Hightower hall was a symbol of Hightowers' power, a grand and prestigious place with walls lined with tapestries depicting the ancient lineage of the dynasty and the city they ruled. The space was illuminated by the dim, flickering light of countless candles set within wrought iron chandeliers, casting long, uncertain shadows that danced across the stone floor. The air was thick with the mingled scents of wax, parchment, and the faint tang of seawater, a reminder of the city's proximity to the Whispering Sound. The ceiling stretched high above, lost in darkness, its height impossible to guess.
The hall was crowded, filled with retainers, courtiers, and servants, all of them whispering and looking at the newcomer, who now stood before Leyton Hightower, relaying news from Highgarden to the seated lord.
"Lord Hightower, it is with great joy that I am here to announce the birth of Lord Paramount's son and heir, Willas Tyrell!" Edmure Footly, for that was his name, began speaking, his voice rich and melodious. Tyrells' messenger was a man of middle age, with a neatly trimmed beard and a polished demeanor. He carried himself with the self-assuredness of someone used to dealing with nobility, and his presence commanded attention. "It is my great honor to extend an invitation to you and your household to a grand tourney, to be held in celebration of this joyous occasion! The tourney will be a spectacle of great renown, with knights from all corners of the Reach and beyond competing to…"
As Edmure elaborated on the details of the tourney—the jousts, the feasts, the various contests that would be held—Hadwyn's interest waned.
While tourneys were not unfamiliar to him, the flower of chivalry in the Lands Between always eager to prove their mettle and honour in front of the awed audience, their artificial and controlled nature was unable to provide Hadwyn with a thrill that the real battle would have given him. Well, gladiatorial fights could be considered a healthy alternative, there was a reason they were one of the most popular pastimes in Lord Godfrey's camp after all, but unfortunately it didn't sound like something practised in Westeros.
Hadwyn sighed inwardly. He really felt out of place among these nobles and knights, for whom the birth of the heir and the tourney associated with it probably sounded like something incredibly important and interesting.
The only reason he was even here, listening to the news relevant only to Westerosi themselves, was because Leyton requested his presence.
Hadwyn still wasn't sure what to think about the man, as for some reason the noble was always trying to spend time with him to learn more about 'mysteries and the hidden forces that shape the world' or something like that. His words confused Hadwyn quite a bit, as despite Leyton's insistence that he was only interested in sorceries, it all sounded more like incantations powered by faith than sorceries powered by intellect. Still, he provided Leyton with some tips about 'sorceries', if only to get the man off his back.
The meeting in the Hightower Hall was quite irrelevant to the Elden Lord, and thus quite uninteresting, but fortunately he wasn't alone in this alien environment.
Ansbach, Hadwyn's ever-faithful political advisor, stood close by, listening to Edmure's words with much more interest than his lord, his appearance a perfect picture of a loyal retainer. If Hadwyn didn't know the old man's own predisposition towards more bloody forms of combat, he would have believed Ansbach was genuinely interested in the tourney that was about to take place. But as he knew, Hadwyn guessed it was probably just him doing his job as a political advisor (Political representative, really. Hadwyn's typical ways of conducting diplomacy were probably a little too…intense for the Westerosi nobility).
Florissax was also there of course, the towering woman with reptilian body never leaving her human lord for long, but she looked even more uninterested in the conversation than Hadwyn did, her completely still body suggesting she wasn't even listening, sleeping and/or providing solace to Placidusax instead.
Hadwyn was just beginning to consider how to leave the hall without anyone noticing when Edmure's gaze shifted from Leyton, locking onto him with a sudden intensity.
"…And of course," Edmure said, his voice taking on an even grander tone than before, looking at Hadwyn with well-practiced cheer. "Lord Tyrell also wishes to extend his invitation to the esteemed guests from beyond the sea! Elden Lord Hadwyn, the prince consort of Liurnia! We have heard of your arrival and the wonders you have brought with you! The presence of you and your wife, Lunar Princess Ranni, the Divine Witch, would add great prestige to the event!"
Hadwyn blinked upon hearing these words, quite surprised by the sudden shift in focus.
The titles rolled off Edmure's tongue with such ease that Hadwyn couldn't help but suspect that someone had coached him on how to address them. His gaze flicked to Ansbach, who stood at his side with an expression of carefully controlled neutrality. The man was pointedly avoiding Hadwyn's eyes, a sure sign that he had something to do with this.
The silence that followed Edmure's pronouncement was heavy with expectation. Leyton's eyes darted between Hadwyn and the messenger, his interest in hearing Hadwyn's response clear. The rest of the hall had fallen into a hushed stillness, all eyes on the man from beyond the sea.
Hadwyn cleared his throat, trying to mask his discomfort. He hadn't expected this, and he certainly hadn't prepared for it. But there was no backing out now—not without causing a scene. And so, with as much composure as he could muster, he inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the messenger's words.
"I am thankful for the invitation," Hadwyn said, his voice steady despite the awkwardness he felt. His voice was polite, if lacking in enthusiasm. "Please convey my gratitude to Lord Tyrell. I still have to discuss this with my wife, but we shall do our best to attend."
"Lord Tyrell will be most pleased to hear it." Edmure said with a wide smile, the satisfaction in his eyes unmistakable. "He looks forward to welcoming you to Highgarden."
With the formalities concluded, Edmure bowed and excused himself, his task finished, leaving the hall in a state of quiet excitement. Leyton Hightower seemed to be engrossed in his own thoughts, while the rest of the gathered nobles and courtiers were abuzz with whispers, their curiosity stoked to new heights.
As the room began to buzz with hushed conversations and discreet looks in his direction, Hadwyn turned to Ansbach, expression of mild annoyance on his face. He didn't wish to be drawn into the political and social machinations of Westeros so soon—or at all, for that matter.
"Elden Lord and Prince Consort?" he echoed to himself, giving his advisor a pointed look . "Lunar Princess and Divine Witch? Where did they get those titles from, I wonder?"
"Well, I... may have had a previous discussion with that lad Edmure about the correct and suitably grandiose way of addressing you." Ansbach offered a small, almost imperceptible shrug. The man tried to keep his composure, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Wouldn't you agree that it's important to establish the proper way of communicating with you, my lord?"
"They must know who they are dealing with." Florissax, who had been silent throughout the exchange, simply nodded in agreement.
Hadwyn sighed, unable to argue with this logic, but not too pleased nonetheless.
He knew that certain decorum was necessary when acting as a representative of one's people, but he had never really bought into this whole noblesse oblige that Carian society seemed to fancy. He was always more of a 'I fight as Hoarah Loux!' type of guy.
"Perhaps..." He allowed, then a small, amused smile appeared on his face. "Though I doubt Ranni will be particularly pleased to hear herself referred to as 'Divine Witch'."
"Well, addressing Lady Ranni as just 'the Witch' could be seen as a little disrespectful, don't you think?" Ansbach said with a small smirk.
"You might be right." Hadwyn chuckled softly. "I suppose it could be fun to visit this so-called 'Highgarden'. Apparently it's a castle that also serves as a garden? It sounds like something worth seeing."
With that thought in mind, Hadwyn turned to leave the hall, his retinue following closely behind. He would find Ranni and see how she felt about attending this tourney. She was not one for social gatherings, preferring to stay away from the crowds and the spectacle, but he knew he would be able to convince her.
Ranni sat in the brightly lit chamber aboard the Wisdom of the Moon, her slender fingers tracing the pages of an ancient tome. The book was a work of considerable age, penned by Fabian, the former head of the Lazuli Conspectus. It detailed the intricacies of Glintstone sorcery, theories that, while not entirely different to the ones provided by other Conspectuses, offered a different perspective- a glimpse into the mind of a scholar long past who believed that the moon was equal to the stars.
It was a view intimately familiar to Ranni, one she found herself readily agreeing with, but unfortunately she found herself struggling to concentrate on the enjoyable contents of the book.
The reason for her distraction lay sprawled across the floor of her chamber. There, on the soft Nokstellian carpet, lay a huge red wolf. Though it was undoubtedly a beautiful and fearsome animal, with its lustrous fiery fur adorned with intricate trinkets and its size of nearly ten feet, to Ranni it was merely a clinging dog trying to get her attention.
Luna, her father's red wolf she had known since she was a girl, was nugging her leg with her wet nose, her eyes bright with impatient expectation. The wolf's large, furry head was continuously bumping against Ranni's thigh, eventually causing her to let out an exasperated sigh.
"Leave me be, Luna," Ranni muttered, her voice a cool whisper. She didn't look up from the tome, determined to at least finish the paragraph she had started. But Luna was persistent, another gentle nudge followed by a low whine.
Ranni's pale, lifeless eyes flickered with the faintest trace of annoyance. "Surely, thou art bored because Mother hath fallen asleep again?" she asked, still not looking at the wolf.
She knew the answer, of course. Luna's behaviour was predictable—whenever Rennala, her dear mother, retired for her long naps, Luna would become restless, seeking company or entertainment wherever she could find it.
Ranni couldn't help but wonder if the wolf's clinginess was some sort of lingering spite from her father, Radagon. The wolf had been a parting gift of sorts, supposedly meant to (SOMEHOW) make up for Father's abandonment of Mother, but maybe he just wanted to annoy his children even in his absence, pathetic excuse of a paternal figure that he was.
With another nudge, Luna finally drew Ranni's gaze from the tome. The wolf's tail wagged slowly, her eyes filled with an unmistakable plea for attention.
Ranni sighed, closing the book with a soft thud. "Very well," she relented, reaching down to scratch behind Luna's ears. The wolf's tail thumped against the floor in response, a sign of contentment that brought a faint smile to Ranni's otherwise impassive face.
But before she could fully indulge the wolf, the door to the chamber creaked open, stopping Ranni and causing Luna to let out a disappointed whine.
As she looked up, she saw Hadwyn, her dearest consort, stepping inside her room with a small smile on his face. Luna's head shot up, ears perking as she regarded the newcomer with mild curiosity.
"Busy reading as always, I see," Hadwyn remarked with a note of amusement in his voice, casting her an affectionate look. He walked over to where Ranni sat, sitting down in his usual spot near her pile of books.
As soon as he did so, Luna immediately decided to reenact the scene of Father's abandonment, approaching the man and placing her head in his lap, the treacherous redhead abandoning a Carian royalty for a new master. Though Ranni threw the wolf an annoyed glare, bemused by her betrayal, Luna seemed unconcerned by this, more focused on the scratches her consort was giving her, the canine's tail wagging with happiness.
Hadwyn, simple-minded as always, didn't seem to notice the development. "Anything interesting?" he asked, pointing with his head to the tome in Ranni's hands.
"Merely the thoughts of a long dead scholar." Ranni replied, setting the book aside and looking at her consort with some curiosity. "What brings thee here, Hadwyn?"
"Well..." Hadwyn began slowly, his hesitant tone of voice suggesting he was about to tell her something she wouldn't particularly like. "You know that our hosts, the Hightowers, are vassals of House Tyrell, right?" After her affirmative nod, he continued. "So we just received an invitation from there? Apparently House Tyrell is holding a tournament to celebrate the birth of its heir and wants to have us there, or something like that."
"I see little purpose in attending such a spectacle," Ranni said, her lips curving into a faint frown, her voice cool and lacking any trace of excitement. "Such displays of martial prowess are but trivial diversions to me. Couldst thou not go alone? Tending to the affairs of mortals is thy duty as Elden Lord, not mine."
"I could go alone, of course, but…" Hadwyn allowed, chuckling softly, before giving Ranni a charming smile. "But that would mean I would have to leave you for quite some time, for weeks or months even. Surely you don't intend to inflict such a harsh punishment on me?"
This...! Curse this blunt charm of straightforward warriors! Was this how her mother felt when her father decided to court her? Truly an insidious weapon it was!
"Very well," Ranni conceded with a sigh, unable to refuse after receiving such a powerful attack. "I shall attend, though I expect little more than idle distractions."
Hadwyn smiled, clearly aware of the effects his words had on the witch, but after a moment a troubled expression appeared on his face, Ranni already preparing for another attack.
"Well, there is one more thing…" he added hesitantly, his tone becoming slightly awkward as he gave her figure a look. "If we are going to show in public together, you should probably... work on your body. It's been a while since you last tended to it."
Ranni looked down at herself, noticing numerous cords and shards protruding from her doll-like figure, with various places on her body missing the porcelain coating entirely, a threadbare interior covered only by her snow-white coat.
It was true—her body had become somewhat neglected, the delicate work of maintaining it having fallen by the wayside as she focused on more enjoyable matters of daily life, like reading a new book or taking a nap in the warm sunshine. But the thought of spending hours—possibly days—meticulously repairing every inch of it was not appealing in the least.
"It is far too troublesome," Ranni muttered with clear distaste, shaking her head. "Every task must be wrought by hand, each thread and splinter seen to with care, and it shall take far too much of my time."
Hadwyn leaned forward, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "You know what? I'll make you a deal. You take care of it, and I'll get you something nice in return. You will be able to dance with your beloved Elden Lord during the feast, with all these lords and ladies admiring your graceful form."
"And what dost thou hope to gain from this?" Ranni inquired, a rare, soft smile gracing her lips as she regarded her closest companion.
"Well, I will get to twirl a Lunar Princess around, of course. A chance like this doesn't come by every day." He replied with a grin.
"Very well," she agreed, feigned resignation in her voice. "But thou hadst best make good on thy promise."
"I always do." Hadwyn grinned, rising to his feet. "Now, I'll leave you to it. I'm off to find some tavern in Oldtown- Kalé said that they apparently have, like, unspoiled alcohol and stuff? I don't want to miss out on something like that."
With that, he turned and made his way toward the door, leaving Ranni to her work. She watched him go, a faint smile on her lips as she began the painstaking process of repairing her body. She already managed to repair three of her fingers, a magical feat that only took her an hour, when she suddenly stopped, her consort's departing words awakening some long forgotten memories of the distant past.
'The people of Kingsrealm are holding a feast to celebrate our victory, sister!' Radahn declared loudly with a boisterous laugh, her brother's red hair flowing from his horned helmet. There was an aura of victory around him, as his personal regiment scored its first triumph, crushing a demi-human rebellion in western Liurnia. 'We'll show these people that the Redmanes know how to party! Hahaha!'
The next day Kingsrealm was no more, and a completely wasted Radahn was thoroughly scolded by his mother and banned from ever again drinking in the lands of Liurnia, the Queen's decree soon known to every subject, nobility and commoner alike...
"Luna, wouldst thou find Miriam for me?" Ranni asked her canine companion, the warmth of her prior smile giving way to a faintly concerned frown. "I must ensure my dearest consort doth not do anything foolish."
The tavern was alive with the sounds of clinking mugs, raucous laughter, and the constant hum of conversations that filled the smoky air. The place was fine enough, with a reasonable variety of goods and mostly pleasant company, though the clientele consisted mainly of cityfolk, as most nobles would find the establishment a bit too rowdy, typical customers not always polite after a few drinks.
For the nobleman who visited the tavern that night, however, it mattered little, as his expectations and sensibilities differed quite a bit from those displayed by the nobility of Reach, preferring the company of strangers over the formalities and pretenses of dealing with other nobles.
Oberyn Martell, the second son of Obella Martell, Princess of Dorne, lounged at a dimly lit corner table, cradling a tankard of Dornish red. Well, to call it Dornish red might be a little disingenuous, as in truth it was more a common Reach swill with a sour aftertaste. Nonetheless, he wasn't about to complain, as it was still perfectly drinkable and fulfilled its purpose well enough.
Tonight, the prince had come to the tavern anonymously, seeking refuge from the constraints and expectations that accompanied his princely status.
He had only recently arrived in Oldtown with his mother and sister, Elia. They visited the city as they were en route to Casterly Rock to visit Joanna Lannister, a close friend of his mother's and the wife of Tywin Lannister, Lord of the Westerlands. Though his mother hadn't been forthcoming with details, Oberyn suspected the visit had something to do with a potential marriage pact between the two houses. Joanna Lannister had two children—twins, a boy and a girl— and it seemed likely his mother was considering a match. After all, Oberyn was keenly aware of the political games that parents played with their children when it came to securing alliances.
The thought made Oberyn grimace, as he had little interest in the tedious prospect of an arranged marriage.
The idea of binding himself to a woman for the sake of political alliance seemed unbearably dull. He understood his mother's intentions—marriages between noble houses were the glue that held Westerosi politics together—but Oberyn, with all the wisdom of a sixteen-years-old, favoured a different approach to life. He was a firm believer in living freely and following one's desires, unhindered by the rigid customs and formalities that governed much of his world. Love, to him, should be passionate, free (or at least reasonably priced), spontaneous, and unrestrained—not a cold transaction arranged in the backrooms of castles.
His interest, therefore, had naturally gravitated toward the new arrivals from beyond the sea. Sure, the talk of these strange beings—mages wielding spells that could bend reality, warriors who could cut steel with one swing, and creatures that defied reason—had captured the imaginations of many, inspiring a mix of awe, fear, and reverence. But for Oberyn, who had never been one to dwell too deeply on politics or strategy (that was more his brother Doran's and his sister Elia's domain), it wasn't the monstrous beings or even the powerful sorceries that caught his eye. No, it was the peculiar and alluring women these newcomers had brought with them.
There were the cold, ethereal beauties—white-skinned women who seemed carved from marble, with eyes that held a distant chill, and an allure that made one want to unravel their mysteries. Then there were the tall, cowled giantesses, who, despite their intimidating stature, moved with an elegance that spoke of both strength and grace. And perhaps most intriguing of all were the women in black robes. They were temptresses of a kind he hadn't seen before—mysterious and unapologetically sensual, with a reputation for being eager to meet with men. Rumors in the taverns spoke of them as being exceptionally... generous with their affections, and Oberyn's curiosity was certainly piqued.
As he pondered the possibilities, Oberyn felt a flicker of excitement. These women were unlike any he had ever encountered in Dorne, and the thought of experiencing something new and unknown stirred his blood. He was, after all, a man of passions, and the thrill of the unknown was something he could never resist.
His musings were interrupted as someone approached his table.
Oberyn looked up from his drink to see a man standing there, dressed in a simple but well-kept tunic, his dark neck-length hair neatly styled back and his face strikingly handsome. He seemed older than Oberyn, appearing to be in his thirties, and carried himself with confidence more often found in barracks than in a tavern.
The man met Oberyn's gaze with a calm, unhurried smile, his eyes sharp and assessing. There was something about him that immediately intrigued Oberyn—a sense of someone who was both out of place and completely at ease with it.
"Mind if I sit here?" the man asked, a polite smile on his lips. "The place is quite full, and it seems this is the last available seat."
"By all means." Oberyn replied casually, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. He wasn't particularly concerned with keeping to himself, after all. He found conversations with strangers often yielded quite interesting tales and this man looked like he had his fair share of them.
"I'm Hadwyn," the man introduced himself as he sat down, extending a hand across the table.
"Oberyn," the prince replied, taking the offered hand in a firm shake. He refrained from adding his title, preferring to remain incognito for the moment. Besides, he was curious to see how the conversation would unfold without the weight of his princely status.
The conversation had gone surprisingly well.
After a few drinks—or perhaps more than a few—Oberyn and Hadwyn were laughing like old friends, their initial wariness replaced by the camaraderie that only strong liquor could forge. They laughed, shared stories (one more absurd than the last in Hadwyn's case), and commiserated over their troubles, all the while slurring their words and growing less and less concerned with the world outside their table.
Oberyn found himself spilling more than he usually would to a stranger, but there was something about this man that made him feel at ease. Maybe it was the way he listened, or the way he seemed just as disinterested in the formalities of noble life as Oberyn was. So, when the conversation turned to marriage, Oberyn felt comfortable enough to admit his stance on the very idea.
"So, why're you in Oldtown, eh?" Hadwyn drawled, his voice a little louder and looser than before, the drink clearly taking hold on the man. He was leaning forward now, his elbows on the table, a lopsided grin plastered on his face.
"Ah, y'know how it is," Oberyn slurred back, waving his hand dismissively, as if to shoo away the very idea. "Mother's tryin' to marry me off. Wants a wife from the West or some such nonsense..."
Hadwyn squinted at him, as if trying to piece together the fragmented words. After achieving this monumental task, a frown appeared on the man's face. "Wife? Nah… doesn't sound like you're too keen on that, friend."
"Who's keen on it?" Oberyn laughed, spilling some of his drink in the process. "Marriage… pfft. All about the alliances, right? No one ever asks if I want any of it. Jus' want me t' be all proper, like a… like a good little lord."
Hadwyn nodded sagely, his eyes a little glassy from the drink. "Ah… I feel ya. Was almost… stuck in one of those arranged beth-… betrothals myself. Well, not quite. More like… this title was comin' my way, and with it, a marriage. Like an extra kick in the teeth, you know?"
Oberyn chuckled, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin. "So, what happened?"
"Managed to find love on the way to the altar. Real love, not that… political nonsense." Hadwyn, clearly more than a little tipsy, swayed in his seat as he explained "Got outta that marriage deal. Married the woman I love. Ain't that what it's all about? Love, I mean. That's everything, right? And don't let… don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"You're right, Hadwyn. Love… it's everything. Gotta find it… wherever you can. Can't let these… these political games trap you." Oberyn nodded, feeling the warmth of the alcohol and the man's words fill him with a strange sense of hope. In a burst of drunken conspiration, they both leaned in closer, and Oberyn, his voice barely above a whisper, embraced the man and confessed his secret. "Y'know, Hadwyn… I'm a prince. Didn't plan to say that, but y're my friend,so…"
Hadwyn blinked at him, processing the words through the haze of alcohol before a slow grin spread across his face. "No way… I'm a prince too. Or, sorta. Elden Lord, they call it. But who cares, right?"
They let go of each other and clinked their tankards again, both of them far too drunk to fully grasp what they were confessing to each other—or to remember it clearly come morning. Their laughter echoed through the tavern, full of shared mischief and the sort of reckless joy that only a few too many drinks could bring.
Suddenly, just as they were about to toast to their newfound brotherhood, a shadow fell over their table.
A woman approached—tall, imposing, and unmistakably one of the strange newcomers from beyond the sea. She wore a large, pointed hat and a metal mask, with the mask's mouth sewn shut with golden threads that glittered ominously in the dim light of the tavern.
Oberyn blinked at her blearily, trying to comprehend the sight, while Hadwyn just waved a hand.
"Miriam!" Hadwyn exclaimed happily, but then he squinted up at her in confusion, doing his best to focus. "What're you… doin' here?"
"Princess Ranni sent me to ensure you wouldn't cause too much trouble, Lord Hadwyn." Her voice was old, carrying the weight of centuries as she responded, her eyes narrowing slightly through the slits of her mask.
Before Hadwyn could protest, hurt but the groundless accusations, another figure appeared- this time a young woman, with dark hair and the unmistakable Dornish features that marked her as Oberyn's kin. She was flanked by a group of soldiers, all of them carrying a red sun on their breastplates, their presence causing almost as big commotion in the tavern as an appearance of 'Miriam'.
"Oberyn! I've been looking for you everywhere! What trouble are you getting into now?" Elia Martell, Oberyn's sister, asked exasperated, her eyes narrowing in suspicion at her brother. Oberyn turned pale at her words, his drunken mind considering Elia's wrath to be as terrifying as the Stranger himself reaching out to claim his soul.
The two men exchanged wide-eyed looks, both realizing that their little escape from responsibility had been found out. With a shared, drunken comradery, they both made a decision.
"Run!" Oberyn shouted and they bolted from the table, stumbling toward the door with all the grace of newborn deer. As they started running, it appeared that Hadwyn had stumbled over a table, for some reason shattering it completely on impact, but Oberyn was too focused on his own escape to care about such details.
But before they could even reach the doors of the tavern, a sudden flash of light erupted in front of them and filled the tavern with a blue hue. Miriam, as Hadwyn called her, vanished from her previous spot and reappeared in front of them, her presence as immovable as a wall. They skidded to a stop, nearly falling over each other in their haste, staring up at her with a mix of resignation and dread.
"End of the line, boys," she said, her voice firm. She looked at them with open condemnation, seemingly trying to cow them into submission with her glare. "It's time to go to sleep."
Though for the moment Elia was quite spooked by the obvious sorcery, the shock quickly melted away, replaced by a more familiar expression—one of stern disapproval. It only took her a moment to regain her composure, and with a sharp breath, she squared her shoulders, stepping up beside the older woman. With arms crossed and lips pursed, she joined Miriam in glaring at the two wayward men, elderly preceptor and young princess finding a common ground in their shared condemnation.
Oberyn and Hadwyn exchanged a drunken glance, their plan foiled before it even began, and raised their hands in surrender. It seemed their night of freedom had come to an abrupt end.
Don't think too much about Hadwyn's alcohol resistance. It's unaffected by his Immunity stat.