[b]Westeros, The Trident Estuary, The Quiet Isle[/B]

Baelor seldom smiled, but at that moment, the wind in his fair hair and sun on his face, he did. Using a hand to shield his grey eyes, he peered out across the Bay of Crabs. Saltpans was at his back, the noise and stench of the town quickly fading away as the ferry forged into the waves. Ahead the sky was still overcast, grey clouds wrapping the heavens in a grey receding blanket. However, it seemed that together with the prow of the shoddy vessel, sunlight followed. When the rays finally broke through, it seemed they caressed the water and poured divine benediction over the Bay. Baelor looked out in awe. There it was; an upthrust island nestled at the estuary of the river Trident, their destination.

When they had entered the Bay, they had done so at night, forced by the tide to make the journey then for the waters moved quick here. He had paid the local fishermen that had acted as a navigator handsomely when they finally entered the port of the small Riverland town. His ship, the [i]Seven’s Seastar[/i], and a portion of his knights now awaited his return from the Quiet Isle.

The ferryman was one of the denizens that lived on the island, and he faithfully and obviously remained silent during the voyage. Some of his brothers aided in fixing the cables of the boat, keeping their heads low in deference as Ser Baelor Manderly and his retinue of six descended and took their first steps on the hallow soil. The knight nodded gratefully to the silent brothers, their faces obscured by pieces of cloth wrapped around them. Storks and other water birds roamed nearby in the shallows, their cries and shrieks filling the air.

They waited for a moment, taking in their surroundings. The isle’s slopes were covered in terraced fields, some of them currently tended by the male penitents. To the right there were fish-ponds, the sun turning their surfaces in serene golden disks. When Baelor looked up, he could make out the wooden septry where he hoped to go shortly. Behind it stood a large mill, its wood-and-sailcloth blades turning smoothly thanks to the breeze that rolled in from across the bay.

One of the penitents approached, bowed his wool-covered head and gestured for them to follow. The man led them up the slope, onto the pebbled path that cut through the terraced fields and meadows. Sheep grazed peacefully, watched by a shepherd. Further ahead there was a small stable, with a well-tended thatched roof, for the isle’s mules and other animals.

Their guide brought them ever closer to the wooden septry with a seven-sided steeple. When they passed the low walls of rock, and meandered their way through the cluster of buildings, they were greeted by more of the silent men, clad in undyed grey or brown robes. They had taken their vows of silence to do penance.

A man with a grey cowl and calm demeanour awaited them at the entrance to the septry, hands folded in front of him. “I welcome you to the Quiet Isle, my lords,” he said in a raspy voice.

Baelor bowed his head politely and introduced himself and his companions. “We have come to pray and seek counsel from the Seven, we intend to stay for seven days. Regard us as if we are normal penitents.”

“We are all sinners and we must all repent,” came the unforgiving but just answer.

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[b]Westeros, The Vale of Arryn, Gulltown[/B]

When Baelor and the rest of the Seventy-Seven made port in Gulltown, their mighty galley cleaving the waters, they had indeed stayed for seven days, every day devoted to prayer, fasting and contemplation on their sins and purpose. Two days earlier, they had put the Quiet Isle behind them, leaving the holy island a handsome donation in silver and gold.

The city was brimming, alive with people and noise, but Baelor was not interested in its mundane aspects, rather, he went straight to the Gulltown sept to ask for the septon’s blessing in the coming tournament. A dozen knights of his retinue did the same, as they too intended to try their luck in Lord Jasper Arryn’s tourney.

Lord Jasper Arryn had proven to be a distant, but hospitable host and a man of renowned piety. The young lord of the Vale had wished him luck in the tournament, and expressed his respect for Baelor’s reputation and that of his House. The blonde youth had also extended an invitation to speak at a later, more private and calm moment.

During the joust, Baelor performed adequately, besting several opponents in fair tilts. He was however unhorsed in his fourth bout, and forced to concede defeat to Rory Reyne. At least the Lord of Castamere was gracious about it, and had helped Ser Baelor back on his feet. There was no shame in being beaten by a better man, the Manderly knight told himself as he focussed his efforts on the melee.

The Seven had offered him a chance to repay the favour when Lord Rory Reyne was pummeled into submission by a burly hedge knight with a mace. Ser Baelor made short work of the man, and defended the downed Lord Reyne until he was carried off the field.

Ser Morgan Cassel, Baelor’s friend and companion, had little luck, eliminated in the second bout after three tilts. However, he did distinguish himself in the melee, until the Brute of Bracken dealt him a ringing blow against his helmet. In fact, Ser Otho Bracken had proven unstoppable, and at least three of Baelor’s knights went down before his relentless attacks. After defeating Ser Oswald Brune in a lengthy duel, Ser Baelor had tried the Brute for himself, as he was one of the last two men standing.

They had given the audience a good performance, but he had been drained of some strength due to his fasting and maimed back. As part of his penance and to demonstrate his religious fervour, he had flagellated himself. The shirt and leather padding underneath his plate armour kept chafing open the self-inflicted wounds. In spite of asking the Seven to lend strength to his sword-arm, the Brute of Bracken had bested him, coming in hard and fast, wrestling him to the ground until he had passed out, Otho’s weight bearing down on him. The Gods had undoubtedly wanted to teach Baelor humility.

Except for a few bruises, all that was hurt was Baelor Manderly’s pride. Others were not so lucky; the Laughing Storm had suffered injury in the joust and experienced a nasty fall. Fortunately nothing had been broken, and the leather padding taken much of the force. Ser Addam Frey was even less fortunate, for he had a broken arm courtesy of, again, the Brute of Bracken.

The prize was considerable, even for second place. Seven hundred and fifty golden dragons, divided into three purses. Baelor had given one to Ser Morgan to buy provisions and supplies they would need for the coming adventure. Another of the purses was destined for the acquisition of arms and armour, and should be sufficient to equip fifty men. The last two hundred and fifty dragons he kept as a reserve for unexpected expenses.