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Dragonbane


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OOC-thread





Westeros, The Crownlands, Blackwater Rush

The royal galley, Sea Dragon, cleaved the dark waters of the Blackwater Rush downstream, the froth made by the impressive ship extended from both sides like long wings. Though the name of the vessel might have been chosen without much originality in mind, it was in fact a good indicator of Aegon III’s intended rule; simple, strict, strong. The ship itself was made of solid wood from the Stormlands, designed by a Braavosi-Westerosi partnership, for Aegon had ordered his flagship to be built with both strength and grace in mind.

As such, the galley counted two hundred and fifty oars with three main sails of black with the red dragon on them. It was not the biggest ship in the fleet, but it was the most recognisable one. For the prow was the shape of a roaring dragon’s head, its claws of steel extended to function as a ram. The sides of the ship were the dragon’s wings.

In the centre of it all stood the captain of the ship, a slightly nervous, eyeing his sailors closely in order to reprimand them immediately should they blunder in a moment of carelessness. However, his crew consisted of veteran seaman and mariners so he supposedly had nothing to worry about. Save for the fact he was flanked by two men dressed in maidenly white and one tall figure dressed entirely in black with a few golden accentuations.

Captain Aleon, born of a union between a Braavosi and a King’s Landing whore, had gone far in life indeed. He owed it to his skill as a captain, but mostly to the stern man standing beside him. After all, what good is skill if the world does not recognise it as such? Most people did not like Aegon. Most people didn't realise what a heavy burden he carried. Aleon had since long come to terms with the fact he was his Grace's man, in everything.

“When will we be back in King’s Landing?”

Aleon always thought the same whenever his master spoke. His voice was that of a young man, forced into adulthood far before his time. No wonder, if your entire youth revolves around the most gruesome civil war Westeros had ever seen. “Two days, Your Grace. One and a half if we take good wind." Aleon sucked his teeth before he had gathered enough courage. "Did you not like your visit to Stoney Sept?”

The royal fellowship had left the walled town three days ago, after King Aegon III had received several of the Riverlords as his guests for his stay at Stoney Sept. The visit had been undertaken by the king in order to acquaint the traditionally uppity lords of the Riverlands with the fact he was no longer a boy. During the regency, Aegon had been kept largely out of public life for his own safety while he was educated and taught that kingship is a duty. However, much to his own dismay, this had left him with an unpopular reputation by both the common folk and the noble houses.

The past year, King Aegon had worked hard to show Westeros his face. He had to make the Realm see that he was their king, and bring those who would defy him back in line. His subjects and vassals needed to be reminded that there was a king on the Iron Throne. He ruled now, formally from King’s Landing, though during the past ten months he had spent more time on the road touring his demesne than stay put. In fact, his court had gotten quite used to being on the move most of the time.

“The town was calm enough, the Riverlords accommodating though slightly bristling. However, there are matters demanding my personal attention.”

“There always are, Your Grace.”

Aegon put his hands behind his back, grabbing his right wrist with his left pale hand. His purpure eyes, distinctly marking him of House Targaryen, fixed on the horizon, as if Aegon could will the capital to move closer. The captain almost believed it. Aleon knew well the effect of that gaze on others, for himself it felt as if he was being burned by cold-fire. The king took a deep breath and sighed, his shoulders slumped a little. “As you say, Captain.”

Captain Aleon had a feeling Aegon’s reign and resolve would be tested in the near future. You had to be realistic about these things, is what his father had always said.

((Sini and Vanq may have contributed slightly))

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Westeros, Crownlands, The Red Keep

The warm glow of the sun emanated down upon Viserys as he sat at his desk, the window that made up the roof of his study providing a great deal of light in the midday sun, one of the few rooms in the Red Keep to require no fires to light the space, probably rather un-Targaryen of him to not light up the room like a furnace, but he perceived no need.

Currently he lent back in his chair, regarding the transparent ceiling, his desk before him was ordered, scrolls, quills and other instrument all aligned neatly, with the Valyrian steel of Dark Sister placed across it, he had spent the morning interchanging between sharpening the blade and various paperwork chores, not that the blade required much work, it simply allowed him to focus his mind. While his excursion to the Summer Isles had certainly earned him respect with both the nobility and common folk, while also eliminating a building threat, he regretted going himself and not tasking a subordinate to carry out the task. It had been selfish of him really, he had grown so frustrated with the situation of Westeros and had needed a diversion, hopefully the whole of Westeros would not pay for his folly. For one he had to recover Dark Sister from the Queen’s quarters, as much as it may have been her traditional right, a blade sharp enough to rend a man in two with the flick of a wrist should never have been in her possession. While her servants had been reluctant to comply, a quiet reminder of their own personal safety with it around had won them over. It would do good for him to be seen with it, to add extra credentials to his place of importance at court. That and he really didn’t want another Targaryen shaming the family with insane killings.

Visenya stormed the halls of the Red Keep, a diminutive figure in black mail, the three headed dragon of her house enameled in red on her shoulders. Servants jumped out of her way, but with her head held high and her mind diverted with its silent fumings, the Queen took no notice. She searched for the whoreson who she knew had taken it from her. The damnable man who thought himself higher than he should, her cousin.

She had woken from terrible and delightful dreams of fire and blood raining down upon her numerous enemies. Enemies who sought to take what she and her husband Aegon were building. Viserys at this moment, had once again proven he was not to be trusted. She would need to talk to her husband about this, but for now, she would deal with it herself. Afterall, she was far more capable than the mewling man her husband could be.

I am the Reborn. It is mine. I need it.

The voice in her mind screamed it over and over lest she begin to vocalize the need, the demands. She would save that for when she finally had Viserys before her. The women she was given to help her-maids, not the squires she needed and deserved-had easily bent to tell her what she already knew. Viserys had stolen in in the black of night and taken her birthright. Dark Sister had been hers in another life. She had ravaged the Seven Kingdoms with it and Vhagar. And now both were gone or decayed. She stopped and howled an anguished scream, paying no attention to the quickly diverted stares or scurrying it caused. She was almost there.

The guards at his door jumped to attention but made no move to bar her entry. “Your Gra-”

Visenya forcefully pushed against the doors and sent them swinging wide, ignoring the men. They were beneath her. Viserys was beneath her and she would remind him of that once again. Her face, capable of beauty and sweetness was contorted into a cold burning fire. Her eyes, deep purple like aubergine, were tight but alive. Her lips were pressed thin for just a moment.

She didn’t wait to be acknowledged, but she saw Dark Sister on the insufferable man’s desk. It was there, so close, she could feel it calling out to her. It wanted its rightful owner. “Thief! The Stranger take you, I have come for what is mine! Insufferable prick of a man, what right do you have to come into my chambers?! To take my Dark Sister?!” She reached the desk and curled her fingers around its edge, her body angled over it, her face approaching his. “I could have your head for this, cousin.” She sneered, small froths of spittle formed in the corners of her mouth.

“Ah, if it isn’t my beloved sister, are we playing Queen today?” He turned his gaze from the sun reluctantly to look upon his fuming sister, trading one kind of fire for another. Somehow he felt the Sun was more of an actual threat to him than his cousin could ever be, although he corrected himself on that, underestimating lunatics often resulted in your own death.

With that, he unfurled a scroll of parchment on one of the piles on his desk, carefully moving the blade slightly up his desk to unfurl the document, taking a quill from its ink pot to begin scribbling down some details. “Now, is there any actual business you needed me for?” he spoke, briefly looking across at her, downwards even, his desk elevated by a few small steps.

Visenya growled, deep and throaty. He dared to speak back, he dared to ignore her. No one would just push her aside. She reached up and across the desk, its height an annoying inconvenience. The Queen's hand brushed against the fresh ink and came away smudged black. "What business do you do? My beloved brother?" She returned. "Were you made King when you ran off? Perhaps you grew a cunt and think yourself a Queen?"

She eyed Dark Sister, her hand itching to reach for it, her fingers trembling as they longed to wrap around its hilt. "I will take what is mine, brother.”

Viserys sighed deeply, calmly placing the now ruined parchment in a basket at the base of his desk, he would have to request another copy from the original messenger once he had the time, for now...

He drew a dagger from his belt, before slamming it into the table, passing through the air between the Queen’s fingers as it struck into the leather cover shielding the center of the desk, the metal weapon quivering in the momentary silence.

“Very well sister, you want the blade, take it, but do so as the true queen of Westeros would, with fire and blood.” his handsome features immediately drawn into a stone cold expression, a very serious and unmoved threat as he held her crazed gaze, the dagger still positioned between them, free of his grasp. He refused to rise individually to her insults, but he’d be damned if she thought he would simply roll over like a common servant.

Visenya let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. “How dare you even come this close to harming me.” A knick, a scratch, that would cause even a drop of her blood to escape would have demanded his head. It was almost a pity that he had not done so. She stared down from his face to the dagger now still and embedded in the fine desk.

Her fingers slid around the simple weapon, were it hers it would surely have been gilded with gold and encrusted with jewels. Dark Sister was a weapon meant to kill, this pitiful blade would only be needed for show. She pulled once and was met with resistance. She grunted and had to take a step back as the blade came loose and she held it before her. “Fire and Blood, yes. It would be more than pleasurable to make you pay for your insolence.” But she paused, unmoving as the steel reflected her eyes. In her former life she had had her sister and brother with her. It was a three-headed dragon on their sigil. Three, and she was only one; perhaps the only one who could truly claim to be a Dragon Lord, but the others would have to suffice. Aegon and Viserys. “But you will learn instead, Viserys. You will learn your true place by my side. Once we have suitable dragons...Yes, yes, it is necessary for you to yet live.” She spoke, though not to him.

Her eyes snapped away from the dagger and back to his face. “Consider yourself lucky, brother.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it. I make my own fate.” he replied, his voice quiet but forcefully, as immediately his hand grabbed her wrist, applying a slight pressure to her tendons, forcing her hand open and the dagger to fall onto the desk.

“Soon my brother, your husband, will realise that he cannot rule this realm without my aid, then we shall have to cooperate, and I will not have a sword of so much worth sequestered away within the Red Keep when it can rally both noble and small-folk, and bluntly, you couldn’t rally a band of peasant children.”

For one brief, glorious moment, Visenya saw herself lunging at the despicable man. His hand on hers was an unwelcome feeling, the quick burst of pain enough to make her howl in anger. Her lips quivered, her muscles taut and ready to spring.

She blinked.

A moment passed, her eyes shut tight as a tremble passed over her body. Her shoulders slumped, her head dropped down, chin resting against her breastplate. When she opened her eyes once again, the fiery anger in them was replaced by confusion and fear a second later. “What-Oh, Vis, you...” She made to smooth skirts she wasn’t wearing and froze. “I...n-n-no!” She braved a glance down at herself and felt tears forming in her eyes. “How...” Her voice a whisper tainted with desperation to understand. How often did she find herself like this? In armor she swore she didn’t own, in a place she couldn’t remember coming to, how much of her life had she spent second guessing every moment? “Help me.” Plaintive, like a child looking for her parents’ compassion.

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Viserys sighed, his frustration pouring out, at least visibly, while found her continual personality shifts utterly vexing, attacking her in what he considered her ‘true’ personality was utterly pointless, and generally a bit upsetting. With this he let go of her hands, sliding Dark Sister off his desk to lean against his side of the desk in case the old weapon set her off again, pushing it into the alcove of the desk.

“Come, sweet cousin, regard the sky for a while, I find it helps with the clearing of one’s head.” he beckoned her towards him, standing up to allow her to sit. Unfortunately he was not in the habit of keeping spare dresses around, so he had nothing for her to change into, from the mail which so obviously upset her, instead he removed the cloak held around his neck by a chain, red with a black targaryen dragon, to drape over her, should she sit.

Visenya nodded, Viserys always knew what to do. Both he and Aegon were her rocks, her foundation. She didn’t know what she would do without them. She moved to the chair as her cousin stood up from it. His solar really was so pretty, with how the sun came in. With the light shining down pleasantly on her face as she tucked her feet beneath her, it was almost enough to ignore the ringing questions. “Thank you...” She sighed as the cloak was settled around her, it was enough to hide the mail as long as she didn’t move too much. “Vis, I miss Aegon...can we all go for a walk today?” She tucked her head into the chair and peered up to him with innocent eyes.

“He should be returning shortly, I’m sure he can find us in the grounds...first allow me to find you something more, comfortable.” He spoke, before calling out to the servants inevitably waiting on them outside the solar, not wanting to leave his cousin for any time at the moment, in case she reverted. Once a young blonde haired boy, had entered and then been dispatched to find a dress for her highness, suitable for a garden walk, he turned back to smile at his brother’s wife.

“That should only be a moment, thankfully with the sun out, a walk should be most refreshing.”

((Collab between Sini, Zach, and I))

Viserys strolled through the Castle gardens, his cousin’s arm resting in the crook of his elbow as the early afternoon sun turned the water of the various fountains to golden sparkles. He attempted to keep her grounded with near meaningless, at least to him, chatter, from the weather to courtly fashions and the like. With his cape returned, pinned together with a golden dragon chain, he looked every bit the Valyrian noble, while Visenya, once properly clothed, very much befitted her status as Queen, although, Viserys reminded himself, the Queen’s of his line had once worn mail nigh on as often as their male counterparts. There was fire in them all, it was simply unfortunate Visenya’s was either extinguished or a raging inferno.

“Did I tell you about my last visit to the Reach? They have exceptionally skilled florists in Highgarden, although I guess that rather goes with the name.” While technically Viserys had been ‘home’ for the last few months, he had spent very little of this actually home, instead visiting various important strongholds of support for the King, such was his role in supporting his brother.

Visenya lightly squeezed her cousin’s arm, feeling much better now in the dress he had had prepared for her, and in the pleasant gardens she loved to stroll so much. She delighted in hearing about both Viserys’ and Aegon’s trips, trips she rarely attended. How little had she seen in comparison. “No, I don’t think you have! Oh tell me all about it...Every last flower and color, so I can imagine it clearly. I would so like to see that one day.” She paused, and pursed her lips as she looked up towards her cousin, blinking against the sunlight. “Is it more beautiful than our gardens here?”

Aegon appeared from behind a neatly cropped bush with rosebuds. As always, dressed in black and with a stern line for a mouth. He was followed suit by a knight of the Kingsguard. Ser Edric Buckwell, judging from the antlered helmet the tall man wore. The King had overheard his brother and cousin’s conversation concerning Viserys’ voyage to the Reach. To him, there was little colour left in the world and he could no longer enjoy the scent or shade of flowers. “The world is just an endless amount of shades of grey,” he said, shattering Visenya’s romantic view of it. She had to be realistic. The only other colour the king acknowledged was red. Red for blood and fire. Red for the death of his mother. Red for power.

]He chewed his bottom lip once, nodding to his brother, Viserys as a manner of greeting. Judging on the demeanor and her attire, Aegon deduced which one of his two wives he was talking to. By now he had already heard of her earlier tirade and conflict with his brother. Truth be told, he could not choose between his wife’s personalities, for he was strangely intrigued by the explosive character of the one, while he wanted her to be cool and docile, like the other.

Visenya peered around Viserys at a rustling sound and squealed before she could cover her mouth with a hand. “Aegon!” She ignored what he said, he could be so somber, so sad. She hated to see that sorrow in his eyes. If only she could give him a son, that was what the septas told her. A strong son would make him happy. “Viserys said you would find us.” She glanced up before blushing, and averting her eyes to Aegon’s feet. “I’ve missed you greatly...”

It took a difficult and scorched heart not to be moved by Visenya’s open reveration and affection of her husband. However, say one thing of Aegon III. Say he was the most cold person in all of Westeros. “I have never known Viserys to be a liar,” he calmly claimed, though it was unclear whether or not he meant it or not. The King thought himself incapable of love, preferring to be an emotional recluse. Nonetheless, he took in account proper decorum and courteously placed a kiss on one of Visenya’s pale slender hands. This time there were no cuts on them, he was glad to see. Sometimes the Queen cut herself in her bouts of crisis. Sometimes she cut him, instead. “I am glad to be back.” Sometimes he enjoyed it...

His eyes, pale for a Targaryen, settled on his brother. “I trust matters have not gotten out of hand in my absence.” It was not a question, more a declaration with a hint of warning. Before hearing the answer, he shifted his attention back to his insane wife. He and Viserys would discuss issues in the morning, before the meeting of the Small Council. Issues not solely concerning politics, but also the behaviour of their beautiful relative who appeared to be the embodiment of the expression characterising the Targaryens. A coin is flipped every time one is born, it seemed Visenya would be subject to the flipping of the coin all of her life.

As his brother arrived, Viserys smiled charmingly, not quite the warmth one would expect from close family, but at least not as cold as his brother, before offering him Visenya’s arm which had been resting within his own, stepping back slightly from the pair as he nodded a greeting to the Kingsguard who tailed his brother, an equally short greeting being returned to him. In truth, while the ‘royal three’ had known each other for identical amounts of time, Viserys was still the more disparate of the three, having grown up separate from his lineage and never expecting to rule.

“Everything is as it should be, there were reports of a particularly large band of bandits plaguing the Kingsroad, but I had that dealt with, and Visenya has be very pleasant company after my arduous periods of travel away from you both.” There was no real reason for him to bring up another one of her episodes right at the moment, to distress her as well as potentially aggravating his cousin, if it needed to be mentioned it could be done at a later stage.

“I’ve been thinking of organising a Grand Tournament to be held outside of the city, to better unite the lords of the land, as well as potentially exposing the Queen to some more of Westeros’ varied culture, that which she seems so interested in.” he smiled as he spoke, of course details would likely need to be discussed at another opportunity, if the King was even interested.

The Queen shot a look up from cousin to husband, her eyes grown wide with delight. The blush remained, and she bounced on the balls of her feet. “Oh! Can we Aegon? Can we? I would so love to see the knights in pretty armor, and all the ladies in their gowns...” Her hands slapped together in a clap that became fingers intertwined as if in prayer. “Please?”

Aegon frowned, the lines deeper than they were supposed to be at his age. Perhaps the time had indeed come to test the limits of his authority and rule. The past years, he and Viserys had travelled extensively, visiting lords and brokering agreements or treaties for the crown. It was time for the Lords of Westeros to return the favour. As he stared at Visenya’s naive and juvenile excitement, he quickly shot a meaningful gaze at his brother. They both knew there was a lot more at stake than the Queen’s personal enjoyment and curiosity. “We will talk about this come the dawn,” he acknowledged, placing a calming palm on Visenya’s shoulder to keep her from hopping too much.

Visenya tried to nod with grace, though she felt a twinge of worry that she would not be able to see a tourney held. She silently reminded herself that Aegon and Viserys knew best. She felt the warmth of her husband’s hand on her shoulder and looked up beneath long lashes. “Will you stay with me, the rest of today? The septas...Well, what I mean is...” She gave a furtive glance towards Viserys and blushed a deeper shade of red to match her sigil. “I just wanted to-” The queen dropped her head and forced her request through hushed and mumbled tones. “Spend the night with you.”

Ever the tactful person. The responsibilities and duties of a King never did seem to end, Aegon thought. However, as extinguished as his mood was, he remained a man and therefore could think of less pleasant duties. Say one thing for Aegon, say he needed an heir. He nodded and offered Visenya his arm. “Let’s start with spending dinner together first,” he suggested ere making his way toward the dining hall with his wife on his arm.

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Westeros, The North, White Harbor and the Manderly Lands

Rambod made his way down the white steps of the stone way, passing a guardsman in the sea-green livery of House Manderly. Behind him lay the hill on which New Castle was built, looking out over the town below, some distant shouting and noise reached his ears. The Heir of Manderly cast a few glances to his right, noticing seagulls cleaving the air, as he neared the ancient stone fortress called the Wolf’s Den. It was old, very old as it even contained a Godswood.

Hundreds of years ago, when his house had only just arrived in the North seeking refuge with the Starks, the Wolf’s Den had been a pirate stronghold. However, King Jon Stark rooted the corsairs out of their hide-out and installed his newfound bannermen as Wardens of the White Knife. Ever since, the Wolf’s Den had been the seat of Manderly, until draft and restricted size led the Manderlys to build a new hold.

After that, the Wolf’s Den functioned as a dungeon, armoury and additional fortress. It protected the east approach into the harbor.

Rambod climbed the worn out stairs of the Den with big strides. Though he was small, he had long legs and so not before long he stood on the battlements looking out over the all too familiar landscape. His keen eyes gazed across the bay in which White Harbor was nestled. To his right lay the New Castle, built after the town, and with it its masters, had reached a sufficient level of prosperity to warrant a new keep. Inside was the Merman’s Court, where his father received visitors and envoys and where formal gatherings were oft held.

However, if he looked directly in front of him he could first see Seal Rock, crowned with an ancient ringfort built by the First Men. The fifty foot tall stone loomed over the approaches of the Outer Harbor and he could just make out the pack of seals lounging around the base of it. The grey-green colour of the rock, reminded Rambod of the colour of his line’s sigil. Personally he disliked the dirty green, but as with most things in life, it was not up for debate.

Some five years ago, his father, Lord Cregan Manderly, had ordered the renovation of the ringfort. Large ballistae and scorpions had been mounted on the repaired stone, the tips of their huge bolts aimed at the Bite. It had been a while since they had last seen a pirate ship and the investment in White Harbor’s defences had paid off, for there had been an increase in traffic.

In fact, a galley of Braavos, painted in the distinct purple, was just entering the Outer Harbor. Rambod guessed it would sell spices, glass and cloth before stocking up with pickled fish, wool and furs. The city itself was built on the east shore of the White Knife which gave trade access to the centre of the North, where most of the wool came from. The harbor was situated in between the shore of the Knife and the Wolf’s Den.

The harbor itself was divided into the Inner and Outer Harbors. The latter being larger and capable of holding a score of ships. The Inner Harbor offered better anchorage and shelter by the City Wall on one side and the looming mass of the Wolf's Den on the other, and a mile-long, thirty foot wall, with towers every hundred yards, located on the jetty that separated it from the Outer Harbor. Rambod enjoyed touring all of these sites, assessing the strength of the walls, always to conclude he had a great sense of pride for his ancestral seat.

The Seal Gate allowed access to the city from the waterfront; a solid gatehouse with two towers at the sides. Behind the sturdy walls, Rambod made out the whitewashed stone houses, with steeply pitched roofs of dark grey slate so customary for his city. Thick black smoke exited the chimneys of the silver mints.

Sniffing in the salty air, enjoying the wind tussling with his brown hair, he noticed a silent step creeping up behind him. He turned round with a faint grin on his face, for ever since his twelfth nameday nobody had been able to sneak up on him. Rambod Manderly recognized the rhythm of the pace.

A man nearing forty, around his father’s age. His face was all stern lines and coldness. He wore tarnished leather with steel scales protecting his chest and a gorget. Though in good state, it was clear every piece of equipment had seen abundant action. A big two-handed sword stuck out from across his left shoulder. Rambod had been right with his assumption. It was Silent Ned, the headsman and swordmaster.

“Greetings,” he said in a slightly mocking tone. It would be quite an accomplishment to get the man to talk more than five words in a row. His personal record was four. “Came up to get some fresh air, huh?”

Silent Ned grunted and gave a short nod. Then he walked over to the battlements, placing his gloved hands on the wind-swept stone. Rambod knew Ned liked to come up here to watch the movements of the small fishing boats. Some people thought he was a mute, but he was just a very, very scarce talker. Additionally, instead of becoming talkative when drunk, Ned just fell asleep. Rambod knew, he had tried.

“Do you feel pride, Ned?” He asked suddenly. The question seemed to catch the headsman off guard. He blinked his grey eyes a couple of times before leaning back against the wall, clearly pondering his answer.

“Huh.” He finally said and shrugged his shoulders.

“Come on, you must feel pride when you look at this,” Rambod gestured across the bay, trying to encompass the city in his motion. “There’s history here. We have the biggest Sept in the North, we are one of the five cities of Westeros. There’s wealth here, power.” He stomped with his boot on the Wolf’s Den under their feet. “Solidity.”

“Proud of my service.” Was what Silent Ned finally exclaimed after a drawn out silence.

“Really? Again just four words? Damn you, why couldn’t you have added a subject and verb in there!”

“Small vocabulary.”

Silent Ned was aware of Rambod’s game after one of the young squires had told him. As such he just grinned at his master’s son. It was a hideous mongrel grin, but Rambod had to grin back regardless.


* * *


“At least it’s dry,” Ser Daryn Manderly remarked. The towering man referred to the tiny specks of snow blowing in the crisp breeze. They danced and circled their way down until they landed on the ground, melting. They wouldn’t stay dry for long, as it was too warm for the snow, it would land on clothes, faces and hands, only to melt. They all knew that was when they would get cold, when the wind would bite into their wet skin.

To their left lay the White Knife, flowing to the south, wild and untamed. Its water wide and covered in white foam, making a hell of a noise. To Lord Cregan it was a perfect allegory for the North: wide, white and wild. He steered his horse to the north-east, away from the river and into the forested lands where the conifers and black pines would shield them from the snowfall. Additionally, most of the game would be hiding in there this time of day.

Their party consisted of a dozen men; Lord Cregan and his brother Ser Daryn had led some of their houses sworn swords out for a hunt. Then there were two mounted archers and four men to tend to the dogs and horses. So far all they had shot were two pheasants and a quail. Daryn had proclaimed it too meagre a catch for the day and expressed his desire to slay a boar.

The Manderly lands were dotted with holdfasts of knights and petty lordlings, they were tasked with keeping their lands safe, have the fields tilled and provide the Lord of White Harbor with a contingent of armed men when needed. However, there were no holdfasts around these parts, just the strolling lands covered with flecks of snow.

“Merwyn thinks I should remarry,” Lord Cregan said. Sharing his cousin’s opinion with his brother, Daryn. The steward of White Harbor had seen them off that morning, giving them advice on their horses and the character of the individual mounts, much to the jealousy of the stablemaster.

Ser Daryn snorted, startling one of the dogs of Deaf Luben, the kennel-master. “You? Didn’t know you were capable of love, brother.”

Lord Cregan Manderly looked at his kin with some brotherly scorn, his voice was iron and well-sharpened. Ser Daryn’s face lost a bit of colour, which only the Lord of White Harbor could manage. “I will tell you the same tale I told Rambod,” He cleared his throat ere commencing. “You’ll remember parts of it. I once loved someone, when I was only sixteen. I intended to marry her, no mind her lowbirth. However, I was sent away to broker a deal with the Grafton’s of Gulltown and when I got back I found her changed. She claimed I had left her. She said she hoped that every time she clawed her nails into another man’s back I would feel it.”

A crow shrieked in the depths of the forest, soon joined by another.

“I was devastated.” A part of Lord Cregan had died that day.

For a while they rode on in silence, the sniffing of hounds and muffled thumping of hooves on the mossy forest floor the only sounds coming from the group of hunters. Ever since, Lord Cregan had never allowed another woman to permeate his defences. Women were more dangerous than an edged blade or lance tip aimed at the heart.

“Fortunately for politics, love is no necessity in marriage.” Ser Daryn thought the grin on Cregan’s face was bitter amusement. He just nodded at his Lord brother’s words and watched the pack of Luben’s dogs, unwilling to continue in this mindset.

“As you say, Creg.” Daryn had learned it usually was easier to just agree with his sibling. Cregan was stubborn and relentless, he once had been mad for two weeks for something so small Ser Daryn did not even remember it any longer. He suspected it had had something to do with soup.

The trick to boar hunting was to corner the bristling beast so it stopped fleeing and made a stand. Then it was just a matter of letting it charge you, point the widely tipped hunting spear and pierce the wild pig. It was not something for cowardly and unskilled men. Lord Cregan and Ser Daryn had once seen a squire miss. The boar had opened the lad from cock to collar bone.

However, Lord Cregan was no green pup when it came to the hunt and so that night they returned with enough game to enjoy for three days straight.

Lord Cregan Manderly might be a stern and demanding ruler, he still considered himself generous. “Take half the pig and get it to the Fish & Ships, and take one of the pheasants to the gatehouse.” Offering free food to the local inns was a quick and sure way to gain the common folk’s affection. The same went for the men serving you. A lesson well learned from his lord father. Additionally Lord Cregan was not the sort of man to listen to the complaints of his knights about giving away food. Especially not because Ser Daryn agreed with the action and the knights knew better than to protest.

King's Landing, Red Keep, Study of the Master of Laws

Bryce read through his usual nightly reports with only half his mind on the lists and complaints. A list of the day's dungeon intake, including a couple young noblemen who started a bar fight; some of the goalers complaining yet again that their pay was too low, likely because they lost it to their more clever fellows gambling while on the job; an account of the costs of paying the dungeon keepers and feeding those inhabiting the place; a bill from masons who had done some repair work; a complaint from those same masons saying they were treated roughly by the gaolers and demanded recompense; something about boats that was probably meant to go to the Master of Ships; another of the regular requests from the Night's Watch that criminals in the dungeon be persuaded to take the black; on and on and on they went. This tedium had been a daily nuisance until Bryce had learned to determine which things were of vital importance at a glance, which then allowed him to bother with the regular paperwork only once a week. Further experience allowed him quickly notice discrepancies in the regular reports, thus turning five minutes reading a list into half a minute to scan it. Even so, going through the stack of papers was always a boring, albeit necessary, part of the job. Bryce set aside a report with a sigh, reaching for yet another from the stack that was now blessedly only a few sheets thick.

"M'lord."

Lord Corbray looked up to see Jonothor, one of his personal retinue of guards, standing in the doorway. "Yes, what is it?"

"King's back." The fellow's simple irreverence brought a bemused smile to Bryce's face, which the guard was quite used to and made no response to. "You said you wanted to know. His ship came in a while ago, and he's already back in the Keep."

"Thank you." Jonothor dipped his head in a shallow nod, accepting the words as a matter of course. Many servants and guards found it strange to be thanked by a lord for performing their duty, but those from Heart's Home were accustomed to it; Lord Bryce was something of an oddity in that respect. He noted that the guard made no move to leave, his way of silently saying he had more to report; just as the guard had learned his lord's particular mannerisms, so too had Bryce made an effort to learn and adapt to the peculiarities of those who served him. "You have something else to tell me, Jonothor?"

The man nodded. "Queen had one of her fits again. The brother, what's his name, Viserys, he took something from her and she went storming off to his rooms dressed for battle. Overheard it from some servants. Figured you'd wanna know, since you said something about being concerned..." Jonothor trailed off with a shrug.

"Ah, yes, I did indeed. Thank you for passing the news along." The guard nodded and hunched his shoulders a bit, his version of a bow, and took his leave. Bryce remained gazing toward the doorway, but his eyes weren't focused on anything in particular. His hand found it's way to the sword propped against his chair, Lady Forlorn, the Valyrian steel sword known for the heart shaped ruby adorning its pommel. Lord Corbray's fingers ran over the gem in a slow, circular pattern, a subconscious act he sometimes did whilst thinking. Queen Visenya's problems were neither his concern nor an issue he could do anything about, so he moved the thought aside. King Aegon's return, however, would certainly mean a session with the Small Council in the morning. There was naught of great import for the Master of Laws to bring up, so it would likely be another morning of listening to others and voicing the occasional opinion.

Lord Bryce surprised himself back into the present by his mindlessly twirling fingers tipping Lady Forsworn over to clunk against the desk. With a quiet chuckle at giving himself a fright, he moved the sword back to its original position. He'd never been an avid warrior, but he liked to keep the weapon handy just in case. Where diplomacy failed, often the threat of a blade of Valyrian steel could calm a situation down. Shrugging off thoughts of such situations, Bryce returned to his paperwork, jaws creaking open wide with a yawn that came more from the expected tedium than actual tiredness.


Elsewhere in the Red Keep

Lythene Corbray stood among a gaggle of chattering women, all clearly hailing from wealthy houses based upon their dresses and jewelry. Looks could be deceiving, of course; one of the women was in fact a whore of common birth that an overly sentimental lord of middling wealth had taken as a mistress. Lythene suspected another of the group to be of similar origins, but as a spy for the Master of Whisperers rather than a pampered lover. She had yet to find proof, however, since such matters required finesse and a delicate touch. Pulling roughly at strings of information would ring alarm bells, so they needed to be caressed and coaxed instead. It was a game Lythene had played many times before, one she was quite good at, but she'd had neither the time nor the inclination to pursue this particular plant as of yet. There were more exciting things to focus on, after all.

The current subject of discussion among the gathered women was Queen Visenya's latest fit, as they'd taken to calling them. It was mostly second and third hand gossip as such matters ever were, acquired through the fickle pathways of servants gossiping with one another and then relayed to the ladies they served. Lythene had spoken with one of the Queen's own handmaidens, a girl who felt she owed the Lady Corbray a debt for helping her acquire the illustrious position; it had been part of a mutually beneficial trade agreement, already effectively paid for by the deal itself, but Lythene would not correct the girl's view and potentially lose a source of information. She knew the circumstances of the event, including Viserys taking the sword Dark Sister, and that it had apparently resolved itself without bloodshed. She was also aware that the Queen was walking the gardens with the man, though the surrounding gossipers were currently speculating on her whereabouts. It was never wise to immediately reveal all one knew, even for such a petty matter; that was one of the first rules of political intrigue that Lythene had learned in King's Landing.

Lythene tired of the current subject, as it was a recurring one of late. She had been initially quite interested, and to some degree the particular brand of madness the Queen displayed still intrigued her, but these women went in circles with it. She'd heard the remarks about a lady wearing armor dozens of times, the scornful jokes about the affliction even more, and she was positively sick of the speculation of what the King would do with her once she produced an heir for him. If it were not for the demands of decorum, Lythene would force the conversation toward the fiery side of Visenya, the warrior queen supposedly reborn, and what might happen should the Queen somehow get stuck in that persona. However, the ladies preferred to titter about the clothing and make derisive jokes, and so it would require much effort and perhaps some loss of face with them to move the conversation into interesting territory.

Instead, Lythene chose to extricate herself altogether. She added her own quip about how unwieldy platemail skirts would be, then declared herself exhausted by the very thought and in need of rest. They wished her a good evening, one advising her not to fall for the clatter would wake the dead. That earned a laugh from the ladies, including Lythene herself, and then she was free of them. It was not often that she thought of leaving such company as being freed from a torment, but sometimes it was just that. Such was usually a good indication that she could do with some time away from the city, to refresh her love for it by spicing the familiarity with some distance and longing.

The thought of travel reminded her of the King recently returned from the Riverlands. None of the ladies she'd just left had even known he was back in the city, so that avenue of conversation proved impossible without Lythene giving away her greater knowledge of the goings on in King's Landing. There wouldn't have been much to talk about in relation to the royal visit, but the women from the Riverlands would likely have opened up with new gossip from home had the subject been broached. The Riverlands were always a pleasant place, perhaps a visit to Riverrun would be nice. Or maybe the Reach, she hadn't been there in at least a year. King Aegon could do with more contact with the Tyrells, they were key support for anyone sitting on the Iron Throne. Highgarden's abundance of color never got old, that could be the place to go...

Lythene took a long, wandering route through the Keep toward the guest room she was currently staying in, her thoughts a messy intertwining of politics and travel plans.

Westeros, Dorne, Palace of Sunspear

Yaerlina Martell wandered through the halls of Sunspear's Palace, the well-ventilated stone hallways keeping the Prince relatively cool, even in the heat of the Dornish midday. For once, the Prince had managed to break away from his courtroom - leaving the rest of the administration for the day in the hands of his most trusted advisor, Jauin. He was dressed in the comfortable clothes he was seen in more often these days, rather than the armour he had worn in his younger years; a loose-fitting, white silken tunic, reaching to about halfway down his thigh - secured round his mdidle with a plain leather belt; the only addition to the well-cured hide a golden buckle. His legs were clothed with a pair of thick, sturdy brown trousers - legs protected by a pair of polished, black leather boots. As he rounded a corner, making his way down another near-empty hallway, he thought of his kingdom - of his beloved Dorne.

His realm was enjoying an era of quiet peace and prosperity; under the Prince's guiding hand, the subtly standoffish encounters between the three different types of Dornishmen had been erased, replaced instead with a warm relationship of friendship and cooperation. Along the way, there had been a few minor bumps, but all had been solved and had worked out for the better.

Until recently, the borders of his Kingdom in the North had been closed - the Dornishmen prefering to deal with traders from the Free Cities across the sea rather than the other Kingdoms of Westeros. However, Yaerlina (with a slight nudge from Areo) had seen the benefit in opening relations with the people over the Red Mountains - so long as they remained strictly trade-related, and no spies or armies made their way into his kingdom.

The Red Mountains were well guarded by the Stony Dornishmen, and he knew that no one would enter Dorne from the North with any motives other than peaceful trade because of them. He had continued to walk while thinking about the kingdoms to the North; making his way to his youngest and only legitimate son's appartments.

He nodded to the two Guards who stood outside the polished, wooden double doors that led into Areo's rooms, the two serious-looking men bowing to their monarch, the curious armour of Dornish make that they wore rattling somewhat with their movements. Yaerlina waved his hand dismissively, smiling kindly to the two men. "You have served my House well over the years - there is no reason to bow and scrape everytime you see me. Now.. I'd like to see my son." Obediently, one of the men knocked on the doorframe, waiting a moment before he and his colleague threw open the double doors, opening the way into Areo's appartments. "Thank you." Yaerlina murmured, stepping inside - the doors banging closed behind him.

"Areo, my son!" He called, looking around his son's rooms curiously - notcing the sheer number of books and scrolls that covered nearly every available service. It was like walking into a library. The smooth stone walls were covered with tapestries, depicting famous Dornish battles - and maps covering almost all of the world. Yaerlina was bemused by his son's obsession with geography, but it did have its benefits; he would be a knowledgeable monarch, when his time came, and he would know lots of the other rulers he had to contend with to keep his Kingdom's independence.

"Yes, father?" Came the rather informal response, from the heir's bedchambers - along with the sounds of turning pages through the half-open doors. Sighing inwardly, Yaerlina approached the door, picking his way through the maze of books and scrolls. "I've not seen you in days, Areo." He said to his son, pushing open the door and entering his bedchamber - frowning slightly as he folded his arms over his chest.

Areo was dressed in a loose-fitting white robe, a bead of sweat rolling down his brow as a result of the Dornish heat; his straight, brown hair plastered to his forehead as a result of his near-constant perspiration. "I know, father. I've been reading a most interesting tome, you see - about the Dragons of the Targaryens." Areo's tone was quiet but confident, and very matter-of-fact.

"Oh, have you, my son? That is all very well and good, but I think it would do our family name some good if you were actually seen every now and again. The people think you are sick - some of them even call Ricassio the heir of House Martell. I do not blame them, however - you've been living in these rooms since you were fifteen, and I've endured your chilidish behaviour for long enough. You may not be a soldier, but you are a Martell - and my heir. You will be seen in public, and you will socialise with the Lords and Ladies at court. Do you understand me, boy?" Despite the obviously annoyed orders he was conveying, Yaerlina did not seem angry; no, he was merely telling his son what he was doing wrong and giving him a chance to fix it.

The Prince had been expecting some sort of resistance, some sort of argument - but Areo did exactly as he was told, snapping his book shut without so much of a word and getting to his feet, shutting the widely opened windows of his bedroom as he made his way toward the doors. "Of course, father - I'll be in your courtroom if you require my presence elsewhere. I shall see you at dinner." With that said, the young man exited his bedchamber, his father listening to the sound of the door to his appartments opening and the murmured greeting the heir to Dorne gave to the Guards on duty at his door. Despite his quirks and love for books, Areo would make a fine ruler, as soon as he got over his reclusiveness - of that Yaerlina was certain.

And so it was that the first stage of the Prince's plan clicked into place. The Dorne wanted to expand his relations with the other rulers of Westeros - most chiefly, the Targaryens at King's Landing. He would not agree to becoming their vassal, most certainly, but an alliance of some sort could likely be arranged. Yaerlina's idea was to send his heir to King's Landing, as an emissary from Dorne. He would make sure he was well protected, of course - and if harm came to his son at the hand of another House, he would make them regret it.

Humming softly to himself, the Prince of Dorne exited his son's rooms - sending a page to fetch a scribe, so that a drafted proposal of a Diplomatic Emissary to King's Landing could be written up.

Westeros, King's Landing, Red Keep


A rain of arrows and debris fell down on them; Manfryd heard several thunks as three shafts lodged into his shield sending tremors across his arm. To his right a man shrieked as one managed to find its way through his helmet grill and into his eye, slumping to the floor his blood mixed into the mud which entrenched them, Manfryd flinched back in horror but he held his grip. He hadn't stopped shaking since they'd landed and he couldn't count the times he'd nearly lost his life in the past hour, but he held his grip.

A thunderous boom sounded as the ram collided with the gate, the young Baratheon tried to not to slip in the damned mud as the oak log drew back. A large knight bellowed something to them which Manfryd couldn't make out but he got the impression as the men scrambled back and heaved as they battered the gate a second time, a sharp splintering sound answering their knock. After a moment of panic from behind the gate soldiers began pouring out from another entrance clashing with their forces, a lightly armored man ran at him, rain and arrows and shit were still coming down on them but right then Manfryd had his eye on the short-sword swinging to his head.

Couldn't let go of his grip of the ram so couldn't get his own weapon, instinctively Manfryd held out an arm to block the sword, the edge scraped off against his plate and swung wide, he threw a mailed fist at the man's helmet, not enough to do any real damage, but the blow downed him. Manfryd breathed for a moment, he was bone weary, raising his leg he buried his foot into the man's throat making a sickening crunch. Stumbling backwards through the mud he heard the same knight as before shouting again, this time he sounded more desperate. Manfryd looked over to where he was pointing, the sky grew a little darker as a shadow fell across the battlefield, then things got a lot brighter. Manfryd lost his grip.

----

In a dank room of the Red-Keep he screamed. It took a moment to become aware of his surroundings, to realize he wasn't there. Rolling out of bed Manfryd Baratheon stumbled to the dresser and doused himself in water to help the cold sweat that covered his body. The man looking back at him in the mirror was not the boy from ten years ago, there was no grizzled stubble across his face or lines that now touched his mouth, but most of all it was his eyes, something had changed, there was something wilder in there with him now. His heart was still racing and breath short, images from the dream so vivid kept returning. An itch settled in him that needed scratching.

Manfryd got changed in a haze and swept out of his room, his right hand already begun twitching in anticipation but he suppressed it, for now. He had not enjoyed the visit to the Riverlands, too long aboard a boat, doing nothing but stand around looking intimidating, he had no release. Of course that was half of his job, but it wasn't why he took the role. His bed had seemed very tempting when he arrived back but it would not hold him. Turning down a corridor he shouldered past two guards whose expressions of anger melted away when they recognized him and stood aside to let him go muttering apologies, Manfryd barley noticed, he was of a one track mind for the moment.

Unofficially he was seen as a ward, a hostage to ensure the loyalty of his father, one of Aegon II's most ardent supporters who was rumored to be favorite for hand-ship. Certainly there was no love lost between King's Landing and Storm's End, it kept the peace. But that was not the reason, that was an excuse, even if the war had been won and Aegon II still sat on the throne with his father next to him as his hand, he would still be here. It wasn't about politics or power, Manfryd Baratheon was the King's Justice.

The dungeons stank, even by King's Landing standards. Manfryd swung open the tower door and was welcomed by a lungful of decay which he was surprised to find he had missed during the voyage. Stalking through he called out the chief goalor and after a moment Loul, a shrewish looking man appeared and raised an eyebrow at him inquisitively. "Lord Manfryd, hadn't realized you'd returned. How was your trip with the king?" The dirty little man emphasized the word the lord mockingly.

"The three men." Manfryd said, trying to keep his voice level. He brow creased in recollection for a moment. "The rapists, they're still here?"

The Goaler shrugged. "Well we haven't released them." He admitted.

Manfryd nodded. "We do it now." He tried his best to give an intimidating stare to the goaler, but it was no use, they weren't men you could intimidate, they'd seen worse than him and that was an unsettling thought.

"Master'o Laws hasn't signed them off yet," Loul noted. "who knows, they could get a last minute pardon, have friends in high places." He mused. But the goaler looked him up and down, he could read the tenseness in the King's Justice, the craving. Despite the difference in status, in class, in power, the dungeon workers here could see through him, understand him in their own twisted way. More than that, they almost regarded Manfryd was one of their own, which he hated, but it meant they did sometimes side with him. "Alright," Loul relented. "But you'll have Bryce to deal with." With that the grubby man reached behind his counter producing a large ring of keys and called out some other goalers from the back. Manfryd has his own things to deal with.

The dungeon sept was a crude one, the likenesses of the Seven were simple stone carvings placed in what was once just a large cell, though the candles gave it a certain ominous feeling. There was no permanent Septon here, instead a new one would pass through every two months or so, they were a mixture, some humble who genuinely preached redemption to the prisoners, others thought themselves above the station and generally either kept to themselves or preached scornfully to those imprisoned, Manfryd had a feeling it was a punishment assignment, seemed they even housed Septons in this dungeon.

No candles were alight that day beneath the stranger, most lay under the mother, some the warrior, mercy and strength were common things to pray for down here, though some did occasionally wish for an end to it all, or an end to someone else. The executioner lit a lone candle in the center of the little altar, as it flickered the shadows danced across the hooded effigy of the Stranger, Manfryd knelt and said a silent prayer.

There was a time he'd believed in justice, but he had only ever been fooling himself, trying to justify what he did, killing a man didn't bring his victim to life, anymore than Brandon burning his fleet helped him bring back his son. Manfryd knew what he did was wrong, he didn't pray for forgiveness, how could you before the act was done? No, he dedicated what he was about to do to the seven, it was all he could do, a drowning man clutching at driftwood. He was damned, that was clear but better to realise he was a sinner than believe he was a saint. Stranger take him.

It was a dark hour to be about, but a city like King's Landing never truly slept. As soon as word caught on an execution was to be taking place a small crowd began gathering around the podium, the sight of the King's Justice confirmed the rumors. Manfryd had retrieved his black great-axe, an evil thing, the shaft was four foot of carved ebony and the blade that hung on its end was wrought in black steel, an inscription written beneath it. It was designed to inspire fear and did a fine job.

Manfryd's arms trembled ever so slightly now and in the back of his mind he could hear faint clashes and screams of battle, the anticipation in him was rising. Behind him the goalers had the three rapists bound with bags over their heads their posture spoke of fear, three lads who'd given into an urge one night, not dissimilar to himself, only they were about to be a head shorter for it. He was beyond deep thoughts now though, Loul whipped the bag off the first one, the rapist looked about in terror, scanning about desperately for some sign of escape or mercy, his eyes settled on Manfryd for a moment, that seemed to still him. Two of the goalers forced his head onto the block.

Manfryd tested the weight of the axe, he'd done this a thousand times yet in each one he had to be sure. Its black edge shone slightly in the dusk, glinting on its inscription: "When this axe I do lift, I wish the sinner eternal life as gift" A creed he'd heard somewhere, it was true before and after, but right then, as he lifted the executioners hood over his head all he could think of was killing. Each tantalizing step toward the block his heart beat fiercer and the sounds of war in his mind grew louder and more real. Manfryd hefted the black axe, he wasn't aware of anything around him except for the gaze of the guilty man. And he swung. In that moment he was back, the buzz of killing, the roar of battle, the scorching of dragonfire, screaming in his mind, it all came back to him, he was home, he was alive!

The head tumbled down and rolled off of the podium, the crowd drew back from it in a mixture of horror and fascination. Manfryd panted and steadyed himself with the axe handle, a clean cut. It had been too long since he's last taken a life. He turned to Loul, blood dripping off his axe and down his shirt. "Next."

Petyr, Storm's End

The journey to Storm's End had been more arduous than Petyr could have imagined. It wasn't enough to answer his lord's summons, it was necessary to also stop at each hold along the way. Or so it had seemed to the young lord. Each stop meant a day and night of being hosted by the men who were now sworn to him. Petyr tried to keep up a brave albeit stoic facade. But being around men and women who were just a short time ago his betters by far was unsettling still. More unsettling had been the looks he was surely not meant to catch. Everyone he met seemed to look at him with either disdain or incredulity. He couldn't blame them, three months ago he was tending his family's farm. It didn't help either that the trip had forced him to leave Stonehelm to his twin. Hopefully nothing would need Robett's direct attention. Maester Ryam, who accompanied him, had assured him the steward would see to the mundane. Robett would be able to scorn his duties as normal.

As they had approached Storm's End, Petyr and Maester Ryam had been met by a small contingent of Baratheon men. Petyr had been relieved that Lord Bryen had not come forth personally. They were escorted to their rooms but the maester had appeared shortly after Petyr had changed into what was now considered suitable clothing. He was looking at himself in the polished mirror, the way he still looked small and slight compared to so many of his peers was a source of frustration. His somber face was petulant with the frown that grew deeper the longer he examined himself.

"Ah, Lord Petyr. You chose well for the occasion." Maester Ryam noted, nodding his balding head. The Maester kept a short beard, white beginning to replace the brown. Petyr figured the man must be only in his forties, but found him to be a source of comfort. Ryam had explained his duty was to House Swann regardless of who lead it. So far Petyr believed him. Maester Ryam's advice and counsel had been undeniably helpful as the young lord settled into his duties.
Petyr spared one more look at himself before he turned to the Maester. "I didn't choose anything. The servants set everything out for me." He was slowly being accustomed to the constant intrusions of men dressing him, of the way they bowed to him.

"Regardless Lord Petyr, you are ready to meet your Lord. Do you have any more questions for me?" Petyr had peppered the man with questions the length of their journey.

"No. I know the words to say, I know I'll need to explain Tommard's bannishment. I know I will be examined more than I will ever be comfortable with." He ended quietly, glancing down to his feet. By the Seven, how had he ended up here? What a fluke of fate that his father would hate his own brother so much. Even as much as Robett annoyed him, he could not hate his twin.

"Remember marriage may be discussed as well. Your cousin will be of age soon. Have you thought on this more?" Maester Ryam prodded gently, shuffling on his feet. "It could do well to solidify your bannermen's acceptance to have a-"

"You may sit, if you wish, Maester." Ryam only nodded as if his fidgeting had not been a reminder of the formalities now necessary. He chose a chair and settled his body into it. "I haven't decided yet." Petyr disliked the the way the conversation had returned to this particular matter. His father had legitimized both he and Robett, yet as Petyr had been later informed, that could mean little. Tommard's brash actions in attempting to murder the twins had removed the only direct heir to contend for the lordship, but Petyr's rule over Stonehelm was far from secure. Only a royal decree, he had been belatedly told, would secure him as true heir to the Swann's holdings and lands. Lord Byron, brother to Lord Stefford had had a daughter before being slain during the war. She was eleven now, and in a few years would flower into womanhood. Try as he might to be a good lord with everything else going on, the thought of marrying Marsella bothered him. He would need to confront it soon, he knew, but he took little pleasure in it. "If all goes as well as you promise me things can go, Lord Bryen can appeal to the king on my behalf and perhaps I need not worry so much over who I marry or how soon." Much less that he would need to marry his brother off to cement a political alliance at some point. "You told me my father had a Baratheon mother? Well then I will hope Lord Bryen feels something familial for me."

Maester Ryam only bowed his head, "As you say, my lord. Very well, come, we should be expecting an escort soon I think."

******

Robett, Stonehelm

Stonehelm was lovely when you had not a thing to do. Robett had quickly come to love walking and running through the hold and its grounds. Lordship seemed an easy thing to bear when you had not a thing to worry about. He ate like a glutton at every meal yet there was always more food available and ready for him. He could drink as much as he wanted and the only one to say a word was his brother, a brother who had been absent recently. He found himself growing fond of wine from the Reach. He wasn't precisely sure where the Reach was, but he called for the wine with every meal, and oftentimes, in between meals. The servants picked him new clothing every morning, cleaned and brushed no matter the dirt he left on it. Hot baths could be readied any time he asked for one. Yes indeed, Robett thought, this was a great improvement over hiding from chores on his family's farm. It seemed the Maester did not care for rebuking him for missing his lessons either. The castellan was a more prickly sort of man though, avoiding his lessons earned some vulgarities that Robett took much joy in returning. Still, he found that was the only man he openly avoided. What good would training to be a knight do now? His twin would have to marry and have some sons, while Robett could lounge away his days in comfort.

Stonehelm though, was a terrible place when you had something to do. Robett found himself sitting uncomfortably in what had become his brother's seat, looking down at the small gathering before him. The large hall was pleasantly warm, but Robett found himself increasingly bored and uncomfortable. He had been found wandering the land and forced-much to his surprise-to return to the hold. It was a day to bring complaints before their lord, and although the steward had promised he need do little other than agree to what the steward said, he found it a monotonous job. Border complaints, livestock ownership, theft; Robett had no idea how long he had been sitting there when his eyes fell upon a familiar face.

The Steward, Mace perhaps, called forth the familiar man. Another man, in clothing far more like Robett's own stepped forward as well. "Lord Robett," he said as he bowed quickly. "I am faithfully your loyal servant, Ser Rickard of Felwood. This man stole my horse and upon finding the scoundrel, found also that he had butchered the beast. I paid a good sum for the animal and seek recompense and justice."

Robett stared at the man accused trying to place him in his memories. He swallowed half his cup of wine as Mace asked questions of the event. Robett paid no attention until finally he knew who the man was. He spoke without thinking. "Eh. So Barth, you find yourself before me now, do you?" Mace and Ser Rickard turned their attention and surprise towards Robett who had barely uttered a word other than yes previous to this outburst.

Barth fumbled and reddened under the Lord's gaze. He was older than Robett by a few years and had often taken to scuffling with him in years past. "So you stole a horse and ate it. From one of my sworn men." Robett laughed and glanced quickly to Mace, enjoying the look on his face as well.

"No, Rob. M'lord I mean to say. I swear it. I didn't do as he says I did. I was hungry, I was. Found the horse already dead. I didn't know it was his." Barth nodded toward the knight.

The steward touched Robett's elbow and leaned over to whisper a bit of guidance in handling the affair, but Robett shushed him. Mace stepped back, visibly unhappy at his lord's sudden interest in law and justice.

"Guilty. I sentence you as guilty." A wide grin was still upon his face as some of his knights dragged the man off. It seemed to be the last issue before them for Mace quickly cleared the hall leaving only the two of them. The steward quickly left as well, leaving Robett alone to do as he wished once more. Perhaps he would go down to the small dungeon Stonehelm contained and taunt Barth a bit. It would be fun to see the man squirm a bit more before he was lashed or whatever it was done to horse-thiefs. Before he got too far though, a pretty serving girl caught his eye and Robett found himself tailing her towards the kitchens. Ah, the pleasures of lordship...

Robett did eventually remember his want to annoy Barth, though it wasn't until the following evening. The only gaoler under Swann employ sat on a rough stool picking at his nails with a dagger. "I sent a man down here the other day. Barth. Where is he?"

The old man looked up after a long moment of silence. "No one down here but me. This Barth, he be a horse-thief?"

Robett nodded impatiently. "You mean he's gone already?" Disappointment at his lack of diversion grew.

"Aye, beheaded him. Didn't think m'lord would want to see something for horse-stealin' fella like him." The man smiled a toothy grin and shrugged. "'Poligies, m'lord. I'll send for you next time." By the time he returned to digging at his nails, Robett had fled to find the steward, but not before messily emptying his stomach on the dungeon's stairs.

****

"You had him beheaded?!"

"The punishment for horse-theft is death, my lord." Mace spoke evenly, eying Robett's expression as it changed from anger to disbelief. "You knew that though, of course. Your lessons should have brought you up on such simple matters. I did wish to tell you that Ser Rickard is a pompous man who often brings salacious tales before Lord Swann. It is often easy to see the truth of the matter with a few diligent questions. But my lord knew best, I am sure."

"Why didn't you say something before?!" Robett spat back, folding his arms against his chest. Vomit was still speckled across his shirt.

"You made your decision, as is your right. You silenced me, if you recall. Perhaps you will attend your lessons with more rigor from now on?" Mace looked down at the boy before him, his gaze unflinching and unforgiving. Robett found it difficult to return the glare.

"Fuck you. And fuck the lessons. And fuck all of this!" He managed before again storming off through the long corridors, in search of his mother's comfort.

Westeros, Dorne, Palace of Sunspear

Yaerlina sat on his throne in the airy courtroom of the Old Palace, a barely concealed expression of boredom marring his otherwise handsome facial features. His son sat at his side, his own expression impassive - the young man already able to mask his emotion: the mark of a master diplomat in the making. The hall was well lit, light filtering in from the Tower of the Sun located above the throneroom.

The Dornish Ruler's throne itself was a comfortable-looking thing, made of polished, precious wood bought from the Free Cities across the sea. Cushions softened the hard seat, providing a comfortable position in which the Prince could rest whilst listening to reports and proposals from his people. The Spear of the Martells was located on the back of the throne. Areo's own throne was almost identical to his father's, save for the fact that his chair featured the Rhoynish sun on its back; since his mother's death, Areo had been the only Dornishperson to sit on the second throne.

Yaerlina had changed his clothes from the relatively casual clothing he had worn while visiting his son to a golden satin robe, belted about the waist with a golden sash, decorated with a number of precious gems. His son wore similar clothing, except that his robes were white, his belt silver.

The Prince of Dorne had already drafted his letter to the inbred Targaryen King - he and his scribe having met and discussed the wording of the document before Yaerlina had had to rush back to the boring, day-to-day running of his realm. As he sat through the boring report about the number of Sand Steeds being bred a month, he zoned out: thinking of when would be a wise time to send his proposal to the King on the Iron Throne. He supposed that it would be best to wait for news from his sources in King's Landing about relatively new events and happenings in the Targaryen capital, so that he wouldn't be sending his son in unprepared.

Finally, the man finished his speech - after what had seemed like hours. The Prince of Dorne smiled a regal smile, giving the man a curt nod in response to his bow as he left the courtroom.

"That was riveting," Areo murmured quietly from behind his father, a wryly amused note to his words. When the Prince turned, he saw amusement in his son's brown eyes: amusement at his father's boredom. Yaerlina sighed, shaking his head as he rose to his feet. "You're hopeless, Areo," He said, chuckling.

The courtroom of the Dornish Prince was empty, save for the sons of a few Minor Nobles, who were now quietly making their exit out of a number of side doors built into the walls of the chamber. Yaerlina descended the twelve steps that led up to his raised throne, polished leather boots thudding on the spotless marble floor. His son followed along behind him, the white robes he wore swishing about his feet.

The huge double doors that led out of the courtroom were thrown open at the approach of the Dornish Prince and his heir; a loud thud echoing around the near-empty, well-lit courtroom as the Guards manning the heavy doors slammed their feet down upon the ground, standing at attention as their ruler passed.

"A most boring afternoon, Areo." Yaerlina murmured to his son, heading back toward his own Royal apartments. "Indeed, father." The heir murmured back, "But I, at least, listened. You fooled the man giving the report - he thought you were riveted, but then again he was a thick-headed horse breeder - but you didn't fool me, or the other Nobles. Maybe you should allow me to handle the more tedious aspects of running the realm, so that you can focus upon hatching your intricate plans." Areo snickered, glancing to his father with an arched eyebrow.

Yaerlina was silent for a moment, a small smile on his soft lips. "You notice too much, perhaps, my son. Yes. You will act as my steward - it will teach you some responsibility. I may have a more important task for you in time, however - so do not grow too comfortable in your new position. Now, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with our female ward. I simply must check up on her."

Smirking, Areo nodded - bowing slightly to his father as he walked away. "Of course, sire. Give her my regards."


Westeros, Dorne, The Red Mountains, The Boneway

http://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/e/...sh_Marches.jpg

Ricassio Martell rode at the head of a contingent of Stony Dornishmen, his dark, curly hair falling into his eyes. He sat comfortably on the back of his dune-coloured sandsteed, the noble-looking animal moving at a sedate pace through the pass that connected Dorne with the Stormlands. Two score men accompanied him; hard-faced Stony Dornishmen, mounted on similar steeds, which had been circulated to the men of the Red Mountains from the Sandy Dornes - a result of the friendships the Prince had encouraged between his people. They carried thick-hafted, sharp-tipped spears and round metal shields, a few of their number resting double-curved bows on their thighs.

The Bastard of Sunspear brushed a few ringlets out of his eyes, bracing himself as another gust of wind blasted through the narrow pass - causing the robes the men wore over their strange armour to gust around them, flapping about. Once the winds had calmed, Ricassio turned in his saddle to address the men who accompanied him - men from a number of different houses, pieces together on Ricassio's request. This raid was to serve two purposes - to help stabilise the storehouses of the mountain Houses, with the food taken from the fertile lands to the North, and also to strengthen friendships between the Stony Dornes themselves - who were known for their feuding. Ricassio didn't blame them for fighting, either - there wasn't much else to do in the mountains. But his father had expressed his desire for the Houses to be friends, and Ricassio would do whatever he had to to achieve the Prince's goals.

"We'll arrive at the village in a few hours. Are you ready to serve your beloved Dorne, friends?" Ricassio's words were said enthusiastically, loud above the wailing of the mountain pass - a fanatically loyal glint in his eyes as he spoke of his mother country. The grizzled men who accompanied him growled their assent - and, although their enthusiasm likely came from the desire to sink their blades into the men of the Stormlands, Ricassio was pleased with their response.

The column fell into relative silence for the next few hours, leaving the relative safety and familiarity of the Red Mountains behind them as they entered into the Dornish Marches - currently inhabited by the men of the Stormlands. This, of course, was a grave insult - the heathens of the North living in Dornish lands was as offensive as a slap to the face from a gauntleted hand.

The raiding party made their way down the slopes that led into the Marches in silence, grim-faced as they waited for the opportunity for their speartips to be dipped in the blood of the Stormlands. Eventually, their target came into sight - a small village (really, only a large farmstead) resting on the crest of a hill, its fields and outhouses sprawling out on the surrounding grasslands. "Here is what we have come for, brothers! Show the men of the North than the Dornish do not take kindly to their lands being wrested from them!"

With a blood-curdling roar, the raiders put their ankles to the sides of their horses, the superior speed of the Dornish steeds eating up the distance between the farm and the forty men quite a bit faster than the speed which would have been achieved by Warhorses. Ricassio reined in his own mount, content to let his men take care of the smallfolk - who had had the courage to rally into a small group, wielding pitchforks and rusty swords. "Lay down your weapons!" Ricassio bellowed, as his men encirled the farmers - their eyes bright and bloodthirsty, daring the clearly outmatched group to make a wrong move. One of the farmers made a bold attempt at resistance, clumsily shoving his pitchfork toward the neck of a raider's horse. His weapon was contemptuously knocked out of the way with the haft of the raider's spear, the man next to him stabbing the farmer through the back without so much of a second thought.

With the cold-blooded demonstration of violence and no tolerance to resistance, the farmers quickly lost their backbone - laying down their weapons. "You have made the right choice," Ricassio murmured, smiling at them - the dark-skinned, dangerous man a source of gawking and curiosity for the smallfolk, "You may go - but do not return here. We will not be so merciful if we find you here when we return. This is Dornish Land - tell this to your Lords! You are not welcome!" Even as Ricassio spoke, a number of his men had ransacked the farmstead for food and valuables, attaching any donkeys and cows together in a train of livestock, laying the other food (grain, bread, etc) upon their backs. Once anything of use to the Dornishmen had been salvaged, torches were lit and thrown onto the thatched rooves of the buildings.

The farmers watched in despair as their home burned, chased away by three or four of the Dornish raiders, as the rest turned back to the South - back to the Boneway.

Bear Island, Hall of the Mormonts

The dark, smoky grey ripples were accented in the hearth light as Lord Donthan Mormont ran the soft stone along the edge of the blade, giving the already lethally sharp Valyrian steel blade an even more honed edge, one it hardly required. The ancestral blade of House Mormont, an ancient long sword called Longclaw, never lost its edge in the many centuries it had been in possession of the house, passed down from Lord to his heir for countless generations, since Rodrik Stark had won the island from the ironborn and gifted Bear Island to the Mormonts. They had remained stalwart banner men to the Starks since, never failing to heed the call of duty. The last time Lord Donthan had had to use Longclaw was ten long years ago, during the Dance of Dragons. What the Mormonts lacked in manpower they made up in ferocity and pure fighting skill. Arguably, they had the most practice at it.


The lord studied the details of the blade as he worked, noting its black leather grip, forked steel cross guard, and most distinctly a white stone bear head, carved to resemble a brown bear roaring defiantly as it stared down its enemy. It was the perfect representation of the words of house Mormont; “Here We Stand”. Countless invaders in the guise of wildlings and ironborn reavers had threatened the island many times through the Mormont’s rule, and each time they were repelled not just by the men of Bear Island, but the women. Skill at arms was a calling to the people of this isolated land, and the ever-present threat of attack and the harshness of the climate had hardened the people of Bear Island into some of the fiercest warriors Westeros had ever produced. It didn’t stop the squids from trying to attack the villages, but they often weren’t successful. A huge portion of Bear Island’s arms and armour came from the ironborn fallen, given the relative poorness of house Mormont.


The Hall of the Mormonts was not a magnificent stone castle like many others across the realm, instead it was a substantially large lodge made up of long, carved logs and fitted stone. It was a comfortable, earthy home that did not give its inhabitants a sense of entitlement given its rustic nature, and no real efforts were made to keep the common people from approaching during times of peace. Many would come throughout the day; some bearing gifts for the ruling house such as choice fish from a catch, others bringing words of concern to the Mormonts that needed addressing. In fact, before Donthan retired from the great hall, an audience chamber which also acted as a dining room for the family, visitors, and members of the Hall of the Mormonts, he had received five representatives from the villages or crofts from across the island. Most were nothing pressing and would be dealt with in time, but one thing in particular needed to be taken care of before it found itself getting out of hand. For those travelling from far across the island, Lord Mormont made his hospitality known and offered to host the visitors for the evening and see to it they were fed and offered a bed in the guest chambers. The mutual respect and accessibility between the Mormonts and the common folk ensured Bear Island retained a close, trusting community that would endure the most difficult of times together. Not for the first time, Donthan reflected that he was grateful to have not been hiding behind great stone walls and legions of servants to keep him and his family apart from those who supported his family’s power. There were those who felt their nobility was a reason to look down on peasants and keep them at sword’s length. How could those Lords expect their people to support them in their times of need? Lord Mormont and his son Jored had led a host of 600 men into war ten years ago, and most came back. The men respected their lords, and the sentiment was mutual. It made for a well-disciplined fighting machine that did not flinch when faced with hosts many time their number. Bears do not travel in packs like wolves or prides like lions; they fight with individual strength and courage that was unmatched. Even the damn Greyjoys respected the fighting ability of the people of Bear Island; it was as martial of a society as their own in many ways. Even the women were capable warriors.


“Donthan, my love. Have you seen Daely? She’s late for her lessons.” Lyana Mormont said from the doorway, casting a shadow across the room that stopped just before Donthan. He turned to face his wife. Even well past her prime, she was still a beautiful woman and the love of his life. For a marriage that was formed out of political necessity, it was one that had worked out in ways that Donthan often thought the old gods willed it. “No, I have not. You know her, if you keep hounding her to learn how to courtesy and dance or sew or some other such rubbish, she will seize any opportunity to escape.” He replied, rising from his wicker chair and sliding Longclaw back into its scabbard. He smiled at his wife, who frowned disapprovingly at Donthan.


“We had an agreement, you will remember. She needs to learn how to be a proper lady, or gods help her, every lord’s son in Westeros will think her a savage, a wildling.” She said sternly. It was a dance they had often done, and one Donthan learned to take at face value. Lyana loved Daely very much and knew she was approaching the age where she would be looked at to be wed. There were some things a Lady feared above all else, and chief among them was their daughters marrying into a family of ill repute or to a lame crippled boy, or some other such undesirable. She wanted Daely to be happy, but the girl was hardly cooperative. Her mind was sharp, and if she spent half as much time learning how to behave like the other Westerosi noblewomen, she’d be the envy of the kingdom, or so Lyana told herself. Donthan was unconcerned. His only daughter was a beauty, well-mannered and smart. She would do well with her life, and at her own time.


“I know, I know. I’ll find her and let her know how mother bear snarls.” Lord Donthan said, crossing the room to pull Lyana close, kissing her on the forehead. “You would do well to take heed to what interests her, you know. You worry too much about what other people think.” He said, departing his study by stepping past his wife and crossing through the adjoining great hall and towards the high, heavy oak double doors, beautifully carved to reflect the nature of the island with the sky and peaks up high, the forest, wolves, bears and streams in the middle, and toward the bottom, the cliffs, ocean, and fish. The two guards, dressed in chainmail with the green surcoat with the Mormont sigil and leather boots and steel spectacle helms with long swords fastened to their belts, saluted by striking their gauntleted fists against their chests as their opened the doors to permit the Lord passage. He nodded to the two men as passed wordlessly by, stepping onto the large cobblestone patio that marked the entranceway to the Hall of the Mormonts, along with a set of eight long cobblestone steps to the earth below. To the East, near the gate that marked the only entranceway through the palisade lay a great pile of cut logs with a strong, bearded man tirelessly chopping the wood. Lord Donthan crossed the ground and greeted his eldest son, Jored, whose bare muscles were rippling under the intensive exercise.


“You know you do not have to do that, Jored.” Donthan pointed out, trying to determine how many logs the younger Mormont had split.


Another log split, and the axe remained planted in the large stump as Jored stopped, sweating under the sun and picking up a large water skin. He drank deeply after removing the cap before regarding his father. “I do not have to, but I choose to. It’s good for the men to see that we do not grow lazy and fat in our great hall while they toil to make sure they have enough to eat throughout the year.” He said, drinking again. Donthan smiled, it was something he always admired about Jored. He was responsible to his very core and would not ask his men to do something he would not do himself. And like most Mormont men, he preferred to not be attended to by servants. It was a lesson Donthan had learned from his own father, and he in turn passed it to his sons. A man is only worth what he is willing to do, and nothing easy is ever worth doing. Jored seemed to have readily taken to that philosophy and grew into a great, powerful man who would make a stern but great lord when his time came to rule. Aerik, on the other hand, seemed to be allergic to taking responsibilities he did not have to. “Can I do something for you, father?” Jored asked, brow caked in sweat.


“I simply wanted to find out where Daely has gotten off to. She’s gotten to that age where she’s rather difficult to keep track of her whereabouts.” He smiled. “I am beginning to think she may be growing too big for this place.”


Jored grunted, pulling the axe free and setting up another log to strike. “My guess is the godswood. It seems to be Aerik and Daely’s choice of location the past month or so. Would you like me to fetch them?” he asked.


Lord Donthan raised his hand dismissively. “No, I will see to it myself. You have quite the pile to go yet.” He said with a grin, turning to walk through the gate. He stopped before crossing, calling back to Jored. “Make sure you wash up before I return, supper’s at sundown.” He said, turning to follow the path that lead to the godwood.


_ _ _

Bear Island, the Godswood


“I’ll never understand why you lug those musty old books with you everywhere under the pretense of relaxation, Daely.” Aerik Mormont said, hands behind his head that was cushioned by the now vacant leather satchel that Daely had used to carry the tome and their lunch out to the godswood, smoked deer sausages and a bushel of berries. He lay beside the creek that ran through the godswood, the sound of running water giving the sacred place a sense of serenity. Daely was sitting, back against the weirwood, with the book propped up on her knees. It was a history of Queen Nymeria of Rhoynar and King Mors Martell’s conquest of Dorne. For some reason, Daely seemed to thrive off those ancient stories of far off lands and times long past. Aerik was never sure why, but then again, he wasn’t one for reading.


“You should pick up a book sometime and find out for yourself, brother.” Daely said, turning the page. “You may find out there are more interesting things in the world than watching the fishermen bring in their nets and listen to father and Jored talk about their war stories.”


Aerik chuckled, not opening his eyes and enjoying the sun on his face, the light penetrating through the canvas of the weirwood. “Is that what this is about? You being tired of being cooped up on Bear Island? I can’t say I blame you, I’ve been itching to travel, and soon. You know father takes us when he can, so just have patience. You know it’s only a matter of time before some dull Southern lord forgets how hard Jored hits with a mace and calls another tourney. That or mother wanting to return to White Harbor to see her family.” He observed, grabbing a small handful of berries to eat from the small draw-string enclosed bag.


“You aren’t such a bad jouster, yourself. It’s a shame your armour isn’t nearly as pretty as some of the knights, like the Targaryens, Lannisters or Tyrells.” Daely observed with a smile. She’d even been given a knight’s favour in the last tourney from a comely Crownlands knight. He had hardly the most expensive or flourished armour, but he knew his way around a lance like no other. To add insult to injury, it was the same knight that unhorsed Aerik in the semi-finals. It was a sore memory in more ways than one, it took over a month for the bruise from the lance to heal.


Aerik turned over to grin at Daely. “An expert jouster in more way than one, my aim is always true.” He said with a wink, referring to his frequent conquests on and off the tourney field. Aerik’s seductions and romps with women every time the family left Bear Island had initially disgusted Daely, but now it held more entertainment value than perceived shame to their family. Shockingly, it was one of the few things that seemed to truly amuse Jored. Their older brother often held bets with the family guard on whom Aerik would take via point system, where the major houses were with the most points and lowborn women the least. In addition to the pot going to the winner who had guessed the closest point value, Jored personally would award anyone who guessed exactly what noblewoman would fall to Aerik’s charms. It was one of the few things that seemed to crack Jored’s stoic disposition, he wasn’t a man for laughter or smiles, but it always felt like it could break winter the rare time he did. Daely threw a stick at Aerik for his crude comment, making him exaggerate curling into a defensive ball.


“You two look to be amusing yourselves.” A familiar voice called from the clearing. Their father approached, stopping a few meters away. His eyes drifted to the weirwood for a moment before turning his attention to his children. “How long have you been out here?” he asked.


“Two, maybe three hours?” Aerik offered. “Daely would know better, I’ve slept through most of it. Dornish history is drier than their god-forsaken country. Father, please tell Daely she can’t marry a Dornishman. She’d dry up like a raisin and catch fire from the heat. Ow!” Another expertly thrown stick smacked Donthan’s youngest son in the temple.


Lord Donthan laughed, Aerik had a way of speaking that could turn even the most crude, unimaginative of jokes into something worth laughing at. “You may wish to watch your tongue, Aerik. Your sister may decide the Dornish preference for poison is a lesson worth retaining.”


“I’ve never even met a Dornish noble before, why would I even consider marrying one?” she asked indignantly. “It’s probably the only one of the seven kingdoms you haven’t bedded yet, brother.”


Lord Donthan held up a hand to silence his children. “Enough, I’d rather not find out how Aerik’s been destroying the Mormont name.” he said, although with a slight smile. “You both have duties now, I think you’ve escaped your mother long enough, Daely.” He said, grinning. Daely rolled her eyes in response, but dutifully rose to her feet, gathering her things. Aerik did the same, handing the satchel back to his sister. “And what would you ask of me, father?”


“You and I need to go down to the village, the common folk say they caught themselves a pair of squids. A curious thing, considering that usually only happens when longboats appear.” He said. “The people need to see that you still do something than longue around like a harbour seal all day.”


“I did just a fine job ruling Bear Island with a malleable bronze fist while you and Jored were off killing Lord Stark’s enemies, thank you very much. I think I earned some down time.” Aerik said with a grin. It was his way of showing his father he was being cheeky, not defiant.


“That you did, but now I say that you’re rested. Come now, duty calls.” Lord Donthan said, turning to leave with his children in tow. Aerik and Daely took up position on either side of him as they headed back up the path to the Hall of the Mormonts. If one thing for bears could be said, they seldom wandered far from home.