Still – a tourney!  The first she would attend!  All the splendor and majesty, all the men and their valiant deeds!  She was near to bursting with excitement at the prospect of witnessing the stories of old come to life on the stretches of grassy knolls that surely made up the lands on which the Freys would be hosting the tournament.  That her brother Vaughan would be partaking in the joust brought no end of joy to the young Lady.  She knew he had participated in a few such events in the South, but was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing her valiant Knight of a brother make a show with his lance and proud steed!  And maybe, just maybe…it was possible that someone might declare her – unlikely as it might be! – worthy of a favor!  Amalinde blushed at her own silliness and set to arranging the garments which she would take with her.

She had already scoured her closets countless times, but was having a horrible dilemma.  She wished that Tabin could be here to help her choose which dresses were most appropriate to take for a tourney.  Her mother had been so kind to have one of Lady Saryah’s seamstresses set to the task of creating a few new items for Amalinde to wear at the Tourney, considering that the Lady Delayne would be staying home for the event.  One such garment was a lovely gown that the Lady Delayne herself had worn when she was a lass, meeting the Lord Benton Straasa for the first time.  It was an exquisite gown of lush purple velvet, worked with thread-of-gold and pale blue stones on the bodice.  Amalinde felt absolutely regal as she donned the fabric, faded with time as it was.  The seamstress had fussed and fidgeted, deciding that replacing the stones with peridot instead of topaz would suit the young Lady Amalinde far better.  In the long run, the light green stones had brought out the green in Amalinde’s eyes, and though the faded purple hue reminded her of a few of the swamp’s less friendly inhabitants, she was mindful that she was, in fact, a Lady of the Swamp.

She wished, again, that Tabin had been there to share in her reveries.

Two days hence, they would all be off, in grand procession.  Off to the tourney!  Off to gain, perhaps, some of the renown of House Straasa that was, in Amalinde’s most dire ambitions, House Straasa’s right.  If it meant humiliation of her brother Dayne, so be it; at least all eyes would witness House Strassa standing steadfast in support of Dayne – and Vaughan – and, if Amalinde had her druthers, in support of strange and wayward House Reed, too.  Somehow.

The thought of slithering against Sand on his belly pleased Apep to no end.  These next weeks – the tourney! – would be his time, indeed.  Surely, an event of such grandeur would bring him to his rightful place!  Surely, someone there would realize he was of value, of worth!  And then, oh then…

Apep would have his reward.  Oh, yes.  His Sand reward.  Apep was pleased.

When Samnys had approached him with the notion of blind fighting versus Ser Vaughan, George was incredulous.  It seemed likely that with the strange ways kept by Dornish folk that surely the young knight had learned this trick there.  He learned that Ser Vaughan and Samnys had been the engineers behind it all, conceiving of it just the day before. It was an entirely new series of tactics and techniques, developed by members of House Straasa!  Ever since the skirmish, George had been considering the merits of training the Scouts in such a style:  here in the swamps, one never knew what genuinely blinding sorts of surprises might lurk nearby.  He imagined a flurry of hidden scouts  moving above the virtually blindfolded guards, communicating in their own shared swamp calls as they descended on an unwary camp of bandits –or better yet Ironborn raiders!  Gods, but it looked brilliant in his mind’s eye! Ah, but it was likely more a flight of fancy to think of the style on that level. It had merits, but it would require an even more intensive training regimen for the already capable Straasa Scouts and guardsmen – an investment of time and funding that George was aware they did not have at their disposal.

Remarkably, there had been some mention of the blind-fighting style being presented as a specialized tourney game.  Of all people, Dayne the lordling seemed to think that there was a lot of potential for training women as “battle commanders” on the field.  Gods knew there were women among the Straasa scouts who were as good if not better than some of the men.  Perhaps they could even create male-female teams to showcase and set the style apart even further?  And there was always the political gain of the nod by Straasa at recognizing the warrior-women of House Reed and Greywater Watch’s surrounding environs.  And he, himself had been one of the first combatants to test the style out.  Maybe that would grant him leverage in being among the select few who had the chance to show it off in the first place. George thought fondly about that – his own possible participation in a grand and glorious tournament, surrounded by knights, Lords and Ladies…and wenches!  Ah, the wenches!

George began whistling a tune as he casually made his way to the guard house.  It was his turn to regale the lads there with tales of virtue, glorified battle, and kicking a rock at Anton.  Based on who proved most enthusiastic to learn more, George also had a plan: the lad – or gal, if it was one of the scouts – who was most intrigued would be rewarded with the first spot in the practice yards, the rest having to cover guard the participants’ duties while she got practice and training from Samnys. George knew it would be contagious after that.

He also had the glimmer of a realization as the main gates started to appear over the low entryway of the main keep: he might just be able to send out feelers to catch wind of anyone who might be hosting a tourney anytime in the near future.  It might just be worth a shot at some glory for House Straasa, which George would be happy to take a bit of credit for.  He opted to take the curve that would lead straight to the courtyard, and into the back gate of the main guardhouse, still whistling merrily.

“Is that a Straasa tune you whistle, my good scout?”  The large Dornishman who had accompanied the Lady Wyl was sitting on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard.  George wanted to warn him about Tabin’s snake, but as he got closer he noticed that the fellow had quite neatly impaled the large, venomous creature’s head with one of his short spears, and held the beast with another spear to prevent its escape.  George stopped a small distance away, watching the fellow drag the monstrous viper from the fountain.  The Dornishman deftly dropped the still-writhing snake onto the ground, planting the point of the spear firmly between two paving stones, thereby trapping it. With a rapid flash of a curved dagger, he separated head from contorting body.  As if glad to be free of the bindings of its head, the snake’s body thrashed about the Dornishman’s feet, leaving a trail of blood and gore across the nearby stones. It made George shudder as he watched the almost hypnotic convulsions.

“There,” the man said, obviously satisfied with himself.  “Now, I think the ladies might be able to more safely enjoy the courtyard, if they don’t mind the frogs.  Their security is of my utmost concern.  Assuring them that they may wander freely without concern for their well-being may encourage them to grace the courtyard with their fair presence. Certainly you would agree?”

George remained standing a few yards from the young lord.  Yronwood, he thought he remembered, though he could not bring to mind his given name. “For my part, my lord Yronwood, I agree with you; the ladies are likely becoming weary of the castle.  Yet Tabin is likely to be…displeased…that my lord opted to behead that beast, however.  He spent hours stalking it out in the mire.  As to the tune, well, I wasn’t even aware I was whistling anything recognizable.”

The Dornishman smirked.  “Be that as it may, it sounded rather merry, good man. And while your formality is acknowledged, you may simply call me Desmond.  My ancestral name is rough on the tongues of the North. Still…I do enjoy merriment, such as your song. And this.” George watched as he lifted the skewered head still on the point of his spear, examining it carefully.

“In Dorne we have vipers as well. Very toxic venom comes from their fangs, and some Dornish folk collect it.  They call themselves Snakemilkers.”

“I have heard of your desert snakes.  They bear rattles at the tips of their tails, if I am not mistaken?”  George was tense, and he refused to take his eyes off the fellow’s hands.  The young lord did not seem to notice his gaze; he was quite focused on his gory prize. He cautiously grasped the snake’s head and slid it off the spear point.  He squeezed gently on the sides of the creature’s jaws, forcing them slowly to open.  George felt a tingle of anxiety in the pit of his belly.  As the mouth continued to open, Yronwood sliced the lower jaw from the head with his curved dagger.  The lower jaw landed with a splat at his feet, the tongue half-severed in the process.  All Desmond held now was the fanged portion of the snake in his hand, careful to keep his skin as far from the fangs as possible.

“Yes.  Many of our vipers give warning if you tread too closely.  This warning is music to the ears of the snakemilkers; the vipers reveal themselves that way. Ours are quite easily disguised against the sands of Dorne.  Snakemilkers have love for these snakes.  They will only capture them, milk their venom, and then release them again into the desert to replenish their toxic juices.  Myself, I can hardly abide the creatures. I prefer to dispatch them, as you can see.  Yet I am willing to surmise that even in death, this fellow remains deadly.”

At that, Yronwood reached a hand into the fountain and scooped out a large and brightly-colored frog.  He held fast to the slimy creature as he gingerly pierced its skin with a needle-like fang from the upper jaw in his other hand.  Desmond set the poor frog down on the stones and stepped back to watch.  At first, it hopped frantically away.  On its third hop, it leaped straight into the side of the fountain. It suddenly sprawled its legs out and began twitching violently.  After just another moment, the twitching ceased. The frog’s jaw fell open in a grimace of death, its sticky tongue lolling to the side.  George felt completely ill.

“Yes, indeed: just the prick of one fang brings a frog’s death in moments.  I imagine these beasts are quite capable of causing swift death to much larger animals, hm?  I think our snakemilkers would be most interested in these swamp serpents.  Perhaps there is something to be had of House Straasa after all.”

Yronwood flashed a toothy smile at George, tossing the bloody snake head onto the paving stones.  He then strode off into the deepening murk of evening, whistling tunelessly.  George was already considering who among the scouts was to keep an extremely close eye on Lord Desmond Yronwood.  Then, George proceeded to collect the dead animals and remove them from the courtyard.  He took special care to find the safest location away from the Castle to bury the slaughtered snake’s deadly head.

*     *     *

She lay back against the pile of pillows, drenched in sweat; her long black hair wrapped itself wildly around her pretty face.  That face was a grimace of pain now, but she had not once cried out with it.  Alec knew that he should not be here, but had made a promise and would not go back on it despite the midwife’s constant muttering about men’s rightful places.

“He’s a fighter, Alec,” she smiled wanly, the contraction passing for now.  “He’s just like his father.”

Alec smiled, and felt tears gathering in his eyes.  “I’m sure he must be…a fighter, I mean!” he replied, feeling embarrassed.

The midwife fussed over Hallie’s belly and nether regions constantly.  Alec had never been present at a birth, save for the bitch hounds or the occasional foal.  It made him feel more than a little sad watching Hallie.  He could tell she was hurting, and he could do nothing the ease the pain.  She looked up at him with her warm, brown eyes.  Those eyes were filled with sadness again, just as they had been when her husband had died just shy of a year before.  Alec had given her what comfort he knew how to give in that absence.  Orson had been a dear friend of his, too, and it seemed that their union had helped both Hallie and himself heal somewhat.  Alec had felt no remorse and Hallie had said the same.  And then she revealed to him that she was with child.

The midwife spat a curse beneath her breath that snapped Alec out of his brief reverie. The wizened old woman sent her assistant scurrying to find more rags, and returned to her patient.

“What is it?” he asked, moving closer to Hallie.  He slid her slender hand into his own and stared down into those beautiful, haunted eyes. It was then that the coppery tang of blood filled his nose.  It was a scent with which he was all too familiar, though now it filled him with terror. “You’re doing just fine, love.  Just fine!”

The midwife glanced at him, her face a mix of anxiety and grief.  Alec did not understand.  Hallie’s face began to contort once more in pain.  Her hand squeezed Alec’s fingers, the force of her grip grinding the bones in his hand nearly against one another.  He kept his hand there for her, not knowing what else to do.

“Alec…” she whispered.  He looked down into the pale, fragile face once more.  Her eyes, he noticed, held more than sadness and pain; now they also held resolve. He had seen that same look in the eyes of good men on battle fields.  She knew she was dying, and had come to peace with it.  Alec felt his heart breaking anew, and wondered why it was so much harder to watch her die than any man he’d seen.  He squeezed her small hand, gently.

“I’m here, love.  I am right here,” he said, brushing her wild locks away from her face.  He kissed her gently on her sweat-soaked brow. How cold she felt against his lips!

“One more promise, my brave soldier?” she swallowed. Her tears leaked in a small trickle down the side of her face, mingling with what he realized were his own.

“Anything, love.  Anything for you.” Alec did not recognize the voice as his own.

“Name him Anton.  I always wanted to name my son Anton,” she said, the hint of a smile passing her lips.

“Anton.  Of course.  I will care for him, Hallie.  Know that!  Anton will not want for anything, save his beautiful mother.  I promise you this.”  Just as he swore his oath, Hallie grasped his hand once more.  This time, she let out a scream of pure agony.  Blood gushed from her body and soaked through the bedclothes.  Her hand fell slack into his, her glorious brown eyes closing for the final time.  Alec felt a wave of sorrow sweep over him.

“So much blood!” he thought to himself as he held Hallie’s lifeless hand in his. He thought he ought to say a prayer – something! He felt silly for not knowing which of the seven, or any of the other gods, he should be praying to right then.  All he knew was a deep, intense sorrow, tinged with a steely resolve to make good on promises to the dead.

“Beg pardons, good man,” the midwife said, gently, “But would you like to hold your son? I’ve sent for a wet-nurse.  And I am sorry…it is not uncommon to lose the mother in childbirth.”

Alec stared incredulously at the squalling, squirming bundle she held forth to him.  He felt utterly dumbstruck.  The midwife held the babe out farther, nudging the air in front of him with the bundle.  Not knowing what else he could possibly do, he let go of Hallie’s hand and reached out for the child.

“Anton,” he said to nobody in particular.  He stared down into the wrinkly face, searching for any hint of the child’s mother.  The tiny, cone-shaped head was covered in thick, blackish hair, but the baby’s eyes were the strange steely-blue of newborns.  “His name is Anton.”

*     *     *

Benton was borne into his solar, where Alec stood sipping at a mug of ale.  As soon as the servants had poured a mug for Benton as well, they all departed silently, closing the door behind them.  The brothers’ eyes met across the dimly-lit room before Alec strode to the shutters and flung them open.  Benton did not even feign to blink – he had just returned from outdoors, after all.  And it had not even been the first time he’d left, though none but Gunder of Harlaw and his two bearers knew of the journey to Ambassador’s Tower.

Once Alec was satisfied with the lighting, he approached and sat before his brother.  “Ben.  You’ll forgive my desire to see in the murk.”

“Alec, I am glad to have you home.  We have much to speak of, and not much time in which to do it.”  Benton raised his mug to his lips, but instead of sipping, sighed heavily and set it aside.  Alec raised his eyebrow, but Benton was unsure whether it was his words or his actions that had inspired such.

“Where do you prefer to begin, brother?” Alec responded after a brief pause and another swig of warm ale.  He had no intention of passing up the opportunity to imbibe, even when the particular libation was not the most pleasant.

“I’m afraid I’m not sure!” Benton made a sound that could be considered a grunt, or perhaps an abbreviated chuckle.  “So much to tell, and you only gone two weeks this time!  Perhaps we can return to matters of House Straasa anon.  Instead, what news have you of the world away?”

Alec smiled at the evasion, but chose to placate Benton for the moment.  “It would seem that more has happened here at Swampstone than has happened elsewhere.  And yet, I can report with certainty that the passage of the Dornish party has in fact gone rather well-noticed, as no doubt Lord Wyl preferred.  I trust the brides-to-be have arrived in good health?”

Benton scowled.  “Indeed.  The Lady Wyl was accompanied by, er, Norie Sand – how do those buggers address each other without proper title? – And five Wyl guardsmen.  Also with the ladies was a lad by the name of Desmond Yronwood.  I have yet to understand his presence here, but he seems amiable enough.  Like as not he’s a specially assigned personal guard.”

Alec took a lengthy swig of ale and topped his own mug off once more.  “Small wonder you’ve not gleaned anything of the Yronwood fellow.  I hear you’ve been cooped up here and have yet to meet the guests in any official manner.  Had it been me traveling to Dorne, I most sincerely doubt I’d have taken it with such grace that the Lord of House Straasa has locked himself away.  Worse, this happened when his potential daughters-in-law have arrived.”

Benton did not deign to answer, but his expression turned particularly foul.  Alec had always thought that his elder brother looked like an especially cross eagle when he had that particular look on his face.

“The household worries for you.  Your young Reed has taken it upon himself to boil some swamp swill or another in a pot and will likely be sending it up this way shortly.  I won’t tell you to drink it, but I will tell you this:  You look like you’ve come straight from the seventh hell, brother.”

Benton raised his eyes to meet Alec’s.  The brothers held each other’s gaze for a long while.  Finally, Benton looked away again.  “The seventh!  Gods above, man, I’m not that bad off am I?  No, not yet.  But you’re right. I am not well, Alec.  I am far from well!  I’m a maimed man who cannot even stand up to take a piss without help!  I have three living children who have inherited my name, and the one who is to become Lord when I die leaves me realizing how little time I have to ensure the survival of our House.  Dayne has shown some promise, but promise does not make a boy a man.  And Vaughan – that action in the practice yard today was thought up by the lad, did you know?  But even as a man is able to lead other men into battle, it does not mean he is able to lead a Noble House.  Nor does Vaughan seem adept at the intricacies of the politics of our grand nation.

“I am not well, Alec, and I am not likely to return to wellness.  I fear my time may be coming sooner than we had thought, and I have not yet ensured that this House will carry on.”  Benton’s voice trailed off at the last.  Alec placed his brother’s mug into his hand, and this time, Benton drained the cup in two gulps.

“Ours is a fierce pride, we Straasa.  Throughout the history of Westeros we have stood against adversity, whether from within or from without.  And now, in my decline, I fear that Straasa might dwindle away, too.  What would Castle Swampstone be but yet another ruin of rock in the swamp, slowly sinking into the mire?  I do not want to go to my grave having failed to restore some glory to House Straasa. I cannot do it myself, now.  I have set my hopes on the shoulders of a young man who is unready, even as I have flung him headlong into a great unknown with Dorne.  The success of our plans will ensure gain for both sides.  But will the girl continue to comply?  Will our allies elsewhere prove true?  Will my precarious position in the eyes of Howland Reed level off somehow?  Too many hopes, too few tangibles. And all I do is sit and grow old.”

Alec said nothing in response, but poured another mug-full for himself and Benton.  He merely looked at his brother in the bright light from the windows and sipped at his ale.  After a few moments, Benton shook his head as though trying to shake the thoughts out.  “Ah, hear me prattle on like a woman, Alec!  Do you see what I’ve been reduced to?  Uncertainty is a rather destructive bedmate, I think.”

“I wonder, Ben, whether our father had the same thoughts about you and I when we were lads?” mused Alec.

Benton let out a startled bark of laughter.  “You know, I would not be surprised in the least if he had!”  At that, he reached out and took up his mug, swallowing a large mouthful of ale.  “Bah, but this stuff tastes better when it’s straight from the cellars.  It tastes like piss when it sets too long.”

Alec smiled and raised his glass, “Here’s to warm, flat piss!  Now, tell me why in Seven Hells there is a Harlaw in the Ambassador’s Tower!”

*     *     *

It was quite dark out, now.  The creatures of the swamp were in full chorus. Greta pressed herself flat against the wall of the keep, just outside of Anton’s quarters.  She listened for any hint of sound emanating from behind the closed door.  Light flickered at the crack beneath, but much to her chagrin, there was no sound that she could hear above the cacophony of the life surrounding the castle.  Did she dare to knock?  She reached out her hand…and a shadow passed in front of the source of light.  Greta shot back around the corner of the wall as fast as she could move, her heart pounding in her throat.

This close to the main keep, there were neither shrubs nor trees behind which she could hide.  That thought reminded her of what Anton had said one night after their love play:  she had asked him whether he would keep her safe for always.  His response – after laughing for a bit – was: “Of course you’re safe here!  Our scouts range for miles around the keep, watching, waiting, always listening.  We know for ages before anyone makes it here.  Besides, there isn’t anything that anyone can hide behind on the castle grounds.  Trees and shrubs can burn, even when they’re wet, if they get hot enough.”

Though it wasn’t the answer she was looking for, it did help Greta to feel safe in the large, empty castle.  Before Anton had come, there had only been a few rangers who ever stayed at the castle for long.  They were always busy, out and about keeping the women and few children of the Castle safe.  Greta wasn’t sure what Swampstone had to be protected from; she only knew that the threats were real enough that most of the men who were ever here had trained to be soldiers, guardsmen, or Straasa scouts.  And not a one of them had ever wanted more of her than what she had beneath her skirts.

Until Anton.  At least Greta had thought so until recently.  He had always come to her before whenever he wanted company, after Tara had broken his heart.  But it was more than that, with him!  She loved to play the damsel in distress, and depending on his mood, Anton would either be a valiant heir to some rich House come to rescue her, or perhaps the villain who had captured her and wanted nothing more than to have his way with her. It was all very exciting!

Or at least, that was how she always thought of it in her own head.  He never actually played the roles – but he did not have to! She knew him so well that she never had to do anything but imagine.  The thing he did do differently was talk with her for a while afterward, letting her lay her head on his shoulder as he stroked her hair.  Often as not, there would be a second or even sometimes a third tumble before he would finally kiss her goodbye.  Like the rest, he never stayed to sleep next to her.  But that was because her bed was so small.  It served, and it was private.  But it was small.

Some of the other girls around the castle were even a bit jealous.  One girl had even gone so far as to spread a rumor that she had finally bedded beautiful Dayne to draw attention away from Greta and Anton’s love.  Oh, how they had shot the liar down…and pointed out that really, only the bastard boy would be likely to share any servants’ sheets.  But it wasn’t just anyone that Anton would fuck, damn them!  Greta even defended him, calling him “her Anton,” and snapping at anyone who called him a bastard in her hearing.

All of that had changed just days ago.  At first, Greta thought it must have to do with Ser Vaughan coming home.  Anton was busier than when he had his scouting rounds.  Or maybe that was just how it seemed, because instead of being gone, he was always somewhere nearby. And then there was all this talk of marriages for all of the Straasa children, interrupted by crybaby Amalinde.  Greta dreamed of getting married; sometimes she even thought she might marry Anton.  How could that whiny noble snot complain about being married?

That same crazy night, those awful cousins of Tabin the Odd showed up.  Llyr wasn’t really a problem – he was strange but adorable, and he loved to bring her little flowers.  Boan, she nearly never saw, unless he was there with Llyr, silently following to make sure his little brother wasn’t getting into too much trouble.  But their elder sister – Greta didn’t even want to think her name! – was definitely up to no good.

At first, she thought he was just being polite by showing the swamp bitch around the castle.  But then he didn’t come that night.  She remembered how she had waited up for him.  She had stripped out of her dress and had hung it across the doorway, so that when he came through, he’d have no choice but to charge right into it.  But he never came through the door, that night or any night since.  And that was almost two weeks past, now!  She had tried to follow him, as she had done before.  She’d go to the practice yard whenever he had been there before, but now there was another small crowd, and often as not, the Reeds were somewhere nearby, too.  When Anton had been sent away to scout something or another, Greta had gloated that the bitch had looked sad.  But when he came back, all full of danger as Alyn described, the first person he saw after the Lord was not Greta – no!  It was the swamp bitch!  Greta knew what it felt like to be jealous, but never before had she felt so angry at a stupid…boy!

He hadn’t said anything to her when his “clean” clothing had been returned to him with bits of stingweed smashed into his smallclothes. As far as she knew, he hadn’t said anything to anyone about that.  According to Alyn, he had simply returned to the washroom – while Greta was gone, of course! – and asked for a few new sets.  His avoidance had driven her to that!  If he wasn’t going to speak to her of his own will, she was going to make sure it happened.  She was done with being put off.  She was taking matters into her own hands, in a way that brooked no avoidance!

Finding her courage anew, she stood up and brushed her skirts back into place.  She fiddled with her blouse so that a generous display of bosom was exposed, and she stepped out from her hiding place.  Raising her hand to knock upon the still-closed door she froze; standing between Greta and the door to Anton’s rooms, her arms crossed below her own perky bosom, was Moira Reed.

“So you have reduced yourself to stalking?”  The elder girl’s face was filled with open scorn.  Greta nearly fell backwards out of shock and fear, but the hatred she had been feeling toward the Reed girl came back in force and she managed to keep her feet.

“He’s mine, you know!” was all Greta could manage to spit out.  She realized her pre-knock clenched hand was still in the air.  She let it drop to her side without unclenching. She felt the color creeping up her face, and knew that the tears would be soon to follow.

“Truly?  It is a tradition for the base-born women who serve House Straasa to grace their lovers’ underclothes with stingweed?  That seems a bit odd, to me; not like to encourage your men to return to you.”

Greta’s color deepened and the tears came freely out of her eyes to run down her cheeks.  She furiously scrubbed them away, but that only seemed to make them come faster.  She began sniffling as she stood and stared as defiantly as she could manage into the eyes of Moira Reed.  “Anton isn’t yours,” she said, more feebly than she intended, “And besides, he’s Alec’s bastard!”

“I have not yet laid a claim on him, if that is your concern.  Which, as I am quite sure you have come to realize, is not,” said Moira.  “Nor do I fault you your taste in young men. On the contrary, it seems we quite agree on that point, at the least.  As to Anton’s status, I consider him a member of this House, just as those of noble birth here do.  I find his company pleasing, and intend to keep it for some time if he’ll have mine.”

Greta stood and fumed, her eyes coursing like rivers.  Her nose had joined in the free-fall, but she no longer bothered to scrub the offending liquids from her face.  Her sniffling, on the other hand, was now to the point where it was uncontrollable.  At that moment, she was unsure whom she hated more: Moira Reed or herself.

*     *     *

Norie sat cross legged on a folded up blanket on the floor beneath her cousin, who was perched on the edge of her bed.  Saryah was running a silver scroll-worked brush through her glossy black hair, and her rich voice flowed over Norie as she sang a wordless song.  Saryah and Norie had grown up together, and exchanged turns brushing one another’s hair, rather than allowing any servants to do it for them.  It was a ritual, really; a time when the two could share thoughts about happenings in their lives; or not, as they saw fit.  Norie had always known that Saryah was cleverer, and loved to play at trying to draw connections between things as quickly.  It also gave them the chance to act like girls all over again, speaking in hushed tones of the boys they each had taken a fancy to here and there over time.

In truth, it had been Saryah who had first thought Vaughan, with his pale skin and unusually greenish eyes, was the slightest bit handsome.  They had all been little more than children when he had arrived at Wyl, escorted there by his deeply mysterious Uncle Alec, and one other man whose identity they did not know, though Norie and Saryah still debated about from time to time.  Norie had thought the much-younger boy’s pale skin looked like a lump of unbaked dough.

As the years passed, Norie grew into her beauty and Vaughan grew to be a most impressive young man, taking his duties as squire most seriously. Even his skin deepened in tone from hours spent in the Dornish sun.  Saryah’s interest in him had always remained, but was much more cordial and gracious than that which Norie herself had begun to feel.  Saryah had been the one to point out that Norie was acting love-sick.  Until that moment, Norie would not have recognized the truth of what she was feeling – all she knew is that every time Vaughan was anywhere near, her heart would flutter in her breast, she would feel rather as though her legs had turned to water, and her usually sharp tongue and wits were dulled completely.  She found herself thinking of him as she woke in the mornings, and as she would finally drift off at night.  Saryah would tease her gently, laughing at how much trouble such a young boy had caused her usually imperturbable cousin.

After a short while, she had begun receiving invitations and gifts from the eligible men – some young and some even older – around Wyl.  Saryah, even upon reaching her majority, had received far fewer protestations of affection. At first, it had caught her quite off-guard; she had expected the suitors to be falling over themselves for her cousin’s hand; Saryah held the claim to House Wyl and besides being kind, true, and gracious, she was exceptionally shrewd with figures and writing.  Uncle Feri had seen to it that should Saryah opt not to marry, she would be quite capable of running the House of her own volition.  There were some who said Uncle Feri was showing his eccentricity, and others who said he wanted to ensure his legacy did not fall into the hands of fools. Norie believed that Uncle Feri simply doted upon his daughter, and wanted only to ensure her happiness.  Norie had always been jealous of that, too; her own father had taken his ship across the seas to the Free Cities, and had not been heard from in years.

Still, it was Norie whom the boys wrote bad poetry about.  It was Norie whose favor was begged at the two tourneys the cousins had attended together.  And it had been Norie who first entertained the notion of taking a lover.  She found it rather to her liking that there was finally something at which she was better than Saryah, even though it did make her feel a trifle guilty.  She loved her cousin as a sister, but certainly felt that no matter how much they loved one another, there was always room for rivalry.  It galled Norie to no end when Saryah had finally told her, “You go ahead and have Vaughan; clearly my feelings for him pale dreadfully in comparison to yours!”  The two had not spoken for days after that.  Naturally, they eventually made up again, with hugs, tears, and laughter. They had not fought since, swearing that no man would ever be able to come between them again.

Saryah’s song had drifted into something rather whimsical and delicate.  Her deft fingers were now twirling through Norie’s hair, coursing over her scalp. Norie sighed, feeling absolutely sumptuous.  “Mmmm…your turn, coz.  I’m as like to fall asleep as anything with you singing lullaby-tunes.”

Saryah’s song turned into a sensual chuckle as she released Norie’s hair.  The two switched places, though Saryah continued humming softly as Norie began releasing her cousin’s hair from its’ intricate braids.

“I was just remembering when Vaughan came to Wyl, coz.  Do you remember when he went away to become a knight?” Norie asked her voice barely above a whisper.

“Quite clearly,” Saryah replied.  “You were fit to have kittens at the thought of being left behind, as I recall.”

Norie dealt Saryah a slight tap from the brush, and Saryah giggled.  “I was not!  Not quite kittens, at least.  But it did drive me to distraction knowing that he was going to be somewhere I couldn’t see him.  I had so desperately wanted to be there to cheer him on; to let him know, finally…” Norie’s voice trailed off for a moment before she continued.

“I kept imagining it in my mind’s eye:  Vaughan was one of many brave, handsome young men who stood before King Robert and Queen Cersei, wanting nothing more than to prove their noble intent by swearing in front of the Seven to protect the realm and defend its people.”

Saryah leaned her head back so that she was looking up at her cousin’s face.  Norie glanced down at her and continued stroking Saryah’s hair, a wry smirk on her full lips.  “I imagined being among the crowd, at first, watching the boys make their way from the Keep, across the cobbled path toward the Great Sept of Baelor; their bare feet slapping against the stones as they passed us by.  Some of the boys would smile and acknowledge faces in the crowd, but Vaughan would keep his focus on the climb to the Sept, knowing in his heart that I was there without having to confirm it with his eyes.

“The next morning, perhaps not all of the boys who had gone into the Sept would emerge to travel barefoot back to the Great Keep of Maegor.  But Vaughan would be there.  He would have held vigil all night, kneeling before the Father, or perhaps the Warrior.  He would be among the last to leave the Sept, due to his exceptional patience, and the virtue of knowing that he had accomplished this task.  He would have no need to hurry.”

Her eyes gazed unseeing across the room, and her fingers began to toy with her cousin’s hair and scalp almost seductively.  Saryah could tell by her cousin’s voice that she had drifted away, caught up in her own visions; it had a breathy quality, and as she continued her story a flush began to appear high in Norie’s cheeks. Saryah luxuriated in her cousin’s sensual imagery and touch, except that instead of Vaughan, she saw Dayne.  The thought pleased her.

“Now, Vaughan is kneeling with his head bowed; his feet and torso are bare still from his vigil.  Instead of the Septon, though, he is kneeling before me.  I dip my fingers into the softly scented oils and bid him raise his head.  Our eyes meet, and I hear his breath catch in his throat.  I am speaking words, but they are nothing I quite understand.  I reach out and touch his brow with the oil, anointing him a Knight of the Realm.  The crowd cheers for him, but I raise my hand to silence them, and they all slowly disappear.

“The Great Hall is empty save for the two of us, now.  I bid him rise, and he slowly rises and stands before me.  I dip my fingers once more in the oils and begin tracing the lines of his face…let them glide down his cheek, to his neck, to his beautiful chest.  I step down so that I am right in front of him.  The scent of the oil combines with the scent of his skin. I step behind him, running my fingers gently over his belly, now dragging my fingernails against his skin.  I trace the lines of his shoulders with the oils, and slowly circle him once more so that we are face to face.  His breath has become shallow, and he suddenly grabs me close.  His mouth seeks mine, hungrily, and I submit to the desire between us.  As he presses me against him, I can feel his phallus standing rigid against my body…”

“Oh good gods, Norie!” Saryah squeaked suddenly and jerked away from her cousin.  Norie erupted in laughter and slumped onto the floor next to her furiously blushing cousin.  Norie flung her arms around Saryah, still full of mirth, and flushed with her fantasies.

“Truly coz, you are such a prude!” Norie said with feigned indignity.

Saryah cast a gaze full of irony at Norie.  “Whether I’m a prude or not, it isn’t as if you’re speaking out of experience!  Really?  His ‘rigid phallus’?”

At that, Norie chucked a pillow at her cousin’s head.  “So what if I’m not?  I’m quite certain that imagination has an awful lot to do with lovemaking anyway.  And I have kissed men.  I know how their breath catches when they feel desire.  How their eyes become heavy-lidded, and their lips flush with anxious blood.  We’re not so different in that, men and women.  Lust is a powerful force.  Compound love with lust and it’s a wonder people ever get anything done outside their bedchambers!”

In spite of her jest, Norie’s heart was aching.  Ever since they had come to this swamp, Vaughan had been nothing but avoidant.  Saryah’s Dayne was sure to let them know of his presence, and though he was not intrusive, he had been gracious and attentive.  Though it had not been declared in any official capacity, it would seem that Saryah’s proposal was to be accepted.  Norie’s, on the other hand, had not even been acknowledged.  Tears were welling in Norie’s eyes.

Saryah took Norie’s hands in her own, her face a frown of concern.  “What is it, Norie?”

“I was just wondering where I went wrong, Saryah.  Oh wise Lady Wyl, what have I done to offend Ser Vaughan so that he won’t even come near me?”

*     *     *

Llyr danced around their shared bedchamber, his boundless energy needing an outlet.  Boan was sitting on the bed, propped up against the nearby wall.  He was feeling quite irritated with having been left with the responsibility of ensuring Llyr was out of the way for now.  Llyr was more trouble than any other five-year old child that Boan had ever dealt with, and Boan had many, many cousins!

“Frrrroooogsss…they are so bright and colorful!” Llyr sang, crouching himself into a frog-like position to hop.  “IIIIIIIIIIII aaaaaaaaammm a froooooooooooOOOOOOOOOg!  RIIII-BIT!”

With that, he flung himself across the floor of the room, landing with a splat on the stony floor.  Boan sighed and shook his head, wishing he had something to do while his brother hopped around.  Llyr squatted frog-like once again, but this time turned his gaze at Boan.  He made a belching sound deep in his throat and crouched even lower.  Boan stared at his little brother with as stern and adult-like a gaze as he could manage. It was all Moira had to do to get Llyr to cooperate, and Boan truly wanted to emulate that.  Llyr still crouched on the floor, aimed at the bed.  His face had contorted in a strange grimace, and Boan could feel his ire rise.  He shifted on the bed so that he wouldn’t smack his head against the wall when Llyr finally decided to leap at him.

Llyr did leap, but it was a much feebler hop that Boan had anticipated.  He let out a weak croak, and looked a bit wobbly.  “Maybe he’s finally getting tired!” Boan thought to himself. Llyr leaped once more, this time colliding with the side of the bed instead.

“Llyr!  Stop that!” Boan used his most grown-up sort of voice.  Llyr did not seem to be listening.  After his collision with the bedside, he flopped over onto his side and began shaking violently.  Boan stared down for a moment before realizing that something was terribly, terribly wrong.  He leapt off the bed toward his convulsing brother.

“Llyr!  Llyr, are you all right?” he asked, feeling stupid the moment the phrase had left his mouth.  Llyr did not respond at all, but continued twitching, his open eyes staring unseeing at the side of the bed.  Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Llyr’s limbs fell slack, his eyes still staring blankly forward.  His mouth fell open, and his small tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth.  He laid completely still, not even a hint of breath coming from his small body.  Boan was terrified.

“Llyr!” he shouted, reaching out to shake the small form, but Llyr remained still.  Boan felt panic rising in him.  “Llyr!  Oh, gods!  Help, someone!  Help me!”

Suddenly, Llyr blinked.  He pulled his tongue back into his mouth, wiping the small stream of drool from the side of his mouth.  Boan made a choking sound and threw his arms around his brother, helping him into a sitting position.  The boy’s pale face was set in a look of consternation.  Boan was flooded with relief.

“Are you…Llyr, you scared me to death!”

“Not your death,” Llyr replied sardonically.  “The frog’s.”

Boan was stunned. He released his brother and sat back on his heels. “Do you think you’re funny, Llyr?  Do you know what just happened?”

Llyr’s expression turned extremely cross.  “I know more than you do.”

Boan bit his tongue in spite of his exasperation.  “Yes, little brother.  You know more than I do.  You know more than most people do.  Why did the frog die?”

Llyr sat on the floor with his little arms wrapped around himself.  “It got poked with poison.  But the frog was not where it came from; it was a frog from someplace else.  It liked the fountain a lot, and it even knew of the snake in the fountain.  The snake didn’t want to kill the frog.  The snake didn’t want to die, either.”

Boan moved close and reached out his hand to his younger brother.  “Llyr, you know you need to tell me:  are you talking about snakes and frogs in truth?”

Very slowly, his face completely serious, Llyr shook his head no.

First up is House Wyl.  Lady Saryah is daughter to Lord Feri Wyl (entirely fictional characters) and this is Vaughan’s foster house.  The five men who accompanied Saryah, Norie, and Desmond Yronwood were clad in black and yellow, and the banner they carried looked like this:

http://www.westeros.org/Citadel/Heraldry/Entry/House_Wyl/

While we’re in Dorne, I will also post the banner for House Yronwood, because the link also includes some information that is relevant to Stephen’s knowledge of the house.  For everyone else, well…you’ll now know what the Yronwood banner looks like, at any rate.  Desmond likely was not bearing his own standard, but would undoubtedly have had the sigil emblazoned somewhere on his person or his horse.  They are exceptionally proud, after all:

http://www.westeros.org/Citadel/Heraldry/Entry/House_Yronwood/

Here is House Royce of Runestone’s banner (Lady Delayne’s original house):

http://www.westeros.org/Citadel/Heraldry/Entry/House_Royce02/

Here is the Reed banner:

http://www.westeros.org/Citadel/Heraldry/Entry/House_Reed/

If you guys can think of anyone else in particular that you’d like to have referenced here, just let me know.  Also, just feel free to browse the Citadel site.  It’s pretty nifty.

The Current Straasa Family and Retainers

NPCs

Lord Benton Straasa, Age 43 (soon to be 44).  Bannerman to Lord Eddard Stark of the North, but with strong ties via marriage to Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale.  He is a haughty fellow with more grey in his hair than brown, with amber-colored eyes and facial features reminiscent of a bird of prey.  He is known to bellow while in his cups, though he has never raised a hand against one of his own house.  He was crippled in battle versus the forces of Balon Greyjoy during the Greyjoy Rebellion; he lost the lower half of his left leg, and also lost the use of his left arm.  This prevents him from traveling great distances from Castle Swampstone.  He is still a cunning man, however, and has managed to maneuver with relative skill in the tumultuous political currents of Westeros.

Lady Delayne Straasa, Age 40. Originally of House Royce of Runestone and formerly a Tallhart of Torrhen’s Square.  She is fairly short and now in her later years a fair bit on the plump side, but her soft brown curls and doe-like eyes are still remarkable.  Technically a second cousin to Lord Royce, Lady Delayne came to be wed to Lord Benton only after being widowed by wildlings.  A merry woman by all counts, in spite of the hardships she has faced in her forty years of life, Lady Delayne brightens Castle Swampstone considerably by her mere presence.  She is an exceedingly doting mother to Dayne and Amalinde, and heaps additional affection on the two of them as a result of being separated by time and distance from her youngest son, Vaughan.  She is ever the Lady of the House, striving against high odds to ensure a well-set table for guests, and doing all that is in her power to know some few traditions and preferences in cuisine from the farthest reaches of Westeros.

Conrad Straasa, eldest son and heir to House Straasa; died at age 10.

Amalinde Straasa, Age 10.  Youngest child of Lord Benton and Lady Delayne.  A maid of ten years, with bright amber-colored eyes, flowing locks of light-brown curls, and a ready smile. Amalinde is certainly learning her role as a lady, though this “lady-ness” is tempered readily by her quick wit and somewhat mischievous behavior.  Though she still has some rather child-like features, she is sure to be a tremendous beauty in her own right when she reaches womanhood.  She is bright, warm, and has a strong affinity for singing and needlework.  She also has demonstrated strength in memorizing and reciting poetry, and has an exceptionally keen eye when it comes to numbers.  Much to her mother’s chagrin, Amalinde loves to wade and swim in the stream at the top of the hill nearest the castle with the other youngsters of the household.  She is frequently barefoot.

Tobias, Age 66.  Seneschal of House Straasa.  Tobias has been in service to House Straasa for his entire life, having been born to a chambermaid of Lady Freesia (mother to Benton and Alec) though there was a time in his youth when he strived to become a Maester of the Citadel.  It is, in fact, from a Maester that Tobias received his training in stewardship, most especially in the ways of numbers and ledgers.  Tobias has spent most of his time in the recent past training the youngsters of House Straasa to do mathematics, and to be aware of the fluctuations that are bound to happen in the monetary systems of Westeros.  His role as steward is not necessarily well-defined, though when he has advice to give to Benton, you can be assured that Benton will listen.

Alyn, Age 14.  A gawky yet charming young man whom Tobias has taken a vested interest in raising and training to be his replacement.  Alyn is very kind-hearted and loyal to a fault, but has yet to be fully decided as to whom his loyalty runs deepest.  Amalinde truly frightens him, though he tries desperately to not show this to her, fearing that it will inspire additional cruelty.

George, Age 35.  A lithely built, fairly tall gent who has been with House Straasa for his entire life.  He is the current Head Scout, and certainly highest-ranking among the soldiers at House Straasa.  He has only recently become notable on a personal level to the members of House Straasa due to his participation in a leadership-based fighting ‘game’ on the Straasa practice fields.  Known for unflagging loyalty and sincere desire to keep the peace in his swampy homelands.

Various other household servants (as yet undefined.)

PCs

Alec Straasa, Age 38. Brother to Lord Benton.  Serves as Benton’s Right Hand, and frequently travels the length and breadth of Westeros in the name of House Straasa.  Loyal, cunning, and with some fair skill at negotiation, Uncle Alec adores and is beloved by his entire family; and influential enough to be notable outside Castle Swampstone for quite a distance. (Scott)

Dayne Straasa, Age 18. Second-born son, now heir to House Straasa.  He is bookish and bright, but not particularly skilled in weapons.  He has not ventured far from Castle Swampstone, but has been present for his father’s meetings with notable folk such as Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, and his distant uncle Lord Nestor Royce of Runestone.  Currently entertaining the possibility of welcoming a Dornish bride, Dayne’s time of innocent life at the castle has come to an abrupt halt. (Dominic)

Ser Vaughan Straasa, Age 17.  Third-born son and anointed knight of the realm.  Vaughan has spent the past decade fostering in Dorne at House Wyl.  He has seen battle, primarily in border skirmishes against the Reach, and has demonstrated prowess in tourneys down south.  Though his acclaim is real in Dorne (and a few other places) the honor and glory – and wealth! – that he won during those tourneys went to his foster house.  Vaughan has returned home at a summons from his father, Lord Benton.  (Stephen)

Tabin Reed, Age 10. Foster of House Straasa for the past two years.  Tabin has a constant companion in Verris, a burrowing owl not native to the swamplands of Westeros.  Tabin is a distant nephew of Howland Reed, being the second son to Howland’s youngest sister.  He is not at all in line to inherit, but his position as the head of House Reed’s nephew holds some sway politically.  Tabin himself is a charming if quirky lad whose fondness for Amalinde is tremendously well-known. (Richard)

Samnys the Tyrosh, Age 38.  Hedge Knight who has sworn his service to House Straasa.  He was a fighting comrade of Alec Straasa during Robert’s Rebellion, being present during the battle wherein Alec was knighted.  Beyond this, Samnys is rather veiled in mystery.  He has taken up the position of Master-of-Arms in the household.  He is responsible for providing basic training in sword and shield fighting techniques (among other, more stylized ones) to the young lads of House Straasa.

Anton Stone, Age 15.  Acknowledged bastard of Alec Straasa.  He arrived to Castle Swampstone around the same time as Tabin Reed.  His arrival at Swampstone was met with mixed regard – awe that Alec had sired a bastard, in addition to the fact that he chose to acknowledge the boy, compounded by the fact that until two years ago nobody knew of the existence of Anton Snow –  though he has openly ignored much of the poorly-veiled disdain.  Instead, he has refined his talents as an archer and scout, rising quickly in the ranks among the Straasa Guardsmen.  Perhaps it is his prowess, or perhaps it is that he is his father’s son that Alec is a favorite among the young ladies about the Castle. (Ray)

Visitors to House Straasa

From House Reed (sworn to the Starks of Winterfell)

Moira Reed:  Age 17.  Short, and lithely built.  Straight shoulder-length brown hair.  Hazel eyes.  Carries a three-pronged frog-spear that it is apparent she knows how to use (and use well!)  Has a warm personality, for a Reed.

Boan Reed:  Age 12.  Lad who could pass as Tabin for one who did not know the boys well.  Slightly taller and somewhat more broad in the shoulder than his younger cousin.  Also has a more solemn demeanor.

Llyr Reed: Age 5.  A rather small child, even given his age.  He has a shock of sandy blonde, unruly curls atop his head, and strikingly bright green eyes.  He is held in high regard by his elder siblings.  Has a tendency to very suddenly blurt out bits of seemingly random and odd information, and then to fall into silly sing-song.

From House Wyl (of Dorne, sworn to Sunspear)

Lady Saryah Wyl: Age 19.  Has proposed marriage to Dayne at the same time that her acknowledged-bastard cousin has proposed marriage to Vaughan.  Vaughan’s foster-sister.  All that is known about her to most of Straasa is that she has one heck of a dowry. (As yet unmet by everyone save Vaughan and maybe Alec; the former of whom has remained entirely silent about her.)

Norie Sand: Age 20.  Has proposed marriage to Vaughan, and has spurred her noble-born cousin to propose marriage to the mysterious elder brother, Dayne.  A base-born yet acknowledged woman, with a relatively reasonable dowry.  (As yet unmet by everyone save Vaughan, and not unlike Lady Saryah, he has remained closed-mouthed about this woman as well.)

Desmond Yronwood (of House Yronwood) 21 years old.  Lithe, but well-muscled in his shoulders and arms.  On first appearance, he was fully armed and lightly armored, carrying a sturdy small shield with the device of House Yronwood emblazoned upon it, and with a case containing about a dozen short spears strapped across his back.  He wore no helmet, and his chin-length black hair fell in lazy curls around the side of his bronze-colored face. He was also holding the shaft of one enormous spear with a leaf-shaped head that was twice again the length of his hand, and wickedly sharp by all appearances.   He wore a long sword at his hip, as well, but it was the head of the spear that caused the scraggle-bearded “bandit” to lose his own head.  {As an aside, Vaughan does immediately recognize the fellow.  House Yronwood is considered to be the most powerful – militaristically speaking – of the Dornish noble Houses.}

**Five House Wyl Guardsmen – unnamed at present; were with Lady Saryah and Norie Sand, along with Desmond Yronwood in the swamp.

From House Payne (sworn to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock) <NOT a visitor; just mentioned for now)

Alois Payne: Age 13.  Was suggested as a possible marriage match for Amalinde.  All that is known of the boy is that he is a squire to Stanton Westerling of the Crag (also sworn to House Lannister) and that he has “demonstrated some martial skill.”

This Lord Feri was not entirely incorrect in presuming Straasa independence of spirit.  And yet, there were aspects of Dornish culture which had left him flabbergasted:  the women were proposing marriage?  And not just Ladies, but a base-born girl, this Norie Sand?  A Sand with a dowry!? Benton knew it was not unusual for the Lords and Ladies of Dorne to take lovers publicly, and even to elevate them in status.  He recalled the rumor of Ser Oberyn Martell having several such paramours scattered about the desert.  It was unusual, though certainly not unheard of, for the bastard children of those unions to be placed in line to inherit.  Still, the very idea of her audacity was disquieting to Benton.

The laws of inheritance were another thing that had him quite concerned.  Should Dayne marry this Saryah, would she deem it necessary to impose some of her culture?  What of the possibility that no male heir was brought forth by Dayne?  Would his daughter then take on the leadership of House Straasa?  He was quite confident that Vaughan would have the great good sense to refuse this Sand woman’s marriage offer.  Besides the obvious insult to his station as an anointed knight, Benton was convinced that Vaughan had little interest at present in taking a wife. It was certainly a risk to have both sons married to members – of whatever rank! – of the same household, particularly those from Dorne.  And yet, this marriage tie to Dorne via Dayne could prove quite laudable for the future of House Straasa.

He considered the location of House Wyl, situated on the northeastern coast of Dorne.  Their trade relations with the Nine Free Cities was enviable, and it certainly made for a great deal of wealth to be retained by the lords of the harbor there.  Items of tremendous value could be brought directly to House Straasa, providing a rather unique opportunity for a source of income that while slow in coming if by land, would be well worth the delay.  With the girl’s dowry alone, Straasa could easily afford to establish a small village nearer to Saltspear again, thereby providing access to the seas, and expediting the travel-time of Free-Cities goods.  The benefit of it was startling, and was nearly enough to offset the political attention that it would generate for House Straasa.

The relationship between Dorne and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms had been tremendously strained ever since Prince Doran’s sister Elia had been savagely murdered by Gregor Clegane.  Rumors always held some grain of truth, after all.  Prince Doran had called for justice many times over the course of King Robert’s reign, but had yet to be granted such.  That a loyal retainer of the Prince was allowing his daughter and to travel to the North on the heels of a marriage proposal that was as yet unaccepted was mind-boggling to Benton.  On one hand, Lady Saryah’s retinue was sure to catch the notice of anyone who encountered the party at sea or on the roads – a rather bold statement in and of itself.  It had been a great deal less notable to send Vaughan south.  Benton could not help but wonder what gain Lord Feri Wyl perceived in this match.

He sighed audibly, feeling a slow ache creep in behind his eyes.  The headaches had become increasingly worse in the past several months, though he rarely let on to anyone save his Lady wife, whose gentle touch was often enough to knead the worry from his neck and shoulders, if not removing the pain from his skull.

The other sheaf of parchment held an even more mixed sort of ‘blessing.’  It had been a while in coming, Benton knew all too well.  Some promises made to House Straasa during the Greyjoy Rebellion two years past had been called to light by Alec during his recent travels through the Westerlands.  It would seem that the Lannister answer for a debt paid in Straasa blood was to marry an obscurely related third-cousin of Ser Ilyn Payne to Amalinde.  Alois Payne was nearing thirteen, and he had shown some promise as a squire to Ser Stanton Westerling of the Crag.  The proposal, set up for Lord Benton’s consideration, took into account the fact that Amalinde had little to offer in the way of a dowry, and that Alois Payne was likely to remain a squire long into his days.

Apparently, in spite of House Straasa’s relatively high degree of influence in the North, the West could not see fit to be bothered much to make good on those old promises.  Benton thought to himself that while the offer was perhaps worth pretending to consider, there was little else that had to be done to maintain the ruse.  Her reaction to the suggestion of Payne had been a little over the top, but he understood well enough.  The girl was occasionally too bright for her own good.  All that talk of alliance by marriage to Howland Reed!  It was as though she was already aware…Her true betrothal would be revealed in time, after all.  Why not enjoy a few gifts on the behalf of her suitors?  Benton set aside the second missive with a wry smirk.

“All in good time,” he mused.  “Time, which I must needs put to good use.”

_____________________________________________

Amalinde’s head was reeling.  So very much had happened in the last three days, and in spite of the training she had been receiving from both Uncle Alec and her mother – the former in the subtle art of politicking and the former in the arts of being a proper Lady – she fled the Great Hall and Tabin, feeling her already broken heart fall into the pit of her belly. Thinking of him now, and what he had made clear by sitting away from her at the feast, brought the tears streaming from her eyes once more.  He was her truest friend, and she had such a strong affection for him already.  Yet in what had proved to be her most dire hour, her one true friend had left her stranded, alone in a sea of faces she had thought she knew.  Tabin had even raised a glass to toast her betrothal to a stranger, and worse yet a stranger with the surname Payne!  It was that which had pushed her to action; her brave Reed had failed her.

Her father’s expression as she stood to question the betrothal had been full of a fury she had never seen directed at herself, and yet she was not intimidated by him.  Her Lord Father had never once even so much as scolded her for any defiance.  Uncle Alec, however…the look of disapproval was almost enough to cause her tongue to freeze in her mouth.  Almost.  However, when he stood and departed, stating that the conversation was at an end, Amalinde felt her heart shatter to a thousand pieces.  It was only then that Tabin had approached her and asked her to get some fresh air.

“You can keep your putrid swamp air,” she had told him, the calmness of her voice surprising her.  With that, she had fled to the basement, where the strength of her grief overwhelmed her senses entirely.  She did not know how long she wept, only that after the tears had finally ceased, the first hints of a plan had begun to come together in her mind.  Latching onto a shred of hope, Amalinde finally drifted off into a dreamless, exhausted sleep.

___________________________________________

Tobias had crept away shortly after Ser Alec had left the dinner table.  He was certain that he wanted no part of Lord Benton’s fury, and so wanted to make himself as scarce as possible.  He slipped into the kitchen, hoping to secure one of the small, tart apples that Ser Alec had brought home with him from the south.  After a few moments of futile searching, the seneschal plopped himself down beside the already-waiting sheaves of parchment that would show the full tallies of Straasa trade during this most recent excursion.  Ser Alec had not been idle in his time away, Tobias was certain.  Not only had he brought home two offers of marriage, he had also secured a rather impressive position for his petulant niece.  Tobias himself had been somewhat shocked that Alec had arranged for Amalinde to be married into a notable banner house in the Westerlands; bannerman to House Lannister could mean only wealth and notoriety for House Straasa, and this would allow forgiveness for the heir taking a Dornish wife, and his brother taking to wife a base-born woman!  And yet, Amalinde did make a fair point regarding the Reeds:  they were “allies” only because they were not enemies.  And Lord Benton had agreed to foster young Tabin with unspoken understanding of the lad’s strong ties to Howland Reed.  Surely fostering the boy in their House was a good enough cause for the Reeds to consider the Straasa more than neutral neighbors.

Had Amalinde been Tobias’s own daughter, the question would not even had been asked; the girl would have accepted the offer of marriage with grace, and would have been humbled that she had the opportunity to bring such an honor to her house.  After all, the mere name Lannister was flecked with gold!

“Women!” he mumbled under his breath.  He gave a bit of a start as a mouse hopped out from one of the leather satchels, carrying off a chunk of stale-looking bread.  Well and good, he thought; let the mice feast tonight, too.

“Good master Tobias?” Alyn, one of the few servants of the house had poked his head into the kitchen. The serving lad’s voice squeaked on the delivery of the castellan’s name. “It seems we have some…additional…guests.”

Before he could even think to question this, peeking around the servant’s waist was a mass of dark honey-colored curls framing a porcelain-like face, set with the greenest eyes Tobias had ever seen.  The youth was clad in a too-large green tunic, which helped set his eyes to fairly glow in their emerald cast.  He felt himself compelled to stand and grace the youth with a bow.  “Be welcome here, young Reed.  Have you traveled here alone?  Surely not!”  Tobias scurried across the kitchen as quickly as his bowed, aged legs could carry him.  Sure as stone, standing in the hall behind the youth were two other Reeds – or at least Crannogmen; Tobias could never tell them apart from each other anyhow – another young man, like enough to Tabin that he might have been a brother, and a somewhat older boy, each bearing the three-pronged spears infamously called Frog spears in the North.  “Be welcome, all of you.  Please forgive us; we have only just had some rather exciting news, and the family is rather…energized at present.  I am Tobias, and I hold the honorable position of seneschal for House Straasa.  There is still feasting happening in the Great Hall, and I assure you, you would be most welcome to join in the festivities.  Your names, if you please? I will have my boy announce you to Lord Benton presently!”

“Thank you, good seneschal,” the elder individual spoke.  Tobias took a second glance at her – for now having spoken, it was quite plain that she was indeed a woman – and hoped that the flush he felt creep up to his ears was not overly notable in the dim light of the kitchens.  “I am called Moira.  My brother is Boan.  And this strapping young lad is Llyr. We came because our cousin has need of us.  We are happy to receive your hospitality.”

The formality of her graciousness was a trifle disconcerting to Tobias, who was still relatively unaccustomed to the strangeness of his long-time neighbors’ tendency toward sudden appearances and disappearances.  “Alyn, please see Lady Moira, Master Boan, and Master Llyr to the Great Hall.  At once.”

Alyn did not need to be told twice.

__________________________________________________

Delayne paced restlessly across her bedchamber, pondering all of the evening’s goings-on.  Her maidservants had all been dismissed for the evening, even before turning down the bed, but Delayne had much on her mind and could not afford to be distracted by chatter.  Three possible betrothals, a houseful of guests from near and far, and her daughter’s outburst were enough to give Delayne fits.

Amalinde’s behavior had embarrassed Delayne profoundly; a Lady was able to maintain herself even in the face of adversity.  Still, she was eternally grateful that her husband had chosen to make the announcement of betrothals and forthcoming Dornish visitors during the same meal, so as to encourage the house-servants to spend their gossip and focus on the preparations.  Amalinde’s rudeness could be ignored, for the time being.

Her own curiosity about the visitors once more drew her thoughts away from her daughter.  Dornishmen and women were known to be sultry, vivacious and hot-blooded.  These visitors from House Wyl would certainly be “Salty Dornishmen,” she thought, remembering the distinctions in appearance and custom throughout the southern nation.  She wondered whether Lady Saryah had the olive-toned skin and lithe appearance that many Salty Dornish men and women were said to have.  The Rhoynish blood in their veins lent them their swarthy appearances.  Likely she would be a beauty in her own right, if a touch exotic-looking.  And perhaps, should her darling Dayne choose to wed the girl, she would be of tremendous help in reining Amalinde into her own role as a Lady.

She wondered again what sorts of foods and libations would be most appropriate for the welcoming feast.  Surely venison would be a requirement, along with fresh turtle soup.  Was there anything in the swamp that could provide a comparable level of spiciness to the supper as the firey foods of the south?  She might have to ask Tabin for a few suggestions of plants – or animals – whose bits or pieces could be utilized.  There would be cause to breach casks of the drier reds and whites that usually went undrunk by any save Alec.  She wondered whether Vaughan had developed a taste for the wines, and made a note to ask him to accompany her to the cellars to help make the proper choice for their guests.  So much to do, and so little time, if Benton spoke truly of the party’s presence a mere week from Castle Swampstone.

Whatever their purpose, and however long they might stay, Delayne vowed that they would have a most pleasant time at Castle Swampstone, along with all the Dornish visitors.  It was going to be quite a bustle here before long!

“Leave the politics to the men,” she said aloud to her coverlet.  “And leave the plans for yet another feast to the Lady of the House!”

272 AL

Lord Benton Straasa is married to Lady Delayne, formerly a Tallhart by marriage, and originally of House Royce of Runestone.

273 AL

Conrad Straasa is born.

275 AL

Dayne Straasa is born.

276 AL

Vaughan Straasa is born.

278 AL

Anton Snow is born.

280 AL

Conrad is sent to foster in House Costayne, Banner House of the Tyrells of Highgarden

282 AL

Robert’s Rebellion, soon to be known as the War of the Usurper begins.

Conrad rather mysteriously dies during the seige of Storm’s End.

Lord Benton and Alec fight for their Banner Lord, Eddard Stark.  During the Battle of the Trident, Benton is wounded in his left leg and loses most sensation in his left arm. (The wound later takes septic and the leg must be amputated so that Benton can live.)  Also during this battle, Alec is among a group of men who finally help to subdue Ser Barristan Selmy, lead of the Kingsguard who was defending Prince Rhaegar during the Battle of the Trident.  Alec is knighted for valor in combat.

283 AL

The War of the Usurper is brought to an end as Eddard Stark and Howland Reed (the two survivors at the Tower of Joy) slay the remaining members of the Kingsguard.  Robert Baratheon becomes King.  He marries Cersei Lannister.

Amalinde Straasa is born.

Tabin Reed is born.

284 AL

Vaughan Straasa is sent to House Wyl in Dorne as a foster.

287 AL

Prince Joffry Baratheon is born.

289 AL

Balon Greyjoy rises in rebellion against Westeros.  Ser Alec once again demonstrates valor in combat against the Ironborn.  House Straasa’s participation in the conflict gains little more than a nod from King Robert.

290 AL

Tabin Reed is sent to foster at House Straasa at the behest of Howland Reed, whose words are, “Green dreams have meaning here in the swamps, Benton.”

291 AL

Princess Myrcella Baratheon is born.

Anton Snow joins House Straasa.

292 AL

Prince Tommen Baratheon is born.

Samnys of Tyrosh joins House Straasa as Master-of-Arms

293 AL

The here and now.  How will you all help write this timeline?!

Benton himself had lost his taste for wine years past, with the passing of Conrad. Yet, to maintain appearances, he would send Alec to bid on some cask or another of Redwyne draff here or there. Rarely would a cask be breached, however. To his left sat Lady Delayne, fair glowing with an unabashed glee, punctuated by what he knew to be relief: her youngest son had returned at long last. She raised her own glass of Arbor Gold to her lips and sipped merrily, her pretty eyes glowing at Ser Vaughan’s tale of mastering his horses at the appearance of a lizard-lion. Vaughan had become a man, and an anointed knight, during his time away. One day, soon, Benton would seek to inquire after his son’s experiences far to the south in Dorne. For now, more urgent matters were at hand.

Benton’s gaze shifted to the empty seat beside his brother’s, where his eldest living child should have been. He knew that Dayne had been humiliated on the field of battle, but could not understand his son’s absence. It disappointed Benton deeply to know that once more a significant piece of information would be missed by Dayne as he brooded. Soon enough, the lad would need to learn to put the needs of House Straasa before his own. He was certain the boy – nay! He could not think of his eldest, who was past his majority by two years now, as a mere boy any longer – that Dayne was at the books once more, and it galled him more than a little.  It was time for Dayne to accept his role as heir, damn his scholaraly tendencies! After all, Benton at the least knew all too well what it meant that the morning chills did not leave his bones readily. Tucking his ire away for the time being, he turned his attention to the remaining few who had joined them for breakfast.

Down the table some few seats was Samnys the Tyrosh, who had come into the service of House Straasa in a time of quite obvious need. Still, in spite of need, Samnys had proved to be a competent and even at times valued Master-at-arms. He was staunch in his dedication, though there had been so few younglings who had really needed much weapons tutelage at Castle Swampstone. His arrival two years prior had all but caught Benton completely off his guard. That had been the doing of his brother, Ser Alec. He was a Ser, damn his hide! Mayhap it mattered naught to Alec, but it mattered to House Straasa, and Lord Benton was hard-pressed to understand the trifles around his brother’s reluctance at his title. Still, as Alec was his arms and legs, so too was he Benton’s eyes and ears in the realm, a role which his younger brother had taken on with nobility long missing from the Straasa lines.

Benton’s eyes rested on young Anton Snow, then. Nobility, Alec? Ah, but even he had had a taste of wenches over the years. Yet none of his well-distributed seed had ever come to fruition. None that had been fruit worth acknowledging, at any rate! It was but a minor point of contention between him and his beloved brother, still one that any who knew them understood to be a subject not easily breached. Straasa men were known for their intense stubbornness, after all.

His eyes turned to his present-at-table son, Vaughan. He had been well suited to the fighting that his elder brother had shown markedly little interest in when they were but children. It came as no surprise that all had fallen as it had in the practice yard just an hour gone – fair for the anointed and poorly for the would-be scholar. He was glad that his wife had remained at the castle, seeing to the preparations of the relatively elaborate breakfast that was now laid out on the table. His Lady would have grieved to see her sons at such odds with one another.

Benton was suddenly deeply grateful that their fourth child had been born a girl; only her dowry was Benton’s concern. His eyes darted to Amalinde, sitting as ever at the side of the rather odd Tabin Reed. Tabin was feeding bits of salt-cured meats to the owl perched on the back of his chair. It had been a while since the Lady Delayne had grown accustomed to the presence of a “filthy beast” at table with the folk of the house (no mind that the hounds were ever skulking between chairs, begging bits of bone or bacon.) Benton did not have the slightest illusion that it had been at Amalinde’s own ingenious pleas that had eventually swayed Lannie, in spite of all Benton’s efforts to impress her with his own worldliness and acceptance. The alliance of the Reeds was nothing to scoff at, to be sure, and yet it saddened even his rather sagacious heart to know that the likely future did not include a dashing youth with a frog spear, net, and head worn backwards for her charms. Surely, if a suitable dowry could be made for her, an even more potent alliance could be forged.

And there was the matter of Dayne’s own betrothal. Could he yet break such news to his heir, what with the recent arrival of his younger, recently anointed knight of a brother? Sometimes he envied his wife her damnable ability to be uncomplicated in the face of potential monstrosity.

“Ah, Benton,” he mused in his own head, “would that it ever mattered to anyone save your old, foolish self!”

Ability Descriptions

General Descriptions

Agility: Measures dexterity, nimbleness, reflexes, and flexibility.  In some ways, it describes how comfortable you are in your body, how well you master your movement, and how you react to your surroundings.

Animal Handling: Addresses the various skills and techniques used to train, work, and care for animals.  Whenever you would regain control over a panicked mount, train a dog to serve as a guardian, or train ravens to carry messages, you test this ability.

Athletics: Describes the degree of training, the application of physical fitness, coordination, training, and raw muscle.  Athletics is an important ability in that it determines how far you can jump, how fast you can run, how quickly you move, and how strong you are.

Awareness: Measures your senses, how quickly you can respond to changes in your environment, and your ability to see through doble-talk and feints to arrive at the truth of the matter.  Whenever you perceive your surroundings or assess another person, you use Awareness.

Cunning: Cunning encapsulates intelligence, intellect, and the application of all your collected knowledge.  Typically, Cunning comes into play whenever you might recall an important detail or instruction, work through a puzzle, or solve som other problem, such as researching and deciphering codes.

Deception: Measures your gift at duplicity – your ability and deceive.  You use Deception to mask your intentions and hide your agenda.  You also use Deception to pretend to be someone other than who you really are – to affect a different accent or disguise yourself successfully.

Endurance: Measures your physical well-being – your health and hardiness.  Your Endurance determines how much punishment you can take, as well as how quickly you recover from injury.

Fighting: Describes your ability to wield weapons in combat.  Whenever you would attack unarmed or use a hand-held weapon, test Fighting.

Healing: Represents skill with and understanding of the accumulated medical knowledge throughout the world.  Rank in this ability reflects an understanding of health and recovery; the highest ranks represent talents held only by the greatest of maesters.

Knowledge: Describes your general understanding and awareness of the world in which you live.  It represents a broad spectrum, ranging from history, agriculture, economics, politics, and numerous other subjects.

Language: The ability to communicate through speech or, among the best educated, through the written word.  The starting rank you have in this ability applies to your knowledge of the Common Tongue spoken throughout Westeros.  When you improve this ability, you may improve your ability with the Common Tongue or choose to speak other languages.

Marksmanship: Represents your skill with ranged weapons, to use them appropriately and accurately in combat.  Any time you make an attack using a ranged weapon, you test Marksmanship.

Persuasion: Is the ability to manipulate the emotions and beliefs of others.  With this ability, you can modify how others see you, shape their attitudes towards others, convince them of things they might not otherwise agree to, and more.

Status: Describes the circumstances of your birth and the knowledge those circumstances grant you.  The higher your rank, the more likely you will be able to recognize heraldry, the better your reputation, and the stronger your knowledge of managing people and lands.

Stealth: Represents your ability to creep about unseen and unheard.  Whenever you would move without being noticed, you test Stealth.

Survival: Survival is the ability to get by in the wild – hunting, foraging, avoiding getting lost, and following tracks.  The Survival skill is important for a variety of people in that hunting remains an important method of providing food for one’s family, especially in the more remote corners of Westeros.

Thievery: A catchall ability for any skill involving larcenous activities.  Examples include picking locks, hand tricks, and general robbery.

Warfare: Describes a character’s talents at managing the battlefield, ranging from the ability to issue commands and possessing strategic knowledge for maneuvering armies, to tactical knowledge for dealing with small engagements.

Will: Is your mental fortitude, reflecting the state of your mind’s health and endurance.  It represents your ability to withstand fear in the face of appalling violence or supernatural phenomena and also serves as the foundation for your ability to resist being manipulated by others.

Combat Related Abilities

Agility: Represents your natural dexterity, flexibility, and nimbleness, your ability to defend yourself, and your ability to react to new threats.  **Your Agility rank is added to your Combat Defense.

• You test Agility to determine order of initiative.
• Your Agility rank determines order of initiative.
• Your Agility rank determines the base damage for most Marksmanship weapons and some Fighting weapons.
• You test Agility when taking the Dodge action.

Athletics: Measures your physical prowess, strength, muscle, and ability to use your physical resources.

• Add your Athletics rank to your Combat Defense.
• Athletics can modify how fast you move.
• Athletics determines the base damage for most Fighting weapons and some few Marksmanship weapons.

Awareness: Awareness describes how attuned you are to your surroundings, helping you notice hidden enemies and dangers.

• Add your Awareness rank to your Combat Defense.
• Hidden opponents test Stealth against your passive Awareness result.

Endurance: Describes your stamina, your natural toughness, and your ability to shrug off damage.

• Your Endurance Rank determines your Health.
• Your Endurance Rank determines the maximum number of injuries you can take.
• Your Endurance Rank determines the maximum number of wounds you can take.
• You test Endurance to overcome injuries and wounds.
• When attacked by poison or some other hazard, that attack must beat your passive Endurance result.

Fighting: Measures your skill and training in hand-to-hand combat.

• You test Fighting whenever you would use a weapon in hand-to-hand combat.

Marksmanship: Measures your accuracy and aim with missile weapons.

• You test Marksmanship whenever you would use a weapon in ranged combat.

Warfare: Describes your understanding of strategy and tactics, your mastery of the battlefield.

• You may test Warfare to gain tactical advantages in combat.

Intrigue Related Abilities

Awareness: You use awareness to guage your opponent’s motives – to watch for misdirection and subterfuge.

• Add your Awareness rank to your Intrigue Defense.

Cunning: Measures your wit and mental dexterity, essential characteristics in successful social combat.

• Add your Cunning rank to your Intrigue Defense

Deception: One of the key tools in intrigues, Deception is a critical ability for masking your intentions and influencing a target using misdirection and false pretenses.

• You may roll Deception tests to influence a target.

Persuasion: Another vital ability, Persuasion represents your talents at bargaining, seduction, charm, and a variety of social skills.

• You may roll Persuasion tests to influence a target.

Status: Describes your character’s social standing, his class, and rank within society.

• You add your Status rank to your Intrigue Defense.  You roll a Status test to determine your place in order of initiative.

Will: Self-control, resolve, and commitment – Will describes your endurance and stamina in intrigues.  ** Your Composure is equal to 3x your Will rank.

This is a collection of critters that would likely make a number of appearances in Straasa swamplands, but unless a stroke of particularly potent luck is involved, they’re *not* the ones we’d eat

]]> http://sifrp.wordpress.com/2009/04/30/some-of-our-not-so-friendly-non-human-neighbors/feed/ 2 pyki