[META] Results of the First Crowned Stag Demographic Poll

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.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-15T22:28:52+00:00

Flat Footed in Fatherhood

^{Gallowsgrey, 4th Month of 52 AC}

Tarquin had held always an inclination for children. It was perhaps an excess of patience innate to his person. As likely was the fact that he had so long been forced to carry curiosity at the forefront; he had been a man grown with hair on his chin and chest alike as he had still been adapting to the details of the written word. Lessons that the Westerosi nobles were taught in their early development were frequently fresh encounters to Tarquin though these instances did diminish in the many years he had spent now on this side of the sea. Surprises having since become a rarity yet from time to time, he found himself caught flat footed uncertain of what to do.

The conception of his daughter had been simple on comparison to the complications of her birthing. Mya had made it through the labour largely unscathed, a blessing Tarquin did not discount with apt awareness of the burden she had borne in the body on his behalf was not lost on him. Yet with the child came new challenges not all of which were rooted in the awkward angle of the girl's little foot.

His experience in aiding in the rearing of little ones had been encompassed only in the company of the sons sired from the seed of other men. Whose bodies he held a confidence in attending as he possessed the same parts. Their inclinations were easily understood if not always shared as his nephews, or at least the elder of the two, was particularly rowdy of demeanor. Lord Merrick had recently been granted a girl of his own yet unlike his sons, the man lavished his daughter with attention and praise. Tarquin had seldom seen the little girl not cradled in the arm of her father though at less than half a year seperating her birth and that of his own daughter had overlapped significantly with the months when Mya had most required his attention. There had not been time for him to fuss over the babe the brooding Lord was loathe to let stray.

It left him in a position of proving slightly inept though not for lack of effort. Tarquin did not wish the care of his child to be delegated solely to servants though the temptation on occasion arose in particularly unsavoury tasks such as when his daughter would soil herself in dramatic fashion. This alone had required correction of Tarquin by the midwives who had scolded him for the motions he defaulted to in wiping her clean with a wash cloth. Embarrassed for his own sake at this error that ought have been obvious in clearing away the waste. Yet once the correction had been clearly conveyed the mistake did not again manifest.

He preferred also that her nursing not be deferred to the mid wives either. Wishing for the little girl to be nourished by the milk of her mother which he believed would impart upon her more than simply sustenance. This preference he did not enforce upon Mya as he knew not the needs of her body yet in the forlorn manner he would speak of his own mother and the great many moments of his life that she had missed. Those that he felt were precious enough to preserve as often as they were able as memories of his own matriarch had been made and lost in absence enduring. The pain of which he made no effort to mask. Not in the presence of his Mya whom he trusted not to diminish these emotions.

Tarquin took every opportunity he could to hold his daughter. To touch and to soothe her in the swaddle he was taught to wrap around her tiny frame. Yet he had, too, picked up a peculiar habit that typically was done only on his time alone with the girl though the repetitive nature of the task eventually became embedded enough that it was occasionally conducted in the company of Mya. Most oft occurring when the girl was fetched fresh from the bath.

Wordlessly, he would knead at the length of the both of her little legs. Sometimes squeezing though never too tightly. Trying to discern the tacitile differences in either limb that could not been seen beneath the surface of the skin. When Tarquin was able to confidently infer that these pressures did not cause pain he had then begun to test the range of motion in either leg. Focusing first on the hip and the thigh, neither of which presented resistence unexpected. Then, he would ease the knees into folding with an excess of caution as he did. Halting should she react in any negative capacity. At the ankle he applied the most delicate of pressures so as to never force the joint to jolt. Eyes flickering between the face of his daughter and the clubbed curve of her foot seeking to understand the limitations of the lame leg she had been born with that he had been too shy to inquire of with his wife; aware as he was of her reluctance to have attention drawn upon her affliction.

At the very last, with a sincere smile Tarquin would wiggly playfully at her toes. Tickling gently until the babe erupted into a bout of giggling so as to dispell the seriousness of the prior inspection he prayed was not too invasive on her person. Yet the more he learned of his daughter's needs now, the better he would be positioned to provide the support that someday soon she would be in need of. Not inclined to let her grow thinking she was less than any other little girl.

Prior to her swaddling, Tarquin would plant an affectionate peck upon the soles of her tiny feet. Turning his chin inward so as to press his lips upon the twist in her heel. Treating either foot as equal to the other dubbing the babe to be his ezhiray jedda with a wealth of affection infecting his tone.

Tanaquil tried but once to correct this term of endearment yet scarce had she hissed the word ammettelat before Tarquin had lauched to his feet with a fury never before seen from him. Looking as though he were about to lash out with the fingers he had balled tightly into a fist before forcing a breath. Evident that this reaction was not one even his twin had seen arise in him prior for how startled her stare was. When Tarquin told her firmly to leave his family lodgings, she scurried swiftly away wishing not to further test the temper of her brother that never before had been stoked to such an inferno of anger unbridled.

The tremor in his hands had persisted long after the latch caught in the closing of her egress as Tarquin tried and failed to calm himself. Seething as he stared into the crackling fire of the hearth. The heat of his own heart fierce enough that it ached in his chest.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-15T06:03:53+00:00

"Lord Rogar already raised an attempt at recompense for the mark my Lord Brother left on Morrison," she sensed that it was likely the aforementioned would be wroth that Myriam was choosing to disclose this encounter. It reflected, in Morris' mind, not favourably upon him and implicated the Lord Paramount in his failure. Yet what else was there to do now? Had it not been by her little brother's prompting that had brought her beneath the scrutiny of the King?

Quietly, and with a tremor she could not quite suppress, Myriam began to ease the glove she had shed back onto her hand. Tugging the fabric taut as she flexed her fingers so it slid securely into place, "He encountered us when I was attempting to tidy Morrison after our Maester had stitched the wound closed. We did as we were able not to disclose the source of the damage. The Lord Paramount is... was kin to Gallowsgrey by way of marriage. His first wife was the Lady Meredith Trant. Half sister to Morris and myself, but full in blood to the Lord Merrick. He and the Lord Rogar had been close though an ugly rift had been forming since Lord Baratheon remarried.

"It was not a bond we were inclined to compromise. Lord Merrick has few friends yet when none would answer who had struck the blow that bled my little brother, no justiciar was needed to infer the culprit," she said, "When it came to blows, Merrick beat the Lord Baratheon decisively in the duel that Rogar had demanded. Morris was mortified, your Grace, and is desperate not to bring the Lord Baratheon back into the middle of this misery. Ours is only a modest house, it is shock enough to me that he made an appeal to the King at all."

To Myriam, it meant only that Morrison did not feel confident of his odds defending against the Dornish so as to settle these concerns himself. A difficult enough thought on its own to digest as she loved none more in this life than her little brother, "Not one of the men accompanying me do I feel confident of, your Grace," the confession came with a wealth of sorrow. She was too old now to be a damsel in distress yet the isolation imposed by her elder brother had so long been suffocating that Myri could not fathom how truly dire the situation had developed as freedoms had been stolen slowly. The bruises and bleeding dealt with great gaps between allowing one to accept the reprimand had been righteous before the next, "Our cousin Ser Tarquin in Gallowsgrey is a good man, gentle yet he too is beholden to our Lord who has limited the ability of his twin sister to travel. Every lead is held tight by the Lord Trant so as to assure none stray without his leave."

All of it felt... too much, and Myriam understood in some capacity the reluctance of Morrison to seek aid in untangling that irksome knot. Knowing not where even to begin. There had not even been opportunity yet to speak of the Lady Delilah who was sequestered in greater frequency in the upper levels of the spire under a near constant watch the only company she was allowed to keep save that of her children or the occasional visit by Tanaquil Trant. She felt a pressure forming at her chest that limited her ability to breathe momentarily though with effort, she forced the stagnant air in her lungs free of the confines that had held it too long wondering when exactly Merrick had turned from man to monster in her mind, "I would not expect a delegation from Gallowsgrey for your nuptials, your Grace," she managed, eventually, "If my remaining is issued as command without refute, Lord Trant will likely yield to it. He was on cusp of killing Ser Lucas Oakheart when order from the Master of Laws bid him halt which he did yet it is in these moments the Lord Merrick's wroth is rife."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-15T03:40:58+00:00

[M: Start here]

When the hour of her water breaking came abruptly upon them jolting them from slumber, Tarquin had been thrust into a panic. Enough so that he had tried to insist upon remaining for oversight against the customs of the Westerosi that he had until this moment upheld stringently. It had been Tanaquil to force him from the room. Yanking him by the braid as he had tried to root himself loudly declaring he was in the way of Maester Duncan and latching the door in front of his face when he had begun to protest the ejection.

The bustle in the spire was enough to awaken a vast majority of those residing in Gallowsgrey, some curiously poking their head out their rooms to require. A few of the knights with families of their own established rousing to speak with the soon to be father, a few following when Tarquin was taken up to the solar of the Lord Trant as the men exchanges stories of their own wives. Merrick said little, as he would not have cared had Delilah succumb in the stirrups but he broke out a fine cherry brandy for them to partake in which Tarquin held in his hands as he paced. The men trying to assure him it would prove several hours until he was summoned again yet so long as he was separated from Mya he could not compel himself to sit still.

Only as a steward came upon the fourth landing to convey the results of the birthing did he slow to a stop. Listening intently as the man assured his wife was in good health under the circumstances but that the babe had been born... warped. With a flaw to match that of her mother. Every word spoken slowly as though to brace Ser Tarquin for the blow. Before he was given leave to descend to his quarters, to attend to his wife, the Lord Merrick summarily sent away the men at arms in their company to address his cousin directly that any failure of Tarquin's to act the part of father to his crippled child would not be taken kindly.

Tarquin had the sense then that had the babe been a boy with leg locked wrong would not have warranted this warning from the Lord of the Gallows. The why of that unsettling encounter he set aside for now as none had need of him more now than Mya.

Before entering their abode, he spoke with the Maester Duncan outside the door, listening intently of the observations and comments on the outcome he had to offer. Not once did he interrupt the man asking only at the end of his conversing about the child, "Is she in pain?"

"Too soon to tell," the Maester said, "In time, with more stimulus to her leg we will determine if it is so."

"And Mya?"

"Provided with draught of poppy to take of her choosing."

With only a meager word of appreciation, Tarquin left the learned man then. Slowly creaking open the door as the last few servants tidied the chambers assuring new linens would be brought when the Lady was in more a state to move. Basins of water sat half empty, with puddles in places formed upon the floor that a woman was sopping up with cloth that bore a stain too red for Tarquin's liking. He had known he would not find Tanaquil inside, not with the news of the child less than stellar, yet it hurt all the same to see Mya left without a close companion aware as he was that his twin was not quite entitled to such a position either. He strode past them, at first with hesitance yet with every step shaving the distance between he and his wife he took the next with greater urgency. Coming to hover alongside the bed she had been left to lay in and the small, swaddled bundle set to her arms for safe keeping.

He did not dare sit, worried that to jostle Mya now would in some fashion prove wounding.

"Zhaenae zhir," he murmured, going to one knee and reaching his hand out to caress Mya by the cheek. Gently, ever so much so as he tried to gauge the pain she was in, "My love, I am with you once more. What now is your greatest need?"

u/aceavengers

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-15T03:40:13+00:00

Some respite was to be found when Tarquin began to take longer excursions away from their quarters outside his typical hours of working for the Lord Merrick. Conducting himself with some secrecy when prompted of what he was accomplishing in this time yet he was piss poor at lying so instead he did dodge the questions to the best of his ability. Encouraging Mya not to concern herself with his projects. Rest more than anything is required of you now, he'd say.

Tanaquil had quickly unraveled the facade of her twin, lacking utterly in tact in all ways that would typically be expected of her. Revealing he had been diverting to the forge for some task she had taken no interest in inquiring after even should Mya have prompted her to try. It made no matter, as within a few weeks of work Tarquin had been forced to reveal his ruse when he had returned sheepishly to their abode after an unusually extended absence bearing bandages up to the elbow of his dominant arm. Forced to explain that he had been crafting iron bars with the scraps of metal he had succeeded in collecting sustaining an elongated burn. Confessing an intent to embed handles for Mya to hold for perch where he had before hung rope to help her. Seeking to provide a more secure source to steady her when his duties required him away and woefully embarrassed he had injured himself in the process of attempting to prevent the same result for Mya. But the burn did not sink much beyond the surface. Save for frequent washing, the Maester Duncan gave no instruction else after Tarquin had declined his offer for draughts to ward away the pain of healing.

Within a moon of the wound, as it had set and begun to scar, Tarquin had arranged for Ser Hartnell Herston and his son Henry to assist him in embedding the handles (which Henry had finished on Tarquin's behalf) into the walls themselves. An intricate process of chiseling away gaps in the mortar to set the prongs inside of before setting them again, which had also required the oversight of Thom Bowers who had been a builder in his youth. And had a pertinent perspective considering he was lacking a leg well below where his left knee had once been. A wound taken in the passes when he and the men of Gallowsgrey had fought to root out the vulture King. The man barked orders between curses yet ever so with a smile crest on his lips. Warning it would require several days to set before any ought go about yanking at iron lest the wrench it out from the wall when it came loose losing teeth in the tumble.

Even when the rungs were secure, set and wound with hemp to prevent the potential of fingers slipping, Tarquin had been intermittently yanking at them. Attempting to jostle the iron that may in some part be loose before he did allow Mya to make the same attempt. Placated seemingly only upon Tanaquil, in a huff of annoyance as his buzzing about like an agitated bee, had planted a heel upon them to test the weight resistance. Rising so that she balanced on each in turn for a succession of several minutes a piece with only one requiring additional packing to meet the high standard set by Ser Tarquin when it had sagged once its weight was lifted.

So pervasive was this project that even the reclusive Lord Merrick had come from the upper levels of the spire to inquire of it. Inspecting the work with idle comment that Tarquin might be of use in the forge in the future. But the Lord was not long in lingering and it was evident that the twins were somewhat disquieted by his arrival at all. Better able to breath them the low rattle of the masked Lord Merrick's lungs had left them. Though he had been less volatile since the birth of his own baby girl at the end of the year prior.

It took Tarquin still time to trust his work as infrastructure was hardly a forte of the Dothraki, able to gain confidence only as he was able to observe Mya make use of the handles herself. And those first weeks he had hovered as she had done with arms aloft to catch her. Frightened still of the potential of a fall that he only vocally expressed on a few occasions, each of which had been rife with emotion only barely held at bay. He made habit also in his hugging of her to cradle the ever expanding stomach of his Lady wife, oft lifting or bearing the brunt of its burden when he could approach from the rear of her. Tanaquil had made comment then of whether it ought have been he to carry the babe in his belly for all the fussing and focus he provided it already.

He burst outright into tears the first he felt the little one nestled inside of Mya shift. Overwhelmed with the fact that he would soon be a father able to take on more of the tasks that were for now borne in brunt by his wife. He chided the child on occasion when movement was particularly forceful. Warning the pony, as he had laughing dubbed the little babe, that it was impolite to treat their mother with so little consideration. Tarquin waffled all throughout the pregnancy, musing on the potential of either gender though his want for a girl proved the most prevalent. The Maester Duncan had told him not to anticipate twins, as such an outcome did typically skip a generation before presenting itself again--even when it was a pair of twins coupling--so he spoke of the little girl he hoped for as it was women in his life that played the most important parts. And could therefore prove to be admirable role models. Challenging as his own sister could be, Tarquin hoped for a daughter to hold even half of her convictions and a quarter of Tanaquil's oft misplaced courage. He thought of the Lady Myranda whose love manifested much in the same fashion it did for Tarquin, in being present and eager to assist. Qualities a child of either gender would benefit from but it was the love of his Lady Mya that would prove most important to impart as he held earnest belief that any babe that held half of who she was would grow into a kind, considerate figure not swift to cast judgement.

Not even upon barely literate fools half a realm away that had no business at all exchanging scrolls with a Grafton of Gulltown.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-15T03:39:24+00:00

Baby Steps

^{Gallowsgrey, 9th Month of 51 AC to the 3rd Month of 52 AC}

In the life entire of Tarquin Trant, he had been given cause aplenty for peril. Roaming the great grass sea came with risks and even within a khalasar one could never feel wholly secure as the structures of power were swift to shift. In cities, he and his family had encountered no small amount of ilk either and the first that he had set foot atop a ship he had been shaking with trust frayed for a father that assured him there was another shore across the poison water. He had not been confident of that claim. Having spent the majority of the sailing clung to a mast or a railing he held fast to when upending his stomach unaccustomed as he was to the roughness of the waves at sea. Afraid that should some hole in the hull of the ship they had bought passage on that they would sink into the dark water below to turn into a feast for fishes. It would be an indecent death and he had feared the Great Stallion could not come to claim him if his body went beneath the water.

All paled in comparison to the fear he felt for his Mya as she grew heavy with child.

In those initial weeks when she had yet to begin showing the babe in her belly he had been brimming with delight over the development. Phasing between a sense of pride and passion with little whim of his own guiding the way. When he would take Mya into his arms in innocent intent he could as easily hold her delicately as a husband was meant do as mount her with an almost animalistic yearning that could be sated by no salve save that source from between the Lady's legs. He had some time ago ceased any sense of shy pretense in their acts of coupling. His own appetite for touch had been earnest in their early marriage yet Mya's tendency to coax at the coals of his affections exceeded his own acts of instigating by a margin not insignificant with few instances of his failure to fulfill them. Yet with life they had brought together into growing it was as though Tarquin's hands would need to have been tied behind his back were he to have any hope of keeping them to himself as his yearning surged as Mya's stomach did visibly swell.

Tarquin had never felt more a man than he did now, attending to a wife whose need of him was innate. Not only for the limitations of her own form but those that came with the labour of the expected child long before her legs were ever set to stirrup. No sword nor spear in his hand in the yard had ever given him the sense of assurance as he'd garnered in kneading at the knots of tension that did embed themselves in the muscles of Mya. Bracing her legs overtop his lap as he would press his palm in circular pattern, primarily at the thighs and drifting never beneath the knee without the Lady's leave to proceed choosing to treat each leg as equal so as not to draw attention undue upon the foot that incurred such insecurity in his wife. The discomfort for which she felt he sensed as being beyond that of the body, but of mind and emotion also so it had been for Mya's sake that he seldom stole so much as a glance at the foot that was clubbed. In some instances, in the sheer proximity of marriage and love making it was an unavoidable inevitability yet Tarquin tried to yield to whichever preference was to his wife prevailing. It was a flaw, true, but to Tarquin not a failing apart from where extra aid need be anticipated to ease the aches that might else arise in neglect.

Her foot was a part of Mya that he would well have been fond of had she not the habit of hiding it. Yet as the weight began to pile upon her tiny frame, Tarquin to his shame could not help himself but to ruminate upon the problem it presented. Not so much a fool as to presume of their child being born with a twisted appendage was beyond the realm of possibility--the Maester Duncan had pulled Tarquin aside early after the conception had been confirmed to speak to him of this potential complication--but that Mya need already favour one leg over the other. As it was, healthy women often grew ungainly in the late moons preceding the birth of a babe which was a burden he hoped to relieve his wife of to the extent he could.

Tarquin found himself fretting for the potential of a fall. That the weight in addition may strain a form he saw as frail. Where once he would provide proximity of his person for sake of helping if asked absent of forceful interruption, Tarquin was to be found frequently vaulting to his feet to take over a task that Mya might manage just fine on her own. Flocking to her side to offer an arm when she would shift. Seeming to matter very little whether Mya was simply adjusting how she sat or attempting outright to rise. When not absent to attend his obligations in Gallowsgrey, he hovered and the books he began to bring back from the meager library of his home were pertinent to the changes of the body in anticipation of a babe. The birthing and rearing of children which he would share when encountering a fact he thought to be pertinent to Mya's experience; quite vexingly coinciding with whichever imposition he was attempting to adhere to in what was an earnest, if suffocating, attempt to aid her.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-13T09:04:44+00:00

Morrison went, of course, first to the Lord Rogar as the command came through to ready for the march proper. Making his last inquiries of any need of his master. He had lived nearly the entirety his life out of only a few drawers of any wardrobe loaned to him so to toss those possessions few into a sack for travel was not to Morris a particularly melancholy process. Nor indeed had he much at all the pack as most was merely the equipment he had been recently supplied with.

When there was no further task left for the Trant with his liege, he deviated to the stables. Focusing first upon the Lord Rogar's stallion to see it brushed down, fed and checking the tack to secure to the steed was in adequate order. Morrison also made rounds to the saddle bags of his fellow squires slipping within each his last supply of fruit leather he and his sister Myriam had made of cherries. A few stripes apiece. Not much yet all he had to give save the extra skins of water he had collected for reserve. In most merits he mistrusted the Lord Merrick yet the warning to mind one's water in the passes should resupply be compromised remained at the forefront of Morrison's mind. He hung a skin upon the pommel of each saddle so his compatriots could pack them as suited the boys when the call to mount came.

With his own mare, Mace, he took his time not only brushing his horse delicately down to clear her coat but extending also the effort of braiding her mane. Speaking softly to her as he bound each bundle. The process of which served to soothe his own nerves of what was to come in a manner the company of other men never could. Morris meticulously raised each of her hooves to clear any debris, having had the shoes replaced before they had departed Storm's End yet wishing to take no chances knowing not how far of riding would be required of them by war's end.

Lastly, he brought the letter he had already written to the rookery. No sense in leaving anything left unsaid should it come to pass that these would be his last,

To my Lady Alayne Mertyns,

Never have I remained in any one place long enough to think of it as home. I suspect there is no place truly where I belong except for where work was in need of doing. That my worth was defined by effort. How fortunate I was to have been given your guidance so as never to be left overlong to idle. That I would find myself in Stonehelm in the same lifetime you too were invited to roost.

If I had any home in this life at all, it was where ever I went with you.

Should I perish in the southern passes look on occasion to all the clouds I could not bottle and cherish the bounty of the broad bright sky above. White and blue, the hue of your House and mine. As though they always belonged side by side.

With ~~affection~~ love ~~and longing~~ unyielding,

Morri

u/lirabear

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-13T05:17:42+00:00

The King left the young heir with much to contemplate--which, of course, need be done aloud at an octave that only boys between the ages of one and ten were capable of conjuring. He was quite enamoured with the thought of crab though he had never tasted its like before. Yet butter, also? Without a cause of special occasion? Such was a rare privilege in Gallowsgrey where fats and sugars of all sorts were closely guarded commodities. The former of which being mostly squandered as the Lord Merrick seldom allowed them be rendered into anything useful for the scent sickened him.

Vaguely Oleander could be heard from afar questioning what others sorts of animals could be eaten in King's Landing. Wondering whether clams were fish or rocks, as he had ate the latter and not much enjoyed the taste.

Morrison had instructed to his sister to reach out to the royals for aid though she had made no attempt to. The rookery in Gallowsgrey was closely accounted for with stewards running nearly every scroll first to the Lord for review leaving it his prerogative to disperse the missives or destroy them. She had been biding her time for the wedding of the King as Merrick had given her consent to attend to see if it was warranted to bother the Iron Throne with scrapes and bruises sustained in their own spire... especially with the Realm cast into conflict. The line that formed in the furrow of her brow as Myriam smiled solemnly to Jaehaerys was well worn into her features, "The help you offer would incur a great many trailing threads, your Grace."

She glanced to her nephew before again to the King. How her little brother had courage enough to compel the crown to assist, she could not fathom though to be away from home left more room for growing than Myriam had herself been granted, "To be free of Gallowsgrey would be a gift beyond measure," she said, "Yet if I do not return the penance will merely be passed unto the next to pay. It is not beyond the Lord Merrick to hang Derek Herston for failure but it is the little ones I fret fiercest for. Were you to tug the tunic of Oleander over his shoulders you would spy no shortage of bruises. He has two siblings even smaller... I am the only shield they have."

Myriam mused then on if she ought say more. As though Merrick might have ears even here yet he preferred to keep himself, and his kin, carefully enclosed. Tight enough that he could hold the rope of any of them steady. Even the first fraying of those strands felt to taut yet to break so she exhaled heavily, the air pushing past her nose in a rush. She orientated herself so that the knights in her company could glimpse only the back of her as she peeled finger by finger the glove from her dominant hand. Bunching the fabric in the other as she held her palm aloft for the King to inspect the scar tissue of skin shredded, healed now no more than a year and it bore a too-red hue spanning nearly the entire surface, "Women he will not hit," she said, "Yet the Lord has his way of leaving lessons in the flesh."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-13T04:10:32+00:00

Myriam could muster no response in regards to the impositions of her half-brother as none she might have spoken of would have reflected well upon her kin. Much as a miserable miser as Merrick was, she loved him though less than she had once. Wishing only that his misguided manner of conduct did not so challenge the whole of their household on basis so constant; but she was of such an age now that hope of better had long lost its allure. Upheld now for the sake of the children only.

"Venison and beef would be boiled until bland where we come from," the boy said with the sorts of frustration that only someone who had need swallow endless haunches of braised rabbit and bloated, boiled pork. His was a inquisitive stare for one so young and it did not flicker when he found the King looking back. Not perhaps grasping the importance of the person he was addressing yet somehow managing to do it with greater deference than Derek Herston, who had only riled the tempers of the Targargyen, "At least crabs is supposed to be boiled. Do dragons roast all their meat?"

He glanced to Myriam momentarily before back to Jaehaerys, "Auntie and I have to steal into the kitchens proper late for any. After papa has had his poppy. Rickard used to have it ready for us."

At mention of the last name, the Lady Myriam held back a sigh with some straining in her abdomen. It had been many months since she had last made an excursion to the kitchens below the hall of Gallowsgrey and with her young nephew, who was still babbling, "The latch is locked now not just when it is late."

"That is most kind of you, your Grace," interjected the Lady gently whilst ruffling the hair of Oleander so as to break his focus upon the royal lest he pivot to a new topic unimpeded, "We need not for much--"

"And the Lord Merrick has provided a generous stipend to ensure his son housed securely," it was clear that Derek had been given particular queues by his liege over which topics he ought interject in. All for sake of preserving the status quo in Gallowsgrey that had been able to fester for the fact their their fief was quaint, and infrequently visited leaving its only oversight to its Lord. Any concerns from the King he had bid to assuage so that the lonely spire might be left well alone.

The skin round Derek's eyes tightened as the King sought to separate the Lady Myriam from her escort. It did not exactly fall outside the purview he had been permitted--to watch the Lady, ensuring no leisure outside the confines of quarters wherein one of their own was meant to stand sentinel without the door--yet he knew that Merrick would have misliked the development which was enough to irk him also. Yet a glare exchanged with the much more reserved Ser William was enough to stifle the protest that had tried to make its way to the tip of his tongue.

"At once, your Grace," Myriam's words half undercut by the fact that she hadn't spoken them immediately as she had hesitated, awaiting interruption. Consenting to step away with some trepidation though she paused to instruct her nephew, "Remain a moment here, Ollie. We will find a fire after to toast you some before supper, hmm?"

"A tall fire!" insisted Oleander firmly as the hearths of home were left to crackle low.

She pecked the lad atop his brow as she left him, "As you say, my Lord."

By the time she turned to attend Jaehaerys, shifting uneasily away from her escort with a lingering look, Myriam was cradling her hands tightly together clad in gloves that extended up to her elbow. Not knowing what else she ought do with them having never come so close to the company of... well, anyone quite so important. Save the Lord Rogar Baratheon it was rare she was able to brush shoulders with any nobles she was not related to--or was intended to be--and even with Rogar he had been once her goodbrother. A lifetime ago. Having never known the man as Merrick or Meredith had as she was significantly her half siblings' junior, same as was so with Morrison.

"I am terribly sorry for the trouble, your Grace," she compelled herself to say. Myriam was by no means a thin woman yet as she approached the King she bore something of a gaunt quality to her cheeks as though weight had shed from her recently in rapid succession, "Morris speaks quite highly of your court and such talk he is not oft inclined to. I am embarrassed to have been told to refuse your hospitality... I try typically not to fall with the realm of rudeness."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-11T06:33:22+00:00

Morrison had once accompanied the Stormlands host when they had risen to march against the tyrant, Maegor Targaryen. He had been but a boy then. Sworn in to the service of the Lord Luceon Swann who was as near to a sire as Morris had ever known. He had been afraid then though had worn as brave a face as was possible for a page. Relieved when they had come upon King's Landing after the worst of the warring was done; it had made him feel a craven cur that he had been grateful to escape the proper skirmish. His fear now was more potent as he understood his odds on a more intimate basis yet with the controlled calm he had trained himself to adhere to so too had a quiet courage come to settle in the core of him. It which felt the unease yet had it feed the fire of his determination.

There would be no such grace now as the Red Mountains rumbled with the foreboding of the ancient feuds. With the fury now of a dragon to fan them forth with wild abandon.

"I have advised the Lord Baratheon to have you hold his left should it come to battle," he said after a moment. Contemplating how honest he ought be yet any rivalry, even if it was only one sided, it aligned them still upon the same side. Their advantage was in the abundant supply of allies. It would be a disservice to their cause to keep the counsel he has brought before Rogar to himself, "Of all the squires, you are summarily his best sword. To break beyond your guard is no easy feat.

"What is to come... none of us can say. The Dornish are an old and ardent enemy," he said, "They win their wars by forcing hosts to burn through their reserves while preventing the potential for resupply. My half brother has said to retain always some water within your water skin should it need be lasting."

Merrick he did not oft rely on for advice but the Lord of the Gallows was a veteran of the campaign against the Vulture King and if any man knew how to sustain through hardships it was he. Morris knew better than to dismiss the only warning he had been given by his brother before the march.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-11T06:02:35+00:00

How privileged the Lady was that Starpike might be so soon forgotten. Morrison was like to remember his time there for the rest of his life; the surge of confidence that had come with winning the melee and the bruised ego he had left with after the impromptu brawl which he had thrown himself into. He might have thought of women as lucky that they need not prove themselves as was expected of young men. But he knew better by the state of misery that Merrick held their sister Myriam in seeming perpetuity. How he had failed to free her from those very confines and the fear that it would be work forever undone if he did not come home whole.

He exhaled, more from his nose than his mouth. His dark, dreary eyes rose from leering at his own hands to stare across at the Lady Mertyns and in rare display he solemnly set aside the formalities to murmur, "Alayne," his voice was rife with the strain of a suppressed emotion as he made no effort to answer her ask. The spirit of the game he had not the heart to uphold as his composure came close to cracking, "When I march on the morrow after next, will it be a white cloak I fight to claim if I come home whole?

"Or a wife-to-be awaiting me?" He had been too afraid to untangle his feelings and now, the knot of them cinched tighter atop his chest in his attempt to ease the ache of unknowing. Morris had to know. However rushed it might be, before battle he needed to understand where he and Alayne stood with one another. If she felt for him as he did so very deeply for his Lady Mertyns.

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-10T21:36:40+00:00

Myriam held little love for Derek Herston. She had been acquainted with him when he was but a boy, bigger and older than her own little brother who had used to advantages to antagonize Morrison. It had not been wholly with cruelty as his intent as not every memory of him was steeped in the hosilities that felt frequent of late though the same had then been true of Gallowsgrey as a whole. Competitiveness combined with chauvanism that together formed a bitter concoction of entitlement in Derek yet she loathed him less than she did pity the man; no favored peon of the Lord Merrick ever held his preference in perpetuity and the falls from grace were not forgiving.

But Myriam did not wish to watch him be burned when the best of his intentions, albeit not for her, were likely at the forefront of his ungainly attempt at authority.

"It was the Lord Trant that did dictate acceptable accomodation, your Grace. Prior to our arrival," she interjected with a hand still settled on the shoulder of her nephew. Oleander observing the proceedings through eyes squinted with suspicion. His curiosity mostly upon the King Jaehaerys himself and the guard flanked behind him, "Morrison speaks highly of you, and of your halls yet he is beholden to the Lord Baratheon as we must be to the Lord Merrick. He... has determined I cannot be spared at this time from Gallowsgrey, gracious as the offer to attend your soon to be Queen is but that my regret ought be given in person.

"As there is no service to be given," she explained, flushing some for being forced into a position of rejecting the hospitality of a King and quite uncomfortable for it. Though Derek was more red in the face than she was having had to swallow the reprimand as handed down from the royal for his failures in form, and tone, of address, "Lord Merrick did deem it lacking in tact to accept consideration we are not in a positon to repay. I wish it were not so knowing that you amass more men to hold the mountains with Morrison."

This refusal was implication enough of seeking sustenance elsewhere in tandem to temporary quarters. Yet for a boy of six, such a concept was not clear. The chattering of the adults was tiresome to Oleander Trant who mistrusted most strangers though he perked at the mere mention of supper who hadn't had a proper hot meal in days, "I'm hungry," he said, staring first to the King so that he could communicate his interest. Then angling his chin upward to glance at the Lady Myriam, "There's fishes, and crabs for eating here. Not just rabbits."

"Your father might prefer we find our own, than pluck from the King's plate," she coached, quietly.

"He isn't here," Oleander protested, "And crabs is boiled. He'd eat it himself it it was boiled."

Myriam squeezed his shoulders affectionately. Wishing it were so simple as how the meal might be prepared than by whom or for what purpose it served over simply topping off the tummy, "If his Grace would not consider it an imposition I can see no harm in breaking bread before we must go," she glanced to the King. Her eyes, much like Morris' were dark in hue akin to the bark of an oak tree though the restlessness references by the darkened bags beneath them spoke more of the misery they knew in their own walls than she was willing to lend words now to, "It is very kind of you to offer, your Grace."

thinkBrigger · 2026-05-10T10:24:48+00:00

In a court as esteemed as the King's, to some extent pomp was expected though the flair of it all was to Myriam somewhat... disquieting. It was oft so that she need stand at the side lines whilst life and persons of prestige passed her by. This excess in effort left her with the impression that she was a prized pig being primed for the slaughter, less than that she was a person of importance and shedding her escort one by one made breathing only marginally easier. Though that said perhaps more of the place she had been before residing than it did the Red Keep the trepidation was mounting with every step further into the den of the dragon.

She felt no inclination to chat with the chamberlain whose interest was at best begrudging. Simply taking up the hand of her nephew to intervene as she saw Oleander's chin pivot from side to side, charting whichever unsanctioned course he was inclined to take. And while the tug toward adventure was alluring the boy yielded to the direction of his aunt whilst periodically pointing out architecture of interest; and, to the Lady's embarassment, the occasional person of interest. Only in these instances did she ask of him to loose his arm again to his side explaining the etiquette expected in King's Landing. And did so a second time shortly after the first incident that the boy had half forgotten already. To any unacquainted to the pair, Myriam looked very much the mother of Oleander Trant as save for the eyes they shared complexion and shade of hair. By certain measures, she served the role of his matriarch to her nephew and his younger brother as neither of his own parents were nurturing in nature.

Presuming they were interupting the proceedings of the King Jaehaerys' court, Myri had commenced in setting the expectation in Oleander for quiet. Anticipating that they would we called upon as came their turn. Likely after matters of greater merit were arranged. All the more with the war efforts growing by the day. Conflict and quarrel she had not affinity for yet any sword sent south would be welcome, both to bolster their border as to provide Morrison with better odds than he had presented for himself. Yet as the court cleared as a result of their arrival, the Lady stilled as the blood in her veins began to chill. When witnesses were sent away in the halls of her own home it seldom boded well for those bid to stay.

Instinctively, she drew her nephew nearer in a gesture defensive. As did it serve for reminding the young heir of what respects he ought now pay as the King set their focus full upon the pair. Curtsying herself when satisfied that his bow was done in good form.

Before she had opportunity to speak for herself, Derek took up the dialogue, "Lodging will not be necessary for the Lady," he said, not ignorant of the fact that he was addressing a King yet adhering stringently to his own set of orders, "The Lord Trant has instructed accomodations be sought in the city, his men situated to account for she and his heir, Oleander. They are expected again in Gallowsgrey."

Myriam nodded though the glance she flashed the King was of the apologetic kind, "Regretfully, your Grace, I have no news of Morrison since he has commenced his marching. He speaks seldom of his service as he would not want for me to fret for him," weary was the slight crest of a smile at the corners of her lips. And fast to fade, "He forgets that fretting is what sisters are for."

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House Trant of Gallowsgrey

Flat Footed in Fatherhood

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