the heir of runestone

Loras knew that Andar Royce would not turn down an act of kindness towards these people just because he was there too. No, that rigid sense of Vale honour would get in the way of making any sort of scene, and Loras’ own innate Reach-bred chivalry prevented him from doing the same either. Without quite meaning to, Loras found himself chuckling quietly to himself at the way Andar’s analytical question was immediately self-answered. It was a familiar mannerism that Loras had found endearing in Ser Robar, though the memory was bittersweet as that unavoidable guilt swept in like an oncoming tide. 

“Indeed. A small amount of luck.” Loras replied, going about lifting the children out of the wagon so that they might fix this problem before it drew the attention of those further ahead and caused a large amount of trouble. He handed one of the older boys the reins of his horse and asked him to look after the stallion for a moment, seeing as he looked the type of strong, smart boy to be capable of such a task. 

The child grinned, and did as he was bid, Loras’ lips curling in a kind smile as he turned away, though such an expression was gone as soon as he met Andar’s gaze again. “We can probably lift it out of the pothole without much trouble if a few of the men take each side. Then we can reset the wheel on its axle and be on our way - what do you think ser?.”

Andar wondered, idly, just what he’d done to displease the gods that they insisted on putting him in the path of Loras Tyrell. It was beginning to become frustrating to have to interact with the man who had killed his brother and as he noticed Loras chuckling, Andar’s jaw tightened. He ignored it and looked at the wheel as Loras began to move the children out of the wagon. Andar kept a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes as the children began to babble and point; it wouldn’t do to cause a scene in front of women and children. For all of Loras Tyrell’s faults, Andar had never seen him as anything less than beloved by children; he would not ruin that for them.

“It seems a good enough plan,” he responded as he surveyed the wagon. “Though we need to ensure that the axle didn’t bend or crack under the strain. We may need a blacksmith if that’s the case.” Sighing, Andar shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. The closest blacksmith was at least thousands of men in front of them.

He gestured to a few men behind them, beckoning them forward to help lift the wagon. “Let’s see what we have to work with,” he said as he moved to help lift it, wondering just how much Loras Tyrell would truly help. Perhaps the Knight of Flowers was not as much of a pampered prince as Andar had allowed himself to think.

🌸🍃 @andarofrunestone​

Loras had been spending most of his time riding separately from his family and their troops, preferring his own company, or that of the new friends he was taking the opportunity to make on the journey. The Knight of the Flowers riding down the line inspired boosts in morale for some people, especially the little children he had found riding in a horse-drawn cart near the back. They had called out to him when he had ridden past, and he had stopped to spend awhile with them, smiling as they chattered away to him about who they were. As he had discovered, they were the sons and daughters of men and women travelling north who had been unwilling or unable to leave them behind upon departure. The oncoming battle was no place for children, but neither was being alone and uncared for. If they lost, death would come anyway, Loras supposed. 

Their conversation was cut short by a wooden crunching noise, followed by the frustrated snickering of the horses, and Loras turned to notice that the wheel had become lodged in a pothole and the wheel itself had come off its axle, the wagon grinding to a halt and the children’s smiles dropping in fright. Ever ready to perform a chivalrous deed, Loras dismounted in an instant, and looked around to see who was close by to help him right the wagon so that it could continue on. This section of the train was mostly women and children travelling, and he could see nobody until a mounted figure rode down, presumably to see what the disturbance was as the progress slowed now that everyone else behind had to go around. Andar fucking Royce, just his luck. 

“Ser Andar.” He called, making himself known to the man. “May I have your assistance. We are all allies here, are we not?”

Andar had little desire to move toward Harrenhal, though he was a man who knew his duty. He’d been pleased, truly, that he’d been able to make plans with Harry, that he’d been able to get to know Lyarra as an adult. But there was part of Andar that was restless, that knew a war was coming. He wanted little to do with it and late at night he often found himself missing his daughter. She was safe in Runestone and though he was tempted to bring her with him, he knew such thoughts were selfish. There was no one to look after her here and much as he hated Littlefinger and his cronies, Andar knew Aemma was better protected at Runestone than she would be anywhere else.

He had been riding his horse and conversing with one of his father’s bannermen near the back of the column, having offered to take up the rear to ensure that the women and children traveling with them remained safe. It was slow going, but Andar had made the best of it. And then the column seemed to stop and the people began to mill about, going around something. With a shake of his head, he took his horse’s reins in hand and trotted toward the commotion, his nostrils flaring as he saw a familiar face. Andar’s jaw tightened but he said nothing untoward, aware of the audience they had with women and children looking on. He could not let the Knight of Flowers make him look a fool.

He jerked his head in a facsimile of a nod and dismounted, handing his reins to a squire. “What has happened?” he inquired, not directly answering the question verbally as he looked at the wagon wheel. “It could be worse. At least the wheel has not completely splintered.”

she could place the man before her as a familiar face from childhood, a trait that would more often than not endear themselves to her for life for she longed for the simplicity of her youth. a time when she had been filled with innocence, where her smiles had come easily to her lips. he had married her aunt and been made her uncle by law, something that perhaps ought to have been severed on the sad day the late lady of royce had been buried. yet lyarra still named him uncle, and likely always would. not just for the cousin she was yet to meet, but because of the sense of safety being around her family offered her. she was in no rush to shrink the group of those important to her, when the pool was already so small.

a short laugh leaves her lips then as her arms wind round herself to tug the winter furs closer to her body. another stark reminder that winter marched relentlessly toward them. “you musn’t rat me out to father, he seems less aware of my antics than you.” she jests, thinking of the days when she had ran round the vale causing mischief in the name of cerwyn. how carefree she had been. a hand is laid on his forearm, nodding toward the tent set up not far from them. “they’re serving stew, take dinner with me. i should like to hear of my sweet cousin. did she come with you south? i would very much like to meet her.” though she knew next to nothing of his daughter, they shared blood, and lyarra had always held a soft spot for children. 

It was good to see family again, family that did not look at him in disappointment for his lost wife and absent fatherhood. He had not seen anyone with the name of Cerwyn in several years and it was with pleasure that he saw Lyarra now. While he kept up a correspondence with her father, they rarely discussed anything personal; if anything, the correspondence was more a means of keeping the relationship open than of real value. At any rate, Andar had no intention of breaking her confidence and he chuckled as Lyarra talked of her antics. “I am certain you are much better at concealing them now regardless,” he offered, his lips twitching at the corners as he looked at her. He had heard, of course, that Lyarra’s life had not gone precisely had expected and he was pleased that she had seemingly come out of the other side of things rather strong. He nodded as she requested he eat with her and he held his arm out so she could take it properly. “Aye, I would like that,” he stated as he began to walk toward the tent set up nearby.

Questions of Aemma nearly always brought a smile to Andar’s lips, though today that smile was a wan one. “She is in The Vale with my sister and my parents,” he said quietly. “Aemma is a good child, most days.” To be fair, he didn’t know much about his daughter’s day-to-day life and he inhaled while running his free hand along his jawline. “She likes being outside more than nearly anything.” Andar shook his head. “But she has a deft hand with a needle, or at least that’s what Mother tells me.” The cool breeze moved over Andar’s skin, providing a respite from the heat of the mines. “If things stabilize, I would seek to bring her. It would do her well to meet you. She asks of her cousins often.”

Wry smile tugged at petal lips at his words, knowing all too well that living among so many others was wearing on the mind and tiring on the body. “A hard won commodity these days.” When asked of her day she knew that she would not voice her struggle with grief to a man who was practically a stranger ( she knew him from somewhere but where she could not place )  when she had yet to utter such a confession to even her brothers. “I think it would be remiss of me to say that things are blissful giving all our circumstances, would it not?” She had never been a girl who wanted to use naivety as an excuse for ignorance and as such ensured that she was always as aware of the harsh realities of the world as possible. Her optimism simply sprung forth from refusing to believe that sorrow was all that the world had to offer. “Finding ways to keep myself occupied and useful seems to be something of a solution to cope trying times.”

Recognition that had been itching at the back of her mind suddenly dawned on her and though she scarcely reacted to it otherwise, her mood fell slightly. It was not that the man had done anything wrong - quite the opposite really when it was her family who had harmed his. For once she felt uncertain, the sadness she felt for his loss being what had caused her mood to deteriorate further. How many more would this war take from them all? Yet it felt far too hollow to offer any apologies or condolences just yet so instead the rose steered towards cordiality, vowing to herself to find some way to sound genuine in her sympathy for him later. “And you my lord, how are you finding the Crownlands?”

He nodded. At least she had a good head on her shoulders, he thought to himself. Keeping oneself busy and contributing to the war effort was as good a way as any to ensure that the days spent here on Dragonstone were not idle. “Aye, it would,” he remarked. “Winter will soon be here and yet we spend our days idly arguing over how to fight against something so foul it cannot even truly be named.” His lips quirked into a small scowl before it left his face and the placid expression returned. “I am sure that your contributions are appreciated,” he nodded. “It makes little sense to dwell on that which cannot be changed. The best we can do is try our best to ensure that we have a future in which to be blissful.” Andar did not believe he would ever have a blissful future, of course, though he was too polite to say so to a woman who likely would.

Lady Margaery was perhaps one of the few people with the name of Tyrell that Andar did not wish to dismiss immediately upon seeing. Still, that did not mean he wanted to converse with her or spout pleasantries until they wished each other good day. But he knew how to be polite. Lips turned up at the corners and as she asked him how he was finding the Crownlands, it was nearly all Andar could do to keep from saying something harsh or rebuking. “I am finding it as well as could be expected in times such as these,” he finally drawled, his tone light even as his mind moved to the interaction he’d already had with her brother. “Though I hope we will not be here much longer. I dislike the thought of my daughter in The Vale while I do little more than dither here and discuss politics.”

It was not often that he felt any sort of inadequacy but the heir of Runestone was a man to be admired and one he was thankful to be able to count among his friends and not his enemy. Perhaps inadequacy was too strong of a word but there was no denying that Harry so often felt the need to give the older man the very best that he had to offer, digging deep to find anything within himself that could plausibly make him feel more of an equal. Only a few years separated the two of them and yet the blond was left feeling infinitely younger than the other if only because he seemed to possess a maturity vastly higher than his own.   

 A sort of gravitas had overcome the younger Lord partly in an attempt to feel more worth of the position he knew many were hoping him to take but more so from knowing that stakes were high and the fate of his home hung in the balance. Solemn nod of golden head was given in acknowledgement and agreement, knowing fine well that anything that Baelish had in store for the Vale would likely conflict with everything that it had once stood for. “I agree, we must simply decide the best course of action for us.” The words are given thoughtfully, his usual assertiveness lacking for once as though he was worried that Andar might consider himself a better option to hold the power.

Silence that had fallen between them is broken by the clearing of his throat, having taken a moment to weigh his next words before delivering them. Undoubtedly there would be eyes and ears everywhere but none of his plans involved stealth when that was undeniably his opponent’s strength. “As you know, I spoke to many of the lords before I journeyed here - your father included - and I am confident that I would have enough backing to tear our home from his clutches. I know I may perhaps not be the most worthy but I do have the best claim and assurances that others would rally behind me.” Sky blue eyes studied the other man keenly to judge how his words were going down. “I intend to move against him, with the support of as many as possible. Then once our home is secure we can dedicate our forces to the defeat of The Others. I will not see The Vale fail to act any longer.”

He nodded, moving to pour himself a goblet of ale before they spoke. After taking a heavy sip, Andar’s eyes moved to Harry. “Aye,” he agreed with a nod of his head. The problem, however, was that it was difficult to decide which action would be the best going forward. No one knew who supported Baelish; what if they were double-crossed as they worked to fight for the living? “I don’t like this,” he said bluntly. “There are too many men we need to trust and I find it is difficult to trust them all. Men who would previously come to their lord’s call now lie in wait as they plot for their own gain.” Even his father had bannermen sworn to him that Andar knew would be hard-pressed to turn against Littlefinger after his relationship with Lady Lysa. “And I do not see a path where Lord Baelish survives.”

Andar turned as he looked at Harry, knowing that what came next likely weighed heavily on his friend. The question of succession had been on everyone’s mind in the past several years, as it became obvious that Robert Arryn was much more sickly than they would have liked. The addition of Littlefinger had only made it worse. But they had to decide on a plan; they had to soldier on so that they could ensure the Vale’s survival.

Though Andar liked the idea of Harry taking over The Vale, taking the name of Arryn and ensuring it continued, there was part of him that was worried about seizing power in such a way. The Vale was insular, yes, but it was also a part of the country that rested heavily on ideals. His head tilted to the side as he considered Harry’s words. “I only worry,” he said softly. “Of what happens if young Robert Arryn is not so sickly as we have been led to believe.” Andar worried about the honor in backing Harry, though he would not say such a thing. “But you are right; we cannot allow The Vale to continually fall victim to inaction. And we cannot risk the entirety of it being taken over by a man who should never have gotten the small lordship he already has.” He snarled then, at the thought of Littlefinger, before he exhaled heavily. “Who shall be Lord Protector in your absence?” he inquired. “We cannot leave it undefended.”

“No one wants Stannis for their king.” Loras scowled, echoing his late king’s words back like a mouthpiece for the dead. Renly may not have been the rightful king to sit on the throne, being the youngest of Steffon Baratheon’s sons, but Robert had not been the rightful king either until his rebellion was won, and yet very few people still called him a pretender by the time death took him. Renly had been kind, and generous, and had the temperament to inspire men to follow him - Stannis was a zealot, backed by strange priestesses and about as charismatic as a lobster. Rightful mean nothing. “You speak support of a man who used a red witch to burn his enemies, innocents, alive, and yet you condemn me for delivering justice with my own sword? I am not sure what that makes you, Lord Royce. A hypocrite? Or a man with too soft a heart?”

Loras was not so foolish that he thought Andar was wrong to make these claims that he was selfish, and shortsighted, blinded by rage like a reckless child and not a man grown - but he wore these flaws like armour, cloaking himself in their folds as though he were proud to be as such. Of course, he was not proud of them, but he was proud, and it was not in his nature to admit defeat, though regret visited him almost as often as the shades of Ser Robar and Ser Emmon did in his nightmares. “I do not blame your brother for killing King Renly, I blame him for not doing his part to defend him.”

Loras laughed, his expression serene and arrogant as Andar’s hand went to his sword. “It was three, actually.” He smirked, eyes trained on the blade. Perhaps if Garlan or Willas were here they would try to talk Andar down with placations and well-meant words of apologies, but he was not his diplomatic brothers. “And I never expected word not to get out. Only that the luck of having a Tyrell name would make sure nobody cared.” Saving the Lannisters’ skin at the Battle of the Blackwater had given him a pardon for his crimes - the real ones, like murdering those knights, and the ones Loras felt no need to be pardoned for too - supporting a usurper, among them. “How many men does Runestone command? And Sunhouse? Do you really think they could raise enough men against Highgarden to be anything more than an inconvenience to us, money or not it does not matter - we are fighting a war, men die, you are a man of more years than I, surely you should be able to come to terms with that.” 

He was the youngest of three sons, born eleven years after Garlan, with no chance of inheriting responsibility for their house but still possessing the great wealth and power of the Tyrell name. “Perhaps you are right that I will die, but I am not afraid of that.” Perhaps the Warrior would take pity on him and allow him to die heroically in this war, and the Stranger would lead him to the afterlife and back into Renly’s arms. “But the people will mourn the Knight of the Flowers, Lord Royce, make no mistake of that.” Whether, in turn, they would mourn Loras Tyrell was separate question. 

If he wasn’t so incensed, Andar would have been inclined to agree with the other man. It was true; no one wanted Stannis for a king, especially not after he’d become quite the religious zealot with little tolerance for Westeros’ generations of tradition, of acceptance if not ease when it came to religious differences. But Andar knew what honor was and honor was standing for the rightful king. The Vale might not have decided who that rightful king was in the current upheaval, but Andar would follow the lead as he had done for the past several years. He knew how to follow his liege. His lips thinned. “How is murdering someone who cannot protect against witchcraft justice?” he inquired, jaw tightening. “Justice, vengeance, petty childish anger…” he mused. “Only one of them is an accurate description of your actions, Tyrell. And deep down, I suspect you know which it is.” In truth, he was bluffing; it seemed as if Loras Tyrell had been taught nothing by his family when it came to honor and duty.

His nostrils flared at the slight, at the implication that sworn knights were meant to defend their liege against the supernatural on top of the evilness most men had in their hearts. Just the thought rankled Andar even more than he already was and he refused to give an inch to the man who had taken so much. “And tell me,” he asked, voice low and threatening, resisting the urge to move his hand back to the pommel of his sword. “How does one defend another against witchcraft and shades that come in the night?” He laughed then, a low, mocking bark that had no humor in it. “Do they teach courses at the citadel for knights and sworn shields? If so, perhaps I ought to partake.”

Three. Gods, how could a man be so arrogant? How could a man suffer so few consequences? Andar wondered if even the awful king Joffrey had been this arrogant and idiotic when it came to his faults. “The Tyrell name…” he shook his head. “The Tyrells are jumped up castellans that were lucky enough to support the right Targaryen when the dragons came.” Perhaps insulting his family was not the best way to ensure Loras saw the harm in his actions but at this point, Andar was not certain he cared either way. “Aye, men die in war,” he drawled. “And there is a reason you don’t command the armies of the Reach. Fighting a war on multiple sides cripples even the greatest of families. It is only the intelligence of your grandmother that kept the Tyrell army together.” Because Andar would have ripped Loras Tyrell apart if he could, would have done anything to avenge his brother.

The dark chuckle returned and Andar ran his hand along his jawline. “Knights do not fear death, even if they do not welcome it,” he mused; if some did, well, Andar did not know if he had ever met them. “Perhaps they will miss the Knight of Flowers,” he acknowledged. “But I am not the only one who will know the truth. That the Knight of Flowers is a myth, a legend. Stories and songs remain just that. And in the end, they’re always forgotten.”

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It had not been Loras’ decision to make. A part of him could recognise that, but it felt as though he himself had not been the one to make that decision, but rather the grief and shock that controlled him like a puppet in those moments after he came across the only man he had ever loved lying on the floor in a pool of his own kingly blood. Of course, he was not a complete idiot, and he knew this was no excuse in any way, so he chose to counter Andar’s challenge with only denial of guilt. 

“I have brothers of my own, I do not need yours, Lord Royce.” Loras said with all his usual airs of confidence around him, not hesitating for a moment to consider the kind of anger that would have consumed him if this man had mortally wounded Willas or Garlan in the name of justice. Loras could only see burning hatred where Robar’s memory was concerned, and held the knowledge that he would kill Robar Royce hundreds of times over if it would bring his Renly back to this world. “I dealt with a knight of the Kingsguard I commanded, not a brother. Though I suspect it would be easier to call Ser Robar a kingslayer for his negligence.” 

Loras knew he sounded very much like a rich boy who had never had to face the consequences of his mistakes before - but he had no misconceptions about the fact that was exactly what he was. He could do whatever he wanted and the shiny Reach gold in his grandmother’s pockets or his sharp sword would answer whoever came calling to question him. 

“What do you want from me? I thought my family already paid you to keep you quiet?” Loras asked, his tone perhaps dangerously flippant. “You don’t seem the type of man to care for empty apologies, though if it is what you want I suppose you may have it.” 

He would get nowhere with Loras Tyrell. That much was becoming abundantly clear as Andar continued this discussion, as he clenched his jaw and hardened his face. How was a man so selfish and cruel named a knight?

“You may think Renly Baratheon was the Warrior made flesh,” he stated, his eyes darkening with an anger most Valemen would shy from. “But he was simply a man usurping the crown that belonged, by rights, to his brother.” Andar had not wished to bring up this topic, did not want to open Robar to ridicule, but he saw little reason to protect his brother’s memory to the one who had murdered him in a rage. “I regret that Robar was taken in by such a flawed man; he was so young, so impressionable. Perhaps he loved that usurper of yours more than he should have. Perhaps he was so angered by the news of Stannis’ Red God that he could no longer serve him in good conscience.” Andar shook his head. He would never know the truth. He had heard the stories, of the shade that had taken Renly Baratheon, of the whispers that surrounded Stannis and his spiritual advisers. His jaw tightened. “Blaming the brother of mine you murdered in cold blood for the work of a Red Priestess does nothing but show just how selfish a boy you truly are.”

If he had not been so angry, Andar would have laughed at the idiocy the Tyrell boy displayed, would have thrown his head back and allowed himself one solid moment of amusement. Instead, he moved closer to the man, his voice little more than a growl as he reached for the sword hanging at his side. “You murdered two men in a fit. You could not truly think news of it had not reached the public?” Gods save him; he nearly felt pity for the Tyrell fool. He was Mace’s son, indeed. His voice grew darker. “Your family’s blood money was so your life would not be called for as recompense. So the Tyrells did not go to war against the Royces and the Cuys in addition to playing their little game of thrones.” He stepped back.

“I pity you,” Andar spat, keeping his back straight. “To have so much power and so little idea of the responsibility it entails…” he shook his head. “You will die in this war, Loras Tyrell and few will mourn your loss. The North is not the only kingdom that remembers.”