[center][h2][b]Jon[/b][/h2][/center]

“We’re in some kind of fucking Westerland sector!” growled Kennet Nash in his accustomed gruff tone. The grizzled Master-at-arms was five and fifty and the decades had only served to make him grumpier and ever more cantankerous. 
Jon pressed his fingertips to his temples. The last day’s ride has been through squalid autumn rains and after weeks of journeying and long leagues of irritable familial tensions, tempers were frayed and the Knight of Ninestar’s head was pounding. 

“Alright! Ken, then we’ll back up and circle around.” The Master at arms had the right of it though; the splendid awnings and pavilions of Lannister-sworn houses: Brax’s purple unicorn, The resplendent white and blue star of House Tarbeck and in the centre, dominant and imposing, the crimson and gold sea of the Lannister encampment itself. 

Kennet grumbled some more and the Templeton column had to turn and go back on themselves, the cumbersome carts and ragged columns had to about turn and file back to the outskirts of the sprawling encampment of Summerhall again. 

“Why are we turning around?” Asked Harold Stone, Jon’s bastard nephew as they followed the entourage of a modest 150 leal men of Ninestars. Jon would have been happy to bring a third of that number but his late brother’s widow had urged a greater strength. 150 was around a tenth of the strength House Templeton could likely summon but Jon was wary of expecting too much of their generous hosts. 

“I think this area’s reserved for Westerland houses.” Jon tacitly admitted as they ducked under a banner boasting the red lion of House Reyne. Certainly the disgruntled glances they were attracting supported the notion that they were somewhat out of place. Nonetheless, Jon laughed off the odd jibe about being lost and made the laboured retreat as good-naturedly as he could. By then, his uncle Gawarth had acquired a queer sort of guide. A little dwarf girl, no more than two feet tall and with hair as white and brittle as a crone’s claimed to know where the Vale Houses were camped and Jon led his ragged retinue round the vast encampment. 

“How do you know this place so well, child?” Jon asked the girl as they walked, him leading his destrier by the bridle and taking one stride to the dwarf’s four. As she turned to answer he noticed her unsettling red eyes, blood orbs in a face the colour of milk. 
“I know lots of things. Summerhall is beautiful but this is a place of sadness.” She replied enigmatically. By the time they could see tall Arryn banners, Jon turned to thank the odd child but found she had disappeared. Just how tired was he?

[i] A place of sadness [/i] Jon mused. He hoped not; he sought advancement for his House at this tourney. For over a decade since Ronnel’s death House Templeton had done precisely nothing. They were in danger of becoming the forgotten House of the Vale and it was past time Jon changed that narrative. At long last, a space was secured between the red sun of House Donniger and the cyan wave of House Upcliff; Jon made a point of greeting his neighbours personally whilst not staying long enough to be drawn into lengthy conversation. He was pleased that much of his camp had already taken shape by the time he returned. 

“No sign of any of the Sisters, Jon.” His Uncle admitted. House Sunderland had been compelled to send a child to Ninestars to foster thirteen years past by Donnel Arryn and had never even written to the girl since. Birgitte was a maiden flowered and passing comely, by all accounts (Jon looked on her as an uncle should a niece) and he’d hoped the Tourney would at least grant the girl an opportunity to meet her family even if only to put a face to their names. Birgitte was practically the adoptive daughter of Jon’s sister-in-law, Allayne. Formerly a Waxley, Allayne had insisted they stay at Wickenden two nights en-route to Summerhall. The hospitality had been generous for their daughter and her family but Jon couldn’t help feeling the delay had cost them more time than he’s have liked. Albeit he hadn’t complained when his brother’s widow had writhed like a cat beneath him in those Wickenden nights…

That was another reason he’d be glad once the tilts began, the woman had spent long years urging him to take her to wife. Many younger brothers did so, it was true. But Allayne was clearly barren and Templeton needed an heir. Jon was over thirty now and if he could impress with sword and lance, he might catch an approving eye from the daughter of a Lordly House. Besides, with all the gossip and scandal abroad about rival claims in the Targaryen household, war was a whisper away from everyone’s lips and war brought its own opportunities. 

“Uncle, did you see where Lady Allayne and Birgitte went?” He mused. But for those lust-filled trysts at Wickenden, Jon had seldom spoken to Allayne throughout their journey but had little doubt she’d have her own motivations for attending the tourney. Machinations that, doubtless, were already underway…

[hider= Summary] The Templetons find they've barged into the Westerland area of the Summerhall encampment and embarrassingly have to backtrack out again. A strange dwarfish girl shows them where the Knights of the Vale are and promptly disappears! Jon Templeton (Knight of Ninestars) reflects on his own motivations for attending whilst remembering some of the journey here.  [/hider]