Blood of Dragons

In the damp wilds of Crackclaw Point, where the trees crowd close and the soil swallows sound, a quiet but startling union has been struck. Lady Beranda Sarsfield, lately of Missy Blackwood’s retinue and more lately still the subject of courtly whispers, was wed at Brownhollow—but not to the man expected.

For weeks in King’s Landing, her name had been paired with that of Ser Osney Brune, heir to the Knight of Brownhollow. Rumor said their match was all but sealed, the young lady bound away from court to recover from recent scandal under the stern but obscure protection of House Brune. Her escort was her cousin by marriage, Ser Dermett Corbray, a trusted go-between for the Blackwoods and their allies, who was said to have secured the union in quiet accord.

But the journey’s end brought a bitter twist.

At the high table of Brownhollow, with a feast spread before them and the household in attendance, Ser Lothar Brune made plain his will: Lady Beranda would indeed marry a Brune, but not his son. The Knight of Brownhollow claimed the lady’s hand for himself, in full view of kinsmen, retainers, and his son Osney, who left the hall in silence. The declaration shocked even Ser Dermett, who protested—to no avail.

It was a heavy moment, made heavier still by what all present did not say aloud. Rumors of Lady Beranda’s fall from grace had dogged her journey east, her name entangled with Ser Jon Roxton’s after the infamous wedding feast of Princess Elaena. Talk of a pregnancy had circulated in court and beyond, with a hasty miscarriage later claimed. Whether Ser Lothar believed the child was still quickened, or simply judged it politic to claim what others might scorn, he made it clear that any issue henceforth would bear his name, not his heir’s.

And so, on the 15th day of the new year, the marriage was sealed. A septon from Rook’s Rest said the vows. Ser Osney Brune did not attend. The bride’s face, those few who witnessed it claim, was pale but composed. Her cousin, Ser Dermett, is said to have borne the matter with the grim resignation of a man who had walked into mire expecting firm ground.

There was no pageantry, no songs. But Lady Beranda Sarsfield is now the Lady of Brownhollow, and Ser Lothar has gained a young wife with strong kin, a sharp wit, and—if the old knight’s confidence is to be trusted—childbearing years ahead of her. Whether this alliance proves sanctuary, sentence, or something stranger still, only time will tell.