Lomas

"May the Father judge him justly, and may the Mother grant him mercy," Maester Gerold called out in his quavering voice, raising his hands up as if he were speaking to the gods themselves.

Ser Lomas Tarly turned away as tears pricked his eyes. He thought it shameful to weep, even now. Certainly his lordship would have laughed if he could still do so. Tears are a curse placed on men by their mothers. That's what he'd said during many a drunken fit. Ser Lomas tried not to think of when Lord Armond had writhed on his deathbed, screaming and sobbing with pain as he struggled to stay alive. There was nothing to be done now, except lay him to his rightful rest.

Just five days shy of his 53rd year, Lord Armond Dondarrion had been summoned to the gods for their judgment of his soul. They will have a good haggle over you, my lord.

The maester was still babbling his prayers, even as the few servants in the room stood silently by. All were stricken, heads down, but Ser Lomas did not fail to note that most were dry-eyed. It made Ser Lomas's blood boil, and he forced himself to put that thought out of his mind. He, for one, was loyal to his benefactor, his lord, his friend.

One other man was grieving earnestly; it was Gulian Straw, the steward. Gulian was a middle-aged man from a knightly house in the Stormlands; and just like Ser Lomas, he was too far from the line of succession to inherit anything from his own family. Thus, Gulian had spent most of his life serving House Dondarrion instead, rising up in Lord Armond's household before serving as the steward of Blackhaven, a position he'd held for the last ten years.

Ser Lomas watched as Gulian composed himself and ordered for the covering of the old man's corpse, "We will lay Lord Armond to his rest tomorrow."

The aging knight approved; Lord Armond had lost much dignity in death, and Ser Lomas wished to preserve what little there was by burying him swiftly.

Only Gerold had the nerve to protest, "Is there such a need for haste? Should we not wait until-"

"Until what?" Ser Lomas snapped, "Until Titus returns to laugh at his father's corpse? I would sooner slay myself!" He turned his back on the shocked maester and repeated Gulian's orders until the servants began to obey.

Like so many Dondarrions before him, Lord Armond had been a hard and lean man in his youth, with a mane and beard that was red-gold in colour. However, age and sickness had left his hair brittle and white; most of it had fallen off. Moreover, his body was bloated and covered in rashes and pus-filled boils. Three servants gingerly lifted him as two more strove to wrap his body in a shift. None of them could conceal their distaste for the pungent smell which oozed from Lord Armond's corpse. There is no dignity in such a death, Ser Lomas thought before offering a quick prayer to the Warrior that he might be spared such a cruel fate.

"Whatever you might feel about Titus, he must be told of his father's passing."

The reproach was given gently, but it was a reproach all the same. Ser Lomas respected Gulian too much to berate him, but he also had no wish to write to that insolent pup. Thank the gods for that excuse.

Lomas adopted a more innocent tone of voice, "Where is he to be found? Do you know where he is staying?"

Gulian sighed, "Mayhaps his sisters will know."

Gods. Ser Lomas cursed before calling to one of the servants, "Go to Lady Jena. She must be told of her father's passing." He had not thought to rouse Jena from bed to stand by her father; Lord Armond had always hated the sound of weeping. All the same, he thought, she would not be pleased with his carelessness. The sooner that wench is married off like her sister, the better.

"What is more important is that we inform Arlan of what has happened," Ser Lomas said when he had another quiet moment with Gulian. The two men were walking down the steps of the tower, towards the keep. It was still the hour of the wolf; the only light came from torches lit by the servants along the stairwell.

"We do not know where he is staying either," Gulian replied heavily, "Last we heard, he was visiting his mother's family. Shall we dispatch a raven to Greenstone?"

"No doubt Gerold will do that of his own accord," Ser Lomas growled, shivering as they passed an arrow slit. The wind was picking up, pushing cold air through the stairwell, "Gods, be good! I thought this was supposed to be spring!"

The two men reached the foot of the tower and went their separate ways. While Gulian went to his quarters, Ser Lomas plodded along the length of the castle yard, until he reached the walls. Ignoring the guards' salutes, he paced the length of Blackhaven's walls, as he always did when he had a weighty subject on his mind.

Blackhaven was an ancient castle in the Dornish Marches, but it was not a grand one. Smaller than Nightsong and Stonehelm, it was, however, not without its defences. The castle's high walls were made of black basalt, and surrounded by a dry moat which was said to be bottomless.

House Dondarrion had stood guard in the Dornish Marches for untold centuries. Armond Dondarrion had known that, and he had been a worthy marcher lord, ever turning his eye to Dorne.

He had been a young knight during King Daeron's conquest of Dorne, just like Lomas himself. Armond's father, uncle, and three cousins had all died during the conquest, as did the same Targaryen king who had launched the conquest in the first place.

Armond had sired six children with his wife, and he had lived long enough to bury two of them. His eldest son had been slain by Dornish raiders coming up the Boneway into the Marches. His second son had become his heir, but the young man had fallen badly from his horse one day and broken his neck.

By the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, the new Lord of Blackhaven was Arlan Dondarrion. The knight thought back to all his memories of Armond's third son. As master-of-arms, he'd been responsible for all the boys' training. And as far as he could remember, Arlan had been no less promising than his elder brothers, and far moreso than his younger one.

Finally, Ser Lomas had had enough of walking in the cold, and he descended from the wall to find something to eat.

On his way across the training yard, he saw a man, wrapped in rags, bent forward, mumbling to himself. Lomas could not see the man's face, apart from a salt-and-pepper coloured beard and unwashed hair of the same colour.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Ser Lomas challenged him angrily.

"A humble servant of the gods, ser," the man answered, in a reedy voice, "Lord Dondarrion opened the gates to me and showed me mercy. Blessings to his kind soul! Long may he live!"

He does not know, he cannot know. Can he? Ser Lomas ground his teeth in anger as he walked past the man without another word, ignoring the feeble request for alms. He did not doubt that many of these begging brothers were devout, but he was also convinced that most were charlatans, seeking an easy meal wherever it could be gained. Would that I could drag him out of this castle by his damn ears.

" * " * " * " *

"Ser Lomas?"

Groaning, the knight opened his eyes. He had slept after all, returning to his bed after several glasses of wine.

Two figures stood beside his bed. One was a short and burly lad of 14 years. His black hair was neatly trimmed, except for the pitiful attempt at a beard across his cheeks. Robin Horpe was only the sixth youth who had served Ser Lomas as his squire, having entered his service just two years before. The other was a man grown, broken-nosed with red pock marks on his face. He was armoured in mail, and his cloak bore the Dondarrion sigil of twin purple lightning bolts on a starry field.

"What is it?" Ser Lomas snapped to the guard. His name was Royce, but he was better known as Ruddy Royce to distinguish him from Royce the Runt, another guard in the Blackhaven garrison. Ser Lomas was still feeling unwell from his drinking spell, but now the sight of Royce's carrot-coloured hair and beard reminded him not only of Lord Armond, but also his children. There will be a storm if they reunite under the same roof.

"Riders approaching, and they're flying our sigil, ser."

Ser Lomas looked up at Royce in surprise, "Who?"

"I don't know, ser, they were still too far away when I left the wall."

Cursing, Ser Lomas pulled himself from his bed. Robin immediately pulled the shift over his head and replacing it with a clean one. For a moment, Ser Lomas felt undignified at getting dressed in front of Ruddy Royce, but he had more pressing concerns, "Find out who it is and report back to me at once!"

By the time Ruddy Royce returned, Ser Lomas was dressed in his finest doublet, one which showed his family's sigil of the red archer on a green field. He wore no armour, though he always kept his sword by his side. Much to his childhood chagrin, it was not Heartsbane, the ancient Valyrian steel blade of House Tarly; at least ten men, old and young, would have to die before Ser Lomas could ever hope to wield such a great weapon.

"It appears to be Ser... Lord Arlan's escort," Royce answered in a halting tone, "but we cannot see him."

"What?" Ser Lomas frowned, "And his wife?" Four years ago, Arlan had married Tyana, a daughter of Lord Cafferin of Faunton, having been betrothed before the girl had flowered. Of course, the match had been made before Arlan's elder brothers were dead, but Ser Lomas thought Tyana would make a fine lady of Blackhaven. Past time, too. There hasn't been a Lady of Blackhaven for over five years.

"Aye, she's in the fore," Royce answered, but Ser Lomas was already moving past the guard. Something was gravely wrong; he could sense trouble even as he hurried as fast as he could to the front gates. Robin and Royce were both following him, hanging back perhaps out of respect.

The party of riders had already come through the gate by the time Ser Lomas arrived. Breathing heavily from his haste, panic gripped him all the more at the sight of Lady Tyana. Her kirtle gown - which bore both her father's and husband's sigils - was torn as if slashed by a knife. Her face was sullen and miserable, and she looked nobody in the face. Overtop she wore a black cape and hood over her light brown curls and freckled face.

She was not alone in her misery; the men and women who accompanied her - minor lords and knights in Arlan's company, ladies in Tyana's, men-at-arms to escort them - all looked equally melancholic. Ser Lomas also noticed that their company was much fewer in number than when they'd departed Blackhaven.

"Where is Arlan?" Ser Lomas couldn't stop himself from asking, even though he already knew the answer.

"Our ship was caught in a squall, Ser," one of the knights responded, "Many of us were taken by the sea. The gods did not see fit to spare Ser Arlan."

Ser Lomas felt a stone sink in his stomach, so heavy that he wanted to vomit. A cold hand was gripping his heart. He had known young Arlan Dondarrion since the day he'd been born. He had thought him a worthy heir to Lord Armond. Is this some sort of curse? What insult did we give the gods that they punish us so cruelly?

But much as shock and grief seized him, Ser Lomas felt even worse because he knew what this meant for the line of succession.

Now there was only one of Lord Armond's sons left.