HAROLD
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Gravel crunched under Lord Godrow's horse's hooves as it paced up the mountain slope. With him were his entourage: Septon Barton, Captain Grey and a dozen guards. Beside them ambled a spotted palfrey carrying the surprisingly rigid Lord Madorick, heading his own retinue of the same size. Harold habitually tugged across the lapel of his thick rosewood coat, venting the heat and thumbing the broken clasp of trimmed ruby and onyx stones. The coat was elaborately texture-patterned, and his mahogany pants looked similar with a two-tone weave. He felt an uneasy pit in his chest and restlessness whenever he looked too far over at Madorick, though Harold kept him in the corner of his eye. Harold had not gotten used to the idea of his presence, and wondered if he ever would – and if that would be worse
He glanced back across at his son, riding on the far side. Asten was much changed; he had grown very tall and robust, though he did not resemble his uncle so much as his father. Dark hair waved astride his forehead and ears at some modest length, and he looked about with almost easy eyes, curiously studying everything. Above all else Harold was eager to talk to him one-on-one, away from everyone else. Away from that man.
Harold had not even hugged his son yet. He felt anxious wondering how Asten would receive him. He tried to push those thoughts away; I have him now, or very nearly. Harold was righting a wrong, he told himself. Whatever else happened now, it did not matter as much as this; for if he had squandered his family's prospects or drawn anyone's ire politically, there may be cause for criticism but not for regret. Harold expected a cornucopia of humiliations from Lord Madorick through this wedding, but none of them could approach the humiliation he had suffered every day for the last five years.
Beside Lord Tallhammer rode his nephew, the groom. He rode a stallion, curiously enough. If there was a convincing reason for this, Harold looked forward to hearing it. Ser Maxwell sat confidently, though at unremarkable height, and cast surreptitious glances at his uncle every now and then. He was splendidly garbed and cleanly groomed, cutting well a thick and intricate doublet in his house colours, with silver highlighting the blossoming patterns and frills. His grey hose had narrow lanes of the same patterns, but in monochrome. Leura may yet be pleased, perhaps. He may very well have been the manner of man he was said to be, but Harold still needed to meet with this boy, crunch his hand in his grip and have him squirm sufficiently before he could meet Harold's beloved Leura.
The Godrow banner hung large from the stone watchtower that dominated the corner they approached.
Lord Madorick spoke up, remarking, "Even your heraldry is false, Godrow."
Harold frowned over in front of him, half curious what clever put-down his honoured guest thought he had come up with. All eyes were on them.
He waited a moment before Lord Madorick continued, "We climb the mountain of gold, do we not?" It was barely a question, and a somewhat amused question at that.
Harold did not answer.
"So this is the western mountain, yet you have put silver on the left side? Have you reversed your banners for bastardry?"
Harold took a moment, figuring which tone he should take. "The sigil shows the mountains as they first appeared to our primogenitor, sailing up the Blackwater. At the junction with the Godstream they appeared offset North and South, so Mount Gyldayn was on the right. Neither falls sunshine upon it so much, flanked east and West by other mountains, so the field is black." They turned the hairpin bend, wending them back above the nearly half-dozen lengths that led down and out to a barbican and crumbled walls. The sun was softened for their eyes, as half the sky was strewn with low, fluffy clouds which gave everything a heavenly glow. Harold faced Lord Tallhammer, and added, "The moment he saw them, a golden hawk landed on the prow of his dinghy, and then flew up around to the castle."
Septon Barton between them chimed in, quickly and assuredly, "A heathen superstition, my lord, there is no need to repeat that embellishment." A small, scratched crystal jumped against his clean white robed chest as he edged his horse closer into view. His shock of crimped red hair, faded though it was, belied his numerous years.
Madorick continued to amuse himself, saying, "No doubt some peasant living nearby could recall to us how it really happened…"
Harold ignored the remark. He looked out at the valley, down the dense broadleaf that clasped Lords' Lake and obscured the river streams, and at what he could see of the grassy pastures rolling and lowering east. Paved and thatched rooftops of the little town of Vickery joined everything where Mount Agryn met the rivers. Many townsfolk were helping with the wedding – more from the hamlet by the gate called Goldleaf Stump. The 'Stumpies' always helped, so most of the craftspeople from around inhabited it, and competed to make it beautiful. Some activity persisted, even as the special day was upon them. Maegryn once enticed a few families from Lannisport to join it; Harold had thought that was a homesick waste of effort, but now he saw the value. He had never witnessed smallfolk so proud…
A spot in the trees opened briefly down the river, and Harold spied a dinghy being rowed by a lone figure. Upriver it was coming, slowly. Harold stared as the trees obscured it again, and for a while after as well.
The path was bending gradually around the mountain face, sternly equipped as it was with protruding turrets above a narrowly exposed walkway, recessed into the face. It served as a kind of 'tunnel-battlement', running along from the height of three men – the mountain's visor. Harold's regular guard detail were not to be seen there; he had corresponded with Lord Madorick to work out an acceptable security arrangement – a few patrols each of two Tallhammer men and one Godrow man would ensure the gates stayed up and bridges down, so no trickery could trap the guests.
His men would now know of one such trap – the releasable boulders. At numerous points along the mountain's visor were massive spheres carved from the wall and held in place by chains. In a siege, they were pushed from another passage and through a pre-cut section of parapet onto men below. Harold thought of the Roxburgh words 'Strike from Above' – fearsome words, but nothing to privilege them above a strike from within. Harold remembered his worry why Tallhammer might have wanted the wedding to take place at Hollowtop; while it seemed to acknowledge greater Godrow prestige, and surely Harold would have been more nervous taking his family into the beast's lair, this way the Tallhammers could become intimately familiar with his home's defences and inner workings. He did his best to cover things up, restrict access and limit what conversation might be had between his people and Tallhammer's, but ultimately there was little to be done. Harold squeezed the reins through his black riding gloves, and silently prayed to the Father he had organised everything securely.
Around the bend they were faced with a wide tunnel which would take them a dozen meters straight through a rocky outcropping. The same battlements from before continued within, though on both sides and with a narrower, double gated passage. A small waterfall came down off the side – it could be redirected into another trap that could sweep men away either end.
As they approached, Harold mulled the earlier conversation. Barton was probably right, he recognised; Harold was just grasping onto every little sign he could find of legitimacy for his family. He had never seen for sure any of these reclusive golden hawks anyway. Twice foolish, he cringed, remembering a wise warning to step away from the shadow of a dead name. How strange it was that Harold never saw his grandfather, yet his dynasty still felt like a squalling babe, of uncertain provenance or health. A short drawbridge lowered across the little streams on either end, and through the tunnel echoed a hornblast from the castle beyond.
They emerged into the longish outer bailey, with the sounds of a busy party pouring over the curtain wall and skimming along the handful of rooftops clustered by the mountain face. Large banners of both houses flanked the main gate, and a more modest wall separated the stables and such from the path with an open set of large oak gates. Streamers and servants crossed with equal riot and gaiety. The latter made good way for them as they slowed to be received by the stables.
Just inside the yard Harold pulled up, eyeing his son heading further down the hitching posts along the outside of the stable, and quickly dismounted. A servant took his reigns as Harold trundled past, and nearly halfway down past everyone Asten spotted him too. Harold felt relief burgeoning as his son seemed to match his intention, appearing around a horse to meet him, looking nervous but eager. They were almost upon each other when suddenly a horse's spotted arse launched backwards into Asten, sending him toppling back off his feet.
Some notes of alarm and offense from those around died short in the face of Madorick prancing his palfrey about, silently smirking at Harold. The rest of the scene held awkwardly still but Harold gritted his teeth and strode on to Asten, wary one of them may be kicked by the same horse. Asten's countenance seemed to restrain a familiar grimace, the kind that came from years of powerlessness and communicating a hint of reassurance.
He was already on the way up, but he took his Father's hand anyway. It felt familiar, and Harold quickly adjusted to his strength. Harold had dreaded the possibility of his son having been somehow turned against him, but now found himself cautiously optimistic. He sensed a couple of his own men standing about them. As Madorick deigned to sidle off and their company continued to alight, Harold only felt it further to place a hand around his back. They wandered along loosely for a moment as he simply tried to take in his son's presence above the bustle.
When they were past the horses, Harold looked back at the yard, there being a good few guards and servants gathered around and looking on. He stopped, stood taller and called out in an offhand manner, "My son has returned!" It seemed appropriate yet felt strange and unratified here. Nevertheless, the scattered audience let out a cheer with surprising strength. There were a number of 'Well done, my lord!'s and 'Gods smile upon yew, Lords'!' as he stood there searching their mostly lowborn faces. He sought approval from no one but his son, but he noted how genuine each seemed – no indication of anything true, but it still felt slightly bracing despite himself. Asten's face only seemed a softer mirror of his own. Harold would get inside and announce it again, properly, to everyone; most of the arrivals seemed to be ready.
Harold remembered the groom, the nephew of his enemy. He paced back through the crowd over to the posts, where there seemed some commotion. Ser Maxwell had the reigns of his stallion, trying to handle the beast which was baying and bouncing. An attendant stood close by, dutifully but uncertainly. Still too close, lad. Harold put a hand on his shoulder and inserted himself by Ser Maxwell, putting another hand on the reigns. Ser Maxwell relinquished them without much pause. Harold adjusted them a little shorter in his hands and hummed and whistled calming words which included "What's your name?"
"No name, my lord," Maxwell answered plainly.
Harold ignored the creature nearly stamping his foot and held his presence. It was long and slender but very muscular and looked quite healthy all around. The coat was not ideally clean, handsome though it was in its warm ashen tone and a mane the colour of Harold's trousers. He gave it his hand to smell. "Dornish?" he suggested softly.
"Yes, my lord. Crossed with destrier."
Harold might have smiled under different circumstances. He had fully expected a charger, based on what he had heard. Too much gold, too much curiosity.
"It's the heat that's sending him off," the young knight explained. "Apparently sand steeds work in opposite when you cross them with a destrier," he remarked drolly, shrugging a hand.
He may be right, Harold mused. Any of the dozen other things that would provoke it would cause even worse behaviour. He reached back blindly and tapped the stableboy to fetch his master. Either way, it begged the question why the lad brought him. Harold put that aside for now as he focused on the horse.
A few moments passed as it sensed his dominance, though it was very slow to calm indeed. Harold kept his distance, while all eyes watched and quietly chattered amongst themselves. The horse's eyes were among the most serious he had ever seen on one – not distrustful, but heavy-minded. "You've some knowledge of the equestrian," Harold noted. "Beyond most lads your age. A hobby of yours?"
"I am interested in breeding," Ser Maxwell explained boyishly, not looking anywhere in particular.
Harold stared over at him, saying, "Are you, now?"
He only gave a little nod.
Harold stepped in and gripped him by the sides of the shoulders, turning him around to face him. They stood flagrantly by the horse, which was growing anxious again. Harold stared at him seriously but with something distantly related to a smile.
The boy still did not meet Harold's eye. He seemed a touch despondent if anything.
Not prideful, but fearless, Harold realised. Great... He huffed, ignoring a concerned "My lord..." which sounded faintly from somewhere near.
Ser Maxwell eventually looked up at him with the same inoffensive expression.
Alright then. Harold handed him the jostling reigns and gestured at the horse's flank. Ser Maxwell stepped in, and Harold stepped off to give him space. The horse was twisting and braying, and the young lad caught it as it spun with a heavy punch in the edge of the shoulder by the ribs. A few around gasped, but it seemed to do the trick, and the shocked horse immediately lessened its tumult.
Harold kept well back, and the horsemaster was by his side. "Sabrick, I want to put him in the corner with the little waterfall," he ordered, pointing across the yard at the furthest along building.
"Yes, Lord," the long-haired horsemaster nodded, heading over there with a couple stableboys. In truth it was not particularly hot today, but even if the cooling trickle did not assuage the creature, it was secluded. Inside the stable was too crowded, and off-limits anyway for the Tallhammer mounts – Madorick wanted them accessible outside for a quick escape and that many eyes may be kept on them.
Harold glanced back for Asten. He was talking with their cousin, the self-effacing younger Lord Cordyn Troyce. Good. Harold returned to Ser Maxwell in a slow wander, taking up on the opposite side of him from the horse, and gesturing over to the corner. They both shot a glance around for Madorick, who seemed to watch them from within his people as they spoke to him. With a few terse moments on the reigns, they led the stallion slowly across the bare yard. Harold clicked and called with his voice more, being wiser than to force animals excessively, and gently instructed Ser Maxwell to do likewise. The noise of the festivities far behind grew louder for a time.
"Leura," Harold began, "sometimes shows an... independent spirit." He spoke a little more haltingly than he would have liked. "She is very curious, and very clever. She is always reading tales and histories. Her imagination is a wonderous thing."
Maxwell seemed to be listening.
"At times she even seems to want her own titles and lands," Harold huffed. "But," he emphasised, staring at his soon-to-be son-in-law – and someday soon nominal equal, – "she is most truly kind and caring..." He thought of Leura's love of gardening and, eyeing the horse, added, "...to all living things. If you treat her justly and facilitate her happiness, you will find no more loyal companion, friend and servant than her, nor any more affectionate."
Harold stopped them as they stood before the alley behind the cobblers' house. Sabrick and a stableboy were trying a spare piece of fence for a gate, and the other was going back at a wide berth, probably for straw. Harold put a hand on Maxwell's shoulder and pointed before his face, "But beware, that she is more fragile than even she realises, and recklessness is her great flaw." Harold felt uncomfortable revealing all these vulnerabilities to a boy he had just met, let alone a Tallhammer. "If you allow her to destroy herself-," Remembering how this boy likely stood against his uncle, politically and personally, Harold cut short and altered his tone, "Well, you will not, will you." As he spoke, he was gradually deciding that the look on Ser Maxwell's face was serious enough. "Will you?" he repeated.
"No, my Lord."
Looming a little further in, he added softly and deeply, "And it goes without saying how you yourself will not act regarding my beloved flower."
"Yes, my lord."
"No matter what state of affairs pertains after this day, the torment and humiliation of my children is over." He paused to underline his seriousness.
The boy nodded solemnly.
After another second, Harold offered his hand and they shook. Maxwell's grip was tremendous, but he felt it loosen up, and reciprocated. No smile would have flashed across Harold's face, but he gave a little satisfied nod.
They leaned against the low fence, stallion barely permitting, listening to the trickle behind them and talking about horse rearing. It may have been unexpected for Maxwell, but Harold did not ask about life under his uncle or Asten's experience. There would be time enough for that later, he knew. For now, they chatted about horses, including how Maxwell might try remedying his stallion's behaviour by tying little rings of animal intestine filled with cool water around his joints. Harold contemplated that it may be inflammation that is aggravated by warmer weather. The questions came his way at a slowly increasing pace, as he relaxed the eagerness of his answers and stood content for them sharing few words.
He and Maxwell silently watched as the boys and Sabrick pulled cord around their gate, having set up a decent hovel for the creature. It could point its head over the low fence to catch the water plummeting. Harold made a clicking noise with his tongue and walked over beside the gate. The workers climbed and scampered away, Maxwell already hauling the 'Sand Destrier' along. One of the stableboys humbly asked for his attention and presented him with an apple. Maxwell thanked him and led the horse by its mouth. "Well done, Aegon," said Harold, patting the boy on his wiry mop. Harold addressed Sabrick, saying, "And you will let Boros know, will you not? Do not want his kids sneaking out with loaves only to become lunch themselves."
"Of course, milord," Sabrick smiled.
"Thank you, my lord," Maxwell said, depositing his finally pacific horse with plenty of rubs. "Sorry for the fuss."
Harold took a breath in as Maxwell returned before him, and said, "I will not tell you to castrate him; I understand,"
Maxwell nodded a little.
Harold paused awkwardly for a moment as he grasped for a clearer way to express what he meant. "But … do not neglect castration. Else your equine knowledge will ever remain shallow and niche, and you will grow weary of the art very quickly."
They continued on back for the stables.
"I can show you my technique if you are interested enough," Harold said dryly.
Maxwell showed a sturgeon-like pout of which Harold was unsure if it was mocking or playfully fretful.
"Your father-in-law asked you a question."
Maxwell looked at him with slightly widening eyes, and said, "Uh... Yes, okay. Did you... have a stallion in mind?"
Harold cut short a smile and looked ahead, reckoning he had made the groom squirm enough, for now. However, a few steps on, he glowered over at Lord Madorick by the stables and said, "There's an old creature over there, he must be long due for it."
Harold looked at Maxwell, who gave some kind of lateral shrug and blew air out his lips. The company waited in two rough parties, which they passed between towards Asten.
"COME ON!" growled Madorick over at them, catching Harold off-guard despite his most recent remark. "Take us inside already!"
"You are not Lord here, old man," Harold reminded him, as if he had forgotten. "This is my castle."
"It will be my grave, you son of a thief. Son of a cross dresser!"
Harold glanced at some of Tallhammer's company, hearing the few chuckles more than seeing them.
Madorick added, "Though I may just let your family share it. Put Leura in first," he commanded, "chest down."
Harold slowed a fraction, wrenching off his sweaty gloves as he passed them. He headed around the gate, wishing it were closed so he could kick it down. Asten and Lord Cordyn stood closest the main gate by the others. Harold passed along to join them and was met by a low formal bow by Troyce. He was leaner than Harold, with small dark eyes and a mild smile. "Cousin Cordyn," huffed Harold familiarly, offering an embrace.
"My lord," Cordyn said promptly and politely, taking the embrace naturally. He looked leathery and worn for thirty, with a receding hairline, and had a warm raspiness to his voice.
"It is good to see you back, as usual," Harold said, referring to his recent absences from visits. "How fare you?"
"Ohh, well. I got up here easily enough," he smiled earnestly back at the mountain path, then spoke even more gently but nearer to a kettle's pitch, "It has been a long ride though..."
Harold was aware of the whole company forming up behind them. "It has?"
"Ah- The Farmountain Road was out. Rocks. Gave it a go with my horse, but it was b-aaad-..." he trailed off. Asten grinned at this.
Harold might have said something regretful about it, but quickly asked, "And your family?"
"Yes, she's settling in well with the new arrival."
"Oh, good; I'll hear more about them inside." Harold glanced back one last time, and everyone seemed ready to continue.
"Oh, yes! On you go, Asten." They both put a hand on Asten's shoulders briefly and Harold brought him alongside as they headed under the barbican. The energy they were met with was an inviting echo of the vivacious swirl Harold knew was going on inside the hall and would soon return to the gardens. A pair of guards stood by at attention as they entered the bedecked courtyard, followed by a line each of Tallhammer and Godrow men a dozen long. An extra row reinforced Harold's; all up, he had twice the number Tallhammer had brought – enough to defeat any foolishness, but not enough to prevent his flight... so went the concept. A few sleeping tents adorned each side. Before them, a thick carpet of yellow and dusk blue flower petals led across the somewhat dusty ground to both the stairs of the hall and of the gardens. Asten awed at it and everything else as Harold led on to the high-standing hall.
Harold stood a little taller and prouder, ever mindful of moments to impress and glad that all his had charged his patrimony with such a glorious spirit, just as he fought to keep and develop it. A few guests were waiting for them by the stairs – Lord Troyce the elder – expectedly absent his wife - with his nearly-grown children: Lyba, Saren, and Darran. They were attired very nicely in their house colours, striking orange and pink from the trees for Lyba and dark greens for the men. They were there for Cordyn primarily, though a few others were with them. Bows and curtseys – Harold briefly said to them, "I must needs reunite my son with his siblings."
Lord Rylen responded, "Go and rejoice, my lord!"
Harold ascended the steep steps lightly. They split and folded back, like the ones in the hall, and between the top and the door was a shallow gap passed on a little drawbridge. Beyond the door arch inside the hall were many guests standing about and, as they quickly noticed the arrivals, readying along the carpet paths in front of the stairs back to the doorways further in.
In the doorway Harold stopped and looked back, between two worlds. Behind, the train of company stopped and looked up at him, some concerned. His son had stopped and stood beside watching his face. All about the courtyard and inside the hall, everyone's attention was on him. He looked about with unexpected confidence, noting several faces. He skipped the Tallhammers; he cared more for the mountain face and the works of his ancestors, which stared back. The gods in the sky above ought to be watching, too. He turned his head to look at his son, who stared back slightly unsure. Harold stepped in and slowly put his hands on his son's big arms. A second later, he smacked them in a tighter grip, and grabbed up and down and turned him side to side, marvelling at the miracle which was his again. He was smiling, and Asten was too. The sighs of hearts warming were heard as modest cries and cheers and much clapping began. The fear of Asten's true feelings temporarily left him, and he led on with an arm around his son's shoulder, stopped again and called, "My son has returned!"
In the tall room, his triumphant voice was welcomed by greater cheers, and they continued through the crowd along a slow wave of blissful obeisances. A few at the back only clapped briefly, if at all, those no doubt being Southron clique guests whose attendance in the first place was no sure thing. When they passed the threshold near the left corner, they were met with an even greater outpour, and Harold nodded gratefully as they stood there for a time.
Lords and ladies filled the gently shimmering room beside tables in a broad palette, and at first glance seemed to Harold, as they had when he left, like many jewels in a sunlit crown. So it would be for their well-groomed faces, but they evoked specific other feelings in Harold, often less enchanting. There must have been a thousand unheard conversations had here since the first guests arrived, each whittling away at his family's latest slump-forward of the political zeitgeist. His mild apprehension to talk to any of them was not enough to dim his mood and approached his clique in front with confidence – Lords Leo Lefford, Andros Brax, Antario Jast, and Lewys Lydden.
He was interrupted by Lord Madorick passing behind him, who let out a single "Hah!" and continued without stopping, stridently hobbling with his company over to the right side of the room. Though he did not quite silence the room, he caused an awkward pause in the welcome as many stared at him. Harold quickly ignored the heckle and pressed on as Lefford stood forward.
The fifty-year-old man had cropped white hair on a big drab egg; his grumpy expression parted for Harold, especially as he eyed Asten. He wore a slightly faded deep blue doublet, stacked full with yellow lapis lazuli gems of various sizes, the larger emphasising a mountain. In the place of the sun was an enamelled badge showing his sigil, gold against blue, and around his waist was a brilliant sash of vermillion and gold patterned satin. Antario with his thin brown combover came beside him and called to Harold, "Pay him no heed, my lord! He is the very meaning of petty." He wore a cream doublet with some yellow and green trim, and cheerful striped hose.
"And this looks to be the definition of a son!" Lefford awed. His voice was dry and gravelly, and he spoke quickly. He reminded Harold somewhat of Ser Tarlan Grey.
Harold introduced the lords to Asten, who bowed respectfully.
"What happened to you and your father," Lefford began, stepping in with a many-ringed hand on Asten's shoulder, "was the worst thing I have ever heard of. It is an utter shame it has been unpunished." He sounded more overcome than usual. "Are you okay?"
Asten started lightly after a short hesitation, "Yes, I-"
"You look okay," Lefford spoke over him, thumping the back of his shoulder, "Of course you're okay! But with that whole situation – I, just- You must tell me what it was like, making it through – from age twelve!" He looked around at the others, "Can you believe that?"
"You will have to excuse us for a moment, my lords," spoke Harold. "I must bring Asten to his siblings first."
"Yes, sure," Leo said simply.
Tall Lord Andros said in a soft, clear voice, "Well done, Harold." He had a narrow lower face with neat stubble. It was framed by shoulder length hair, a flowing dark brown, though he was a few years older than Harold. His outfit was equally handsome, a padded fit with wide silver strips and small purple studs with amethysts in them. Thick cords drew silver and purple spirals down the shoulders, torso and arms, starting bundled up in a horse head on the shoulders and tapering at the ends. A dark purple gorget displayed his crest, a rampant unicorn with the horn and hooves chased in platinum. "Lord Asten," he inclined as they passed.
Jast and Lydden echoed this, in good grace. So did many others, greater and lesser nobles and knights, scattered before them as they slowly parted. As they ascended the stairwell, the communal atmosphere withdrew for a familial one, and Harold felt a twinge of excitement. The smell of the narrow space was a slight variant to its usual one, he felt sensitive enough to notice: slightly musty, the stone and mortar and creaky wood. He was already imagining Leura and Cynthia and the cousins at the moment of seeing Asten in Leura's room, electrifying in his mind's eye, and he led easily with strong steps – a little thought acknowledged they would not all be together, but that just meant it could be dragged out longer.
The stairwell was cleaner than ever, he noted further, nearing the top, and the clear light filling it from the arrow slits foregrounded the vibrant settings arranged outside. What a day for Asten to return, Harold gloried, for a strange moment absurdly grateful for Leura's vision. Goodness motivates this family, he realised, even if they are not perfect. Above all these things, the space was crowned with his son's quite large presence following closely behind. It was the air of justice, Harold recognised. The headiest savour... though it be just a scent, as things yet stood.
They came out on the gantry with a few more guests and passed the guard up into the curtained corridor. The door to Leura's room was open with quiet chatter abounding. Harold stepped in, not quite breathing, and Leura was there sitting at her dresser amidst three maids. She looked at him immediately with an excited and unsure look on her face. Her dress was in the final stages of being ready: it was a thick cut with four tall 'mountains' from hem to hip – these were inset, consisting of a thatch of wide strips of light grey – and were bordered by alternating near-golden broadleaves and 'silver' leaves cut from a finer white part of another gown. Between the 'mountains', the lower third was made up with many pale flowers in red, blue and pink. They were pinned in a shallow 'V' valley silhouette, also bordered by leaves. Above them floated a subtle impression of clouds, sewn on.
It was striking – yet, leading up from each peak were the shells in rows which jingled when she moved. They met a belt also pinned with these, coated as she wanted with gold. A couple more rows across were met further up, one above her stomach and one across her chest and looping under her narrowly exposed shoulders. The cut of the neck was a goblet shape – was it larger than it used to be?
Her head was the most splendidly decorated, in Harold's opinion, with her hair drawn up into three copper henin frames standing tall from the back of her head, the two on the sides being slightly smaller and lower. Along the sides of each hung silver-coated strips, and at the ends were silver bowties. Along the top from ear to ear were five small hair bundles, with shoulder-length tresses coming from their tops and each mounted with a white flower she said grew on the coast. In fact, so abundant was her hair, that some was even left over below, curtaining past her ears with their silver-coated strip earrings.
There were few cosmetic paints on her table, and fewer on her face – her downturned lips could have been the same colour and her skin already glowed; her eyeline, however, had been lightened to counter the sleep shadows. Her sleeves were split at the elbows, hanging down low, though one handmaid was placing broadleaves and 'silverleaves' at wider spaces along the splits. Her mother's necklace still sat in the jewellery box on her crowded table. It was a different, plainer kind of shell, painted with a natural view of the coast from a beach. Maegryn had had it since before Harold had met her. It hung from a thin gold chain flanked by three pearls attached either side. They used to be a full pearl necklace; this is what they kept. Above the little square shell was a miniature glass and brass cabinet housing a locket of Maegryn's hair.
Leura had much harped for days that her dress would be improvised and disappointing, but to Harold's eyes she had created something very impressive, which he reckoned many from Highgarden or Casterly Rock could not have done themselves. Harold could scarcely believe she had come in half aspect from himself. And I am sending her away to that family.
"Father?" Leura asked with anticipation.
Harold glanced back, then said, "Come on in, Asten."
He emerged with his bashful look and an easy smile, and Leura's eyes flared as she cried "Asten!", jumped up and stared at him a moment.
The little hesitation in Asten before he said, "Leura?" gave Harold a bigger smile for an instant.
Her face was delighted, as she came over as quickly as caution for her dress allowed. Harold's children embraced. "Welcome home, brother," she said gently.
"…Wow," Asten started. "You've grown up."
"So have you! You're so big and strong!"
They leaned out, facing each other. Asten studied her for a while, and she stood there following his eyes while smiling blankly.
"You're so… beautiful!" he effused with a hint of embarrassment, making her giggle. He looked around, noting, "Your room looks the same."
Just then, some bodies moved around in the corridor behind Harold, and Cynthia came into the room.
"It will require a makeover, when I move in," she said.
"Cynthia," Asten responded, turning and grinning.
"Hello, Asten," she greeted simply, her face not dour on this occasion. She had dressed herself, supposedly acquiescing to social expectations after several long arguments with Leura and himself. What that had granted them was her midnight blue dress with her thin baggy-sleeved hooded coat, some hair tied back along her crown and a pair of silver tassels hanging from behind her ears. The coat was an unfortunate necessity, for she needed a hood to be in the hall opened to the outside. At least with the dress it blended quite naturally, as it had half a hundred times before, and her brooch and silver-trimmed slippers were a step in the right direction. After half a moment, Asten moved in, and they briefly hugged.
"Ahh," he sighed as he stepped out, "You are taller as well." He looked around again and asked, "You're taking this room, are you?"
"You will have your old one back," she explained dryly.
He wandered, asking, "What will you do with this?"
"The windows, to start. They will be covered, replacing the curtains, with a gap for my Myrish eye."
Asten's tone softened a shade, "Still… cannot go outside, can you?"
Cynthia said nothing, nor looked. Harold sensed more movement in the corridor.
"What is a Myrish eye?" Asten asked.
Just then, the twins emerged, led in by a pair of servants. They did not dress themselves and looked well for it; Tydren was in a maroon doublet with a relatively simple yellow floral trim and grey shoes, and Gabby's dress was similarly patterned granite on light blue and green, and hair ribbons like Cynthia's. They looked a little shy, as Harold stepped over to them.
"Asten, you remember your cousins, Gabielle and Tydren?"
His son seemed to immediately recognise them, saying, "Yes. I remember you two." He came over to them a little awkwardly, squatted down in front of them and smiled.
Harold shot them a look and they haphazardly performed… something related to a bow and curtsey.
"You're about the same size as I remember."
"They have grown, more terrifying," Leura quipped, eliciting some demure mirth in the room.
Cynthia gave Leura a look, and Asten asked, "Still having fun, are you?", gently pinching Gabby's cheek.
The twins remained shy.
"Still collecting spiders?" Asten looked over to Leura, who remembered the prank he was referring to and tilted an agitated smile at him. He chuckled and looked back at the twins. "Hmm?"
The children soon began to smile and nod, prompting Asten to ruffle their hairs.
Harold glanced up at Leura, who suddenly looked worried, and he stepped behind the twins with hands on their shoulders. "Well, there will be nothing like that today, of course. If for no other reason than they are on a very tenuous probation." He flashed a smile and told them, "I must go down now and deter Madorick from causing trouble." He glanced around at their faces one more time, still amazed to be looking at a complete family. Almost complete, he ruminated with somber finality, eyeing the locket… and Leura. He looked down below them all and managed to say, "Your father loves you all."
Harold turned and left, and nearly flinched seeing four Tallhammer guards crowding right of the door. They were Asten's assignment until the marriage had been consummated, to ensure Harold did not double-cross Madorick. They themselves were checked by two Godrow men to the left.
Harold heard from behind Leura say, "Shall we say a prayer?"
The guards made way for Harold, who soldiered on out and back down the stairs.
The hall was sparser than before, many having returned outside. A lute player plinked away further down, and various items from the gallery had been arranged about, though doubtless most remained to talk to Harold or his clique. And puzzle at our mysterious new heirloom – that stood down at the front wall.
Eyes were on him, but space was around him, and he made for his peers gathered under the gantry just before the side doorway. They stood by a trestle table with their pages nearby, and no family. Harold still had to greet some relatives of a vassal before he made it past Lefford's shoulder. There was a proper seat on the end, pointing out.
Lewys was reclining at ease next to it, taking up half the bench in his thin green velvet doublet. Many rubies studded it in green and red gold clasps, and his arms laid out with a couple lanes of shimmering ermine-patterned samite. A large white emerald clasped in blackened silver bound his collar and a large metal badger buckled his belt. He had a fatherly padding but was half a head longer than Harold, and he could look nearly scruffy with all the short oaky hair about his head.
The several maesters and septons on the opposite bench began to shuffle off to rise, when Harold waved a hand, saying, "Do not trouble yourself, my lords." He sat down with a quiet sigh as the others watched him.
Lewys turned and asked, "How were they?"
"…Wonderful," was all Harold could come up with, "Just wonderful. He is of good spirits. He holds no ill feeling like I worried…" I think. "I think it is all starting to set in."
Lefford stepped in front of him. "Harold," he began, "What is your next move?"
Harold took a second. "Regarding what?"
Leo spoke sharply, "Well this is over, is it not? Tallhammer has effectively conceded."
Harold felt he must be missing something, "That is… right. The Southrons will still favour him, though I suppose they will expedite marriages to the niece and widow."
Lefford waved dismissively. "No, that's not acceptable, that's an insult to everyone – it's the Lannisters. The Lannisters must decide how they want this to end. Tywin played his little game and the horse he chose just bucked him off. Now is the time you get the justice owed you, Harold."
Leo Lefford characteristically displayed an infectious confidence when exposing the weaknesses of others, but his last line irked Harold enough to discard the argument. "Five years ago was the time, my lord," he responded curtly. No matter, he thought, having come to terms with his liege's flagrant dishonour, and having anyway been sceptical of it to begin with, categorically. There stands a greater judge than man, Barton counselled him. Harold assimilated that as 'many men'. "Today, I am simply grateful to enjoy my son's reunion and my daughter's wedding."
"But affairs have now changed; by bringing Tallhammer to us, you have obviated his usefulness to Tywin, and Tywin will want to distance himself from his collusion. Now is your best chance to make Madorick pay."
Jast leaned in and said to Lefford mildly, "My lord, perhaps Harold may not wish to discuss this right now?"
Leo stood unabashed, looking at Antario. "Why in any hell not?" he asked, "What could be more urgent to him?"
Antario said nothing.
Leo looked around the room, saying, "This affects us all. We have to follow through while we have the initiative."
Lewys piped up, "Antario is right, Harold has enough to cope with today."
"I also agree," spoke Andros, weighing in.
Leo made a little 'Bah…" sound, and they remained silent for a short while.
"Then again," Andros said suddenly, "if things continue as they are, it will greatly undermine the integrity of both cliques."
Lefford sparked up again, "If a clique like that can still get Lannister matches, half their betrothals will be broken, I can promise you that." Other nobles would lose faith in the promise of a Lannister marriage, Harold reckoned he meant, betrothals made with the assumption of competing under refined standards of conduct and dignity.
"And which of ours would that include?" asked Lewys lightly.
"Harold," Andros addressed him, "The Lannisters cannot let that happen."
Harold folded his arms, "I have sent many such letters before; Perhaps this is different, but Tywin does not give anything up easily." He spoke with a hand, "Perhaps I might try someone else – his brother, or the Marbrands, if this is truly something that affects us all." Lewys nodded, though the others did not seem to follow. "I only wonder how to craft a message that it be conspicuous and convincing."
Lefford held a finger up and gestured it out to the side, "I will tell you what you need to do – you need to go over to Casterly Rock, tell Lannister it's over; he either punishes Tallhammer or tells Serrett to drop him."
I will not be making any demands of Tywin any time soon, Harold rued. He took a shallow breath, then looked askance down the hall. His attention was caught by the guests by the end doorways crowding them and looking through. His page, cousin Lucos, came briskly up to him.
"My lord, my lords," he said, quickly bowing.
"Yes?"
The boy eyed the others.
Harold quickly decided they were no issue; there must be a late arrival, and this must be the alert. "Share it," he urged.
"The Crakehalls have arrived, my lord. They-"
"I beg your pardon-?" Harold began, "-Oh, hark, I remember." The young ones. Harold had sent out invitations to every Southron lord as a courtesy, not expecting many if any to accept. He was surprised to learn the esteemed Ser Swyft would send his son's family, and recalled in the correspondence mention that Lord Roland Crakehall was visiting his sister at Cornfield with his family. Roland's children and grandchildren were to accompany their aunt, being Ser Steffon's wife, to the wedding.
Harold looked over at Lewys as he continued addressing his page, "Tell me about Ser Steffon, other than perhaps that his horse is completely unaware of his rider's namesake."
The others chuckled.
"My lord, Ser Steffon has not come," Lucos said.
Harold was taken aback.
"Nor has his wife, the lady Meredyth," the boy continued.
"What? Who has come?"
"Lord Roland's family, including his wife Lady Joelle, his brother Ser Burton, along with every son and their families as expected."
Harold inhaled deeply and thought quickly.
Antario stepped forward with surprise, slowly saying, "This is most unforeseen..." The man's mother-in-law was a Crakehall, though she was not among those just listed. Down at the end of the room, people made way for the Crakehalls as they entered, and all eyes were on them. Being from the coast, the Crakehalls typically associated within the Sunset clique. Harold was sure this was some kind of power move but to what end, he had no idea.
He and his companions looked over at Lefford, who regarded them with one of his high, sharp eyebrows raised even higher. Back down the hall, the stocky and clean-faced Lord Roland gracefully made his entry, slowly bowing to nearly everyone with a fist permanently on his chest. He and his family were clad in fine but decently plain clothes, with much deep brown material speckled with black and white from the boar on their sigil. Some bronze silk trims made them stand out as coastal lords. Harold and Lewys rose slowly and stood beside the others.
"The boar breaks for the woods?" Andros suggested. Defecting from the Sunset clique? If that were what was happening, it could look like this, Harold admitted silently, but he was inclined to dismiss the idea as ridiculous. From what cause? And why come to us?
The large group made its way to them. Harold came to the forefront, and Lord Roland called out, "Lord Harold! And my esteemed lords!" He his lady bowed and curtseyed long and wide.
Harold returned the favour.
Roland said, "Please forgive our belated arrival, we are so sorry that Ser Steffon could not come. I regret to inform you that he fell ill before departure. We all thought it would be a tremendous shame to cancel our attendance altogether, and so I hope you will accept us in his place."
Harold said, "I am sorry to hear that about him." He looked about the group, adults hustling shy children in line and inclining towards him. He regarded their fleshy and often hirsute faces, which gave off a warm and generally excited impression.
"Might I introduce my family to you?"
"Please."
He took his wife's delicate hand forward and declared, "My wife, Lady Joelle. Lord Farman's niece."
Harold took her other hand as she curtseyed again. She looked of an age with her husband, possibly their forties.
"My brother, Ser Burton..."
More bowing, from the rough-looking younger man.
"... and his wife, Lady Tanda, and their daughter Lady Amarei..."
Roland took him through his sons, Ser Tybolt and the huge Ser Lyle, and young Lord Merlon. The first had a handsome son and daughter, around Gabby and Tydren's age, while Ser Lyle stooped with his hands on his portly daughter's shoulders. Merlon's offspring counted three, only a little younger than the others, save the littlest girl in the hands of his darkly beautiful older wife.
When they finished, Harold said, "You and your house are welcome at Hollowtop this day. I will see to further arrangements for you." Harold gave a smile, and said, "Please, join the festivities. I am sure you have all come as a delightful surprise for many others. I look forward to introducing my own family when I may."
"Of course, we shall. Thank you most earnestly, my lord. My lords." They gave a final obeisance, then led back down the hall.
They looked at Leo again, who had his arms folded and a hand on his chin.
"There may be an opportunity here," he declared.
"I agree," said Andros.
Lewys excused himself to get something to eat, and Harold after disseminating some parting instructions to his page followed him over to the table. He eyed the others as they slowly skirted along to the Crakehalls, observing as the newcomers conversed with some Southron lords. Harold found Lewys leaning over a plate of assorted canapes and took up beside him.
His eye was caught by one guest further down in the middle of the room – Vaella Brax, Andros' young cousin with the astonishing singing voice. Leura and her friends had been stuck to her heels, fawning as if she were some charismatic street Septon. Harold had last met her years before, and though he certainly appreciated her music the few opportunities he had to listen, he had not thought particularly much of the young woman beyond her most obvious peculiarity – her white hair and sapphire eyes flecked with purple.
Her family had once gone through series of ordeals to prove she was not a Targaryen bastard. Confirmation by the Targaryens themselves from before the rebellion greatly helped in this regard. Now, she was touted as the beautiful manifestation of the Brax house colours... and beautiful she was, standing there smiling, with a heavy net of amethysts complementing her hair. When they arrived a week ago, she surprised him by gently holding his face and piercing him with her apology for Maegryn's passing. Everyone spoke of her charm, and for how little they had yet spoken together, Harold had certainly felt it.
Lewys glanced up at him, then over at her, and smiled a little. "You need only ask Andros, Harold, I am sure he would be happy to consider it."
...Would that I could, Harold found himself thinking. The Bronwyns were here, and Harold had taken to avoiding them. He fingered about the pewter plate, and eventually chose salmon with cheese on dark bread. "Can one ever be sure how Andros feels?" he asked somewhat lightly.
"Point, Harold, but we know what those two think."
Lefford and Brax. Harold eyed him as he ate his piece.
"Ever must they anticipate us splitting off from them." Harold and Lewys were familiar with the dynamic. It had little to no basis, in Harold's view, for despite some personal disinclinations, the size of the clique and the similar lifestyles of many to the south not shared by those to the west, he still appreciated Leo's leadership, and everyone's competence and high favour. Lewys, however, was always pushing for greater say over affairs, even though Lefford and Brax each had more sway with the Lannisters.
"Do you not think Leo's concern for my case is authentic? He has always seemed cut about the matter."
"Far be it for me to speak on feelings," Lewys echoed, "but achieving a split between Tallhammer and his allies secures the new expansion, or the alternative makes Tallhammer a condemned partner for us to split off with."
Harold turned to lean back on the table and observed Lefford and Brax with Jast in tow, stalking around the Crakehalls at a distance. "What do you make of this?" he asked Lydden.
He thought for a moment. "The Crakehalls had few reasons to associate with Southrons, and none for us. Their stated reasons are excellent cover, and so the only thing I would say for certain is they came seeking you and your house. And yet they brought everyone..." They watched down the hall as Brax and Jast engaged the Crakehalls whilst Lefford watched surreptitiously from a distance. "For such a decisive move," Lewys continued, "the target seems uncertain."
"But why would they be searching beyond theirs? I thought Farman and Kenning
had excellent relationships with both Lannisport and Casterly Rock; I thought they had very tight relationships throughout the whole clique?"
"Yes to the second..." Lewys replied, leaving a long, absent-minded pause. "But I always thought they were a glorified guild."
That is quite an exaggeration.
He looked at Harold and said soberly, "My apologies, Harold, no offence."
Harold put his goblet down and thumbed his broken clasp, frowning, and said, "All of them along the coast share a number of concerns, permanent concerns – trade, raiders – and Tywin does much to support merchants."
"Within sight and sound of the Rock, he does."
"No," Harold shook his head. "I bid you remember, when those villages downriver in the Reach were representing to me for assistance against Stoney Sept?"
Lewys smiled, seeming to remember.
"I was ready to take the maiden's favour, but for Lannister's ravens swooping in and stealing it."
"It was probably more appropriate for the Lord Paramount," Lewys reminded him.
Harold showed a small smirk and said, "I was nonetheless flattered," causing Lewys to grin. "Well, our lord did fine work along the whole river, starting from its mouth; lobbying the Hand against foreign cargoes did most of the work against Stoney, then he gathered merchants from our end of the river, asked them collectively what they needed, then gave them nearly everything."
"This is why you were asking about Gold Road traffic..."
"Sadly, little changed. It was a long shot, to redirect foreign goods for the interior through the west. And it cannot be said the realm prospered from that policy. But the towns along the rush have grown abundantly, even after the foreign cargo barriers were rescinded. So, I will admit his strategy was not strictly broad-intentioned, but it shows Lannister's mercantile interest extends well beyond Lannisport.
Lewys shrugged and replied, "That lot still aren't married very closely to the lions, not compared to us or the Ashemark clique. And their clique is quite small, they may lack for options regardless. Crakehall's family were all married." He took a slow sip from his goblet, then got an idea, "Perhaps this is a response to that drama with the Brooms? Where the brother passed away and his family did not allow his Prester wife's family to attend the funeral?"
That had achieved a split from the clique too, Harold knew. Half the Brooms were married to the Sarsfields, so when they cut off their relationship to the Presters it clearly signalled their alignment with the Marbrands. Harold felt mildly alarmed when he realised the implication. And if the Sunset clique was dissolving, what could happen to the Southron clique after today? "This is all moving too quickly," he lamented, shaking his head.
Lewys looked a little concerned himself as he turned back towards the table, looking amongst the platters. Harold made way for him, recollected, but trying to imagine the extent of political change possible from this wedding. Lewys drew several eyes as he gingerly removed a pastry puff from the middle of the custardly rock, prompting it to wobble precariously.
"Good for you, my Lord!"
A raspy female voice from behind had caught Harold's attention.
"Sorry?" He turned to see a small middle aged woman and man in bright blue and black garb. Sewn on the man's chest was a quartered sigil of Roxburgh arms and three bright blue rows of battlements with yellow-glowing windows. "Ah, Lord and Lady Estroxburgh." Though they arrived last night, Harold had regrettably been too busy to talk to them.
"Good for you! At last, someone had the oats to stand up to that Tywin Lannister! Acting like he owns the whole gods-loving Westerlands!"
Harold hastily put a hand around her shoulder, looking about nervously. Other guests were worryingly within earshot, and it did not do well to circulate such a passionate tone on such a hazardous topic so widely. "You make me sound like old Aerys..." he said, leading them off to the side.
Their enthusiastic smiles seemed unabated. "We want you to know that we admire your courage tremendously, and stand by you as our worthy liege and cousin with great relish! Some may fret and say it is extremely dangerous, but we hope to have the courage to support you to whatever end!"
Harold felt his eyes maddening as he held his hands pointing from his face, trying to explain calmly, "I am only trying to resolve a feud between two families. This has only to do with Tallhammer."
Her husband, Lord Marcell, said in a soft but highly expressive voice, "Well we think you made the right decision, and under very tough circumstances at that. Truly, you have shown the spirit of King Robert!"
This made Harold's head roll back and he nearly turned to leave. Rubbing his temple with his fingers, he muttered, "Thank you. Please excuse me." Seeing Lewys leaning on a nearby pillar, he paced over to meet him. "Seven save me," Harold fumed to him on approach, pointing down the hall, "Does everybody think that is the gauntlet I threw at Tywin Lannister's feet?"
"I don't," Lewys boasted with his mouth half full. "You would not throw a piece like that."
"What a ridiculous notion," Harold complained.
"Well," Lewys started, covering his mouth for a moment. "You have foiled his designs.
Harold shot him a glare.
He temporarily took on a more serious tone to justify, "Raising words in protest is scarcely tolerated – his silence on your matter aside – and now you have acted against his will. Indirect it may be, he may still see that as an affront to-"
"I never affronted anyone in that family!" Harold blurted. "I have not even received a single letter from any of them since before the kidnapping!" He only remembered and realised that claim was false as he finished saying it.
Lewys looked dreadfully uncomfortable, and Harold caught himself. He took a deep breath in and squeezed his eyes with his fingers for a second, saying, "Sorry." His hand shaking surprised him a little, as he wiped the back of his head with it.
Lewys approached and hesitantly landed a hand on Harold's shoulder. "I think it would be best to conserve your energy, Harold. It seems as if you will need it."
Harold said nothing and felt some shame for getting flustered.
Lewys gestured at the empty bench beside them and said, "Let us take a seat."
As Harold plunked down stiffly, facing across the hall, he heard for a moment Asten distantly laughing through the hallway above. Lewys reclined beside him. Harold sensed his cup being presented to him and took it, staring across at the old man who had made a name for himself as his rival.
They sat and sipped for a while, and took everything in. Most of the excitement was behind them outside, and it seemed as if some of the mummers were to start their show soon.
"Will you have the Feast Day joust?" Lewys asked.
"Mmm," Harold grunted. He would not have another event here, though. "Out of Vickery, Beastford..." he speculated.
Across the room came a loud clattering as Madorick knocked over a large bowl of mulled wine onto the table. "GODS FORSAKE YOU!" he thundered as it clattered onto the floor and ran everywhere. Everyone's attention was caught as, with a strange, aggressive and wild stance, he shot with surprising vigour towards a terrified young maidservant, who backed up. "POXY FUCK!" he snarled at her, as Wyla turned and ran with a scream. She tripped over the outstretched leg of one of his knights, prompting a round of laughs and jeers amongst his companions. Wyla clambered away, but Madorick had returned to his group, one of whom was already clutching a platter to his chest, as if 'saving it', to more laughter from his peers. Most onlookers kept in stunned silence.
Harold remained deadpan. "What think you, should I call off the wedding?"
Lewys smiled, thought for a moment, then said, "In a reasonable world, yes." He turned to Harold and told him, "Tablecloths are temporary, your patrimony is forever. Nothing else matters."
Harold mulled over Lewys' words for a moment as he stared at the crowd of enemies, sneering and laughing as they wrecked his home in front of everyone. "Nothing else matters," he echoed.