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Anya Waynwood had brown hair that was steadily going grey, with crow's feet around her eyes and the loose skin of age beneath her chin. Despite those effects and the subtle others that age had played upon her, the Lady of Ironoaks carried herself in a way that left no doubts as to who was in command. Her retinue to a man bowed their head in deference as she descended the stairs of the small inn a day's ride west and south of the Bloody Gate, her eldest son and grandson proceeding her. Hadrian and Harrold did the same despite being weary and chilled from their ride, bowing heads of sand and cornsilk as the Lady approached.
Anya had a piercing, commanding voice that nearly echoed off the smoke-stained rafters of the inn, sharp enough to cut through any armor. "Ser Hadrian, I always thought of you as a punctual man, yet you're a day late."
Ser Hadrian looked up to meet the woman's dark eyes, blue on brown. "Begging my lady's pardon, but I believe this was the agreed upon day."
Lady Waynwood clearly didn't agree. "This morning was the agreed upon day. It is well into the evening, and thusly you are a day late."
The knight bowed his head again in deference, fighting the small smile trying to gain purchase on his lips. "As my lady says. You have my utmost apologies."
Her words were sharp, but Hadrian knew the Lady of Ironoaks wasn't truly angry. If she were, the roof of the inn would have already been pulled down atop Hadrian's head. "I shall consider them, though I warn you not to keep me waiting again." She took her gaze from Hadrian to Harry as she came to a stop in front of them. "I am no fool; I imagine any delays were your fault as opposed to Ser Hadrian's. I would have thought we had raised you better at Ironoaks than to keep your liege waiting."
Harry gave his kinswoman a dimpled, disarming smile. "I am pleased to see you as well, Aunt Anya." Lady Anya wasn't actually his aunt, instead a cousin several times removed, but Harry had always called her thus since being sent to foster at Ironoaks at the age of seven. Hadrian had joined them there some years later, when Harry's rambunctiousness had gotten almost too much for the iron-willed woman to handle.
As it was Lady Anya snorted. "I suppose the day is lost; no Waynwood is fool enough to be caught on the High Road after dark, even the small piece we have to cross, and we will not come near to making the Bloody Gate before dusk is upon us. Innkeep," she barked, turning to the ferret-like man standing behind the counter. "Food and ale for these blatant idlers, and another room in addition to the ones I have already rented."
The man nodded, clearly pleased that the Lady of the Ironoaks would be extending her stay. As sharp-tongued and gruff as she may appear, Anya always paid more than fair prices, and the man's inn would be full to bursting with Waynwood and Hardyng retainers. "Of course, m'lady." His wife and daughter were already making for the kitchens, his sons outside to tend the horses. Hadrian glanced to Harry, seeing his younger cousins eyes were following the innkeeper's daughter as she hurried away. Bloody hell I'm tired of that. None too lightly Hadrian elbowed his cousins ribs, prompting a grunt of pain and glare from the younger Hardyng.
Lady Anya raised an eyebrow at the antics but said nothing, instead gesturing for them to sit. Her grandson Ser Roland, of an age with Harry and the heir to the heir of Ironoaks, pulled her chair out for her before taking his own seat. Roland's father Ser Morton, horse-faced like his son and brothers and the future Lord of Ironoaks, joined them at the table, as did his youngest brother, the stuttering Ser Wallace Waynwood. While Hadrian didn't dislike any of them, he found Roland even more boastful than Harry and Morton a fair bit too haughty for his taste, and liked their matriarch Lady Anya far more than he liked either of them. Lantern-jawed Ser Wallace could drive you to fall on your own sword with his stuttering, but he was honorable and kind, if somewhat boyish still; Hadrian liked him the best out of any of Lady Anya's brood, her four daughters included.
The fare of honeyed chicken, hard cheese and black ale was simple but filling, particularly after days of salt-beef and hard biscuits on the road. The Lady of Ironoaks allowed Hadrian and Harry to eat, making light conversation with her sons and grandson, and occasionally the innkeeper or his daughters when they appeared to refill ales. This small inn, named the Drunken Squire, wasn't the most popular in the Vale, located at the foot of a trail leading up to the High Road that was riddled with mountain clansmen raiders. Only the heavily armed dare risk the trail since raiding was particularly fierce on it, meaning only retinues and parties of armed lords utilized it with any true frequency. Despite its infrequent patronage, however, the beds were clean and the food palatable, which was much more than could be said for many inns. It was a favorite of Lady Anya's, and Hadrian had come to have a fondness for it in his years of service to her.
Harry chattered around a mouthful of cheese; he could be the perfectly mannered, impeccable lord when he wished, but when surrounded by those he was comfortable with he could resort to uncivilized actions with frequency. "It was raining in Gulltown, but that has turned to light snows the higher we travel."
"Aye," Lady Anya replied. "Donnel has written me that it has intermittently snowed at the Bloody Gate Moon for near a moon's turn." Hadrian heard the pride in her voice at the mention of her middle son, who had replaced Ser Brynden Tully as the Knight of the Gate. Once travelers made it through, the road was safe for the short ride on to the Gates of the Moon, and the position of defender of the gate was a high honor.
"W-w-w-winter i-is u-u-pon us," stammered out Wallace, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"Aye, that it is," said Roland, voice strong and confident. "I've never ridden in a tourney in the snow before."
Harry shot a mischievous glance at his friend. "You've hardly ever ridden in a tourney at all."
Ser Hadrian spoke quietly after a long gulp of ale. "Neither have you."
His cousin chuckled mildly as he cut another chunk off of the chicken's breast. "We can't all be The Falcon Knight reborn like you, Hadrian."
The others at the table laughed save for Lady Anya; Sers Wallace, Morton and Harry in jest, Roland in something nearing contempt. Hadrian looked up at the grandson of his lady as he chewed, saying nothing. Roland tried to hold his gaze, but lasted for only a few moments before looking away, saying something of little importance to his father to cover his backing down. Hadrian was only a decent jouster in truth, nothing to write stories about; he wouldn't embarrass himself in the lists, and on a good day he could prove a real challenger, but he was no Aemon the Dragonknight. He had received Breeze as a ransom for a Reach lordling's armor and sword, and had yet to compete in a tournament where he had to borrow money to ransom back his own gear, but the melee circles were much more his specialty, where men fought and clawed in the mud and grime. His strength was superior to most men, and while his swordsmanship was only average, his skill with mace and longaxe was far above. Roland knew all of this; he liked to pick at Hadrian over jousting, but he had only tried to face him in single combat once.
Hadrian had downed him within a few short, one-sided minutes. Ever since, the lad steered well clear.
It's of no true malice towards me of course. Roland is a young lad and skilled at arms, and he's trying to cope with the thought that there is someone better. I was much like him myself, once. I hope for his sake he does well at the Gates of the Moon.
He himself would not be competing in the tournament that would produce young Lord Robert Arryn's 'Brotherhood of the Winged Knights', something that sounded to Hadrian to be a knockoff of the Kingsguard. Eight positions as bodyguards to the sickly son of Jon Arryn would be awarded to the top competitors at the tourney, who would then serve the young Lord for three years. From the sounds of things many of the strongest knights in the Vale were travelling to compete, for Lysa Arryn, she who had so recently been murdered by a love-struck musician by the name of Marillion, had kept them out of the War of the Five Kings. Many were chomping at the bit to prove their skill at arms, mainly young men who hadn't seen true battle. Harry, Roland and Wallace were among them, as were plenty of lordlings from all across the Vale of Arryn. Roland had a true chance of winning a position through the joust while Harry and Wallace were unlikely to do so; the competition would be fierce. Mychel Redfort, Lyn Corbray, Littlefinger's man Lothor Brune…they were all more skilled than any of the boys seated around Hadrian. Hadrian himself could likely hold his own against them, but not on horseback; he'd have to bring them to the ground, and even then Corbray was a superior fighter.
But Hadrian wasn't going to compete in any case, so he wasted no more time planning out strategies he would never use. He had no desire to see blood; he'd fought as a fourteen-year-old squire during the Greyjoy Rebellion, slaying more than his share of Ironborn while fighting alongside his mentor, Lord Damon Marbrand. He and the Lord of Ashemark had helped to raid Pyke alongside the Northmen and King Robert Baratheon, capturing the same walls that would claim Hadrian's father's life.
No, he'd seen enough blood to suit his lifetime, a fair portion of it covering Ser Gillum's broken body. He supposed that was an odd thing for a knight, men who made their living on their ability to take lives. Just because Hadrian was good at it didn't men he needed to do it with wanton abandon, though he would certainly draw more blood if the need arose.
In any case, he had Harry to look after. His younger cousin was far past being a man grown, but he still had boyish aspects to him and needed a tempering force. Ser Hadrian had been that force, ostensibly being accepted into Ironoaks to serve Lady Anya but in truth sent there from Hardvale by his uncle—Harrold's father—to keep the boy from doing anything too stupid. He had failed in some aspects, for his cousin already had one bastard child and had another on the way by a different woman, but he'd pulled Harry out of more trouble than he hadn't.
Lady Anya was watching him, having caught the short and wordless exchange between Hadrian and her grandson. He knew she'd have questions about what he'd seen in Gulltown, but now was not the time to ask them. It would do no good to openly show Harrold that his patron was having him effectively spied upon, though the young knight likely had figured it out. Harry was brash but not stupid, and Lady Anya always seemed to know what he had been into. That was, of course, because Hadrian told her, and his younger cousin knew it. Still, the lad accepted the supervision better than many others would. Hadrian was proud of him for it.
It was near dark when their meal finished, the four Waynwoods and two Hardyngs engaging in light chatter as the younger men drank more and more ale. It didn't take long before the three of them, Wallace, Roland and Harry, made their war from the table and out of the inn, likely to talk about the bravery they would show at the tournament or to brag about conquests in and out of the bedsheets.
Young men all. It left the adults to their conversation, and Lady Anya wasted no time. "What do you think of this spicer's daughter? Do you still find her false?"
I never found her false per se, but I suppose any type of doubt is a conspiracy in this world. Everything else has gone to hell, honesty and truth might as well go too. "As I've reported many times, my lady, she is a whore under the guise of half a noble. From what I've gleaned in Gulltown, she fancies herself the next Lady of the Vale."
Ser Morton spoke, having changed from the indulgent, laughing father to the future lord in an instant. "And Harrold? Does he think her much the same?"
Ser Hadrian looked down into his ale as he swirled it around the wooden cup, picking his brain for the proper choice of words. The Waynwoods had all but raised Harry, and any report too disparaging might give mild insult, but they deserved the truth, and Hadrian didn't make a habit of giving less than that. "Harry is enamored with anything that will spread its legs for him, and while he might fancy himself more truly entangled with Saffron than he has any of the others, I think it is but a passing affection. It will likely be as it was with Cissy—the effects of childbirth on Saffron's body will make him lose interest." At least that is what Hadrian hoped; the big knight had liked Cissy much more than he liked Saffron, though the Seven knew Harry was much too highborn for either girl. "This new betrothed of his will certainly assist with that."
Hadrian cocked an eyebrow at Lady Anya, waiting. Hadrian didn't understand the sudden betrothal to Littlefinger's bastard any more than Harry did; Lady Anya had ridden from Ironoaks with the intent of driving Littlefinger from the Vale, and came back as half of a betrothal agreement. His lady hadn't explained it to him yet, and when she merely stared back, Hadrian knew she wasn't going to explain it to him then, either. With a sigh he lifted his glass, killing the remnants of his ale. "Harry is upset at the betrothal, even if he didn't let on tonight. If he lets it fester even longer than he already has, his first interaction with this Alayne Stone may prove less than successful. He'll bear watching at the tournament, and may need a few harsh reminders of his manners and noble upbringing."
Lady Anya nearly smiled at him. "That'll be your duty, Ser Hadrian."
"I supposed as much. Do you truly intend to let Harry compete?"
"You told me yourself he isn't likely to do well enough to be selected."
"Aye, but that is when I thought you wouldn't run the chance of Baelish stealing the heir to the Vale out from under you. No offense meant, my lady."
Her eyes tightened, but there was no more chill in her voice than normal. "None taken. Harry will not win the lists, and if by some fluke it appears he might, we will handle the situation then. Baelish is a bold thief, and I fully expect some sort of plot from the man, but several agreements have been made and he seems intent to honor them."
"As long as they suit his purposes," chimed in Morton, mustache quivering.
"Aye, as long as they suit his purposes." Her gaze turned half glare, though not one directed at Hadrian. "Then again, Littlefinger holds the advantage as long as he has more information than we do."
Hadrian smirked lightly. "Then I imagine we had best get used to a disadvantage, if the rumors of Baelish's spy network are true."
Lady Anya didn't smirk, lightly or otherwise. "I don't like being at a disadvantage; I've been in the weaker position too many times to this mocking bird as it is. We know nothing of his daughter, not truly, though I've met her and spoken on a few occasions. I need a man to find out more about her; Harry will only care enough to see if she'll please him in bed, and my sons and I will be watched too intently."
He had known where that was leading nearly before the conversation began. He didn't want to be forced to make the acquaintance of some girl the world hadn't known existed a year prior just for the stakes of whatever game his liege was playing, but he knew he wouldn't have a choice in the matter. "I'm sworn to your house. I'll be watched intently as well."
"You're known across the Vale as Harry's protector and confidant; any attempt by you to try and integrate yourself with Littlefinger's daughter will only be seen as your cousinly concern for the happiness of your ward." Hadrian opened his mouth to argue, but Lady Anya waved her hand. "I will not broker argument. Befriend her, find out what she is truly like and what her father's true intents are." The Iron Lady actually did smile her rare smile this time. "Cheer up, Ser Hadrian. You'll find you like her well enough anyway."
Hadrian sighed once more. "As my lady commands." Reaching across the table, he grabbed Lady Anya's untouched ale and raised it into the air. "To Alayne Stone, my dearest friend in all the seven kingdoms."
At least she isn't named after a bloody spice.