The Mastiff on the Hunt
Twenty Sixth Day of the Seventh Month 292 AC
Marwyn called by some the Mage and others the Mastiff, Archmaester of the Citadel, was in an ill mood for many reasons large and small. He was hungry, wet, and cold, though suffering not near as much form any of these ailments as he had done on his journeys. This did nothing to alleviate his mood for the mind of man could be its own worst enemy, and sooner would it compare misery to what ease one might have had than even greater misery.
"Hold! Hold!" he called as he drew the reigns back clumsily on the old nag of a horse he was riding. The squat and grizzled maester knew enough of his skill as a rider, or lack thereof, that he did not waste his coin on good horse-flesh, but he admitted he may have erred a bit to far on the side of crow-bait... possibly literally as a pair of the carrion birds had been following him since well before moonrise.
The walls of the Banefort rose out of the great hill before him like some giant's tooth from the green flesh of the land, turned back by the darkness. Most of it was built of pale stone, scarce three centuries old since fire and unseasonable storms had done done away with much of the old keep... But the North tower stilt stood, worn and grey, looking almost bent under the weight of vines and moss. The banner of the hooded man flew in the westerly wind, more guessed at than seen in the moonlight.
When he saw one of the dark birds that had been following him head straight to the top of the tower, Marwyn cursed long and hard in Ibbenise, it being his favorite tongue for the task of the many he knew. Of course they would put the raven's roost there of all places. The grey sheep had a positive genius of getting in his way.
"Are you sure it will be tonight?" he asked, seemingly to empty air, such that a man might think him mad had any been close enough to overhear.
"Yes, yes," the empty air replied in a high cold voice, barely more than a whisper. "You should not ask the same question more than once. It makes you sound stupid."
The Archmaester merely nodded curtly before spurring his pitiful mount on the last few hundred yards to the gates. He hailed the guards respectfully and handed out a few coins to loosen their tongues a bit. "What news from the castle?" he asked.
Among the many bits of gossip to petty to recall on a night like this, he heard the news he had been half-hopping and half-dreading. Lady Banefort had taken to the birthing bed at sunset. Composing his battered face into the closest approximation of a kindly healer he could manage, Marwyn showed the men his silver link and offered to bring what aid he could.
As he crossed the courtyard Marwyn gave a short, silent prayer to every god of death he could recall the names of that it would would be a new life that would come into the world tonight and not an old one.
OOC: I decided to do another interlude set in the Westerlands since there have not been many, and most were focused on the Lannisters.
