The beautiful but mercurial first daughter of the king, first grandchild of the Conquerer, knew a life of comfort and ease. She had been a shy child, more likely to be found hiding behind her mother’s skirts than playing with the little noble girls her mother arranged to be her friends. People terrified her, but none more than her Uncle Maegor. Her great-aunt Visenya was only barely a close second in being able to send the child scurrying for cover. Where people failed her, animals brought out a boldness. From the time she could walk she would wander the Aegonfort with a small procession of cats and scruffy puppies following in her wake. She was gifted an exotic talking bird for her sixth nameday, a bird that eventually learned to curse at courtiers and nobles in High Valyrian. When she was just nine though, her world shifted significantly when she bonded with the young dragon she came to call Dreamfyre. It was as if part of her had finally been awaken, emboldened.
Rhaena soon formed close relationships, in particular with Samantha Stokeworth. The girls became inseparable as they grew into their adolescence. The Princess became known for a fierce loyalty to family and friends, though she still shrank in Maegor or Visenya’s presence. She had barely made it through her first moon’s blood when her mother confessed at last that at one time she had been intended to wed Maegor. The truth sent her into a fit and she spent the night sobbing in bed. Samantha, Melyssanthi, and Aegon spent the night consoling her. Though she loved all her siblings, it was Melys and Aegon who were nearly always found in each other’s company; some whispered of them as the new three headed dragon. But the trio was too often accompanied by Samantha, her arms and fingers laced through Rhaena’s, their heads bent in quiet whispers and giggles.
Not long after Rhaena and Aegon were informed they would be wed when Aegon was of age. Neither saw fit to despair or dispute it. Though Rhaena had realized she had little interest in men, she was the eldest of her father’s children and their blood’s tradition required a simple sacrifice. Still, one night as they discussed their future, the princess confessed all to her brother. They would marry, the gods would take pity on her and give her two sons in quick succession, but then she begged to no longer be needed in his bed. Her brother quickly agreed, he could not ever force her to be who she was not. They each would do their duty but no more.
When Aegon was declared to be of age in 41AC, they were wed. Rhaena knew of the discontent regarding the marriage but naively brushed it aside. Maegor had angered the Faith and the people for taking a second wife, but to secure a stable rule, they needed a stable bloodline. The Westerosi would come to see that in time, she was certain of it. And her father was so beloved by the people, surely any grumblings would pass quickly.
The reality of the situation made itself apparent far too quickly. Rhaena and Aegon were wed and sent out to visit their realm in celebration. She had been barred from riding Dreamfyre as her husband had yet to claim his own dragon. She had been despondent at first until both Samantha and a new favorite friend, Alayne Royce, reminded her it meant more time together. Aegon had not even blinked at his wife’s request to have both women accompany them, day and night. Yet, as the days and weeks wore on it became readily apparent just how unforgivable Westeros found their union to be. The foursome found fewer moments to laugh, grew more fearful with each days’ travel. There was a deepness to the anger, a danger to the judging eyes. It was no longer a question of it but of when it would spill over to violence.
Ravella stopped in the corridor, the tiny voice squeaking in the silence, reverberating off the damp, cold walls. Her heart jumped to her throat at being found; it thudded still at being called sister. It took a moment to clear the pain from her face, even after all these years.
“Yes, Ronn?” The petite brunette turned, dark and sensible navy woolen skirts brushed against the stone walls. Her face was poised, emotionless, though her muscles twitched at the effort.
“Where are you going?” The little boy peaked out from the doorway of his chambers and rubbed at his eyes. It was late, far too late for the little heir to be awake. Ravella had snuck in to watch him sleep for a few minutes but, it seemed, she had awakened the boy.
“To bed, which is where you should be, little one.” She returned to his side and knelt, her hand cupped to his plump cheek. There was sleep in his eyes; she gently cleared it away with her other hand. His hair was much like hers, though tightly curled, his eyes though were a deep blue unlike her own, unlike their mother’s. Rhialta would admonish her for trekking to her brother’s room like this yet again. What servants see they wag their tongue about. The constant reminder echoed in her mind. But there were no servants here, not now. The corridor was quiet enough to hear vermin scurrying behind the walls.
“Tell me a story.” He whined through a yawn as he yanked his head away from her ministrations.
“Once upon a time a little boy went to bed without complaining.” She smiled softly, her hand moving to his shoulder to pat and turn him back towards his bed.
“Not that one.” He grew defiant, his eyes fluttering with only half-feigned contempt. The defiance was short lived as he took a stumbling step forward.
Ravella giggled quietly as she rose to follow him back towards his bed, her hand on his back to guide him forward. “This little boy knew that one day, he would rule the Riverlands. He had to grow big and strong to sit the high seat, to pass wise and fair judgements. But to grow big and strong, he knew he had to go to bed and sleep sweet dreams each night.” Ronnel climbed into bed and she tucked him in beneath layers of blankets and furs. “Good night…brother.” She bent to brush her lips against his forehead with a sigh. She could hear his soft snores before she had taken two steps away from his bed.
Medgar’s muffled groans signaled that the lord had risen for the day. A servant outside the door inhaled deeply, as if to savor the final moment before attending to his lord. Within Riverrun’s Lord’s chambers, the large bed dominated the room. Massive trouts leapt from the bedposts. With each shift the current lord made, the entire bed trembled and groaned in response. Medgar struggled to pull himself up to a seated position, thin but grubby lips pressed tightly in the effort. His eyes were crusted shut. From the servant’s perspective it was as it a giant catfish flailed about on land. Then the smell hit, a few more steps in. A rancid, sulfuric,stomach turning scent. The Lord Tully had shit the bed, again.
The servant stopped midstep. “Have the tub readied, milord will need a bath this morning before breakfast. Find fresh linens as well, and some scented oils for sevens’ sake.” He whispered the sharp commands to the small boy at his side. A little lad from some pissant Riverlands’ house who had the great misfortune of serving as a page in the Tully household.
It took four men to lift Medgar from his soiled bed and into the readied tub. No matter that he was cleansed, a sickly sweet smell clung to the man. The exertion of the morning was too much for the lord and breakfast instead was brought to the rooms. A dozen soft boiled eggs - peeled as Medgar would eat the shells in his haste, rashers of soft cooked bacon, fat greasy sausages, crispy fried trout, pureed turnip with a massive lump of butter, honey cakes and cream cakes. All was washed down with copious amounts of ale. Medgar rarely appeared drunk, whether due to his size or the amount of food to soak up the alcohol was a running discussion amongst Riverruns’ inhabitants.
Lord Tully belched loudly. “No guests today.” The first words he had formed, several hours after waking. His steward had joined him at the end of breaking his fast. Few could stomach watching the man eat for long.
“My lord, there is one matter most pressing. Unless you would like the council to address it?” He asked a question he was certain of the answer to. Yet it was only proper to maintain the charade. Rumors swirled, even with half the realm removed to Summerhall. In Kermit’s long rule he had made few errors and done much to mend together the disparate houses of the Riverlands after so much destruction. In just a few years, the foundation was cracked and flooded. The steward knew it, the council knew it. House Tully, now like trout in an ever-evaporating pond, flailing for breath.
Medgar made a small movement with his flabby hand, waving off the suggestion. “Not today. Handle it.” He moaned suddenly, both hands pressing into the rolls of his abdomen. His eyes squeezed shut, sweat formed at his receding hairline before dripping down his face. “Send in the servants, I have need of them again.”
The steward bowed his head and quickly backtracked from the room. The servant from the morning stood waiting outside the doorway. “Lord Medgar has need of a chamber pot, make haste.”
The Maester met him at the end of the corridor. “A shame our lord cannot join us. You’ve seen the messages, what shall we tell the rest of the council?” His concern was unconvincing, but it needn’t be.
“That it is just rumors. Have we had any word from Merrett or does he continue to evade us?” He spoke quietly. Merrett had disappeared from the Riverlands years ago and refused all contact. They thought he was perhaps married with children, with sons. The heir was but a small boy with questionable parentage, Merrett was a solution or a threat. The steward and maester were not sure which, yet.
“None, though we believe him to be in the Crownlands now, a guest of House Stokeworth.”
The steward mulled it over briefly. “Too far, he will be gone before we get anyone in place. It would have been too easy had he gone to Summerhall, damn the man.” The pair made their way to the council chambers, a nest of intrigue and shifting alliances without anyone to keep them in line or focused. The Riverlands bent beneath the weight of its incompetent lord.
House Tully rose to prominence during Aegon's Conquest, when Lord Edmyn Tully led the rebel riverlords who deserted Harren Hoare, King of the Isles and the Rivers, and instead supported House Targaryen. Following the burning of Harrenhal, Edmyn was rewarded with dominion over the riverlands by Aegon I Targaryen as the first Lord Paramount of the Trident. Despite being their new liege lords, the Tullys fielded smaller armies than the Blackwoods, Brackens, Freys, and Vances. House Tully was also not as wealthy as the Mootons, nor considered as prestigious as the Mallisters.
One of Edmyn's daughters married Lord Quenton Qoherys of Harrenhal, while Edmyn himself served two years as Hand of the King to Aegon the Conqueror, the first King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. King Aenys I Targaryen relied on the Tullys during the rebellion of Harren the Red, and King Maegor I Targaryen was supported by the Tullys and the Harroways against Prince Aegon Targaryen in the Battle Beneath the Gods Eye. The Tullys later supported Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen against Maegor. Lord Prentys Tully served Jaehaerys I as master of laws, while his wife, Lady Lucinda Tully, led the household for Queen Alysanne Targaryen.
In 101 AC during the Great Council, Lord Grover Tully spoke in favor of Prince Viserys Targaryen over Laenor Velaryon as the successor to Jaehaerys I. During the Dance of the Dragons, the Tullys ruled over, in name at least, the quarrelsome riverlords. The aged Lord Grover wanted to support the greens, but his grandson Elmo and great-grandson Kermit supported the blacks. Elmo led the riverlords to battle on the side of Rhaenyra during the Second Battle of Tumbleton. His grandfather died soon after, and Elmo himself followed his grandfather to the grave forty-nine days later. His young son Kermit led the Lads and slew Lord Borros Baratheon in the Battle of the Kingsroad. Kermit's brother, Ser Oscar Tully, founded the Stormbreakers.
Riverrun is the ancestral castle of House Tully, the Lords Paramount of the Trident. It is situated in the western riverlands, at the confluence of the Tumblestone and Red Fork rivers. Riverrun is north of Pinkmaiden and northwest of Acorn Hall. The castle sits along the river road, an easy ride which links Lannisport and the crossroads. It is a strong three-sided castle, although not especially large. It is a tenth the size of Harrenhal.Riverrun is bordered on the north by the Tumblestone and on the south by the Red Fork, while on the west a third side faces a massive man-made ditch. In time of danger the sluice gates can be opened to fill a wide moat and leave the castle surrounded on all three sides by water, turning Riverrun into an island and leaving it practically unassailable. It commands a view of many leagues.
The riverlands is a central region of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, consisting of the rich, fertile, and populous areas around the three forks of the Trident and the northern Blackwater Rush. At the time of Aegon's Conquest the riverlands and the Iron Islands were ruled by House Hoare, the Kings of the Isles and the Rivers, although native river kings ruled centuries earlier.
Because of their central position in Westeros and lack of natural boundaries, the riverlands have been a frequent battleground. The people of the riverlands are known as "rivermen" or occasionally "riverlanders", and they are a mixture of hardy warriors, peaceful fisherfolk and devout smallfolk. Their lords have a reputation for being notoriously quarrelsome, and are referred to as "river lords". Noble bastards born in the riverlands are given the surname Rivers.
The riverlands are ruled from Riverrun by House Tully, the Lords Paramount of the Trident. Notable houses of the region have included Blackwood, Bracken, Darry, Frey, Lothston, Mallister, Mooton, Mudd, Piper, Ryger, Strong, Vance, and Whent.
Recent History:
Lord Kermit ruled the Riverlands through the end of the Dance into general prosperity and peace, at least for the riverlands. While his bannermen held greater wealth or could call up more men, Kermit sought to bind them through marriage and respect. The quarrelsome Brackens and Blackwoods would remain a thorn in his side, yet with his own marriage and those of his children, he kept the peace even through the tumultuous reign of Aegon IV.
House Tully, though, has cracked beyond easy repair. Some smallfolk say it is a curse from the woman Ser Oscar left behind when he left for Essos. With the death of two sons, grandsons, and a son to take the black, House Tully was left to a man most unfit to rule. While Lord Kermit could have done more, perhaps, he was still a father with too much faith in his son. Naming Medgar as heir was perhaps Kermit’s greatest error in his long reign. Plenty pay lip service to their liege lord or peer, but few can claim to actually respect the man. Many hope, some in secret, some blatantly, that a young Ronnel inherits with his uncle Merrett as regent.
Family Members:
Lord Medgar Tully
Lady Rhialta Tully (nee Manderly)
Lady Ravella Tully
Ronnel Tully, a boy of 6 and heir to Riverrun
Ser Merrett the Mild, the youngest of Kermit's sons, currently at Stokeworth
Garth Rivers
Medgar Tully
Lord Paramount of the Riverlands Medgar the Massive The Fleshy Fish
Age: 62 (born 140AC)
Appearance:
Lord Tully’s weight cannot be overstated. Now approaching his elder years, he is frequently unable to carry himself more than a few steps, instead requiring servants to carry him to another room when he needs to leave his chambers. While he has earned his moniker, some of his other contorsions are due to the mysterious ailment no maester was able to diagnose. His eyes, once sparkly blue, are sunk into his face. His skin is either greasy with sweat or dry and flaking. He bears a perpetual look of self-disgust.
Description & biography:
Medgar was never supposed to be Lord Paramount. At times it seems as though it were his first memory. He never cared for his studies with the septon, maester, nor armsmaster. He cared little for women, never wished to wed, never wished to spread his seed nor sire children. He was a sickly child who grew into a rotund adolescent and never stopped widening into his adulthood. Nothing else could sate him like a hot meat pie, or glistening slices of fatty goose. He had no natural gifts, no ambition. He often hoped the ailments that plagued him would take him. Yet Malwyn died and he lived. Mordyn died and he lived still. His father told him to go to Oldtown, to take a vow to the Seven, to take the fucking Black.
Medgar had no desire to rule, but he had less of a desire to do anything at all. Surely he too would die and Myles would inherit. Instead, it was Myles forced to take the Black for accidentally killing his betrothed’s cousin. Instead, it was Medgar who wed Rhialta Manderly. He would marry the woman, or he too would take the black. Marriage was less work than traveling that far north to be that cold all the time. He married her but would not put a child in her. His wife, to anyone paying attention, was faithful to her duties. She attended him several times a week in his bedchambers. Not many months after their wedding, she gave birth to Ravella.
Some talked and made suggestions, yet as a daughter, with one remaining son able to inherit after Medgar, the talk remained whispered only. Issues over inheritance only came to a head again when young Ronnel appeared at court in 197AC. Though Rhialta had faithfully shared her husband’s chambers once per month, no other child had ever grown in her until the year she had disappeared with Ravella.
Medgar paid no attention to any of it. When his father died in 190AC he stayed in his rooms for nearly a month. He received visitors and bannermen reluctantly. Yet those who managed to see him found him to be easily manipulated, if also petulant and petty. His ambitious lords, his nefarious lords, were quick to take advantage. The Riverlands, which his father had done so much to build and care for for decades, began to crack and crumble. Medgar’s advisors, those that remained, do what they can to patch the damage inflicted by a negligent lord.
Most notably, though many of his bannermen made their way to Summerhall at the invitation of the Targaryen prince, Medgar did not want to attend, nor did he want his family to go and return with more petitions. All were barred from attending.
Ravella Tully
Age: 28 (born 174AC)
Appearance:
Ravella is short, with few of the Tully characteristics. She shares much with her mother, hair dark but devoid of all but a glimmer of red, her eyes a warm chestnut, not blue. It would be hard to find Medgar anywhere within her pleasant features or mannerisms. Because of her mother’s influence, she is reserved in her dress.
Description & biography:
While Ravella’s birth may have cast doubts on her parentage, she was largely shielded from it as a child. Her grandsire, Lord Kermit, ensured she received a proper upbringing as her father would not. She spent years of her early adolescence touring the Tully bannerman houses, to strengthen ties through friendship with the river lords’ daughters or sisters. Her mother’s religious zeal for the Faith was never distant, and though she was present in her daughter’s life, she sought to influence her daughter to a chaste life, to join the Faith as she wished she had.
Kermit would not hear of it, and before he died, he had arranged a good match for the girl with one of Lord Darry’s sons. Lord Kermit died before the betrothal could be agreed upon in full. Medgar ignored it for months, his advisers claiming it as a period of mourning, until at last there was little they could do except send their apologies and weak excuses for why the two could not be wed. Ravella was not displeased about it, a girl of only six and ten, yet the slight her father paid his bannerman was a mark against her as well.
With her father in control of Riverrun, she found herself increasingly isolated. She no longer traveled, and her mother’s absence was felt more strongly. Rhialta would leave to tour septs or break bread with cloistered septas, leaving her daughter alone in the Riverrun’s chaotic halls. Instead, Ravella took to wandering her family’s lands. In one of these walks, she had a chance encounter, a beautiful melody of despair and longing emerged from the reeds and drew her in. The girl was besotted before she ever saw his face. Garth, her granduncle’s bastard’s bastard. She knew of him, the man who took to calling himself Ser Fishbones. With childish naivete, she thought of herself as his muse and gave in too willingly to the inappropriate affair.
While the truth of what happened remains murky, a few details were accepted by the court. A man, barely more than a commoner, was accused of being Ravella’s lover. He bled and died for the slight. Not long after, Ravella came down with an illness. Before it could become too obvious that she grew heavy with a child, Rhialta spirited her away, leaving Riverrun for nearly a year. When they returned, it was with a baby boy. Rhialta presented him at court, naming him Medgar’s son and heir to Riverrun. There were loud whispers, but Medgar would not refute the claim and his advisers were gleeful at having an heir no matter the questions it raised.
Ravella remains closer to the boy that many find typical. She keeps a small book with her, full of poetry and songs by some nameless bard, writings that bring a small smile to her lips or to cause a few tears to well up, sometimes both. Now passing twenty-eight namedays, she has resigned herself to a life of solitude and of the being the river maiden.
Garth Rivers
Age: 37 (born 165AC)
Appearance:
attractive bastard
Description & biography:
Ser Oscar Tully had always liked to cast his rod and bait among the realm’s women, usually reeling in quite the catch. There were few enough whom he thought of a week after, yet the rake had made sure that Edmyn (Garth’s father) was recognised his son. Then, he abandoned him for his Essosi adventures and life as a mercenary captain. The boy grew up to be a chip off the old block: proud, wont to fight and fuck. In true emulation of his sire, he himself begot a son – and possibly more – out of wedlock. Edmyn’s bastardised Tully charm won him a taste of Gysella Cox, with another apple not falling far from the tree.
Garth was born a right bastard (a bastard’s bastard even – and so a bastard twice over), into a family riven by disaster and riddled with discord. Gone were the days of ease and comfort brought about by Kermit’s deft rule and Oscar’s martial prowess. As Kermit’s years advanced, his judgment waned, naming the least suited of his progeny heir. To be fair to the Old Lad, there was little in the way of proper candidates as scandal and misfortune sheared House Tully of its finest members. The intricate web woven through marriages and diplomacy frayed, and the friendships and glories of the past were ignored.
Growing up on the periphery of Riverrun’s court allowed Garth more liberties than most. From a young age he read as much as he played, often sneaking out with one of the Maester’s books to read on the riverbank. His favourites were compendia of bardic prose and minstrel’s songs which prompted an adolescent squire to start compiling texts of his own. The words Garth commits to paper speak of a surprisingly old soul feeling deeply about the world. These revelations were never intended for an audience other than himself, and the only occasions when the words were sung was when he lounged by himself in the sun among the reeds.
Garth was restless if not rebellious and wild, leaving the white walls of the Tully keep behind him as he traipsed the countryside… but only after having stirred up trouble and mischief. Slippery as an eel, Garth complied with whatever punishment was doled out when caught. However, there was not much which could apparently touch him. Though there was one who managed to pluck the strings of his heart… and breeches.
Illicit affairs cause great excitement, and Ravella and he tasted of forbidden fruit in the pursuit of delight. They were one another’s escape from Medgar’s gloom and dourness creeping from the stone and mortar of Riverrun. To Garth, their ongoing torrid tryst is a vital adventure, and the fact that Rhialta became involved in the conspiracy only added to the thrill.
Because of his status as a bastard, and the aloof attitude of Medgar and his advisers, Garth changed the inverted Tully arms into those of a fish carcass. He participated in local tourneys as Ser Fishbones and greedily gobbled up the antipathy it conjured up. It was one way of making up for the lack of attention he received as a child. Garth’s innate melancholy goes hidden behind a mask of mirth.
The Princess sat silently, a goblet pressed between her lips, soft lilac eyes stared absently in the distance. In her youth, she was shamed for her appearance, yet she had aged finer than the vintage she sipped at now. Or at least, that’s what men said. Her brow furrowed at the errant thought. How much of their lives had been lived at the whims of men. Baelor, Aegon, even Daeron...Daeron, who, though he knew her worth, would not name her to his small council directly. She prayed that her fool of a husband would not undo her work in her brief absence.
Perhaps that alone was the reason she had invited Shiera to speak with her in her tourney box. Maekar and Baelor had made their invitations, yet she preferred having control of who would join her. Bloodraven’s consort had set off waves of rumors with her entrance, sufficiently enough to pique the aged princess’s interest. So much of Shiera reminded Elaena of herself at a certain age. The bastard was known to the princess for many years, she saw potential in the woman, if she would only grasp it fully.
The princess had been given a young kingsguard as her escort. Perhaps they thought she would appreciate having the handsome young man in attendance, but Elaena had never been one to be drawn to youth, even a pretty one. As Shiera entered though, the princess spared a glance to see how her guardian would react. The Seastar was a beauty, perhaps one to even rival Daena in her youth, and like Daena, Shiera knew it. Though today the woman seemed less herself.
“Ser Leyton, my my.” The Lyseni dragon took in the white-clad knight before her. “The white still complements your blush so well.” Leyton Tyrell, a young savant of a swordsman when he took the white, Shiera had often taken to teasing him in passing in King’s Landing. She did so to toy with Brynden, but the young flower’s responses only ever served to spur her on. She placed a hand softly to his elbow as she teased with a sensuous smile. She could not help herself, no matter the mood she had been in. “It’s been too long, I hope you have not missed me in my absence.”
Leyton nodded politely as Shiera entered, one hand resting on his sword's hilt, the other held strictly at his side. Yet his ease of bearing was promptly interrupted by her blatant flirtation and he instantly blushed, mortified as she pointed out the contrast between his cheeks and cloak. "Of course I have my lady." He smiled awkwardly, anxiety written plainly across his features. "Not that I should have reason to! Simply that you are always a welcomed sight in King's landing." Leyton added, maintaining his tall stance as he spoke, eyes watching any entrance ways, if only partly to avoid looking at the woman.
"I don't mean to say I care only for your looks. I do not!" He tensed as he began to dig himself deeper. "But, well they are very pleasing, I am sure. Many must like looking at you! Though- though I do not, of course!" The words tumbled out of the young man's mouth with an alarming rapidity and his flushed cheeks only worsened the more he spoke, blood heating his face. He fixed his gaze downward, busying himself with the droll task of ensuring his scabbard was secured properly, which of course it was. He would never dream of protecting the princess without being fully prepared.
“Shiera, leave the poor boy be. I cannot expect him to guard me if he is ogling your breasts.” Having let it go on long enough, Elaena called the woman over, though her chastisement was mixed with a hint of mirth. The boy was a rather pleasant shade of red. "And, Ser Leyton, perhaps you should learn less is more. Back in my more youthful days you would have been taken to task for a tongue wagging like that." At last a small but throaty laugh erupted from the princess. "Besides, our dear Seastar is quite aware of her pleasing looks. Men seem unable to not remind her of this fact."
Shiera's eyes narrowed at the reproach. Elaena was well known for her sharp tongue and brusque nature. The great bastard was never sure if it was jealousy or respect she felt for the princess. Perhaps both, though times like this, it was a bitter draught to swallow.
"Ser Leyton and I are old friends, he knows I mean no offense." She turned her head for a final glance in enjoyment of how thoroughly ruffled the knight was. Her tongue traced her lips teasingly before she returned her attention to the princess and took a seat next to her elder. Her skirts lightly pooled around her, cloth-of-silver paneled with delicate white lace. Elaena had been too accurate as well, the top of her dress barely obscured her chest, adorned by long but delicate strands of emeralds and sapphires.The necklace had been a gift from Brynden. Absent-mindedly, she traced a strand between two slender fingers.
Elaena took a sip of wine, eyes trained on the woman before her. “You know, Bloodraven was really in quite a state when you departed King’s Landing.”
Shiera’s head dropped slightly, silver hair a curtain to shield her face. “Good.”
“Oh child, one day you will regret taunting that man so much.” The princess waited but cleared her throat when no response came. “It was unexpected, I will give you that. No one thought you would seek out Bittersteel.”
“Nor did I.” Shiera’s lips were pressed together as she made her admission. “It was impulsive.” Like much of her life, if she gave a moment for self-reflection. “I love them.”
Elaena grunted softly. She had known love once, and fate had seen fit to tear him from her too early. “You play with fire. Do not protest yet, listen to me.” She raised her hand though Shiera had barely opened her lips to speak. The princess paused to appreciate a single man in the procession before them. A barely perceptible blush crept across her cheeks as his head turned and their eyes met for the briefest of moments. “We live and die by the men we bind ourselves to, surely you recognize this truth.”
“As you have bound yourself to the Lord of Parchments?” Shiera responded quietly but with an uncharacteristic bitterness to her voice. “I will choose who I wish, when I wish, and remain unbound.”
Tsk. “Perhaps if you had chosen any other than your brothers who were fated to hate each other from birth.” Elaena attempted to mellow her words, she extended her hand to take Shiera’s. “You think you have a choice but it’s an illusion, girl. Do you not feel it? Daemon and his supporters - including your new love - put us on a dangerous path.” She sighed. “Bittersteel can only give you death and destruction. Whatever his faults, with Bloodraven you could have a life with at least half of what you long for.”
Shiera’s eyes narrowed again, her head raised in defiance. “And what is it you think I long for?”
“Respect.” Elaena let the word hang in the air. “To be recognized as an equal.” It was an unlikely thing to hope for.
Once she had dreamed of such things, thought them within her reach. Shiera pulled her hand from Elaena’s and rested her chin upon it with a pout forming across her lips. She could not refute the princess’s claim, nor could she vocalize her agreement. “I will think on your advice. But I fear it may be too late.” She sighed deeply, her mind unable to let go of the images she had seen brought forth from the prior night’s ritual. Her life would not be the same, and soon, she felt it and knew it to her core.
The quiet lingered as the procession of knights became barely more than a trickle and the men before them bore heraldry only the most astute would recognize. Elaena broke the silence. “I expect Rhaena to arrive soon. She is still a prudish bitch, you may wish to take your leave before she lectures you on the Maiden’s virtues.” It was offered as a suggestion but spoken as a dismissal.
Shiera simply nodded in response. Of the Maiden Vault sisters, the bastard knew of Rhaena only by reputation. “Thank you for the invitation, Princess. I should return…” She paused, a moment of uncertainty. The statement hung in the air unfinished.
“Just be cautious dear. Even a dragon can be burned and you are only half of one.” Elaena spoke without turning her attention back but waited for the sound of her soft footsteps to end. “Ser Leyton, have a page send word to Ser Michael of Kingsgrave. I’d like him to join me for dinner tonight, we have business to discuss.”
House Tully rose to prominence during Aegon's Conquest, when Lord Edmyn Tully led the rebel riverlords who deserted Harren Hoare, King of the Isles and the Rivers, and instead supported House Targaryen. Following the burning of Harrenhal, Edmyn was rewarded with dominion over the riverlands by Aegon I Targaryen as the first Lord Paramount of the Trident. Despite being their new liege lords, the Tullys fielded smaller armies than the Blackwoods, Brackens, Freys, and Vances. House Tully was also not as wealthy as the Mootons, nor considered as prestigious as the Mallisters.
One of Edmyn's daughters married Lord Quenton Qoherys of Harrenhal, while Edmyn himself served two years as Hand of the King to Aegon the Conqueror, the first King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. King Aenys I Targaryen relied on the Tullys during the rebellion of Harren the Red, and King Maegor I Targaryen was supported by the Tullys and the Harroways against Prince Aegon Targaryen in the Battle Beneath the Gods Eye. The Tullys later supported Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen against Maegor. Lord Prentys Tully served Jaehaerys I as master of laws, while his wife, Lady Lucinda Tully, led the household for Queen Alysanne Targaryen.
In 101 AC during the Great Council, Lord Grover Tully spoke in favor of Prince Viserys Targaryen over Laenor Velaryon as the successor to Jaehaerys I. During the Dance of the Dragons, the Tullys ruled over, in name at least, the quarrelsome riverlords. The aged Lord Grover wanted to support the greens, but his grandson Elmo and great-grandson Kermit supported the blacks. Elmo led the riverlords to battle on the side of Rhaenyra during the Second Battle of Tumbleton. His grandfather died soon after, and Elmo himself followed his grandfather to the grave forty-nine days later. His young son Kermit led the Lads and slew Lord Borros Baratheon in the Battle of the Kingsroad. Kermit's brother, Ser Oscar Tully, founded the Stormbreakers.
Riverrun is the ancestral castle of House Tully, the Lords Paramount of the Trident. It is situated in the western riverlands, at the confluence of the Tumblestone and Red Fork rivers. Riverrun is north of Pinkmaiden and northwest of Acorn Hall. The castle sits along the river road, an easy ride which links Lannisport and the crossroads. It is a strong three-sided castle, although not especially large. It is a tenth the size of Harrenhal.Riverrun is bordered on the north by the Tumblestone and on the south by the Red Fork, while on the west a third side faces a massive man-made ditch. In time of danger the sluice gates can be opened to fill a wide moat and leave the castle surrounded on all three sides by water, turning Riverrun into an island and leaving it practically unassailable. It commands a view of many leagues.
The riverlands is a central region of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, consisting of the rich, fertile, and populous areas around the three forks of the Trident and the northern Blackwater Rush. At the time of Aegon's Conquest the riverlands and the Iron Islands were ruled by House Hoare, the Kings of the Isles and the Rivers, although native river kings ruled centuries earlier.
Because of their central position in Westeros and lack of natural boundaries, the riverlands have been a frequent battleground. The people of the riverlands are known as "rivermen" or occasionally "riverlanders", and they are a mixture of hardy warriors, peaceful fisherfolk and devout smallfolk. Their lords have a reputation for being notoriously quarrelsome, and are referred to as "river lords". Noble bastards born in the riverlands are given the surname Rivers.
The riverlands are ruled from Riverrun by House Tully, the Lords Paramount of the Trident. Notable houses of the region have included Blackwood, Bracken, Darry, Frey, Lothston, Mallister, Mooton, Mudd, Piper, Ryger, Strong, Vance, and Whent.
Recent History:
Lord Kermit ruled the Riverlands through the end of the Dance into general prosperity and peace, at least for the riverlands. While his bannermen held greater wealth or could call up more men, Kermit sought to bind them through marriage and respect. The quarrelsome Brackens and Blackwoods would remain a thorn in his side, yet with his own marriage and those of his children, he kept the peace even through the tumultuous reign of Aegon IV.
House Tully, though, has cracked beyond easy repair. Some smallfolk say it is a curse from the woman Ser Oscar left behind when he left for Essos. With the death of two sons, grandsons, and a son to take the black, House Tully was left to a man most unfit to rule. While Lord Kermit could have done more, perhaps, he was still a father with too much faith in his son. Naming Medgar as heir was perhaps Kermit’s greatest error in his long reign. Plenty pay lip service to their liege lord or peer, but few can claim to actually respect the man. Many hope, some in secret, some blatantly, that a young Ronnel inherits with his uncle Merrett as regent.
Family Members:
Lord Medgar Tully
Lady Rhialta Tully (nee Manderly)
Lady Ravella Tully
Ronnel Tully, a boy of 6 and heir to Riverrun
Ser Merrett the Mild, the youngest of Kermit's sons, currently at Stokeworth
Garth Rivers
Medgar Tully
Lord Paramount of the Riverlands Medgar the Massive The Fleshy Fish
Age: 62 (born 140AC)
Appearance:
Lord Tully’s weight cannot be overstated. Now approaching his elder years, he is frequently unable to carry himself more than a few steps, instead requiring servants to carry him to another room when he needs to leave his chambers. While he has earned his moniker, some of his other contorsions are due to the mysterious ailment no maester was able to diagnose. His eyes, once sparkly blue, are sunk into his face. His skin is either greasy with sweat or dry and flaking. He bears a perpetual look of self-disgust.
Description & biography:
Medgar was never supposed to be Lord Paramount. At times it seems as though it were his first memory. He never cared for his studies with the septon, maester, nor armsmaster. He cared little for women, never wished to wed, never wished to spread his seed nor sire children. He was a sickly child who grew into a rotund adolescent and never stopped widening into his adulthood. Nothing else could sate him like a hot meat pie, or glistening slices of fatty goose. He had no natural gifts, no ambition. He often hoped the ailments that plagued him would take him. Yet Malwyn died and he lived. Mordyn died and he lived still. His father told him to go to Oldtown, to take a vow to the Seven, to take the fucking Black.
Medgar had no desire to rule, but he had less of a desire to do anything at all. Surely he too would die and Myles would inherit. Instead, it was Myles forced to take the Black for accidentally killing his betrothed’s cousin. Instead, it was Medgar who wed Rhialta Manderly. He would marry the woman, or he too would take the black. Marriage was less work than traveling that far north to be that cold all the time. He married her but would not put a child in her. His wife, to anyone paying attention, was faithful to her duties. She attended him several times a week in his bedchambers. Not many months after their wedding, she gave birth to Ravella.
Some talked and made suggestions, yet as a daughter, with one remaining son able to inherit after Medgar, the talk remained whispered only. Issues over inheritance only came to a head again when young Ronnel appeared at court in 197AC. Though Rhialta had faithfully shared her husband’s chambers once per month, no other child had ever grown in her until the year she had disappeared with Ravella.
Medgar paid no attention to any of it. When his father died in 190AC he stayed in his rooms for nearly a month. He received visitors and bannermen reluctantly. Yet those who managed to see him found him to be easily manipulated, if also petulant and petty. His ambitious lords, his nefarious lords, were quick to take advantage. The Riverlands, which his father had done so much to build and care for for decades, began to crack and crumble. Medgar’s advisors, those that remained, do what they can to patch the damage inflicted by a negligent lord.
Most notably, though many of his bannermen made their way to Summerhall at the invitation of the Targaryen prince, Medgar did not want to attend, nor did he want his family to go and return with more petitions. All were barred from attending.
Ravella Tully
Age: 28 (born 174AC)
Appearance:
Ravella is short, with few of the Tully characteristics. She shares much with her mother, hair dark but devoid of all but a glimmer of red, her eyes a warm chestnut, not blue. It would be hard to find Medgar anywhere within her pleasant features or mannerisms. Because of her mother’s influence, she is reserved in her dress.
Description & biography:
While Ravella’s birth may have cast doubts on her parentage, she was largely shielded from it as a child. Her grandsire, Lord Kermit, ensured she received a proper upbringing as her father would not. She spent years of her early adolescence touring the Tully bannerman houses, to strengthen ties through friendship with the river lords’ daughters or sisters. Her mother’s religious zeal for the Faith was never distant, and though she was present in her daughter’s life, she sought to influence her daughter to a chaste life, to join the Faith as she wished she had.
Kermit would not hear of it, and before he died, he had arranged a good match for the girl with one of Lord Darry’s sons. Lord Kermit died before the betrothal could be agreed upon in full. Medgar ignored it for months, his advisers claiming it as a period of mourning, until at last there was little they could do except send their apologies and weak excuses for why the two could not be wed. Ravella was not displeased about it, a girl of only six and ten, yet the slight her father paid his bannerman was a mark against her as well.
With her father in control of Riverrun, she found herself increasingly isolated. She no longer traveled, and her mother’s absence was felt more strongly. Rhialta would leave to tour septs or break bread with cloistered septas, leaving her daughter alone in the Riverrun’s chaotic halls. Instead, Ravella took to wandering her family’s lands. In one of these walks, she had a chance encounter, a beautiful melody of despair and longing emerged from the reeds and drew her in. The girl was besotted before she ever saw his face. Garth, her granduncle’s bastard’s bastard. She knew of him, the man who took to calling himself Ser Fishbones. With childish naivete, she thought of herself as his muse and gave in too willingly to the inappropriate affair.
While the truth of what happened remains murky, a few details were accepted by the court. A man, barely more than a commoner, was accused of being Ravella’s lover. He bled and died for the slight. Not long after, Ravella came down with an illness. Before it could become too obvious that she grew heavy with a child, Rhialta spirited her away, leaving Riverrun for nearly a year. When they returned, it was with a baby boy. Rhialta presented him at court, naming him Medgar’s son and heir to Riverrun. There were loud whispers, but Medgar would not refute the claim and his advisers were gleeful at having an heir no matter the questions it raised.
Ravella remains closer to the boy that many find typical. She keeps a small book with her, full of poetry and songs by some nameless bard, writings that bring a small smile to her lips or to cause a few tears to well up, sometimes both. Now passing twenty-eight namedays, she has resigned herself to a life of solitude and of the being the river maiden.
Garth Rivers
Age: 37 (born 165AC)
Appearance:
attractive bastard
Description & biography:
Ser Oscar Tully had always liked to cast his rod and bait among the realm’s women, usually reeling in quite the catch. There were few enough whom he thought of a week after, yet the rake had made sure that Edmyn (Garth’s father) was recognised his son. Then, he abandoned him for his Essosi adventures and life as a mercenary captain. The boy grew up to be a chip off the old block: proud, wont to fight and fuck. In true emulation of his sire, he himself begot a son – and possibly more – out of wedlock. Edmyn’s bastardised Tully charm won him a taste of Gysella Cox, with another apple not falling far from the tree.
Garth was born a right bastard (a bastard’s bastard even – and so a bastard twice over), into a family riven by disaster and riddled with discord. Gone were the days of ease and comfort brought about by Kermit’s deft rule and Oscar’s martial prowess. As Kermit’s years advanced, his judgment waned, naming the least suited of his progeny heir. To be fair to the Old Lad, there was little in the way of proper candidates as scandal and misfortune sheared House Tully of its finest members. The intricate web woven through marriages and diplomacy frayed, and the friendships and glories of the past were ignored.
Growing up on the periphery of Riverrun’s court allowed Garth more liberties than most. From a young age he read as much as he played, often sneaking out with one of the Maester’s books to read on the riverbank. His favourites were compendia of bardic prose and minstrel’s songs which prompted an adolescent squire to start compiling texts of his own. The words Garth commits to paper speak of a surprisingly old soul feeling deeply about the world. These revelations were never intended for an audience other than himself, and the only occasions when the words were sung was when he lounged by himself in the sun among the reeds.
Garth was restless if not rebellious and wild, leaving the white walls of the Tully keep behind him as he traipsed the countryside… but only after having stirred up trouble and mischief. Slippery as an eel, Garth complied with whatever punishment was doled out when caught. However, there was not much which could apparently touch him. Though there was one who managed to pluck the strings of his heart… and breeches.
Illicit affairs cause great excitement, and Ravella and he tasted of forbidden fruit in the pursuit of delight. They were one another’s escape from Medgar’s gloom and dourness creeping from the stone and mortar of Riverrun. To Garth, their ongoing torrid tryst is a vital adventure, and the fact that Rhialta became involved in the conspiracy only added to the thrill.
Because of his status as a bastard, and the aloof attitude of Medgar and his advisers, Garth changed the inverted Tully arms into those of a fish carcass. He participated in local tourneys as Ser Fishbones and greedily gobbled up the antipathy it conjured up. It was one way of making up for the lack of attention he received as a child. Garth’s innate melancholy goes hidden behind a mask of mirth.
We have three main events - Archery, Jousts, and will close out with the Grand Melee. If you haven't already, make your way to the tourney gsheet to enter any characters you'd like to be in the competitions (pinned in the discord).
Writing for the tourney is by no means a requirement to be a participant in the tourney. Over the next few days (aim for Friday), please let us know if you would like to write, or, would like to determine how your character performs and allow us to write it into the collab. PvP should ideally be sorted out between players, but I will be on call to referee/help resolve disputes. The goal is to tell a story, not have a lance measuring contest.
As the joust would be the primary 1:1 competition, I have some suggested match ups. Once everyone is satisfied with their entrants being recorded, I will add a sheet of the match ups. But you'd be free to create/reference other matches (to other player characters or NPCs) as desired. Surprise victors, catastrophic tragedies, so many possible outcomes.
Archery: Can be handled in a single post by anyone who wishes to write Jousting: TBD dependent on your input Melee: TBD
The Shivering Sea gave way to the Weeping Water, or at least, that was what their reluctant guide had told them. They had started with ten, but accidents, misunderstandings, and ineptitude had reduced that to the final man who guided them to a safe harbor. Yrsa had led her men ashore, their guide bound and dragged behind them. He was silent at least, he did not wail or sob as those before him had. The woman was not sure if it was resignation or defiance. He seemed to know he was a dead man walking, though he would last at least another few days. “We follow the river inland, surely we cannot miss a castle called The Dreadfort.”
“Yes, Tvisal.” Her captain snapped his fingers at the men behind him. Two-souled. The title they used that melded reverence and fear. Yrsa’s father did not understand the nuance of the term and had seemed content that it meant they respected her. Yet Torwynd’s daughter was more Skagosi than either Westerosi or Wilding. There was a depth to the word that was difficult to articulate in the common tongue. Much as the Skagosi themselves were too easily dismissed as just brutish heathens. They were brutish. They were cannibalistic. They scorned the mainland and their soft ways. Their lives tended to be short and hard. But there was something more to the people of Skagos, something ancient and true. She felt a kinship to them her father never would, even if she would never be fully Skagosi either.
“Keep him alive until we reach the fort. He betrayed his people, we will offer him to House Bolton in their custom.” She shifted from foot to foot, her lithe body still bundled beneath layers of leather trimmed with fur.
Yrsa had ordered the majority of her men to stay back in the forests that surrounded The Dreadfort. She had kept only a dozen men as an escort for the final approach. Surely they would not have been missed but Torwynd had been clear that they should not appear an outright threat. They were not there to seize the castle. At least, not yet. If all went well they would have a few more weeks before they raised their weapons in battle.
Initial forays towards the castle returned unexpected news. It seemed most of the men had gone far south to attend a tournament. The words felt utterly foreign to the Skagosi. What opportune timing for their rebellion, to have so many men distracted by soft war games. Clearly their advance was favored by the gods. At night with a fire roaring, they agreed that Torwynd would likely have encountered the same. Their main force must have certainly been victorious. Yrsa knew her father considered himself their king, though she also knew the title there was also not so literal a translation. He was stuck in the terms of his birth. She knew better. They would follow Torwynd for as long as he could maintain control. They would follow him for as long as she submitted to his wishes. She could hear it in the way they spoke of him now. He had achieved much, but he was and always would be one wrong step from losing it all.
"We begin at dawn.”
They were a people of few words, the dozen men grunted their agreement before settling into the pine beddings they had pulled together for the evening. They roasted the bits of small creatures they had killed that day and passed around skeins of their fermented milk. Yrsa took a long, deep drink, dragged her hand across her mouth, and leaned back to stare up to the night sky.
It was quieter here, gentler, easier. It was unsettling, and she knew her men felt it too. Torwynd had promised them much with this rebellion, yet now that their boots were on these shores, Yrsa felt a shift in the men’s attitude. They would gladly plunder and kill, but to stay? She questioned how her father would achieve that. It had taken nearly her entire life for him to bring them to these lands. She felt their discomfort in her bones. Still, she had been charged to bring House Bolton to their aid, and they had a reputation that reached even the island of Skagos. Yrsa looked forward to testing their mettle to see whether it was truth or exaggeration.
She was up before dawn, awake even before her men. Sunrise was not far off, but for now, the sky was dark still. They had bound the guide to a tree, cloth stuffed to his mouth though he had been silent for days now. His clothing had become barely more than scraps, his body bloodied and bruised. Even if they were to cut him loose, he would not last a fortnight.
“You will die today.” She spoke harshly, deeply, rugged edges around each word.
The man lifted his head, but his eyes remained as empty as they had been days ago. She would have guessed that he was older than her father, face worn and rugged, stringy hair fully grayed. He had lived enough of a life, perhaps he would view his impending death as a release.
“It will not be a gentle death.”
He dropped his head down, his shoulders sagging as much as the bindings would allow. Yrsa thought she heard a stifled grunt or sob, but it passed so quickly she questioned whether it had been a trick of the mind in the dark twilight hour.
“You’ve accepted this, then. How unexpected.” She cocked her head in thought, her hand resting on the obsidian axe at her waist. Behind her she heard movement at last.Her men would be waking now. “You’ll be flayed alive. Slowly, to keep you alive as long as possible.” Yrsa approached the man and roughly grabbed his chin, pulling his face up so his eyes would meet hers. “The Boltons flay their enemies, or so we were told. But we are Stoneborn. Once you have been flayed and your last breaths leave you in excruciating pain, we will slice you from chest to groin.” She pushed his head back, her lips caressing his filthy ear with a gruff whisper. “We’ll rip out every last organ from your body.” Yrsa pressed her cheek to his in a cruel tease. “We’ll leave your carcass for the scavengers. Your wife or children, they’ll never have a body to bury.”
She stepped back, the man held his head even, staring at her still. For a moment she thought she saw a spark of fire, but it was quickly extinguished. Emptiness returned to them even as he maintained her gaze. Yrsa barely heard Wull behind her, but she had been trained by the best. And her game had offered her no entertainment. “You’re ready to move out?”
Her captain grunted his answer. “And this one, he ready for us?” The short warrior spoke, his voice heavy with blood lust.
Yrsa gave him a short nod. “We break camp as soon as you are finished with him. We’ll reach the Dreadfort by the evening. Make sure this gift stays fresh for the offering.”
Yrsa arrives at the Dreadfort with a small contingent of men - 100 total, a dozen to join her in approaching the Boltons directly. They bring with them a flayed gift.
Power was as much posturing as it was abstract. One could not hold it, yet one must be seen wielding it. Tourneys, such as Maekar now organised, came close to that, Brynden Rivers knew. An event as high profile as that required his attention, personal touch. There were strings to be pulled, leashes to be tightened, and collars to be fixed. And thus, the red-eyed white dragon had alighted on Summerhall accompanied by a score of his Raven’s Teeth. They had hung back as part of Prince Baelor Breakspear’s suite, letting King Daeron’s heir and Hand soak in the plaudits and praises of the people. A star-studded assembly the tourney was – with celebrities and infamous rogues alike attending. And none were more infamous than Bloodraven.
Daemon and Aegor were built like true warriors, but Brynden was gaunt. Not that he had to be ashamed of his prowess as a swordsman, the fruit of his stubbornness not to be outdone. None could shoot as well as him. Instead of his brawn he had grown up relying on his wits and cunning, and had sharpened his mind so it had a murderous edge. Though he had spent his life working not to be put in the shadows, it was where he thrived. He even dressed in the colours of smoke and coal, forever watching with his crimson eyes. Already his half-brother the King and his Small Council depended on his particular skillset to remain informed. Things were going his way, were it not for the disappearance of his most beloved. None of his watchful ravens had reported on her whereabouts, though Bloodraven had his suspicions as to where she had gone. Thus, over the weeks his mood had grown as dark as reputation.
Black-clad, with the weirwood longbow unstrung across his back, one of his guard brought him news dreadful and cold as midwinter. Brynden had remained seated behind the desk in the room provided him, begrudgingly, by his royal cousin. There were no expletives or curses vile enough to fathom his anger and regret. Yes, Shiera was not the most loyal of lovers, nor was he especially possessive. Aware of her straying, and mindful of his own jealousy, Bloodraven had worked hard at developing a way to allow her her liberties and make peace with it. Being envious, let alone displaying it, only encouraged her appetites. But this? This was no straying, no fad, no craving. This was betrayal and an insult. He spent agonising moments, which seemed to stretch out like prisoners on the rack, pondering her motivations. Why would she do this to him? In Bracken livery no less… Did she understand nothing? There were better ways of asking for attention. Had she finally taken leave of her senses? I ought to have never indulged her interests into the arcane and occult.
“Fine,” he grated out with all the feeling of a millstone. His red eyes rested on covered cage. Slowly, Bloodraven stood up from the high-backed chair and made his way over to it, his guardsman staying put in the doorway. He knew better than to leave without dismissal. “She is not the only one capable of employing symbolism.” Pulling back the cloth revealed a tall construction of mahogany and ivory, and silver bars. Colourful shades flitted inside, like bursts of dye, and erupted into song. Deft movements of practiced hands unlocked the little door as Brynden uttered soothing noises. Ever so gently, he wrapped his long fingers around one of the fine-feathered creatures. There were two of them: one red and white speckled with black, the other blue and green. They represented everything Shiera loved about the Summer Islands, whence they hailed. There, they were used to harvest feathers for those famous cloaks, or erotic ceremonies which so captured his lover’s imagination. Bloodraven squeezed, and the red and white little bird popped and cracked, then dropped lifeless to the bottom of the cage. The other one, the survivor, let out a plaintive and sorrowful flurry of notes. When Brynden had removed his hand from the birdcage, it flew down to hop around the crushed corpse. The captain of the swan ship Brynden had acquired them from had told him they mated for life. “Gift this to My Lady Seastar and tell her to set the living one free.”
By the time the Raven’s Tooth had collected the cage, Brynden was already sat behind the desk again, going through reports about happenings in Sunspear and the Planky Town. “Oh,” he said, just before the longbowman shut the door, “and find the oldest most decrepit stallion to carry it. Make sure to wish joy of it. She shall be easy to find, soldier. Simply follow the smell of horse shit.”
Shiera was alone in the tent, or near enough to being alone. Aegor, much as he had since they arrived, was at their brother's beck and call. She knew to not expect him until well after she would crawl into their bed, alone. She would surely wake to him already gone again. This had not been what she had planned when she first went to Stone Hedge. She had thought to travel with Aegor, yes, but she had planned to leave his side immediately. She had expected to be received differently.
Arriving with Aegor, in his family’s sigil, she had felt the eyes on her - eyes who recognized her on sight or by rumor. There had been desire from men who thought themselves worthy of her for a night, judgment from men and women alike, hatred and distrust. She had been at court long to know how others viewed her, or at least she had known it when she had been by Brynden’s side. This was markedly different. With great disappointment she was again forced to face the truth that her value was dependent on whose bed she claimed.
Yet it was not the return to solitude nor depressing truths that overwhelmed her now. Pathetic cries had filled the tent for the past hour. Her gift from Brynden. Shiera stood in front of the cage, arms folded across her chest, her gaze flickering between anger and despair. This was not what she had anticipated. Her poor little bird flung itself against the cage, its song full of sorrow for its dead mate. She had avoided looking at the crumpled body, yet her eyes could not help but dart towards before she again turned her head away. A cruel fate, and yet it was Brynden's bird that lay dead while hers cried for its passing. How much easier it would have been to fully turn on her love had it been hers that lay unmoving on the bottom of the cage.
Had she wounded him so much? Did he think his own pain would hurt her, as if hers hurt him? She hugged herself, uncertain of her own response. Part of her desired nothing but to take to Summerhall immediately, throw herself before him in an act of absolution, beg to feel his suffocating embrace again. Perhaps she would even promise to never leave him again, to make herself his wife at last. But she stood unmoving instead, the bird’s cries dimmed from exhaustion. She recalled telling Brynden of the first time Aegor had stated his desire for her. It is only his jealousy that desires you. She had believed it at the time, had rejected Aegor cruelly. Yet their journey together, born of her own despair, had shown a glimmer of more. Had that been an outright lie, or had Brynden been blinded by his own hatred? It clouded her mind with uncertainty.
They hated each other equally, perhaps the only thing they could both agree on other than a love for her. Could they not learn to accept the other for that alone? Foolish thoughts, she chided herself. It was an impossible situation and yet, she realized with panic rising in her throat, the first time she had recognized what was always there. She would have both or she would have neither. Perhaps it would be better to abandon them both before fate forced her hand, for they would never choose to set aside hatred over love.
The tent was suddenly silent, the din outside as if it was miles away. Her ears rang with the sound of blood rushing through her veins, she gasped for a breath, her fingers dug into her arms seeking a steadiness she did not have. Her mismatched eyes darted back to the cage, the silence was complete. Her little bird had given all it had and joined its mate; two lifeless forms huddled in death.
Their hatred was greater than their love.
At last her resolve broke and she fell to her knees, her hands steadied her for a moment before she had no choice but to cup her face behind them as tears welled up and spilled over. Her shoulders shook with each despairing sob that wracked her body. She had not intended to need them both, Brynden had been her world, though one she had needed to stray from. How long had she avoided Aegor? Perhaps she had always known it was a line once crossed she could never return from again.
She knew, in the end, she would have to abandon both of them. She felt hollow at the thought. Though it was the only course left for her, in a moment of pure denial, Shiera dried her tears. Perhaps after the tourney she could flee to Lys. Maybe she would be wrong and they would join her. Maybe she was wrong about herself and she did not need them both. It was tenuous hope, but it was hope. She could confront the truth again, when all of this was over.
Jeyne had entered to find Shiera still on the ground, staring emptily at the quiet cage. Before the maid could ask any questions, her lady was ready with instructions. "Burn the birds and have the cage returned empty to Summerhall. Have a message delivered with it. One could not live without the other." She was not sure what he would make of it, but she hoped she was wrong about her own fate.
Bloodraven finds out that Shiera has arrived and sends a message/sad gift to his lover. Shiera responds in typical dramatic fashion.
Summerhall was overwhelming with the masses that had converged ahead of the tourney start. Dannel had not passed through this part of the Stormlands before, but he knew it was as close to Dorne that he had come since he had been left for dead and near enough taken by the Stranger. He had been quieter the closer the pair drew to Summerhall.
Great tents and pavilions greeted them, the actual castle of Summerhall, seemingly tiny in the distance. Dannel had offered to go do an initial bit of groundwork, a review of what he could see for opportunity of coin, or things that may interest Alys. It would be better, he kept to himself, if he had an idea of what they would be walking into.
There were plenty of calls for women servants, though how many of those were truly as maids and not as bed-warmers was impossible to tell. Dannel ignored those, he’d never hear the end of it if he suggested such a thing to Alys. There were calls for men to help build the structures still going up in preparation of the tourney start. Hard-work, likely shit pay, but it would be a bit of honest work; work that was just as likely to cause injury as the melee.
There was indeed plenty of opportunity to make more than a few coppers - and plenty of opportunity to swing for it. He heard talk of the quick justice the Prince of this castle deployed. Yet another bit of hypocrisy, for surely the Prince should hold his own household responsible for their crimes, or the crimes of their family. Dannel’s scar prickled, his jaw locked up at the thought. No point agonizing over it, there was nothing to be done other than nurse that anger, and that was better done over ale.
He made his way back through the crowds, to Alys. “You’ll want to be more careful here, it seems our Princely host doesn’t take kindly to petty crime.” A lopsided grin flicked across his lips, she was not likely to listen to him no matter what.
If one was to call this a grand tournament, they would be most right and proper about it. Perhaps years of travel and her acquaintance with large crowds and many dwellings being of better use to her, but Alys preferred such over open countryside. A change from her youth. Then she had liked nothing better than riding her pony across the fields, learning how she was to be a lady. Days long past, now she wore the garb of a squire with her red braid tucked and pinned deftly under her cap. Gripping the two horses as Dannel returned, the squired arched a brow. Her voice having that cracking squeak of a boy just coming into manhood and by her face, only just. “I hadn’t noticed.” She remarked pointedly, sliding pale eyes off in the direction of the gallows. Men already hung there, and a woman could just as easily hang as well. A Targaryen’s word was as good as law in Westeros and on his own land that was doubly so.
“Aye.” Dannel followed her eyes, the gallows were meant to be a statement and a warning. “But I thought it worthwhile to say it aloud nonetheless.” Dannel picked at the saddle bag strapped to his horse. “Perhaps more to the point, we’re quite close to the grounds House Redwyne claimed.” His stomach rumbled in remembrance of what had actually smelled tantalizing. “Wine, grilled meat, and a lot of drunken louts from what I could see.”
Stroking the nose of her stout horse, she studied the tents in the near distance with the Redwyne flag flapping along with so many others. From the Dornish sands to the Vale. Her lips thinned, Manfryd would not come to a tourney and especially not one hosted by a Targaryen. Her father had no love of them, he had railed of them after Benjicot’s death. No, Manfryd would have no Targaryen loving heir to take his place and he certainly would not grace a one of the Princes’ tournaments without a direct invitation, which surely no Prince would give! “Redwynes.” Alys could recall them for a family grown rich from wine, boats and being of note within the Reach. A prosperous bit of merchanting if what Septa Bessa had taught her rang true. “Wine and grilled meat, you say Ser? How could we turn down such!” But the suspicious and cunning though was more to the mind of those drunken louts. “You goin’ ter be offerin’ yer service to them Ser? Heard more than one man walk by talking about some Lords hiring knights.” Oh, she would dance on a barrel if she could get a Redwyne shield snatched into her pack. A signet ring would be even better, but it was best as to not be so greedy. Things that could get lost and not noticed were the best things to take. Looking to the side she narrowed her eyes towards a more distant flag. “Ser Dannel, what’s the mark of a blue hawk on silver?”
“House Fowler I believe, of Skyreach.” He spoke without a moment’s thought, unsure of when he had learned the houses of Dorne, yet he did know them all. “As for offering my services, the Redwynes were indeed looking for men. Hard labor it seemed. Perhaps it would be better work for a surly squire to take on?” He chuckled as he closed up the saddle bag, a small bite of dried meat to quell his hunger for a moment. “I’ll stand guard for some foolish lord but I’d rather not break my back for them. First though, should I go claim a bit of land for us?”
She had not seen that particular banner, nor could she place it. Perhaps it was from far South in Dorne? It was a curiosity, and she longed to slip among those tents and see what bits they, in particular, would not miss. Self preservation held her back, a tent was needed. A place to turn from squire to lady and back again just in case someone came looking. “Once you're settled into a tent Ser, I’ll see what’s what. Heard tell there’s an archery competition!” Her voice squeaked in excitement that was very really. She could not resist a challenge such as that and even if there was half a garrison of troops searching for her? Alys would find her way to where her skill with the bow could be appreciated.
“I thought you may have heard of that already. It seems that the Lady of Summerhall herself will enter into it.” He ran a calloused hand through the short curls of his hair. “You’ll enter the lists of course. I’d bet good coin we don’t have yet that you best at least a few of them.” He grinned, though it didn’t fully reach his eyes. The scar tugged and pulled at his skin with a wince.
In a lower voice she took a sideways glance at Dannel. “Your scar is tight enough that you might split it open, what is wrong Ser?” Though lowering her voice, she kept the ‘squire’ voice.
Dannel ran two fingers over the scar. He was unsettled, and that always seemed to push the pain and discomfort to the front of his mind. “You ever get the feeling something bad is coming?” He stared off for a moment, watching the masses scurry. “Of course you do, you always have a sense for when a plan is about to sour. I’m just fretting for the both of us again, don’t you worry about me, boy.”
Alys had to duck against her mare's side to hide the wicked grin that broke her facade. It was so enjoyable to play the game with Dannel, though she sobered as she realized the truth was that she was worried to. Accidents could happen in the list and she had no wish for Dannel to befall one. The lie she told herself was that he was too useful, but she had grown found of his company and life was harder alone than with a knight to play the squire to. "Not at all, Ser. I shall mind the business of tending horse and armor." She agreed with a slight squeak. Eagerly following to see where this ten would be set at. "And I'd suggest away from the Blackwoods, no need to have Brackens side-eyeing Ser. Which they might if they think ye court the favor of Lord Quentyn." In truth she did not wish for the man to recognize her. “How about near the Redwynes? They’ve got wine and feasting. Easy enough to keep us both pleased.” She offered, though she did really want to try and snatch a Redwyne shield!
Dannel agreed quickly enough, a short nod of the head and he was off to claim the small bit of land and set to work. Bracken, Blackwoods, he knew their names and he knew they caused nothing but trouble. That was good enough reason to avoid that lot. For such a small task it took no time to have something at least serviceable. He left Alys to manage whatever womanly things she needed to manage, and begged his leave. He’d find a way to make a quick bit of coin and come back with food and drink.
— —
“Further back now!” A light voice called out to the sound of laughter. A woman stood, bow in hand, her other waving at a man in the distance. He dragged a target a few feet back, stopped, and looked to the woman for any further instruction. “I said further back, good man. Further back now!” Another tittering of laughter spread in the crowd that had gathered. A few minutes passed before at last the woman was satisfied with the distance. “Now get out of the way!”
She lifted the bow, and in one smooth movement drew back the string. For a moment, time seemed to pause. She felt the soft autumn breeze rustle loose tendrils of hair and took a deep, centering breath. Her muscles pulled at the tension of her draw and she released. The arrow shot clear and true to the target. A smile grew across her face, genuine and kind. She turned to her audience and offered a small bow before walking off to the fencing to receive a cup of watered down wine. Her nose wrinkled at the taste, alas, it was for the best.
Sauntering through the crowd, using elbows as much as a wicked remark to make a path. Alys Rivers stared with absolute glee at the field before her. An archery contest where she would not have to dress as a squire! Some relief that was, she was fond of the dark green gown that clung to a shapely frame she used to distract the eye from what her hands did. Already her own purse had grown slightly over the course of her walk. Men were free with their gaze and drink. A laugh, smile, wink and they never noticed fingers slipping where they should not! Leaning on the fence, she watched the woman take the shot. An impressive distance, but it was hardly a moving target. A well dressed woman who looked as though she might be a noble’s daughter come for the tournament and to look for prospective husbands. Though she was a bit old not to have been wed yet. Unhooking her own skin freshly filled she thrust it across the fence to the woman, studying the lavender eyes and blonde hair. Perhaps a bastard of dragon seed?
“Take it, I just filled it and it will taste better than what is in that cup.” She offered lightly in her rough tone, flicking her braid over her shoulder. Propping her head on her hand she studied the target and chuckled a low, rich sound. “Not a bad shot at all, though that target is hardly on the run.”
Pale lavender eyes took in the form that had appeared rather brusquely before her. With a quick glance and a small wave, she stopped her maidservant from interfering or calling for any of the palace men. It had been hard enough to get away and she didn’t need anyone alerting her cousin or husband to her location. Still, she waved away the offered skin. “I’m afraid I’m on strict orders to drink this mix.” The woman offered a small chuckle, “much as it leaves a poor taste in my mouth.”
The woman before her was a pretty thing, and, Dyanna was sure, she knew it. She had an ease not often found. “I’ve been told it’s bad form to shoot at moving targets on a tourney field. I wouldn’t want to give the men more reason to be uppity about a woman encroaching on their sport. At least, these northern men seem to find it an odd thing.” Again a gentle smile crept across her lips as she cocked her head in thought. “You speak as if you know a thing or two about it - you must be here to sign up as well? The attendants should know to turn away no woman.”
There was a wince of commiseration on the red head’s face, medicine was never something one sought out. Especially when it came to drink the vile brews. Looking over the grounds with a keen eyes, as she listened to the noble woman prattle on. “If the menfolk wish to be uppity, then I say it only gives reason to have them carry the targets while the women shoot.” She commented with a wicked grin. Let any man get between her and the bow! She had started it simply to enjoy more time with Benji, but later it had become a mementomori for her dead twin. A way to work out problems and focus, then survival had hinged on her skill with the bow.
“Aye, I am. You might learn a thing or two if you watch closely.” There was real pride in Alys’s voice but no menace. A friendly competition jab towards another who enjoyed archery. Of course, she could risk offending the woman, but women were often more sensible then men and not so keen to draw steel over honor. Of course, Alys considered as a darkness flickered in her mind, some women were more vicious in melted towers and haunted halls. “Which means, I need to hunt down an attendant.” She still eyed the field and her hand stroked her braid. “Oh, this will be utterly delightful. A clever thing to allow women to shoot as well.” She chuckled in her throaty tone. “The Prince chose well in his choice of wife.”
“There is always so much for us to learn - especially from one another I think.” Dyanna responded genuinely. What an odd creature, yet she felt an immediate kinship. She had not dressed the part of Maekar’s wife, or at least, had not dressed as many expected a Targaryen Prince’s wife to dress, so perhaps this was to be expected even if it surprised her.
“Prince Maekar?” Had affection crept into her voice? “Yes, some say his choice in wife is the best decision he ever made. Otherwise, he casts such a brooding figure. Best to avoid him, or so they say.” A glint of joy sparked in her eyes. She smoothed the top of her brown skirts and adjusted the leather surcoat over her stomach. “Why don’t I join you, I’ve been listed already so I know just who we can approach for you.” She offered the crook of her arm as she rounded the fence to join the woman’s side. Behind her, Dyanna was certain she heard a muffled sigh.
“You would put me in your debt for such aid.” The mock shock in her voice was filled with amusement and Alys took the offered arm. “But yes, from what I’ve heard? Best to avoid all men who grumble so loudly. I have one in my own family, unfortunately.” Manfryd had grumbled loud enough to drown out the trouble about Danelle, and the Harlot. “And whom do you have in mind?” She cocked her head curiously. A good bit taller than she, was this mysterious archer. Absently she remembered she had forgotten to introduce herself but the conversation was rather relaxed and enjoyable. It would be a shamer to interrupt the flow with belated manners.
Dyanna patted the girl’s hand briefly. She thought her a girl, though truthfully they could not be that different in age. “I think we all have at least one like that. My eldest brother is prone to grumbling and anger.” Another bit of truth, Vorian vexed her greatly, particularly with the most recent news that had finally reached her ears, much as Ryon had tried to hide it.
“Just a bit around this path. The man is a serious sort of course, but he was quick and courteous with me and so it should be for you.” Dyanna led them a few more feet forward before spying the attendant in the distance. It was not entirely untruthful. The man had been put in charge of coordinating various entries. And he had been given very explicit instructions about how to respond to any other women entrants. Done so at her behest of course.
“Lady D-” He began in greeting, a look of surprise across his face.
“Now, now. You’ve already accepted my entrance request. I’ve found another friend who’d like to enter the archery lists as well. Please add…” Dyanna paused with a firm glance to the attendant who had half-recovered. “I’m afraid we’ve broken all sorts of courtly etiquette. What is your name, my friend?”
Unable to do anything but follow along, Alys nodded in agreement and chuckled at the thought of men speaking so. They were usually quick and courteous when they wanted something done and out of their hair and thought you a lady. Pausing in midstep as they came upon the man, Alys raised a brow upon the notice of her companion. ’Lady D-’ left several questions and there was a inkling of suspicion that made her pause completely and study the woman closer with a more speculative expression. A sly smile of amusement sliding across her lips. “Courtly etiquette, broken? How horrible, I fear we shall have to go before the Mother for penance.” She remarked lightly, and arched a red brow that matched slightly redden cheeks as she realized exactly whom she was addressing so. “Alys Rivers, I am. I do believe I address Lady Dyanna Targaryen? My, we have made a right mess of things, have we not?”
A broad grin broke across Dyanna’s face, she held the woman’s arm loosely in her hand. “Roderick, please add Alys Rivers to the lists, in my grouping please. And see to it that we have a steward made available to Alys for anything her and her party may need ahead of the contest.” Dyanna gave a curt nod to the man who now seemed more perplexed but did his best to keep his face smooth.
“Of course, my Lady.” He bowed his head and motioned for some of his assistants to join them. They waited until Dyanna was finished with her conversation.
She turned towards the lady, pleased that Alys had pieced it together herself. “I am sorry, it was nice to be unrecognized for a bit. I have not completely grown accustomed to being...me.” Dyanna folded her hands over her stomach with a small shrug. “So, perhaps you could see fit to give these men where you’re located in the tourney grounds. And I must ask that you join me for dinner tonight. I’m afraid my husband is likely to be busy with other matters.” Her eyes glanced up and over Alys’ head at a tell-tale sight and sound. Except, perhaps her husband had been made aware that she had slipped out. That man worried too much, even if it made her blush in appreciation. “Unless you’d like to meet him now, I’ll have one of those men escort you up to Summerhall this evening.” A mischievous glint sparked again, Maekar would surely be his normal public self - brooding and grim - and it was probably best to not actually frighten the girl so.
There were few things that knocked Alysanne Lothstone sideways, but she could hardly help the smile at the acceptance given by the pretty woman. A mark in her favor and that she was a sensible sort. “I’ve no need of a steward, though I thank you for the offer My Lady.” She protested firmly, though there was another reason. Dannel would not appreciate a man coming into their small camp and she would appreciate it even less to have her own ruse discovered. Though her eyes dance at the perplexed folk around them, it was always good to knock other people’s legs from under them, mentally at least. “My Ser Knight would not appreciate it in the slightest and grumbling men…”
She glanced over her shoulder as she pretended to straighten her dress, noticing Dyanna’s attention being moved to a disturbance. An offer to dinner from the Lady of the Tournament? She could hardly refuse! What was worse, however, was that Alys did not wish to refuse. She found Lady Dyanna Targaryen a charming woman of intellect that did not dim when a mere bastard woman of little to no renown was before it. ”Admit it, old girl. You like this young woman.” She chided herself, though her husband was another matter. “I am camped with Ser Dannel of House Bushy near the Redwyne encampment. He or his squire can easily find me, My Lady.” She dipped a low curtsy and cocked a brow. “You honor me, My Lady. I shall be glad to attend only send a time.Your conversation is most enjoyable.” With that she slipped into the crowd, weaving through the bodies of people and she considered exactly who had invited her to sup.
Dannel was going to be spitting nails, and Alys did not care a wit. That was the most enjoyable conversation she had had in months. Sighing, she skirted about two carters arguing over collided wagons. A purse went into her own and she sighed utter delight. Oh, this was a very delightful tournament. Now, so long as Dannel did not spit nails into her! A giggle at the thought burst from her lips. Oh, who would have thought this was the way the wind would blow! But she would be collected, calm. Perfectly courteous. Even if she was seven years out of practice.
Dannel takes a look around the grounds where houses great and small are setting up. Alys and he come up with an initial plan of what to do. Alys wanders off and accidentally meets the Lady of Summerhall where she's invited to dine.
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