“Think they’ll hang the Starveling?” asks the Smallwood youth.
“If justice prevails, yes,” replies Ser Luthor as his sword meets his cousin’s. “Can’t remember if his mother was noble or not, if she is, then I suppose they might behead him.”
The boy’s look is non-comittal at that. Luthor knows well what the boy is not saying, and so he leaves him be, though picks up the speed of their drill, just to keep the youth on his toes.
Aidan charges at the quintain, his horse swiftly picking up speed…
Aidan’s horse moves at a swift gallop towards the quintain…
Aidan lowers his lance, aims at the battered shield and ...
... strikes the shield a devastating blow that shatters it entirely and breaks his lance to pieces!
A squire rushes up to clear away the shards and splinters that Aidan reduced the shield to. After a few moments, he hangs up a brand new one.
Joining the ranks of those in the practice fields, Fiona arrives on the arm of one Elmer Crakehall. Her hand rests lightly right where it should and she keeps her other at the front of her cloak to keep it closed against the chilly wind, gloves protecting her hands. They talk as they walk and she occasionally looks up at him to smile or around to see who is where and doing what to whom, especially as they near where the action is, usually anyway.
Farin Prester stands off to the side, watching the other knights at their practice. He is quiet today, dressed for court rather than combat, his ermine doublet as crisp as his posture. When he isn’t staring off into space, he shouts encouragment to Luthor’s squire…seemingly amused by the motion of his cousin being put to shame, though all involved know the liklihood if that.
“Riders approaching the gate!”
A regular cry, of course, from the wall of the Red Keep, from a watchman there. Nothing unusual in it, but it leads the bronze gates to be slowly opened to receive them, and an officer of the guard to come forward to address the horsemen and discover their business. No one else pays it any mind, yet another part of the castle’s daily routine.
Servants, courtiers, knights of the king’s household move here and there. And septons, more and more of them, seemingly by the day. The royal sept’s compliment has been augmented, septons to personally attend on various functionaries of the court have become more in evidence, and it’s rumored that King Baelor means to place the High Septon on the small council. Even Prince Viserys can be seen, now crossing the yard with a knight of the Kingsguard and a pair of swords from his household, in colliquy with a septon in their midst. “... say whether he means to expand it,” Viserys can be heard to say, as he pauses to watch the knights at the quintain, violet eyes considering them with idle purpose. “Or build something new. The Dragon…” His words are lost in the thunder of hoofs as another knight charges, though with less success than Ser Aidan.
Elmer walks proudly with Fiona at his arm, the tall dark haired man smiling as the blonde beauty is so close to him. As they walk into the yard, he admires Aidan’s prowess, and he leans to whisper in Fiona’s ear. “Now that’s a knight as we all dream to be..if only he weren’t Dornish.” He raises his head at the cry.
In through the gate comes a rider mounted atop a black sand steed and with a grey mare on a lead rope. The black stallion has his ears pinned back and there’s something dejected about his look, as if the weather doesn’t sit well with him at all. The mare, on the other hand, seems invigorated, with her ears pricked forward and a spring in her step.
And the rider? There’s something of the upcoming storm in her expression. Lady Aisling Ryswell has, for those who take note of such things, been even more of an oddity this last month than ever before. That she would be found returning from an unchaperoned ride outside the Keep is only to be expected.
The arrival of Prince Viserys, draws Luthor’s eyes from his drill for a moment. A moment too long it seems, as his squire’s blade darts out to swap against the bastard knight’s uninjured side. He grins, proudly, as Luthor’s eyes dart back to his cousin and gives him an amused smirk. “Well done,” he snorts then lances out with his own practice blade to give his cousin a little shove.
The boy ducks it nimbly and grins wider while Luthor shakes his head. “I’m getting old and slow,” he remarks, though he does note the arrival of Elmer and Fiona. The pair’s closeness drawing a grin from the bastard knight. “Enough swordplay,” he tells his squire and then wanders in Farin’s direction, beckoning the boy to follow.
“Coz,” he calls to the Prester knight. “Shall we say hello?” he asks with a nod towards Elmer and Fiona.
Burton Crakehall is standing not far from his friend Luthor, a cup in his palm . Today he is accompanied by a rosy page in brown silks and his bodyguard,Tymon the Brigand,who is ,as always,modestly dressed-for a Dornishman,though. Burton is watching the Rivers knight and his squire sparring and smiling sympathetically . When he hears the cry,he knits his brows ,learly concerned.
Fiona looks up at the cry as well but it is the ladies arrival that steals her attention, grinning some to herself, she can’t blame the woman, racing out the gates alone is quite envigorating! Ahem. But, back to present company she glances to Elmer then smiles toward Luthor & Co., the smile quirking, go ahead and grin Luthor, just go ahead.
Exchanging hammer blows with a man-at-arms of the House Hightower about his age, but a good half-foot shorter, Jorian seems more eager to devastate his sparring partner’s shield than actually to hit him. Powerful strikes have already left several dents, and the big Crakehall knight uses his superior reach to keep the soldier on the defense.
A particularly brutal blow sends the smaller man tripping backward and falling on his ass, which earns him a crude joke from Jorian’s part; he helps him get back back on his feet, and motions toward the kitchens “We should get something to eat, exercise always leaves me hungry!”
Farin has little interest of someone entering the yard, but the Prince is another matter entirely. He feigns watching the rest of the knights as he was doing before, but keeps an eye on where Prince Viserys moves, and tries to listen to as much of what is said as he can-if not for those damnable horses. His gaze returns just in time to see Luthor’s squire get his swap in, and he laughs a little too loudly at it, in case anyone had caught his attention elsewhere.
“I think we shall,” Farin returns, making his way over to Luthor.
Elmer points towards Jorian. “My cousin seems in fine fettle today.” he looks at Aisling too, he’s always admired those Dornish sand steeds. he grins back towards Luthor and walks with Fiona on his arm, the tall man trying to hear what’s happening. He holds the young girl almost protectively.
Some of the horses grow restless, with the weather. Ser Aidan can be seen waving away a fresh lance offered up by his squire, head raised up to the sky, judging… And then he determines to dismount. In doing so, perhaps he notices the newest arrival in the yard, but he hands the reins off to Danyll so that the youth can lead the horse away to the stable.
“No, I do not think he will begin in earnest,” Viserys remarks, turning his attention to some of the other knights and men-at-arms, those sparring with blades, or meandering. The sight of Luthor Rivers causes him to beetle his thick brows in thought, recalling ... something. But a shake of his head, perhaps to something the septon says, and he replies to him.
Not so very long after, as the Hand and his companions begin to leave for the inner yard in which Maegor’s Holdfast sits, a half dozen riders now pass through the gate. A youth in a gold cloak runs from the gatehouse, as fast as his feet can carry him, to the prince.
“My lord!” the youth calls after Viserys, who advances a few paces before realizing the boy’s calling him. He stops and turns, frowning. The youth, having sprinted across the yard, can be heard to mumble something, face flushed with unease; something about Blackhaven. Viserys’s expression turns graver, and he turns his eyes up to the gates and those horsemen.
Those who’ve been about the tourney circuit or the Red Keep for any length of time before Daeron launched his attempt to quell the Dornish rebellion will recognize the man at the head of the company… or at least, they may do so, though he has changed. Ser Conrad Arryn, the darling of the Vale, brother to the Lord of the Eyrie and Knight of the Bloody Gate, is gaunt and unhealthy in appearance, weary from travel and privation. Much the same can be said of his companions. But Ser Conrad has been long away from court, hasn’t he? He departed with the king, and… and the rumors have said that he was one of the few survivors of Ser William Waxley’s fateful march into the Boneway.
“Ser Conrad!” a man calls, some casual acquaintance, raising a welcoming hand. Arryn gives him a brief look, expression flat, before he rides on, deeper into the yard, passing the knot of westermen and others. “Sers, my lady,” the knight says, voice hoarse, still on his steed. His gaze is on Viserys though, he now approaches with his guards and the septon in tow.
Farin had intended to greet Fiona and Elmer as he approached at Luthor’s call, but as the scene unfolds before him, he finds himself watching silently instead. Eventually he leans over to the nearest person-now Elmer-and without so much as looking his way, asks, “...that’s Ser Conrad Arryn, is it not?” almost more in disbelief than in actual need of confirmation.
After recovering his cloak from a nearby fence and throwing it upon his shoulders, Jorian takes a spare moment to scan the courtyard. He’s about to go to greet his cousins and Fiona who weren’t there earlier, when the young messenger shouts to draw the Prince’s attention. Though he can’t hear the content of the news he’s bringing, he notices the sudden change in the Hand’s expression, and his gaze follows the same direction to the horsemen entering the courtyard. They are not familiar to him, but he recognizes the name of Lord Arryn’s brother, and wonders what it portends.
Fiona doesn’t resist being drawn close to the Crakehall Knight at all, no, her hand is comfortable on his arm and she looks at ease, perhaps moreso than she has been in recent months, if any knew her well enough to see the difference. Stormy hazel eyes follow the commotion and she watches curiously, her head tilting, Ser Conrad Arryn…though she doesn’t voice a word, she merely casts a questioning look up at Elmer.
Arryn dismounts, with a certain pained stiffnes—the result of days in the saddle?—when Viserys is near enough. He bows to the Hand, who promptly says, “None of that, Ser Conrad. The gods are good, to see you safely returned here…” His voice trails off, as he regards the man’s gaunt, haggard face, once known for its handsomeness. His lips thin and then he says, “You have had a hard journey, ser.”
“Harder than some, my lord Hand,” Ser Conrad says, caught midway in his bow, and slow to straighten. “But easier than that of too many others.” Is that a note of bitterness?”
Viserys pauses, and looks to the Crakehalls, and Fiona, and Farin. His violet eyes narrow a moment, before he nods to them, as Arryn did. “Sers, my lady.” And then to Conrad he start to say, “Have you seen your brother, ser? He will be heart-glad to see you safely returned.” He starts to motion for Conrad to follow, to turn away, to carry out the rest of the conversation in great privacy…
Elmer looks down at the beautiful woman on his arm. “He came from Dorne, I’m glad he’s alive..” he whispers and comes closer to hear what the hand is saying. His hand pats hers gently. he bows towards Viserys. “My lord Hand.” he says respectfully, indeed this man deserves respect.
Fiona nods to Elmer then as the Hand approaches she sinks into a proper, deep curtsy, a hand sweeping up across her chest to lay gracefully near her collarbone, head bowed. Respect indeed. She’ll rise when given leave by the Hand’s retreat from the immeidate area.
Farin’s bow is deep, and he all but echoes Elmer as Viserys’ gave sweeps over him. “My Lord,” he says reverently, though his pitch gives some indication that it causes him some pain to make the bow as deep as he chose to.
Jorian bows deeply to the Prince acknowledgment of his presence; “My Lord Hand”, he replies respectfully. As Viserys’ attention is reported on Conrad Arryn, he gets closer to Elmer and Fiona and greets them quietly “My lady, Ser Elmer, good day to you.”
“No,” Ser Conrad replies. “No, my lord. I came here directly, to see the king.” It’s a brief—perhaps even brusque—reply. Viserys seems to want to frown, but schools his expression towards blandness, noticing that Arryn does not choose to move with him. Perhaps it’s the horse whose reins he holds. One of the other men with him, equally haggard, moves to take the horse instead.
“The king is at his prayers, ser,” says Prince Viserys, “but I am sure he will wish to see you, if you wait but a little while. Until then, we might—”
Arryn’s attention is distracted, by the sight of Dornish robes amidst the knights at the quintain, as Ser Aidan Dayne—in his striped lilac and white robes over his armor—moves nearer afoot, while his squire has lead his horse away. The two have met in the tourney field, but… Arryn doesn’t seem to want to meet him. “You were in Dorne, were you not, sers?” He asks suddenly, to the wester knights and Ser Luthor Rivers. And Viserys ... says nothing, about the turn in this conversation, but he looks ... troubled? Annoyed? Hard to say.
Elmer runs a hand through his hair as he looks at Conrad. “Yes, ser, we met there…what news do you bring?” he asks, his other hand around Fiona’s slim waist, the bearded knight looking a bit distraught. It appears to be a day of twists and turns.
“Indeed, Ser. The first and the second,” Farin nods to Conrad. He asks nothing further, however, choosing to let Arryn take his own time.
The lady from Castamere remains quiet, taking in Arryn’s demeanor and that of the others too, skin prickling as tensions seem to rise before their very eyes. Her gaze shifts between the Hand and those in her immediate presence, a sort of uneasiness drawing her grey-green eyes from man to man to man.
Jorian nods slowly to the gaunt knight, his gaze shifting between him and the Hand standing behind, looking for the later’s leave to speak. As Prince Viserys doesn’t seem to object, the Crakehall smiles faintly to Conrad “Indeed, Ser, though our paths didn’t cross during this campaign.”
With the arrival of Ser Conrad and his companions, Lady Aisling keeps herself to the outskirts of the gathering that starts to form, and it is perhaps a little curious that she does not immediately remove herself from the scene. Maybe even she wants to know what word the Arryn knight brings?
“No word, sers. You have heard the news,” Ser Conrad says. “Give thanks to the gods you did not try the Boneway as a second time. The seven hells could not be crueller.”
“Then let us give thanks that man can best the seven hells, as your presense proves.” the Prester lordling quips, his appropriately dimmed for the giving of said thanks. He shifts for a moment, regarding Conrad Arryn a little more openly.
Elmer sighs a little and looks at Fiona. “I didn’t think it will be like this.” his eyes look for ser Aidan and he thinks of warning the Dornishman to stay away. Such arrivals could mean trouble again and he looks for his cousins.
Fiona glances up at Elmer then out and around as well, though not far and not for long, more than the breeze chills the lady as she holds her cloak closed, skirts rippling on the wind.
“Well said, ser,” Prince Viserys replies to Ser Farin, noting the man thoughtfully. But the words don’t seem to mollify gaunt Ser Conrad. Instead he turns to his horse, and pulls a wrapped bundle—long and slender—from the saddle. “I have something for King Baelor, which Ser William tasked me to carry, Prince Viserys. To give to the king, and no one else.”
There’s a shift in Viserys’s demeanor, at that. There’s a long, still pause, as he looks at the bundle. And then ... “Is it the sword?”
Arryn nods his head.
And in the distance, Ser Aidan—catching Ser Elmer’s look, perhaps—pauses, helm tucked under his arm. He hesitates ... and then turns aside, moving away. Not entirely out of the yard, no—he watches from a distance.
Farin Prester keeps his tongue this time. His eyes stray to the bundle; his thoughts to how costly it was bring it. As the scene continues to unfold, he casts about his fellow westermen, looking to their responses in the spare moment between Prince and Swordbearer.
All thoughts of food forgotten in the presence of this man who went through such trials and sufferings to carry out his duty, Jorian stands silently in the courtyard, oblivious of the cold. His gaze shifts to the bundle at the last words of Prince Viserys. “The Targaryen’s heirloom, the sword of the Kings”, he muses, eyes fixed on the Arryn knight.
Elmer ‘s head raises as most people’s would. “Blackfyre!” has it really returned? That would be a most welcome news for the realms a symbol of Targaryens. He looks at Conrad wanting to see if it’s true. Other people begin to whisper around him, and his hand squeezes Fiona’s a little.
Fiona’s eyes fly to the wrapped bundle then up to Elmer and her head nods slowly, waiting for confirmation from someone, her hand squeezing his in return. She looks around some at the whisperers then waits, gazing back at the bundle and the man who brings it.
“Thank the gods,” Viserys breathes—and smiles, wryly, even warmly, at Elmer’s exclaimation. “I feared it lost, Ser Conrad. You have done a great thing, bringing it to his grace.”
And Ser Conrad shakes his head. “It was Ser William who saw it done. I am only the hand that bore it.” Self-effacing ... or perhaps beyond caring about such things, after the brutal predation of his journey. “But if you did not know—the crown—”
“Aegon’s crown?” Viserys says, more soberly. “We know it is gone. That Rhodry Martell took it, after…” He does not name the deed that the Martell prince committed, but everyone knows it. It need not be spoken. “The king means to ask its return, when he meets Prince Marence in Sunspear.”
Elmer sighs as the crown is mentioned too. he holds Fiona in his arms, hope beginning to beat through him. he smiles at her and whispers. “Well..not everything is bad then..” his eyes looking into hers.
“Assuming it remains in one piece,” Farin mutters under his breath, his tone, muffled as it is, still dripping with the venom reserved only for topics such as the atrocities of the Dornish. He addresses no one in particular, his words just a small lax in self restraint listening to the men of authority.
A little flinch when the crown is mentioned and Fiona lets herself rest against a strong arm of support then she smiles up at him and nods to his whisper, answering in an equally quiet voice. “Tis a theme for the day.”
In the distance, bells ring—the service at the royal sept is done, and far away similar services are finished in the septs that scatter the city, from Visenya’s Sept to the meanest dockside sept. With that, Viserys regards the westermen and asks, “Sers, would one of you be so kind as to arrange for word to be sent to Lord Arryn, in his manse, that his brother is at the Red Keep?”
Farin Prester bows immedaitely. “I will see to it personally and at once, my lord Hand,” he replies swiftly, and turns heel to head for the manse, barring anyone’s faster offer.
Elmer pushes forward and watches, the big knight standing by his cousins and the young girl from Castamere. As farin deprts he smiles. “I think we’re going to see some changes, cousins.” he grins, his heavy hand retsing on Burton’s shoulder.
The Targaryen prince nods his head in passing to Prester, watching him going promptly about his charge. And then to the others, he dips his head. “If you will excuse us, sirs.” And with that, and a brief word to Ser Conrad, he leads the knight away—carrying the cloth-wrapped Blackfyre in his arms—towards the royal sept.
And all around, most every man and woman in the yard has watched the scene, trading whispers, wondering, biting back exclaimations when it became clear that Arryn rescued Blackfyre. Even the Dornishmen in the yard take their own leave, to place horses back in the stables, or to make their way back to the Dornish Tower.
Jorian lets out a groan as the news concerning the crown is confirmed, and at the prospect of the king’s departure for Dorne, his expression grows darker. Before he can answer to the Hand’s inquiry, the Prester knight volunteers himself, and Jorian remains silent, listening as the ringing of the bells still resounds in the air. He nods absently to his cousin’s remark.