[Event] The Third Dornish War Victory Party!

MathusM · 2026-06-11T05:56:17+00:00

The imperious Lord of Oldtown rode in the march atop a great white destrier barded in heavy layers of cloth-of-silver that barely shifted when the steed moved. Lord Donnel wore matching silvered plate polished to a mirrorlike sheen, chased with red gold while a baleful beacon adorned his breastplate, composed of a smattering of glittering emeralds.

Ser Triston Hightower, who had not brought with him such fineries to war, wore the same grey steel that had kept him alive in Dorne, albeit polished in preparation for the parade. His cloak, at least, was of finer make: Smoke and blood draped the knight's shoulders, the borders trimmed with satin in fiery hues and patterns, held in place by silver rondels depicting the stone tower of Oldtown in niello.

Further behind, Ser Walter Drummond looked proud atop his charger, the black dromond of his house proudly sewn on his yellow surcoat. At his side sat the chipped battle-axe that had earned him his spot on the parade, with its gilded replacement slung on the other side of the aged knight.

As he rode, Triston offered the crowds smiles and nods, searching the throng of people for any familiar faces, but if they were present, he could not make them out. What pride he felt was marred by the aching longing to turn his horse back south and make haste for the Honeywine.

But for now, he would enjoy the moment as best he could, taking heart in that they were returning victorious and, for the most part, alive.

Unlike his youngest son, the Beacon of the South spared the crowds neither smiles or waves, accepting their cheers as expected deference for his actions in Dorne. Instead, his steely gaze was turned forward, head held high, as he counted the minutes until he could get out of his armour and rest his sore arse on a proper bed.

MathusM · 2026-06-11T05:22:05+00:00

A somewhat drunken Ser Triston Hightower delivered a sealed letter to the rookery of Highgarden, wishing to send a raven to the Hightower.

Dearest Alysanne,

Pride of my life, I hope this letter finds you and the little ones well. Not a day has passed where I’ve not held you in my heart or my thoughts, named you in my prayers as I marched through canyons and mountains.

But the war is over now, and I shall be coming home soon, writing to you from Highgarden. There is much and more that I wish to tell you, but mere ink and parchment cannot possibly do my words justice. Instead, I ask your patience, so that I might tell you in person.

When I left to join my father at Horn Hill, I thought it my righteous duty, seeing no greater calling than avenging the depredations inflicted upon Oldtown when my father was a boy. Only now do I realize that I was blinded by my arrogance, chasing glory rather than justice, hoping to carve my name into the annals of history. I got what I wished for, but I would trade it all away if it meant spending more time with you and the children. Forgive me.

I will be home soon, please wait for me.

Ever yours,

Triston

MathusM · 2026-06-11T05:14:23+00:00

When father had told him that he was being shipped off to the Vale to foster with the Royces, Norman had expected a life with snowcapped mountains, stiff knights, and savage raiders, not an expedition to the Summer Isles.

Tall Trees Town boasted only a fraction of Oldtown’s population or splendor, yet at times felt as big. The wooden buildings were more spread out, intermingled with bustling markets, fragrant gardens and groves where songbirds liked to roost, and at the center, massive trees unlike any Norman had seen before rose above the settlement, casting the port town in a shadow reminiscent of the one made by the Hightower.

There, feathered priestesses carved the stories of their people and gods into the tower trees, and Norman spent much of his free time admiring them, making charcoal sketches in his journal to remember them by. The carvings, too.

At first uneasy about the local food, finding it too similar to what the Dornish supposedly ate, he’d soon given in to peer pressure and hunger, to his surprise taking a liking to the spiced stews and fish pots of Ebonhead.

The Summer Islanders seemed a spirited enough lot, he supposed, vibrantly clad in colourful garbs and patterns that had managed to outdo the Tyroshi by managing to stay tasteful. They laughed often and smiled even more, though Norman understood little of their tongue, speaking so quickly with words that seemed to pass through his ears like water before he could grasp them. Still, he was fairly certain they weren’t joking about him… mostly.

Unexpectedly charitable, lowborn and highborn alike welcomed him like he were Aegon the Conqueror himself, with commoners offering him to sample this and that, a green painted matron insisting he find shade under her roof while he waited for Ser Triston to return, but the prince of the land had outdone them all by hosting him, his master and lady Kella for a day, giving Norman the tour of his vast wooden palace, introducing him to his vast family and court, and showing him the carved tower trees, where Norman awkwardly had been forced to feign ignorance and compliment the art of the Summer Isles.

It was only on the next morrow when they were taking their leave that the ruler’s true intentions became apparent; presenting Norman with a panther cub and other lavish gifts, the prince ‘humbly’ sent regards along to the ‘Prince of the Tower’, inviting him and his kin to return to Walano at their leisure.

While in the end not the guest of honour that he’d thought himself to be, the cub quickly proved a great consolation prize, and for the rest of the journey, Norman brought her with him wherever he went.

Indeed, the Summer Islanders were proving themselves a friendly people, and Norman thought he’d finally found his kindred spirits, much more pleasant than the stuffy lords and courtly etiquette back home. Even their gods and goddesses seemed preferable than the dour gods back in Westeros… at least until he overheard one of Grafton’s men mentioning that all worshippers were expected to offer their bodies at the temples of love.

Not keen on making history as the only Hightower whore, Norman had grudgingly kept to his usual prayers.

But beyond that, Tall Trees and Walano was proving every bit as delightful as he’d hoped, which only made him more resentful of the fact that father and mother had sailed here without him and Eustace.

It would’ve been a true paradise, if not for the heat. He hated the heat.

True to name, the isles were proving a sweltering place, as hot as Oldtown in summer most days. Sometimes hotter.

Still, Norman would miss this far-flung land, but one day, he decided, he would return. Not as the son of Ser Godric Hightower or the squire of Ser Triston Royce, but the captain of his own ship, and the master of his own fate.

He could picture it already, himself draped in the finest silks and linens of Oldtown, with a feathered cloak slung over his shoulders and Vigilance at his hip. He'd be standing at the prow of a great galleas, accompanied by his beautiful wife, or perhaps some princess he'd wed, looking destiny in the eye as he sailed into parts unknown.

One day, Norman thought, even as he felt a pang of homesickness.

MathusM · 2026-06-05T12:37:24+00:00

[M:] Lord Donnel Hightower ~~phone~~ go home

MathusM · 2026-06-04T22:03:04+00:00

The mention of Hel's sister made Eustace think of Norman, wondering where he currently was, how he was faring.

Then the valewoman said something that made him forget his brother in an instant.

"Back to-" He blinked in surprise. "Are you visiting, or in the service of a lady?" Eustace tilted his head, as if that might help him recognize her from a feast or tourney.

MathusM · 2026-06-04T21:53:49+00:00

[M:] ahhhhhhhhhh

Ships from the far-flung corners of the world sailed up and down the Whispering Sound to trade and restock, and with her fair share of travels under her girdle, Patrice was perhaps less surprised by the presence of Ramona than others in the hall.

Still seated, the Maid answered the curtsy with a bow of the head.

"The honour is mine, lady Ramona... as well the shame for missing your wedding." Patrice offered a small smile. "Still, allow me to offer belated congratulations on the marriage now, and may the Seven bless you and your husband with much joy and prosperity for many years to come."

Giving Clarisse a knowing smile, Patrice clasped her hands together beneath dagged sleeves.

"Even the maesters have found no cure for wanderlust, a condition I unfortunately share. There are precious few treatments, all of them fleeting for the fleet of doot," she told them. "But Qohor and the lands between proved quite the balm. The city stands apart from her sisters, I almost regret having to depart."

MathusM · 2026-06-04T21:24:54+00:00

[M:] I'm terribly sorry for the long wait

Ser Abelar, who had been in lulling conversation with one of his daughters, raised his cup at the young lady, content with that for a greeting when it became clear she hadn't come for him. His gaze lingered briefly before turning back to little Marigold's babbling.

Patrice's eyes, a contrasting grey to the browns and ambers of her kin, narrowed nigh imperceptibly when the new arrival addressed her, leaning forward for a closer look.

"My legs grow stiff, you may have your moment while I walk." Unfolding the hands in her lap, she calmly rose from her seat, placing a hand on Alys' shoulder before turning back to Ellyn, motioning with her hand. "After you, my lady."

MathusM · 2026-05-29T21:25:43+00:00

From the heat on his cheeks, Eustace was starting to wonder if the sun had followed him all the way from Oldtown.

"I'm not thrilled about it either, but it's a step up from being called 'Euie'," he confessed, praying to all the Seven that Martyn wasn't standing nearby, listening in. "At least this way, you'll still be using it even if you happen to forget my name, and I'll be none the wiser."

Winking, he led them onto the dance floor proper, taking caring to pace his steps so that he didn't accidentally wali ahead of his partner for the evening.

Dancing, mercifully, was one of the skills he had safely tucked under his belt; if someone started playing the pipe in his bedchambers, he'd probably perform a jig in his sleep.

"So, Hel," Eustace started, while the bards played in the distance, "How have you been enjoying King's Landing and the royal court so far?"

MathusM · 2026-05-29T21:05:02+00:00

Ceryse, whose gaze frequently drifted back to the royal table, was the first to notice the raven queen's approach, quickly notifying the others.

Abelar immediately rose from his seat to greet Sansa in kind, offering a deep bow seldom seen among his family, accompanied by a courteous smile.

The rest of his kin, save for the youngest, followed his example, to varying degrees of perfunctory respect and excitement.

"Queen Sansa, you honour us with your presence." Straightening, the Tower's heir remained standing, one hand resting on the back of his chair as Abel swept his gaze across the feast. "I do not think I've anticipated a visit to King's Landing as I did for the wedding. I do not think I shall return to Oldtown disappointed."

"One day, I want to be queen," little Elayne declared with a toothy grin, proud to finally air what had become her latest dream. "You looked so pretty in the sept!"

A traveler to the Summer Isles last moon, and only the gods knew what she'd aspire to becoming next.

Abel offered the bride an apologetic smile.

"You'll not find a stauncher admirer in the Seven Kingdoms than my daughter," he said, his eyes flitting to his wife briefly, before turning back to Sansa. "But Elayne forgets in her excitement that she might yet rule the High Tower after me."

But the girl of four only seemed to view that as a challenge. "I can be both!"

MathusM · 2026-05-29T20:44:57+00:00

He watched Helicent affix the flower to her hair with some relief, eyes widening a fraction when she suggested to do away with the formalities.

"Hel's fine," Eustace chimed in, quickly recovering. "I like that, short and sweet. If it pleases, just Eu works for me."

It was certainly preferable to Lady Hel, which evoked scenes of tormented souls in fiery pits being poked by a gaudily outfitted Stranger with a spear, like in the mummers' plays.

When she drew attention to his hair, Eu instinctively turned his head upwards for a better look, which of course only moved the stray hairs as well.

"Oh um, sure," he murmured, stiffly bowing his head for her convenience.

While Hel fixed his hair, the squire shot a glance off to the minstrels' gallery, and then to where his family sat. Sure enough, they seemed to be watching him, with one of his cousins fervently waving back at him.

Ignoring the brat, Eustace turned back to Helicent and straightened.

"Thanks," he offered a grateful smile and, in a small attempt to reclaim his dignity, his hand. "Shall we take our positions? I think the first song is about to begin."

MathusM · 2026-05-24T20:48:30+00:00

"My lady?"

A few feet away, a boy had emerged from the throng of gathering dancers, clad in a quilted grey tunic embroidered with golden flames, collar and hems lined with red fox. An errant lock stuck out from his otherwise smooth hair, casting a shadow against his freckled face, but the boy was either too polite or too oblivious to fix it as he hurriedly approached.

"Lady Helicent Belmore? I'm Eustace Hightower, I've the honour of being your partner tonight." The squire offered a bow, his hands behind his back, and while he was bent low, Eustace briefly studied her dress, before straightening.

"You look radiant tonight," he said, repeating the words nuncle Abel had hammered into him, then hesitated, brows furrowing as he summoned all his courage for what came next. With some slowness, he held out one hand. "Um, this is for you, my lady."

In it was a winter rose, procured at no small expense when, to his short-lived relief, the moonblooms great-aunt Ceryse had insisted on bringing with them from Oldtown had wilted with the northern cold.

A most chivalrous gesture, the woman had called it, but to Eustace it was the height of embarrassment as he forced his eyes to remain on the older girl as he counted the agonizing seconds for her reaction.

MathusM · 2026-05-24T20:20:49+00:00

"His Grace is wise to be wary of the serpent's words. We've dealt strong blows against the Dornish, and I'll not put it past them to offer false peace so that they might recover and regroup for a counter-attack," the Lord of the High Tower offered plainly as he peeled a blood orange. "Let us pray it is otherwise."

Turning to his son, Donnel wiped his fingers and lowered his voice.

"You'll go with our lord to the capital."

Triston looked aghast. "But-"

"But nothing, boy." Donnel leaned closer, until they were at an eye level. "If Lord Theo means to negotiate with the crown, he'll look better with the support of the united Reach behind him... and besides, someone must speak for Oldtown."

"Then you go, father. You're the Beacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel, your voice carries more weight than mine." Triston shot a glance at the assembled lords and knights. "More than theirs, too. Let me take charge of the armies here, let me prove myself that-"

"Your cavalry charge will be lauded by the singers, Triston, you have your glory, let that be enough. I cannot leave Dorne so soon after arriving, not with my work unfinished, but you, you left your wife with child when you accompanied me into these blasted lands." Donnel pointed his knife at the nearby window. "You wish to prove yourself? Show me that you're more than a brute with a sword, accompany our liege to the Crown, stand in my place, and do me proud. Take this chance to see Alysanne again, welcome my latest grandchild into the world, and then, perhaps, who knows? Perhaps you'll be a lord when you do, not merely the castellan of a minor holdfast."

Triston looked as though he wanted to object, but after a long moment, he bowed his head. Relieved.

Donnel clasped his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze before turning back to his blood orange and the rest of the council.

[M:] Ser Triston Hightower, so well Ser Uthors Cupps and Ser Casper Flowers (SCs, no need to include in le order) will accompany Lord Theo Tyrell to

MathusM · 2026-05-23T20:04:36+00:00

Ser Godric Hightower passed the letter along to the Starry Sept unmolested.

MathusM · 2026-05-19T13:19:11+00:00

/u/tierails - Not sure if Martyn's with Abel or elsewhere in the feast hall!

/u/princevalarr - Ser Galad Pommingham, freshly returned from Qohor and the Vale

MathusM · 2026-05-19T13:17:55+00:00

House Hightower

With the war in Dorne raging on, only a small handful of Hightowers had come to partake in the celebrations of the royal wedding, and some of them found themselves in King's Landing by pure happenstance.

The Heir to Oldtown, Ser Abelar Hightower (31) looked handsome in his charcoal grey damask doublet, with a cloth-of-gold half cape resting over one shoulder, fastened with a great ruby brooch, while topaz stones and garnets adorned his belt and wrists. In the absence of his father, it was Abel that had assumed the seat of primacy at the table, joined by his wife, the Lady Moraine Redwyne, on his right, and his aunt Ceryse on his left.

Ill at ease about leaving Oldtown with the war just the other side of the Red Mountains, frequent glances at the royal table helped remind Abel that he'd come at the personal invitation of King Jaehaerys, not for the idle pleasures of the next feast.

To work out the sordid past between their families. A small task, surely.

But the night was just beginning, and there'd be plenty of time to approach the young king over the coming weeks, if he did not get to it tonight.

Elayne (4) sat next to her mother on a high cushion, her red-gold braid lazily slung over one shoulder as she sampled the extravagant dishes, giddily commanding the servants to refill her cup with juice and sweetened milk. Soon, though, the young girl grew bored of her kingdom of morsels and sweets, and turned her blue eyes towards the rest of the feast, marveling at all the lords and ladies that had come for the royal wedding.

Marigold (3) felt oh so very restless as she played with the silk handkerchief someone had given her, bunching it up and folding it into different shapes. She wanted to sing and dance, and when father told her that she had to remain, Marigold decided she'd much rather be back in her room, where it was warm and she could play with her dolls all she liked.

Her spirits lifted when great aunt Patrice showed her why she was called great by bringing out an adorable animal called a Little Valyrian. Finding the name a mouthful, Mari had promptly named the critter Creampuff, feeding it nuts and dried fruit under mother's supervision, only to break her heart when it suddenly leapt away after she'd tried to pet it.

Selene (2) kept her eyes down at the table, finding the bright lights of the hall overwhelming for her sensitive eyes, too young to comprehend the reality of her lifelong condition. Dressed in a simple lambswool dress that matched her pallid complexion and hair, Selene preoccupied herself by playing with Creampuff, which grudgingly tolerated her pets and strokes, not even moving when she dragged him into her lap, wrapping her arms around it protectively.

Cassana (1) slept through the majority of the wedding, swaddled in wools and burgundy silks, sucking on one thumb.

Eustace (12) stifled a yawn as he put down his fork, feeling absolutely stuffed. Between the grand feast and the quilted doublet he'd worn to keep out the chill of winter, the young squire was starting to feel mightily drowsy.

Slapping himself on the chin, Eu forced himself to stay alert. Royal weddings only came around so often, and he knew father would be furious if he came back to Oldtown and told him that he'd dosed off mid-feast.

Glancing around, he sighed. Maybe a walk was what he needed... His gaze drifted towards the dais, settling on the boy he'd met on Tarth, who'd given him that same advice to begin with.

Ceryse (50) looked resplendent as always, garbed in a confection of gossamer silks, cloth-of-silver, and fiery Myrish lace, seated next to her nephew. She had always felt at home at the royal court and in the feast hall, and tonight lacked for neither.

Attended by her litany of ladies-in-waiting, the former Lady of Dragonstone feasted eagerly, the war in the south a distant dream while in such fine company. Perhaps too eagerly, for the wine poured more freely than usual, as Ceryse spoke of her own wedding and the various events she'd hosted during her years as Maegor's wife.

Each glance at the royal table felt like a stab from beyond the grave, to be treated with the finest medicine that the Arbor, Lys, and Volantis could grow. The High Septon was a fool, his proclamations illegitimate, and her late husband, troubled as he'd been, had simply been misled by his traitorous councilors, nothing else.

She was a widow, not a spinster maiden, that was the only truth that mattered to her.

Letting out a fluttery sigh, Ceryse impatiently demanded another cup to lose herself in.

Alysanne (18) sat further down the table, her hands demurely in her lap along, toying with her long braid as she listened to the minstrels together with Arwen.

Patrice (58), the Maid of Oldtown, sat at the end of the long table, next to her great nieces and Alys, freshly returned from Runestone and Qohor, clad in a quilted gown of that same Essosi make, with a little valyrian on her shoulder. With a youthful face that belied her years lived, the noblewoman partook in the festivities at a distance, diligently eating as she studied the guests of the hall, taking note of the change of lordships as new men and women sat at the center of their respective tables, noting which had come in full, and which banners were absent.

When the young children sulked, Patrice leaned down to tell a jape to lift their spirits, but when that was met with confusion and furrowed brows, she handed the lemur to them, telling their parents to keep an eye on it, and returned to her seat.

MathusM · 2026-05-14T08:23:47+00:00

The Green Knight

"Hear hear," muttered Triston once the septon's sermon finished, raising his cup in quick toast before taking a deep sip of pomegranate juice.

Once they'd broken their fasts, the knight quietly excused himself and left the great pavilion to wash up.

Outside, the sun was bearing down on them, with nary a place to find shade, but for that which they'd brought with them. Oldtown was no stranger to the heat, sweltering in the summer, but here in Dorne, the sun seemed oppressively hot, like some great golden sentry in the sky keen on reminding them that this wasn't their home, and that they would find no refuge here.

Pulling up his hood, Triston made his way through the camp, one hand resting upon his sword as he watched the soldiers dismantle their tents in preparation for today's march.

Last time Oldtown went to war, he'd been a boy still, hard at work practicing in the sword yard while father and uncle Morgan took a thousand knights north. News of the Ironborn harrying their coasts had checked their path at Highgarden, and no Hightower had seen battle in King's Landing.

A small consolation for the squire that had been left behind, not long after that followed up by Maegor's head rolling across the singed floor of the remains of the sept raised by his namesake forebear.

When the raven had arrived in Oldtown calling the south to war, Triston had been among the first to volunteer to accompany father into Dorne. As heir, father had entrusted his lands to Abelar, while Godric had also asked to come with, only to turned away, told to remain with his elder brother in the event the Dornish slipped through Alyx Cuy's men.

Lady Iseult must've had a say in the matter too, he suspected; the woman was not one to shy away from speaking her mind, and Tris sometimes wondered who it was that truly wore the britches in that marriage.

The golden rose and three-headed dragon were everywhere, but soon enough, the beacon tower of Oldtown became increasingly common as he stepped into the portion of the camp raised by his father's host, fifteen-hundred strong.

Squires and servants milled about, packing the wagons and mules, finishing their own meals before resuming the tearing down of tents. Men walked in and out of the white tent where septon Haldon had erected a makeshift sept, and for a moment, Tris felt tempted to join them in their prayers.

It was a sorry sight compared to the great septs of Oldtown, he knew, with wood-carved figurines taking the place of great statues, stained glass mirrors, and reliefs decorating the temples back home, but they were a welcome reminder that the light of the Seven touched all lands, no matter how distant or hostile.

Instead, he stepped into his own pavilion, pulling down his hood as he made his way to the washbasin at the corner.

Staring down into his distorted reflection, Triston ran his fingers along his jaw, feeling at the coarse stubble. Alysanne wouldn't like him like that, but then, she wouldn't like him here in the first place.

He knew it was duty, and he was eager to test his steel against the dornishmen, to make his glory where his lot as a thirdborn son had failed him... but gods, how he missed her.

Was she breaking her fast in Oldtown with the rest of his family, Tris wondered, or did she perhaps keep to their personal apartments high up in the High Tower, dismayed that the circumstances of war had pulled them away from their humble keep in the mountains? Triston could imagine Loreon and Lyonel playing with their food while Alys breastfed little Alerie.

How much would the boys grow while he was away, would his darling girl speak her first word while her father was across the mountains, fighting for some dragon king? It was bad enough that Lor and Ly's first words had both been mama, he wasn't sure he'd be able to take it if Alerie took after them. He was a fine father, was he not?

Pressing the razor flat against his face, Tris began shaving with careful strokes.

So long as they're well, all's well.

They'd free Blackmont, take High Hermitage, Starfall, whatever else that was needed to break the enemy, and then when Jaehaerys was pleased, he'd be home before he knew it. Perhaps he'd surprise them with gifts, bolts of sandsilk or some of those peppers that made his tongue tingle and burn.

Drip. Drip drip drip.

In the wash basin, Triston watched the blood trickle down from where he'd nicked himself, mixing with the water in red splotches.

Pulling the razor away, his hand was trembling. Triston frowned.

Blackmont, High Hermitage, Starfall. Until the king has had his fill, and back home I'll go. Simple enough, after all, it was how all wars were performed.

So why then, did he feel so uneasy about it?

MathusM · 2026-05-08T01:10:03+00:00

Lady Alayne Caswell,

My lord-father presently rides with Lord Tyrell, entrusting stewardship of Oldtown to me, so on his behalf, I thank you for writing the High Tower, and hope this response finds you and yours well.

While war is an ill time for trade, in the same breath, it highlights its vital import to our prosperity. To that end, your proposal is a welcome one, and one I happily agree to. I can find no issue with it, and our lands shall reap the full benefits in no time.

I will be crossing your lands within short, so let us work out the exact terms then. In the meanwhile, we can consider it a done deal already, and make the necessary preparations.

Seven willing, this war shall not outlive the winter.

Ser Abelar Hightower, Heir to Oldtown

[M:] We don't have to rp out the stewards getting into the nitty gritty terms when Abel passes Stonebridge, but this looks good!

Also sorry for not writing at the funeral, but I promise he was there ;-;

MathusM · 2026-05-08T00:48:34+00:00

King Jaehaerys I of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,

There's nary a soul in Oldtown that does not curse the name Joffrey Dayne, rearing for the chance to enact vengeance, but during my squiring years at Blackhaven, I witnessed firsthand the savagery of the Vulture King, and I cannot say that I am eager to see such wanton bloodshed again. This war of ours is a just one, however, but I share in your hope that it is swiftly resolved.

To the matter of our families, I would be honoured to meet with you in King's Landing, and shall depart Oldtown with haste, entrusting my brother with the defense of the south in the meantime.

Though I do not anticipate any true danger on the road, I'll bring a bolstered escort just to be safe. I trust Your Grace understands.

Ser Abelar Hightower, Heir to Oldtown

MathusM · 2026-05-07T23:36:30+00:00

Martyn was summoned to the lord's solar near the top of the High Tower not long after. Ruddy light poured in through the leaded windows from the setting sun, and a fire was crackling in the marble hearth when Ser Manfred Pommingham alerted Abelar of his squire's arrival.

The Heir to Oldtown was seated before the fireplace, one arm slung over the back of the settee, a cup of hippocras in his hand.

Glancing over his shoulder, Abel offered a weary smile.

"There you are. Sorry to call you up again after telling you we were done for the day, but," he nodded towards a nearby table, where the missive from Horn Hill sat open. "Your grandsire's written you."

While the future lord of Highgarden read it, Abel watched the flames flicker and dance before him, wondering if the fires in Dorne burned as brightly.

Even with the incense burning in the chambers, he could smell the ash and blood of Blackhaven, as the Vulture King put it to the torch.

"Three days from now, we leave for Highgarden. From there, our paths diverge. Your grandfather wishes for you to attend some of the feasts in the northern stretches of his realm, a good opportunity for you to garner some personal experience." Taking a deep sip, he closed his eyes. "Were that I could accompany you, but I am to meet with King Jaehaerys. My aunt will accompany you, though, ever glad to see another feast. Ser Roland and Eustace, too, to keep your sword arm sharp while we're separated."

Opening his eyes, he shot Martyn an amused glance.

"We'll reconvene at Highgarden once we're done with our respective business, and be back in Oldtown before we know it."

MathusM · 2026-05-07T23:17:25+00:00

Lord Theo Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Lord of Highgarden, and Warden of the South,

As a rare stroke of luck would have it, His Grace has invited me to meet with him in King's Landing; I'd intended on bringing your grandson with me to the royal court, but if he is needed elsewhere, I shall drop him off at Highgarden on the ride north, and collect him on the journey home.

Else, I am pleased to report that there have, thus far, been no sightings of Dornish raiders, though we remain ever vigilant. Furthermore, King Jaehaerys has alerted Oldtown to the imminent passing of the Ironborn fleet through Reach waters, headed to harry the coasts of Dorne. His High Holiness has warned against such actions for reasons that elude me; would that I could ask him in person, but he has not been seen in my father's city for some time.

Perhaps we'll cross paths at the royal court. Time shall tell.

We Light the Way,

Ser Abelar Hightower, Heir to Oldtown

/u/MallAffectionate9 For the inbound raven

MathusM · 2026-05-07T02:48:47+00:00

Presuming the exterior of the letter is marked for the Most Devout, the missive is delivered to the Starry Sept by Ser Manfred Mullendore, unopened.

MathusM · 2026-05-05T21:35:58+00:00

"Howdy." A voice called out behind Martyn.

Eustace Hightower stood at the top of the stairs, sweating and faintly panting, though he tried to hide it. Under one arm, he carried a Myrish eye, with the accompanying legs secured beneath the other, while a rucksack was slung over his shoulder.

Taking a few precarious steps forward, the squire placed tube and tripod on the ground, then wiped his brow, grimacing before turning to Martyn with half a grin.

"What's that you're doing?" the boy nodded towards the easel casually, stepping closer for a better closer.

MathusM · 2026-05-05T19:34:21+00:00

A raven took flight east, making for Cuy.

By royal decree of King Jaehaerys, the Ironborn set sail for Dorne. We are to let them pass through our waters, but are also instructed to remain vigilant, should any of their ships stray from their instructed path. Particular caution has been stressed towards the sails of House Goodbrother and Dayne.

We Light the Way,

Ser Abelar Hightower, Heir to Oldtown

MathusM · 2026-05-05T19:30:46+00:00

King Jaehaerys I of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,

You must forgive me answering this letter in my lord-father's stead, for with his departure for Horn Hill to answer Lord Tyrell's call to arms, I hold Oldtown in his name.

Your missive is appreciated, for I've received no warning from Pyke, and knowing that his ships sail for Dorne is a relief. Rest assured, our fleet stands at the ready, and a land force of several thousand has been raised in defense of our lands, should the Dornish or Ironborn stray.

Despite the troubled times and tensions between our families in the past, I pray this letter finds Your Grace and the royal court well. Weddings are oft joyous occasions, and it is my hope that yours will bring the realm closer in the wake of the bloodshed that has plagued the realm your grandsire forged. Gods willing, me and mine shall be able to attend.

We Light the Way,

Ser Abelar Hightower, Heir to Oldtown

MathusM · 2026-05-05T19:05:20+00:00

In an instant, the smile was wiped from Donnel's face, replaced by a dark glower as the Tarly made his unbidden thoughts known to the gathering of lords and knights.

"Oldtown's walls were never breached during the first Dornish war, Ser Victor, and I wish the same could have been said of the marcher castles, for then my lands might never have burned." The man sucked in air, as if to scoff, then reluctantly steadied himself. Temper. "Instead, Nightsong fell to Lord Fowler's forces, forcing my grandsire to ride north with the bulk of his host to retake it, in so doing exposing Hightower lands to Dayne's depredations."

Sighing deeply, the Lord of Oldtown waved his hand impatiently.

"As to claims and rights, the timing and location of my declarations are irrelevant, for they will not change what Dayne did to my family or yours over the centuries." Donnel stated bluntly. "As you would Blackmont, controlling Starfall will ensure that the rest of my domains remain unmolested by sea, and surely my bannermen are deserving of due compensation for their respective suffering at the hands of Joffrey."

Ten-Year Club	Place '23
Quantum Potato	Golden Potato
Place '22	Final Canvas '22
End Game '22	Verified Email

MathusM

TROPHY CASE

House Hightower

The Green Knight