Queenscrown Tourney - Squire's gossip

The grounds of Queenscrown Castle were overflowing with all manner of men, thousands come to try their luck at tourney or watch those who were, or just to eat on the King's coin. Cedryk, tired and hungry and quite abandoned by his Lord, was trying not to show his distaste as he waded through the mob, the path he trode once packed dirt, now trampled to a half-frozen mud. His feet were wet, and likely frozen blue, from a night spent in a drafty hayloft. Still he pressed on, nose following the scent of a stew-pot, stomach rumbling at the prospect of a decent meal.

He was not the only squire to have followed the smell of food. Two other boys, bowls in hand, huddled around a nearby fire. Cedryk met the eyes of one of them, and he scooted over to make room on the log he sat on for Cedryk. "Thanks," the squire of the Kinslayer offered as he flopped down, soup held aloft to keep it from spilling.

"Ander Corbray," his new friend introduced himself. "And this is Dorral Kenning."

The Vale and the Rock, Cedryk noted, before introducing himself as "Cedryk Snow." Both boys stiffened, grew a little haughty, a little distant. Cedryk had thought he was prepared to play the part of a bastard, having spent so much time around Aerion's children. But Caeron and Lyrianne were recognized, and on Dragonstone at least no one really dared to trouble them. They lived much like any other Lord's children, coddled and adored. Most fatherless children were spat upon - and so Cedryk had been for the past several weeks. He didn't think he'd ever grow accustomed to it. "Nice day," he offered, though it wasn't.

Dorral snorted. "How do you northmen survive?" He wondered. "You can't fuck in these temperatures! Your balls'd fall off!" He shook his head. "Why in the Seven-damned hell did the Good Queen have to go and be good to a the bloody Lord of the bloody ice wall, that's what I want to know."

Cedryk choked on his soup. "What?" No one - no one spoke of Queen Alysanne like that. At least, no one he'd ever seen. Were things so different in Lannister country?

"Haven't you heard? That's why Her Grace has gone and given tham all that Stark land. She's been melting the wall, if you catch my meaning." Both he and Corbray seemed to find this quite amusing.

"Ah, Kenning, you shouldn't talk, Ser Black was a Lannister rebel, wasn't he?"

"And I wish to the Seven he'd been no rebel. Then Her Grace would be giving us Tully lands and not dragging us all to the frozen bleeding north." He set down his now-empty bowl, for punctuation. "No offense."

Cedryk shook his head. "None taken," he said, for talk of the north bothered him little. But surely these fellows didn't know the Queen, or they couldn't possibly have said such things.

Corbray found the error in Dorral's hypothesis. "Tyrell, not Tully. Not after the Prince Aerion knocked up the Lady Tully and near brought down the damned Kingdom."

Cedryk couldn't help himself. "Do you think he'll be here? The Prince Aerion, I mean."

"The Kinslayer? He'd have to be the bravest man alive," Dorral offered.

"Or the stupidest," Corbray added.

"Still," his companion continued, "I'd pay a pretty penny to see that." His tone said he didn't have quite the hate for Aerion that Cedryk had come to suspect. That was interesting. But before he could pry a little deeper, the prettiest scullery-maid he'd ever seen walked by, carrying an armful of laundry. Three heads turned to follow her, and then Dorral was on his feet. "Might I offer you my aid, fair maiden?" He asked.

"What were we talking about?" Asked Corbray.

"I don't recall," Cedryk admitted, returning his attention to his stew.

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A pair of boys with bowls in hand approached the small gathering. One was very pale and clearly bashful, judging from his posture and his downcast, dancing eyes. The other was hale and unusually well muscled for a boy his age, he looked like he might crush the bowl in one of his massive hands if he clung a tad too tightly. The muscle-bound squire announced,

"I am Rottiger Crakehall, and this is Dylen Westerling."

"Of the Crag." The bashful boy sheepishly added.

"Yes, of the Crag. Anyway, we're in from Casterly Rock. Ready for some action." He looked to Cedryk, "How the hell old are you, Grandpa? Are you seriously still a squire?"

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Cedryk leveled a stare at the burly youth. "In the north," he drawled, "one is knighted when one comes of age. At least a nothern knight is truly a knight, and not a babe in spurs." No need to say that he meant Rainier Lannister. But how would a northman bastard know anything about Lannister knights?

"Two more men of the Rock! The Lannister bannermen are well-represented today," Corbray interjected before a fight broke out. "I'm Ander Corbray, from Heart's Home. Your fellow Dorral, Dorral Kenning? Just went chasing after some skirt." A true man of the Rock, he'd have said, but left off. "And this bloke is Cedryk Snow."

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"In the West one is knighted when one earns it." Rottiger shot back, narrowing his already beady eyes. "Snow, eh? The ice breeds bold-tongued bastards, doesn't it?" A bastard knew its place in the Westerlands.

"You have the honor of dining with the squires of Ser Jenner and Ser Rainier of House Lannister. I, of course, serve Ser Jenner. Dylen serves his cousin, Rainier."

Dylen shyly nodded, staring down at the bowl in his lap.

"I heard the Crown Prince is a squire now too, Snow, so you two ought to be out of practice swords a few years before you need canes to walk. You're in good company."

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Cedryk smiled strangely. "I imagine I could best his Grace," he remarked, pale blue eyes twinkling.

"So, the Lannister lords themselves, eh?" Corbray tried to play the diplomat. Cedryk wondered if he'd be so inclined if he knew who he truly was, and who he squired for. "I squire for Lord Redfort." Not so grand as Lannister, but perfectly respectable. "What about you, Snow?"

"My uncle, Ser Mortimor Snow. He's going to win the tourney." Cedryk was completely confident of this fact. He looked to the Lannister minions. "Just a matter of which of your lords he'll trump first."

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"Never heard of him." Rottiger said dismissively. "Only thing I know about him is he's got an arrogant, over-the-hill squire."

The quiet Dylen looked up, bemusedly at Cedryk.

"So, are you and your uncle both baseborn?" He inquired, gentle and unassuming, "Or do you come from a line of Snow's?" That, he imagined, would be so confusing. He found bastard nomenclature to be a dreadful practice. He saw no reason why they couldn't have their own names.

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"Yeah," Cedryk shrugged. "The former, I mean." He seemed not to care, because he really didn't. He was Valyrian, and these fellows were not, and they didn't have to know it for that to be true.

"Slut women in your family, mate," Corbray remarked. It was a logical conclusion.

"Shut it," Cedryk ordered in a tone a bastard ought never ought to have learned.

Corbray, bemused, turned to Rottiger. "So, are there any maids left between here and Casterly Rock?"

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"I tried not to leave any." Called a voice from behind Cedryk. "We've been looking for you guys, why are you out eating this shit? We found a tavern with meat and mead. Dylen you're my squire. Not to mention my cousin. If baseborn knights are allowed to compete, you can certainly come and eat with us." This was obviously Rainier Lannister. His reputation as a supercilious prick preceded him, where his reputation as a valiant knight did not.

"Sorry, Ser." Dylen bowed his head. Judging from Rainier's deportment, it was clear why Dylen seemed to troubled and kept so quiet.

"You can bring your little chums, too, if you want." Rainier gave Corbray and Cedryk a critical once over.

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Cedryk didn't look at Rainier, he assessed him. It was the natural order - Aerion and Jenner had their rivalry, and so Cedryk would ever see Rainier as his rightful opponent. Of course, Rainier didn't know that, and didn't know who he was in any case. He stood to follow.

Corbray bounded up, grinning. "Good man!" He offered cheerfully to Rainier, with a bow. "Ander Corbray, if it please you. Well, even if it doesn't it'll still be me," he grinned. "And this here's Snow. Didn't much bother to learn his first name, can't tell them apart anyhow."

"Cedryk," Cedryk noted, still looking at Rainier. He could beat him, he was certain of it. Eyes too pale to belong to a northman looked away.

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"Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed that there more bastards in the North? I grant, women are a fine source of warmth, but honestly!" Rainier led the way back toward the road. Rottiger laughed too hard at Rainier's joke, and Dylen remained reticent.

"You're all right, Ander. You can have the honor of sitting next to me."

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The more Rainier spoke, the more certain Cedryk was that it was his solemn duty to put the man - no, boy, babe in spurs - in his place. Valeryon might not be so rich as Lannister, and they were never kings. Nevertheless they were an old family in direct allegiance to the throne, and Cedryk was Aerion's squire. Funny, he'd never felt any particular allegiance to the man before. "Lucky you," he muttered to Ander, who shrugged him off.

"Thank you, Ser," the lad from the Vale chirped. "Did you ride north with the King's party? I hear he dallied, not wanting to, ah, interrupt the queen, as it were. Tactful old blighter, wouldn't you say?" He grinned, sure his jibe would be well-taken by the notoriously ribald Lannister lord.

"Would you leave off the Good Queen, already?" Cedryk snapped, annoyed.

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"Why take it so personally, Snow? Has the Queen been good to you?" Rainier snickered, and Rottiger guffawed.

"Yeah, we met up with the party from King's Landing. I rode with the Crown Prince for a bit. Out of curiosity, mostly, but he kept to himself. Didn't say much."

"I've heard that about him." Rottiger offered.

"Here, this is the place." Rainier pushed the door open and it slammed into no less than three people. "Shit, it got crowded in here." He pointed to a table in the back. "There's my father. Come along."

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"Perhaps his grace just had nothing to say to a babe in spurs," Cedryk noted.

Corbray took the opportunity, as they pushed through the crowd, to whisper harshly to Cedryk. "Stop being such a prick, Snow. They're knights, all right? And lords, too. You could get hurt."

Cedryk doubted that. "D'you really think the queen would fuck a dirty Lannister rebel?" He scoffed.

"Ah, it's all just a bit of fun," he shrugged. "You're too serious, mate."

As they approached the table, Aerion's squire assessed Aerion's rival, and found him lacking. He sat down, looking bored.

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Rainier was, in spite of his attitude, very popular. At least in this crowd. It was for that reason that, amidst a deal of back patting and hooting, he failed to hear Cedryk insulting him.

"What took you so long?" Jenner inquired of his son. He wasn't paying particular attention to the answer, though, as he was dandling a young woman on his knee and doing something akin to whispering in her ear. Rainier did not look pleased, but neither did he look surprised.

"Just picked up some stragglers along the way." Rainier gestured, "This is Ander Corbray, and this is Snowflake." Rottiger sent spit sailing across the room, as he broke into peels of overdramatic hysterics.

"Oh dear." Jenner said, grimacing at his squire's offensively loud way of appreciating Rainier's sense of humor. "If you think anything else is funny, go outside to laugh at it and come back when you're done. You're scaring my wench."

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Jenner's wench had been Dorral's wench, Cedryk noted, and spotted Dorral nursing a mug of ale in a corner. "Cheer up," he said to him. "She's probably poxy."

"I bloody hope so," he muttered vindictively, and took a long gulp from his tankard.

"So Snowflake, are any of the women in your family married, or do they just not have any proper Septs in the north to get it done?" Corbray wondered. "See, his uncle's a bastard too," he explained to the rest of the crowd. "And I thought they sent bastards and rapers to the Wall, anyway, up here."

"I'm not a raper." Cedryk glanced to Jenner, who by all accounts was.

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