the heart to throw it away.

A smile crept across her face. Such a sweet boy, Symeon. He had been in her life for such a short time, and yet she could scarcely imagine what that life would have been without him. Before meeting him, she had never learned to read or write. Her father had been a simple man, and there had never been coin to spare for such things. Besides, what use had she for letters? She could count well enough to help in the shop, and that had always seemed sufficient.

Symeon had thought otherwise. He had known his letters, much to her surprise, and had taken it upon himself to teach her. She had protested, of course. She had laughed at his lessons, complained that they were dull, and found all manner of excuses to avoid them. But he had been terribly stubborn. Eventually, she had learned to read.

Writing had proven another matter entirely. He had managed to teach her a few words before he left, but little more than that. After his departure, however, she had found herself returning to those lessons. At first, she had only wished to remember what he had taught her. Then she began asking the septon for help, practising whenever she could. Her letters had been clumsy things, uneven and often scarcely recognisable, but slowly they had improved.

She had told herself there was a reason for all this effort. One day, Symeon would write to her. And when he did, she would be able to read his letter and send one of her own. More than a year had passed since he left Stoney Sept, but not a single letter had come.

She lowered her eyes to the parchment. Does he even remember me? Her smile faded at the thought. He had promised to return one day, after he becomes a great knight. He had promised that when he did, he would make her his lady. She remembered laughing at him when he said it.

But he had seemed so certain. So terribly earnest that she had almost believed him. Perhaps he had meant it when he spoke those words. Perhaps he still did. Or perhaps he was dead somewhere, lying forgotten by the side of a road, and she would spend the rest of her life waiting for a boy who would never come home.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

No.

She would not think of that. That was why she had to leave. She could not remain here forever, wondering what had become of him. She would save enough coin to cross the Narrow Sea, and then she would find him. Somehow, wherever he was.

She opened her eyes, dipped the quill into the ink, and returned to her writing.

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Hugor could scarcely contain his excitement when the familiar rooftops of Stoney Sept appeared in the distance. He leaned forward, peering past the carriage as the road curved toward the town. There were the walls, the narrow streets, and, rising above everything else, the sept itself.

He knew this place. He knew its roads, its markets, and the little shops that lined its streets. He remembered the garden behind the sept, the writing chamber where he had spent so many hours, and the bench beneath the wall where he had sat every evening with a certain girl.

Bess.

The thought alone was enough to bring a broad smile to his face. He had not expected to see Stoney Sept again so soon. Lady Bethany had decided that they would spend the night here rather than continue along the road toward King's Landing. There was still some distance to travel, and a proper bed beneath a roof was preferable to another night out in the open. Hugor could scarcely have been more pleased.

As the carriage entered the town, he found himself looking from one side of the street to the other, recognising familiar buildings and eagerly searching for those he remembered, though he tried not to appear too excited.

Yet when they reached the busier streets, he could bear it no longer.

"My lady," he said, turning toward Bethany, "might I get down here?"

He could scarcely keep the eagerness from his voice. Before she could question him, he hurried to explain.

"I visited Stoney Sept with my father once, and I have a friend here. I should very much like to see her, if you would allow it."

Bethany looked at him for a moment before smiling with a nod.

“Of course, Hugor. But remember, be safe and return soon.”

"I will, my lady. Thank you!"

He was down from the carriage almost before it had come to a proper halt. Then he watched it continue along the street with the rest of the party. He knew where they intended to stay and could find his way there easily enough.

For now, he had somewhere else to be. He set off at a brisk pace. The streets came back to him almost immediately. Here was the corner where the baker sold his bread, there the narrow alley that led toward the market. He hurried along the street where Bess lived with her father.

His heart quickened as he approached the shop. He wondered what she would say when she saw him. Would she be surprised? Of course she would. Perhaps she would laugh, or scold him for not writing. Perhaps she would refuse to believe it was him. He grinned at the thought.

When he reached the shop, he was still lost in thought. He noticed that the door was closed. He frowned. It was well past the hour when the shop ought to have opened. Bess's father had never been one to waste a day's trade, and Bess herself had always been up early to help him.

He stepped closer and knocked, but there was no answer. He knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing.

"Strange," he muttered.

He looked up and down the street. A few people were passing by, going about their business. He approached the nearest man and asked whether he knew where the shopkeeper and his daughter had gone. The man shook his head. He tried someone else. Then another. Most knew nothing, and those who did merely told him that the shop had been closed for some time.

His unease grew with every answer. Finally, after questioning several more people, he found a man who seemed to know something.

"The man who kept that shop?" the stranger repeated, scratching his beard. "He's dead, boy."

Hugor stared at him. The words made no sense.

"Dead?"

"Aye."

"But... how?"

"Fell ill, from what I heard. Never recovered."

All the colour drained from Hugor's face. He remembered Bess’s father well enough. The man was always kind to him, kinder than a stranger had any reason to be. And now he was dead.

"When?" he managed. "When did he die?"

"Some moons ago."

He swallowed.

"And his daughter?" he asked quickly. "Bess. Do you know where she is?"

The man shrugged.

"Listen, boy, I know nothing more."

With that, he went on his way.

Hugor remained where he was. He looked at the closed door again, hardly able to believe what he had heard. Dead. Bess's father was dead. And Bess… Where is she? The thought struck him with sudden force. She had no one other than him. What had become of her? Was she still in Stoney Sept? Had she gone elsewhere? Had something happened to her as well?

His stomach twisted only on the thought. He had no idea where to look. For a while, he simply stood before the empty shop, unable to decide what to do. Then, from somewhere beyond the rooftops, he heard the ringing of a bell.

The sept. A flicker of hope rose within him. Of course. If anyone knew what had happened to Bess, it would be the septon. He set off at once, almost running, weaving between merchants and townsfolk, squeezing through the gaps between passing carts, and hardly noticing the annoyed voices that followed him.

Soon the familiar walls of the sept came into view. He slowed as he approached. There, beside the wall, stood the bench. He remembered sitting there with Bess after the day's work was done. She would tell him everything that had happened, often speaking so quickly that he could scarcely get a word in. 

He could almost picture her sitting there now. A faint smile touched his lips. Then he turned away and continued toward the gardens. They, too, were familiar. He remembered tending the flowerbeds, pulling weeds from the soil, carrying water for the plants. It seemed so long ago.

He stepped inside the sept. There were only a few people within, kneeling before the Seven or murmuring prayers beneath their breath. The familiar scent hung in the air, and sunlight streamed through the windows, casting pale colours across the stone floor.

He walked toward the statue of the Mother and knelt.

Please help me find her.

There were always too many things he wished to ask and he didn’t have quite the right words to ask them.

I don't know where she is. I don't know what happened to her. Please, Mother, let her be well.

He remained there for a little while longer before rising to his feet. The septon was nowhere to be seen. He looked around, wondering where the old man might be. Perhaps he was tending the gardens. Or attending to some business in another part of the sept.

He began searching. His feet carried him through the familiar corridors, past doors he remembered and rooms where he had once spent his days working. And then, almost without thinking, he turned toward the writing chamber. He had spent so much time there that it seemed the most natural place to look.

He reached the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. The septon was not there. Instead, a young girl sat at the table, bent over a sheet of parchment, a quill held carefully between her fingers.

He stopped at the doorway.

"Oh, forgive me, my lady," he said, offering a small bow. "I was looking for the septon. I thought he might be here."

He had grown so accustomed to addressing ladies in that manner that the words came to him without thought, whether the woman before him was older than he was or little more than a girl.

He began drawing the door shut. Then the girl looked up, and their eyes met. He stopped, his hand unable to move.

The girl had gone utterly still. Her quill remained suspended above the parchment. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes had widened so much that she seemed almost frightened.

He stared at her. His hand slipped from the door. For several heartbeats, neither of them moved. Then, very quietly, he spoke.

"Bess?"

The name seemed to hang between them. A smile spread across his face, wider than any he had worn that day.

"Bess!"

He hurried toward her.

"I've been searching for yo…"

SMACK!

His head turned sharply to one side. The cheek started burning. He had hardly straightened before Bess struck him again, this time across the other cheek.

SMACK!

He straightened again slowly. There was absolutely nothing he could think to say. 

Bess stood before him, trembling. Her eyes were filled with tears.

"Symeon."

She spoke his name so softly that he almost failed to hear it. Then her face crumpled. All at once, the tears began to fall.

"Symeon..."

Her voice broke, and she began sobbing. He stared at her helplessly. He had imagined their reunion a hundred different ways upon the road, but never anything like this.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. It was all he could think to say. 

She stepped forward and threw her arms around him. He barely had time to react before she pulled him into a tight embrace.

"You stupid boy!" she cried between sobs. "You stupid, stupid boy!"

He held her carefully, still too astonished to speak.

"Where were you?" she demanded. "Where have you been all this time? Do you know what's happened? Do you know what I've been through?"

"Bess, I-"

"You never wrote! Not once! I waited and waited, and there was nothing!"

Her fingers tightened around his clothes.

"I couldn't stay here anymore," she choked out. "I was going to leave. I was going to come looking for you!"

Hugor drew back just enough to look at her.

"You were?"

She nodded fiercely, wiping at her cheeks without much success.

"Of course I was, you fool!"

He looked at her for a moment. Then he took her hand.

"Come with me."

He led her out of the writing chamber, through the familiar corridors and into the garden beyond. Bess followed without protest. Together they crossed the garden, passed beneath the trees, and made their way toward the outer wall.

The old wooden bench was there. Hugor smiled as soon as he saw it. He led Bess toward it and sat down beside her, just as they had done so many times before.

For a while, neither spoke. Then Hugor turned to her.

"I know, Bess," he said quietly. She looked at him. "Your father. I heard about him. I went to the shop first."

She lowered her eyes. For a moment, she feared she might begin crying again. She had dreaded having to speak those words to him. Somehow, him saying that he already knew lifted something off her chest. They sat there quietly, listening to the distant sounds of the town beyond the walls.

It was almost like old times. Bess wiped the last of her tears with the backs of her hands and drew a shaky breath. Now that the shock of seeing him had begun to pass, a hundred questions crowded her mind.

"How… How are you here?" she asked. "Why are you here?"

She looked at him from head to foot, as though she still could not quite believe he was sitting beside her.

"You went across the Narrow Sea," she said. "You told me you were going to Andalos. How could you possibly be here?"

Hugor smiled.

"For you."

Bess stared at him. Such a simple answer. She wanted to be angry with him again. She wanted to demand why he had not written, why he had left her wondering whether he was alive or dead, and why he had chosen to appear now, when she had almost given up hope of ever seeing him again.

But looking at his face, at that familiar smile of his, she found she could not summon the anger. Instead, she looked him up and down once more.

"You still don't look like a knight," she said. A small, broken laugh escaped her lips.

"I will be one. You'll see!" He said with a grin.

Bess shook her head, smiling despite herself. He looked at her more carefully. There was something different about her. She seemed thinner than he remembered, and there were shadows beneath her eyes that had not been there before. Even her smile seemed a little sadder. But those were still her eyes, and that was still her voice.

They remained upon the bench for much of the afternoon. At first, Bess did most of the talking. She told him about the days after he left, how she had continued helping her father at the shop, how the town had seemed strangely quiet without him, and how she had often found herself looking toward the road, expecting to see him return.

Then she told him about her father's illness. It was not easy, but she continued. When she finally spoke of his death, her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

Hugor took her hand.

"I'm sorry, Bess," he said.

"I know."

She gave his hand a small squeeze.

After a while, she told him about the septon taking her in and the work she now did. She even told him about her lessons, and how she had finally learned to write properly. That seemed to delight him.

"You can write now?"

"Well enough."

"Then you should show me!"

She gave him a look.

"Oh, now you want to read something I've written?"

Hugor frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"I spent a whole year hoping you'd send me a letter, Symeon. A whole year."

His smile faded, and looked at her, rather ashamed.

"I should have written," he admitted.

Bess watched him for a moment before sighing.

"Well, you're here now, and I suppose that's something."

He smiled. She smiled back.

Then it was his turn to speak. Hugor told her about the journey he had taken after leaving Stoney Sept. He told her about the road, the people he had met, and the doubts that had begun troubling him along the way. He had intended to travel to Saltpans and find a ship that would take him across the Narrow Sea. That had been the plan, at least.

But his plan changed along the way, and he went to King’s Landing from Harrenhal. Bess listened with growing astonishment.

"You mean you never crossed the Narrow Sea?"

Hugor shook his head.

"Not once."

"And all this time, I thought you were somewhere in Essos! I was going to go there looking for you!"

He winced, completely taken by surprise.

"That would have been unfortunate."

Bess stared at him, then she struck his arm.

"Unfortunate?"

"Ow!"

"You fool! Do you know how much coin I've been trying to save?"

Hugor could not help laughing. She tried to remain angry, but the sight of him laughing was too much. After a moment, she began laughing as well, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all.

When their laughter subsided, Hugor told her that he had remained in King's Landing ever since. He spoke of the city, its great walls and crowded streets, and how different it had been from anything he had known before. Bess listened eagerly, interrupting him with questions whenever he mentioned something she found particularly strange or wonderful.

The sun had begun its slow descent by the time their conversation finally eased. They were still sitting close together upon the old bench, speaking of little things now, when Hugor happened to glance toward the entrance of the sept. He stopped in the middle of what he was saying.

A familiar figure was approaching. Lady Bethany. He straightened a little as he recognised her, watching her make her way toward the sept.

Dear Landa,

I'm sorry. For everything. For the things I said and for the hurt I caused you. I should have written sooner. There were many times when I thought of doing so, but I could never quite bring myself to put pen to parchment. I suppose I was too proud, or perhaps too afraid of what you might say.

I don't expect a letter to make everything right between us, but I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

There is something I wanted to tell you.

I'm getting married, Landa. At long last, I've found someone with whom I wish to spend the rest of my days. I never really thought it would happen, especially after all these years, but here I am.

And I would like you to be there when it happens. Please bring the children with you, and Ralph as well. It has been so long since I've seen you all.

There is one more thing I wanted to ask of you. Could you try to bring Raymont?

I know that if I sent him a letter myself, he wouldn't even bother reading it. I don't blame him for that. I know how he feels about me, and I know I've given him reasons enough. But perhaps he might listen to you.

And Dickon is welcome to come too, if he pleases.

I hope you will come, Landa. I know things cannot simply return to how they once were, and I wouldn't pretend otherwise. But I would like to try. I've spent enough years alone, and I don't wish to spend the years ahead estranged from my own family.

I have missed you, sister.

Your brother, Rolly

We back with all began baby!

Goldengrove

Benjamin Redwyne was thinking.

The tourney of Silver and Gold was something he had quite liked, he had done well in the last one, and he had decided to do so again.

However, the stakes had been upped, as Cleos Bar Emmon had decided to add in a tournament of live steel, which Benjamin had decided to sign up for.

"My love," he said to Elyn, after he had put his two sons to bed and slipped into bed next to her as she read and laid his head on her shoulder, "I have signed up for the live steel duel at this tournament, and I am very nervous, perhaps the most nervous since Olyvar's birth. I know I have at least some skill as a knight, quite possibly the best in my family, but duels were never my strong suit, and this is live steel.... I've never indulged in such a thing before. The thought of another bad injury, or....much worse..."

"Do you think it will be alright?"

Staying in Old Oak for too long grew on his nerves. Was it the castle? Or the rich tracts of land that surrounded it? Never. He’d grown up here as a young boy surrounded by his brothers. Even now, he loved them. He had fond memories of this place.

He glanced sourly up the table at his older brother and his shrew of a wife. He’d caught her upper lip again and it had ruined his appetite. Why his lady mother had agreed to the match in the first place was beyond him.

The Florents of Brightwater Keep were an old house of the Reach but she was a poor match for his brother Cadoc. The man could have had his pick of the Reach and yet he was stuck with this..

Not to mention, he had little to show for it as well. Baelor’s gaze softened as it shifted to his niece, Anya. The girl was all Oakheart. At least that could be said of her. But with no boy to ensure the succession was secure..

Knights sworn to them tended to ask questions. Baelor was the younger brother, but by far the more martial. He commanded the men-at-arms with his brother Arys as his second in command. His brother would have his loyalty. His niece though? Cadoc had better get his wife with child or father one on some other wench..

Dawn broke with the sound of bells, as the Book District boomed with prayers. Septon Garibald had begun reciting scriptures from the Seven-Pointed Star, the tome brought by Gerold Grafton, the first King of House Grafton, the day before. His voice carried across the gathered guests as he spoke of the power of the union between two of the most noble houses of the North and the Vale.

"May their union last until death itself tears them apart!"

The proceedings were soon in full force, as Alyssa Grafton and the many guests were led outside for the first of the wedding ceremonies. As expected of a union between the North and the Vale, the marriage would first be witnessed between the Old Gods and the New, as Septon Garibald would bless the wedding before an old oak. It was said to have been planted over the old heart tree of House Shett.

Arriving there, Alyssa Grafton was dressed resplendently, her expression neutral, albeit bearing a small, inviting smile as she looked towards her future husband. Her thoughts were a mystery to anybody but herself.

Her gown was a striking golden-yellow, fashioned from fine velvet with discreet crimson accents along the sleeves and bodice. Delicate golden stitching decorated the edges of the garment, whilst a slender red sash encircled her waist. Over her shoulders rested a black cloak, lined with pale fur, its clasp bearing the golden tower of House Grafton.

Her blonde hair had been carefully braided, with small red ornaments woven between the strands. Atop her head rested a delicate circlet, adorned with small garnets and pearls, completing the attire of the future Lady of Karhold.

The one to first hold the ceremony according to the Old Gods and the New, was Septon Garibald, holding the book at his side, as he spoke calmly as he could. The septon seemed less bothered by the option of reciting the vows before other gods besides the Seven as he spoke them just as fervently.

"Who stands before the New Gods and the Old Gods?"

"Alyssa Grafton, of House Grafton comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods." Corwyn Grafton said, having escorted his niece, restraining his imagination of having his brother by her side instead. Septon Garibald nodded as he took note of something in the book before him, before saying. "Who comes to claim her?"

"I. Harrion Karstark of House Karstark, Heir to Karhold. I claim her. Who gives her?" Harrion said afterwards.

"Corwyn Grafton of House Grafton, who is her uncle." Corwyn said with a difficult expression as the memories flooded him again.

"Lady Alyssa, will you take this man?" Garibald asked, after taking note of the events once more.

Alyssa turned towards her spouse, her charming green eyes vibrant like acid, stared at Harrion, before she nodded along and said. "I take this man."

Both husband and wife knelt before the septon, the oak and the intricately carved statues of the Seven, that were brought to stand besides the old oak. Prayers began resounding as the chanters begin intoning the blessings of the Seven, and before long, the exchange of cloaks occurs, as a stunning white and black cloak is clasped at the back of Lady Alyssa Karstark nee Grafton now.

Eek, I did it!

Gibtober: Week Three

10th Month 303 AC, King's Landing

"Let me guess. Uncle has another unfortunate soul he'd like me to ruin."

Marissa slumped into a chair in the manse's fine sitting room as Celia finished explaining the task. Hoster always had something for her to do, and her elder sister was invariably the one sent to deliver the word. A rumour to plant, a reputation to tarnish, a conversation to steer in a direction suiting the old trout.

"You make it sound like a punishment," Celia said. "Rather than an opportunity."

"Depends on the rumour, I reckon."

"And on whether you do it well," Celia said, her eyes sharp.

Marissa gave her a sour look. "You could at least pretend to be on my side."

"I am on your side. That's why I'm telling you to do as Hoster asks."

It was a familiar argument. The nieces of Lord Tully enjoyed the mansion, the fine gowns, the luxuries and privileges that came with being a Tully in this realm. Marissa knew they were meant to call themselves fortunate.

Still, she remembered the perks that came with being Hoster Tully's kin. All of the perks.

"Or what?" she heard herself protesting. "We're his family."

"We're his nieces, Marissa. Not his children." Celia settled into the chair opposite her. "Our cousins had their places, their opportunities, waiting for them. Fat Lysa never had to scheme for a place at the table. She was born sitting at it."

Marissa scoffed. It was hardly their fault that Hoster's children had been born to inherit the world. Nor was it fair that she and Celia should have to take the longer road at every turn, to secure a fraction of the same standing.

"And what does it hurt me to spread a few words about some lord who's offended Uncle, hmm?" she said dryly. "It's not as though I'm cutting throats."

"Not yet, anyway. Not you."

Marissa chuckled at the joke, but Celia remained stone-faced.

"Besides," Celia continued, "if it helps uncle, it helps House Tully. It helps us. And our children too, though they do not bear the name. You want Allyria to have the same comforts you had growing up, don't you? Or would you rather she had to find them in... I don't know, Casterly Rock?"

That silenced Marissa. She could resent Hoster's demands all she liked, but she would not let her daughter suffer for her pride. There was enough danger circling the girl already...

Celia reached for the letter she'd brought. "I spend my time finding things out. Who says things they ought not to, whose wife slips into another lord's bed on occasion, who... cavorts with enemies of the Crown. I have a rather efficient system for it."

Marissa frowned. Another lord's bed? She never could tell just how much Celia knew of her misdeeds, and perhaps that was her sister's point.

"So?"

Celia offered a smile. "You need to improve yours."

"Mine..."

"System, Marissa. The way you do things. Are you listening?"

Marissa, distracted by thoughts of a certain Stormlord, tried to pretend she had been listening.

"Gossip is not just something you tell people. That is just how you get found out. And if you're found, it doesn't take a genius to connect the dots to me or uncle, does it?"

The younger of the sisters shrugged non-committally.

"You ought to think of information as something that... travels, like a gift shared from one person to another, but kept in their hands all the same. Friends may warn each other about danger. Children will run to their mothers if they have something to cry about. Families may bond together against a vicious attack, or get torn apart. You ought to be able to see that, anticipate the route, the effects."

Marissa knew how to do that... somewhat. Not always perfect. Not like Celia.

"You need to watch people, understand them. Is this one to repeat everything they hear, probably because there's nothing between their ears but an echo? Are they pathetically vying for someone's favour? Do they think they are oh-so-smart, in which case you can use their arrogance to steer? Everyone has a weakness, Marissa. Everyone has a point to press to make them dance to your tune."

"Even you?" she asked, raising a brow.

Celia scoffed. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Just, Mari... the points, the weaknesses... They can work both ways. A mother cannot avoid caring for her children, but if there is a dark secret posing great danger to them both..." She raised a brow.

Marissa felt cold, and tried to not let it show.

"Keep your weaknesses hidden, Marissa," Celia said softly. "You do not want to be the link in this chain that snaps under pressure."

Marissa held her sister's gaze.

"What do you know?" she whispered.

Ronnet. Allyria. How far we go to protect the ones we love.

"Why, I know everything, dear sister," Celia replied with a smile.

10th Moon, 303 AC

Aerion Velaryon, made his way through the streets of King’s Landing toward the manse belonging to his cousin’s wife, Marigold Redwyne. The bustle of the capital carried on around him, yet his attention remained fixed upon the visit ahead. He had not come merely to exchange pleasantries with Daemon, nor would he pretend that their kinship alone had ever been enough to ensure peace between them.

Aerion had spent years building the name of House Velaryon into something worthy of admiration. Through careful alliances and no small amount of effort, he had sought to secure his house’s place among the great powers of the realm. He would not see that work undone by a cousin who had never seemed particularly concerned with the consequences of his own actions.

And yet, Daemon was family.

With a banquet planned in honor of the houses of the Blackwater, Aerion could hardly overlook his own blood without inviting questions. A united House Velaryon would carry far more weight than one divided by old grievances and private quarrels. Whatever his misgivings, he intended to offer Daemon a place at his table. Whether his cousin possessed the good sense to appreciate the gesture was another matter entirely.

His expression remained composed as he approached the manse, the silver seahorse of his house displayed proudly upon his attire.

Hello Reach! :)

Looks like I will be keeping everyone pretty much as listed on the almanac. Excited to get back into RPing with you all. I will be working on various types of writing and doing my best to have as much fun as possible. All characters will be starting off in Hornvale.

Expect some crazy unicorns from me!

Gibtoper Week III: Market Day
302 AC, Lannisport

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ever the eager servant to his liege lord, it did not take much excuse for Leo Lefford to go to the seat of power in the Westerlands. In fact, as Lord Surveyor, it is no small part of his duty. Some things, however, call him there for more ceremony than duty, and in those events, his family travels as they always do. The Westerlands is used to extravagant wealth more than any other kingdom, but still the amount of money the House of the Golden Tooth throws around when they travel for occasion is excessive by any standards, within or without of their home kingdom. After traveling to Casterly Rock in celebration of the name day for one of Lord Tywin's children, Leo ventured with his children to the great port nearby to engage in their signature excess patronage.

Many of the guards that accompanied them were given a bonus of gold to engage in the tradition themselves and went on to experience rare, strong, and exotic alcohol . . . or women. Or both.

Ysilla had dragged her sister away in a tizzy, bewitched by the rumor of a foreign merchant carrying dresses and make-up from distant Yi Ti.

The young heir of the Tooth was as overly responsible as ever, being tastefully humble in his extravagant purchases. Tybalt bought little for himself, but sought out gifts for their vassal lords and for foreign dignitaries he knew would be passing through their lands in the coming moons.

Leo's attention was forcefully kept on his younger son Tywin. A conversation the child had with the Maester in service of his namesake had lit a fire of fascination in him that consumed his attention as he dragged his father through the market. The child's pleas were far and away the loudest thing to be heard in the market at the moment, "but I want one! You always let us get whatever we want, Ysilla buys whatever dresses she wants!"

'Maybe Roslin is right,' Leo thought, 'I do spoil them.' He sighed as he hastily followed his son to the next stall the boy could find hawking jewelry. Normally he is happy to see the buy whatever they wish. Such robust patronage to local business is how the Lefford's showed appreciation to their hosts for feasts, after all. This request, however, was different. Leo had only understood some of Tywin's ramblings recounting what oddities the Maester told him, but the words that concerned even his deep pockets that kept sounding were-

"-Valyrian Steel!" The merchant boomed out laughter, smiling down at the little boy, "you may as well be asking for a necklace made out of starlight, little lord." The image those words put in the head of the imaginative child would surely haunt Leo for a few years. "I have many fine pieces here, but I am afraid you would find jewelry of such a material to be rare even in Essos. If there is anything else you would be interested in, perhaps I could help, but that is beyond me I am afraid."

With a pout and a huff, Tywin looked over the wares that the foreigner did have on display. Sparkles of blue and red and green set upon gold and silver. He had seen this a thousand times, his family had enough gold jewelry to adorn every courtier in the Crownlands. His mind was focused on the images planted by Maester Addam before, and when finally something caught his eye among their wares. The words of the Maester echoed in his mind. 'The night before an acolyte says his vows, he must stand a vigil in the vault. No lantern is permitted him, no torch, no lamp, no taper... only a candle of obsidian. He must spend the night in darkness, unless he can light that candle. Some will try. The foolish and the stubborn, those who have made a study of these so-called higher mysteries.' Other words were said beyond that, but the awestruck boy would hear no warning about the foolishness of bloodying their hands on an impossible chore. Yes, that image was branded into his mind, and it is that which decided the first thing young Tywin Lefford claimed in the market that day.

When the Lefford's left, none were happier with their purchases than their youngest, his eyes locked giddily upon his new golden necklace with a lavaliere of dragonglass.

9th Moon, 303

In Blackmont, on a blisteringly hot summer's day, two different women, goodsisters of almost a year, went into labor. For one, it was her first; for the other, it was her third. Regardless, it was undoubtedly the most excitement the keep had gotten in years, what with the Maester barely having finished attending to his Lady when he got summoned to help with Lady Lucinda's own labor.

Both babes were healthy, thankfully. One, little Vorina, immediately made her displeasure known to the world, squalling as though unhappy with being forced from the comfort of her mother's womb. Or, perhaps, unhappy with the state of things, seeing as how she was interrupted from being the center of attention by the fact of her cousin making himself known. The other, Emrys, was almost concerningly quiet. His green eyes, shining like emeralds, darted around everywhere as though taking in his surroundings, but he'd hardly done more than snuffle.

When Lucinda had finally managed to rest, Benedict couldn't help himself anymore.

"Is... is he well?" He asked quietly, holding his son in his arms. While the little boy seemed to be alright, dozing peacefully now that he'd looked his fill, he'd only heard a single cry from Emrys.

Maester Aethan chuckled, washing his hands in a basin. "Every child is different, my boy. Your son seems hale enough. I'll keep an eye on him and your niece for a while yet, but right now, I don't see anything worth worrying over. Perhaps, he's just a solemn soul."

Maron, who had been wrangled into helping with the chaos, smiled. "You'd think you'd be feeling lucky, huh? I heard that Rina's been crying since she took her first breath."

Benedict nodded, handing Emrys off to the wetnurse. "I suppose you're right," he replied, though his dark eyes were still watching the babe as though afraid something would happen. "I guess that it's not the worst thing in the world, to have a quiet son."

[M: Hey yall, Im claiming my second SCC, to play with the claim owner of House Peake.]

MYRIA SANDS

Age: 24

Hair color: Sable/Medium Brown

Eye Color: Green

Skin: Tanned and freckled

Height: Five feet, two inches

Weight: 115lbs

Build: Athletic, slender

Allergies: Spring flowers

Likes: Lemon sweets, quiet conversation, cleanliness, music and playing the harp

Dislikes: loud parties, dancing, games

Personality: grey neutral, submissive, fiercely loyal to House Peake, especially to Unthor.

Bio:

Some twenty-odd years ago, a woman was escaping Dorne, vying so much as to cross the border. How or why this woman did so was a mystery to all, she seemed a mere servant. As the woman arrived upon the steps of Starpike to beg for work, she collapsed and died on the spot. The child she held in her arms was named Myria Sands, and taken in by the headmistress of the house, for she knew that she did not the babe would die within a week in the Dornish marshes that surrounded the holdfast.

As the years went by the young girl followed the older maid about, learning the tasks and duties of the castle. In her teen years she became fascinated by the history of the Peake family, long having let go of her desire to learn of her Dornish roots. In her later teen years she became a full-fledged member of the household staff, working as a servant and overall content with her position. Her eye turned to the man Unthor, drawn to him more with each passing day. She often finished her chores quickly to watch him fight, and be it that many were frightened of the man, it was she that would bring his supper to his chambers on the quieter nights when he was home. Day and weeks turned to month and to years, and now she was nearing past her prime marrying age. Myria, however, was content, happy to serve House Peake, and especially Unthor, rather than to be married off to some pimple-faced penniless lad…

A fortnight had passed since Tybeck and Ser Gunthor had returned from their travels through Westeros. Weddings in the Arbor, the Vale, and Dorne had kept them occupied with feasts, unfamiliar company, and enough wine to leave Tybeck longing for the next invitation almost as soon as they departed the last.
He had learned quickly that Ser Gunthor Hightower would become more than a mentor. There was an ease about the Reachman that Tybeck admired: the way he could find someone worth talking to in almost any room, or make an unfamiliar place feel welcoming before their horses had been stabled. Tybeck had begun to suspect that he would be seeking the knight’s company long after he had ceased needing his instruction.
Yet the weddings had ended, and their return had brought him back to a household where he still struggled to find his place.
The heels of his boots sank into the white sand whenever he shifted his weight. One hand rested upon the amber pommel of his sword while a warm wind off the summer sea tossed his hair across his forehead. Gunthor’s black dye was finally fading, allowing the red to show through more clearly with each passing day. He had noticed it that morning in the basin while washing his face.
Soon enough, someone would have to dye it again.
Across the beach, Ser Jon Hill stood near the dunes with his lion-skin cloak hanging from his shoulders. He had exchanged his old sand-colored leathers for black and red, though the change had done little to soften his appearance. His attention moved along the higher ground, following the paths between the grasses and the places where a man might descend unseen.
Tybeck glanced toward him, then farther along the shore.
Two of Gunthor’s men stood where the path from the residence reached the beach, their spears planted beside them. Another had taken a position above the dunes. Tybeck could scarcely distinguish him from the scrub until the man turned and sunlight caught the rim of his helm.
Gunthor was elsewhere that afternoon, but these were men he trusted. He had been particular about who was permitted near the household, and more particular still about who guarded the princess. Tybeck had heard enough of those arrangements to feel comfortable leaving the approaches to them.
His own attention returned to the water.
Maris and Daenerys walked through the shallows with their skirts gathered above their ankles, their discarded shoes waiting together on a dry patch of sand. The habit had begun once Gunthor’s people had inspected the surrounding country and assured themselves that the beach could be watched properly. Since then, the girls had gone down almost every day.
Tybeck had found reasons to accompany them almost as often.
A small wave broke against Maris’s shins, making her lift her skirts higher and complain about something he could not quite hear. Dany laughed. Even at that distance, he could see how readily it came to her.
The sun made her pale hair almost translucent where the wind lifted it from her shoulders. Their daily walks had warmed the color of her skin, and when she turned toward Maris, smiling at whatever answer she had been given, Tybeck found himself watching longer than he intended.
She reminded him of the water spirits he had heard described in Pentos, beautiful creatures glimpsed along a shore before they disappeared beneath the sea.
If he was destined to spend his life an outlaw, looking upon the dragon princess in her summer glory softened the sentence considerably.
Perhaps she felt his attention, for Dany glanced toward the beach and caught his eye.
Tybeck smiled before he had quite decided to do so.
The laughter had left her face, though a small smile followed after a moment’s hesitation. He began to lift his hand in greeting just as Maris spoke again, drawing her attention back to the shallows.
He lowered it to his sword.
A perfectly ordinary exchange, he told himself. There was no reason to stand there considering it.
Nevertheless, he found himself wondering whether he ought to have gone down to speak with her. He could usually think of something to say while watching her from a distance. Once they were together, even a question about how she had slept seemed to require more consideration than it deserved.
The girls continued along the shore. Across the beach, Ser Jon left his place by the dunes and began walking at an unhurried pace.
Tybeck moved with them.
He kept nearer the water, allowing enough distance that Maris and Dany could talk without feeling obliged to include him. As they approached a bend in the shore, the wind carried Maris’s voice back to him.
“—and she would never let us go without someone following. Even when we could see the village from the walls.”
Dany turned toward her, saying something Tybeck lost beneath the breaking surf.
“Whenever there was a fair worth going to,” Maris answered. “There were stalls, usually, and someone selling pies. Sometimes mummers would come, though I remember one troupe that seemed to perform the same story every time.”
He saw Dany’s lips move and watched Maris grin.
“Well, it was certainly their loudest.”
The girls laughed together. Tybeck smiled, though he wished he had heard whatever had amused them.
A thin sheet of water spread over the sand before his boots. Beyond the girls, the sea shone so brightly that he had to narrow his eyes.
“Oh, everything,” Maris continued. “People selling things they swore you couldn’t find anywhere else, though half of it had probably come from the next village. Wrestling, sometimes. Music. Dancing once someone had persuaded the musicians to put down their cups.”
Dany glanced toward her again.
“Of course I danced,” Maris said.
Whatever the princess asked next made Maris lift her chin.
“With anyone I wished to dance with.”
Tybeck could imagine her expression without seeing it. He remembered the fairs well enough: the crush around the stalls, the smell of onions frying, men growing louder as their purses grew lighter. Maris would disappear into the crowd and return with some small purchase she refused to explain until they were halfway home.
Ahead of him, the girls slowed. Dany spoke for longer this time, her head inclined toward Maris, who listened until she had finished.
“Never?” Maris asked, turning to look at her.
Dany shook her head.
“You should. Though you must choose carefully. Some men believe keeping time means stamping harder than everyone else.”
They walked a few more paces before Maris spoke again.
“There must have been something like it in Pentos.”
Dany’s answer was too soft to reach him, but Maris considered it for a moment.
“Well, a market isn’t quite the same.”
It had not occurred to Tybeck that Dany might never have been to a fair.
The girls stopped where a scattering of shells lay beneath the shallows. Dany bent to retrieve one, and Maris waited while she washed the sand from it.
Tybeck slowed as well.
He could take her.
The thought came easily enough that he almost distrusted it. A fair would mean leaving the residence, traveling among strangers, and making certain that no one asked questions they could not answer. Gunthor would have opinions about all of that. Ser Jon would have more.
Yet they could ride quietly. They had done so before. Maris would come, and Jon, and Gunthor if his affairs permitted it. There would be no reason for anyone to see more than a small party enjoying the summer roads.
Dany straightened with a shell cupped in her hand. Maris leaned closer to inspect it, and the princess began explaining something about it that Tybeck could not hear.
He looked past them toward the curve of the coast.
Somewhere inland there would be a village preparing for a fair. There would be roads through fields and orchards, places to sleep, things worth stopping to see. He had spent weeks riding through the country with Gunthor and returned with stories he had scarcely known how to tell her.
Perhaps she might enjoy gathering a few of her own.
By the time they turned back, Dany had collected three more shells and Maris had begun complaining about the sand clinging to her feet. Tybeck followed them to their shoes, then up the path toward the residence while Ser Jon remained behind long enough to see the guards resume their positions.
The girls disappeared inside together. Tybeck lingered at the entrance, brushing the sand from his boots as he considered whom he ought to speak with first.
He spotted Ser Arryk across the courtyard and went to join him. The knight looked up at his approach, straightening before inclining his head.
“My Lord, I have an idea concerning the Princess and I wish to have your permission before I move forward with it. ”

9th Month 303 AC, The Eyrie

The birth of Lady Margaery's twins had brought a great deal of commotion to the Eyrie. A daughter and a son, both healthy, both beautiful, and both a blessing from the Mother. Corenna was happy for her lady, and tried to be of use where she could, though she sometimes found herself overwhelmed by the endless stream of servants, visitors, and well-wishers, combined with the fussing and cries of not just one newborn, but two at once!

The twins' grandmother, Lady Lysa, was often among the visitors. She doted upon Lord Robin and the babes, yet seemed incapable of sparing Corenna so much as a glance. It was hardly new. Being the first child of her father's second wife had never endeared her to her elder half-sister, and Corenna had long since learned that there was little to be gained by seeking her attention.

Instead, her thoughts sometimes wandered to Ser Loras Bracken. They had danced once, and she remembered it oh so well. He was a knight, a dashing and surely a brave one, and she wondered what sort of husband he might be. She knew very little of him, but that left plenty of room for imagining. It was a pleasant way to pass the time when the Eyrie felt crowded and her own place in it uncertain.

When it all became too much, she sought the quiet of the Sky Sept. There, with the sky blue and spotless beyond the tall windows, Corenna knelt in prayer. She gave thanks to the Mother for lady Margaery and her little ones, prayed for her own mother, far away in King's Landing, and for her siblings - the little ones, and the elder half-siblings too. Perhaps the merciful Mother could help even lady Lysa know kindness.

She prayed to the Maiden, thanking her for the gifts of innocence and virtue. There was much evil in the world, Corenna was beginning to learn, many people who would betray the teaching of the Seven. She prayed to the Maiden that she would look after young girls and protect their innocence, not let them be led astray.

She prayed to the Father, for, well, her father. In their wisdom, may Father and Crone light his path, for Lord Hoster's lot was to guide an entire realm - and what a heavy burden that ought to be.

She uttered a prayer to the Warrior too, for brave Loras Bracken, to be given strength of arms and spirit both. She always remembered her betrothed in her prayers, and wondered if he did the same for her.

Finally, to each of the Seven - save the Stranger, whose hooded visage still scared her a little - she prayed for guidance, in the days and years again. For Corenna was a maiden of fifteen, and there was still much she did not know.

The riverbanks of the Honeywine River were almost drowning in a sea of brightly colored pavilions for this year's festival. Around every corner, a bard or lute player had installed themselves, and puppeteers were in high demand by the little ones.

Little stands with honey cookies and tarts stood next to stalls offering strong liquors and sweet-tasting beverages. The first week of the festival, the weather had not been kind, and big canvas tents were placed all around to shelter guests from the rain. On the seventh day, as if blessed by the Seven themselves, the clouds had made way for beams of sunlight, warming up the clothes and spirits of all those in attendance.

The Beesburys hosted it every year, in part for their own enjoyment but mostly to present their new vintages of mead to the smallfolk of the area. A special cask was made each year for the Lord of Oldtown, named after the original founder of House Beesbury: Eversweet Mead. Their liege lords were, of course, invited as always, as well as other vassal houses of the Hightowers of Oldtown.

Marion Beesbury was hosting the festival this year instead of her brother Alton, whose duties as Steward of Oldtown had kept him busy.

[M: A collection of small moments between the 5th to 9th Moon, 303]

Mood

King’s Landing, 5th Moon

Freshly home after years abroad, Hanna Farman deeply breathed in the stinking air of the city she loved. Despite the unpleasant odor, it was the stench of home, and she wouldn’t trade it for all the perfumed streets in Essos.

Not that she seemed to hate her time in the Free Cities based on all the exotic goods being ported up to the Farman manse from the harbor. That was different, though, purchases made only after learning exactly what sort of man her father was. Any sense of frugality in her heart gave way to this sad revelation, and her purse was freely open from then on. Jewelry, clothing, furniture, powders, spices, dyes, all manner of luxurious odds and ends bought with a plan to gift many of them to friends and family to show how much she missed them.

Among the baggage, there was one crate in particular that Hanna kept close watch on to ensure it was handled with the utmost care. A pair of servants delicately carried it through the doorway, a chorus of tiny mews resonated from within, evidence of the precious contents within. It had been quite the shock learning that her beloved cat Hero was pregnant, but she considered it a blessing from the Seven that the awful circumstances that brought Hero into her life also brought a loving family into being. The sins of the past could never be erased, but the future was so much brighter now, with cute little meows giving the world so much color.

“I’ll give them all good homes, don’t you worry.” She cooed softly to Hero, patting the crate(with holes) while directing the servants to an appropriate room to place them. Much as she wished to keep the whole family together, six cats were simply too many for the manse to handle. Rather than grieve this issue, however, she knew who to bring them to; friends, heroes in her life who would treat them with all the love and care in the world. Family.

***

Lann, named after Lann the Clever, was a gentle yet mischievous boy. Even back in the waters of the Summer Sea when he was just a newborn, the young kitten had taken immediately to her secret husband, Josua Massey. It brought the deepest warmth to her heart to see the two grow so close during the trip, and she hoped the orange kitten would bring him luck in the upcoming trials with the true Lann's descendants. Though she was sad to send him off, she knew one day Lann would be in her home once more, the day when she would officially be draped in Massey colors.

***

Florys, named after Florys the Fox, was a thoughtful and resolute girl. Though one of the quietest among her siblings, she showed her formidable spirit whenever her brothers bothered her, often leaving them crying for their mother for their misdeeds. Her indomitable spirit reminded Hanna of her mentor, Victaria Costayne, whose black and yellow sigil resembled the tortoiseshell cat’s coloration.

After returning home, Hanna came to find her mentor in her usual place, the training yard of the Red Keep. Victaria wielded the heaviest and longest weapons as if they were extensions of her body, fluid moves that immensely awed the petite Farman whenever she watched. Once a break in the training presented itself, Hanna made her approach, a small custom-made crate in hand with the silently observing kitten laying within.

“Lady Victaria!” She called out, her tone gentler and more mature than before the trip. “I've brought you a present, a welcome home gift of sorts.”

She knew a cat was an imposing gift to simply appear with, but such was her confidence in her mentor that she did it all the same. Besides, all the needed supplies were already on their way up the hill, and she had always wanted to see where exactly Victaria lived.

“It might seem sudden, but I've brought you a new student…” Lifting the cage so that the Florys could see into her new owner's eyes, Hanna's breath caught while she awaited an answer.

***

Serwyn, named after Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, was the boldest of the young kittens. Always first to cry for food, and the first to take it, he had no qualms about making his opinion known to his siblings. Rather than antagonize them, however, Serwyn was a good brother, caring for each of them like he was their protector. Of course, their mother was more than formidable enough for them all, so he was more like a second-in-command. That thought in mind, she knew that he should go to the greatest second-in-command, Ser Herbert’s trusted right hand, Hobber.

Taking a carriage for once, Hanna giggled all the way to the Dragon Gate. Despite his gruff exterior, Hobber had a gentler heart than most, and there was just something utterly delightful picturing that hulking brute of a man acting so delicately with the tiny kitten.

“Ser Herbert!” She cried out upon seeing the knight she loosely served. Much as she wanted to run over to tell him all about Essos, a sharp meow from the crate shifted her course back to the much larger right hand. Their reunion would need to come later, for now there was clearly far important business to conclude.

“Hobber!” She smiled and called out to her longtime ally. Though they started as rivals of a sort, their time in Essos had done much to bring them closer together. “You might've lost our bet, but being the generous and thoughtful person I am, I brought you a new mascot for the post.”

Serwyn poked his nose out of one of the air holes and sniffed, letting out a tiny yet mighty meow while being presented.

***

The Eyrie, 7th Moon

Symeon, named after Symeon Star-Eyes, he stood out among the kittens for his vibrant blue eyes. He was the runt of the litter, and timid as a result, but with his eyes, he was always noticeable.

Of all the kittens, Hanna agonized the most over who exactly to bring him to, but when Symeon licked the old scar on her arm, she knew in an instant just who he should go to. The only issue was his potential new owner was high up in the mountains, but luckily for them both, her family was soon to head up those same mountains. On a journey like that, what was one more tiny mouth to feed?

“Visenya!” Searching through the halls of The Eyrie, Hanna called out in search of her silver-haired and violet-eyed friend. It had been years since they last spoke, but the shared scar on their arms was a bond that would last for life. Plus, the dragon-scale necklace perpetually under her dress reminded her of the wondrous days of her youth.

“Of course it's you being so loud. Don't yell, it's unbecoming.” Being scolded from over her shoulder, Hanna was confronted by her stern cousin, Myranda. While she loved her family, she had a very difficult time getting along with this particular cousin.

As if feeding off this energy, little Symeon hissed from the padded cage, blue eyes burning with rage at the new enemy before them. The sound made Myranda jump back and smack against a wall with fright.

“W-what's that?” Her voice was shaky, fearful, so Hanna took advantage pressed forward with a stern look in her eyes.

“It's a dragon, dear cousin, so unless you want to face its wrath, show me to its sister who you study with. Mess with it, and you will get burned, understand? Even if I need to come and burn you myself.”

Dejected and scared, she did as she was told, bringing them deeper into the castle. Each step towards her nemesis felt like a fresh wave of life leaving her body, but the glare in her cousin's eyes was far scarier.

“Here!” Myranda had tears in her eyes as she announced their arrival, so she quickly ran off so the monster within wouldn't see them. It had been a bad day already, but a deep shiver passed through her from an ill-fated wind.

“Hmmph.” Hanna huffed out a heated breath of disappointment at her cousin’s behavior, but focused her attention on the door instead, knocking thrice.

“Oh, Visenya!” She called out again, her voice echoing through the halls. “I've brought you something special! Come out and see your sister.”

***

The Crossing, 9th Moon

Bael, named after Bael the Bard, was the loudest of all the kittens. Whenever Hanna would come to feed them, it was his voice among all the others that she would hear first. Though he wasn't quite as bold as the others, there was someone she felt would be perfect to receive this vocal, yet loving kitten.

Approaching at the tail-end of the wedding, Hanna smiled and waved to the three young children as she made her way to her favorite cousin, Elissa, and her wonderful husband, Tristifer.

“I'm back!” She called out with a cocky tone, a bold meow resonating in kind from the crate to punctuate her announcement. “And,” she winked playfully to the kids before looking back at their parents, “I've brought a gift! Figured you could use some company after seeing Lady Aveline get married, ehh, Elissa?”

“Shush now!” Elissa quickly dismissed the notion, desperate to not call attention to her struggle, despite the estimation being exactly right. Tris had always been loving and supportive, but there was a void in her heart that couldn't be filled with his affections alone. He was a far better father than he was a husband, but all the same, she loved him dearly.

Hanna merely laughed at the blush her cousin was trying to hide, and set the crate down so the young kids could better see the cute kitty inside. Despite the strange new environment, Bael wasn't afraid of affection, he relished in it. Even with three noisy children around, she was confident he would do well with his new family.

To Lord/Lady Of [Holdfast Name]

I write with good news. That which is worthy of rejoicing and celebration, it is the ostensibly noble union of two fair houses of the realm.

Myself and the Lady Myrcella Massey, introduced to me by my sister the Lady Lannister, have met an agreement, settled upon with her Lord-Brother to join ourselves in the most holy matrimony.

Such an agreement has reached rubicon, it is entrenched in the calendar from henceforth as a most worthy event, that we invite many to.

I wish sincerely, to witness you all grace these burgeoning halls of Deep Den, with your elegantly eloquent presences.

On the day of the feast, we shall revel in gregarious camaraderie, to the day following, we shall indulge in the fairest sports of jousting and melee.

We Dwell Below,

Lord Lewys Lydden, Lord Of Deep Den

Daemon wished, more than he had in days, for a sip of wine to calm his churning emotions.

Marigold's news was joyous, another child on the way but it also stirred up the very things he had tried so hard to bury and forget. Otherwise, the guilt and the shame would eat him alive. No. He shook his head and steeled his nerves. He would not succumb to drink again. He had promised as much: for his wife, for his family, and for himself.

All those years ago, he had acted like an utter fool, desperately trying to put the past from his memory. That avoidance hadn't worked, so now it was time to face it head-on.

He sat, quill in hand, as he tried to calm the heavy knot forming in his stomach.

Lysara,

I know I am the last person you hope to hear from. I have been a terrible man and a worse father. I know this likely comes far too late, but I would like to know of Aurane and how he fares. He is often on my mind. The shame of what I had done to you and to him all those years ago prevented me from reaching out. I refuse to be a coward any longer. I will welcome your wrath, for it is justified. I no longer wish to be a stain on my son's life. I hope you write me. I hope I can try to make this right, to be there for him. I am sorry.

Daemon

Gibtober: Week Two - Family Business

1st Moon A, 303 AC

Casterly Rock - Private Solar / Office of Lord Tywin Lannister

Hour of the Dragon

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The greatest curse onto mankind was memory.

It was also the gods’ only blessing.

Tywin Lannister languished from his memories many times during his day, more often when he most certainly did not want to. He noticed the frequency growing as of late, particularly during the times where he was left alone with only his thoughts. They would come only in the mornings, at first, before he would rise and dress and break his fast. They would fade as quick as his dreams during the night, but they would oddly feel familiar or the same. He couldn’t recall them for the life of him, and he would continue on the same.

Then, they would come in the quiet hours of the day - when he was in his solar or office, or when he walked through the Rock without interruption. He couldn’t remember exactly when that started. All he knew was that he started noticing the small things within the only home he had known all his life, and he would remember things he thought he put away years ago. These memories would linger, but they would not stay beyond an hour. The feelings of those would haunt him more than those that tickled him from the morning, and he would stand there swearing he could still feel and smell and see the things from those memories for moments afterwards.

Finally, at night, those memories would torment him till he could wrestle himself into a fickle and craven sleep. Those were ones that danced behind his closed eyes, tempting him with the light of good times before the pain, the loss, the memories had to be made in the first place. Each and every time, those memories came through with the same face - the same voice - the same laugh - the same death. 

Joanna. 

The name was a plague on him, and the memories were the aftereffects of her love. Every time he tried to sleep, every time he closed his eyes longer than a blink, she was there to look back at him. Some times she just smiled at him. Some times she talked or laughed to him. Some times she held out her hand to him, as if to take him…

Those nights he slept the worst, for he would slip into a mindless dream that he wouldn’t remember in the morning. And those other memories would come in turn…and the day would continue on the same repeating cycle it had been for years now. 

The same foods. The same concerns from smallfolk. The same worries of nobles. The same work of the Lord of Casterly Rock. It was all the same.

The only thing different was his wife, and the memories that either stayed or vanished as the sun turned.

There was work, at least. There was always work. It was the one mercy he had never needed to beg the gods for.

But that work altered somewhat with the integration of Jaime. His eldest son had been summoned to his solar for another lesson in the obligations of inheritance. There were ledgers to be reviewed, correspondence to be considered, appointments to be weighed, and decisions to be made that would not wait upon a lord's convenience. Jaime had been raised to understand that the Rock was more than its walls and wealth, more than the golden ore that ran through its foundations or the armies that could be summoned beneath its banners. It was a collection of obligations, loyalties, debts, and ambitions, all of which required a steady hand to keep them from devouring one another. Before the Kingsguard donned him with the white, and his blade met the flesh and blood of the Mad - Jaime Lannister almost knew exactly what it meant to be Lord of Casterly Rock.

The difficulty lay in teaching his son that understanding a thing and knowing what to do with it were rarely the same.

Jaime possessed a sharp mind when he chose to use it. He could read a man well enough upon a battlefield, recognize an opportunity when it presented itself, and command the attention of others with an ease Tywin had never particularly envied. But he had a frustrating habit of mistaking a promising instinct for a finished judgment. He was quick to form conclusions, quicker still to defend them, and often seemed to regard a correction as an affront to his intelligence rather than an opportunity to improve it. Tywin had been correcting him for years. He expected to do so for many more.

Today, the matter before them concerned the composition of their Great Council and the merits of those who might be called upon to serve it. Jaime had been eager to discuss Lady Alicent Rowan, whose recent dealings had brought information of interest to the West. In Jaime's estimation, the woman's knowledge and willingness to entrust it to him spoke well of her discretion. He regarded her as a useful addition to the council, one who might prove capable of discerning secrets that others would overlook. Tywin was less readily convinced. Information had value. Of that there could be no doubt. But information alone did not make a person wise, any more than the possession of a sword made a man a knight. One had to know how it had been acquired, why it was being offered, and what the bearer expected in return. A secret presented at the right moment could be a gift, a threat, a bargain, or a trap. Sometimes it was all four.

Jaime seemed to have considered only the first possibility for the sake of his argument today. Back and forth they argued on the woman and her place amongst the Great Council. Despite her “impending” marriage to the Heir of House Farman, she was no Westerwoman, and Tywin was not to fill his Council with those who did not know the ways of the Westerlands or her people. Even if he or she possessed useful knowledge, it did not establish well enough that they were suited to make decisions on behalf of the other Lords and Ladies present within the region. His son offered argument after argument - the details of information she found, the way she gathered it, her perspective as an outsider. Tywin had an answer for each and every one of them, and as he answered them, he dutifully corrected his son on each point.

And, just as Jaime was wont to do when the tide began to turn, he decided to shift tactics to a more favorable side.

“You ask me to judge men and women for myself, Father, and then whenever I reach a conclusion you do not agree with, you tell me I have failed to consider something,” Jaime had complained. “I cannot learn to make decisions if every decision I make is dismissed.”

“Then learn to make better ones.” The answer had been delivered without heat, without even the courtesy of looking up. That, perhaps, had irritated Jaime more than the words themselves.

“I have considered it. Lady Rowan comes to me privately with something she might have spread throughout the Realm. She chooses to trust me with it, and I believe that shows an understanding of discretion. What more do you require?”

“An understanding of discretion is not the same as an understanding of loyalty.” Tywin continued, keeping up his writing on a report that he was certain no one else would mind or look after once he was gone. “Nor is the willingness to share a secret proof that the person sharing it has the best interests of the West in mind.”

Jaime was pacing now, walking back and forth before his father’s desk and ignoring his own smaller one that had been provided for the instance of this ‘lesson’. “And how in the Seven Hells am I supposed to distinguish between the two?” He asked incredulously, recognizing that the shift did not favor him as much as he planned it do.

“By asking yourself why the information is being given to you in the first place.” He finished penning it and set his quill into the inkwell, finally looking up at his son as he stared right back. Jaime's jaw was tightened, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. Hurt men had a way of showing their emotions grander than most women. And he knew the mannerisms of his eldest son nearly as well as he knew his own, although Jaime seemed to believe that every frustration he suffered was somehow a new experience. The set of his shoulders, the impatient shift of his weight, the little pause before he spoke again. All were familiar. All suggested that he was approaching the point at which he would stop listening altogether.

“If I am to take your meaning,” Jaime continued, “then no one should be trusted with a seat upon the council unless we can establish the motive behind every word they speak.”

Tywin nodded only once, though it was not one of acceptance or agreement, “Now you are beginning to understand.”

Jaime threw his hands up, tossing his head back almost like he were a petulant child, as he said, “That is hardly what I said.”

“Then perhaps you should have said something more useful.” Tywin waved his hand, motioning for the empty chair his son was assigned across from him, as he reached for the quill once more to begin another report. A senseless one, he was sure, about nothing that anyone cared about now or in the future. 

Silence followed. Not a comfortable silence, nor one borne of agreement, but the sort that gathered when one man had been denied the argument he wanted and had not yet decided which other one to make. Tywin took the report from his right - a noting on the fashion requests of the court and the costs involved - and scoffed at the uselessness that this did indeed entail. He began to write once more, crossing the numbers through his mind without need of an abacus or extra sheet to confirm.

He could feel Jaime's attention upon him. It was the sort of attention that reminded him, briefly and without invitation, of another young man who had once stood in this very room, looking at him with a similar mixture of defiance and determination. There had been a time when Joanna would have been present too, leaning against the edge of his desk, watching their exchanges with an amusement that she had never made much effort to conceal.

She had possessed a way of looking at him that made his silences seem less imposing than he intended them to be.

For a fleeting instant, he could almost remember the sound of her laughter…

Then it was gone.

Tywin's quill paused above the page. He stared at the ink gathering at its tip until he felt Jaime's patience finally break. “Perhaps we ought to speak of secrets, then,” his son said, his voice sharpened by the particular satisfaction of a man who believed he had finally found the means to win an argument. “Since you seem so concerned with how Lady Rowan acquires hers, I wonder what you make of one that concerns our own household.”

Tywin gathered himself without a pregnant pause and continued writing.

Jaime leaned forward slightly, evidently determined that his father would not ignore him this time. Tywin, despite himself, looked up at his son with a cocked eyebrow of disinterest and some frustration of the interruption. Jaime’s smirk was vicious and uncouth, as he said, “Did you know that Lady Ellyn bore a bastard by Ser Garth Hightower? A boy born as Harry Hill, who now goes by Jace?”

The quill was stopped. The grip was tightened. Jaime noticed. It allowed him to continue with bravado, “Lady Rowan brought this to me herself. She knew of a child born from the union of two prominent houses, a secret that could have caused a great deal of trouble had it been spread carelessly. She chose to bring it to me instead. So, tell me, Father, does that not prove she has the discretion and judgment I have been speaking of?”

Tywin still did not answer. Hells, he didn’t so much as blink in the direction of his son for a long while. Allowing the younger man to stew in his so-called ‘victory’ while the ink gathered at the tip of his quill then splattered upon the document. Only then did his head turn down and frown at the paper, setting it aside and grabbing a fresh one to begin copying the information over line by line. 

Jaime's expression changed, irritation giving way to the beginnings of a triumphant smile. He had struck upon something, and he could see enough of a reaction to convince himself that it had found its mark. And for a moment, the heir’s words were the ones that hung between the both of them. It had been like a gauntlet thrown at his cheek, a challenge set forth between them to showcase Jaime’s own power and strategy and worth. His pride swelled in his chest, much like whenever he might make two steps ahead of the enemy on the grounds or battlefield. He saw the winning conditions, and all he needed to do was make the right step to assure it - 

“...Was that the information that proved Lady Rowan’s skills to you to convince me to place her within our Great Council?” Tywin asked, the lack of amusement now fading into pure irritation towards his eldest son.

“What?” Jaime asked, shocked for but a moment, before he regained himself, “Of course. That knowledge of a living bastard born of Lydden and Hightower, especially those in high ranks in the families and regions, is great knowledge to have.” He shifted his weight, leaning more to his left like he would step forward to answer more charges - an odd habit of his. “Lady Alicent was kind to keep this to herself and entrust it to me, rather than spread that about the Realm. I would think that level of dedication and withholding would serve the West well.” 

Tywin didn’t look up. He didn’t look to see Jaime shifting his weight like he was prepared to dash ahead or fall back. He didn’t look to watch his son’s eyes staring back at him with an eagerness to please and a hautiness to not seek it. He didn’t look to give the satisfaction of acknowledgement, or a silent praise of his son’s own judgement…no matter how ill-thought out it was in its entirety. 

Especially as the memory of his judgement nearly two decades ago just a few layers beneath his feet echoed in his mind.

“I already knew about Ellyn’s bastard with Ser Garth.” He said, decisively, not allowing that revelation with his son to stop his writing.

“What.” The revelation hit his son as he expected, and he continued without missing a beat.

“Ellyn confessed to coupling with Ser Garth and birthing him a son nigh a year after the boy’s birth.” Tywin continued, needing to reach over and dip his pen before continuing. 

“An-And you -” His son began to unravel at the idea, his huffing and puffing a clear sign of his disbelief at what Tywin was saying. “So you’re telling me that not only you knew about Ellyn’s bastard being born in the Reach - but that you did nothing about it? And-And! You did nothing about it??” Tywin looked up as Jaime now paced before him, the weighing of his stance forgone for him to act out his apparent frustrations. His son wasn’t able to keep himself in check, and hadn’t been since he was a child - it was the easiest distinction between him and his sister when the two decided to try on each other’s garbs.

“You speak as though I have confessed to some grand failure of judgment,” Tywin replied. “I have done no such thing.”

The win condition was gone, just like that, in a single cutting response. Jaime slammed his hands upon his father’s desk, “She bore a child to another man!”

Tywin nodded once, again, not one of acceptance or agreement “Before she was my wife.”

“That hardly makes it better!” His son said, his hand thrown to the side towards the door - as if he could summon Ellyn himself to stand accused herself. He began to pace once more, stepping quickly side to side.

“It makes it a different matter entirely.” Tywin’s own voice inflected differently, no longer indifferent to his son’s tantrum and attempt at a victory. He couldn’t tell if it was his passions or his frustrations, but he covertly cleared his throat to keep himself in check.

Jaime stopped pacing long enough to stare at him, his expression a mixture of disbelief and outrage. Tywin could almost admire the conviction with which his son regarded the matter. Almost. He had always possessed an unfortunate tendency to mistake indignation for righteousness, as though the strength of one's feelings might alter the facts before him.

“Would you have preferred that I drag the matter before the court?” Tywin asked, unable to stop that tone coming to his voice. “That I parade Ellyn's past through the halls of the Rock, make a scandal of a child who had committed no offense against our house, and invite every lord in the West to discuss the conduct of the woman who would become Lady of Casterly Rock? What, precisely, would that have accomplished?”

Jaime paused, and for a moment, Tywin could see his son trying to think through the next steps he should take - not to win, but to be able to justify oneself after making a grave error. “It would have meant you did not simply allow her to hide it.” He tried, looking at his father with wonder and confusion.

“Hide it from whom?” Tywin leaned back in his seat now, staring up at his son while his own hands folded outward and gestured around them, “I knew. She had confessed to me. There was no mystery left to uncover, no deception that required redress. The boy was not my son, and he had no claim upon my lands or my name. His existence did not threaten the succession of Casterly Rock.”

His son hesitated again, his eyes darting back and forth, trying to desperately find his angle once more. “And Ser Garth Hightower?”

Tywin wanted to glare at his son - to send him out and have him speak with his own children were he to render himself to childish unknowns. “What of him?” He asked, folding his hands on his desk to keep them from lingering in the air.

“He is a man of fair standing in the Reach.” Jaime approached, leaning against the desk now rather than hitting it, “His son could be used against us. Against Ellyn. Against the children.”

Tywin evaluated his son once more, trying to find that part of himself in him that Jaime so loved to hide. He had it on the battlefield, on the tourney grounds…but whenever it came to governance or diplomacy, his eldest boy was surely lacking. “Any man’s son can be used against him, Jaime.” He said, his voice measured once more as soon as he was certain Jaime would not interrupt, “That does not mean one ought to make a weapon of every child born outside the marriage bed.” Tywin's gaze hardened. “The boy's blood made him a matter worth knowing about. It did not make him a threat that required my immediate attention.”

That, at least, was the truth of it. Tywin had never been careless enough to mistake the absence of action for the absence of knowledge. He had kept the information because he knew what it was, where it might lead, and why it had to remain where it was. There had been no advantage in making it public, no need to create a wound merely because one had discovered where it could be inflicted.

Jaime, however, appeared to find the answer deeply unsatisfactory. “So you knew, and simply decided it was beneath you to care?” He asked, clarity clearly still out of his grasp.

Tywin withheld a sigh from his son’s question, knowing the two of them danced only to end up right at the start of the song once more. “I decided that there was nothing to be gained by acting upon it.”

“That is not the same thing.” Jaimed said, jumping almost the second he was done speaking.

“No,” Tywin agreed. “It is not.”

The simple acknowledgment appeared to frustrate his son more than another denial might have. Jaime had come prepared to expose some hypocrisy, to force an admission from his father that would prove the inadequacy of the standards he was so fond of imposing upon others. Instead, he had been handed an answer that made the entire affair seem painfully ordinary. 

Tywin had known. Tywin had weighed the matter. Tywin had decided what was useful, what was not, and what ought to be left alone. There was nothing extraordinary about it. It was the very essence of the work Jaime was supposed to learn.

“You seem to have mistaken my judgment for an inability to act,” Tywin continued. “Those are not the same. There are times when a lord must punish, times when he must reward, and times when the most sensible course is to leave a matter undisturbed. If you intend to inherit this seat, you will have to learn the difference.”

“And Ellyn?” Jaime asked, finally finding his seat once more and leaning back in it with an incredulous and frustrated look dancing behind his eyes, “You simply accepted her confession and went on as though nothing had happened?”

Tywin's mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. Ellyn. Her name brought with it a different assortment of thoughts than Joanna's ever did. Not the warm familiarity of a long marriage, nor the sting of an ending that had arrived without his permission. With Ellyn there were obligations, expectations, and the persistent knowledge that their union had begun with terms neither of them had ever needed to mistake for affection. He had known what she had offered him when she proposed. He had known what he stood to gain. He had also known what he stood to lose if he allowed himself to be guided by sentiment rather than necessity. “I accepted her confession for what it was,” he replied. “Information. It did not change what had occurred, nor would it have changed the woman before me if I had spent the rest of my life condemning her for it.”

“Yet…you married her.” Jaime continued, as if attempting to pry something further out from his father.

But his father was already considering this his own victory, and he reached to grab his quill again as he answered, “Yes.”

“Why?” The question was so immediate, so stripped of any attempt at subtlety, that Tywin found himself looking at his son properly for the first time since the conversation had begun. Jaime seemed to expect an answer. Not merely an explanation of the practical circumstances, nor another cold pronouncement about the obligations of a lord, but something more substantial. He wanted to know what had persuaded his father to take a woman whose past he knew, whose secrets he had kept, and whose children he had once thought he could bring under his authority.

It was a question that Tywin might have answered differently at another hour.

He could have spoken of the succession. Of the need for more heirs. Of the importance of strengthening the bonds between great houses. All were true, and any one of them would have sufficed. But the memory of Joanna had been lingering just beyond his reach all morning, and for once the truth seemed less difficult to utter than the thoughts surrounding it.

“Because she offered me a marriage that suited the needs of my House - our House.” He said, finally, after taking far too long for him to feel comfortable with in his thoughts. Jaime's expression did not change much, but his attention sharpened. “At the time, Ellyn's children were of particular interest to me.” Tywin continued, dipping his quill in the ink again to finally start rewriting the report, “They carried Targaryen blood, and I considered what might be accomplished by bringing them beneath my roof. A marriage would make me their stepfather, give me a place in their lives, and afford me the opportunity to guide their futures. I believed I could secure them to the Rock and, in doing so, strengthen the position of House Lannister.”

His fingers rested upon the edge of the parchment that he looked back down on, and he thought for one more moment before continuing, “I also had two sons, Jaime. Two. Your grandsire had four. Your grandfather before him had four. It would have been foolish to pretend that the future of our house was secure simply because you and Tyrion had been born. A lord must think beyond the lives immediately before him. I required a wife, more heirs, and an arrangement that would serve us well.”

It was a clean explanation, stripped of any pretense that he had chosen Ellyn out of devotion. He had weighed what she brought to the marriage, what the marriage might achieve, and what the Rock required of him. Then he had accepted her offer. What he had not anticipated, or perhaps had simply failed to appreciate, was how little a marriage contract guaranteed once the people bound by it began to act.His handling of Ellyn's Targaryen children had not brought them permanently beneath his authority as he had intended. They had been warded to Costayne instead, a result that continued to grate upon him with an intensity he rarely allowed himself to examine. He had seen a path to securing their place within the Rock and had failed to keep it. The opportunity had slipped from his grasp, and another house had gained what he had meant to hold.

It was a failure he had not forgotten.Nor was it one he intended to discuss at length with his son.

“You married her for her children,” Jaime said slowly, finally finding his voice after his father’s lengthy response.

“In part.” Tywin admitted, granting his son that little bit of approval.

“And for the sake of the succession.” 

“Yes.”

Silence…then, “Nothing more?”

Tywin was quiet for a moment. 

There it was again, that peculiar expectation that there must be something beneath the answer. Some hidden sentiment, some grand confession that would make a practical decision easier to comprehend. Jaime had always been more comfortable with the idea that a man might act from love or hatred than with the possibility that he might act because something needed doing.

“Your mother was not a woman I could replace,” Tywin said at last. “Nor was I so foolish as to believe that another marriage would make her absence any less permanent.”

Joanna's face came to him then, sudden and vivid. He remembered her at his side, her hand resting lightly against his sleeve as she leaned over a letter on his desk. He remembered her voice, amused as she asked whether every lord in the West had chosen that particular day to become a fool. He remembered the look she had given him when he had answered that most of them required very little encouragement. 

And then he remembered the silence that had followed her death. It passed through him so quickly that Jaime might never have known anything had changed. The office remained the office. The papers remained scattered across the desk. His eldest son stood before him with the same impatience and expectation he had carried into the room.

For a heartbeat, Tywin could still hear Joanna's voice.

Then it was gone.

His eyes jumped back over to the report, allowing the familiar discipline of the written word to restore what the memory had taken from him.

“I did not marry Ellyn to make her your mother,” he continued, his voice settling back into its usual measured register. “I married her because the Rock required a wife for its Lord, because our House required more heirs, and because I believed the arrangement would serve our interests. Whether there was affection to be found in it was not the question I had set out to answer.” It was not an admission of love. Nor was it a declaration that he had felt nothing for Ellyn. He had provided for her, given her his name, and fathered three children with her. She was his wife and the Lady of Casterly Rock, and he did not dispute the obligations that came with either title.

But she was not Joanna. And he had never asked her to be.

“Do not mistake a marriage that was made for practical reasons as a marriage without consequences,” Tywin added. “Ellyn has given House Lannister three more children. Joffrey, Tion, and Myrcella are as much my responsibility as you, Cersei, and Tyrion. Whatever I thought when I took her to wife, I have never been permitted to forget that.”

There was an irony to it, though he would not have given the thought a name aloud. His first marriage had given him three children and a lifetime of memories that he could neither preserve at will nor banish when they became unbearable. His second had given him three more children, born decades after the first, when the shape of his life had already been decided by loss and obligation. One marriage had been chosen with his heart, the other with his head. And neither had left him entirely in control of what followed.

“As for the boy,” he said, bringing his attention back to the matter Jaime had first raised, “I knew of his existence long before Lady Rowan made it known to you. There was no purpose in punishing Ellyn for a life she had lived before our marriage, nor in making an enemy of Ser Garth Hightower over a matter that did not threaten us. There was certainly no purpose in drawing the child into the affairs of great houses simply to satisfy my pride.” He paused, allowing the words to settle. “That does not mean I have forgotten who he is, or whose blood he carries. It means I have not confused knowing a thing with being obliged to act upon it.”

Tywin watched his son now, measuring the distinction between what he had said and what Jaime might choose to hear. The young man had come into the room believing he possessed a secret that would expose his father. Perhaps he would leave believing that Tywin had simply found a way to excuse himself. It made little difference. A lesson was not always learned in the same hour in which it was given.

“And Lady Rowan?” Jaime might yet have wished to return to her merits, but Tywin did not allow the conversation to stray from its purpose.

“Her knowledge is useful. That much is clear. Whether she ought to be entrusted with a seat upon the Great Council remains a separate question. You have established that she can find a secret and that she was willing to share it with you. You have not established what she expects in return, what she might do with similar information in the future, or whether her judgment can be relied upon when the matter concerns someone she dislikes.” His gaze hardened. “Those are the questions I expected you to consider. Not whether she could surprise you with a revelation.”

His hand maneuvered the quill he held, assuring its comfortable and remembered spot within his grip. So long ago he hadn’t known just how to handle such a weapon, his preference being his own sword. Would Jaime turn out the same as he in that way? “You will inherit a seat from which you may command armies, settle disputes, and determine the fortunes of men who have spent their lives preparing to deceive you.” Tywin continued after the break, “There will be secrets you must expose, secrets you must protect, and secrets that will serve you best when left alone. If you cannot learn to distinguish between them, then the knowledge you gather will be of little use to you.”

There were days when he could remember Joanna only as a name, a portrait, a handful of details preserved through years of repetition. On others, she returned with such clarity that he could almost convince himself she had only stepped out of the room and would soon return. Those were the cruelest moments. Not because they reminded him that she was dead, but because they reminded him how easily he could forget, for a time, what it felt like to have her beside him.

Then, just as easily, the feeling would vanish.

He had spent years building a life that did not depend upon the mercy of memory. He had built an empire of ledgers, obligations, and carefully considered decisions, and he had taught his children that sentiment could not be permitted to interfere with duty. Yet here he sat, correcting Jaime's judgment while struggling to hold on to the memory of a woman's laughter. The irony was not lost on him.

Tywin set the quill to the parchment and resumed his writing.

“Now,” he said, without looking up, “if you are finished congratulating yourself, tell me what you believe Lady Rowan's knowledge actually proves.”

He waited for his son to answer. The lesson was not finished. It rarely was. And yet, Jaime still chose to leave it where it laid. He rose as smoothly as he had sat so many hours ago, leaving his mess behind as he stalked from his father’s office and solar. His own parchments and opened tome ignored and left to be where he would pick them up tomorrow, where Tywin would let them rest for the rest of the day and into the evening. His thoughts now occupied by this meaningless report, as the silence crept in and memory threatened to take his focus.

And somewhere beyond the reach of his thoughts, Joanna remained just as she had always been, waiting for the hour when he might choose to remember her again.