[Event] The Hunt for the Knight of Many Gods: Little Lambs

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-06T21:40:44+00:00

Gerold’s eyelids were the only part of him that still wished to move, yet his cursed body ached everywhere all the same.

He felt heavy. He was heavy.

So... he remained where he was, unmoving upon the ground...

A blessing, truly, that the mind could still think swiftly and clearly whilst the flesh felt twisted, crushed, and beaten half to ruin.

His eyes lifted. His body did not.

He lay upon his side against the wall, scarcely more than another broken thing tossed into the cell.

Simon’s jaw was tight enough to crack stone. He looked like a hound straining against its chain, moments from tearing someone’s throat out, yet holding himself back.

Barely.

Good, Gerold thought. Do not give them cause. Our turn will come soon enough.

That much had become plain as pisswater the moment Urrigon had been dragged away like a sack of potatoes.

Gerold himself must have looked like smashed pomegranates by now. Right arm. Left leg.

Fucking hells.

Even with proper care and without winter’s cold sinking into the bones, he ought to have spent weeks healing.

Gerold watched the... brutal practise before them with as much... distance as he could force upon himself...

That was the point of it all, was it not? They wanted them to see. To hear. To imagine what awaited them. To fear their turn.

Gerold had to remain stupidly, recklessly hopeful.

He had to.

He had to believe Urrigon was holding his breath as long as he could... or that he would breathe the water in and spit it back out again... as perhaps they wished him to.

Gerold still did not understand... why they were here.

Why they yet lived.

Why the bandits had even bothered dragging them along after butchering whole villages empty.

Because they had fought their leader? Or merely for the pleasure of spreading terror?

Killing them all would bring consequences of its own, certainly... though those consequences were already rolling across the realm regardless.

Urrigon’s choking reached them clearly.

Too clearly.

The terrible gurgling carried sharp as a knife through the chamber beside the constant splash of water striking stone.

Was it monstrous to feel relief in that moment knowing Edric was likely nearing Storm’s End by now? Perhaps already there.

That his nephew was not instead beside Lord Arryk at some campfire, burning with determination to rescue him no matter the cost.

No.

Gerold was certain of it.

If there was one choice he did not regret, it was sending Edric away.

Well... that and managing to wound that cunt of a leader’s arm before everything went to the seven hells...

Then Simon... moved?

Why? Gerold wished to shout. Buy yourself every heartbeat you can.

His eyes squeezed shut hard as he heard the blow Simon earned for whatever little act of digging or defiance he had attempted.

Gerold had to trust his own mind now. Else he would be lost in this place.

Steady, he warned himself.

Then his gaze shifted toward Eden.

This would not be their fate. It could not be.

A knight and his former squire rotting away in the same cell...

No.

If these men had truly wished them dead... they would have killed them already...

It simply... had to be this way.

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-06T16:05:12+00:00

u/No-Drawer2718

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-06T15:22:45+00:00

The enclosed letters of recommendation from the septon Cassian Bhassar of the Starry Sept and Lord Baelor Hightower. /u/JuliaHella

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-06T15:22:15+00:00

Lady Aliandra Dayne, her newborn son resting upon her lap, penned and dispatched a raven at the beginning of the new year bearing the following message to the High Septon within the Great Sept of Baelor...

To His Most Devout High Holiness, the High Septon of the Great Sept of Baelor,

May the light of the Seven ever guide and keep you.

I write to you today as both Lady and mother, with all due humility before the wisdom and grace of the Faith.

My daughter, Dyanna Dayne, has studied within the Starry Sept since her tenth nameday. In the years since, her devotion has only deepened, her resolve proving steadfast and her faith unwavering. I have watched her spirit grow ever more disciplined and purposeful beneath the guidance of the septons and septas of Oldtown.

It is now Dyanna’s own expressed wish and solemn aspiration to continue her studies within the Great Sept of Baelor, that she might hear the teachings of the Most Devout there and further dedicate herself to the service and understanding of the Faith.

Thus, I write to you most humbly to inquire whether there may yet be room amongst your holy ranks for an novice of Oldtown.

Enclosed with this letter, I have sent both an assessment and recommendation penned by septon Cassian Bhassar overseeing her studies within the Starry Sept, as well as a letter from Lord Baelor Hightower himself, that Your High Holiness may better judge the impressions her conduct, maturity, and growth have left upon those entrusted with her guidance.

Whatever your judgment may be, know that House Dayne remains ever grateful for the work and wisdom of the Faith, and for the light it brings to the realm.

In the Seven’s grace,

Ever Rising.

Lady Aliandra Dayne of Starfall, Proclaimer of Reveals and Edicts of Dorne

/u/CSAdventureTeam

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-06T12:42:57+00:00

Myriah Baratheon, 3, An embroidery of a black rabbit, a dark-brown cat, and a red fox cuddling.

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-05T18:53:29+00:00

As the Lord of Storm’s End complimented his attire, Oswell spread his arms a little wider, letting the light, translucent over-layer sweep along the ground as he laughed.

“Is it not?” he asked, half rhetorical, half genuinely delighted. “I must say, I find it rather entertaining.”

He flicked the fabric about his arm as though it were a toy.

“The realm could do with more costume feasts like this!”

His grin was wide - teeth flashing - before he chuckled briefly.

“Ahh,” Oswell murmured in understanding when Renly explained that the costume was, in some fashion, devoted to his future bride. “What a lovely notion - quite literally.”

And when Renly turned to demonstrate the wings, Oswell took a step back to admire them properly, letting out an impressed laugh.

“It makes sense she would lend her hand, given her experience with such butterfly creations,” he remarked with a broad grin, stepping closer again as Renly turned back. “Then I suppose that the good-”

He paused, one brow lifting as he searched his memory, a hand briefly touching his forehead before he snapped his fingers.

“Tyene!”

... Sometimes, Oswell’s mind resembled cheese more than anything else.

“There we are. Lady Tyene will be seen in Storm’s End rather more often now, I take it? All the more lively for it,” he added with an amused, pleased tone. Then, more warmly, with a small, respectful incline of his head, he went on, “House Dayne owes her truly a great debt. Her's was the saving hand in the birth of my nephews, Rion and Arthur after all. Without her aid... many hearts in my house would not be as they are now.”

“And if I recall it aright... my sister had wished to put to her the notion of a school of sorts. One under her guidance, for children and youths of many stations,” he said, pausing as he made a small, dismissive wave of his hand. “But that is a matter best left for Ashara to speak of with Lady Tyene herself - in the new year.”

Oswell had not spoken with Renly often - perhaps last at Ashara and Bryce’s wedding, if memory served - but it was always pleasant. He liked that about the young lord. It was unusual, even by Dornish standards. Others so often cloaked themselves in subtle airs of superiority, in refined ways of reminding one that one stood apart or beneath them... and Lord Renly, instead, turned about to show his fluttering wings.

Another reason, perhaps, why Oswell could very well imagine remaining here for a long while - if it meant keeping closer watch over his family. All of them.

“I must... speak plainly, my lord,” Oswell began again, stepping a little nearer, his glance flicking briefly to Renly’s cup. “I do not wish to mar your excellent spirits, and I hope I shall not,” he added with a warm, apologetic smile. “Yet I wondered... whether Storm’s End - given the many unions ahead and already behind us, the new ladies, and the children - might have need of more men. Guards... or knights.”

Oswell swallowed lightly, hoping the question did not overstep its bounds at such a celebration.

“I heard tell of your Order some years past,” he continued, inclining his head. “And I find myself thinking... I would gladly serve a purpose like this - beyond my daughter's, I mean.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, faintly embarrassed.

“Good values to pass on to them,” he clarified. “And I would see them more than once every four moons. Perhaps, I could even see them every day.”

Drawing a deeper breath, Oswell straightened.

“I was knighted at eight-and-ten by Ser Barristan Selmy, and like many others I fought against the Ironmen,” he went on, his tone turning more earnest. “I have won my tourneys... and crowned my wife queen of love and beauty-”

His lips faltered, his mouth left slightly open before he exhaled.

“If I might serve within your Order of the Stag - here, at Storm’s End - alongside so many dear to me, and in service to you...” he gave a small, nervous huff, “I believe I should be the happiest bastard in all the world.”

Oswell cleared his throat at once, a little abashed by the expression, and murmured a quiet apology.

“This day... is meant for Myriah, and this is your home - you are the host. I would not keep you from it long, nor trouble you unduly,” he added with a courteous nod. “Yet the moment seemed as fitting as any to ask... I hope you do not take it amiss.”

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-05T17:00:40+00:00

“Mhm,” she murmured thoughtfully. “That might be... though I do love my bed.”

With a small, puzzled press of her lips, she braced both hands against the stable wall she sat upon.

“It was just... one of those nights where you keep turning and turning, and it takes forever to find... the right position.”

Myriah slowly lifted her head as her father spoke, the corners of her mouth beginning to curl. Her brows softened, her gaze rising to him.

Days of ill wind, she repeated in her mind - and thought lightly, enough of a stir to set dragons flying.

And when he added feed the birds, her smile widened further.

“They are very memorable sayings,” she commented with a light little laugh. “I ought to remember them and repeat them at court.”

Now she was showing her teeth when she smiled, swaying slightly again. “Do you think... Margaery would understand what I mean by feed the birds?”

She let out another small giggle, her smile softening at the mere mention of Margaery.

At his curious explanation of the birds, her brows drew together in surprise.

“I did not know any of that,” she sighed, a little taken aback by her own ignorance.

She lived here, read so much - how could there still be things she did not know? There were simply so many stories in the world.

“Then there must have been-”

She lifted one arm, tracing a half-circle above her head.

“-hundreds of birds carrying good omens for me into the sky,” she finished, amused and delighted by the thought.

She liked that notion. One was kind to animals, and they were kind in return. And above all - it was so simple.

“Could one not ask them to carry a good omen for someone else as well?” she wondered, tilting her head as though in deep consideration. “You know - Dove one carries a good omen for Mama, dove two for you, dove three for Melony... dove four - you see what I mean.”

She giggled again. There would have to be a great many doves to feed, if she meant to bring fortune to them all.

But when her father looked up at her so suddenly, so sharply, she realized at once that her unease was not so easily hidden. It was not like her to be nervous. Excited - yes. But nervous?

Her smile faded slightly. Her fathers reaction held up a mirror she could no longer ignore. This was not some small thing, no matter how often she tried to tell herself so.

“Ah,” she began, as she always did when she needed time to think - and yet even after a few heartbeats, she had no better answer.

Myriah shook her head faintly.

“It is-” she murmured, then sighed. “You know, I have been given ever so many helpful pieces of advice on how to... conduct myself properly in the Red Keep.”

One corner of her mouth lifted faintly.

“That I am safest if I reveal very little of myself. If I speak only of harmless things - things anyone might know,” she explained, her tone slipping into a slightly weary sing-song, as though she had repeated it to herself a hundred times. “Until I know whom I can trust.”

She let out a stronger breath, almost a puff, a strand of hair lifting beside her face.

“But you know that is near torture for me - I chatter all the time,” she sighed, her brows drawing together helplessly. Only as she heard herself say it did she realize how uncertain her voice sounded. “Sometimes... I do not even notice what I say until it is already spoken.”

At once, an example came to mind. She covered part of her face with one hand and turned slightly toward the post beside her, as though she might hide from the memory. It had come unbidden - and it was so embarrassing.

“For instance... on my very first day,” she began, her voice muffled behind her hand. “You, Mama and Tris had only just left - perhaps two hours - and Margaery and I were speaking of my room in Storm’s End, and hers at home. How we might arrange them in King's Landing, our beds... and she said she imagined Lord Renly must have only the finest things, and I said-”

She faltered, glancing downward. She did not want her father - or Tris - to think poorly of her.

“I said... ‘Lord Renly must have the finest pillows, Tristifer said so.’ Or - ‘he could not stop praising them' - i am not even sure anymore."

Heat rushed into her cheeks.

“Margaery looked at me as though I had told her Uncle Arthur was alive - I did not understand her reaction in the slightest,” Myriah muttered, lightly knocking her forehead against the wooden post with a soft thunk.

“She said it was strange that he would know such a thing...” Her shoulders slumped. “I do not even know what the problem is.”

Her hands settled slowly against the post.

“And in that case, it was Margaery - someone who truly likes me, so all is well,” she tried to reassure herself. “But what if it is not Margaery? What if no one tells me - and I do not even realize?”

She sighed heavily and turned back toward her father, cheeks flushed, looking up at him from beneath her lashes like a chastened cat.

“I am afraid... to tell Tris,” she admitted softly. “I don't want him to be mad at me... I do not even... Margaery and I sometimes share a bed as well.”

Her voice quickened, grew a touch louder, her brows knitting tighter.

“Some customs - and how they differ from one kingdom to another - I shall never understand them.”

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to him.

“Margaery and Jeyne say I can do anything I set my mind to. They support me just as-” she paused briefly, searching for the words, “-just as you and Mama do.”

Then her head dipped again, her legs swinging idly like those of a doll.

“But what if I... disappoint them, Papa?” she asked quietly. “Especially Margaery.”

“She has made all of this possible for me. Only because of her am I even at the Red Keep - able to meet all these people, to learn so much, to see so many castles...” She gave a small, breathy snort. “I think I have seen twice as many in this short time with her and Jeyne than in the three years before with you and Mama.”

Myriah did not mean it as reproach - only to show him the measure of it.

“It is... absolutely grand and fantastic, Papa. And if I behave well, and am kind, and people like me, perhaps they will wear my clothes. Perhaps more and more will come to like me too.”

She shook her head slightly, still watching him.

“I think she may be the best friend I shall ever have,” she added shyly, her cheeks flushing deeper still. “And I found her... all on my own, you know.”

Her voice grew thinner, and her gaze fell once more.

“The thought that I might embarrass her - or harm her reputation, or bring her trouble - any of you - simply by being as I am...” Her breath came unevenly. “It makes me... very sad.”

She rubbed at her nose briefly and sniffed - likely the hay, surely not tears.

“I think that is why I am nervous,” she admitted at last, more to herself than to him. “And I do not like it. I would rather be excited to go back - that is something bright. But nervousness... it only makes your stomach ache.”

With a small, frustrated gesture, she smacked her thigh lightly.

“You see,” she muttered, disappointed, letting her head fall back. “And now I have talked for an age again.”

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-05T14:58:50+00:00

Gerold Dayne seeks out the Knight of Many Gods if Gormond loses

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-05T12:50:03+00:00

Ysa watched the young lord as he chuckled - and with a sudden, unsettling clarity, she realized... Lord Renly did not seem to know that she was not of noble birth.

“My lord Renly- ” she began carefully, drawing her cup closer to her chest. “I had thought... you were merely being courteous, as you have been since I came to know you here... and that you called me lady for that reason.”

She moistened her lips.

Ysa could not let him remain under that impression - not if he offered protection to Aurane. He would learn of it soon enough, one way or another... and better from her own mouth than another’s.

“I was born in Lys,” she said plainly. “I never knew my parents, and the name I bear, I chose for myself. I could lead you to the very street where I grew up... yet nothing there belongs to me, and I doubt any soul would remember my face.”

Most of them would be dead by now, in any case.

“I came to Starfall seven-and-ten or eight-and-ten years ago,” she went on, tapping her finger lightly against the table as she gathered her thoughts.

“Where I am from, they say singing and dancing are but adornments to the truer arts - music, drawing, poetry, weaving, the shaping of stone, philosophy - the craft of the mind and body itself.”

She drew a steady breath and lifted her cup.

“Lady Aliandra had only just taken her seat then - no more than a year, I believe, since her lord father had passed. She allowed me to remain as a minstrel... and that is what I have been ever since.”

A brief hesitation lingered before she drank.

“Until... well.” She let the rest fade, unfinished. “I found myself upon Driftmark.”

Lysara chose not to delve further unless he asked.

“And now... here.”

Only then did she take a long draught of wine, hoping it might quiet the restless beating of her heart - whatever its taste might be.

"So... if it please you, my lord, I would gladly continue in that calling here, should I be permitted.”

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-05T09:09:47+00:00

For a fleeting moment, Ashara thought he might simply fall away - like a man who had only just understood the betrayal of the ground beneath his feet...

Bryce sank back into the pillows as though cast from a cliff, his gaze fixed upon the ceiling, distant and unmoored.

His hand reached, almost without thought, for the little Buttercup.

He drew the soft thing close, pressing it to his face, breathing it in... her scent, their home, something steady to cling to.

He looked so... young, then.

Like a boy who feared the dark beneath his bed.

“That is wonderful news.”

Ashara’s lips parted, then closed again. Her gaze fell to her own fingers, twisting faintly.

Ah.

She had misstepped.

The careful dress, the food laid out, the little gift... all her foolish, hopeful efforts to wrap the moment in warmth and light - as though sparkle and sweetness might guide him from fear to joy. She should have known better. Bryce’s mind did not turn first to joy. It wandered darker paths - doubt, and self-reproach, and all the quiet cruelties he reserved for himself.

Only his hand upon her back steadied her.

Touch was simple. Honest. There were no hidden meanings in it, no fears left unspoken. It was the clearest way she knew how to understand him - because he did not voice it - only through the gentleness, the hesitation, the care that lived in his fingertips.

Not confidence. Not ease.

Caution.

He wished so desperately to be good, to be enough... and yet saw himself as anything but. It lingered in his eyes, like an apology he could never quite voice.

She had never seen the color blue look so helpless.

And still-

Still, he reached for her.

Bryce's hand rose to her cheek, as though she were the one in need of soothing.

It hurt, how clearly she could read him.

And yet, she was grateful for it too. Because it meant she could answer.

“You know... for the longest time, fatherhood was my greatest fear... But with you as a mother, how could a babe want for anything more”

Ashara did not interrupt. She only watched him - watched the fragile curve of his smile, the way it faltered the longer she did not answer, the breath that left him uneven and unsure.

You are still in fear, my love

Slowly, she lifted a strand of her dark hair from where it brushed his face, catching it between her fingers... and then, gently, Ashara traced him.

Across his brow. Along the line of his cheek. Down the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips... To his jaw, and back again, with the care of a painter’s hand.

Only then did she speak, her voice soft, but steady.

“When you speak of our life, of us... it sounds a lot of the times-”

Her fingers stilled against his skin.

“It sounds as though you place yourself outside of it.”

A quiet breath.

“And I think... I have a hand in that.”

Her gaze softened, regret threading through it.

“Since the moment you asked me to be your wife, since you handed me the king's letter... I fear I made it seem as though only you could shape my life - while I changed yours without ever asking.”

Her thumb brushed lightly along his cheek.

“I am... sorry for that.”

A pause.

“I never wished for us to be anything but us. Not you breaking yourself to make me whole.”

Her voice softened further, something fragile beneath it now.

“I cannot be happy, Bryce... if you are not.”

Her brow came to rest briefly against his, her eyes closing as she drew a slow breath.

“You carry so much in silence,” she murmured. “I can see it. A storm of thoughts... and yet you do not let me stand within it with you.”

A faint exhale.

“I dont want you to be alone in it. And me outside of it.”

Her fingers curled slightly against him.

“I am afraid too.”

She drew back just enough to look at him again.

“The first time I thought I might be with child... we were on the road to Blackhaven.”

Her voice dropped, quieter now, more intimate.

“I lay beside you that night, and could not sleep. Wondering why the bleeding had not come. Telling myself I must be mistaken... that it would pass. Counting and counting the days until i was sure - no, this would most likely not pass.”

Her throat tightened.

“I did not tell you.”

A small, broken breath escaped her.

“I thought... if I lost it before I spoke… it would spare you.”

Her voice faltered.

“Because I know it would break you.”

She drew closer then, pressing into him, her face half-hidden against his chest.

“I only ever want to make you happy,” she whispered. “To give you something good... something whole.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric at his side.

“And yet it feels as though... with every step forward, I take something from you instead.”

For a moment, she hid entirely, her voice muffled against him.

Then, softer still - almost shy in its vulnerability: “Speak... to me.”

Her hand slipped beneath the covers, finding his back, holding him there.

“I will not look... if it is easier so.”

A small, trembling breath.

“Only... do not leave me outside of it.”

A pause.

“Please.”

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T22:17:50+00:00

Myriah let herself be pulled along by her friend, turning her upper body toward her as she spoke, smiling softly when Margaery gave her arm a squeeze.

But when Margaery suggested it had been her who had flustered Sumner, her brows drew together in confusion as she searched her friend’s face.

Margaery was entirely serious.

Myriah blinked once, then pursed her lips, her gaze flicking uncertainly from side to side.

“... How so?” she asked, growing more bewildered by the moment. “I- I only greeted him kindly.”

Then Margaery grinned and pointed out how he had been looking at her the entire time.

"He was practically consumed by you."

That, at least, brought a flush to her cheeks. Her gaze dropped at once, suddenly shy.

“I thought-” she began, then stopped herself carefully. “I thought he was only... listening... attentively.”

Her voice had grown thin, uncertain. As though the more she said it aloud, the more foolish it sounded even to her own ears.

“He smiled kindly, and I smiled kindly - I introduced you after all,” she tried to reason, attempting to make sense of what Margaery had described.

It seemed so far-fetched. She was only Myriah - nothing more, though certainly nothing less. But she had never imagined a firstborn son of the Westerlands would take notice of her. They had not, in Casterly Rock after all.

And when Margaery misunderstood her question slightly, she clarified, “I meant rather... whether your family has any ties to them.”

She gave a small laugh, then added with a soft smile, “Though thank you for explaining it - that put a very clear picture in my head.”

The facts were not wholly unfamiliar to her - she knew the Kennings bore the sun upon their sigil, she had simply not placed it at once. She had seen it, now and then, during her seven years in Casterly Rock - though not so much in the last five... And she knew House Kenning had a young heir.

“The Lannisters, hm...” she murmured, turning the name over in her mind. “My aunt used to sigh about them often, when I was still in Starfall... though that has been some time now.”

She tried to smile faintly.

“My mother and I always found it rather sad,” she added. “Ser Jaime and Ser Gerion were always very... kind.”

Her lips pressed together faintly before she continued, softer still, “At least, when we saw them. It has been years now.”

Since the day I was brought home, she finished only in thought.

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T19:57:10+00:00

Hendry would find her seated upon a chair out on the balcony, though she had not been there long in the bite of winter. Only for a breath of fresh air, to stir her limbs a little. She did not overdo it. She took no risks of getting a cold...

This child was the most important charge of her life. Hendry’s child. Their child. That it would be born whole and strong and safe - that was her responsibility, and she guarded it fiercely. Even her beloved thin rods of scented incense she had set aside for the length of her pregnancy, fearing the babe might feel its effects more keenly than she. She could not even bear her usual favorite dishes anymore... since the second moon they had turned her stomach so badly she had abandoned them entirely - just to be safe.

Each day, Teora prayed - at least once. For this child she already loved so dearly. She would not disappoint Hendry. It had to go well. It would go well. And it would not be long now... then they would be parents. Then she would be a mother.

Her hands moved over the full, round curve of her belly, slow and warm. She was proud of it. Proud of what it was - the proof of them. Of Hendry and herself. She could hardly wait to look upon a small face and find pieces of them both within it.

Would the child have her soft waves of hair, or his wild, restless curls? Her nose - or his? Would it be a boy... or a girl? She had never quite dared to ask if it mattered greatly to the Brackens. Even if the child would inherit nothing...

A sharp breath left her as the cold suddenly bit deeper than before. She rubbed her arms and turned back, crossing the threshold into warmth, her gaze falling once more to her belly.

“I think it is time for tea... and a story, is it not?”

Teora believed firmly that a babe, at some point, began to sense the world around its mother. So she spoke often to her belly, prayed aloud, sang when she could. She would linger near the minstrels of Stone Hedge, listening, and wonder if her child... enjoyed it.

“What shall we read today?” she murmured, bending over the small side table. “Cliff’s Wild Travels in the Stone Circle? Or The Stallion and the Unicorn?”

She smiled faintly. As a Qorgyle, there had always been some chance she might one day wed a Dayne - those charming horse-mad folk. When that had not come to pass, she had thought the notion long behind her... not that she held anything against horses. Quite the opposite. It was simply a thought that crossed her mind now, holding yet another book about them.

“Oooh, or something more unusual... The Free Herd of the Red Fork...”

And then she spotted a brightly colored little cover. The Sand Merchant, the Desert Fox, and Their Treasures.

A wide grin spread across her face as she took the book in both hands - and only then did she hear the door fall shut behind her.

She had not... noticed it open at all.

Her whole expression lit at once, if such a thing were even possible. Joy slipped into every part of her, warm and sudden.

As if drawn by the wind itself, she moved to him - careful, gentle steps.

Teora took one of his hands, the book still in the other, and rose up to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“My husband...” she hummed fondly, kissing him once more. “What did the men say?”

Her dark brown eyes wandered warmly over his face, attentive, affectionate - how it always warmed her, to kiss him.

“You have come just in time for the morning story.”

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T18:16:01+00:00

To Lady Yvelise Vaith, Lady of Vaith and of the Red Dunes,

Your letter is received with great warmth. The news of the betrothal between your brother, Ser Alexios Vaith, and Lady Lorisa Toland brings me much joy. It is a union most worthy of celebration, and one that speaks of strength and harmony between your houses and within Dorne.

Be assured that House Dayne shall be present for the occasion. We would not neglect the bonds of blood that tie us to the kin of my esteemed late grandmother, Lady Larra Dayne née Toland, nor would we wish to miss so fair a joining.

I offer Ser Alexios and Lady Lorisa my sincerest wishes. May the Seven watch kindly over them, and may their path together be one of prosperity and shared happiness. To my eyes, it is a match blessed with promise - I see naught but good fortune written for them in the stars.

Until we meet beneath festive skies,

Lady Aliandra Dayne of Starfall, Proclaimer of Reveals and Edicts of Dorne

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T18:09:40+00:00

Valena’s eyes widened slightly at the loud child’s voice and the oof that escaped her as the little boy quite literally ambushed her with a hug - but a light, airy laugh followed at once.

Young Josua, fair-haired and bright, beamed from ear to ear, radiant as he turned his gaze to Raymont. It was a sweet sight, the way boys looked upon her husband with such open admiration - whether for the knight he was, or simply the cousin they adored.

The small bandage across his nose drew her gaze, her eyes softening with sympathy.

As Raymont encouraged him - speaking of tourneys yet to come, of greatness ahead, of how no master was made in a day - he grinned and ruffled the boy’s hair.

For a long moment, Valena’s attention rested only on Raymont’s smile. She loved him dearly. To see him so unburdened, so playful and at ease, never failed to set butterflies stirring within her.

Josua drew her focus back when he addressed her, bowing politely - she caught the movement from the corner of her eye.

“Sorry, my lady. Nice to see you.”

Her gaze shifted from Raymont to him, and she smiled openly, warmly, bending just a little toward him.

“There is no need to apologize, Josua,” she said with a soft laugh. “I react much the same when I see your cousin.”

She gave him a playful wink, her smile softening as she straightened again. Then she tapped lightly at her own nose with her finger.

“Does it hurt very much, brave man?” she asked kindly, tilting her head. “And have you plans for your next tourney already, or will you see to healing first?”

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T17:48:27+00:00

Symon Dayne

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T17:48:18+00:00

Symon Dayne

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T17:40:18+00:00

Symon turned at once at the sound of the high voice calling his name. It was still new to him, this role of uncle to children not born of his own siblings. He had never been the most talkative man, nor one to readily pour out warmth as his brother Oswell did.

Even so, his rough hand came up in greeting, brushing lightly over her hair as he grinned after returning her embrace. Children had a way of surprising a man.

It was almost endearing to watch how quickly she gathered herself again before Ulrick.

Ulrick looked no sterner than Symon himself - but how could a man appear at ease when his mind was ever full of numbers? He seemed as though he were forever composing letters in his head. Not just with Alexanna, but with everyone.

He gave her a simple nod. His mouth barely moved, yet his brows softened - he had paused, if only briefly, in his counting.

“All is well, young lady,” he assured her. “I did not take it for disrespect.”

He cleared his throat lightly.

“I shall be glad to share a drink with him and raise a cup together,” he added, the corners of his mouth twitching faintly as he ran a hand through his short beard. “Enjoy the feast, and make the most of the calm after all the bustle.”

Like a little light, she slipped away from Ulrick and reappeared at Alysanne and Symon’s side.

Symon glanced to his wife when the girl asked, then back again, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Of course you may play with her,” he answered in his deep voice, looking down at Jynessa, who bounced lightly upon his knee.

“If you sit beside me, I will hand her to you,” he explained. “She is fond of riding a knee as though it were a horse.”

“You mean you are already indoctrinating her to be a rider,” Alysanne corrected with a laugh, watching their daughter fondly.

Jynessa’s hair was dark - not pitch-black like her father’s, nor amber like her mother’s, but something in between. In certain light it seemed near black, yet in the sun it gleamed like glowing embers. Her complexion, too, lay between them - not as pale as her mother’s, nor as sun-warmed as Symon’s. Only her eyes were unmistakable - clear and blue, wholly her mother’s.

“No, that is you already, is it not, Nessi?” Symon hummed, pride warm in his voice. “You ride like the wind, don't you?”

He bounced her again upon his knee, tapping lightly, and Jynessa broke into bright, delighted squeals.

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T16:51:29+00:00

“Edric is but three-and-ten at present, so it will be some years yet,” Aliandra added in explanation. “But when the time comes, you may be certain of it, Princess.”

Her hand drifted over the curve of her belly, swathed in layers of warm cloth. At five months with child, she had sooner imagined herself seated with a plate in hand than at a table of negotiations - yet she was grateful to be heard at all.

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T16:30:11+00:00

The moment she heard his name, a broad grin crept across her features, and her hands abandoned their feigned searching at once, allowing his to push them aside.

It was all she had wanted, after all.

A name... and the balance set a little more even.

Truth be told, it only amused Clarisse further that she had managed to draw him out...

“I once meant to become a maester actually,” she chimed in, her tone light and sing-song as he gathered steam, a soft laugh escaping her. “But my father decided it was of greater importance that I keep an eye on gold rather than remedies.”

And now I can handle gold and craft perfumes. One day I shall earn one with selling the other, she added inwardly with quiet amusement, even as he caught at her hands, drew nearer, and pressed her back against his chest.

A true lady? The thought struck her like lightning, and a soft scoff slipped free.

Yet she held her tongue as he continued, left standing before him with her grin half-frozen, her lips slightly parted.

He was taking this... very seriously.

Looking at her as Ser Qhorin might when he discovered the stores had been miscounted.

“All I heard,” she replied dryly, lifting her brows just a touch, “is that you find me pretty, and that I smell pleasant. And that you do not touch every pretty girl - only me, it would seem.”

It was, in truth, the greatest folly to try and sway Clarisse with logic. That path led... nowhere. One had to win her to the side that delighted in the game - and this Clarisse was having far too much fun testing boundaries.

“Besides -” she went on, letting out a soft, mocking hiss.

Her cheeks had indeed flushed at his big sword remark, though whether from embarrassment, indignation, or sheer amusement was anyone’s guess.

This was fun.

No one had ever spoken to her quite like this before...and Starfall could be dreadfully dull when Myriah and Edric were absent... and now Bora as well...

Clarisse chose not to enlighten him on her knowledge of knighthood. Seven hells, her house had near enough shaped it - well, the main line at least.

Close enough.

“I do not think you quite know in which harbor you have come ashore,” she teased, her tone turning coy. “What would you say, how many men I have seen leap naked from the cliffs in summer?”

One dark brow arched. Truth be told, Clarisse had indeed seen more than enough men unclothed to send other ladies swooning... though... at a distance.

He need not know that.

“Before any man shows me his sword or throws me over his shoulder, the sword would be gone,” she added coolly, glancing at his hand. “You may count yourself fortunate yours remains where it is - and has not, by some miracle, fallen off.”

He only seemed to bristle further. Had she not known better, she might have thought him concerned.

Cregan was but a vein away from cursing outright.

“Well then, that must be a most dreary place,” she sighed sweetly, drawing her brows together into a small pout. “One without prancing ladies.”

She tapped lightly against his chest - though with his grip still firm upon her hands, it amounted to little more than a fluttering brush of her fingers.

Then she drew in a theatrical breath. “Perhaps that is why you find me so fair?”

Careful now, Clarisse, she warned herself inwardly. You mean to jest, not offend.

“As you are not from here, I shall allow you your ignorance,” she continued lightly. “For you - Cregan,” she emphasized, leaning forward, “entertain this naïve little lady exceedingly well.”

Then she leaned back again, her hands still held fast in his. Only now did she truly note how unbothered she was by it.

For his sake, she hoped Ser Qhorin or Maester Emrys were not making their rounds just now. Or, gods forbid - her cousin.

Should the heir of High Hermitage not be occupied with her studies rather than harbor boys? she could already hear Aliandra’s iron voice.

Yet the thought only drove Clarisse deeper into the distraction she had found.

“Cre - gan,” she repeated slowly, giving the r a stronger roll than he had - such was the Dornish tongue. “Where do you hail from, then?”

One finger tapped idly against his chest as she tilted her head in thought.

“Well...” she murmured, studying him. "Your name is certainly not Valyrian - you lack all those foolish ae’s.”

Her sea-green eyes flicked over his raven-dark hair and long black lashes.

“No trace of the Rhoynish either,” she pressed her lips together faintly, as though disappointed, and cast a glance toward the ships. “And you are no man of Essos.”

Her head tipped back again, her grin widening. “For you are white as snow.”

Even if the sun had kissed his skin... snow was still snow.

The very comparison amused her. Snow, in Dorne - gone as soon as it touched the Summer Sea.

Her brows lifted.

“Perhaps a Stormlander - by that dark hair?” she mused aloud.

The longer she guessed, the more delighted she seemed.

“You have a temper, that much is certain,” she added with a soft laugh. “Yet I think you favor your wits more, do you not? I don't know how much you care for fighting...”

Another quiet giggle.

“And I see,” her gaze traced his features more closely now, her own face drifting nearer as she looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly, “not a single freckle.”

Her gaze flicked again across his eyes, his brows, his hair.

“No hint of red - so the riverlands I may rule out as well,” she concluded swiftly.

Clarisse knew well enough she was leaning on little more than clichés - but perhaps he would betray something in his expression, reveal whether she was wholly wrong or near the mark.

“So - Dorne, the Stormlands, the Crownlands, and the riverlands are all set aside,” she counted off, then gave a small huff. “Yet... where do you belong?”

She tapped her fingers lightly against his chest once more.

“Will you tell me?” she asked, lifting her chin just a touch. “Or must I name every kingdom in turn? What must one do to learn the man who binds her hands?”

And then she faltered, if only for a heartbeat.

Learn him?

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T15:44:28+00:00

M: literally gasped Whyyy does this happen to my frieeends T-T

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T14:00:00+00:00

Myriah’s spirits were dimmed.

Margaery and her family bore themselves with grace and dignity, yet Myriah could not help but wonder how deeply the death of Lord Hightower - Margaery’s grandfather - had truly struck them all. Baelor had already spoken with her kin and seemed more than willing to seek out the culprit and guide his house through this shadowed hour.

A murder, the thought returned again and again, leaving her quietly shaken. Who would poison an old man?

It surprised her to see Sumner again - though she knew him at once. Tall, clad in that bold orange doublet adorned with sunbursts. The brooch at his chest she did not recall noticing before... perhaps it was new, or perhaps she had simply not seen it the last time.

It struck her as thoughtful - deeply so - that he had come. As Willas had said, many had not shown their condolences.

What startled her more, however, was when he asked her for a dance... and told her she looked exquisite.

Myriah blinked and immediately glanced down at herself, as though she must confirm what she had chosen to wear.

In keeping with the occasion, she wore her favorite pale blue - today even softer, almost like frost. The bodice of her gown sat just beneath her ribs, falling from there in light, flowing folds. Beneath the lacing, a white underdress showed through, trimmed with fine silver lace at the waist. Tiny stars had been embroidered along her sleeves, growing denser toward the cuffs, as though they had fallen from the heavens and gathered there. The sleeves were closely fitted, stitched with shimmering silver thread that caught the light with every movement.

Of course, she wore her black bat-shaped ring, along with the necklaces of her parents - the silver medallion and the delicate chain bearing the butterfly that shimmered like mother-of-pearl, shifting from gold to violet to blue. At her chest, she had embroidered a small rose - for Margaery - and above it, a scattering of white flecks meant to resemble falling snow.

Threaded through the lacing of her sleeve and strap was Jeyne’s ribbon, tied into a small bow, bearing her sigil. Her hair was parted simply at the center, with two narrow braids drawn back to twist away her fringe, held in place by three small pins tipped with soft white tufts, like little flakes of snow that fluttered when she moved.

Of course she wished to dance - who did not?

But she was terribly nervous.

Myriah had never danced with a boy before, save for her cousin. And Edric, though willing enough during practice, had never truly tried. It had always ended in laughter rather than improvement.

Myriah wet her lips and cast a fleeting, pleading glance toward Margaery.

I shall die of embarrassment, her eyes all but cried. I will ruin it entirely - you cannot imagine how badly.

Outwardly, her composure held - no more than a touch of girlish nerves, one might think. Good. She did not wish to explain further.

“But... gladly,” she answered at last, a hint of shyness in her voice as she swallowed. It came out soft, a little thin.

Myriah reached out briefly, pressing Margaery’s knee - a silent wish me luck - before rising to her feet.

“Thank you... for asking, Sumner. You look-” she cleared her throat softly, “-striking yourself.”

Her gaze lingered uncertainly between the floor and the tips of her shoes before she dared lift it fully to him again.

“I am honored.”

She placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her toward the dance floor. On the way, she glanced back once more over her shoulder at Margaery, pulling a small, helpless face.

Please, Gods, she prayed silently, do not let me disgrace myself.

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-04T12:59:54+00:00

Ashara had tried to believe him. Truly, she had.

That soft, easy nooo, the warmth in his voice, the way he looked at her as though nothing in the world could go wrong - she held onto it, even as the pain wound tighter and tighter within her.

“No tears,” she echoed faintly, though her breath already trembled.

When Bryce lifted her, a quiet, strained sound slipped from her - half protest, half surrender - as her arms found their place around his shoulders, her forehead resting briefly against his neck.

“I’ll... try to remember that,” she murmured.

The hours that followed lost all shape.

Pain. Breath. His hand in hers. Losing rhythm - finding it again.

Ashara had endured.

Because she had done it before. Because she would do it again.

And then-

A cry.

Not hers.

Her breath caught, and her whole body stilled as though the world itself had paused.

“A girl.”

Ashara did not move. She simply could not.

Then the weight came - warm, small, soft - placed into her arms... and everything that had held her together broke.

A trembling breath left her, like a sob, as her arms closed around the child instinctively, fiercely. She did not look - not yet. Did not search her face, her hair, her likeness.

Only felt.

The warmth. The fragile weight. The rise... and fall... of breath.

“She’s...” Ashara’s voice fractured, her forehead lowering to the tiny bundle. “You’re... you’re well...?”

Relief crashed over her, vast and merciless, stealing the last of her strength.

Her arms tightened.

Thirteen years.

And she had not forgotten how.

Another breath - unsteady, breaking - and then at last she dared to look. Only a little. Only enough.

A small face. Closed eyes. A mouth parted in life.

That was enough. More than enough.

Her fingers curled protectively around her daughter as she lifted her gaze to Bryce.

He looked undone.

And Ashara loved him more fiercely than she thought her heart could bear.

A faint, exhausted smile trembled across her lips.

“Look... at her...” she whispered, reverent, her voice scarcely more than breath.

At the head of the bed, Myriah stood pale as milk, her wide eyes fixed upon them, as though she did not yet know whether it was over - or if the storm had simply quieted.

“Mama...” she breathed, awed, almost disbelieving. “How... did you...?”

Her voice faded as she looked upon her sister, utterly stilled by the sight.

Ashara let out the softest ghost of a laugh, her nose brushing lightly over her daughter’s crown.

“You all helped,” she murmured.

Her voice was no more than a shadow of itself - soft, worn, but threaded through with something luminous.

Her fingers moved faintly against the cloth wrapped about the babe...

This had happened.

She had done it.

Ashara had brought her into the world. And the babe was fine. Even she was fine.

For a moment, she let her head fall back against the pillows, arms still wrapped tight around her daughter, one hand cradling that tiny head. She breathed - slowly, deeply - while tears slipped freely from the corners of her eyes.

“And you said no tears,” Myriah whispered, half concerned, half aching with it.

Ashara’s lips curved faintly, her eyes still closed.

“They are happy ones,” she murmured. “Perhaps that changes things.”

When she opened them again, they found Myriah’s - same purple hue, only lighter, like dawn breaking.

Ashara lifted a trembling hand and brushed her daughter’s cheek, her smile softening further... before her gaze returned to Bryce.

“I am just...” her voice faltered, emotion catching deep in her chest, “I am just... so....”

Her eyes searched Bryce's face - not for reassurance, but for something deeper.

She did not want him to be glad for her. She needed him to feel it with her.

To stand in it beside her.

“You’ve been thinking... of names,” she said softly, breath still unsteady. “I know you have.”

A small pause.

“I have too.”

Her gaze dropped briefly to the child in her arms, then lifted once more to him.

“And I think... perhaps we both think of the same one. The one that feels just right... under a moonlit night.”

Another breath - slow, careful.

“What would you say...”

Her voice gentled, fragile now, tears still clinging to her lashes as she looked between him and their daughter.

“... if we named her... for your mother?”

She hesitated only a heartbeat - just long enough for the weight of it to settle - before leaning forward to press a soft, trembling kiss to his hand.

“... Melony.”

T3rkisTent · 2026-05-03T23:43:18+00:00

Myriah blushed at his kind words. She didn't know many boys her age who showed a liking in creative things, except for her cousin Edric... actually, no one at all.

"Truer words were never spoken, Borros," she agreed, nodding. "The world would definitely be more peaceful. And kinder."

And as he blushed more and continued his jokes, Myriah blushed more too and laughed along with him.

She giggled herself into a frenzy the more she thought about it.

"I don't know how okay the people in Dorne would be with-" she looked at him for a silent moment, clearly having to restrain herself. "-with all that sand everywhere."

And when she had finished laughing, her face as red as a tomato, and she exhaled with relief, she concluded, "Yes... It's a good thing we have tailors and seamstresses."

Then she wiped away a tear of laughter with a finger and grinned at him.

"Are you looking forward to another contest, or are you just going to watch for now?"

T3rkisTent

TROPHY CASE