Gilder’s Solar, Tidehall, 2nd Day, Afternoon – Crefley, Daeron, Roger, ?

Crefley has never been in this part of the castle before. He sits uncomfortably, but not as a result of the plump feathered cushion beneath him. He had been directed to the seat by his Lord, and dared not refuse him or look a fool by choosing another. Not that there were many better seats to be had. Lord Gilder sits in a tallback chair that, had he not seen the actual Lord’s Seat in the Great Hall below, he would have mistaken for a throne. Ser Bohemund and Ser Sigurd share a small loveseat, clearly uncomfortable by the other’s proximity. Daeron is seated by his Uncle’s right hand, as is expected of an heir, he supposes. Ser Roger chose a spot on the wide stone windowsill, and the young septon is fussing about in the center of the room.

“My Lord, this will not do! The dogs attacking the dead in your house? They must be done away with immediately! I do not see…”

Gilder holds up a hand, silencing the septon’s complaints. “If you have something to say about our dogs, take it up with the kennelmaster. I fear we have more important things to discuss, and you are here to speak to those things. Daeron, I thought you said the kennelmaster’s son and some mummer girl would be joining us?” As he speaks, Martin enters the room, bows low and mutters apologies. “Halfway there, then. Leave it to the mummer to make an entrance. Very well. Who wishes to begin?”

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Ooc: I’m assuming about a 15 minute break between the beginning of this and leaving the yard. If people, say, wanted to gather something, or drop something off in their rooms, that could have happened.

Tidehall, Early Afternoon, 2nd Day - Crefley, Lara, Daeron, Roger

“Let me help you with that,” Martin, the kennelmaster’s son, appears at Lee’s shoulder, and puts his weight into the fence, lifting it so that Lee can finish repairing the last crossbar with relative ease. It is, of course, something of a metaphor for their existences. Martin and Lee are of an age, but where Martin finds life just requires a little push and all is right, here stands Lee, soaked in sweat and sore from a day’s labor, with nothing to show for it but a dead man’s coin he can’t spend if he cares to avoid the lash. They had grown up together as children in the same loft over the kennels, but that had all changed years ago. Martin and he get on well enough, Lee supposes, but if his father Reuben is about…

As if reading his thoughts, Martin says, “Don’t worry. Father is down at the Quay. A ship from Oldtown arrived this morning, with some trained pups from the Maester’s Tower, or so he says. Maybe they’ve taught them their letters. I’d be more glad if they’d learnt them to clean up their own muck. Oy, look at that!” Martin points toward the gates, where a small wooden cart is entering. It is pulled by a mule, which is in turn led by two silent sisters and a chanting septon swinging a censer. Around the mule’s neck is a wreath of fresh flowers interwoven with tiny dangling crystals that dance with color as the mule trods forward. On the cart is a bound shape of a man, wrapped in linen. A pair of worn boots and some soiled clothing are neatly piled at the back edge of the cart. A man who Lee recognizes as Ser Bohemund is directing the cart over toward the newly fenced practice yard where Lee is standing, so it will not be in the way of the troupe wagons due to depart in the next few hours. As the septon and sisters approach with their cargo, Martin asks, “Who do you think it is, I wonder?”

Tannyr’s Quay, Early Afternoon, 2nd Day – Seff, Roger

Daeron stands with his Aunt, Ser Rymon and a handful of guardsmen on a long pier, made of sentinel wood atop dressed stone. The stone has blackened where a fire had burnt the pier during the Rebellion, but the wood was new, and the stone below still sound.

Sailors from the Ice Maiden are throwing lines to a number of men at the moorings, and the ship it quickly held fast. A heavy gangway is lowered onto the deck, and his Uncle Gilder strides across. Gilder looks well enough physically, although he has a small bandage on his upper arm. His smile beams as he sees Daeron, and walks to him directly, passing Lady Ayala without a word. “Daeron, my boy! I hope that you’ve had a good lesson in politics while I taught these savages something of war!” He gestures to the Ironborn vessel, which has also been brought into its moorings. It’s figurehead is more clear now: a mermaid, bursting out of seafoam, but her face is in a rictus of fear, and her eyes appear to be bleeding tears down her cheeks onto her breasts. Six men are escorted from the vessel in iron shackles; They are stripped to their leggings, and each bears a tattoo of a teardrop, blood red in color, on the center of their chest. “Two of their ships, Daeron! Two of them against us. It was like the old days, they chase, and we sweep their decks with arrows. I should give a title to that coxswain, keeping us even in the water as he did. When it was done, one of them turned tail and we boarded and took the other as a prize.” He turns to his wife, “A prize for your, Lady,” and bows with all the gallantry he can muster.

“The call her ‘Saltwife’s Tears,’ but you can change that, of course. Something more appropriate, I imagine, about herons or trout.” Gilder’s smile is genuine enough, but Lady Ayala looks shocked, and her eyes glint darkly. She nods her head and says without emotion, “Thank you, husband, it is almost as fine a gift as knowing you are home safe.”

“Well, quite right, quite right. I should like to have your company this evening after dinner, then. Good. And I see Ser Rymon has come to see me safely home. I hope that you are well, and that my wife’s hospitality has been to your liking? Good, good. So, Daeron, there will be time for my adventures later. Tell me, what have you learned these past few days?” He throws a conspiratorial arm over Daeron’s shoulder, and begins walking to the horses on the shore.

Tidehall, Midmorning 2nd Day – Lara, Daeron, Crefley

Lara watches as another barrel of salted fish is loaded aboard the troupe wagons. Most of the troupe’s provisions are already stowed, and then it would be the tents, which are being struck by the older boys and eldest men. The younger children are playing “drop-the-handkerchief” among the carts and are cheering as one of the troupe boys runs quickly around the circle followed by a girl half his age. Lara notices, along with the red- and brown-haired children, two unfamiliar blondes heads, bobbing and laughing. Upon closer inspection, she recognizes them as Ser Sigurd’s girls, playing with the troupe children. Their mother, round as a melon with what must be twins and due last month, waddles toward Lara when she notices her watching. “My girls love the puppets and the games. It’ll be sad to see your troupe go.” She smiles conspiratorially, “I’m Yasmin. My husband mentioned you were in our hallway last night, helping him keep Ser Bohemund on his leash.“ Her gaze returns to the children. “Which of the little ones is yours?”

At Sea, Midafternoon, 2nd Day – Seff, Roger

Ser Roger Brick stands in the bow of Howling Wind, a lean vessel with a heavy iron ram that slices smoothly through the coastal waters. The day is warm and the night’s fog is clearing out to sea as they press north, away from Tannyr’s Quay. Half of his men sit in small groups behind him, some chatting idly, others eating or napping in the morning sun. The remainder is aboard Silver Storm, bobbing behind his vessel but keeping pace. Roger has never spent much time aboard ship, and he didn’t imagine he would do so today. When he had arrived at the council meeting that morning, fully armed with armor slithering as he walked, the other men at the table had turned with a start. Most of them were half dressed in nightclothes and only Maester Aldrik and Daeron appeared to have washed before arriving. The meeting had been blessed short, as they appraised the boy on Tidehall’s predicament, and he had indicated his plans: send north 2 ships at Ser Sigurd’s discretion, and put aboard 4 squads of the garrison (40 men) to patrol upon their arrival. These squads were to be under Ser Roger’s command. A meager bunch, perhaps, but taking more might risk Tidehall. He would have to make do.

Ser Sigurd approaches Roger at the front of his vessel. “A good day, this. The fog behind us will blind anyone looking to sea, but we can see the shore well enough. Brint in the rigging says he sees a burned hull to north, still smoking. Hard to tell at the distance, probably a league or so away. Signs of a camp nearby, and cookfires; but no sight of men as of yet. Could be the distance, of course. We can put you lot ashore now, or come in for a closer look.”

Tidehall, Midnight, 2nd Day - Seff, Roger, Lara, Daeron

Seff sits at a rough table in the gatehouse with two guardsmen. This was a favorite perch of his in Tidehall. It is situated over open air in front of the portcullis. The guardsmen, Mint and Rufus, are recounting a story oft repeated and likely exaggerated about their lieutenant’s drunkenness. In the corner of this small room stands a great winch and wheel of brass and oak, connected by a heavy chain to a black-brown stone cube the size of an ox. This was one of the counterweights used to open the sluice below their feet, and fill the moat around Tidehall with the warm waters of Ironman’s Bay. Past the wheel is a row of small slit windows, meant for archers within the gatehouse and gives a clear view of the causeway and Tannyr’s Quay below. The town is settling to sleep. On the other side is a clear view of the yard, the troupe wagons, the stables and Hollen’s Tower. He spies Daeron entering the stables, and then a few minutes later, a hooded figure follows through the stable doors.

Quick Update

Alright folks,

Since Redline has some things to take care of, I'll be stepping in temporarily as GM to keep the ball rolling. Hopefully, I'll be able to keep things interesting until he gets back in the driver seat. This also means that he'll probably be bringing in a new PC, so keep your eyes peeled...

BR