[center][b]The Gold Road, Westeros | Jhavek Hill[/b][/center]

Why in this world had he been born a bastard? Why in this world had he been denied of his father? The two questions were ones that Jhavek Hill had asked himself as he carried on for the thirteen years he had lived onward from his father’s death. He had fought in the Blackfyre Rebellion in the most paramount of battle of them all, the Redgrass Fields; and what did he get from it?—what did he have to show for it? Nothing. The man who stole his father from him never crossed blades with Jhavek himself and ironically enough it brought him no pleasure when he heard Quentyn Ball had perished. All it left in Jhavek Hill was a sort of empty feeling in his gut that only felt like it rotted with each aching moment. 

Selwyn Sarwyck loved his son, which was something Jhavek had been told by his mother day-in and day-out before she withered away to sickness. Even his drunk uncle could recognize the affection the golden boy of the Sarwycks gave to his nephew even if he had seen so little of it. But all Jhavek wanted was one moment with his father as he was now to show him the man he had become; he had shared so much traits of his father—he was just, kind, charitable, and diligent. But here he was on the back of a caravan traveling on the Gold Road making way to King’s Landing where Jhavek would find transport to Gulltown where a tourney was being held. He wasn’t sure if any men of the Westerlands would be there but he knew that he had to try to show that the son of Selwyn—raised a commoner could stand out amongst the man-at-arms who were trying their luck at the competition. 

Jhavek knew nothing of those he would face, noble or lowborn, at this tournament celebrating the Lord of the Vale. If there was one thing he lacked was an understanding of the politics of this world he was born into, but he hated nobody for their situation. Nobody really controls where or how they were born, after all. He had never sparred with a swordsman since his uncle’s initial training of him all those years ago—he was a child then. It would be a refreshing change of pace for Jhavek as he had only recently dealt with highwaymen and wildlings south of the wall. All of those encounters tended to end with injury or death for the other parties—he wasn’t sure if it was his skill or just the lack of method to their approach on merchant caravans he generally was assigned to protect. Either way he had made a pretty sizeable collection of coin from the occupation of a merchant guard though nothing to sneeze at if you were a merchant or especially so if you were a noble.

Placing his arms behind his neck he leaned back as his eyes slightly glanced to the tradesmen he was traveling with.

“How long to King’s Landing now, Jory?”

One of the tradesmen, a man of thirty and two looked to Jhavek with a smirk. “Fairly soon I wager, that’s nearly the end of the Blackwater Rush…. er… beginning. You know what I mean.”

Jhavek let out a mild chuckle, “Yeah, of course.”

It was all coming together rather well, and even if he failed at this tourney of the Vale he could at least attest that he tried such a thing. If he failed it would not be the end of his pursuits to be recognized by someone—to honor his father in duty and manner. Perhaps he would request an audience with the Lord of Riverspring when he returned, to discuss about his father with… what would be his grandfather by blood. He wouldn’t ask for anything other than his time, time for conversation and learning. He didn’t want to fabricate any claims or demand a plot of land. That was beneath Jhavek, it was poor behavior. 

This tourney would be the dawn of a new day.