Rising from the plains beneath the Red Mountains, the castle of Starfall was a sight to behold. Pale stone bleached from centuries in the sun, its walls contrasted the red and gold plains on which it was built. Its crowning structure was the Palestone Sword, the great tower that overlooked the Summer Sea. The walls were said to be forty feet thick and had never fallen to invaders, its iron topped battlements dull and sturdy from which lined a dozen purple banners
Marek and Jason rode at the head of the small train, laden with supplies for the journey, small gifts for their new hosts and of course, their arms and armor. While Jason rode a spirited white courser, its mane as black as sin, Marek's mount was the exact invert, black-skinned with a snowy white main. Upon leaving Swordhall, they had taken the road through the Reach which lasted nearly two weeks, hasty compared to taking the Goldroad and then the Kingsroad to the east.
Ahead, a small column of riders in black and purple finery rode out to meet them. Over their heads fluttered the purple banner of the Daynes. At their head rode a knight in silver plate, adorned with a deep indigo cloak. Lifting the visor of his sallet helm, he wore the typical features of a stony Dornishman, fair skinned with dark hair and brown eyes, a serious look on his hatchet face.
"Who would approach Starfall from the Red Mountains? It is perilous, even for men as armed as you?" he asked in a tone that broached suspicion.
"Ser, I am Jason Severus and this is my brother Marek. We come from Swordhall in the Westerlands upon instruction of our father, the Warlord Marten Severus. Your worthy lord is expecting us." Jason replied courteously.
The knight nodded.
"Well met, I am Ser Jared Santagar, Captain of Guards. Come, our Lord is expected you and has prepared a small welcome in your home." He turned his mount around, allowing Marek and Jason to fall in with the knights. Marek leaned over to Jason.
"And I had heard all Dornishmen were all prickly as hedgehogs. I did not expect such a welcome." He whispered.
"We are Dornish on our mother's side, do not forget. Perhaps they can tell from our exceedingly noble appearance." Jason replied back.
"You will find that while we are Dornish, many of our customs are unchanged to the rest of Westeros. Our closeness to the rest of the realm ensures we are not so…alien to visitors. As well, you will no lack of courtesy or refinement in Starfall." Ser Jared chimed in. "Your mother was a welcome sight in these halls, as our Lord's youngest daughter. We were aggrieved to hear of her passing." He bowed his head in reverence.
"Thank you, ser. Your words are most welcome." Jason replied solemnly. To himself, Marek thought that perhaps here, he might learn more about his mother than from his own father. His words still echoed in his head, but it did make the journey any easier. Your accomplishments are your own. In truth, he had been apprehensive about squiring for a Dornish lord, even for one as esteemed as the Daynes of Starfall. Ancient, wealthy and honorable, the Daynes were among the principal houses sworn to the Martells of Sunspear and boasted many great heroes across the centuries.
Most notable and current was Ser Arthur Dayne, sworn brother to the Kingsguard of King Aerys. He was also titled the Sword of the Morning, an office of high esteem in both Dorne and the Seven Kingdoms, awarded to only the greatest of knights of Starfall. All this he had learned from the countless books in the maester's chambers, spending as much time there as he did in the training yard or off another 'quest,' as his brother had liken to call them.
Through the gates the procession went and the yard opened to meet them. The sounds of steel on steel clanked across the yard as a pair of armored men fought with blunted sword. A smith beat his hammer and stables were alive with the famous sand steeds, small mounts but unmatched in speed and stamina. Leading to the inner yard of the keep was in iron portcullis, decorated with wrought falling stars. All along the battlements flew the Starfall banner, the cloths fluttering in the wind.
"Where will we quartered, Ser?" asked Marek, eyeing the vast courtyard in admiration.
"Two rooms in the keep itself have been prepared, but that will addressed by Lord Criston at the feast." Ser Jared called for a halt and dismounted, Marek and Jason following suit. A flock of stable boys flew to the mounts but the boys politely rebuffed them.
"We will see to our own mounts." Marek said simply and led his horse to the stable to be corralled. Jason took the stable next to him, all under the eye of Ser Jared. He nodded approvingly. They were then led into the keep itself, passing under the portcullis to a small yard dominated by a large pale rock, misshapen and ugly. At once, Marek knew its significance and could not stop himself. He nudged Jason.
"The Fallen Star, the rock from which Dawn was forged by the first Daynes. It was here the first Sword of the Morning was born." Marek whispered excitedly. Before Jason could respond, a voice cut through the air.
"You are well read, young Marek. Now, if you could tell me who the first Sword of the Morning was, I will be truly impressed." Lord Triston Dayne was forty, broad-shouldered and black of hair divided by a streak of silver. High cheek bones accented his aquiline features and when he smiled, his lilac eyes glittered.
Marek thought hard, running through the books and tomes he had read over the years.
"Do not make a fool of us, brother." Whispered Jason.
"Randyll Dayne, called Brightstar and was the grandfather to Samwell Dayne who burned Oldtown for defying him." He recalled at last. Lord Criston nodded approvingly and approached them, both boys going to one knee. Dressed in pale white and red finery with a cloak of indigo, he reached them in quick strides.
"You may rise, lads. Your father has spoken well of you, and I do expect the same whilst you are my charges. My knights will train you in the ways of war, to perfect your martial skills so that one day, you will be worthy of being knights yourself. Only the best will we have from you and nothing less will do. Now come, share in the food and drink of my House." He gestured for them to head through the great redwood doors, filigreed in red gold. Inside, the Great Hall was as a large as Swordhall's own, if not more richly decorated. The heraldry of Starfall hung superior at the head of the hall, over the seat of the Lord, a great ebony chair carved in the likeness of the Palestone Tower.
The commotion in the hall was great as long tables were being set, and Marek could smell the cooking wafting in from the kitchens. Serving girls flurried around the room, laying plates and cups out, arranging chairs and benches for the numerous guests. At Swordhall, there were rarely visitors to entertain so neither Marek nor Jason had ever seen such a preparation. Several of the serving girls eyed the new boys, doe eyed and slender and giggled behind their hands.
Jason smiled at them widely while Marek nodded courteously. They giggled some more and ran off to their duties. At the end of hall, a woman entered the room accompanied by a grey-robed maester. The woman was of an age with the Lord Criston, her long raven black hair flowing past her shoulders. Her face was rounded and kind but her eyes were dark and glittered with curiosity.
"My Lady Serana," Lord Criston greeted her. "These are the squires from the West. May I present Marek and Jason Severus, son of Marten, the Lord of Swordhall." Both boys went to their knees.
"Well met, young squires. You may rise. Be welcome in our halls." She replied curtly. They rose and met her gaze. "You will have no end of squires here, My Lord. Have they met the others, pray?" she asked.
"All introductions will be made at the feast, My Lady. No doubt they will all service exceptionally." He replied, gesturing to the boys.
"Time will tell all, My Lord." She walked past them without a glance. Lord Criston continued onwards and led up the stairs to the floor above. He stopped at their rooms, large and spacious with separate beds along with chests of drawers for the wardrobes.
"The feast will begin in an hour. Dress appropriate and be on time. Truancy makes for a poor introduction." He turned on his heel and left the boys to their rooms. Silently, they chose their beds and unpacked their belongings. First came their swords; they had been taught to always look after your weapon first for there was no telling when it would be used. Each brother placed his blade in easy reach as had long been drilled into them. As for their clothes, they chose black breeches and high boots of soft tooled leather and silken tunics with silver scrollwork.
When they returned downstairs an hour later as instructed, it seemed a different world altogether. The hall was loud with speech and laughter, filled with all manner of guests, both knight and lord alike. The long tables were covered in plates and drinking cups and the back walls were lined with servants. Overhead, the iron chandeliers were lit as were the torches on the all. On all corners, the indigo banner of the Daynes shone darkly in the light.
"Father would never permit something like this." Whispered Jason.
"I doubt Father would even know what to do at something like this." Replied Marek, eying the guests and noting their colors and heraldry. He saw the golden hand of Allyrion, the three scorpions of Qorgyle, Santagar's spotted leopard and the vulture of Blackmont, all dotted throughout the halls. Then he saw the sun and spear of the Martells and knew this was no mere feast but an event of great import.
Then the procession arrived and all in attendance stood. As the boys were of a height with most of the men here, they did not need to seek a better view. At the front came the Lord Criston, resplendent in a black and indigo tunic patterned with his sigil. On his arm was a young woman, lithe but strikingly beautiful with black hair and the olive features of the sandy Dornish. She was dressed in a pale red and yellow dress that trailed the floor and cinched with a leather belt decorated with moonstones. Her beauty was displayed for all to see and her eyes swept the room.
They were followed by the Lady Serana, dressed in her purple finery slashed with gold trimmings and on her arm was another olive-skinned Dornishman, dressed in pale red and gold, black hair swept back from the handsome lines of his face. They were siblings, for that much Marek deduced but could not place who they were.
Then came a man who needed no introduction as Marek knew full well who he was. A flowing white cloak fell from his shoulders, and he wore the indigo finery of his house. Tall, black haired with a lord's grace, he was none other than Ser Arthur Dayne. This is what a knight should look like, Marek thought as he glided through the procession like ship through calm waters. But the lady he accompanied put every man and woman to shame. Her raven black hair marked her for a Dayne, her eyes were a haunting violet that shone in the light. Pale with a heart-shaped face, she wore a half smile like she was privy to some joke that only she was aware of.
Marek reminded himself to breathe. He cursed himself for not knowing her name and swore he learn it before the evening was done.
When all had taken their places of honor on the dais, the feast began in earnest. Musicians played while a fool in red and pink motely danced on his hands while giving rude names to the lords and ladies. Servers brought out large platters of smoked boar's ribs s smothered in smoky herbs and garlic, buttered snails, pheasant in a savory red sauce, thick cuts of lamb followed by salmon cooked in an almond crust. Marek helped himself to the ribs and a cup of sweet red while Jason filled his plate with salmon and snails. Bread was aplenty which Marek used to mop up the leftover sauce on his plate. Having no wish to engorge himself and make a proper fool, he stayed his hand from any more food.
"Who are the salty Dornish up there?" he asked Jason, who seemed to know nearly everyone there by name. Jason set his cup down, and hid a belch behind his hand.
"Oberyn Martell, to hear the servants tell. That's his sister, Elia. They're a rare sight, I say." He eyed the young girl until Marek clouted him in the back of the head. "Gossip is they are here seeking eligible proposals; lords, ladies and knights alike. Unusual but fitting for the scions of House Martell."
His eyes kept drifting to the dark-haired beauty on the dais, who ate only sparingly and jested with her brother. Thinking it strange that a Kingsguard would be so far from his duties in the capital, he began wondering just what Arthur Dayne was doing here. Was there some errand he was on for King Aerys, or was it simply to participate in this great feast? He watched as the finely dressed Dornishman approach the dais and bow to the lady and exchange words.
Whatever was said, it made the lady smile and the Dornishman returned to his bench. He leaned to his sister and whispered something before raising his cup to Ser Arthur. The gesture was returned.
Soon the dancing began, and the lords with their ladies took to the floor. It all made for a loud and color display with Lord Criston leading his wife in the dance. He moved well and always had a smile for his wife who, despite her dour introduction, seemed very happy. Then Marek stood and Jason caught his arm.
"Where do you think you're off to?" he asked, his words slurring from the wine.
"For a dance." He replied simply and headed for the dais. Before he reached the steps, she had caught his eyes and he swallowed hard. His master at arms had been Ser Lyonel Ruttiger, a stout old knight who had taught him his first lesson in swordsmanship; never drop your eyes. It seemed apt to apply that here. Marek held her gaze, approached her and bowed.
"My Lady, would you honor me with a dance?" he said the words but did not believe they actually left his mouth. Much to his surprise, she stood.
"Of course, ser." She replied in a fluid voice that Marek liked immediately. He took her outstretched hand and led them to the floor. They bowed to each in turn and joined in the steps, Marek remembering as he went along. Having been schooled in courtesy by the stewardess of Swordhall, Perriane Clifton, Marek had also learned the steps to many waltzes.
"You dance well, ser." She commented, smiling as she did.
"As you do, my Lady. And I am no ser." He added.
"You will be." Her reply sent him soaring and he could not hold back a grin. He spun and caught her, almost bowling over another dancing couple. Quickly regaining his feet, he led them around the floor once more as the song ended. The room broke into applause, Marek joining.
"Marek." He said aloud.
"Beg pardon?" she asked.
"My name is Marek, of House Severus." He bowed to her.
"I was wondering when we would get to that." She laughed and extended her hand. He took it and kissed it. "I am Ashara, of House Dayne." She smiled wonderfully and Marek felt his neck redden. Before he could respond, he felt a hand on his shoulder and a cup was thrust into his hand.
"It seems the new squire is graceful on the floor as he is in the yard. Care for a dance all our own?" asked Oberyn Martell, his mouth upturned in a half smile. He was as tall as Marek, dark eyed with a presence that could not be denied.
"Prince Oberyn, well met. The yard is always open as I recall, though I fear I would not give you much contest."
"And why, pray tell, is that?" when he smiled, it reminded Marek of a snake bearing its fangs.
"I have had entirely too much to drink, it shames me to say." Ashara giggled quietly, and Oberyn chuckled.
"And here I always drink before a fight." He took a swallow of his cup, a dark Dornish red.