Rickon smiles softly as he is wandering through grabbing a bit to eat, and his guards argue, he nods to Valeria as he passes near her.
Ser Aidan Dayne is another Dornish hostage who has taken the opportunity to stretch his legs outside the city, with a guard in tow to keep an eye on him ... just in case, of course. From the trestle tables, where he’s had a bite or two but not so much as to fill him, he moves to join his fellow countrywoman. “Not a good day for bows, with this wet,” he remarks idly to Valeria, a diamond-dewed strip of grass twisting between his fingers out of boredom as he surveys the rest of the company, and considers the sky. “It shouldn’t trouble the hounds, though, don’t you think?” The beasts can be heard occasionally baying and barking, their handlers keeping them close.
A rustle of activity at a broad table under a tented canopy, where the Sealord of Braavos and a handful of guards and companions have been breaking their fast with their host, Ser Sarmion. Ferro Antaryon rises from his seat, his small, lean frame quite the contrast to the Stormbreaker’s. The goblet of wine he had is the last thing he puts down after he stands, but not before taking a last swallow from it.
Another Dornishwoman braving the hunt, Joleta Gargalen cuts an exotic figure. Wrapped in scarlet sandsilk beneath a protective cloak and astride a magnificent sandsteed (one of the few in King’s Landing) the regal lady scans her surroundings with an imperious, hawkish gaze. Her mount is equally striking: the blue roan stallion is splendid and beautiful, even by the standards of his own breed. The saddle and bridle are made from tooled scarlet leather, decorated in the manner of the Dornish. The heiress to Salt Shore sits easily in the saddle, guiding the spirited animal with the faintest touch of her heels or the reins.
She is accompanied by the younger son of Lord Manfred.
Janden watches as the crowd grows, the light in the tall knight’s eyes obviously excitement - it has been too long since Ser Janden has had the chance to hunt. Well - too long since he’s had the chance to hunt game. He keeps to the edge of the crowd, havin’t stopped his socializing at this point, ready for the hunt to begin.
Rising with the Sealord, the giant Baratheon towers over everyone at the table. He drains the wine cup in his hand and steps away from table. From the boy in Bar Emmon raiment he takes a two handed greatsword - its pommel guard wider than usual for such a weapon.
His deep voice is heard through the wet early morning, “From what the hunstmen tell me, my lord, this thing we’re hunting is quite the monster. Should be a good feast after a good hunt.”
Having not asked the question ere this, the Warden of the Kingswood asks in loud curiosity, “Do they have boar in the Free Cities, my lord? What game do you hunt, there?”
As Ethos speaks, Orene begins gathering her own hunting gear—a slender ashwood bow, a hunting knife, a number of arrows in a prettily-appointed quiver. “I believe it is a good sign—for purely pragmatic reasons, ground softened by rain is easier to see fresh tracks in, but I believe it is also meant to be good luck! And it is interesting to see so many gathered, indeed.”
“Did Ser Jonn find his dwarves yet, do you know?” Ethos asks of Orene, a smile tugging at his lips as he reaches up to slick back his damp hair. People are beginning to prepare, and seeing Stormbreaker rising catches Mertyns attention. “It seems we will be leaving soon. Good luck, milady.” The knight offers warmly.
Janden watches as Sarmion stands, and shifts into slow action himself - doing final checks to ensure he has all of his equipment. After a few moments, Janden is satisfied and stands ready.
Sir Tommard the White watches the Bravossi carefully, his eyes more on the foreigner then the dornish, who at least have become familiar sights. Jaroth though, with his Barvaossi ways gives the sea lord a few long gazes, before elbowing his lord.
The younger son of Lord Manfred, Ser Anders is accompanying the exotic Lady Gargalen and obvioulsy he is not out for the boar today. Testimony to that is the longbow slung around his shoulder, but as a guard to the Gargalen woman, his horse also carries his greatsword. A respectful bow as a means of greeting is offered to the Sealord’s and Sarmion’s table, then his eyes sweep over the present people. When reaching the likes of Ethos Mertyn, the Dondarrion gets a dark look onto his face, but then he reverts his eyes back to Joleta and a smile appears instead.
“I think he *may* have,” Orene replies, her own expression taking on a bit of amusement. “I did hear the steward making an order for some yards of silk and velvet in green and gold, and that is a good sign. Good luck to you as well, ser!” She turns to seek out her mount then, slipping a protective cover over her bow and accepting a hand up to sit in comfort.
“Not in Braavos, Ser Sarmion,” Ferro replies with a quick smile, pulling on a huntsman’s gloves. “But elsewhere in the Free Cities, yes. In Braavos, there are water fowl, that we hunt from pleasure boats, and a kind of swimming ... What do you call them? Cats? Yes. Though fiercer than the pets your ladies may keep in their bowers, yes? But I have hunted boar, in Norvos, when I was a younger man.” He looks out from the canopy, studying the crowd of hunters, and then turns back to make some remarks in the bastard Valyrian of Braavos to his companions. Most of them are bravos and guardsmen, but his First Sword and the banker Dolano Prestayon are also addressed.
Placing a familiar but heavy hand upon the slighter Sealord’s shoulder, Sarmion laughs deeply, his voice booming over the quiet wood, “Well, my lord! I think these boars may be a bit fiercer as well.” Following behind them, the elegant form of Orson Baratheon follows. His long hair blowing wetly in the slight breeze. The joke seems lost on him.
The ASSEMBLY - The HART
The huntsman, following a pack of lymers on a leash, emerges from the deeper wood. He approaches at the Stormbreaker’s beckoning. Handing the dogs over to a kennel master, the huntsman kneels in front of the Warden of the Kingswood, who watches with some interest.
Drawing lines in the sand, he talks in low tones over the one that moves East, “My lords, I saw a Hart of Ten yestermorn just beyond the stream.” He draws two wavy lines that bisect the Eastern trail. Reaching into his pouch, he shows them some fresh deer droppings, “We were just on the trail now. Here is the animal’s spore.”
Marking hashes to either side of the eastern trail he says, “The relays are placed - here - here - and here.” Poking a finger into the sand at the end of the trail, he adds, “We expect to bay the animal here.”
Ethos has his sword hanging at his side, but as he parts from Lady Orene’s company and goes to collect his gear for the hunt, it’s a spear that hefts up for the hunt. The knight notices Anders looking his way with that dark look and Mertyns smirks at the man in return, but says nothing and goes about his own business of joining those that are going after the boar.
Joleta gives a respectful nod of acknowledgement to the Sealord and a warmer greeting to her countrymen and women. Sidling her mount closer to Anders, she murmurs to the half-Dornish knight, “A fine gathering.” She notices Ethos Mertyns as well, flicking her dark eyes at the boy before lowering her voice further. “Be at ease, good Ser.”
Anders relaxes visibly under influence of the woman, “I should be, aye.” he answers to her advice. He mounts his horse, a verym uscular hunting horse as it must be fit to carry the towering Dondarrion son.
Janden leans in enough to listen to the huntsman, nodding as the man goes over the details. Janden was with the men yesterday when the animal was spotted, however, so his attention quickly wanders - viewing the silent exchange between Anders, Joleta and Ethos - content that it seems it will stay quiet.
Rickon watches those who are preparing to ride out, he looks at his men, none of them seem prepared to mount up.
The Sealord, with Sarmion looming besides him, eyes the huntsman’s map, and then the hounds. “How is it you hunt hart in Westeros? Do we give chase, or do we place ourselves where the beast will be in your trap thanks to those hounds?” he asks of the man, his accent strong. An attendant at his right hand secures a wineskin to his belt while Sealord Ferro asks his questions.
Orson looks over the hart spore and takes a pinch of it, sniffing, “Seems healthy. The dogs should have a good run?” His voice is uncertain.
Regarding the diagram, the younger Baratheon offers, “That should be sufficient to keep the hart within the bounds of the trail.” He looks around at the Dornish hostages and the women present, asking, “My lords? Ladies?”
The Warden turns to the Sealord and lowers his tall head, answering, “My lord, we will be hunting boar. We have offered the hart hunt for the women and our king’s hostages, so that they will not come to harm. Today, they will hunt with bow and stable - that is on horse - and the animal will be chased down with several groups of dogs.” He points at the marks upon the ground that indicates the relays marked by the huntsman.
“Oh-ho! For the ladies, then? It will be something to see. In Braavos, ladies merely watch and make the occasional sly suggestion while they roll their eyes at the men who play at being great hunters,” the Sealord remarks, looking to the noblewomen gathered for the hunt, from dusky Dornishwomen to fair women of the westerlands. His gaze is appropriately admiring, and he offers them a brief bow.
Guiding her mount toward the hunt for women and hostages—what fine company!—Orene regards the dogs with more interest than she does most of the other hunters. Valeria and Joleta do fall under her gaze, but when her eyes fall upon Ser Anders, she heads over his way to speak with him: “Now, you can only be Ser Anders Dondarrion. I hope this day finds you well.” She does not explain the sudden insight, smiling instead at the cheer of the Braavosi lord and bowing slightly in her saddle.
Shaking his head, the giant Baratheon grins, “In Westeros, my lord, we consider women fit enough to enjoy this type of hunt. It is less stressful upon them.”
Growing grimmer, he adds, “For us it will be a different matter. We will have no horses, only dogs. And we will face the boar with sword or spear.” He indicates the greatsword at his shoulder, his thumbnail ringing off the surface of the steel of the blade.
Glancing at the Sealord and his entourage he asks, “Which will you hunt with today, my lord?”
The ASSEMBLY - The BOAR
The huntsman rises to his feet after explaining the bow and stable hunt and addresses the Warden of the Kingswood, “My lord, the boar was found south o’ here.” Having dropped the deer spore on the ground, he beckons the Stormbreaker away from the group examining the map for the hart’s trail.
A bit away, he kneels down at another sandy part of the wood and says, “This is the trail we’ll follow.” He draws a line south from the river. He offers, “We found the boar early this morning. Here is the spore.” He produces some boar droppings from his pouch, it is very moist and some clings to his fingers as he places it next to his map.
Pointing with his soiled fingers southwards, he says, “We’ve got lymers to nose out the beast and then alaunts to bring the beast to bay.” Raising the same soiled finger to wag at the lords ringed about him, he adds, “This thing ain’t no piglet! It’s a full grown razorback about 14 stone.”
Here, Ser Aidan parts ways with his countrywomen. “Good hunting to you, Lady Valeria, Lady Joleta,” the knight from Starfall in the Dornish mountains says. “Be wary of the damp, eh? The bows never care for it.” Not that Valeria’s one to need such lessons, of course, but it’s clearly meant in friendly fashion. With that, the Dornishman moves off to stand nearer to where noblemen and the foreign guests are congregating. He’s just in time to come within earshot of the Sealord’s response.
“Alas, then, that I must miss the chance to witness such graceful ladies at their sport,” says Ferro Antaryon, “because I will not miss the chance to hunt this boar, Ser Sarmion. You have given me great anticipation!”
Anders turns around when he hears his name spoken aloud. His eyes are fixing on Orene, but when he realizes it is not Ethos, he actually smiles, “Indeed it does find me well in such splendid company.” He grins, “I never anticipated such a fine assembly of beautiful ladies following such a magnificent sport.”
Ethos moves over to join the group now as the huntsman begins to explain the details of the boar hunting. He keeps back out of the way to let the more prestigious a closer look, but is grinning when the man describes the size of the beast.
Turning as Aidan approaches, Sarmion says, “What is it, exactly, you think you are doing here… ser?”
He waves his hand and points over to where the women are, saying, “Your place is in the hart hunt. Unless you have a writ or warrent from the King or his Grace the Hand that says your death in the boar hunt will not be my fault.”
To the others, Orson Baratheon raises his elegant voice saying, “My Lords and Ladies! All those joining the bow and stable hunt, bring their mounts towards me!” He backs away, a groomsman bringing him his own mount, a white courser that matches fetchingly with his tourqoise jupon and breeches.
Valeria draws up beside Aidan, jaw set in stubborn resolve. “I will also hunt boar,” she says, looking to Aidan. “He is afraid we will be killed by Westerosi lack of care,” she informs the man from Starfall.
Suddenly things get more interesting than this point of the hunt should. Ser Janden takes a slight step back, watching the confrontation between the Dornish and Stormbreaker a moment - before his eyes search the rest of the crowd for reactions.
Stormbreaker’s blunt remarks stiffen Ser Aidan’s back. Valeria’s interjection might, perhaps, confuse matters in his mind. And yet ... “Surely, Ser Sarmion, you would not begrudge a man who stood with you in these very woods against the bandits,” the Knight of the Twilight says, “the right to hunt nothing but a boar? We’ve witnesses here. If I say that any harm that might befall me from this boar is no man’s fault, would that not be enough to appease your fear for my safety?”
“I do not think it wise to go against the mandate of the Warden of the Kingswood,” Orene states, tilting her head down with a curious frown at the hostages. “Such a disruption… and one that cannot end happily.” She sighs and shakes her head, raising her eyes to the falling rain and urging her own mount toward Orson Baratheon’s call.
The red-haired son of Lord Manfred was out and about to wheel his courser towards the Hart Hunters, when the new direction of the talk at Sarmion’s area makes him stop and watch the unfolding scene.
Rickon stays out of the argument between the hostages and the king’s men. He looks at his own men and shakes his head.
Ethos looks up at the dissention between the Dornish and Stormbreaker. A scowl touches his face and he looks at Valeria with eyes widening at her bold remark. He has his teeth clenched, holding back words as his eyes flick back to Sarmion.
Looking at Valeria, Sarmion says, “You will hunt hart or you will hunt not at all.”
Looking at Aidan, the Stormbreaker says, “I begrudge you life… ser. All here know it. If you die whilst in my wood, none will fail to say it was my fault. Get out of my face.”
Looking over at the gold cloaks, the giant Baratheon knight orders, “Get them in line and get this one on horse!” Turning to the Sealord, he offers in conciliatory tones, “I’m sorry, my lord. My King’s hostages do not know their place and try my patience ever.”
Near to Anders, Joleta also starts to send her mount after Ser Orson. She regards Aidan and Valeria curiously, flicking her dark eyes briefly to the Stormbreaker. She doesn’t seem inclined to join the boar hunt; a fast chase on swift steeds is more to her liking than a footrace after boar. But she hesitates, watching.
“Ser Aidan, tell him…” Valeria begins to plead, but then the man is rebuffed as well and she lowers the hand she had raised to pluck at his sleeve. “Harts in -pens-,” she says through her teeth. “Dornish -children- do not hunt penned deer.” She turns away, her face set in stone against whatever emotion wells behind her eyes.
“So be it,” Aidan Dayne replies. His face is a stiff mask, as rigid as that back of his, but the flush of anger to it is plain enough. Valeria’s words only compound things. He glances to the Sealord, sidelong, and then to Sarmion he adds, “I’ll remember to give a prayer to the Mother on your behalf, my lord of Baratheon, for the ... motherly tenderness you’ve shown.” And with that, the Dornishman says to Valeria, “Come, my lady. We need not hunt, if we do not wish it. Let others have their sport.” He doesn’t linger. He goes, even if Valeria does not.
Orson Baratheon steps forward, sweeping his long black hair away from his shoulders. Looking at the ladies and Dornish hostages, he pronounces sonorously, “As this is a bow and stable hunt, my lords and ladies, we shall be chasing behind the hounds.”
Turning his bright blue eyes on the Dornish men, he offers, “Those of you at the fore of the hunting party may choose to shoot from the saddle to slow the hart.” Holding up an long fingered white hand, as if to stay off protest, he says, “But at the Baying most may have their chance to loose.”
Nodding to himself, Orson adds, “After that, we will perform the Unmaking back here, carrying the beast back here for the purpose.”
“Come on, Val,” a brawny man says, coming forward to usher his unhappy sister away. “Come and shoot. Remember the hart of twelve we took along the river that time? When Aros cut his hand? Nothing can match that, eh?” Arrant Blackmont shoots a venomous glance over his shoulder at the Stormbreaker, then shakes his head. “It isn’t -so- bad, having them herded.”
“For children!” Valeria exclaims, though she lets her brother drag her to her horse. Shooting from horses, No stalking the deer, There is no challenge in having them all rounded up for you.” She pauses to watch Ser Aidan go, then calls, “Don’t give him the satisfaction, ser. There may be no honor in it, but it’s better than nothing…”
Raising a hand, Orene edges closer to Ser Aidan and the lady Valeria, looking between them with summer-blue eyes tinged with confusion. “I think there may have been, perhaps, some misunderstanding—the hart is as wild and free as any creature in the Kingswood. Unless I have some mad mistaking, we are not giving chase to a creature in a pen. If you still choose to merely wait here, I wish you a pleasant morning of it, but hunting from horseback is to my mind no less worthy than on foot. If it is some antipathy to horses, well…”
“These Dornishmen do not bend their knees easily,” says the Sealord of Braavos, looking at Aidan’s retreating back, hazel eyes inscrutable. “And they are apt to forget once they’ve done it, or so your young king has told me. It is nothing to appologize for, Ser Sarmion.” He considers the huntsmen and the hound, and then asks, “You hunt with spears, yes? I have used a boarsword once or twice in my youthful folly, but the spear, it is sounder.” One of his attendants steps forward then, and offers a weighty boarspear to Sealord Ferro.
While sitting on his courser, squeezed between the Ladies Joleta and Orene, Ser Anders glances over the Sealord, Ser Sarmion and Aidan. Is there a hint of disapproval in his face? Anyways, after a few heartbeats, the knight returns his attention to Lady Joleta, “I guess my horse will not be able to keep pace with Kingfisher. Just remember to wait for me at the end. I wouldn’t want to answer to the King when you get lost.”
Ethos can’t hide the slightly satisfied upturn of his lips as Sarmion sends the Dornish away, but it lingers only for a moment as he smooths his features again. The knight is trying to be on his best behavior today, it seems. Mertyns watches the conversation between Baratheon and the Sealord and waits patiently for the hunt to begin.
“Alright, everybody!” Orson Baratheon announces, “Follow me, if you will.”
He climbs into the saddle of his white courser and draws his bow from the quiver set at the saddlebow. Wheeling the animal, he waves a hand at the huntsmen standing nearby with the lymers on a leash.
Following them, Orson leads his mount to the East downt the trail. His velvet cloak clearly visible before the wood.
Hot with anger still, the Dornishman merely gives Orene a brief nod of acknowledgment for her words; a kindness may be meant, but he’s presently in no mood for it. He’s certainly not intent on standing around idle, however, and the gold cloak assigned to escort him hurries after him as he moves to take his horse—a well-knit hunter—from a groom. He mounts quickly, even angrily, and chooses to follow the rest of the Dornishmen to the hunt for the hart.
Raising a hunting horn to his lips, Orson Baratheon blows a blast that echoes down the trail. The hart, seemingly about to jump back into the wood is intercepted by the first relay of hounds, swift greyhounds that nip at it and bark forcing it back onto the trail.
The CHASE - The HART
Now the hunt is joined in earnest, the horses pound down the trail, the hart just within bowshot as its flanks disappear down the trail.
The first pack of hounds slow, falling well behind the hart now, no longer nipping at the beasts haunches. Just then, the second relay bursts on to the trail, a pack of alaunts, their throaty voices baying as they try to set their teeth upon the stag’s legs. Some get tripped and trodden on by the animal as it runs. It sticks to the trail, driven forward. Its breath heard in deep gulping gasps by those nearest in the hunt.
Orson Baratheon raises his bow, drawing back on the string and letting fly the missile. No one sees it strike but the animal stumbles only to right itself quickly and buck its rear hooves at the nearest hounds.
The CHASE - The HART
Tired, the first alaunts fall back, their tongues lolling as they let the hart escape. Orson raises the horn to his lips and lets wind another blast.
Immediately, another group of alaunts burst from the brush followed quickly by woodsmen on foot. The hart veers sharply away from them but cannot get around the trees to either side. Lost a moment, it turns to a clump of trees and tries to climb into them but fails. The dogs ring it, barking and jumping.
The hart turns sharply and jumps beyond the dogs to continue further down the trail.
The BAYING - The HART
Suddenly, the hart reaches the end of the trail. The ground falls of sharply and there is no escape. The hart turns, its ten pointed antlers menacing those who have harried it. Its breath comes in blasts from its wide nostrils. Its eyes are wide and showing white.
The woodsmen run up to grab the alaunts and pull them away. They all strain at their collars, barking and growling, their mouths open to bare teeth and tongues lolling.
Orson Baratheon reins in. He positions his horse to block the way of the other riders, shouting, “Careful! The cliff drops from here into the sea! Mind your horse!”
The CHASE - The BOAR
Given their nose, the lymers sniff around the edges of the forest, finding very little. They look back over their shoulder at their keepers from time to time, as if confused, and require constant urging.
Toward the back of the hunting party, more dogs, large alaunts are being leashed in by the kennel masters, waiting for the boar to present itself.
The CHASE - The BOAR
Suddenly, the lymers find a scent and disappear into the wood, far from view. All the huntsmen stop, gripping their spears in anticipation.
Out of sight, the dogs begin to bay, howling in deep throaty voices at what can only be the quarry. The forest explodes as the boar appears and the alaunts begin to bark savagely at it.
The large animal, the fur along its back spiked and heavy, must be nearly 200 pounds! From its mouth sprout large tusks and it snorts its outrage. It turns away from the hunting party and trots south down the trail away from them.
The BAYING - The BOAR
The alaunts were unleashed exploding down the trail after the boar. Here at the end of the trail, the hunting party finds them. They have brought the boar to bay. Several dogs have been mauled to death.
Now, the alaunts have ringed themsel
Rickon tries his spear out, doing a few test thrusts with it.
Glaring at the Dornishmen, Sarmion grunts, “Were I to have my way…” But he shakes his head without finishing the sentence.
Turning to the Sealord, the Warden offers with a nod, “A boar spear is a fitting choice, my lord.” He looks around him at the other knights assembled, asking, “Is everyone ready?”
The Stormbreaker glances at the huntsman still on his knees before him and says, “Seems like a big beast. The dogs will be enough?” The huntsman nods his confident assent.
Rickon nods “I think we are, m’lord.”
Janden is certainly ready, and he indicates it with a nod to Stormbreaker.
Now, the alaunts have ringed themselves around the beast, hemming it in. The boar snorts, standing deceptively still in the middle of the hounds.
“Yes, ser.” Ethos responds to Sarmion, a wide grin on his face now as the hunt seems finally ready to begin. He eases over to Janden’s side, speaking quietly under his breath, “I do so look forward to speaking with Ser Anders later.” There’s a smirk on his face as he shares his thoughts and amusement in his eyes.
The extravagant hat on his head keeps the rain from the Sealord’s face, and shadows it somewhat in the grey light of morning, but his nod of assent is plain enough. “Lead the way, brave Ser Sarmion, and we will follow.” The spear, with its broad head and steel lugs set atop a thick pole of turned ash, is held familiarly in the small, lean man’s grip. He seems to lack no confidence, at least.
Glancing at Ethos, Sarmion says bluntly, “Save it.” Looking at the huntsman, he motions him to get to his feet and then waves the other dogkeepers to move south.
“Okay, let’s go,” Turning to the Sealord, the giant Baratheon asks, “If my lord permits?” Receiving the Sealord’s answer, the Warden nods and troops off south. Following the huntsmen along the trail.
Kingswood: Woodland Path
Deep in the wood, the path cuts a swath between tall primeval oaks. Mounds of earth rise to either side, forcing the path to narrow at a certain point. Above, the sky is barely visible between the twisted branches, as if the forest closes its grip around those who wander here.
To either side the gnarled boles of ancient oak trees march on into the deeper wood. Moss carpets their roots and their lower branches, bearding the trees. On some viney tendrils hang, throwing verdant curtains over the path. Thickets and soft grasses grow over the earthy mounds, inviting both travellers and game. In what patches of sun escape the tangled canopy above, wild flowers grow, the only splash of color in this green world.
Slanting downward towards the north, the humus of the forest floor becomes spongier, giving away to sand. The ancient oaks give way to sparser beech and firs. Southward, a deeper forest beckons.
The FYNDING - The BOAR
Given their nose, the lymers sniff around the edges of the forest, finding very little. They look back over their shoulder at their keepers from time to time, as if confused, and require constant urging.
Toward the back of the hunting party, more dogs, large alaunts are being leashed in by the kennel masters, waiting for the boar to present itself.
Sarmion walks with a greatsword with a wide pommel guard, held against his shoulder.
Rickon has a spear out, his pair of guards follow along, Tommard has a large shield, and a sword at his side, while Jaroth has his own spear handy.
Janden follows the group, moving alongside Ethos - behind some of the more important Lords. He casts a dark look to his friend after the comment regarding Anders, and lowers his voice after Sarmion rebukes the other knight. “Focus on what we’re doing, ser. Thinking about Anders is going to bring you nothing but trouble.”
Ethos is rather torn between being impressed that Stormbreaker heard his little comment, and wanting to alleviate any heat from the knight. He wipes the grin from his face and nods quickly to Sarmion in response, saying nothing further as he gets moving. Janden is given a smaller nod for his own suggestion. The mockery of Dondarrion will keep well enough until later. Mertyns lets the hunt itself absorb his attention.
The knight of Mistwood carries the spear, falling in with the rest that follow the huntsman. He glances around frequently, his eyes on the surroundings as much as the sniffing the dogs.
A bit of Valyrian passes between the Sealord and an attendant, as he paces along with Ser Sarmion. The attendant unhooks a wineskin from his belt and hands it to Ferro, who takes it and quickly takes a swallow of it. “Ah! Refreshing, this wine. The lady from Highgarden was most generous,” the Sealord remarks to Sarmion, voice kept rather low. Casually handing the wine back to his attendant, he takes up the two-handed grip on the spear once more. He looks up and down amidst the group of hunters, looking at the knights young and old alike in the chase.
The CHASE - The BOAR
Suddenly, the lymers find a scent and disappear into the wood, far from view. All the huntsmen stop, gripping their spears in anticipation.
Out of sight, the dogs begin to bay, howling in deep throaty voices at what can only be the quarry. The forest explodes as the boar appears and the alaunts begin to bark savagely at it.
The large animal, the fur along its back spiked and heavy, must be nearly 200 pounds! From its mouth sprout large tusks and it snorts its outrage. It turns away from the hunting party and trots south down the trail away from them.
“I’d be careful, my lord,” Sarmion says, his eyes scanning the forest, “That woman is not to be trusted. No mater how rich her… gifts.”
As the animal burst from the wood, he shouts, “The boar!” He raises his greatsword in his hand and runs after it.
Rickon moves to a flanking position on the animal, Jaroth moves opposite of him. Tommard remains near his Lord, prepared to place his old body between the young Northerner and the creature, his shield up on his arm.
“By the Seven!” Janden’s exclaimation matches the expression on his face, eyes wide and bright at the sight of the massive animal. He grips his own spear and follows the crowd - whether or not the weapon is ever raised, the chase itself will be exciting.
Ethos is left gaping for a moment as well, then the young knight is hurrying along with the rest that chase the beast with a fierce expression of severity on his face. With a beast that large, there’s no fooling around now.
Bradwell Hightower does little to disguise the shock on his face when the boar bursts from the brush, nor the relief that follows as the creature turns away rather than charge. Shaking his head, he hefts his boarspear and takes a deliberate step forward before joining the chase.
The CHASE - The BOAR
Suddenly, the lymers find a scent and disappear into the wood, far from view. All the huntsmen stop, gripping their spears in anticipation.
Out of sight, the dogs begin to bay, howling in deep throaty voices at what can only be the quarry. The forest explodes as the boar appears and the alaunts begin to bark savagely at it.
The large animal, the fur along its back spiked and heavy, must be nearly 200 pounds! From its mouth sprout large tusks and it snorts its outrage. It turns away from the hunting party and trots south down the trail away from them.
“Careful!” Sarmion says, “Careful!” His large hand holds back the Sealord from running into the boar.
The BAYING - The BOAR
The alaunts were unleashed exploding down the trail after the boar. Here at the end of the trail, the hunting party finds them. They have brought the boar to bay. Several dogs have been mauled to death.
Now, the alaunts have ringed themselves around the beast, hemming it in. The boar snorts, standing deceptively still in the middle of the hounds.
Janden’s gaze takes in the massive animal and the slain dogs as the party closes the distance. The tall knight grips his spear more tightly now - knowing that as they move in on the animal, anything could happen. He glances around himself, deciding how much space he has to work with.
Bradwell follows the mob, and arrives about in the middle. Even caught in the thrill of the hunt as he is, Bradwell is still touched by sadness at the sight of the dead dogs scattered about the clearing. Ripping himself from sentimentality back to the task at hand, he adjusts his grip, standing back and giving the boar wide space; let the young, unblooded knights throw themselves at it.
Ethos moves in close as they reach where the boar is cornered. He flanks around behind the alaunts, keeping outside of their tighter ring as he lifts up his spear. He has no idea if there are any rules on whether honored members of the hunt get first jabs at the beast, but unless someone says something, the knight won’t hesitate to stab at the creature.
Rickon moves to try to get aorund his body guard, moving into a position he can get a good stab at the boar.
STRIKE AT BOAR to shoot.
Bradwell hits the Boar! The spear strikes it in the hind quarter, giving it a wound that slows it as it flees!
:Spear #2766:Spear #5:Spear #2965:Spear #3242:Spear #306:Sword
Ethos misses the Boar by an inch.
Sarmion hits the Boar! The spear strikes it through the heart and it falls dead almost instantly.
The Warden pushes the Sealord in front, shouting, “Yours should be the honor my lord!”
Unwittingly, the boar decides to lunge at the same time, jumping forward facing the sealord’s spear, spitting itself upon it.
However, the animal does not die! It jerks to the left, stabbing at nearby dog with its tusks. “Kill it!” the Stormbreaker commands to the others.
Ethos hits the Boar! The spear strikes it in the hind quarter, giving it a wound that slows it as it flees!
Janden hits the Boar! The spear strikes it weakly in its hind quarter.
Bradwell hits the Boar! The spear strikes it weakly in its hind quarter.
Janden grunts as he thrusts his weapon towards the animal, grimacing as the blow bounces weakly off - and the knight regrips his spear, ready for another attempt.
Bradwell waits for a few others to strike the boar, and then contributes a powerful thrust of his own as the beast attempts to flee. His strike goes true, and he follows it with another, though this hits somewhat more weakly.
Ethos isn’t at the greatest angle to get many attacks in at the boar, and as the others seem to be making such good progress wounding the animal, the knight only gets one minor poke at it. He backs off before long so that the Sealord will get the honor of the final slaying strike. His skill with the spear is not so polished that he’s going to risk stabbing at it in such close quarters with the Sealord.
“Hah!” Ferro shouts triumphantly, the broad-bladed spear driving into the boar. As it squeals and thrashes, Stormbreaker’s booming command leads others to drive their spears into it, until the great, powerful beast breathrs its last. “Hah!” he exclaims again, giving a last thrust to the carcass just to be sure.
Squeeling, the beast dies!
It raises up its snouted mouth and breathes its last in a loud screech that echoes through the forest.
Approaching, the huntsmen move in, helping the Sealord to extricate his spear from the animal, cutting its throat fully and attaching it to long poles. “Well done, my lord!” the Stormbreaker bellows, “Let us go and eat the beast as befits true hunters!”
Janden has a wide grin on his face as the beast goes down, obviously a fan of the hunt, nodding to Stormbreaker’s words. He glances over towards Ethos - “I like the hunt. But the eating is the really good part.”
Propping himself on his spear, Bradwell wipes some sweat from his brow, recovering from the thrill of the hunt. He moves over to the Sealord, offering a small bow. “Excellent strike, m’lord. Have you hunted boar before?”
Rickon catches his breath and leans on his spear.
Ethos cheers when the beast falls and offers up congratulations with the rest for the Sealord. As the huntsmen go about preparing to haul the beast back, Mertyns laughs at Janden’s comment, “I think both are well enough for me, ser.”
“It was a valiant beast, and fine hunting, good sers,” the Sealord says, just a bit puffed up with having given the crucial blow (even if it did entail the Stormbreaker’s intervention). When the Hightower heir asks his question, Ferro Antaryon smiles. “Once or twice, in my younger days, in far away Norvos. We have no boar in Braavos, as Ser Sarmion and I discussed at his table before we set out.” Blood drips from the blade of his spear, and he looks on as huntsmen tend to the carcass. “It is regretful, yes? It would be more exciting, had Braavos boars. But mayhaps I shall visit Westeros again to hunt, eh?”
“You are most welcome, my lord,” Sarmion says heartily, “I shall set aside a tithe of the King’s bounty graced to me for your use, every year, if you wish it.”
He follows on behind the carcass carriers, stating lustily, “A rack of boar ribs would suit me well this day!” He looks up into the heavy midday air above, letting the drops of rain escaping from the canopy fall on his face. “A good day, this!” he pronounces.
“And if you ever find yourself growing bored of the hunting in the Kingswood,” Bradwell adds, “I invite you to Oldtown. While we have no boars in the city proper - at least not of that type - there is certainly some excellent hunting about the Whispering Sound and up the Honeywine a bit.”
Kingswood: Sandy Path
Underfoot the soft ground yields, meandering through the space between slim-boled trees and sparser growth. Beech, fir, and hawthorn trees stretch in all directions. Tangles grow between the trunks, choking vision and the path to either side. The space narrows to a sharp defile as it climbs deeper into the wood.
Light streams down through the canopy of the young trees, painting the air with verdant shadows. The black boughs of hawthorn trees claw over the path, their throny branches hidden by a new growth of leaves. Pale birches stand beside sparse limbed firs creating natural lanes through the soft soil. As the trees grow older farther on into the wood, the shadows grow deeper. The distance closes in the verdant wood.
Sloping down towards the riverbank, the earth is pale and loamy as it falls towards the northwest. To east and west, the tree trunks march like sylvan columns.
“Oh, you must be careful, Ser Sarmion. I may have cause to take up your generosity more often than you’d like,” says Sealord Ferro, as he troops back along to the gathering grounds with the Stormbreaker and the rest. Huntsmen lug the body of the brute behind, with the hounds sniffing and whimpering and barking in their excitement around it. And then to Ser Bradwell, Ferro says, “Ah, Oldtown! A lovely city, Ser Bradwell, and one I would be glad to visit again, as I did in the days before the calling of Sealord came on me. But now, I cannot say when. Yet you must give your father my warm regards. Lord Lorent is almost of the Free Cities, a man who knows the value of trade and merchantry like few others here in your Seven Kingdoms.”
The boar and hart are brought to the place of the assembly. The huntsmen lay both beasts down. With careful motions they carefully remove the hides, then remove the meat.
The choicer cuts are given over to the smoking pits and cooking pits.
Sarmion bellows, “Who would like to feast?” Laughing, he turns to the Sealord, saying, “It is you who must be careful, my lord! I said a tithe, for the rest, you have to pay for!”
Bradwell forces a somewhat convincing laugh, “We pride ourselves on our cosmopolitan nature, m’lord. I’ll pass on your compliments to my father, and I thank you for them myself. And who knows? Maybe one day, a love of trade will overtake the rest of the continent, and war will whither in unprofitability.”
“Hah. A man of peace, yes? Well, one may hope that the God above allows such a thing to pass… But I hope not too soon,” says the Sealord, a precise grin on his lips after Sarmion’s jest. “Braavos has much to set right with its siblings, in the Disputed Lands, and within their own homes where still they keep slaves.” Of course, the Braavosi were founded by escaped slaves, and abhor the institution ... why, as much as the Seven Kingdoms does. “And maybe the Stepstones too, eh?” He gives his spear to an attendant, then, who passes the wineskin that Lady Reyna gifted to him. He takes a long draught, and smacks his lips.
“I will cleanse myself,” he announces, “and then join the feast, my lords and good knights.”
Rickon smiles at Valeria and the other stag hunters, as he wanders up Jaroth having taken is spear now.
“A fine shot, Lady Valeria.”
Joleta dismounts easily, handing the reins of her sandsteed over to the beast’s current favorite among the boys. “And Ser Anders, you are too modest.”
Valeria, having watched the huntsmen take down the deer and then recovering her arrow—broken—from the forest floor, then ridden along in silence, looks around at Joleta. “Thank you. I do not shoot so well from horseback. Kay has promised to teach me when we return to Dorne.”
As the meat is cut away from both beasts, it is handed over to the cooks and smokers, the choicer cuts of smoked meet going in reserve for the Sealord to take with him back to Braavos as rememberance.
For what is left, the entrails and the joints, are carried over to where the dogs wait hungrily. Kenneled together, they each bite in, without fighting over one or other piece - for the pack’s order of precedence has been established.
Looking over at the Hightower heir, the Stormbreaker says, “Ser Bradwell! A word with you please…”
Somewhat relieved at having accomplished him familial duty, Bradwell looks about for an opportunity to was the blood and grime from himself when he is caught up by the Stormbreaker. He is confused for a moment before he recalls the previous week’s correspondence. “Of course, Lord Sarmion. Shall we retire to some place more comfortable?”
Ethos walks back with the rest of the boar hunters, a cheerful smile on his face despite the rain that weighs down his cloak. He listens to the higher nobility banter back and forth, his spear propped against his shoulder as he follows with the group. As everyone begins meeting up again from the separate hunts, the knight listens curiously to hear how the other group fared after the hart.
Anders hmms at Joleta, “Modest? Three arrows and all I can do is hit it with one? Nah. Hunting is fun, but I enjoy more watching the good shooters do it.” He smiles as he climbs from his horse himself and hands it over to one of therandom stable boys, “My world is war, not the hunt.”
The Stormbreaker nods and places his hand upon the other man’s shoulder guiding him towards the smoking pits.
“... ... my ... ... ... ... Brother ... ...”
He keeps his deep voice muted, so that only those nearest can hear him and only Bradwell is that near. His face is kept close and his blue eyes flash with a knowing look.
“My bitch’s litter is of an age to be blooded. They are a different stock than these animals, but perhaps when all the excitement has passed, we might take them out.” Joleta looks over the Westerosi dogs with interest and a level of appreciation. Hearing Bradwell’s name being called by the Stormbreaker elicits a curious gaze in the Reachlord’s direction before she replies to Anders, “Indeed, ser. But perhaps one can broaden one’s world, from time to time.”
Anders nods, “As I did today.” He nods again, “Thank you for suggesting to come along. it was fun I dare admit. Even if I got bested by hrmpf…women.” The last words were clearly spoken in jest and the large knight chuckles along his bad joke.”
Bradwell allows himself to be taken aside by the Stormlord, and listens intently. “... ... ... I ... ... ... ... ... ... with Lord Baratheon months ... ... ... do ... ... allows ... ... the Stormlord.”
Valeria nods once to Joleta, then wanders off around the clearing. She swings the broken end of the arrow, yellow shaft with black feathers, swishing it against the greenery and drawing near to the Stormbreaker and the Hightower without even realizing it.
The Stormbreaker frowns and shakes his head. To Bradwell he pronounces in a low voice, “I ... not ... ... Lord”
He continues to lead the Hightower heir away from the group and adds, “... ... ... ... ... ... through”
Looking into the other’s face, he asks, “... you ought ... that?”
The return to the central gathering place, and Sarmion Baratheon’s presence there, makes the Knight of the Twilight somewhat dark of mood and given to silence. He does not entirely keep to himself, however, instead finding some familiar face among the hunters to recount the boar hunt to him. He listens with interest, but his praise for this point or that point of it is perfunctionary.
Bradwell whispers to Sarmion.
Rickon meets up with his Steward and page now that they have returned. Allistar moves to help with the other servants and the food while the young boy Darrian seems to be goggling all the hunters.
Bradwell’s face clearly shows his surprise, though it is quickly replaced by a fixed smile. “No, I ... that ... can ... offer my ... ... greatest ... ... Baratheon ... its”
Nodding, the Stormbreaker replies, “... ... if ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...”
He does not leave his question hang for very long, but adds, “... this, ... mine ... rivals. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... needs.”
Then, he demures, adding, “... ... ... ... ... own, you”
Anders looks forlorn on site, now that the hunt is over.
Bradwell nods. “I ... ... ... alliance ... join ... ... ... you, would ... ... ... ... of Lyrissa ... only to ... congratulations. will ... ... ... ... ... know ... ... well ... ... heard ... ... you. ... ... ... would ... ... allies, course, ... ... hardly ask ... ... ... ... ... ... a ...”
Still walking slowly and lost in her own thoughts, black eyes unseeing, Valeria swishes her broken arrow back and forth with increasingly vicious swipes. Then:
Catastrophe. She smacks Sarmion Baratheon smartly across the backside.
“... ... be ...” Sarmion says with a nod, “... ... ... elder ... ... ...”
Breathing a sigh, he offers, “I not ... ... too ... ... ... ... and set ways.” Looking up at Bradwell, he adds, seriously, “I you ... will be ... ...”
Feeling the blow hit him, the Stormbreaker reacts swiftly, grabbing the switch from the woman’s hand and slashing it across her face! ‘Stay away from me, you fucking whore!’ he shouts!
Rickon reacts to the suddenly explosion of violence he moves to where Valeria is being hit.
Bradwell begins to answer Sarmion’s inquiry when the event occurs. He is too slow to act before Sarmion strikes the Dornishwoman, but responds quite quickly afterwards, all thoughts of tact and politics forgotten. “Ser Sarmion!” he shouts, “What was that?”
Blood. A cry of pain. And then Valeria Blackmont falls, knocked off balance. Prudently, her brothers come running to pick her up and carry her away from the Stormbreaker. There is a brief flash of her face, cheek welted crimson and lip bleeding freely. “We will take her home,” Arrant Blackmont says to the gold-cloaks who are her minders. “Now, I think, rather than later. She won’t bleed to death.”
As if any in proximity wouldn’t hear the booming voice of Sarmion. Ethos looks over towards the sudden altercation, his eyes widening in surprise. He pushes away from the table he’s been leaning against and slowly approaches, watching to see if the scene will escalate further.
The Sealord, away in a tent his attendants, hands and face cleaned of sweat, can be seen moving into view from the safety of its shelter after the shout and cry. He looks on, expression hard to read, before he makes some remark to his First Sword, Trello Romaris. The man replies with a brief and ugly grin. The two disappear back into the tent.
Arrant Blackmont does not seem to be the only one who decides that that was more than enough ignoble behavior from Sarmion Baratheon. Ser Aidan’s among those hostages who quickly moves to join him in departing, gold cloaks hurriedly in tow to escort them away. The man glares at the Stormbreaker, but he keeps his mouth shut at least.
“The bitch attacked me!” Sarmion says angrily.
Looking at the goldcloaks sitting around idly, “Get her out of here!” He orders, “Where the fuck were you to begin with? You should know better than to let her near me… The bitch.”
He spits at his feet in Valeria’s general direction. Rising to look at Bradwell, he says, “I can’t stand the Dornish. They are given too free a rein in Court, but not in the Kingswood - let me tell you.” He glares at the woman being taken away.
“The Dornish do not deserve honor, ser,” Sarmion says. He turns to Bradwell and asks, “Tell me, Ser, had she weilded a dagger rather than….” He looks at the thing in his hand and says, “An arrow! And stabbed me in the back, should I then apologize for being in the way?”
Throwing the thing down on the ground, the Baratheon adds, “Those maggots killed my first wife, Ser Bradwell. I hunted them in the Marches and in Dorne for 6 years and now I must be struck by them in my own wood.”
Turning to face Bradwell, he asks, “You begrudge me a smack across the face to one such as she?”
“Did I ever ask you to apologize?” Bradwell responds, his own voice rising, “No, I think you will find I did not. Nor did I ask you to treat anyone with honor. All I notice is that you have struck down a defenseless woman. I do not deny that a response was in order, I simply question if it was necessary to respond with a blow hard enough to mar a face for life. Tell me, ‘Stormbreaker’, if my sister were to startle you in the bedchamber, would you respond by breaking her arm?”
“No, Ser Bradwell,” Sarmion says, “I would not.”
His jaw clenches and he shakes his head, “But when my enemies attack me, I retaliate. That woman and her ilk are all my enemy.”
Still watching Bradwell, carefully, he asks, “Are we, now, enemies, Ser Bradwell? Over this?”
Bradwell takes several deep breaths, calming himself. “No,” he says, “We are not. I apologize, but…a man with a temper on the field often has a temper elsewhere. And can you blame me for being concerned?”
Ethos watches the exchange quietly, the wary expression still on the knight’s face. He seems a bit confused by the conversation, but stays quiet and simply listens.
Lowering his voice, Sarmion asks, “... ... ...” his voice is dark, adding, “... ... lord, ... I say”
Raising up his hand and lowering his head, he shakes his head, “... ... ... ... be ... safe ... ... my house ... ... ... ... Their ... ... ... ... ...”
Looking up, the Stormbreaker asks, “Is ... her ... ... ...”
Bradwell draws his head closer to Sarmion’s, “... ... only ... sister. ... ... ... ... ... ... make ... ... move that ... ... man might ... ... ...” He sighs, “... ... ... only ... ... request that have some care. ... ... how easy it ... ... rage”
His frown deepens at the Stormbreaker’s too-obvious innuendo, and he continues, “... ... the ... ... ... ... both, if ... ... ... ... ...”
As the conversation goes back to quieter exchanges and it doesn’t seem the disagreement will grow worse, Ethos moves away again, back to mingle with others.
He raises his voice, “Come, let us drink wine together. I would hate for our new friendship to be spoiled over something like this.”
Joleta had been speaking quietly with one of the dog handlers, asking questions about the nature of the Westerosi-bred alanuts that were used for this hunt and therefore comes late upon the scene. She catches a glimpse of the withdrawl of the Blackmonts and Ser Aiden, before noting the confrontation between the Stormbreaker and the Heir to Hightower.
Rickon wanders over to where the Valeria has been dragged away, he verfies that she is ok.
“She need have no fear,” Sarmion repeats, “My sisters and neices have not suffered under my care.”
Nodding to Bradwell’s suggestion, he adds, “I have some of the Mistress Reyna’s wine you might enjoy!” He laughs as if enjoying his own joke, “She sent it to me and the Sealord as apology for her absence at the hunt.”
Looking at Ethos, he waves him over, saying, “Ethos, come with us! You have done well today. Let us celebrate!”
Sarmion takes Orson Baratheon.
Happy to have defused the situation, Bradwell goes with the Stormbreaker, and spends the rest of the evening drinking wine and discussing trivialities.
Underfoot the soft ground yields, meandering through the space between slim-boled trees and sparser growth. Beech, fir, and hawthorn trees stretch in all directions. Tangles grow between the trunks, choking vision and the path to either side. The space narrows to a sharp defile as it climbs deeper into the wood.
Darkness stretches overhead, bounded only by tangling branches and the slim boughs of young trees. Volumnous darkness hangs to either side and night creatures cry out. Unseen wings snap through the air and creatures are heard to scurry in the underbrush just out of reach.
Sloping down towards the riverbank, the earth is pale and loamy as it falls towards the northwest. To east and west, the tree trunks march like sylvan columns.
Poplar trees form a corridor through a wide path here. Birches, elms, and ash grow like columns in the wood as if holding up the canopy high above. Sedges and shrubs grow tangled in between them, with clear alleys of humus circling around them. The land slopes downward across the path, falling to the south.
In the night, some light falls through the holes punched into the canopy by the smaller trees. The sky is only a lighter blackness against the forest’s silouette. Unseen tangles cling to the legs of those who walk without a light here, threatening to trip the passersby. There is a slope to the land and a dark collumn of trees stands in the center between the uphill and downhill branches of the path.
To the West, firs sprout from the sandy soil at their base. Their staggered growth hides the path beyond. Eastward, beyond the cluster of smaller trees the path climbs upward, with thicker smaller trees visible as the path narrows between them.
Soft rain falls from a grey-black sky without moon or stars. A warm gentle wind blows from the southeast. Raindrops patter against the leaves, invisible in the darkness.