Prelude: A future snuffed.

So, this happened in the past, though seeing that it was a tourney at the twins, anyone might conceivably be present to witness the whole thing. Seeing that this particular scene holds importance to several PC's, I asked reader if we maybe ought to play it out so that we're on the same page in terms of what happened, and he said go for it. If we want mechanics, imagine what happens when a squire of 12 with no destiny points to burn or wounds to take, and not more than AR 5, faces at least 18 damage from the initial hit and then another 9 from falling off his horse. He's knocked out clean, and since consequences of defeat is more of a narrative choice than active PC desire IMO, death is the more interesting outcome.

Theomore

"
Ser Theomore of house Tullison against the Knight of the twin peaks!"
The herald cries as Theomore trotted forward to bow at Lord Frey. His opponent besides him seems young, at least half a head shorter than the common man, and skinny besides to his eyes. Chainmail under a tabard, and a plain greathelm. Well, he did pay good coin for easy opponents in the rounds none would remember anyway. And by the looks of this one, he had received precisely what he had bargained for.

The mystery knight took longer to get his horse lined up than Theomore needed, the thought that this was a boy with no business riding in such company strafes his mind as he puts his own greathelm in place and receives the first lance. At the sound of the horn, Theomore spurs his destrier in motion as horse and rider have done a hundred times before. The boy comes racing at him, the shield with two peaks on it not properly held up, giving Theomore an easy opening straight to the center mass of his opponent. He senses more than sees the lance that fails to properly connect to his shield, while his own lance hits true, all the power of horse and rider goes into violently thrusting the boy clean off the saddle, or so it feels like. The cheer of the crowd does confirm the unhorsing.

Theomore wheels around to see the boy lying lifeless, attendants and maester rushing to the scene. Hopefully nothing more serious than a lesson about entering the joust before one is a man grown.

Daveth
Daveth Coldbrook was in the Maester's tent. While Garret was about, almost certainly chasing skirts again, and with Joren saying he'd been given chores by father 'to build character', Daveth was taking the opportunity of there being a place with multiple maesters in to try and learn. And, well, avoid adding more places he could no longer show his face, after yesterday's debacle with Garret.

Having managed to get past the initial stages of confusion, annoyance, and dismissal, the discussion was beginning to get interesting. "
Ah, no."
Maester Brynden begins, a wave of mint from the leaves he was compulsively chewing washing over Daveth. "
You see, the key difference between the arrival of the First Men, the Andals' arrival, and that of the Dornish is that of tech-"
his explanation is interrupted by the tentflaps bursting aside, admitting into the tent a chaotic mess of cheers, screams, and shouts, which, combined with a fresh influx of the reek of massed smallfolk, resulted in a sensory melee far more intense than anything the tourney hosted. Accompanying this, though no more welcome to Daveth's mind, strode a couple of new maesters, with assistants shuffling alongside, carrying an armour-clad body to a bed.

Irritation crosses Daveth's mind at the interruption, though he makes sure to keep it off his face, instead taking a couple of polite steps away to give the Maesters room. The tentflaps fall untidily back into place, providing some measure of relief from the cacophony outside as the Maesters huddle around their supine guest. Daveth moves and begins absent-mindedly straightening the flaps up, to provide as much protection for this little sanctum of learning as possible, while he listens to their diagnosis.

"
Condition?"
Maester Brynden's mellow voice rolls unhurriedly around the tent, like a dog walking a well-worn path, all the steps already known, but necessary, nonetheless.

"
Dead."
The new Maester's voice is clipped and sharp, wanting their dance completed, no doubt so he may return to watch the next joust.

"
Cause?"
Maester Brynden's unhurried questioning continued, each question as inevitable as the changing of the seasons, uncaring of his companion's haste.

The second maester begins reeling off a load of medical jargon in his staccato tones, which Daveth idly listens to, to test his own knowledge, feeling a sense of pride at being able to follow their conversation. Quickly, however, his irritation returned. The poor bastard's dead! Does it really matter exactly how? You're not going to bring him back by staring at and pawing him, so just leave him, and get back to our discussion!

"
Identity?"


"
Knight of the Twin Peaks. No other name. Unless someone comes forwards, it'll be a mystery."
Daveth could hear a tone of near-satisfaction at the lack of information in the maester's voice.

Almost without thinking, Daveth finds his feet silently tip-toeing across the tent to give him an angle past the accumulated maester backs. Remembering, yet ignoring once again his mother's oft-repeated warning your curiosity will be the death of you, young man, he tries to see the knight. The face probably won't tell him much, but Daveth had spent many hours studying heraldry recently, and was hopeful he might find a clue. The opportunity to show off to a room full of maesters was too good an opportunity to pass up.

Then he saw the boy's face.

Time stopped, entering an ice age that froze his skin, and encased him in ice, preventing him from breathing, but holding him up while his legs collapsed. The world narrowed down to a single point, and sound echoed oddly around this newly-diminished creation.

"
He's not a knight. He's my brother."
Daveth's voice was hollow, distant. A memory heard out loud, rather than spoken.

"
Arrrrre you sure-re-re-r-e?"
a hand wastes effort, placing itself on Daveth's numb shoulder.

"
He has a name. Why wouldn't he use his name?"
a pointless question with a pointless answer.

"
Well, actually, that's a fascinating question. The practice originally dates back to-"
the inane answer, by a previously-silent Maester, strangely clear in this tiny hall, is shushed with a swift elbow to the ribs by Maester Brynden, who carries on the questioning.

"
Whoooo isse?"
The question may have been asked next, or it could have been five minutes later. Maybe earlier. Time meant little here. A soft, flexible material that nonetheless could not, would not, undo itself.

"
He's Joren. The Coldbrook heir."


Daveth doesn't see the look of disgust Maester Brynden gives him as he compares ages. "
Oh. You're a Snow."
The others are hardly less critical, though no less ignored.

"
My elder brother's the bastard. I'm the cuckoo."
the quip comes reflexively, born of many years of minor irritations caused by his younger brother's primacy. It isn't until much later that he realises that not only has this long-standing splinter of irritation in his soul been removed, with the much-practised quip losing its relevance, but for the first and last time time of using it, everyone in the room can actually understand the reference without having it be explained first.

The phrase 'elder brother' resonates within this tiny pinprick of a world, shaking Daveth's bones, and rising again on a thick current of bile up his throat, salted with all the frustrations and irritations cast towards his younger brother, both here and before, before the ground twists, the now-unnecessary clarification escapes into meaning in an explosion of acid,

and the world ends.

[size=50:g9wskyxf]*Edited: smells and sounds, the texture of narration.

It had taken the better part of the day, but persistence had won out and Garret finally had found discovered a language that he and the Lyseni girl shared in common. He was just emerging from her tent when the roar of the crowd reached his ears. For a brief moment Garret felt a pang of regret. After yesterday's incident, Lord Tomas had forbidden his bastard son from competing in Lord Frey's tournament. Father and son had argued long into the night, but Lord Tomas had been absolute;
Garret was too reckless, Daveth too feeble, and Joren too young. Garret and his younger half-brother had been attending the Coldbrook camp at the outskirts of the pavilions, a series of tents lost in the sea of banners and colors that stretched beneath the shadow of the Twins. Garret had been in a dark mood until he had seen the silver-haired daughter of some Lyseni merchant, and had asked Joren to watch the camp in his place.

Garret's thoughts were broken as the roar of the crowd turned to screams and shouts of shock and horror. Something terrible had happened.

Twisting and weaving through the dense wall of on-lookers that surrounded the maester's tent where the fallen knight had been taken, Garret heard scattered words and phrases;
fragmented pieces of what had occurred at the joust. A mystery knight, a mere boy wearing simple armor, had ridden against a Tullison knight and had been knocked from his horse. A young man from the North. A son of a lesser lord. The lord of a cursed castle.

The shouts and clamor of the crowd faded to a distant hum in Garret's mind as a terrible realization rushed over him. He surged forward, shoving his way past the crowd and into the tent. A single young maester stepped to prevent him from entering, but Garret saw. He saw Daveth, the color drained from his face. And behind, a boy in broken armor lay on a bed. No words came. A terrible silence filled Garret.

"
...Joren,"
he managed a only single word in the depths of that silence.

*This most likely took place several hours after identifcation of the late Joren, or even the following day(whichever), but definitely after the Tullisons and Coldbrooks had a chance to officially meet and discuss the incident unless they discussed it in full right there on the field. This should also in no way color her relationships, reputation, or frequent attitude. Violent events are often responded to naturally in kind.*

Solid wood clatters and screeches as the chair falls to the floor, felled by forceful kick. A scant few gasps and the absence of the scraping of forks on plates briefly echoes in the otherwise silent pavilion. For a moment in the wake of the outburst, the lanterns providing dim lighting seem to flicker brightly.

"
Is that all!?"
The tonal change to a course yell strikes the occupants out of the blue. "
Nothing to say about what happened? How can you stand to fill your stomachs over this loss?"


"
She's right!"
one man stands from his table to lend his voice. "
I've had just about as much of my day's share as I can stomach,"
a man next to him rises.

"
They need to see that we give a damn! That this affects us just as much as the people we serve!"
the chair-kicker continues.

"
We can't just roll over."


"
Let's make ourselves heard!"


"
What's all this bloody racket!?"
An aged, deep tone cut through the bare bones riot, slicing through thin blades of grass poking out over all the others as a surly figure steps inside the mess tent. A hush falls as everyone inside nearly freezes in place.

"
Captain,"
says first dissenter as she steps forward, without an ounce of regret.

"
I should have known,"
he booms, striding towards the offender. "
What are you hoping to gain by getting your comrades all riled up?"


"
We lost family today, ser! And what now, we're supposed to replace him? We can't let them get away with what they did!"


"
That's enough, guardsman! I don't care how they act where you come from, I'll have no dissent among my ranks!"


"
I stand behind our Lord, we all do, but someone's got to answer for Joren."


The captain raises his hand as he would to strike an insubordinate, but instead jabs a finger at her face. "
You know better than this, Loreia. Go to your tent. We'll discuss your behavior later."


She ponders this on her way out, hands going back and forth between clenching and clutching her sword. Perhaps he had made her leave to give a reaffirming speech to the others, but she wonders if it had instead been lenience, or even sympathy. He clearly heard her spouting off before the others to come in when he did. None of that changes attitude. Everyone knew how fond she was of their Lord's family, so it stings that much more that she wasn't present to notice what had happened, instead being 'entrusted' to guard the tents. They worry about what the next lord will be like, whether their current lord will lose another son, and so forth. But she reels from the loss - the grief, the anger, the hate. If she were there, she would have challenged the winner of that match to a duel on the spot and teach him a proper lesson.

When she whips the tent flap open before her, it catches the snout of a familiar friend, who had no doubt been waiting patiently for her to return. She had made him wait there, knowing it would be hard to stay on edge with his furry face poking around her knees. She lost that edge after what she'd unwittingly done, and coos an apology as she unbuckles her breastplate before taking a seat to hug the collie. He laps at her rations without rebuke, seldom panting, sensing keenly that his master is not feeling well. Several minutes later, the captain comes in and dictates punishment to her, along the lines of latrine duty or somesuch - she's not in a listening mood. After thoughts toward lighting a candle the next day, she puts her plate aside and finally lies down with her pet beside her, waiting for sleep to come.

Ser Jorah was preparing for his first bout. He had been drawn against a hedge knight from the Reach;
a favourite of a Bracken lady, so he had no problem with unhorsing this opponent. Normally, Joren Coldbrook would squire for him, but having been denied the chance to ride himself by his father and Jorah's Lord, he had been despondent and Garrett had taken him elsewhere to cheer him up, the details of which he did not want to know.

However, a pall had been cast over the tourney already;
Ser Theomore Tullison had unhorsed some poor young man and the maesters had rushed him away, having been unable to revive him.

"
SER JORAH, SER JORAH,"
one of the guardsmen, Loud Jamie, they called him on account that he could not speak anything but loudly, rushed up, "
YOU MUST COME QUICKLY."


"
Calm down Jamie,"
Jorah smiled, "
what could be so important?"


"
IT'S JOREN,"
Jamie was out of breath, having obviously ran here at great speed, but even that would not keep him quiet, "
HE WAS the boy on the horse."
The last words came out as a sob and the quietest Jorah had ever heard him speak. Jorah realised the implications of what had been said. If Joren was the boy on the horse, then the Coldbrook heir was dead or greviously injured. He rushed away to the Maesters tent, ready for whatever duties the Lord would have for him and sending Jamie to put the guard on alert.

Daveth
"
You should have stopped me. You think you're so smart, and yet your own younger brother managed to pull the wool over your eyes. Guess you're not as smart as you thought."
Joren's severed head mocked Daveth, empty eyes bleeding blood as a big, bulky, shadowy figure behind him carefully impaled his head onto a wicked-looking stake, dotted with spikes that look suspiciously like red mountains.

[size=50:oyqz8xxo]Clip-clop

"
You always claim to have a plan, bro."
Garret's head spits blood as it is similarly impaled. "
Well, can you plan Joren back to life? Can your precious planning save me? Of course not."


[size=85:oyqz8xxo]Clip-clop

"
I always knew you were useless."
Lord Coldbrook states, face still impassive even as it's driven deep onto its own stake. "
A weakling. What can your precious learning do to protect you from a skilled knight? NOTHING! You ran from your responsibilities as a man to hide in your books! You lived a craven, and you'll die a craven, and not for a day, not for an hour, not for one solitary instant will a single thing you've learned save you, or anyone you profess to love."


Clip-clop

"
I always believed in you."
Alianna softly states, a bloody tear rolling down her smooth cheek. "
I sacrificed for you, constantly. I believed you could be somebody special. But after all of that, you can't even protect your family. After everything I did for you, for you to be so . . . worthless disappoints me greatly."


[size=150:oyqz8xxo]Clip-clop

"
ON WHOSE HANDS THE BLOOD SHED WHEN THE WATCHER SLEEPS?"
the heads bellow in unison.

[size=200:oyqz8xxo]Clip-clop

"
WHAT USE LEARNING WHEN THE HEADSMAN COMES?"


[size=200:oyqz8xxo]CLIP-CLOP CLIP-CLOP

"
FORGE YOUR SWORD OF PAPER, WRITE YOUR ARMOUR OF WORDS! SEE HOW WEAK THEY ARE AGAINST THE POWER OF A TRUE KNIGHT!"


The rumble of hoof-falls vibrates Daveth's bones, as he feels the hot, wet breath of the horse on the back of his neck. He senses, rather than sees, the blade descending down on him. In the instant before it hits, time freezes, and he hears his mother's voice, calm and clear.

"
Die, my worthless son.

[size=85:oyqz8xxo]"
It should have been you."


Time resumes, the sword reaches Daveth's neck,

... and he wakes up with a start, sitting bolt upright, sweat coating his skin in the pre-dawn chill, gasping breaths like a rusty saw cutting though a blood-soaked mahogany table. For an instant, he thinks he can hear the thundering hooves closing on him still, before he recognises the sound of his own heart, desperately attempting to escape its prison of flesh.

My name is Daveth Coldbrook, and I am not alone. My name is Daveth Coldbrook, and I am not alone. My name is Daveth Coldbrook, and I am not alone. Slowly, he brings his breathing and heartbeat under control as he repeats the ritual phrase over and over, and he feels the mask of placidity rest gently on his face.

Calmer, he looks around the tent with too much space in he shares with just his brother, avoiding looking at the empty places where belongings were clearly present scant days before. Regardless of the hour, it would seem Garret was absent. Not that unusual, but a source of nervousness, nonetheless.

As his heart slowed down, his brain sped up, filling up with chaotic swirls of emptiness, self-doubt, fear, and loathing, drowning out rationality. He could feel the siren call of letting go, letting the emotions take control, losing himself. The pain would go as well. After the experiences of the last ... period of time, he can feel his mind gently slipping. Would it be so bad? To just ... let go? His grip loosens over the abyss of insanity.

He looks down at the embracing madness, then up at the cold, hard, unwelcoming rock of sanity. His eyes narrow in focus, and he clenches his teeth. No! No, I am no craven! I will not quit! My family is there, and I will be with them, and no-one, no-one can stop me! Arms aching, he pulls himself up, away from the edge. The mental assault redoubles. You're just a scholar! What are you going to do? Write a derogatory poem about him?

Silence! he commands mentally, with enough will to force a momentary break in the hubbub. This is a problem, nothing more. That's all it is. Just a problem. Like my history questions, my heraldry questions, my maths questions. So I'm going to treat it the same way.

Step one: What do I *know*?
Joran -a pang of pain, quickly and mercilessly stifled- was killed in a joust by Ser Theomore Tullison -a pang of hate, gently nurtured, but set aside, for now-.
Joran was calling himself the 'Knight of the Twin Peaks', and was not bearing identifying insignia.
Joran only had a single joust, which he would have almost certainly lost, regardless of his opponent.
And ... that's it.
Step two: What do I need to find out?
Could it have been an accident? The answer only comes reluctantly. Yes, it's possible.
Did Ser Theomore know it was Joran? Unknown, and impossible to know for sure without a confession.
Was it purely luck that resulted in Joran facing Ser Theomore? Daveth's eyes narrow. Unknown. But I can find out. If the 'luck' was man-made, that answers the other questions, too.
Step three: How do I find the answer?
Daveth gets up, and swiftly dresses in his travelling clothes, more discreet than his usual attire, feeling more energetic and alive than he has in what feels like forever. He grabs his pouch, and opens it, smiling at the contents. Money. The universal motivator. Someone here knows the answer. Find the answer, solve the problem.

Daveth closes his pouch, and hides it carefully underneath his clothes. He glances at the main entrance to the tent, but dismisses it, instead hunting for the subtle cut Garret made in the rear. Finding it, he swiftly scrambles through the gap, and is brought up short by immediately coming face-to-knee with someone. A moment of terror is assuaged as he looks up, and sees his remaining brother's amused, but tired, face, clearly on his way to sneak back into the test, just before the dawn. Too close to the rest of the camp to talk, Daveth simply stands, shares a look of common pain with his brother, and they silently clasp hands in solidarity and nod, before both go on their way.

* * *

"
You're sure it was him?"
Daveth asks.

His potential witness, a ratty looking fellow by name of 'Long Paul' nods. "
Aye, m'lord. He weren't hiding or nothing, he just did it real subtle-like."


"
Show me."
At Paul's confusion, Daveth clarifies. "
Demonstrate the hand motion he used to pay the organiser."
It had taken him half the day to find the first man willing and able to answer his questions, and most of the rest to find someone to independently confirm it. Now, finally, his search was at an end. But only so long as this fellow showed the same motion his first witness had. Else one, other, or both, were lying.

Still rather confused, Paul moves his hands in a subtle motion, like he were handing a small pouch of coins off to someone sitting at a table. It matches the motion the other witness claims! Others take him, it matches perfectly!

"
You're certain? You're using the correct hand and everything?"


"
Yes, m'lord. If he were using the other hand, I wouldn't have seen it."


Daveth searches the other man's eyes. Greed, certainly, but no sign of the tension he'd expect were he lying. With weak, shaking hands, he passes across the promised coin to Long Paul. "
Long life to you, Long Paul."
Daveth turns and leaves, uncaring of the response. He has what he was after. If he had paid more attention, or looked back, he might have seen the change coming over 'Long Paul's body language, might have seen the look of smug superiority he shot Daveth's back, or might even have seen him move off to meet up and share the loot with Daveth's other 'witness'. But he didn't. He had what he was after.

Wandering through the waking camp, his mind afire with thoughts. Ser Theomore bribed the organiser, who rearranged his jousts straight afterwards. He had no nemeses lined up in his opponents, there were no other ... unusual results in any of his jousts. The only joust of significance was the first, the one against Joran. Therefore, that was the one he paid to arrange. No-one would waste money to face a stranger, so he knew who Joren was, somehow, and if all that's true, there's no way the death was an accident.

It was cold-blooded murder.

But Joren, while the heir, wasn't critical to the house. The house, as it stands now, will survive. Which means either Ser Theomore simply woke up and decided he wanted to kill a child that day, or he's after more Coldbrook blood, ideally in self-defence from our retaliation. He tests the former hypothesis, but can't believe it.

He wants to wipe our house out. My family won't be safe until he's dead. Therefore, I must kill him. But very, very carefully. Mentally, he adds 'Ser Theomore Tullison' to the heaving mountain of problems threatening his family's existence.

Daveth gives a wolfish smile. Careful, Ser Theomore. Right now, you're nothing but a problem. And I will solve you. Because *that* is what a scholar can do.

Head clear, back straight, and with confident strides, Daveth heads back to his camp.

To his family.