A clouded afternoon day, muggy and uncomfortable for the lack of wind. Most nobles of the court have greater sense than to stand outside, or exert themselves, stewing in their own sweat beneath their fine silks and linens. But not, it seems, the enthusiastic half-dozen Dornishmen taking turns at the quintain. They’re boisterous, even, a renewed excitement in such chivalrous sport. And why not? They are the Sons of the Spear, a fabulous new enterprise, and can almost taste the glory of it.
Except for one knight who, though armored in Dornish scale and leather, stands idle, watching with a dour expression on his young face. Ser Aidan Dayne does not partake in the excitement, for some reason.
There are odd reasons to be out in such an oppressive day, and where there is shade to be found one can find people doing such things. Reyna Saltcliffe, dressed as lightly as is decent in a simple gown of creamy muslin, sits in a patch of shade bent over a piece of delicate embroidery. She is affixing tiny pearls to an equally tiny cap of white, and it would seem she requires the light.
Presently, however, Reyna secures her needle in the cloth and rises to stretch stiff limbs. She folds her work into a little leathern bag, which she slings over her shoulder before wandering on a path toward the stables that brings her abreast of Aidan Dayne. She hesitates, then turns his way. “Ser Aidan, you do not joust,” she observes.
While his compatriots set the quintain to rocking and swinging, Ser Aidan’s lost in some reverie, and not even the beautiful sound of a breaking lance snaps him from it. But when Reyna speaks, he’s jolted from his thoughts, whatever they may be. “I’ve no stomach for it today, I fear,” the Dornishman says, bowing despite the weight of the enamelled scales he wears. “Perhaps something I ate… How are you, Lady Reyna? How do your children fare?”
A large shadow moves from behind a pillra, apparently detaching himself out of rock. The big Crakehall knight steps across the courtyard, smirking as the Dornish test their skill at the quitain. he bows his head to Reyna. “My Lady…My Lord.” he adds grudgingly to Aidan.
“Very well. Thoryn is a bit under the weather with an earache, but they are all well,” Reyna says, brow furrowing a little. She looks Aidan in the eye for a long moment before Elmer interrupts and she turns to him with a smile.
“Ser Elmer, good afternoon,” she says in greeting. “Do you know Ser Aidan Dayne? Ser Aidan, this is Ser Elmer Crakehall. His sister is wed to Jonn Lannister, you know,” she adds, falling into a common court courtesy of naming a connection or three.
Except for one knight who, though armored in Dornish scale and leather, stands idle, watching with a dour expression on his young face. Ser Aidan Dayne does not partake in the excitement, for some reason.” to Belissa.
“Ser,” Aidan Dayne says by way of greeting, with a certain reserve. “I believe I saw you joust at the king’s grand tourney.” No great surprise that Knight of the Twilight might recall that, given his reputation in the lists. He’s happy enough to turn back to Reyna, all perfunctionary commiseration, “I am sorry to hear it, my lady. I hope the little fellow is well soon.” Just then, his cousin Ser Tamlyn breaks a fresh lance against the quintain, and its battered shield shows deep cracks. There’s a jest after, and a curse after a wager is lost. Aidan barely looks that way, however.
“I have heard Ser Dagur has joined the Jousting Lord’s fellowship,” Aidan remarks instead, after the worst of the noise has died down.
Elmer chuckles rather sardonically. “Of course you saw me joust, my Lord. You dumperd me into the ground.” He laughs again and shakes his head at Reyna. “I wasn’t drunk enough, you see, my Lady.” He raises an eyebrow at mention of Dagur. “What fellowship might that be? Is that snake getting sneaky again? NO offense to you, my Lady>” he tugs at his curly dark forelock towards Reyna.
Reyna clears her throat delicately, then smiles. “Yes, he has joined with Lord Whalon,” she says to both men, her smile amused. “He’s no call to love the Prince or many of his Brothers, so it seemed quite natural.” She watches a horse charge past toward the quintain, then clucks her tongue. “He should lean forward just a little more,” she notes of the rider, veteran of innumerable tourneys in the Reach. “You must be very pleased, Ser Aidan. I was thrilled to hear of your success in organizing your… Sons of the Sword, yes?”
“The Spear. The Sons of the Spear,” Aidan says, and he colors at the need to correct it. “We’ve livery and pennons and banners to make, with the sigil…” He motions vaguely with the hand, as if describing its shape. “Spears arrayed about the center, as if the points of a star.” And with that explained, he gives Ser Elmer a consideration. “Well, I saw you rode well, either way, ser. The .. fellowships, the tourneying companies. Lord Rosby has begun one, the Company of the Lance, and of course the heir to Barrowton and Prince Aegon are part of the Brothers of the Battle…” A glance to Reyna suggests that Aegon’s the prince she was speaking of, but he says no more.
The Dornish continue to rattle and set the quintain to spinning, as the minutes wear on, and the heat only seems more oppressive. Off at the council tower, a young man can be seen running to the door, the grey robes of a maester hiked up his shins to let him run the faster. The knights of the Hand’s household halt him, for a moment, and then let him run through. But Aidan, unnoticing or uncaring, continues on, “We’ve applied to my lord Beron to buy a license to hold a tourney in one of the squares of the city. A small enterprise, but we shall make the best of it, if we’re granted leave.”
Elmer shakes his head a bit, but after all if people join these tourney societeies, they won’t be making trouble for others. He raises his hand to summon his squire who comes running and without being asked offers him a skinful of wine. The Westerman takes a long drink, then offers it to Aidan. “Care for a drink, then, my Lord?”
“The Spear, of course,” Reyna replies, her cheeks coloring. “Forgive me, Ser. I did not sleep well last night, and I quite forgot.” And she seems quite in earnest, the Iron Serpent’s wife. She watches the maester’s progress, as she is facing the right way to do so, but if it piques her interest at all, she does not let on. “Will you join a fellowship, Ser Elmer? The connections and camaraderie may prove quite useful.”
A tall and muscled knight walks across the Yard, now and then stopping to look at the jousting Dornishmen. Today his lean and muscled figure is clad in silks and linen, but the facial expression of the Crakehall heir is as serious and reserved as ever .He is followed by a guard in brown-and-white, whose stature and strength are similar to his masters . Burton Crakehall (because it is no other than he) gives a friendly nod to his cousin and bows to Reyna Saltcliffe and a young knight, in whom he at once recognises the famous Dornish jouster ” Lady Reyna, it is nice to see you again. How is your husband,Ser Dagur? ... Ser Aidan, I think we have met only briefly before, if we did at all. I think I should introduce myself; Ser Burton Crakehall, the heir to Crakehall,at your service. May I intrude or is it some private discussion?”
“No, ser, my thanks. If I’m ever to manage to mount my horse to joust, best not have wine in my belly,” Ser Aidan responds, the soft drawl of Dorne in his voice. He starts to say more, when Burton arrives. Again, Aidan bows, despite the weight of the scale shirt upon his shoulders. “My lord of Crakehall,” he says, briefly, though his eyes—blue shading towards purple in the overcast light of day—are distracted as he sees a pair of liveried servants running by in all haste. “I have seen you, here and there, but I’m afraid we’ve not been introduced. Well met. Your cousin, Ser Elmer, was just offering to share his wineskin.”
“Ser Burton, hallo,” Reyna greets the Crakehall, bending her head. “He is quite well, thank you, and has just joined Lord Rosby’s jousting fellowship.” She begins to say more, but she too is distracted by the running servants and her eyes follow them toward the Hand’s tower. “Something’s the matter,” she says quietly to no one in particular, her brow furrowing.
Elmer shakes his head towards Reyna. “Not very likely, my Lady..I’m not one for such things, most if them require oaths and the such.” he sees his cousing and tips his head, then laughs at Aidan’s comment. “yes, Burton, will you have some wine yourself?” He offers teh wineskin, then follows Reyna’s gaze.
Burton Crakehall takes makes a sign to his grim-looking guard and the man , having understood him , without words, passes him a wineskin,made of rough brown leather and decorated with the Brindled Boar insignia ” I would have gladly offered you mine,Ser Aidan, if you havent showed you intention not to drink any wine at all… Maybe, you will have drink some of mine,Elmer ? I had some of yours last time,so it would be only fair if you took a gulp of mine today.” Offering the skin to his cousin, the knight turns to Ser Aidan once again ” I have ,of course, heard of glorious jousting deeds,Ser Aidan,and even seen some of them during the last tourney,where you unsaddled my hapless cousin… I think, you have mentioned some Fellowship a few moments before. I take it, it is one of these jousting companies? And you good husband,Lady Reyna, joined it? Or is it another one? Forgive me my ignorance-I have just arrived at the Landing,so…”
The Dornishmen continue with their jousting, calling for the quintain’s shield to be replaced after Ser Galwell Dalt finally shatters it to pieces. They’re a happy lot for the most part, these Sons of the Spear, full of boasts and good cheer. It’s a contrast to Aidan, though the Knight of the Twilight is ever-courteous. “You heard rightly, ser. The king granted the hostages leave to form such a company, which we are most heartily grateful for,” he says, and yet he does not sound either hearty or especially grateful despite being the Dornish knight who did the most to see it come to fruition. “And Ser Dagur has joined Lord Rosby’s Company of the Lance, as well. Mayhaps the companies will challenge one another, when the time comes, and so perform great deeds…”
Now a group of passing laundresses, young maids and aged crones alike, is full of whispers as they shuffle by—looking sidelong and lowering their voices when they’re their nearest to the Dornishmen—with heavy hampers of linens balanced on their hips or heads. And there are watchmen pausing their rounds to confer, and grin with pleasure at one another. From the council tower, the young maester—red in the face—exits, pausing to be slapped on the shoulder by a beaming knight watching the door, before making his way to cross the yard so he can reach the Traitor’s Tower.
Aidan grows quiet and uneasy after that, and looks to Reyna wonderingly. “Some accident in the harbor, mayhaps? Or maybe ... Lady Casella’s come to her birthing bed once more?” But he doesn’t seem to believe it.
Reyna seems to have lost all interest in the conversation, though she nods at Burton. “Yes, Lord Rosby’s fellowship,” she says in echo to Aidan. “Not the harbor or even the city,” she muses, shaking her head. “They would have come through the gates.” She shakes her head sharply to clear it, then looks at the men. “Who is in the Traitor’s Tower?”
Elmer follows everything that’s going on, but not a man to miss an offer to drink, he takes Burton’s wineskin and drinks deeply. “Thank you coz.” he wipes his mouth and returns it. He doesn’t seem too concerned about all the comings and goings, but he follows the interest of his companions.
“The Traitor’s Tower… ?” Aidan’s voice trails off, and then he frowns, looking at the looming bulk of the drum tower, with its tower cells, and its black cells. “Ser Crispin, for one. The Lord Confessor, perhaps, as well… Not your husband, my lady, about some business?” He does not mention the poor, mad Dornishwoman in one of the cells.
But the maester, it seems, spotting some familiar faces, takes a detour and comes closer. “Oh, Lady Reyna! My lady Reyna! Is Ser Dagur about, my lady? I’ve news I was asked to take to him!” He sounds quite cheerful as he glances at the others, bobbing his head, the chain about his neck rattling faintly; but he grows less so when he recognizes a Dornishmen among them, and clears his throat, the apple of it bobbing awkwardly above the maester’s chain of service.
Burton takes a gulp of wine, before passing it to the servant and gives the other participants of the conversation an attentive glance ” I have never actually been a great lover of jousting. I have always prefered a battleaxe , sword or a mace to the tourney lance. Anyway, I do not quite understand the point of creating such fellowships. I have always thought that the basis of jousting is the valor and apptitude of an individual knight. There are great knights, but I have never heard of great fellowships. What is the point of sharing your glory with the people who didnt win it? It is another thing with the melee, of course… Forgive me,if I am mistaken ,Ser Aidan, I havent jousted for some time…”-adda he, smiling politely to the Dayne knight.Then he gives a surprised look to the arriving maester and prepares to hear what else he is going to say to Reyna
Reyna takes an involuntary step back and shakes her head at the maester. “Out in the city, so far as I know,” she says, frowning and glancing at the knights with her, each in his turn. “You might send for my men at the stables; they can usually run him to earth quickly enough, if needs must. What is it he must know?” The man’s excitement seems only to disquiet her.
Elmer slaps his cousin on the shoulder with a force that would shake a lesser man. “I totally agree with you, Coz.” He grins at Aidan, his white teeth flashing in sharp contrast with his dark beard. He looks at the rather excited man who’s looking for Reyna and shakes his head.
“The city? Oh, dear,” the young maester says. “I’ll have to ask the watchmen to find him as quick as they ever can.” He nods his head at that, but he’s too eager to share the news to leave it at that. A flitting glance to Aidan, and then he says after clearing his throat once more, “Well, I should be about doing as I was asked… but should you see him first, Lord Ryger says that the watch should be out in strength, in case the smallfolk grow too boisterous.” He nods his head, sneaks another glance to the expressionless Aidan Dayne, and then says, “The rebel lord, Andrey Blackmont, is dead! The raven just arrived. Most infamous, _most_ infamous—he tried to kill the king’s own emissary, despite their parleying under a peace banner! Oh, very shocking to think, but now the Prince’s Pass is clear. His men are scattered to the four winds!”
And with that, he hurries along, on to the Traitor’s Tower just to be sure that Dagur isn’t there, or perhaps to give the news to the King’s Justice. Aidan Dayne ... doesn’t look polaxed, but the mask of his face has turned brittle, and his place here among a lady of the Reach and knights of the westerlands is suddenly uncomfortable.
still.
Fortunately the kerfuffle has brought Reyna’s men across the yard from the stables, and the Smiler is gesticulating before he is close to her. Reyna is able to school her expression only by virtue of having been trained to do so, and she concentrates on the mute’s flashing fingers. “Andrey Blackmont is dead,” is all she says to him. “Go and find Dagur at once. Edmund, stay here with me, I think…”
She trails off then, and looks to Aidan with a look of dawning sympathy. “Ser Aidan… I suppose you… this cannot be welcome news to you. I know many of your countrymen pinned their hopes on…” But what can one say? Especially Lord Tyrell’s sister? She looks to the Crakehalls then, and with her face turned away from the Dornishman allows a smile of satisfaction fleetingly cross her face.
Burton winks to Elmer and once more takes the wineskin from the guard ” This Maester seemed to be very agitated.Probably I should have offered him some wine ,to calm down a little. There is still a gulp left .Are you sure you wouldn’t have some ,Ser Aidan? “-he is speaking in an amused manner,while the gaze of his only eye remains cold and concentrated. ” Andrey Blackmont is dead”-says he quietly,but clearly with hidden pleasure ” Well,at least something during this war is done properly… I wonder who killed him? A knight , a lord or a common soldier? It is not right when such warriors-whether they are friends or foes-are defeated by men not worthy of them”
“I thank you, my lady,” Ser Aidan says briefly. “I am only sorry that a brave man is dead. Lord Andrey had been kind to me, when I was a boy, but this outlawry…” He does not go further, nor does he clarify. The castle is slowly waking to the news, and it begins to spread like wildfire. He looks back, to the Dornish knights who are only just now taking notice of the unusual activity, and do not know what to make of it.
“Pardon me. I must tell my friends,” the Knight of the Twilight says, offering a brief nod before turning and walking towards the milling Dornish knights. He raises a hand and calls to one and then another of them, drawing their attention as he draws nearer. The gather about him, tall on their borrowed destriers, cheerful still ... until the news, when their smiles and cheer disappear. Questions are asked, and Aidan shakes his head, and again and again—he knows no more than they, now.
Elmer laughs a little. “Cousin, wars are not like tourneys. We kill the rabble, and they kill us. The battles between knights remain in legend, but truth be told, it is rarely something that happens.” He looks at Aidan and shrugs. “Do not despair, my Lord. It is the better way. Dorne has been brought into the Realm, and it’s better that opposition stops the soonest. Only then will suspicions go away…and there will be no need of hostages and such>”
Smiler shakes his head and gestures some more, at the same time Edmund says, “No, my lady. -You- are going home at once, not standing around here with a lot of armed Dornishmen.” He takes Reyna by the elbow and brooking no argument, escorts Lord Tyrell’s sister away with haste. Smiler lingers only long enough to eye the Dornish with his murderous eyes, and then he, too, is gone.
The heir to Crakehall keeps sipping the drink and listening to the conversation . He stays silent for a few seconds,then turns to Elmer and ,watching Aidan walking away to speak with the other Dornishmen ” The wars are not indeed like tourneys, cousin,but it doesn’t mean I do not lament it. Some people deserve a worthy death-and this Lord Andry ,despite being an enemy ,was one of those. As well as my father and Ser Sumner… Anyway, it was a great victory for our Realm and our lord,the King. His Majesty!”-says Burton,finishing thr last of the wineskin.
The agitation and excitement spreads indeed, but not always the exact word, so it is a baffled Valeria Blackmont who comes into the yard in company with her brothers, who are clad for jousting. She is looking far lovelier than she ever has, clean and neat and dressed in a new robe of azure sandsilk. Not herself at all, for anyone who knows her. “What’s going on?” she asks into the babble of Dornish talk, eyeing all the pleased Westerosi men and women—Crakehall in particular, since he is nearest. “What are they all so happy about?”
The Dornishmen, accepting this news, have lost all their good cheer. Some curse quietly, and others bear their grief or anger in silence. They start to ride their horses towards the stables, and most do so all the more quickly when they see Valeria Blackmont; none of them which to bear the word to her. Yet Ser Aidan is afoot. He looks at her, and looks away, thinking perhaps to skulk off and let someone else bear the tidings, to not be there when she hears it. And then he turns back, and makes his way towards her. His expression is grim.
Ser Burton eyes the newly arrived Dornish lady and gives her a curt nod ” Many loyal servants of the King are indeed glad, my Lady,although Dornismen have a reasin. The great rebel ,Lord Andrey Blackmont, is dead. “
Valeria is not a stupid girl, for all her ignorance, and she pales beneath her golden skin when everyone looks but does not speak. She has already reached for Arrant’s hand when Burton breaks the news. She stares at him, and then as one she and Aros look to Arrant. “Lord Blackmont,” she names him, tears welling in her eyes. Then she begins to sway, grief and grief and grief bending her down.
A wince crosses Ser Aidan’s face, when he sees the news has been given; it cannot be missed. He comes closer and says quietly, “Sometimes .... sometimes these reports are false, my lady, some mistaken news…” He stops himself, and shakes his head. “But I fear it true. Ser Mavros would never make such a mistake. I am very sorry, my lady, my lords. Come away from here, I beg you—let us go to the tower, to grieve there in peace.” He sounds almost desperate by the end, so unused to outpourings of grief.
Burton says, “emit Burton Crakehall shrugs and gives the skin back to the servant ” My Lady, I am Burton,the heir to Crakehall…I don’t think we have met before. I cant not be pleased by our victory, by another sucessfull step taken in the direction of the pacifying of Dorne,but ,as I have said before, Lord Andrey was a great warrior and he died like one. I take it,he was a relative of yours?”“
Valeria looks, just for a moment, like she will allow herself to be taken away. She nods at Aidan, and at her brothers who look as stricken as she, though Arrant’s strong arm holds her up ably.
Then Burton speaks. “HE WAS MY FATHER!!” she screams at him, throwing off Arrant’s arm and advancing on the Crakehall with her hands in claws. It takes both of Andrey Blackmont’s sons to hold back his wildling daughter, and only when she is in their embrace she turns bewildered eyes on Aidan. “What happens now?” she asks him, all the fight gone out of her again as quickly as it came.
Ser Burton sighs and scratches his silk eyepatch, giving the Dornismen a rather strange look. ” Ser Aidan, my lady of Blackmont… I think I should leave you now. Blackmont was an enemy to my King-the lawfull master of Dorne , my realm and to me . But to you he was a compatriot, a relative and a loyal servant to your Prince…Probably you would like to discuss the situation in private” Valerias outburst didnt seem to have made any effect on him, but ...After making a few steps,he suddenly turns to Valeria,his only eye bloodshed and furious now ” Dornishmen have killed my own father and brother, my lady. Now it is your fathers turn. It is just a matter of fortune “-growls he.
Eyes turn throughout the yard to that enraged scream, and tongues wag as they survey scene. Few seem to hold any pity for the rebel’s children. But Ser Aidan, wincing, tries to step between Valeria and Ser Burton as her brothers hold her back. “I ... I do not know, my lady. The news—it only just came…”
And then Crakehall decides to speak up. His lips set into a hard line at that, and then he says with icy courtesy, “Thank you, ser, for sharing that. Yet this lady and her brothers did not harrass you when you grieved for your father, I think; do them the courtesy to do the same, and leave them be.”
Valeria has no such knack for courtesy as Aidan. “Go fuck yourself, Crakehall,” she snarls. “You and your bloody Conquest and your King and ALL OF YOU!” This last she aims at all the staring Westerosi faces. She tries to throw off the arms confining her again. “Arrant, let me go, I promise I’ll be good,” she begs the eldest of the three.
“Lord Blackmont,” Arrant corrects her in a broken voice. But she only shakes her head at him, made dumb for a moment.
” I will follow my cousin”-answers Burton, now mastering his famous temper-” My presence here wouldn’t lead to anything good at the moment. Excuse me for being rather harsh, my Lady. We will probably meet again, Ser Aidan” Giving a sign to his guard,he prepares to depart. His expression is as grim and concentrated as ever.
Aidan watches Crakehall go, and shakes his head. Expression softening, he turns back to the Blackmonts. “I am sorry for that, and for all else. I wish the gods did not make it so,” he says to them, and seems to mean it. “Come away from here. We need no prying eyes.” The exchange between Valeria and Arrant passes him by; he thinks nothing of it, but another mark of grief.
“He refused the pardon,” Valeria says in a numb voice as she lets her brothers and Aidan lead her away. “He refused, and you idiots wouldn’t write the letters and now Blackmont is mine alone. There is no Lord Blackmont.”
Fortunately there are plenty of Dornishmen around to subdue Arrant Blackmont when this sinks in. His howl of rage and grief echoes off the walls of the Red Keep and he goes to his knees. Finally Aros kneels with him and both name their sister Lady Blackmont—but it is clear this is not over when they all have gone from the yard, leaving it to the Westerosi conquerors and their celebrations.