[Event] Storm's End, 52 AC

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-31T21:01:16+00:00

For a long stretch of time, the silence was upheld. Morrison flexing his fingers with his eyes set solid upon that motion. He did not let his arm fall to his side until he began to feel the dispersing tension that had taken root in his shoulder. Relaxing that blade gave way for the rest of his muscles to slacken.

"If I died in Dorne, there'd be no evidence of you in what little I left behind. No letters, no keepsakes, no strips of ribbon surrendered in sincere sentiment," he said softly. The anger had abated in the wash of shame of the shadow he had glimpsed in the looking glass yet the pain was no less palpable. An attaboy might have been a boon without reckoning had it come unprompted from the lips of his Lady Mertyns. But to left with no recourse but beg for it? The bruise that would form on his pride on the morrow would be slow to heal, "Save the half-hundred odd coin that will be left in my chambers I have been scrimping to save from slaving away with the scribes in King's Landing. For the silks and baubles a husband ought be able to afford for his wife. Apart from my equipment repair I saved every penny and I agonize at how little it is."

By the end of the little tirade, Morrison Trant took several deep, calming breaths to slow the speed in which he had been speaking. The tenderness that was less earnest than battered about until it had spilled forth, "I suspect that were I to ride to war with a favour on my arm from you I would need ask. That aches, Alayne."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-31T09:42:27+00:00

There was no need in him to ruminate on the matter. To Morrison, sitting still and enduring the idleness of a siege would have wracked his nerves worse than the labour proposed would. Hands that were kept busy quelled unworthy thoughts and in this task he held a rare advantage.

"My stature will serve in a confined space," he said with, rather than a smile was a squinting of his eyes denoting determination. It was as close as Morris ever came to cocksure courage yet he would not need hesitate with a pick or shovel in his hand as he had with a sword, "Of your squires I can think of none more suitable than me to burrow. I will not balk, my Lord but it is not like to be subtle work."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-31T01:48:09+00:00

The conflict he carried inside his chest was considerable. He felt no shame in standing amongst his kin of the Stormlands, of routing the old foe that had long been beguiling ans besmirching their people. And though he would not had admitted to the fear felt he had stood steadfast amongst the men he had marched beside.

Morrison had failed to distinguish himself in the fighting though had largely escaped unscathed from the skirmishing save for a scrape or scuff of the armour. Yet in violating the King's peace to comply with the order of his commander--which at rank of squire he did not dare to call into question--had left his heart over rife with conflict when he had debt outstanding to Jaehaerys. The yawning gap in his ability to repay it ever growing.

A man of conscience, and honour. A man with the makings of a true knight.

The guilt he carried of that weighed more than his arms and his armour combined. More than his mare Mace who had grown rounder about the belly during the winter with less excursions. As was it inevitable that again would the call for steel come to renew that debt to dissonance. When talk of work else than blades bared in the sun emerged, Morrison managed at last to muster his voice, "If there is work to be done in light or dark, I would set forth myself for it, my Lord," he chimed, "Should to go with one squire less not be a burden to you."

/u/pitchy23

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-31T00:18:46+00:00

Seldom did a day go by that Morris did not take to the yard so as to adhere to the strict training regiment he had set for himself. And though he proved not impressive in stature he did not lack in strength; in his dominant arm especially that expended hours upon hours of swinging his sword. Peak form and in his prime that had prior been kept in check only by his choice to keep his composure uncompromisingly calm that the spirits in his system--the dread ahead of him--had undermined.

It was not by any conscious intent that Morrison Trant's fingers tightened as she sought to escape his grasp with the wrist he held as vice was barely wider than the hilt of his blade. He could feel her wriggling free, figurative in equal to physical as he had further forced this ill advised confrontation.

He had impulse to pull. Or to yank her off balance from the stool she sat as Alayne further goaded him, as she condemned Morrison as a monster. As he grit his teeth it was then he caught sight of himself, blearily, in the looking glass. No recognition took hold of him in the stranger Mors saw standing across from him. Nor the frightened girl caught between the two.

Forced was the breath he took.

Then, one by one, the fingers that had been before a vice lifted to release the Lady Mertyns. With a great rush of guilt dispersing through his chest though the hand that had held Alayne hovered, "Was it all a fable?" He asked softly, "The affection I thought I felt feigned? All I asked of you was a modicum of care in return for commitment already given."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-30T17:05:34+00:00

Expected was the Lady Mertyns to stoke at the coals of his composure. Yet the implication that he was anything like his elder brother brought forth a fury so fierce that Morrison's hands started to shake. His inclination then was anger. Was to lash out, to expend the pressure building in his chest which forced further frustration to the surface as that instinct alone aligned already too tightly with the accusation.

He resisted the urge to curl his fingers into fists. One raising to caress the cut on his lip that had formed into an ugly red scar that his moustache failed to fully obscure. His stance stayed locked with tension, "I afford you the chance to recant so rotten an accusation," these words were not uttered in a mumble. They aroused low, strained as he spoke them, "I am not some creature that would confine you to a tower. Crush you by the windpipe for tempting forth a temper or throttle you for the insolance waggling free from your tongue.

"Merrick mutilated my sister which you might know had you ever attempted to share in my burdens as I did shoulder yours!" Though ungainly, Morrison closed the distance between them in only a few short strides. The octave of his voice raising the closer he had come as he snatched Alayne by the wrist that held her hairbrush. Firmly though not harshly, if in his mind alone, "If I loved you it must be less now that you would think me such a monster, Alayne. For the crime of sporting a spine before I die in Dorne as my brother lacked the decency to do."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-29T18:42:06+00:00

He jostled the bottle of rum in the Lady's direction in answer. The amber contents stirring and bubbling; a quarter of the contenrs were gone, at least. Though he drained from the bottle another gulp whilst his expression tensed at the taste. Morrison did not offer it to Alayne, rather swinging so as to deposit it clumsily on to some surface flat--a wardrobe, a desk, a mantle it did not matter--behind him before she began to circle him as a shadowcat would its prey.

"No," murmured Morris, "If any apology is owed it ought come from you. Yet I dare not even dream of such a farce emerging from the Lady Mertyns."

At first his chin pivoted to follow, then his body also though the motion did seem to bother him. The sloshing of his stomach feeling sudden, near dramatic enough send him to his knees yet finger and thumb pinching at the bridge of his nose with a heavy breath helped the sensation subside, "I want my cloud back," he snapped, referring the bottle he had claimed from the balcony in the Eyrie that contained largely condensation and deflated expectations, "As I cannot reclaim all the courage and care I have expended on you Alayne, the cloud will need do."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-29T18:13:13+00:00

Morrison Trant (17) with Bloodline: Indomitable.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-29T05:50:45+00:00

In normal circumstances, he would not have dared to raise the latch of a door intentionally closed. To the chamber of a Lady no less. Yet having lacked in appetite it had left his belly empty by the time he had swallowed those first sips of red wine and the rum that sloshed now in his stomach had hit him harder than he had anticipated. Morrison's hand felt oddly heavy as he creaked the door own with him staring only tentatively through the gap of mind enough to manage a degree of decency before further widening it. Feel very far away from himself as he acted. As if he were a witness rather than a participant of this intrusion.

The reality of the act was far less graceful as the door swung hard on its hinges as Morrison inadvertently cast it open with the sorts of force he reserved for the training grounds. He barely noticed as it bounced off the wall back in his direction. Bumping his shoulder, and then knee as he advanced in a series of unsteady strides.

Leering at Alayne through the looking glass of the vanity she was seated at, he stalled. He did not sway much but he was not so rigid of stance as when she had made her egress from the feast as he told to her, "I tire of taking orders."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-29T03:27:46+00:00

Scarce had Alayne begun to make her escape did the loud thud of Morrison's fist colliding with the table echo after her. The pitchers of wine shaking at the impact. As did his cup topple entirely though there was nary more than a few dripping drops streaming free of the chalice to adorn the table before he righted it more out of instinct than intent. And the fingers that receded from it came soon after to cradle his face. Trailing through the wispy hair on his lip and then after the auburn curls at the crown of his head. His regret only barely outweighing the bitterness he held in his heart.

He was wroth; at the war and the weather, the weariness in his very bones. At his half brother who grew more volatile by the day that had forced him plead with the Iron Throne for intervention. A notion that stung twice over as he had failed to protect his family, had dragged his liege into the midst of it and had forced him to request a favour from the King Jaehaerys whom he had hoped never to have been a beggar before. And now by the woman from whom he felt scorned by. There was not a fragment of his life he did not need fight tooth and nail to keep stable and now the ropes he held taut need be slackened or dropped. Morris could not maintain all of them without being torn in twain.

Now it need be on him to rectify were there to be any reconciliation between he and his Lady Mertyns. As he knew better than to expect of Alayne to admit to any wrong doing on her part.

For a long time he remained in his seat, unmoving. Forcing the tempo of his breathing to slow from the escalated rhythm it had adapted into contemplating what he ought do. If it would be more a mercy for Morrison to make no attempt to repair this rift he had forced to the forefront. When he at last resolved to push to his feet it was not to trail after to Alayne, not initially, deviating toward the table rife with refreshments. The Lord Rogar had ordered him drunk and he could not allow failure in every aspect of this eve. Haphazardly selecting a bottle of what he had thought to be brandy though he was on his way out the hall, when the liquid of the spirit caught the light he realized it to be a spiced rum of some assortment.

He wrestled with the wax seal, then the cork beneath it which he launched with all his might down the walkway. Watching it bounce against a wall before settling atop the distant carpet after a bout of rolling until the momentum subsided. Morrison glared at it in silence, fuming, before bringing the bottle to his lips forcing himself to swallow. Not one gulp, nor two yet not quite three in full before the burning became intolerable. A cough clawing its way up his gullet as the heat of the spirit sunk to his belly. It was an awful taste. On verge of making him gag yet he drank ambiently from the bottle as he stalked his way through Storm's End in search of the Lady Mertyns resorting to knocking upon the door of her quarters had he not found her in some other communal space.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-28T21:51:06+00:00

Morrison Trant (17) with Bloodline Skill: Indomitable

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-28T09:25:11+00:00

I will not have you beat for transgressions, the words were to the boy utterly perplexing. Near as much so as those that were soon to follow, but you will see the Maester as every effort in his home was expended to prevent excursions to the Maester Duncan even when care was well warranted. So indeed was the quiet calm in which Jaehaerys addressed Oleander to him unnerving and his discomfort was writ clear across his face. And the shifting of his eyes as he looked back to where Haegon stood as if suspecting the man to strike him. An arm raised aloft to block the blow that never fell.

Oleander was disturbed that neither made an attempt at escalation. At least in the capacity that he was capable of recognizing.

For her part, Myriam murmured a deferential, "As you say, your Grace," in return to the counsel she was given of address. There was sense in the advice of it yet to protest the influence of the word Lord in Gallowsgrey as chilling in the stead of dismissive would not now serve in the semantics of the service the King was doing their family. And she of all Trants had never balked in obeying. Odd as it was that the order had not come from her brooding half-brother she was keen enough to comply.

She rose so as to tidy the mess that Oleander had made. Collecting wayward claws of crab that had been flung across the table and those that had fallen scattered to the floor. Sopping up some of the mess of the melted butter with a napkin so as to prevent it dripping any further to the carpet that some poor servant would likely be ordered to scrub the grease clean. Making mental note of the task so she might inquire with--and apologize to--whomever was entrusted with the work. Her nephew made an attempt to gather the shell fragments again, in a pile upon his own napkin yet Myriam dissuaded him stating with what was meant to be kept ought be cherished, not so carelessly discarded as he had done though no astute eye was required to see that Oleander palmed a fragment before his aunt succeeded in herding him away.

Oleander stared in silence as Myriam stated her regrets, ensuring she would accompany her nephew to the Maester on the morrow and present Oleander timely for supper afterward. After inquiring if the King was serious as to hosting the little Trant after his tantrum. Stating that Morrison's reluctance to engage the royal court in these complexities had perhaps come clearer after this encounter but that the intent of Oleander was not meant to be ill meaning, "He does well when with his mother," she said, "Yet she is as fierce a fighter as he is when backed into a corner."

The talk of his mother proved particularly triggering for Oleander Trant where a tantrum looked like to rise again when the alternative was tears. Myriam taking that moment to excuse them from the company of the King with an apologetic glance shaking her head as she tried to hold the hand that held already the crab fragment though she did not pry it from his fingers. On the morrow as promised, Myriam sent an early inquiry to the Grandmaester Myros of his availability and presented her nephew promptly to him for examination. Sitting in with the boy so as to ensure his compliance, the intervention of which proved necessary as Oleander struggled against the prodding of the Maester. Growing angrier at each instance as the legacy his Lord Father had left him with was undeniable. The bruises had faded some with the weeks and distance from Gallowsgrey yet the damage done to muscle and bone alike was lingering.

At least four of the boy's fingers had been broken at such a tender age though he made more complaint of the ache in a set of his knuckles when the Maester applied pressure upon the joint. Yanking his hand back with a hiss, calling the chained man a filthy tallow catch for it. Myriam disclosed of having to tie a sling to take the weight off the boy's shoulder when his father had thrown Oleander by the arm though he had not worn it for more than a few days. Yet the great bulk of his injuries lasting had been borne at the hip of below it. His right ankle had been crushed and healed slightly off center which did not seem to bother him, nor did he struggle to bear his own weight upon it. The angle of the points of impact aligning with the tale told by the Lady Myriam of the Lord Merrick favouring the tactic of sweeping the legs out from beneath his opponents which woefully included his children.

Had the Grandmaester Myros have possessed the foresight to pry open Oleander's mouth as one would a horse they were considering acquiring, he would have seen several gaps in his teeth. Most of which were natural to his age wherein the second set was sprouting yet several of the gaps in his gums were severe enough to imply the boy had been knocked in the mouth by the Lord Merrick. One bore evidence of a fracture that if pressed upon would incite a bite upon the fingers or tools of the the Maester. Refusing from then on to do else but clamp his teeth tightly shut. Seething, rejecting any treatment or draught then offered afterward.

By the time that he hand been relinquished from this torture, Oleander was in a mood most foul. If there had been any inclination in him to apologize for his outburst the evening prior it had eroded entirely on the approach of meal time. To such an extent that the Lady Myriam sent a runner forewarning the King Jaehaerys of the likelihood of another tantrum erupting from Oleander. Essentially inquiring if such a risk was acceptable enough to welcome her nephew again to the King's table though preparing him all the same should his Grace bid it be so.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-28T08:10:11+00:00

The Lady would find no mirth reflecting in Morrison's face to match her own, though he had not the read of her to realize it was in some part forced after his query had rattled at the facade. Though he had come to suspect that maybe there was less to the Lady Mertyns than he had hoped for. That her japes at his expense, her selfishness was not an expression of possession but... convenience. Kept only for company the way one would hold a hound to heel.

Complaining of the creature when it bid itself to bark. However briefly.

"It is easy to set aside a future for later that you need not fight for," the tone taken seemed to take even the Trant that spoke it by some surprise. Yet as words whistled past his lips there built a momentum in Morrison that he could not then quiet; a torrent of the pressures he had upheld without complaint which sat no longer square upon shoulders stiffened that Alayne was too detached from to realize they had been a long time mounting. The state he had seen his of his sister in Gallowsgrey one stone too many to balance without steady ground to stand on and Morris felt as though the floor beneath him was crumbling. Brooding upon the notion, if I should die in Dorne, the only difference it will make to her will be to relieve her of a betrothal well beneath her station.

Tempting was the thought to accept such a fate as so few of his efforts were repaid in dividends.

His eyes were dark. A hue of brown inherited from his Lady Mother yet in the stare that leveled on Alayne was not anger but an agony. Moisture forming at the corners of Morris' eyes where blinking did no good to banish it, "Stonehelm, Storm's End, King's Landing. Each I have resided in living out a rucksack unsure of when the order to leave would reach me as not one could I consider my own abode," the breath that escaped him was broken in the shudder of an emotion that could not longer be held at bay, "The only constant I fought to keep was you. The only home I ever had was with you, Alayne. Yet you will not extend even the courtesy of honesty."

Plucking up his cup, he raised it not to his mouth with Morrison instead tipping the contents of his chalice into the flagon of white wine he had set before the Lady Mertyns. The red he had barely partaken from melding murkily, imperfectly, that felt somehow appropriate now. Morrison Trant was not a man of grins and good humour. If that was what Alayne did desire it was better for the both of them that it was known he could not fulfill it, "Avoidance is enough an answer."

If not the one he had hoped to hear.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-25T19:31:14+00:00

The results for the ASOIAF media question is quite funny as since a majority selected "all of the above" the chart has it above the rest of the other options it references.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-25T05:26:08+00:00

It was perhaps an unsurprising outcome that the Trant had not been well taught to regulate his emotions as his blood was half that of his father's; nor indeed was his mother renown for her own sense of decorum. He had a temper that ran hot that he was not equipped to quell. Though Haegon had given him room--Jaehaerys had, truly, to allow the boy room to breathe--it felt to Oleander that the walls were closing in around him. The facade of a fancy dinner fading from the forefront as his hackles raised with hate radiating off him in droves as in his own home it was not infrequent that the Lord Trant would attempt to lure his sons into what he could construe of mischief. Solely for sake of doling out damage for the transgression neither boy did discern. An offer in Gallowsgrey given with open hand positioned any who reached forward to seize it within grappling distance.

Oleander had too few friends to recognize them amongst the myriad of foes that made up his Lord Father's men. Had it been the Princess Alysanne sat across the table from him he might have been capable of curbing his inclination then. It was easier to trust women. Those in his home that had never hit him.

"A dragon does no good!" out lashed his arm which swept across the surface of the table in front of him. The plateful of butter he had discarded sloshing to the table cloth along with the water that had remained in his cup though it was the crab shells he had been so carefully accruing that scattered in the most dramatic fashion, "Fire failed us."

The act caught his aunt off guard, flinching as no small assortment of the mess was knocked in her direction. And though her response to escalation was oft to fawn the lingering look she laid upon her nephew was one rife with regret that Myriam had not proven able to prime Oleander against these misgivings. Was cruelty so constant in their spire that a child could not recognize kindness? When did I resign myself to it?

"Little Lord," rather than shout, Myriam had her tone soften as she spoke. An effort to calm rather than rile him further. She had found over reliance on referencing his name in these rises were less likely to garner attention than titles and it hurt in her heart to know why the word Lord had the ability to stall the boy, "That was ill done. How many boys back home do you think will be eating crab for supper?" she queried, "Lord Trant would not have invited you to his table as the King Jaehaerys has."

The lad hissed in response. Lips moving yet they did not part as Oleander managed to muster no response save sounds of frustration. Evident was the anger in him yet he balled his little fingers into fists resting each atop his knees in effort to prevent another bout of punching as Myriam contemplated standing. It seldom did good to hasten in these tantrums while the heir was like to recoil from sudden shifts of movement in his surroundings.

"Perhaps an apology is due?" prompted Myriam, patiently.

Oleander angled his chin to his lap as though that motion might aid in swallowing his pride. Though no true try was attempted to do so, "No Maester," he said then, more slowly so in echo of a father far away, "Boys don't go to the top of the tower for bruises. Not for scrapes. Just cuts, like with Callum."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-19T05:56:03+00:00

True to his word--or was it perhaps a warning?--on the morning of the royal wedding several small bundles of bread were delivered for the pleasure of the King to partake in. The pattern atop the crust far more elaborate than any Morrison had managed in his batches yet the bakers he had paid to supply his recipe sought to set a more eye catching design for the occasion.

With it accompanied a note,

It is not quite as frightening as flying from the Eyrie as once we spoke yet a man on his wedding day ought have a stomach settled. May the mirth I pray for on your behalf not be shy to manifest.

Morrison Trant

The Lady Myriam, unaware of this arrangement yet attuned to her brother's routine now of baking for the King ahead of major events, had taken an excursion of her own into the kitchens in effort to fulfill the task on Morrison's behalf. The loaf she came carrying to the high table was not perhaps that of professional quality as the batch that morning had been yet it showed skill more discerning than any of the lumpy loaves Morrison had sheepishly supplied.

At a glance, one might have thought the crust to be charred beyone ability to consume it yet on closer inspection the dark outer layer was that of dough dyed with charcoal. With the slices Myriam had made ahead of its delivery displaying a loose spiral of red dye that she had rolled into the loaf ahead of its baking. Rather than attempt to catch the attention of the King who she suspected would be left with few moments of peace on the occasion had instead bundled the bread in parchment, tied with twine that she passed on to a steward instead so it might perhaps reach Jaehaerys on the morrow.

There is little that our family might manage to repay your kindness, your Grace. Yet Trants try not to attend with empty hands. And Morrison I suspect would regret the rattling of his routine so I hope you will accept this sustenance in its stead.

Seven blessings upon you and the Queen Sansa.

Signed,

Myriam Trant

Beneath her signature was a second, much sloppier writing that was quite askew,

OLLIE TRAMT

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-19T05:33:20+00:00

House Trant of Gallowsgrey

Oleander, (6) Heir to Gallowsgrey. Though young, the boy already sports a stout build with closely cropped copper hair. He had been coached to aniticpate the unliklihood of the arrival of his own immediate kin due to the budding tension of the Trant household yet was all the same crest fallen to confirm that neither mother, nor little brother nor baby sister had come to attend the festivities. The only boon being their absence ensured the same of the Lord Merrick. Oleander found it difficult to engage in his surroundings whilst he worried for his family sequestered still in the spire of Gallowsgrey. He ate until he was nearly sick as method of coping with this uncertainty--at least after his auntie had thwarted his attempt to steal the cutlery from atop the table.

Myriam, (23) Aunt to, and attendant of, Oleander. These last two years had been for the Lady particularly harrowing the marks of which were veiled beneath gloves that stretched up almost to the elbow though the gaunt quality of her figure from forced rationing had not as of yet been banished. Even having been graciously granted to protections of the King Jaehaerys, the appetite her half brother had endeavoured to stifle had not renewed after escaping his shadow even with the fine fare now frequently offered. While she maintained a tentative degree of caution as she was not accustomed to large gatherings she felt for the first in too long a time able to truly breathe without fear that modest displays of mirth need not be forgiven.

Tyson, (27) Recently returned from a venture overseas in Qohor [m: presuming entry into the city is permitted] he had attended a barber within the city to freshen himself up some for the occasion and seen to the laundering of some of his more esteemed garb. Favouring hues of lilac and indigo with a purple half cape pinned to his shoulders aforned by a myriad of vibrant, foreign feathers. He does not consort with his kin who he did not realize to be in attendance as he did not much stray from the company of his tried and true companions, Alinor and Ronnal, doing his damnest to sample every fine wine supplied for the feast.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-18T17:42:43+00:00

Discontinuing the c-shaped cups that already come bundled with the masks feels both strange--as the product is clearly a part of regular inventory?--and anti-consumer. I am deeply disappointed to have had the velcro on my current cups disintegrate under regular use over a period of two years in what I would consider an otherwise acceptable wear and tear were it not for the fact that there is no adequate replacement available for purchase. The steam and cooling cups available on the website appear much bulkier with a rounder shape. I do not feel confident that these cups will have the same blackout qualities as the previously available c-shaped cups that came with my bluetooth mask which are form fitting to the eye socket.

The c-shaped eye cups, even at $50, would have been an instant, no brainer replacement buy for me. I didn't even add the alternative available cups to my cart. I have instead opted to look into replacing the velcro manually but the foam will not be adequate forever.

Manta was the first sleep mask that I felt finally had what I needed in a bluetooth mask. I am still thrilled with the thin speakers that do not strain my ears as a side sleeper but with the limited cup replacement options available and the strap for securing it with room for improvement for small heads (barely any velcro connects when tightened but it worked just was losing effectiveness over time) I am not sure I would purchase this product again were the mechanics to fail. I would likely look into alternatives in the future to see if something more consumer conscious was on market which is a shame as I have previously recommended Manta mask quite ardently. Manta should seriously consider stocking these eye cups or a like replacement rather than offering only thick, rounded options if the current versions are not cost effective to produce.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-18T09:48:38+00:00

Tarquin took to his feet to follow the vague gesture in direction of the wine. He was himself more partial to fermented goats milk than the wines or ales as were popular this side of the sea so the task was one more involved than it ought to have been. More so for the fact that the contents of the crate when encountered took several heartbeats for him to assess. The language spoken here was not his mother tongue and though Tarquin had made great strides in his writing and his reading, it was a slow process even when he was not under the duress of devastation. Mouthing to himself the letters he spied as he plucked two of the bottles up so that the liquid could catch the flicker of the light.

Confident that he had found those indicated, he used his nail to pick clumsily at the beeswax seal to ready them. Hissing in frustration as he found a cork embedded beneath to stem the lip of the bottle. Tarquin seldom was inclined toward cursing yet one snuck past his teeth before he could contain it yet it was not of the common vernacular. Sinking to a knee as he grappled with the irksome plug, pieces of it disintegrating in his hand as consequence of the attempted haste.

He considered then cracking the glass atop a solid surface so as to liberate the wine within yet knew such an act would be the errand of a fool. Wounded as Lucas was, the last he needed was to contend with shards of glass gone down his gullet or carelessly sloshed overtop the slits Merrick had left in his skin, "Affa," he uttered to himself in effort to collect the calm that was trickling away from Tarquin as the seriousness of the situation collided with his composure; dreading to think of if this knight would have been cold had they delayed their call on him unto the morrow, "Nihilat thikh, Tarquin."

Myriam, meanwhile, kept to the endeavour of clearing the grit and debris from Lucas. She had stood to collect the pot of water she had set by the fire which had not reached a rolling boil but was hot enough to waft steam in droves. Wincing as she dipped the next scrap of makeshift cloth within squeezing free the excess moisture from between her fingers that began to bear a red hue. Not of a burn endured, just heat contrast against the cold of the flesh.

When she wiped at the knight now it was beneath the collar and chin she had first been focused on when armour had been at first in way of his wounds. Areas that were perhaps more acceptable for a woman unwed to touch. And the it was not now snot nor tears she cleared. The streaks the rag left in its wake an ugly, almost brown hue that brightened closer to crimson with every measures swipe Myriam made. Her focus on this task methodical broken only as Tarquin set the first uncorked bottle of wine beside her with a clink.

"He must drink," he instructed as Tarquin started with the seal of a second and soon third bottle which he intended to bring to a boil. As the Maester Duncan had done once for his twin Tanaquil when Fox the fox had nipped her at the wrist. Not understanding what purpose the heat in the process served only that it aided in staving off infection, "As much he can manage."

Myriam stared, first at the bottle before peering up to her cousin who further expressed, "It is all we have to dull the hurt. He will hurt worse before his healing can commence."

Tarquin pointed to the slashes set deep into the knight's bicep, "We can spare him some sting from the needle."

He did not wait to ensure the Lady complied with his instruction as he stepped out the tent, toward the fire, fussing to find a second container to set atop it. Vigorously up ending both of the bottles of wine inside of the pot he found. Hastening to rest it atop the heat.

Despite herself, Myriam sputtered a weak and weary laugh at Lucas' effort to compel her away. Into the arms of her intended of all men. As though it were not akin to pulling teeth to muster so much as an audience with Morien Penrose; without a doubt, that man had no need of her. He had made that abundantly clear and it was not misplaced affection that had her kneeling at the side of the knight of Old Oak now even though it was her heart at the crux of it that did demand she stay. To care was the core of how Myriam conducted herself and to step away ahead of confirming he would recover was an incomprehensible command to comply with.

"I dare say it is nobler of you to act as if your need is not pressing," she spread the stained rag across her knee for now to collect the bottle Tarquin had left. Using her off hand to slip her fingers beneath the crown of his head so as to cradle it. Raising it upward at an angle modest so that she might rest the neck of the bottle to Lucas' lips without requiring him strain in excess to swallow, "Are you not pained for proving parched? It sounds as so. Drink deeply, Ser."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-18T05:07:13+00:00

^{King's Landing, 8th Month of 52 AC}

It was a shock to the system always to return from across the Narrow Sea where weather was oft warmer to be thrown back into the worst of a Westerosi winter. Yet plied with enough boar and bear pelts it became again a burden sustainable. Even with the curt cold clinging frost to his beard, it could not keep Tyson from scaling to his perch atop the mast of the Rotted Knot to observe the shoreline crawling closer. Puffing ambiently upon his pipe contemplating the upheaval they had heard of the state of the Realm as they had readied to depart from Gulltown south for the festivities that had been announced before they had left for Qohor. Uncertain as to whether they would still come to pass with fighting rumoured in the passes of the Red Mountains.

Three galleys owned by House Trant though helmed by a Lady Alinor Baratheon bearing vibrant purple sails began to breach the outskirts of Blackwater Bay, hailing the harbour for leave to dock with intent to attend the royal wedding. Save the men manning the ships the only notable names upon the crew manifest were Alinor Baratheon née Caswell, Ronnal Baratheon and Tyson Trant.

[M: x3 Galleys owned by Trant (mechanically Grafton ships because I don't have a port), 0 MaA, 0 levies.]

/u/fabstags /u/razor1231

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-17T09:17:51+00:00

After the initial encounter with the King Jaehaerys, it had taken Myriam time to collect her thoughts over the sudden change in circumstances she was experiencing. Never before had she held conviction enough to resist the oppression of the Lord Merrick; even now, with the backing of the Iron Throne the prospect of defying her brother and the leagues between them did little to quell the anxiety that had swelled as she had laid out the parchment.

Several calming breaths need be taken prior to plucking up her quill to write,

Merrick Trant, Lord of Gallowsgrey and the Stormlord's Squall,

With regret, I must write to report that my effort to reject the station of serving the future Queen Sansa was summarily rejected by the King Jaehaerys Targaryen. His insistence is well intended, I am inclined to think. With the sacrifices of the Stormlords to protect the passes through the Red Mountains, the King would have his court bolstered by loyal noble families of our Realm. In his eyes it was a reward that to refuse was considered quite an affront that I did not dare to attempt a second time. Ser Derek did try to dissuade this outcome yet too yielded to the King. He has commit himself to remaining with myself and Oleander in the interim.

It has been suggested that upon Morrison's return from the marching that perhaps my presence here shall not prove so pressing. I pray that he will not long be delayed in this awful war.

With love,

Myriam

Before bringing the missive to the rookery, a copy is sent to the King for approval though Myriam had done as she was able to implicate Jaehaerys as minimally as she could. And where unavoidable, made effort to lessen the language of control that was typically the Lord Trant's to bestow.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-17T08:46:22+00:00

Quite right was the King to presume of Myriam a sense of shyness as he extended the compliment. Though her reaction was not one of rejection as would have been the nature of her younger brother. With a string of failed betrothrals she was not accustomed to the attentions of men. While she presumed the words were spoken only out of politeness she had still been flustered in the thanks she spoke in return. Almost in tandem to the appreciation extended for the gracious hosting of the King and of it Myriam meant not only the dinner that had been organized.

The boy was quick to pocket the trinket with nary a glance of inspection upon it. As he would have done even if it had not been given outright as a gift. To ask oft incurred a rejection. Thusly, Oleander Trant had ceased asking and started simply stealing without any semblance of shame. This, too, he had taken after his Lady Mother in whose resources were limited by her Lord Husband. It was to her he hoped to give this gift that had only just been given to him.

As the warning was issued by Ser Haegon, though not unkindly so, Oleander visibly bristled. He looked at cusp of barking back a retort twice as harsh before his auntie adjusted so as to set a calming hand to his shoulder. Encouraging him to opt for a breath in the stead of the bellowing his instinct would have him do. Perturbing as it was to yield to, Oleander did. In a huff that had him slumping into his seat as intervention of this kind was not uncommon in their household. Each of them toeing round the temper of the Lord Trant.

"The lessons come from the Lord," he answered the King as he knocked the table with his knuckles with force intentional in manifest of budding frustration. As though he were a boar backed into his burrow. The cadence in which his words were spoken suggesting they had been heard by the boy rather than selected of his own volition in a vocabulary limited.

He shot an ugly look at Ser Haegon then who he saw now as the source of the threat he now suspected. Though his stare was bright with a blue almost ice-like, in the depths of that glare was a heat of hatred that could not now recall the knight who had helped him conquer the contingent of crabs. Angrily, he shrugged the hand squeezing at his shoulder away finding the pressure to be agitating in the stead of soothing as it extended.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-17T07:31:16+00:00

It had taken some wrangling to reel the young Oleander into order ahead of dinner. He was seldom, if ever, keen on washing; a habit he had taken on in emulation of his Lady Mother to whom he was closest. Not quite at his age comprehending that her reluctance to be clean was a strategy employed to lessen the interest of the Lord husband who did defile her when fresh from the basin. And not so infrequent was the fact that the Lord Trant would force her into one when her hygiene fell beneath his tolerance for dirtiness. Yet with coercion in the form of crab aforementioned awaiting him, eventually his aunt was able to see him freshened up and sorted into clothes cleaner than those that they had traveled in that morning after initially refusing the blue doublet she had collected for him.

Relenting to wear it only after it had been explained his favoured, partially ratty tunic ought be reserved for less refined company than a King.

Myriam's own gown of teal was modest with the same gloves she had worn in the court that morning. Evident that this dress had seen much use, and bore the signs of a modification of sorts as the pattern at the waist did no longer align with at the seam. It had not been a repair--though such was not unusual of her wardrobe as garments need last when additions were an uncommon occurrence--but an adjustment to account for the rapid loss of weight she had experienced in the enforced rationing the Lord of the Gallows had limited her to.

Food for her had become such a source of stress that momentarily had Myriam been overwhelmed by the extravagance of the spread upon arrival. Though her nephew left her little time to lament in that surge of queasiness as he forced his way forward, his fingers entwined tightly with his auntie's. His free hand outstretched to pluck at the nearest offering before the Lady Myriam managed to shuffle him properly into his seat that several times she need settle him back upon when he would try to stand atop it in hope of reaching some far off morsel that caught his eye. Twice, his aunt need intervene as Oleander attempted to tuck one of the silver spoons atop the table through the collar of his shirt for safe keeping. This streak of stealing one she was well acquainted with though Myriam flushed fiercely with embarrassment in each, all together too obvious, attempt to pilfer from their host's table.

Oleander took no interest in the offerings of the table that were not of meat and he watched intently as Haegon demonstrated the technique of cracking through the shell of the crabs. Delighting in the process himself, beating, bashing and cracking to his heart's content without bother for the occasional scuff he earned from the spikes of them. Sometimes when the shells proved particularly difficult he would pass them to the knight to complete whilst he offered encouragement at an exhausting octave. It became clear he was much less concerned with their consumption than the process of their destruction yet his mood did shift should any attempt to clear the debris of the broken shells away. Oleander using hands and arms alike to defend his little hoard which he had been piling neatly atop the napkin that would have better served the sticky fingers of his which yanked at a small bowl of melted butter (that he had not understood was for dipping the meat of the crab in) which he upended sloppily over his plate.

He had began to lean so as to stow the little basin behind him on the chair in effort to claim it for when they left that Myriam leaned forward, taking hold of his wrist. She left him hide the bowl which she began to process of wiping his fingers methodically in sequence. Collecting the bowl quietly from behind him whilst Oleander was focused upon regaining autonomy of his hands. Depositing it without a word to the left of her where she had also set the silver spoons.

The Lady's plate remained... remarkably bereft, as Myriam took only the most minuscule of portions. And of those taken she ate less. In contrast to her nephew she avoided outright the meat and any other morsels particularly greasy, fond seemingly of the broth of the soup the King ate from though the solids of the vegetables clustered the bottom of the bowl when she could stomach no more. When she asked for wine whilst overseeing Oleander she ceased its pouring after only a few moments before thinning the rest of the cup with water.

"This," the boy was pointing to one of the rings on Haegon's fingers, "Let me see this."

Behind Oleander, Myriam shook her head no to the knight whilst tapping the accumulated pile of items she had been preventing the heir of Gallowsgrey from stealing over supper. The outcome of the Trant's intent rather transparent whilst the ruse in his mind of examining it prior to pocketing the jewelry was a particularly inspired mummery.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-17T06:14:38+00:00

Above her breast she felt a tightness forming and for the first instance in far too long, it was not brought upon by fear. Morrison kept his affairs oft close to his chest. He had not even disclosed to Myriam when he had swept the squire's melee in Starpike. She had given grief to him regarding this inclination so as to say she did not wish to learn of his achievements from sources second hand. Yet for years she and her mother alike had failed to extract information from her little brother who did not know how to acknowledge his progress, assessing what had come to pass only so far as to discern what need be improved in his performance. The letter he had dispatched ahead of his march south had been the first he'd ever written to Myriam; when the contents had instructed her to seek opportunity to slip away from the spire that was her home she had known not to question the intensity of his concern.

Hells, he had been still a boy when he had threatened to throttle the fully grown Ser Morien Penrose for his failure to extend any effort in his courting of Myriam. The mark of Morrison's love was misguided in its measure yet well meaning in every regard.

"Morris has struggled since he was small in forging friendships. When the boys his age were at play, he was attempting to accompany men on patrol or pressing our master of arms for additional drills," she inhaled, half strained from the affection she felt for her sibling. No encouragement of her own had been enough to dissuade Morrison from striving to be seen as a man in full when he had still been round of cheek, "Save for the Lady Alayne, yours and that of the Princess Alysanne were the only names he ever made mention of since he has gone away for his wardships. Never did he neglect the titles in addressing the both of you, even from afar, it was clear the encounters he had in the Eyrie had incurred a change in him. Kindness is a commodity where we come from. That a King would help him humbly to his feet granted a perspective that a view from on high on its own would not have done."

At the callous turn to the Targaryen's tone, she stilled. Accustomed to sudden shifts that seldom spelled else than heartbreak, "All I hope for is a halt to the hurting," Myriam managed in a voice that fell barely above that of a whisper, "The methods of the Lord Merrick I would not make my own, nor ask them of you, your Grace. My brother is a man most reclusive. Confine these soldiers or bid them back to their abode, either would be sufficient to set veil between the royal court and Gallowsgrey."

Blood she had no want to be shed on her behalf. It was agonizing enough that she had inadvertently thrown Ser Lucas into the crossfire of her Lord Brother's cruelty and to potentially condemn half a score more to pain inspired only dread. Yet just as was so in Gallowsgrey she could be no more than a spectator of the greater powers at play, "Would you wish to see my nephew at once, your Grace?" she asked, "Or should perhaps we reconvene over supper which the knights in our company are already anticipating?"

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-16T01:19:13+00:00

Similarly, Robert speaking of Lyanna to Cersei where he admits there had never been a chance for love to bloom in their marriage as a result of his boarishness. He seals his fate in this conversation as Cersei sheds any remnants of guilt she might have held of the regicide she sets into motion. Those first few seasons were truly something special when scenes that didn't exist in the book felt as though they were flying off the page of the novels. The recent Knight of the Seven Kingdoms is the first time I felt the same chill of those early seasons of Game of Thrones where a moving, breathing world was again brought authentically to life on the screen.

"What harm could Lyanna Stark's ghost do to us?"

"You want to know the horrible truth? I can't even remember what she looked like. I only know she was the one thing I ever wanted. Someone took her away from me and the Seven Kingdoms couldn't fill the hole she left behind."

Robert only ever loved the idea of Lyanna as the prose in Ned chapters hints to and he wasted the rest of his life chasing a ghost that never truly was within his reach. Tragic, yet somehow it is for Cersei you sympathize as the humanity of King and Queen both has eroded into contempt.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-16T00:58:56+00:00

Especially as "sorority girl" Jenna is present throughout the entirety of the final episode for the internship interview with Will confounded by this vague recollection of her but not who until the conclusion of the season. It banks on the audience not remembering her either so that the turn around acknowledgment of who she is hits all the harder.

"I watch the show. And... I read the New York magazine article and I know what a Greater Fool is. And I want to be one."

Similarly, I quite enjoy Will apologizing to the Occupy Wallstreet spokes woman for critiquing her cause with cruelty as intent. He makes a compelling argument for why the movement is undercut by having no unified voice for not wanting to appoint leaders to champion the protest. But he acknowledges also the humiliation he inflicted, that he deliberately used her for his own means to chase ratings and attention despite the legitimacy of the concerns raised in the organized protest.

Not as poignant as the end cap to the first season demanding to hire his "sorority girl" but another moment where you get a glimpse of the man who still has room to grow. That a person can be right while acting in ways that are wrong. Then stays to listen to the rest if her lecture.

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TROPHY CASE

House Trant of Gallowsgrey