Blood of Dragons

White Harbor’s Merman’s Court shone like a beacon against the harbor fog, its painted timbered vaults aglow with lantern light and the gleam of silvered plate. There, beneath painted krakens and sea-beasts, Lord Borian Manderly flung wide his gates to welcome Prince Daeron of Dragonstone, Princess Daena, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and a glittering company from across the realm. The occasion was the arrival of the Royces of Runestone for the wedding of Ser Waymar Manderly to Lord Andar Royce’s granddaughter Dancy, a union of two of the great houses of the North and the Vale.

None could fault Lord Borian Manderly for his hospitality, or his board: trencher-breads heavy with clam stew, roast goose and suckling pig adorned with lemon and seaweed, sweetbreads upon oyster shells, and venison glazed in redcurrant and herbs, all washed down with free-flowing ale and wine. Minstrels from Gulltown and the North traded the floor, their music shifting from deep, salt-tanged thrum of sea-ballads to courtly airs. Between toasts, Lord Borian noted the absence of his liege, Lord Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, delayed by the autumn blizzards that now swept the Wolfswood and the Shivering Sea. With a grin, he swore the Old Man of the North would ride in before the vows, hale as ever in the saddle.

A fanfare of trumpets hailed the Royces’ entry, bronze and black gleaming in the lamplight. At their head strode Lord Andar and Lady Ursula, with Ser Gunthor and Lady Anwyn presenting their daughter. Lady Dancy’s progress to the high table drew many an appraising glance; Ser Waymar’s did not leave her. Prince Daeron was soon in quiet counsel with Lord Andar and Lord Borian, their talk turning to the pirates taken at Sisterton and the likely imminent arrival of a ship from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea which would gladly take the prisoners north to take the black.

Then the musicians struck up a bounding northern reel, and the stone floor was claimed by the revel. Boisterous Glovers, roaring Umbers, and southerners alike whirled beneath the kraken’s painted gaze. In the heart of it, Princess Daena was a storm in black silk and gold scrollwork, taking the hands of partner, Dornishman, northman, Vale knight, and reach lord alike. She laughed, she spun, she passed from arm to arm with tireless grace, while those too wise or weary to join stamped the rushes in time and called for another horn of ale. Many eyes were on her, and it was clear that not a few northern heirs and lances became enamored of her high-spirit and beauty.

The coming fortnight promised great festivities, as the whole bounty of White Harbor was turned over to the celebrations. More feasts would be had, a masque, a grand tourney and other contests of skills at arms, hunts, and more were promised. And a wedding, of course, as grand as any the North had seen in decades.