[b]The Narrow Sea, Somewhere Near Gulltown, The Coast of Westeros[/b]
[i]Roughly a week before the beginning of the Gulltown Tourney[/i]

Although he enjoyed spending time in manses, palaces and castles - and the opportunities and experiences that were made possible because of the nature of such places, situated within cities or at least close by to them, on the most part - Arron Redwyne knew, in his bones, that he truly belonged at sea. Although he was a Knight of The Reach, he had always been infected - or, as [i]he[/i] would like to say, blessed - with an overpowering urge of wanderlust, which he had sated for the last thirty or so years to be around in order to raise his children and to be a good husband to his wife. 

Now, however, with his wife gone and his children all but grown, he was finally free to sail the seas again as he had once done in his youth. Standing on the upper deck of his galley, there was an incurable grin upon the aging man’s features, a result of his finally being able to do again what he felt he had been born to do; his snowy white hair becoming tousled, thrown about by the force of the wind. Arron did not dress in noble finery or armour when at sea - he, like the most of his crew, wore leathers and a baggy cloth shirt, although they were laced up quite a bit more tightly in the presence of the Ladies, Knights and Noblemen who were travelling with them to Gulltown, hailing from regions all over Westeros. 

The sound of his bo’sun roaring orders could be heard, against the sound of the prow of his ship cleaving the waves before it: the massive, well-maintained steel ram’s head at the front of the vessel looking almost as if it was guiding the galley through the waters of the Narrow Sea. Gulls circled the vessel from above, their shrieks intermingling with the sound of oars dipping in and out of the ocean - their presence signifying the vessel’s closeness to Gulltown, and the tournament for which so many had travelled, from all over the Seven Kingdoms. 

Lord Redwyne’s vessel - in company with the four other ships that had come with it from The Arbor - had cast off from King’s Landing after about a week at port, the party from The Reach having arrived on the fourth day, and Emmon Redwyne and Rory Reyne having finally reached the capital on the sixth. That night, a great party was held, and noblemen from The Reach, The Westerlands and The Crownlands alike feasted alongside one another in Lord Arron’s city dwelling, enjoying the good hospitality - involving copious amounts of wine - that those from The Arbor were known for throughout Westeros. 

Although he was happy to see his children and his grandson again, Arron had felt the tensions rising within the confined space of his relatively small manse - his own patience beginning to run short with Lord Leos Tyrell, he had ordered that his ships be ready to leave as soon as possible. Once the necessary preparations had been made, Lord Arron had announced that it was time to depart from King’s Landing: the man, to his surprise, leaving his daughter Cassilda behind him, in company with Lord Leos’ bastard brother, at the request of the Tyrell. Not wanting to upset his liege lord, Arron granted the request, although he thought it somewhat queer: why would his daughter wish to remain behind in the City, when a great tournament was about to be underway? It was a question best left unanswered, he found, after a brief interrogation of his middle son, Halmon - a man who even as a boy who had always been too snakelike for Arron’s liking, but whom he loved and trusted all the same. 

So, leaving his daughter behind him, Lord Arron had departed: grateful to be away from King’s Landing (which had always been too large and too dirty for his liking), and back to the sea, where he felt most at home. 

He had found that the journey through the Blackwater and then back onto the Narrow Sea had been much more enjoyable than the few days he had spent with his extended family in King’s Landing, cooped up in his manorhouse: the bulk of Lord Tyrell’s retainers, along with the various Knights and Ladies from all over The Reach who had travelled with him, had been distributed between his other vessels, lessening Lord Arron’s burden quite significantly: although he still had Leos himself to deal with, and his scheming sons to keep apart; including Rory Reyne, who looked to Arron to be the same as the day he had left The Arbor to reassume his duties at Castamere. 

Running his calloused fingertips along the polished bannister of the upper deck - which had been reserved for the use of Lord Redwyne and his officers alone - Arron turned, leaning back against the wooden barricade: casting his bright, intelligent gaze outwards. From his position on the second highest point of the flagship - save for the Crow’s Nest - he could see a great many things, and spied his grandson Vymar talking quietly with Halmon in a corner: the young boy seeming extremely attentive - enrapt, even - to everything that his uncle had to say, his eyes wide and alive with the innocent, vibrant curiosity of youth. Vymar seemed to be much more sane than his father, and his close relationship with Halmon made Arron feel reassured about the future of The Reach after his death; even if he did feel slightly guilty that Vymar’s uncle was more of a father figure to him than the man who had sired him, at the Lord of The Arbor’s subtle request. 

Lord Leos, Arron knew, was somewhere belowdecks, in the ship’s second most largest cabin - in bed, likely recovering from the events of the night previous. It had been slightly stormy, that night, and Lord Redwyne had poked his head out of the door of his cabin upon hearing a strange and out-of-place noise: a battlecry, it had sounded like, followed by the sound of frantic footsteps. The Master of The Arbor had been surprised (and slightly amused) by what he had exited the warmth of his cabin to discover, but most of all he had been worried: the sight of Lord Leos Tyrell climbing his way up the ships’ rigging, bellowing a challenge to a so-called “Storm God”, with his armoured knights fluttering about the base of the mainmast like a dozen worried hens, had certainly not been something that had inspired Arron’s hopes for the future of The Reach after his death. 

Leos had been helped down from the mast by one of Arron’s sailors: the man aboard the ship who was quickest and most experienced at climbing up the labrinth of ropes that hung down from the sides of the Crow’s Nest. ‘Helped’ was quite a tame way to put it, Arron mused, a small smirk on his lips as he made his way down to the main deck of the ship: Highgarden’s ruler had been thrashing and screaming as he’d been brought down again to the safety of the deck, and had been rushed off to his bedchambers by his bodyguards as soon as he was back in their grasp. Halmon had not been over exaggerating when he had spoke of Leos’ brilliance finding its roots quite firmly in the regions of insanity. 

Seeking out one of the senior members of his crew, Arron addressed the muscular young man in a low tone. “Tell the crew to make ready for port - we’re almost there, by the looks of things. Shouldn’t be too much longer now: signal the other ships, and inform our noble guests of their imminent arrival at Gulltown - I’m sure they’ll want to look their best when they step off the ship.” The man grunted, murmuring an “aye, sir” as he rushed off to carry out his Master’s commands. 

Arron sighed, running a hand through his hair as he headed for his cabin. Managing his sons, Rory Reyne and Lord Leos Tyrell all at once would be no easy task, but he would do his best - after all, it was of utmost importance that his extended family [i]would not[/i] be seen as anything but completely respectable: and powerful, as The Reach had always been. He stepped through the door into his private room, steeling himself for the days to come.