Victor Redwyne stared out from the battlements of The Arbor’s Castle, the seat of House Redwyne and his family’s home for generations back. The massive construction had some of the grace of Highgarden - with a few towers built in the same style, but nowhere near as tall as those in The Reach’s capital. The entirety of the outer wall was built from a yellow-hued stone with flecks of precious minerals within it, that had been mined from a cliff that faced out onto the ocean, and whenever the sun shone upon it, the traces of expensive gems and metals it contained reflected the light, giving the impression of the castle’s walls glowing to any who happened to look up at it from a distance. 

The tall, thick walls surrounded the castle's well-cobbled courtyard, and its Keep - a large, sprawling building in which the Redwyne's private quarters could be located, along with numerous guest rooms, a massive hall and well stocked and equipped kitchens. Also within the protection of the walls were the House's private stables, an open-air blacksmith, and a building made from wood and bricks that served as the barracks for the Redwyne's Household Guard.

Roughly two kilometres away was the town of Ryamsport, nestled against and sprawling outwards from a cove that looked almost as if it had been bitten out of The Arbor by a giant. The docks of the town were packed with merchant ships from all over the Seven Kingdoms, here to trade with the wine merchants who worked for Victor’s father - intelligent, learned men: who spent their days arguing over the number of golden dragons that would be exchanged for every ten gallons of wine loaded onto the ships bound for the rest of Westeros - and even some for the Free Cities. It was ironic, to Victor - that men of such vast learning and supposed intelligence and wisdom spent the most of their time and energy arguing over the price of wine; but, he supposed, that was what lined his family's’ coffers - the work of such men, and their commitment to not parting with a single drop of wine until its price had been paid in full. 

Halmon used to love such work - he would come home from a day at the docks buzzed and excited - and looking down at the port town made a small smile come to the man’s lips: it was not the first time he had missed his younger brother, who was presently at Highgarden, serving Lord Leos Tyrell - a man whom, in their infrequent meetings, Victor had judged as insane. He cared not what his father and many older and bumbling nobles said; the man was no genius - he was a loon, plain and simple. And a loon who Victor was bound to by ties of honour and blood - the first he could do away with when his father finally passed away, but the latter prevented him from acting out of his love for his sister; and his nephew, whom he had met only once. 

Regardless, Halmon’s presence at Highgarden was certainly a benefit - Victor and his younger brother had a monthly correspondence, via ravens; his brother’s letters providing him with crucial information about the goings-on in the Court of Flowers. Sighing, the man pushed off from the battlements, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the rocks beneath his feet reaching his ears as he made his way back down towards the castle’s main courtyard. 

The Blackfyre Rebellion had been finished now for over a decade, and the last supporters of the pretender Daemon had been chased across the Narrow Sea to live out their days in exile. However, the scars of the great conflict had affected The Arbor for years: many of their best young fighting men had died during the conflict, defending whom they had believed was the rightful king - and, luckily, their sacrifice had not been in vain: House Targaryen had been victorious, and Daemon had been slain on the battlefield. Now, those scars were finally beginning to heal - The Arbor’s courtyard was once again full of activity, and fresh-faced young men were there to take the places of Victor’s lifelong friends whom had died fighting alongside him: who he would always remember in his heart. 

The castle’s blacksmith was training four or five of his apprentices in the art of shoeing a horse - the animal itself of a fine breed, having been sired by one of the Dornish Sandsteeds which had been delivered to The Arbor as a gift in return for a few cases of wine by the agents of House Martell themselves. That had been about six years ago, now - and the Redwyne’s stables had improved dramatically with the introduction of foreign and superior breeding stock. 

Across from the open-air smithy, a number of young men - squires and guardsmen alike, all novices in the art of the sword - were training under the watchful eye of Duncan Redwyne, Victor’s uncle. He looked up from his overseeing of the teenage boys for a moment, greeting his nephew with a gruff nod - before going back to his work. Smiling, Victor had returned the nod with one of his own, the boots which he wore crunching dirt underfoot as he made his way towards the open gates of the castle, passing beneath the raised portcullis. 

From the gates of the Redwyne’s castle, a long and winding road led to the harbour town a few kilometers away, the majority of the well-paved road settled upon the slope of a steep hill that the castle was situated on top of. Even from where he stood, as he cast his gaze down again at the town over which he would soon rule, he could see the glimmering of the ocean, and the sea of masts that accounted for the numerous ships at anchor. 

After another fifteen minutes of staring, Victor decided that he would take his daughter for a ride down to the port town the next day - it had been a while since she had been given such an outing. Turning on his heel, he left visions of the past behind him, steeling himself for a day of administrative duties - focusing all of his energy, now, on the present: and planning for the future.