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[indent][indent][color=808080]The calm of the warm summer’s day laid bare the dark greens and blues beneath the surface, colours which reminded Mychel that he was no longer in the Sapphire Isle or the Gods Eye. The waves were little more than stunted, feeble ripples with pearly white foam on the rims, clashing quietly against the dark wood of their ship and watering the mostly dead mass of barnacles which covered the hull.

Lord Mooton, ever the generous man, had given their retinue his finest vessel for their short voyage. It was an old, modest, but seasoned thing, with a matching crew and more than enough oars to carry them across the Bay of Crabs with or without wind in their sails. They had left the port of Maidenpool on a starry night, and they had awakened to find that the shores of the Vale were now a thin dark line on the horizon, drawing closer with every passing hour.

The sailors were hardworking, but they did not lack for good manners or camaraderie. They had been glad to share their bread and wine with their lord’s guests, to listen to the tall blue-eyed lordling sing sweet songs of the sea, and to share a jest or two as they watched him play [i]cyvasse[/i] with his stern-looking cousin. Mychel had won all but one game thus far, much to Garrett’s increasing annoyance.

Now the heir to Harrenhal stood on the deck alone, facing the sea which glittered in the sunlight and watching seagulls approach from the nearing land to the north-east, where their destination awaited them. His first tourney, not as Carolei Tarth’s squire, but as Catelyn Mudd’s heir.

His days in Harrenhal had been few but not as lonely as he had anticipated. After his conversation with his mother, Mychel was left to aimlessly roam his childhood home, to try to acquaint himself with those who had never met him before and to share memories of years past with those he had left behind long ago. His father held him tight against his chest upon seeing him again, at long last, and the two shared many words of comfort and idle talk. Endrew Tarth had aged just as much as his lady wife had, though he hid it well with his bright smile.

A grand feast and quiet night of solitude had followed their loving reunion. His mother gave an austere but concise speech welcoming him home. His many cousins and second cousins became deafeningly boisterous after their eighth or ninth cups of wine. His uncle Brynden tried to engage him in conversations about swordfighting and [i]cyvasse[/i], which some of his mother’s guests participated in. Half a dozen minstrels, who were visiting the castle to play for the Marshall of the Gods Eye and her family, played and sang proudly among the crowd. Almost a hundred people, including lords, ladies, knights and servants, filled as much of the expanse of the Hall of the Hundred Hearths as they could, which was not much. Mychel ended up singing a song of his own as the feast died down and many retired to their chambers, one which his mother listened to dutifully but without showing much genuine interest in, which was not the case with some of his unmarried second cousins. Many were moved to tears.

When shadows had begun to spread through the great hall, and his mother and father left for bed, Mychel finally went to the godswood to visit Jacelyn.

His twin’s final resting place under the heart tree was too small, or so it had always felt to him. Easily lost among the bushes and flowers and fallen red leaves. The polished brown stone which covered it was itself a modest thing with no name, and the bronze bust of him paled in comparison to the finer marble ones he had seen in cities, castles and septs beyond the Gods Eye. The expression on its boyish face was vague, unreadable, and it looked nothing like anything he had ever seen on his brother’s true face. He should have been smiling triumphantly, grinning from ear to ear like he used to after his sparring lessons.

[i]You should have lived, not me.[/i] The cruel, painful thought had stabbed its way into the fore of his mind, and his hand rested on the face that looked so much like his own once had. His fingers caressed the cold metal cheekbones and nose and lips. He did not cry, but perhaps tears would have been better than the deep, oppressive, dark sensation that spread through his core. A sensation that never truly left him, despite the ebb and flow of his mood.

As he returned his attention to where he was now, Mychel found that the sound of the sea was not too different from the sound of the leaves of Harrenhal’s heart tree rustling in the wind. The salty moisture in the air, however, reminded him of Tarth, and that alleviated him. The fog of his darker thoughts cleared somewhat as he remembered that his aunt and cousins awaited him in Gulltown, along with many other storm lords he knew. People who had embraced him and given him a home in their land. How he yearned to see and hear them again.

“And all the light, will be, will be”, he sang with the softest of voices, barely audible even with only the seagulls, the waves and the rowing below to accompany his sound. “And all the future prophecy. And all the waves, the sea, the sea. And on the road are you and me.”

He hummed when there were no words to sing, lacking an instrument to play the gentle melody of this lullaby of the straits. Leaning on the wooden railing, his hair forming a great curtain of black silk which framed the colours of the world before him. He breathed that sea air, drank deeply from it and sighed contently, feeling almost home again. Then he continued to sing, louder now, until Garrett’s unsubtle coughing brought him to a reluctant halt.

“What is the matter, cousin?” He asked the older Mudd, granting him a small but welcoming smile. Garrett took the invitation and moved to stand beside him, also leaning on the railing. He looked pale, paler than usual, and sickly. Most Mudds were accustomed to rivers and lakes, but not the seas.

“I’m curious”, said Garrett, sighing a bit too hard, like a great exhalation would cleanse his body of its nausea. “Father won’t tell me much. He disdains politics and strategy, and thinks me too thick to understand such matters as well.”

“By the way you play [i]cyvasse[/i]”, said Mychel, “I know that is not the case.”

His cousin smiled.

“You have seen more of the Seven Kingdoms than most of us”, he said as he turned to face Mychel. “You have spoken to more people outside the Riverlands. So I ask you, cousin, where do we stand now?”

Mychel gazed into his cousin’s brown eyes, searched for the meaning that imbued his words, and thought he had found it.

“We serve House Tully”, he answered eventually, “we protect the Gods Eye and we owe a debt of gratitude to our queen. Nothing ever changes where our house is concerned, I reckon.”

“We used to be kings”, said Garrett. “Or so I was told, though I’m sure you know the tales and songs better than I do. But one day we weren’t kings anymore. There is no Kingdom of the Rivers and Hills now. So what becomes of this kingdom that we now serve when Daenerys Targaryen dies?”

Mychel had not been educated for intrigue, and most of the knowledge he held pertained to matters that had little to do with the affairs of the realm, with how the smallfolk fared in these times or how the nobility grappled with the impending possibility of a succession. Yet he had his imagination, and he knew the characters of many who would play a role in the coming days.

“Perhaps there will be a great change”, he said. “New laws, new titles, new ways of ruling. The only other alternatives I can think of spell trouble.”

“Don’t let your lady mother hear you say that”, said Garrett, maybe half-jesting. “She has complained about her fellow river lords disrespecting the Princess Serenei. She is quite adamant about her succeeding the queen.”

“A lot of lords will have something to say about it”, said Mychel.

“Lot of ungrateful, treasonous cunts, more like.”

Mychel had to scoff at that.

“You disagree?” Asked his cousin.

“I’m not sure it matters”, he answered. “Not truly. Either way, someone will scheme and the common people will bleed for it, like every other time a king grew old and the lords around him became ravenous, snapping at each other over the scraps.”

“Lords have their duties and so do the smallfolk”, said his cousin, although his tone possessed the artifice of lifelong repetition. Someone had taught him to say that. “Smallfolk live to toil in peacetime and wartime, and we live to lead them and ensure the common good.”

“My mother’s words, I presume”, said Mychel. “Does she speak to the smallfolk often?”

“She does attend their festivals after every harvest”, said Garrett. “But mostly she judges them, and lets aunt Alyssa and Leslyn deal with the pleasantries and charity. They do respect her, nonetheless.”

“Respect is not love”, said Mychel, mostly to himself. “I’ve seen smallfolk who loved their lords and ladies. I’ve spoken to them, even befriended them. And the eldest among them love Daenerys Targaryen, specially those with the blood of those she freed in them.”

“So you wish to be loved?” Asked Garrett. “When you become Lord of Harrenhal?”

Mychel did not respond. Not aloud at least.

Instead, he pushed himself away from the railing, lifted his face to the horizon and let the sunlight wash over him. He had missed this heat in Harrenhal. The summer here was warm, full of life, but it was not so there, within those gargantuan walls.

In the distance, with half-lidded eyes, he saw the the city of Gulltown take shape, surrounded by the verdant highlands of the peninsula it stood on. He saw how dozens of ships now appeared beside their own, flocking to the same destination in search for glory and much more, their sails carrying the colours of many houses from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

They approached the port slowly, giving him and Garrett ample time to identify many of the sigils there present. The Ironborn were already there, boasting a trio of intimidating warships, as was House Stark. No sight of any storm lords yet. No quartered yellow suns and white crescents from Tarth or crowned black stags from Storm’s End, which left Mychel with a sinking feeling in his chest.

“And all the dust will drift away”, he began to sing. The same lullaby as before, and his mind drifted from his troubled thoughts and emotions as he imagined himself swimming under the striking blue seas of the Sapphire Isle again. “And all the nights and all the days, and all the heavens go their way, and only change is here to stay…”[/color][/indent][/indent]