Ser Lywen Santagar was never the most enthusiastic hunter. It was always something to be done when avoiding a problem, or when taking ones mind off things. Never an active pursuit. Today, he went hunting to avoid the endless screaming of the Maester, as the man sadly spiraled towards his inevitable death. He hunted to avoid the problems of the funeral - would he bury the man in the faith of the crown, his father, or his mother? All were different, all had living familial proponents. He hunted to avoid the many, many letters on his desk regarding his brother Perros. And he hunted because an ominous note had arrived from Oldtown concerning Casella.

Most importantly however, he hunted for the benefit of his cousin.

Treman Sand was ambitious, angry, and eager to prove himself. He’d also recently been denied the opportunity to ride all the way across Dorne to prostrate himself before Ser Lucifer Dayne. Lywen insisted he wait till the Sunspear Tourney. The boy was unimpressed, but not reckless. Perhaps a hunt would do him some good.

He watched his cousin now, trotting along on horseback, eyes set dead ahead into the woods. Behind them came the endless tittering of Teora Sand, his other cousin. She was too young, only thirteen, but had already made friends with all of his retainers.

The brothers Nymar and Mallor quizzed her lightly on the creatures of the Spottswood, she knew all the answers but loved the questioning. They themselves were all but family, their parents did the jobs before them, and they were loyal and strong enough to be thoroughly reliable. They would be doing the bulk of the work, and Teora would be accompanying them. Right up until they started finding fresh tracks.

Oberon was at the rear, leading the hounds on set of leads, happily silent. Lywen's father had once told him sternly that the man was a bastard of a member of the family, unrecognized, but would not tell him which family member. He hated the hunt as well, but loved the dogs, and seemed content with his meagre lot in life. A kindred spirit perhaps… but he trusted his fathers ghost well enough to keep a professional distance.

The hunt began, as all hunts did, at the glade where his ancestor Ser Symon had fallen. The man his father had been named for, a man dead over seventy years, only remembered as one who couldn’t ride as well as he had thought. Meant as a sobering measure against hubris, perhaps.

Ser Lywen hated hunting. But it was better than being the Knight of Spottswood.

[Meta : Alright, let's try hunting. What could go wrong?]