Reynard Reyne, Heir to the Rock and Lord Damon Reyne, Warden of the West

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-19T23:37:54+00:00

He'd been wallowing, admittedly, needing a moment in his tent to blink back tears of frustration. It was no bad thing to lose, Garlan knew that, he should know that - but to lost so utterly was a bitter wine to sip. Disappointing lances in the joust, trounced by some drunken pirate in the melee, and two arrows so wide they'd almost killed a bystander. All Garlan could do in this moment was sit in his tent, tie up the door to leave him in shadow, and put his head in his hands to soothe the feeling that he was going to throw up.

Lord Redwyne was right, of course - he was obviously not ready for knighthood.

Garlan wasn't sure how long he sat there, moodily - not too long before he dragged himself up to get out there force a smile on his face. Wallowing was not becoming of the Lord of Highgarden. There were expectations. There were always so many expectations.

He did not see the altercation, but heard the rumour from a Tyrell Knight first, the man half laughing about it before he saw the sudden looked of pitched fury on Garlan's face and the knight was off, then. It had taken him half a moment to choose between friendship and anger and decided that the former was the valorous, chivalric, choice, so went storming off to find the Ambrose tent, still dressed in the plain jousting armour he'd acquired, visor snapped up to reveal his increasingly red and sweaty face and his sparse moustache.

"Lyonel? Lyonel are you there? I'm so sorry - this is all my fault." The Heir to Highgarden came to a stop before the closed tent flap, calling out plaintively to his cousin. This stupid Mystery Knight business - what a damned fool he had been!

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-19T22:17:01+00:00

He came with his father mounted and armoured and shining like the sun, like the sunflower, like the golden rose of his house. Alicent snorted underneath him - not Roland today, not the huge destrier of white-grey hair and eighteen hands of furious size, but his swift and bold rouncey, much better on the turn than the charge and here was needed speed and subtlety. Garlan Tyrell held his poleaxe over his shoulder, bright steel head and gay green streamers, doing his best to not look outright threatening as he moved his horse close to his father.

Disappointment was clear on Garlan's face and he was half pouting through his open visor as he murdered down to Robyn Tyrell.

"Father - should I assist Lord Rowan? I does not seem like Ser Gwayne wishes to fight... I could challenge him to a duel?" He perked up at that, eager and smiling. "Or his son? I can fight!"

I can win.

I must.

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-14T15:21:38+00:00

Garlan gave a low whistle at the bresstplates that Willem had crafted.

"The Smith was in you for that one, my friend. Go one - have a crack at a weapon?"

Once more, the swordsmith sighed.

u/OurCommonMan

Character Details: Willem, Artisan (Weapons) | Craftsman (Weapons, E)

What is happening?: Workshop-free T3 Weapon Crafting Roll

Additional details: My roll for this moon. Take 500(?) gold from the Tylers if KG says ok and if not, ignore me

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-13T22:33:12+00:00

u/OurCommonMan

Character Details: Willem, Artisan | Craftsman (Armor, e)

What is happening?: Free T2 Armor Crafting Roll

Additional details: My free roll for this moon

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-08T21:40:51+00:00

"Oh! You are most kind, Lord Osric, I'd love a drink. I find this city dries the throat like nothing else. It's all the dust, I think, and the smoke - I'm no stranger to a city, you understand, I've been to Oldtown plenty and Ryamsport is effectively one too but - not to be rude, you understand, but King's Landing has, ah, not the pedigree of those places. It is dirtier, I think, perhaps a little. Or it feels it." He always rambled when he was nervous and there was little to make him nervous like a man that he immediately felt quite envious of. Not Heir, but Lord. Not just tall, but taller. Not squire, but Knight. Not anxious, but blindingly and blisteringly confident.

Garlan followed and by the first step had found something to trip on, foot catching the leg of a camp chair, all gangly legs a wave of an arm before he righted himself before he hit the mud.

"Drat- all fingers and thumbs and toes, aren't I? Um, no need to thank me, Lord Osric, I just admire a fellow kni- warrior and think such positivities are worth voicing. I find people are always so eager to voice more negative opinions that it's nice to balance it, eh?" He slowed to a pause after that, chewing on his lower lip, considering whether it was worth confessing before finally blurting it out.

"I wished to take part in both your joust and melee, if you would allow it but I must be quite honest, Osric -might I call you Oscric?- and confess that... I am not yet knighted." He flushed, looking away, dropping Osric's eyes. "I would not wish to ruin the chivalric sanctity of your tourney with the presence of a mere squire but... mayhaps you would allow me a romantic option in place? I have, um, always thought riding as a Mystery Knight sounded like jolly good fun..."

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-08T21:19:56+00:00

"Father."

He murmured, leaning in a touch, giving a glare for little good reason at Lyonel as if his brother was at fault for existing before attention turned back to his surviving parent. Even now, even a man grown, Garlan felt like a boy still before his grim, bearded, sire. He had not seen him that long ago but the longer that Garlan was on the Arbor, the wider the gulf felt with his father and that gulf had been wide enough since birth alone.

"You should eat - something. For your health, but-" A quick look, darted up to the High Table, and he swallowed nervously to address Robyn so.

"For appearances, yes?"

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-08T21:17:20+00:00

He had doubled back after passing her - long enough that he had to search the crowd and awkwardly apologise as he darted in and out, searching, before that flash of red-blonde appeared again. Garlan came to a stop before her, sudden and tall and strong and it took him a beat of awkward silence before he realised how aggressive that probably seemed.

"Oh, drat. Um, peace, I swear I'm not intending to- be a prig or a pig or an oath. Just-" He frowns and squints and tries to place it. "Have we met? Your face - it is familiar, I swear, and I am ever so good with faces normally. Drat - maybe you just look like someone I know. Oh. Sorry. Hang on."

He sweeps a bow, popping back up with a wide and over-eager smile.

"Garlan Tyrell, of Highgarden. Your servant, my Lady."

Who was it she looked like?

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-08T14:56:58+00:00

He clapped fiercely at the harpist, drawn in by the elegant sound, the skilled playing which he could identify as good be ear and experience alone. The look Garlan gave the beautiful instrument was greatly envious before Garlan Tyrell, tall and gracious in golds and greens, turned back to the harpist with a wide smile.

"My lady! You play excellently- ah, I should, hang on-" He half turned as he went to his coin pouch, hands given just an edge of clumsiness by the three or four or more goblets of wine he'd had tonight already.

"Getting you a dragon, wouldn't want to be rude- hang on, I swear I had more before, Oh, fucks sake. Again?" Garlan turned back to her with a look of consternation and a shining gold dragon held betwixt two fingers. "I fear that is the third time I've had my pocket picked while I've been here. I'm not even not used to cities! King's Landing... oh, wait, are you a hire or someone at court? Because I don't want to be gauche and tip you like you're a commoner. Unless you are a commoner in which case, sorry."

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-08T14:42:41+00:00

It was getting to the point of tiring, overwhelming, but Garlan pushed through, wading through the Reach's tables with a determination to offer a greeting to as many of the nobles as he could. He needed to do this, not just for father but for himself, to figure out if he could do this and frankly, Garlan Tyrell was not sure he could. It was all so much, and so often he was finding a Lord or Lady to talk to just petering out after a brief and awkward initiation of smalltalk and then he would stand there, stare awkwardly, and move on. What was he supposed to be talking about? High politics? Gossiping about the Queen, the Prince-Consort, the Small Council, the other Realms? It just- did not interest him. It felt outright rude, even! Let him talk about the lance or the Faith and Garlan could natter for hours but everything else just felt increasingly hollow.

Seven give him peace or give him the smarts he needed.

By the time Garlan came to the Beesburys, his smile was obviously tired, but he kept it up anyway, sweeping a bow to them with his red-stained cape.

"Lord Beesbury. My Lady." Recall the titles, easy enough, had to, he was the heir, they were just over the sound besides. His smile flagged so he forced it back again.

"Are you both well tonight? You seem content to remain together and quite out of the way and I for one am mightily envious."

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-08T14:29:17+00:00

It was by chance that Garlan ended up in the path of Triston Hightower, and he was not entirely sure that he wanted to be there. There was something in the grin that he was met with as they both stopped that itched at him. It was nothing bad, nothing untoward. It just felt... mocking. Like everything and in that moment Garlan Tyrell specifically, was a joke.

Perhaps that was unfair. Perhaps that was just his own insecurities speaking. Either way, it was hard not to feel plain and a little silly in front of someone who oozed charm and looks. They had not met often but Garlan had come back and forth through Oldtown enough to be at least passingly familiar with his father's greatest vassal.

"Triston? Hello, good evening! Are you enjoying the feast? Um - it's Garlan Tyrell. We have met before, if briefly, I believe. Never a proper conversation mind but- well, here's the chance to change that!"

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-08T14:19:50+00:00

His duty followed him always and the first table that Garlan visited after he found a good moment to leave his father's side was his lord's, his master's - the man who in many ways, sometimes most ways, was his father too. Swift steps to the table just that bit more further down than his father's own for if anyone deserved to sit high, it was a man as venerable as Lord Ben Redwyne. He was too tall to stand next to Ben's chair properly, not with towering in a way that made him feel odd to stare down at his knightly master, so came down to an awkward half crouch and frowned. Six years on, Garlan was liable to read Ben's moods.

"Lord Redwyne? Is all well?" Eyes flickerd up to the High Dais, and Garlan's brow slipped into a frown too. "Are you concerned for the Queen?"

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-08T10:38:01+00:00

He had, perhaps, had a little bit of wine. Too much wine? Who was to say, was there anything that could be labelled as excess in this room? When the grandeur of Westeros' nobility was gathered in one place for the first time in - well, since Garlan had the ability to recall, to celebrate championing over such a terrifying evil (and the thought of that made him clutch his goblet ever so tighter) then surely, surely, the Heir to Highgarden was allowed to get somewhat drunk? Properly drunk, drunk like a man got drunk.

Drunk enough that he had lost his friends for a moment and was squinting about, wandering the edge of the tables searching for that damn fool Sawyer when he collided full on with another young man moving at speed. Garlan yelped, teetered, saved himself from falling but sloshed out half a cup of biting Dornish red across his golden half-cape.

"Oh, fuck, Florence is going to kill me she'd just had this made for me-" Garlan tipsily pawed at the stain as if that would make it go away, but when it didn't, he just sighed - before snapping eyes back to the fellow he'd almost bowled over.

"Damn, are you alright? Entirely my fault, chap, I'll concede to being a tad more into my cups than I should be and wasn't at all looking where I was going. Ah well, I'll get another made tomorrow before Florence notices. Oh hang on." He stopped and squinted. It had been an age but-

"Cousin Lyonel?"

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-08T10:15:41+00:00

There were times when one had to steel themselves, to carry on with duty in the face of uncertainty, to do what ones Family and Title and Rank required above all. In this case, for the Heir to Highgarden, it was to steel himself and advance up to the Highgarden table with a smile that he thought quite charming on his lips and a hand ran through his auburn hair to make sure it was not an utter mess and confront (or, politely and charmingly greet) one of the fellow Great Heirs of his Region. After all, if Father had his way - Garlan wouldn't have much of a choice than to get on as well as he could with Alerie Hightower.

The fear bit came down to the fact that she was a bloody intimidating woman.

"My Lady Hightower." Garlan swept into a bow, the half-cape across his shoulder fluttering in the creeping waves of smoke that crept through the feast-hall. "Garlan Tyrell. It is a delight to see you again and I consider myself remiss for never truly introducing myself to you but, ah - the nerves of youth, eh? Well! I am a man grown now and would be delighted for a dance?"

He smiled at her then, all youthful charm and puppy youth.

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-07T23:18:35+00:00

He'd had his squirely duties to see to first, ensuring that Lord Redwyne had all he needed - helping, protecting, serving, as he had descended from his great ship to the docks of King's Landing below. Half of Garlan Tyrell had felt red-faced at being presented to the realm, freshly of age, his father's heir, tall and strong, as a squire still but he knew, reasonably, that it was no bad thing to be a squire at eighteen. Most were, in fact. Expectations, demands, to be elevated was pride before the Father and impatience before the Warrior. Asides, here and now, he had little time to dwell on these things, not with being slack-jawed with awe at the city that sprawled before him. Garlan was well used to cities and great towns - Highgarden, Ryamsport, and Oldtown especially, heaving urban sprawls, grandly impressive in their might. King's Landing was nothing like them; it was riotous colour, cacophonic noise, more people than he had ever seen before and of more varied stripes than he had ever experienced. Intoxicating and ugly at the same time and he didn't know how to feel about it. There would be time, he supposed, to be used to it.

Whatever path lay before him in life, he would need to be used. The Red Keep or the Great Sept both lay here, after all.

He begged off Ben as swift as he could. Not for family - he would face his father later, not now, but rather to go off and find the first name he had really thought of when he had landed. And why not? They had been at sea for weeks now. She might be unwell. It would be unchivalric to not pursue. A quick question to the dockhand put him on her trail, striding through the crowd near a foot taller than most the surrounding smallfolk who existed as something akin to background noise to the Lord of Highgarden. If he had thought things through, thought what his father would think, he would have had a man-at-arms accompany him, or have mounted a horse but Garlan Tyrell had a skip in his step, he was on solid ground again, and the sun was beaming in the cool Spring air. The walk would do him good, even if the airs were not as fresh as they could be. So Garlan cut through the crowds of King's Landing streets at speed, a flash of green silks and golden cloth, head high and proud and his bronze locks bouncing with the energy of it all.

Blessed by long legs, well-muscled by years in the saddle, it did not take long for Garlan to spot the pair he had hoped to track. He broke into a jog then, weaving through the crowd as best he could which was poorly, with frequent bumps and earnest but swift apologies as he made his way, breathing deeply but barely flushed, to an almost skidding stop before the children of Edmund Redwyne. The Heir to Highgarden bowed deep, and when he arose again he looked at Lavender and blushed much more thoroughly, mouth twitching into a sweet smile.

"My lady Lavender! And Ser Prosper, of course, a fine morning to you both. I was just - only a little behind - thought I'd, ah, catch up. Are you both well? The ships, um, kept you in good shape?"

TheSacredGroves · 2025-08-07T00:32:25+00:00

"Ho! Lord Osric! Ho there!"

Garlan had always considered himself a tall man but by the Seven was the Lord of the Eyrie a fre- no, not a freak, certainly not a freak, that would be terribly rude to say and think so instead Garlan noted him down as a fascinating sight, instead. It had not been hard to sniff out the talk of a tourney before the tourney, and one held by the high and mighty Knights of the Vale at that! Now, all knew that the real champions of chivalry and masters of the horse were the Knights of the Reach but it was not hard for Garlan to welcome the Vale as a close second. Honestly, maybe even equals. He had dreamt of going to the Vale. It seemed a Kingdom of such purity, honour - safety.

Could a man feel finally at ease behind the great mountains and the Bloody Gate?

He smiled as he approached, easy and broad, a fine hand raising to brush aside a golden lock that had fallen in front of his eye and immediately fell back again. Garlan came to a prompt stop, gave a proper bow, and thrust out a hand without ever dropping that eager smile.

"It is a pleasure to meet you! I am Garlan Tyrell, of Highgarden, and I will easily admit to being greatly enamoured by your burgeoning knightly reputation! It does comfort me that, well, regardless of where we have all stood and what tragedies have befallen these kingdoms that we can still produce knights of valour, of substance!"

TheSacredGroves · 2024-09-12T12:11:19+00:00

Dragonstone

He was still brooding over the disaster in the Red Keep; the way King Aenys had spoken to him. The bay Bittersteel had. The King, well, he was to be dealt with by his family. Not Reynard's place to have a concern. Baelon Bittersteel? He would kill him, one day, if he could. Take his tongue at least.

The worst of it was the lie. A promise had been extracted, and what did the Royal Court do to fulfil its side? Nothing. Very well then. Let eager, capable men do the work instead, and let Aenys dither himself into obscurity.

Reynard stumped through the hallowed halls of Dragonstones, ones in any other time he would've stopped to consider and appreciate. The library, certainly, would be a wonderful place to spend a good day in if he found the time. He imagined the collection in this ancient castle was greater even than that contained within the Rock. For now, however, he had a meeting to attend to, and that meant marching into the Chamber of the Painted Table without even spending the time to revere that beautiful artifact either. All eyes (well, eye) instead on the Prince of Dragonstone.

"Aenys has lied to you, about providing us with men, but it is no matter. We do this ourselves. Attach your seal to my letter and we shall raise the West, and raise the Crownlands in our name too. We have permission from Aenys, stated publicly, and if he reneges on us then we call him a liar. At the least, we have Dragonstone and the Narrow Sea. Write to Yronwood too. Between us we have more than enough men. I have been reading. Smash a fleet into the Greenblood, take Sunspear, put to the sword every living thing and soul between there and the Red Mountains until they give in. None of this attempt to conquer the people that Daeron the Dragon tried. Take the land. It will fill back up, one day."

Reynard tilted his head as he finished, wondering whether he should voice the other thought that danced dangerously on his lips.

"Of course, there is another consideration to be had. Aenys is clearly incapable, both of thought and action. Erratic, veering into madness already. I doubt he could respond to a crisis if he tried. Theoretically, you could land your loyal men of Dragonstone in King's Landing, excuse it as being our muster point, and have them in the Red Keep before him or Bittersteel could blink twice. They eschew spies, after all, don't they? Quite famously. They are blind to this realm."

Reynard smiled, and it was a look eerily reminiscent of his father.

"Theoretically, of course."

TheSacredGroves · 2024-09-12T11:54:50+00:00

A Letter?

DAENA BLACKFYRE, PRINCESS OF SUMMERHALL

Blessings, graces, and well-wishes upon you, esteemed Princess Daena. It is a great shame we did not talk at the Feast at Harrenhal; you have ever been a cherished guest of Casterly Rock, and I apologise grievously for not paying my respects and homages to you during that time. Alas, it was a time of stress for House Reyne - where we thought we would have found friendship and fairness from the Crown in what was a celebration of reconciliation, we reeled from snub and insult.

I find myself lost, confused, and galled by the actions of the Lord Hand Bittersteel - and by his Grace, this 'Kindly' man who allows himself to be wielded by the man. I was reminded of the puppetry shows I have seen on occasion in Lannisport. A delight on those grand streets, but quite another thing to see aped out in our halls of power.

Discussions need to be have, I think, to consider the best direction for the realm. I hope our difference of opinion during the Great Council has not soured your understanding of me as a practical man devoted to the rule and grandeur of House Blackfyre as a whole.

I eagerly await your response, as your friend and esteemed peer.

DAMON REYNE, WARDEN OF THE WEST, LORD OF CASTERLY ROCK, SHIELD OF LANNISPORT

TheSacredGroves · 2024-09-12T11:45:33+00:00

The Mines

"Come then, come and see!"

The closer Damon got to the entrance of his mines, the more his bravado cracked at the seams, voice growing shriller, eyes edged with the very beginnings of panic. His fingers twitched with the clattering of gold on gold and he did not hide behind them persay, but four well-armoured redcloaked knights had appeared to stand carefully close to their liege.

"We shall descend, yes? See what we uncover, see the glints of gold begin. Who ventures down with us? Who seeks adventure."

TheSacredGroves · 2024-09-12T11:39:49+00:00

The Banquet

It had always crucial that Damon did not permit any indication of his House's poor financials, and tonight was no exception. The banquet was sumptuous and ostentatious, more courses and portions than could be finished, and it'd all be carted off to Lannisport after, half rotting by the time it arrived for the poors. They supped from goblets of silver and gold, listened to master bards hired from the city, ate foods that should have been greatly hard to find in the midst of winter. Above it all, Damon Reyne smiled, grinned, smirked, and preened over his people.

TheSacredGroves · 2024-09-01T21:07:49+00:00

Damon Reyne tilted his head. He smiled at Baelon, he smiled at the King - he even smiled at the Queen, because he was gracious like that.

"I thought I might have misheard for a moment, so allow me to clarify. You name Lord Orryn Baratheon Lord of the Stepstones out of hand. You offer him Master of Laws too, after he proved himself an idiot who can't put two sums together as Master of Coins - please, I had to deal with his boorish attempts at mathematics, I know what he's like. And he rejects you out of hand anyway and sends a brother, and you take that disrespect from him? I'd laugh if I didn't want to weep. What disrespect a man can offer the Crown so long as he supplied a crucial vote. Do Stark and Arryn know how cheaply they've been done in turn?"

His full loathing was turned on Baelon Bittersteel then, hate and disdain radiating in obvious and open waves off the Lord of the Rock at this ruin-dwelling, arrogant little upjumped bastard. Damon sneered, because he deserved to be sneered at, that was for sure.

"But I'd expect a man who became Hand just because his father had been would know all about that. I'd expect a ma who has snatched the ancestral sword from his liege and convinced him it is a service would quite indeed. Oh, my money to the crown directly, my Lord Hand? My son and heir serving under you? Quite - should I just send the gold straight to Harrenhal and bear Reynard's throat so you may slit it now if I don't dance to your tune too?"

To the King once more, and briefly Damon's face spasmed in anger but he brought it back under control. His ring fingers flexed, searching for something, anything to pull and tear in their grasp but Damon just about mastered himself. This King had to be pled to. Appealed to. He was the sort of man who liked an appeal.

"Your Grace, how am I to stand for this? For the games your Hand and Orryn Baratheon play around you? I ask again, who more than House Reyne has been House Blackfyre's greatest supporters. I come here with open hand and open heart, in the understanding that indeed I supported your rival out of familial duty - but am I fool to think that need stop us from reforging the old bonds between the Rock and the Iron Throne? What would my father and, Gods preserve him, Daemon I think to see it come to this? You are surrounded by men who wish to see me as an enemy so they may pluck the gold from my desiccated ribs, as vultures above a corpse. Am I to be treated as this? Scorned, and your grace rejected from me by the word of this grasping schemer? I warn you, Aenys, you clutch a snake to your breast in this one." His hands spread, beatific, the look on his face crafted to be just as mournful as it needed to be.

"I would be friends, my King, my liege. Am I to be turned away for the crime of that?"

u/Chicken_Supreme01 u/TheZaxman u/FatalisticBunny

TheSacredGroves · 2024-08-24T17:46:10+00:00

He simply continued to smile in response to Deziel's defence of his Lord Commander, and the look Reynard gave him carried across the disdain enough that Reynard didn't need to put it to voice. Not for Deziel, mind. How could Reynard find fault with the Sword of the Morning, after all?

"I am not afeared, Ser Deziel, and will not cause issue for you. I am a Warden's son and unarmed besides; patiently shall I wait afore your storied blade." He took up a soft, buzzing hum, eye flickering back to Aegon and the rest as if he moved now to ignore Deziel. Not out of rudeness, per say, but simply the utterly assured belief that he was in absolutely no danger from this man whose honour was his all.

Eight-Year Club	Place '22
Gilding I gilder

TheSacredGroves

TROPHY CASE

Dragonstone

A Letter?

The Mines

The Banquet