Casterly Rock, The Westerlands, Westeros



There was no escape. No place to hide. In the darkness, far from any living set of eyes, shadow and blood collided. The creation of dreams and nightmares, set upon the last living souls of destruction using fire and blood. In the darkness, even Celena knew there was nothing to do. No prayers to be said, no mercy to beg for. In the palace of the Dream Kings, there wouldn’t even be a scream. There wouldn’t be time.

Faceless and formless the spectres came howling, one haunting echo to leave her soul shaking, and her skin hard and cold and pale. Jewelled eyes twinkled in the morning light, the shapeless man’s naked smile sharper than steel as he crossed the threshold between dreaming and awake. Not even in the natural fortress of Casterly Rock would Celena be free.

The devil whispered it, the spectre’s rattled it, smoke filling the air as something darker, and hotter, than simple death crept into the vaults of Casterly Rock, a chain of whispers igniting from the darkness--right into Celena’s soul. All fighting did was make the fired blood smolder, tendrils of blood and smoke filling her nostrils, forcing into her mouth and throat.

Two eyes, and the third, where no mortal soul dare cross. In the shadows of the Rock it spoke to her; ...come explore your soul’s creations. Seduction with bone fingers sharper to touch than to hold, tracing from the defenseless and sightless vision of her closed eyes to slicing underneath that sunned, silken, skin, threatening to fidget and fight for control of her hands.

“Lady Celena? You--”

The dagger under the pillow was at the soft, pink, throat of the Lady in Waiting before the girl had so much as a moment to finish her sentence. Sheer terror filled the girl’s eyes as her body began to tremble, eyes locked onto the big, emerald, eyes of the killer with the dagger at her throat. It was as if the girl was physically unable to move so much as a centimeter until the Lioness took the dagger from the girl, and sighed.

“My apologies, Penny.” Though the girl appeared to want more of an explanation...she’d not get it this morning. Before the girl’s wits could return to her, Celena had rolled out of the bed and walked from the chamber, leaving her questions to silence and lonesomeness.

Dance with demons, Celena, and darkness will always find you.

The pirate had always been wiser than he’d any right to. The foggy freeze of the Doomlands came like a fresh memory to her mind, as if it was only yesterday she was daring the bubbling hot waters or braving against the agonizing screams of spirits long dead and longer tortured.

There were moments in her life when Lady Celena of House Lannister was little more than a bad joke. It was only a matter of time until her past of devils and demons and blood and fire caught up to her. As the pirate warned her:

No magic comes without a price.

The cold morning had given way to a warm afternoon, even the usual drafts and sea winds that could be felt throughout the castle had dulled in the easy heat of the past midday sun. Usually formal business would have taken place in a study or hall, now those assembled gathered on a terrace overlooking the sea, sitting in the gaze of the surprising sun.

“I have heard more than mere whispers from the Iron Isles. They’re hardly subtle in their efforts, nor their plans.” Sandor Hill was one of Tybolt’s longest standing informants, now, as a familiar face around the Rock and Lannisport, he helped to coordinate the efforts of his employer’s vast network, and what couldn’t be gathered directly through agents, through the networks of other influential spymasters. He was valuable, but replaceable, as were all the men Tybolt gathered to him. The only people he would ever rely on beyond that point were family, and then only just.

“The Westerlands are hardly disunited, but it might be worth suring up such things, in the event the Ironborn decide to reave and raid, foolish as that may be in the long run.” Ser Terryn was the master of the Lannisport fleet, powerful as it was, that gave him more than a small amount of say among Tybolt’s advisers, especially in matters such as these where the might of the fleet would be tested. The Lord of Casterly Rock had long fostered an environment in which such individuals could freely voice their thoughts, so long as they bowed to his eventual authority.

“Wise indeed, I’ve planned a few visits across the Westerlands, I shall simply increase the number of Lordships I call upon. Besides, some amount of travelling will do my family good, we have been cooped up for too long.” Tybolt watched the sea as he replied, before sipping a drink from a small table beside him. Nothing more than water, savouring the cold chill before it would soon be warmed by the heat. “That, and the Lords of the Westerlands do so enjoy when my wife and I come to visit. Although I hardly think it’s my charm and good wit they miss.”

The Lady of Casterly Rock was as well known for her beauty and style as she was for the dark mysteries of her past. Famous for Myrish laces and rich silk gowns, the only true shock of Celena’s appearance came not when she appeared on the sunned balcony over the Sunset Sea, but when she walked onto the balcony without a gown, without a single rich cut fabric decorating her celebrated form. Only black leather and steel decorated Celena as she appeared, the survivor and fighter, not the wife of Lord Tybolt. The very same creature that had already started training the one year old Lord Tyrion in ways so subtle, no one had even picked it up.

Like the Lioness, not Lady Celena, Tyrion would be ready with steel and shadow when the murderers and plotters came for him. She would see to that. “Lords,” was all the greeting the woman in black offered as she approached the stone edge of the balcony, her senses drinking up the sea like a drunk embraced his first drink in days.

The way she smiled...gave no man the pleasure of daring to think he knew just what she did behind closed doors. “Talking of Kraken?” She asked, as if it were clear by her tone it was the very last thing any of them should have been worrying about. When she turned to face the little group, Celena leaned back on the edge of the balcony, grinning.

Sandor and Terryn. The spy and the sailor. Boys playing at games, but at least they were youth with promise. Tybolt wasn’t a fool. If he was, Celena would’ve killed him, rather than married him. But both boys seemed concerned about her shadow, and not without justification.

Celena had left little doubt that she’d infringe upon their territory should the need arise. A fact constantly reinforced by the spies always just beyond the sight of Sandor’s spies in the dark corners of Lannisport, spies that just had to belong to Celena--so Sandor Hill was certain.

At least Sandor Hill dealt with shadows he could only guess at. Terryn didn’t have that luxury; the presence of the Lioness was much more real for him. The man was the lord of the Lannisport fleet--save for one ship. A smuggler’s ship with no flag and a crew that didn’t even seem capable of speaking. A vessel as infamous as it was desired for destruction by countless merchants and masters across the Narrow Sea. A ship with no name written anywhere upon it, a ship with a name even those who lived along the docks didn’t like to repeat aloud:

The Ravallah.

It was hard enough to be a good Lord Admiral of Lannisport without a ship, and a captain, like the Ravallah and it’s Lioness just waiting in the wings. Always watching over your shoulder, always giving your captains something to double guess themselves about. Without ever saying a cross word to the Lord Admiral, the Lioness had made herself clear: Fail to protect these Sunset shores for a moment, and the Ravallah would set sail.

“We’re late,” was how Celena eventually cut through the tension and silence her particular presence inspired in the moment, a reminder to her husband they should’ve been off for Riverspring hours ago.

As Celena spoke, Tybolt waved a hand, with a quick smile to both the other men present, they stood to leave. Neither railed any longer at the idea Tybolt would do so, maybe at the idea of how involved the Lioness was in the politics of Casterly Rock and beyond, but only as competition, never at the idea she should remain in some rightful place. Tybolt didn’t have time for such things. Once they were gone, he stood, approaching her at the edge of the balcony but not yet quite close enough to be overly intimate.

“So are you, the Lady of Casterly Rock cannot visit Riverspring dressed as a spy, even if she was and is one.” Celena past, her abilities and activities were what had drawn Tybolt to her. If he’d have wanted a vapid, proper girl raised in the halls of nobility he could have had many over the years, but he had tussled with, then loved, Celena. Times had changed however, and on occasion, for matters of politics and such, restraint was the key word. They still tussled though, in different ways. Then he approached her, his hand seeking her’s.

“Although, as you know, I can be an ardent supporter of the simple things in life.” The female Lannister would struggle to find and outfit, even buried under layers, that he could find her unattractive in, but black leathers had more going for it then it simply being her, but even as his eyes returned to her’s, there was business to attend to.

“I am sorry, I couldn’t ignore their requests to report to me, even if it is matters I already knew.” He did not need to tell her the importance of keeping such agents and advisers in your good books, to make them feel invaluable, and immediately before leaving to range across the Westerlands was an ideal time to show that to them, likely they would work increasingly hard in his absence now. “Is Tyrion ready?”

“He’s our son--he was born ready.” Celena smirked, but there was a trace of seriousness yet in the otherwise teasing tone. “I already said my farewell,” and hard as it was, she wasn’t eager to do it again.

The thought made Tybolt smile, even if his heart panged at the thought of leaving his son. The demands of ruling meant that he did not see the child as much as his wife, or as much as he would want to, but it was still uncomfortable to leave him. Her words, the combination of light heartedness with the deeper meaning within, still stirred a happiness within him. He was their son, no two parents could better prepare their child.

“Let us not waste any more time then.

Ser Gwayne was vaguely aware of a battle taking place around him. The grass was red with blood but his attention was focused only on the man in-front of him, who was fighting like the warrior himself. Wyl Waynwood had already fallen before Daemon as if he were just a squire and just then the knight of Ninestars had fared little better and now Daemon had Gwayne in his sights. He narrowed his eyes at the Black Dragon. After a pause both men raised their Valyrian steel swords in salute. And it began.

Naught but history now, a footnote in some Maester's book, yet it had replayed in Gwayne's mind ever since. The knight looked down at his helmet mournfully, instead of the usual gleaming white of the Kings-Guard this one was black inlaid with red, atop it was a dragon-shaped crest, a red dragon. Outside he could hear the crowd give a hearty applause, though he'd been to enough tournaments to recognise a polite cheer when he heard one, Prince Daeron was loved by few.

"Well, that's my part done." Gwayne looked up at the voice to see the pavilion open revealing Daeron, eldest son of Maekar the Kinslayer, drunkard and perhaps the biggest craven Gwayne had ever set eyes upon. The Targaryen groaned slumping wearily back into his seat. He was dressed in armour identical to the one Gwayne was wearing and was uncharacteristically sober, it wouldn't be seemly for the only representative of house Targaryen to be drunk in front of so many of his leal bannermen; the Prince did at least have a lick of sense, if not honour. "Be a good man and knock this bastard of his horse." He muttered dejectedly.

Gwayne rose stiffly off his stool, he gritted his teeth and strapped on his helmet. Oak and iron guard me well, else I'm dead and doomed to hell. The rhyme that always came to him before a fight, though today it felt hollow. Who was he to judge the affairs or princes? Though deep down he knew what was happening was wrong. You swore an oath. Part of him echoed, Gwayne cursed that part of him. The knight walked to the edge of the pavilion and nodded to Daeron.

"Your grace."

Blackfyre came at him like a storm, the man and the sword were one. Gwayne was past awe though, he saw a blow, he countered it, he saw an opening he took it. Sweat was pouring down him as he gradually tried to move back to the offensive, truthfully it felt more like a game of cyvasse than a fight. The two Valyrian blades sung as they met, bringing up sparks the like Gwayne had never seen before. None seemed to want to interfere with their fight, it might of been respect, awe or dread, either way, it was just the two of them.

The 'bastard' in question turned out to be the Sword of the Morning. Ser Drayton was a man Gwayne had longed to cross swords with for a while now, though somehow the fun seemed to be sucked from this particular joust. He felt awkward it was like he was wearing someone else's skin not just their armour, the squire actually bowed to him before helping him up onto his horse, the life of a prince Gwayne thought bitterly.

Gwayne reined up his horse into position at the far end of the stands, it was odd, he'd never been the brightest of men but in martial matters he was always at home, the knight couldn't remember a time when he was nervous before a fight, another sure sign that this was all wrong. Daeron's squire handed him him a lance before slinking away, then everything went quiet.

Gwayne tested the weight of the lance, it was an ornate thing the tip done in the shape of a flame, too much style over practicality really but it would suffice. At the other end of the lists he could see Ser Drayton readying his war-horse, Gwayne tightened his grip on the reins, he was slick with sweat and sick to the stomach besides. The calm before the storm seemed to stretch on forever. At last the horn sounded.

Gwayne dug his heels in and the horse lumbered into a gallop, he was breathing heavily as they got closer, doubts kept fleeting through his mind. It was not honourable, it was not knightly, he was not Daeron Targaryen. Closer now, he could just about hear shouts of the crowd over the sounds of his armour jostling and his own blood pumping. Drayton's lance loomed at him. It was all wrong.

Every inch of him screamed out in pain, the fight seemed to be lasting forever. An hour? Two? Was that even possible? He could of sworn the sun was high in the sky when they started. Block. Strike. Counter. He wouldn't give in, he couldn't, the war rested upon this, if the Black Dragon fell then so did the rebellion. Besides, he was enjoying this far too much to stop.

As the they wore on Gwayne found he had growing respect for his opponent. Why did you have to rebel? The thought crossed his mind, bastard or no with a sword arm like this he would of been the pride of the Targaryen dynasty, perhaps even a friend. Instead he had to be an usurper and Gwayne had to bring the bastard down for the good of the realm. It didn't feel right to think of the man as a bastard, he was lordly, princely even, Gwayne would afford him that right before he killed Daeron.

It was coming to a head now, by the breath misting out of Daeron's helmet grill Gwayne could tell he was just as tired as he was, they caught each others eyes for a moment during this brief respite from blows, Gwayne tipped his head slightly and the black dragon returned the guesture, usurper or no this had been his most worthy opponent. Now. As one they charged each other, blades a blur of steel, each reading the other's feints and strikes, faster, faster, Gwayne was using energy he didn't know he'd had. Then something cold touched his side.

He fell.

He fell.

Horse, grass, mud, blood. A torrent of colour flashed before him as he came tumbling form his horse. Gwayne rolled for a few moments before coming to a rest lying on his back, he felt like shit. All to the sound of rapturous applause. Nothing seemed to be broken as far as he could tell but he didn't feel like moving all the same. Why had he fallen? He was Gwayne Corbray, he should of at least lasted one tilt. The Kings-guard sighed, his mind was in other places, that or something about the prince was just cursed with bad luck. He closed his eyes listening to the sounds of footsteps running over to him and then hands dragging him away, then darkness.

"Red-Tusk!" Gwayne heard a voice booming above the din of the battle, a commanding voice, Daemon's he realised. Gwayne felt weak, over an hour of constant exertion was catching up to him and something was a hole in his side, he turned to see red staining his white-cloak, it matched the grass now. A heavy set knight in red armour ran up, Gwayne was too far gone to hear the conversation but their were protests that nearly ran to an argument. After a moment a stretcher appeared and he was being hauled onto it by the command of the king.

Winterfell, Westeros | Beron Stark

If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

The Lord of Winterfell could sense the tension around him as he looked to his small assortment of men that sat at the table. There were few lords in the history of Winterfell that adapted such a Targaryen concept—the small council. However the Lord Stark had none of the resources or foundations to emulate what the true small council wielded but in times such as these he realize he needed it more than ever. An assortment of those who formerly bent a knee to the ancient Starks in the east had risen up in a revolt that was much too soon. The Skagosi as they had been known had been harboring resentment that only the Bolton’s could sympathize with but according to the men before him it was rather unfounded to suspect the Lord of the Dreadfort to be causing such a risky endeavor. The Bolton’s were smart if admittedly distant to those within House Stark. Beron held no love for the men of the Dreadfort, but in his older age a lure of paranoia swept upon him even if he understood the likelihood of meddling was low.

His second-born had jokingly referred to it as a ‘great spring sickness’ that followed the Blackfyre Rebellion like a plague; a joke that the Lord of Winterfell found rather unamusing. Perhaps it was the reason that Henrik Stark had been sent to The Vale to present the presence of Stark at a zealous boy’s parade. He understood the southerners loved their celebrations, but to give such a person that much attention was worrysome. But he had to make appearances as it was the wise and correct thing to do. His father had told him not to burn bridges when in the coming months you need that bridge the most. Besides, he needed eyes in the south that he could count on and Erik had been begging to travel away from the cold of the North, so in a way the boy got his way.

Moving his hands behind his back he looked to the members who had not spoken, his eyes shifting to an empty chair which the council he had formed generally filled a northmen named Eddard Whitehill—one of the few men knighted that resided in the North due to his house’s beleifs leaning towards the Faith of the Seven over the Old Gods. Beron was not like his uncle in the regards that he saw the Whitehill’s as traitors to the values of the North or anything of the sort and as such treated him with respect and tolerance. One’s faith should never dictate relations unless they bore zealous nature that made it impossible to do so. It was something Maester Tywar had taught him when he was small and was where a good deal of his wisdom came from. He had sent Ser Eddard south to Gulltown along with his son—to the tourney that still entered his thoughts. He wondered how they were doing at this very moment.

Beron’s worn eyes met his head maester’s own and he could sense that there was something even more worrying. What could it have been? It was certain that the meeting of the veteran maesters, warriors, and himself couldn’t have come at a more perfect time as they were not lacking in things to speak upon. The Skagosi were only the tip of the iceberg, which was honestly a good thing to hear. For one small thing to erupt would be much too simple—and nothing that befell the Starks was ever simple or at least not in the scheme of recent history.

“Let us begin—Maester Tywar, speak your mind.”

“Of course, my lord. It seems that I must bring urgent news from the west as your vanguard resting at Ironwatch have sent word to us.”

“I see, so the Ironborn have finally reared their ugly heads. I am honestly surprised they had not done so much sooner, but they have always been very difficult to predict. What kind of landing party are we looking at? Has word been sent to the Blazefort as well?”

Maester Tywar nodded, “Despite the Blazeport being our least manned stronghold of them all, yes Lord Stark they have been warned.”

Maestar Tywar’s tone was curious as Beron felt like there was a sense of worry and dread referring to Blazeport. A landing of Ironborn in an attempt to reave the countryside after a time of war and strife was not uncommon as the people of the Iron Isles were no better than lowborn tribes who took what they wanted when it was easy for them to take it. Despite being more open-minded than his predecessors Beron still thought low of the ironborn that existed. If the islands had not been so difficult to siege this would not be a problem in the present day as they would’ve been seen as nothing more but sea-sailing wildlings who needed to be put down. He began to ponder why they had not been put down by Targaryen fire years ago since nobody could ever keep a handle on the raiders for long.

“Has the Lord of Pyke truly lost control of his own men?” Beron Stark spoke as a deep breath of aggravation followed.

“It’s hard to say, but few can understand the Ironborn. We knew that one day Harrion Greyjoy’s period of ‘ironborn peace’ would end, the Ironborn cannot survive without their raiding.”

The Lord of Winterfell nodded, “Send what men we can to reinforce the western coast. We can manage the Skagosi and the Ironborn.”

“I certainly hope so, my lord.”

He nodded, “I will be setting out for Karhold with a small levy when the sun rises. Let my son, Edwyle, know that Winterfell’s responsibilities fall on him when he returns from Starkhaven in my absence.”

“As you wish, Lord Stark. May the old gods guide you.”

“…and you, my friend.”

Ryamsport, The Arbor, Westeros

Despite the comings and goings of the ships that docked and departed from Ryamsport day in and day out, it was quite a rare sight for the people of The Arbor to see one of the members of House Redwyne preparing to leave their island home.

Victor Redwyne stood on one of the many wide and well-built wharfs that were permanently set aside for the mooring of House Redwyne’s vessels, his arms folded across his armoured chest: bright, watchful eyes watching the movements of the shore crew who were preparing his father’s vessel for cast-off. Lord Arron Redwyne’s personal ship was a thing of beauty, created roughly ten years ago by some of The Arbor’s finst shipmakers, and maintained each and every year by the very same men who had built it.

She was a medium-sized galley, with a crew of about forty rowers - fifteen on each side, with ten to man the sails and to take over whenever another rower became tired - and usually carried about twenty to thirty knights and men-at-arms along with it, whenever the ship was setting out in pursuit of pirates or Ironborn Raiders. She was a fast vessel, and could easily keep up with most vessels larger, smaller and equal to herself, especially if there was a strong wind. She was graceful, but that was not to say she was not formidable - there was a massive ram attached to her, and she could easily sink vessels twice her size if she hit them at the right angle and with enough force. Once she’d been a flagship, but no longer - that honour belonged to Victor’s vessel, which had been built for his thirtieth nameday.

The vessel was bound for King’s Landing, where it would be at harbour until such a time as when Lord Reyne - in company with Emmon Redwyne, his childhood friend and Victor’s younger brother - arrived to board the ship, to make for the tournament at Gulltown. As well as the party from the Westerlands, the Redwynes were also expected to provide transport for their liege lords - the Tyrells - and the other Knights and Ladies of The Reach who intended to travel to the tournament. Arron’s galley would have been more than large enough to accomodate Rory Reyne, Emmon Redwyne and a few retainers, as well as the extended family and court of Lord Leos Tyrell: but with all the other Knights, horses, squires and equipment that were sure to be coming along, a good deal more than one ship would be needed.

Five other vessels - both larger, smaller and of the same size - but none of them with the grace that Lord Arron’s galley possessed, were also being prepared and provisioned for the short journey to King’s Landing, where they would be able to stock up on supplies again before heading for the tournament at Gullstown.

It was a fascinating sight to behold: the docks of Ryamsport even more of a hub of activity than usual, as deckhands and labourers scrambled to do the bidding of roaring captains and bo’suns, loading crates of grapes and fresh fruit onto the ships - along, of course, with the necessary and expected wine. Dozens of barrels of red and gold, all from The Arbor’s wineries, were being loaded into the hulls of the ships: where they would reside until the vessels arrived at King’s Landing. Lord Arron was a serious man, and he saw his travel to the Great City as part of his duty to his family and his liege lord; he would not have his men drinking on their way, even if it was a relatively easy journey to make.

The elderly Lord himself could be seen moving about on the deck of his ship, conferring quietly with his captain - who, by comparison to the men who commanded the other four vessels, was a rather reserved and respectful-looking fellow. The same could be said for the crew of the Lord’s ship - they were handpicked and well behaved, and had been sailing with Arron for years: they were not the same type of sailor as those that manned the other large vessels. Although those men were disciplined, they lacked the class of those who were under Arron’s personal command - and a lack of class was something that he would not tolerate.

Another twenty minutes passed, with Victor standing by silently - a hand kept on the shoulder of his young daughter, who was watching the activity of the dock with fascination. It was loud - incredibly so - and the Lordling winced every time he heard a sailor bellowing curses at his fellow crewmen. Although they were on their best behaviour, sailors were sailors - and their tongues were hard beasts to tame. “Father,” The little girl began, peering up at the muscular form of her armoured sire, “Why aren’t we going with grandfather?”

Victor looked down at the girl with a small smile, although inwardly he was seething. “Because he has seen fit for us to stay here - after all, a Redwyne must remain at The Arbor, and with Emmon and Halmon gone, that falls to me. I would love for you to go with him, my dear, but I’m afraid you must stay with me - he’ll be too busy with other things to keep an eye on you.” He gave her another smile, before falling silent again - the girl allowing him his silence, satisfied (although disappointed) with his answer.

Soon enough, the ships all announced that they were ready: a blast of a horn at the bo’sun’s command signifying to the commanding vessel - Lord Arron’s ship - that they were ready to depart. About a hundred of The Arbor’s sailors would be leaving that day, and five of their largest ships: along with roughly thirty other knights and men-at-arms, who were to compete in the tourney and help defend the ships in the event of an attack. After all, even though every vessel flew the colours of House Redwyne, some pirates were incredibly bold.

The elderly Lord - clad in plate-and-mail armour, too weak now for the full plate affair - disembarked from his ship, approaching his son and heir to say his final farewells. He embraced his granddauggter first, murmuring something to the girl - much to her pleasure - and promised to bring her a gift upon his return. Straightening up, he addressed his son, lowering his tone somewhat.

“I am trusting you with The Arbor, Victor,” He murmured, “I am trusting you with my - with our home. I hope you will not disappoint me: I know you will not, and I look forward to my return. Hopefully, we can all be together soon - Halmon, Emmon, Cassilda, you and I. A family reunion. It has been too long.”

“Of course, father,” Victor smiled, returning his father’s gaze. “I will not let you down.” Although, we could have had a reunion this time - of course, it’s not something that you want. You don’t really trust us. However, despite the anger he felt at being denied the chance to see his younger brothers, Victor still hoped for his father to be safe and to return swiftly: he had a great amount of affection for the aging man, and respected him immensely.

The Lord clasped his son’s arm, before moving away - giving a final wave to his granddaughter before climbing back onto his ship and disappearing into his large, roomy cabin.

The ships cast off with the usual affair - trumpets sounding and men yelling, the sound of the water of The Arbor splashing beneath a hundred oars filling Victor’s ears as the crews began the task of backing out of Ryamsport’s harbour. He stood there with his daughter, watching - waiting. Longing for his chance to head back out into the world again, and to see those whom he missed so dearly.

(Squrmy/Flagg Collab)

---

Some Weeks before the Gulltown Tourney.

King's Landing. The stench of the place was unmistakable, and even if one was blind, they would know where they were purely by the smell. It was a large, busy place - noisey, and dirty at that. Lord Arron Redwyne had only been to the city five or six times - and the first time had been in his youth, when he had visited all of the cleaner Pleasure Houses that the city had to offer. A ghost of a smile played on his lips at the thought of those buildings and the experiences he'd had in them as he rode through the city, on the back of a noble destrier: heading for the manse that his family had built in the city roughly seventy years ago, in the time of his grandfather.

In company with the aging Lord were five or six knights, and another ten men-at-arms: the colours of House Redwyne worn proudly upon their chests, the two men who rode a slight distance behind their Lord on equally noble horses carrying flags from which the pennants of the Noble House flew, snapping proudly in the wind. Arron was travelling away from the large, sprawling docks that were located by the city's waterfront: having arrived in the capital only a few hours prior, he planned on freshening up at his manse in preparation for the arrival of his family: Halmon had informed him roughly a month ago that the Tyrells were leaving Highgarden, in company with numerous Knights of The Reach.

It had only taken twenty-eight days to arrive in the Targaryen's City, built in the time of Aegon's Conquest, and it was a time that Lord Arron was proud of. His ships had moved swiftly through the ocean around the Westerosi Coast, the well-built vessels overtaking merchants from Dorne and The Stormlands alike with ease. The performance of the galleys was a testament to the skill of The Arbor's shipmakers - several of whom had travelled in company with Arron to King's Landing with their apprentices, in order to begin work on a number of pleasure ships for the nobles who called the city their home: having recieved Lord Arron's permission to do so, their Master pleased for them at the prospect of such large commissions. They were good, honest, hard-working men: they deserved their reward.

The snowy-haired Lord arrived at the large, ornate gates of his manse within the hour, having navigated his way through the busy streets and thoroughfares of the capital from memory. At the sight of the Lord, the gates were quickly opened by the men on duty: Arron's proud posture and the sigils that were flown and worn all around him leaving no mistake of who he was.

Riding into the courtyard, Arron dismounted from his destrier, waving off the help of a young stableboy with a small smile. He may have been getting older, but he could still mount and dismount from his horse: the day when he was unable to ride or sail would be the day he died. "Take good care of him - he's a good mount," Arron instructed the lad with a small smile, pressing a few halfpennies into the boy's hand as he made his way towards the doors that led to the mansion's interior; the sound of men who had not seen each other in years greeting one another filling the Lord's ears.

The large, polished double doors - each with a cluster of grapes engraved into them expertly - were swung open by the guards who stood on duty outside them, the men standing at rigid attention as Arron passed them. Stepping into the manse's main hallway - which was brightly lit, a result of the curtains all having been thrown open so the bright sunlight of King's Landing could seep inside - the Lord looked around with a critical gaze, tutting softly.

Everything looked to be clean and maintained, which is what he was paying the men for - he knew it was an easy job, living and enjoying the manse when he and his family were away, but it was a reward which Arron bestowed upon his elder and loyal retainers: a thank-you, of sorts, for their service to him over the years.

The Lord allowed another smile to pass over his lips, turning his attention to the steward - an elderly, bent-over man who had served as one of The Arbor's best wine merchants before his retirement - as he hurried over to greet him, bowing deeply despite the hunched nature of his elderly back. A result of the weight of the burdens he had carried over the years for Lord Arron - or so he liked to joke. "Their rooms are prepared?" Arron began, referencing his impending guests, "The kitchens are working? You've hired in new staff? There's not a spec of dust to be seen?"

To each and every question, the steward nodded his head - earning a grin of thanks, along with a small sigh of relief from his Lord. "Thank you, Jon - I don't know where I'd be without you. Back on The Arbor, probably - without a penny to my name."

Laughing, Arron made his way up the wide staircase that led to the manse's upper floors, already beginning to unbuckle his heavy travelling cloak as he went - after all, he had to look like a Lord, whenever his son-in-law arrived.

---

Later that Day. Some Weeks before the Gulltown Tourney. The Kings Road, near Kings Landing

They rode side by side, the Lord of Highgarden and his young heir, at the head of their party. Behind them, arrayed in neat formation, rode guards in the green and gold livery of the Reach. A huge wheelhouse trundled along in the middle of the column, bearing twin standards of the Rose of Highgarden and the Grapes of the Arbor.

Lord Tyrell was dressed in an emerald riding doublet and matching pants, with a shimmering cape of iridescent feathers from the Summer Isles hanging about his shoulders. A gold-chased Dothraki arakh hung at his side in place of a long sword. A crown of white flowers adorned his wild black hair.

He was talking quickly at his son and gesticulating wildly with the reins as he did so, causing his mount to weave and stumble as they plodded on towards the capital.

"...the juice of justice. What is it? A philosophical question, and an alliterative one at that," said Lord Leos, favoring Vymar with a toothsome grin. "The Redwynes, your mother's family and your uncleses' family and your grandfather's family- you get the idea. They'd like the juice to be wine, you see, then they'd have all the justice, except for the justice that comes from elsewhere, like Volantis, of course. If justice were wine, I daresay your mother would be a paragon of righteous living just after lunch each day. But no, m'boy. Justice isn't wine, and nor is it gold, much to our friends of Lannister's displeasure. You can't buy justice with gold, and when you melt gold, it doesn't become juice. I don't think. That's a question for the maesters, anyway, and we aren't maesters. You're much too young and I don't go that way. But we were talking justice. The juice, I think, is blood."

Tyrell gave his son with a solemn nod, hooded lids drooping over dark eyes. Vymar listened, totally lost yet totally enrapt. It was for rare his father to notice him, let alone talk to him.

"Blood, my teensy grumpkin, my infinitesimal snark." said Lord Leos. "You want to keep the peace? You want to punish the wicked and make yet-to-be wickeds afraid to be actually wicked? Blood, I'm afraid- terribly afraid of rats, mostly. Disgusting creatures. Justice, though. It'll cost blood, from rolling heads and lashed backs."

Lord Leos sat back in his saddle, musing to himself for a moment. Ahead of them the red walls of Kings Landing rose higher, and the clamour and stench of the city drifted faintly over them on the breeze.

"I tell you this, poppinsy dear, because there will be much talk of justice in Gulltown, if my eyes and ears and the other sensory organs I have in place there are correct. Rousing speeches. The will of the gods, that sort of thing. Righteousness. Very inspiring, perhaps, to a lad your age. What are you, four now? Five?"

"Ten father."

"Fourteen, just so!" Leos exclaimed, slapping his thigh. "Now then. Keep in mind, my tasty little bobbet, when we're in Gulltown and those blockhead Arryns are screeching and cawing about justice and duty, just what the juice of the matter will be- more blood than they likely bargained for. Justice is blood- a little looks pretty on your smock, but a lot you can drown in. You'll be Lord of Lowgarden when I'm high, someda-"

"Father?"

"Don't interrupt, my tender peach. You'll be Lord of Highgarden when I die. You should be preparing for that, and a lord should know about juice."

The Sister Isles, Wetwalls

A boy... The thought rolled across his mind struggling to find a grip. Jonos Sunderland's meagre hall was filled with smugglers, pirates and slavers, a colourful mix of men who would most likely find their way to the dungeons in any other keep, but Wetwalls was not any other keep. Jonos had practically been raised by such men, any lordly feelings of superiority had long since evaporated when he became one of them. Not that he trusted any of the people before him further than he could spit them, that was a lesson he'd learnt a long time ago, but he understood them at least and for now that suited his purposes.

"My lords." Jonos spoke out to the assembly with a healthy dose or irony, the muttering and swearing that naturally accompanied such a crowd ebbed away as attention was focused onto the grotty little man, words seemed to stick in his throat though. Not a fortnight past he had become a father. A little boy he'd called Tristan and the child had changed his life more than other person.

"Why have you called us here Sisterman?" Bellowed Galfar Salahn, considered by many to be the finest pirate of the summer isles, he was covered in elaborate jewelled feathers and was as fat as he was gaudy, next to him Jonos looked drab in his faded longcoat with unshaven attire and he was meant to be the lord. He quirked his eyebrow at the pirate, letting Galfar's words hang for a moment.

"You all think you know me." Jonos said at last, strolling into the center of the damp hall. "Jonos Sunderland, feckless, impulsive and scheming." He had to string this along, many here had a taste for theatrics. "You don't." It had been no easy task assembling all the regular visitors to the Sisters into one place; half hated each other, many owed debts on these islands and to a man they considered themselves lone-wolves. But there was one thing that would unite them all, the promise of gold. "I'm a new man and I've started to think bigger."

"Good fer you." Said Gribb, a greasy one-eyed smuggler from Crackclaw. "But I don't give a flying fuck." Perhaps the theatrics were just for Jonos. "Why we here?!" Jonos relented and gestured to the large table in the centre of the damp hall, across it lay a map of Westeros.

"Half the smugglers in Westeros pass through my islands." Jonos tossed a piece of sour-leaf into his mouth and chewed as he spoke. "With them comes news from all over the kingdom, like my own little spynetwork." He stuck a grubby webbed finger onto where the Iron-Islands were marked. "Word is the Kraken is planning something. Not sure what, not sure when, but its got all the great houses pissing themselves. Lannister, Redwyne, Stark, they're all bracing for an attack from the west." Lord Sunderland grinned, the sour-leaf turning his teeth blood-red. "So we're going to raid them from the east" There was a pause, then the room erupted.

It was a good fifteen minuted before Jonos managed to wrest attention back from the arguments, insults and the odd threat thrown his way, few people could make a racket like a horde of angry seamen. He knew on some level he had at least piqued their interests though, even if the plan as it stood was foolhardy they'd at least hear him out.

"Most lords be attending a tourney in Gulltown," Jonos spat on the map to indicate the city the Arryns were currently staying at. "so naturally we're avoiding that like the pox, any other port is fair game though. If we can hit enough places quickly enough it will throw them."

"What then?" Gibb barked. "They be hunting for pirates and smugglers, first place they gonna look is here. The one eyed man stared intently at Jonos as if it would add to his point.

"Even if they don't." Cut in Galfar. "The attention this will draw to our kind...We could never operate in Westeros again." The fat Summer-Islander had a frown written across his face but Jonos could tell from his eyes that the man was intrigued on some level, they all were.

"Trust me," Jonos grinned, his reddened teeth taking on a menacing aura. "They won't be looking for us here, or the Whispers, or the Stepstones or any other hideout, we can just melt away. And if my plan succeeds? None of you will ever have to worry about the Kings-Justice ever again." Jonos had ruled the Sisters since he was but one and four, lord of his own little kingdom of brothels, pubs and any other illicit activity one cared to think of. But that was no longer enough, he wanted to leave his son another kind of legacy...

"When we raid across the narrow sea I want every ship to be hoisting this flag:" He reached into his long-coat pocket and pulled out a roll of cloth unfurling it across the table, the sigil on it was a black spear with yellow skulls hanging from it. That of the Golden-Company.

Westeros, the Riverlands, Fairmarket

They rode through lush fields where the corn, wheat and barley were growing steadily in their own hues of green. Onion fields, patches of pumpkins, cabbages and all sorts of lettuce, neatly separated by hedges of low loose stone walls, showed the promise of a bountiful harvest in due time. A patchwork of fields and pastures spread out from either side of the road. The farmers and farmhands ceased their toil, stabbing the dark rich soil with their tools as to lean on them so they could watch the newcomers pass. The land had been rolling gently, alternating between woodland and hills.

Calder had dressed for the occasion, for now he had his four-hundred men at his back; it was no longer required to travel in a clandestine manner. His plate-armour was embossed, and had the Frey sigil on the breastplate, the metal itself treated with special techniques so the paint and colours were inside the steel, rather than painted over it. As lord, it was important that his suit of armour represented his wealth. Thirty household knights rode behind him, the towers of the twins decorating their surcoats, shields and –of course- the pennants they held aloft. Behind the knights came the footmen, rows on rows of spear and pike-men dressed in mail and leathers, and men-at-arms with heavier mail carrying shields and swords. Files of bowmen and crossbowmen followed, the bows carried in front of them so they would not get stuck behind something. A party of twenty mounted sergeants, wearing boiled leather and splinted greaves, guarded the rear of the column.

Ser Tom Fishbone rode a few steps behind the man in heavy plate so they could speak while showing Lord Calder Frey led them. His sigil deviated from the blue towers on pale silver of the Freys, for he was merely a Frey on his mother’s side. The skeleton of a leaping fish showed on his surcoat, in white on sable, the shape identical to the Tully’s trout. Tom mocked his father, Lord Janos Tully thus, for the Lord of Riverrun had only been involved with his conception and nothing more. He had got the name Ser Tom Fishbone because of it, and he felt slighted by his natural father.

“When will you wed, uncle?” He asked candidly, for he was one of the few whom Calder tolerated speaking openly without aggravation.

The road curled over a hill with a rocky outcropping. As they passed the jutting stone formation, Calder answered. “As soon as possible. Lady Joan was not present at Riverrun when we concluded our agreement, your father and I.”

Tom felt a pang of anger when he heard ‘your father’. He did not consider him as such, but it was the truth and no amount of denial would change that.

“We are already bound by blood,” Calder continued, whetting Tom’s desire to belong to a family, “but now we will even more so, for it is your half-sister I shall marry. That will make us brothers.” While Fishbone was a capable man, and loyal, he was hardly as cunning as his lord and master. Calder’s ruthlessness was inspired by intelligence and not cruelty, while Tom tended not to see the wider picture. His focus on the job at hand was admirable, but it threatened to inhibit him from making long-term plans. Fishbone was useful though. For every task a tool, Lord Frey thought.

While the Lord of the Crossing had agreed to marry his liegelord’s eldest, he had no intention of sitting around idly and wait for the ceremony. Who knew when Joan Tully would show up? The rights to Fairmarket were his, and he intended to collect.

Fairmarket was nestled along the Blue Fork, halfway to where the river joined with the Green Fork. Its source laid north-west in Hag’s Mire where small streams of melted silver passed through the ruins of Oldstones and eventually formed the river. On the north bank of the town stood several stone houses and the odd manse of local landed gentry, with a septry and the common grounds nearby. Other buildings were mostly constructed out of wood and clay, some with flint roofs but more with thatch. Three water-mills had been built along the riverbank, and their great wheels were turning, creaking with the ceaseless motion, grinding grain into flour. The outskirts consisted of shanty daub-and-wattle houses and hovels.

“No moat?” Tom remarked surprised.

Calder sucked in his breath through his teeth. The only fortification of note was the holdfast adjacent to the wooden contraption Fairmarket considered a bridge. “And a sorry excuse for a bridge,” Lord Frey complemented. “This will wash away whenever there are heavy rains.”

The armed and armoured procession entered the decently sized town from the north. Calder Frey and his small escort had passed through Fairmarket on their way to the Twins to join up with the contingent of Frey-men led by Fishbone. As such, he led them straight towards the holdfast and sent Ser Rickard Charlton to the opposite bank with a hundred men.

Lord Frey glanced up at the squat holdfast as they drew up in the market square. Fortunately its size was deceptive. While only being four stories tall above the ground, there were two levels below ground consisting of vaults and cellars. Unfortunately, the stonework was abysmal. Erected close to the river, meant that humidity seeped into the underground rooms, water leaking through the mortar. That was one of the first things on Calder’s list to change about Fairmarket. The holdfast itself was erected in dark and grey stones, topped with a pinewood roof from which banners hung.

Calder and Tom discerned the glint of sunlight on the metal tips of bolts and arrows that were trained on them by men behind the slits in the turrets.

“What is the meaning of this?” The voice of an old man standing in the single entrance to Fairmarket’s holdfast lashed across the cobbled square. A sword hung at his belt, and he wore simple clothing. The door ajar behind him was of oak and iron, and two men-at-arms with spears stood beside him.

“I am Calder Frey, Lord of the Crossing,” he shouted back, his attitude firm and confident. Some smallfolk had gathered round, their faces showing a mix of interest, excitement and fear.

The old man crossed his arms in front of his chest and spat through the gap of his teeth. He was still strong in spite of his age. “And I am castellan of this here tower. What’s a Frey got to do in Fermarkt?” An old grey fox, he was, and a local at that judging from his way of talking.

“Lord Janos Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, my future father-in-law has invested in me the rights to Fairmarket and its environs. I am Lord of the Crossing and Lord of Fairmarket.”

Doubt crept onto the man’s leathery face. Why had he not heard of this? Was this a trap? What was the Crippler playing at?

“Do you doubt my word, ser?” Calder shifted in his sturdy saddle, his destrier snorting. “I have the papers to back up my claim.”

The old fox scratched his silver stubble. “Nay, that won’t be necessary m’lord,” he muttered as he descended the stairs. The men-at-arms at his back relaxed visibly. “Rather not have trouble. It’s not as if I’ve got the men to stop you either way.” He spat through his teeth again. “I served Lord Osrick well, and Janos Tully after him. I wager I can serve ye too.”

“Better to accept an unexpected ally than turn him into an enemy,” Fishbone suggested.

Calder nodded. “Just so, Tom. Does not mean we have to trust him, though. I will need you to keep an eye on him and the local men-at-arms. We will pay them good silver. You will be in charge after I leave, until Franklyn or Benfred arrives. I will leave instructions.”

Tom nodded. “As you say, my lord,” he replied before riding off shouting commands. “Get that Tully banner down to make room for Lord Frey’s sigil. You!” Fishbone pointed a gauntleted finger to the old castellan. “See to it.”

Upon the hour of the Gulltown Tournament Archery Contest, arguably the most talked about name in the competition withdrew. While most in the tournament crowd were either just killing time before the melee and joust, or just there for the thrill of a tourney, those that followed archery contests or nobility would talk: Why did Princess Allyria withdraw? It was to be her first public showing of skill.

And besides, those running the gambling wanted her because she’d draw in people who wouldn’t normally bet. It was hard to answer with any certainty, and there was a growing number who thought it was a ploy. That she’d show up for the contest just the same. Ser Drayton was even asked as he prepared for the joust--his response was a confused look before going back to his practice. Practice was a plus when you were going to joust on any level for the first time in nearly a decade.

When the time for the contest came, a fanfare of trumpets came alive with a brass fury, followed immediately thereafter by a man with a loud, booming, voice crying out to all present: “Queen Myriah Martell of House Targaryen, and Princess Allyria Martell of Dorne.”

Dressed for an archery contest, but seated next to the Queen of Westeros upon the high dais that was flanked by Kingsguard, the heir to Dorne looked miserable for the first few minutes of the contest, before the dark haired woman near forty years in age with a slender, simple, silver crown leaned over and said something.

Something that erupted Princess Allyria Martell in laughter.

“Ah, good. You seem to be enjoying yourself now.” The words were gentle and warm, touched only slightly with a smirk and hint of Dornish sass.

If there was another woman in all Creation that Ally loved more than her aunt Myriah, it’d be news to the Princess herself. Only in public moments of state was it ever ‘Your Grace’ with Myriah, and always otherwise simply ‘Aunt Myriah.’

“I should be down there winning.”

That made the Queen laugh. “You are, like my own children, the combination of two ancient and powerful bloodlines sweetling; you are always winning. No need to prove it with a petty contest.”

Even though it was hard to tell if the Queen was simply placating or not, all Ally that could do was try not to frown as she thought of poor Baelor. Drayton and she had rode hard and fast for days to get to a town big enough to send a message from when they heard the news from Ashford. Ally poured her heart out for her beloved aunt in that little piece of parchment. It never felt like enough to her, but to her aunt...it seemed to mean a lot.

“You know your mother is very worried about you.”

If Allyria heard her aunt, it was hard to tell; her eyes stayed before her and trained upon the competition that so rightfully should have included her, too. And though she’d never complain about spending time with her Aunt Myriah, talking about her mother...was a subject she’d much rather leave alone.

Not just right now--but always.

“Am I wrong?”

The Queen took a moment to clap for the archer of the moment; a tall, lanky, farmer from the Vale if the Cryer was to be believed. “He looks to have a natural eye for the target,” was all she said, leaving out the obvious bit about how poor the man’s bow was--Queen Myriah expected Princess Allyria, like her own children, to take the unspoken fact and do something about it after the competition.

“Are you wrong? About your mother?” The Queen looked from the field to her niece, and back again, shaking her head softly. “Your mother did not cause the war, Allyria.”

“Tell that to all the singers.”

Grumpy as the subject seemed to make Allyria, it only seemed to amuse her aunt. “Oh? Do you mean singers do not sing hard truth?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I do not, sweetling. Only simple minds and fools care what singers sing. A bear and a maiden? Truly? And people believed it?”

It’d of made Ally snicker, had she not already been so focused on the topic at hand. “Daemon Blackfyre and my mother--”

When the Queen cuts you off, even if you’re a hot headed Dornish Princess, you shut up and listen. If for no other reason than this Queen, herself, was once a hot headed Dornish Princess to hear the stories. “--they loved one another, Ally. Witnessed it with my own eyes. But by that point, the tension between Daeron and Daemon were at a low boil...I’m afraid your mother was simply the final straw. Daemon was looking for a reason to start a fight, and when his love was denied him...he did the only thing he knew to do: confrontations.”

“Confrontations that led to war, a war she had a hand in.”

The way the Queen looked at her in that moment...it made the Princess of Dorne uncomfortable. There was a knowing weight to the Queen’s look, and a sheer joy just under it’s surface, like a parent too amused by a child to be angry at them. “A very small hand, Ally. During the war, don’t forget she stayed on Daeron’s side throughout. It may be coming soon to the time to let your mother off the proverbial hook. You can’t blame her for all Creation forever.”

Really? Watch me. But wiser voices in her mind, voices that sounded oddly close to the Queen’s own, disagreed. And for once in years, Allyria Martell even felt a pang of shame and guilt for treating Princess Daenerys so roughly. “You’re right.”

“You sound like Maekar when you admit that.” The observation made the Dornish Princess blush. “...ha, though I’d love to see him blush like that.”

She didn’t know Maekar. She’d only met Baelor and Valarr a few times. By the time she was an adult, they had wives and children of their own, no interest in spending any time with a young cousin from Dorne. In fact of all the cousins she’d met, only little Egg seemed to make any connection with her at all.

Egg was a sweet one, to hear her Aunt tell it. So that was no surprise.

“You should come back to King’s Landing with me. It sounds, and smells, like you could use some time off the road.” Though the Queen’s tone was delicate and careful, the small teasing edge to her words wasn’t missed.

Ally even sniffed at herself, upon the high dais, in a moment no proper Princess would ever be caught dead in. “Are you trying to marry me into House Targaryen?”

There was a short silence as her aunt stared in her direction. “I never had a daughter like you, Ally. You look so much like Maron and I’s mother it’s like seeing a ghost. Except in the sunlight...the purple flecks in your brown eyes are evident.” Dragon blood. “No, sweetling. I thought about it, spoke to the King about it, spoke to your father about it…”

If she spoke to the King AND her father? That was serious. Serious enough to scare Allyria Martell. A fright that must have been just as obvious in her eyes as the purple in her brown eyes were when reflected by sun.

“Your father was right...you are the future ruler of Dorne. The closest thing to Nymeria in living memory. As good as I worked a spear and horse in my youth, I couldn’t have won any archer’s contest. I couldn’t have combated Clans on the high road, or escaped from a village jail, or slipped away from pirates in the Stormlands, or settle an old score between red dragons and black like you did in the Marches last year...no, the Red Keep may be in your future, pretty girl, but if it is it will only come because you decided it.”

Allyria’s response drew more eyes and attention than the contestants on the field: she jumped from her high seat upon the dais and wrapped her arms around her Aunt’s shoulders...then she squeezed, hugging the woman desperately. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou.”

Her Aunt laughed, and returned the warm embrace, even if she took the moment to prove a point: “Just remember, Princess, the dangers of falling in love when it finally happens to you.”

Ally laughed at that, and shook her head, slipping back into her own seat, scoffing at the suggestion. “Right. I’m going to fall in love, and dreeeam about the handsome man, and want nothing but marriage and spending my life with him.”

If Allyria knew the trap she’d stepped into, she never would’ve opened her mouth. That knowing, amused, look in the Queen’s eyes as she chuckled at her niece’s sarcasm, before dropping wildfire on her mind: “That’s funny. I remember when your then much younger mother said the same thing, once.”

What could she do? At first, Allyria simply stared in disbelief. And then...she laughed, louder and harder than she had since coming to Gulltown. “I hate you so much right now.”

“Wonderful! Mayhaps that will motivate you to cook.”

That excited her even more than avoiding a royal marriage match. Being able to cook for her aunt? “Absolutely. Tonight?”

“Aye, at the Martell manse?”

“If you don’t mind dirty old Drayton Dayne.”

“Lord Bloodraven tells me there’s another in your little band of travellers now?”

“Byron, he calls himself. What’s Bloodraven say about him?”

That Brynden Rivers was keeping the Queen informed of her travels didn’t surprise Allyria, not at all. Myriah said it best: she’d never had a daughter like her. It meant Princess Aelinor was more dragon than sun and spear, unlike Baelor and his son.

“Nothing yet,” the Queen said, and Ally believed the lie.

“An hour or so after sundown?”

“Sounds wonderful, Princess.”

The Princess stood, and bowed her head to the Queen. “With your leave, your Grace, I shall go to the market now.”

“Go safely, Princess Allyria.”

So she did--not that running was the safest of options, but suddenly Allyria was so excited she felt like a little girl at the Water Gardens all over again. Ally spent well over an hour at the market, even purchasing a fine ash bow from the best, as she judged it, Bowyer in Gulltown. Luckily for her the man agreed to deliver to the tall, lanky, farmer who might’ve won today’s competition with such a bow in his possession.

At least Allyria had done the good deed her aunt had quietly demanded. The rest of the shopping was entirely for fun, which meant it was entirely for cooking. Finding green peppers of any quality took her well over an hour, and the price she paid for them left her scowling as if she’d been openly robbed.

Finding oranges fit for the Queen of Westeros was impossible. Finding some that still looked fresh enough to eat...well, at least THAT was possible, even if they cost more than the peppers. And the saffron she had to buy...that cost more than all of it combined.

By the time she returned to the Manse, carts were just appearing to offload what had been purchased for dinner. Byron was nice enough to assist the Manse’s steward in getting everything into the kitchen, where the old cooks for the Manse began preparing while Allyria herself took a quick bath and changed, before jumping into the kitchen and the cooking herself.

The Queen arrived not too far after Ser Drayton, who came in with a slight hobble and more bruises than he’d gathered in a month riding with her. But at least, as she happily told him when he entered, he wasn’t dead--as she thought he might be after trying to joust for the first time in nearly a decade. Drayton snorted at her, and enjoyed his own bath before dressing in fine white linens bordered in purple silk with the star of Starfall sewn upon his chest in startling silver thread. For once, Ser Drayton looked a proper noble. He even acted like a proper noble; ignoring the hard work within the kitchen and taking in the Dornish red wines bought for the Queen with Byron as the two waited.

For the first time in years, Princess Allyria Martell looked every bit the exotic Princess of Dorne she was; her toned skin was cinnamon sunned and barely hidden behind a close-fitting bejewelled girdle under a loose gown of shimmering copper sand silk that fell above her knees and kept tight to her hips with a leather belt decorated with small golden suns. Her dark hair was scented with wild jasmine, tied into a long and intricate ponytail set into place with a large golden hoop on her head, and several smaller golden hoops further down the long tail of midnight black silken hair. On her feet were a pair of snakeskin sandals that were laced up to the knees.

She was only slightly sweating from the exertion in the kitchen, taking little tastes of everything before deciding each dish ready. As if waiting for the cue, the Queen arrived with her Kingsguard just at the right time. Allyria joined the table next to the small fire in the Manse just as the Queen was getting to chat with Drayton and Byron, bringing with her the first course of long green peppers stuffed with bits of bacon and cheeses and onions.

Following the peppers came the spiced Strongwine, along with the dinner: Lamb roasted with lemon and honey. With it were grape leaves stuffed with a melange of raisins, onions, mushrooms, and fiery dragon peppers. Between the hunger at the table and the Queen’s ability to taste actual Dornish food prepared by an actual, trained, Dornish cook meant silence until the dinner and the strongwine loosened lips.

The Queen was laughing at Ser Drayton’s tale of surviving the day’s joust, just as Ally was mentioning how well Drayton did for not jousting for near a decade, when the last course came. “I know from Sunspear your love of oranges and lemons, Aunt Myriah, so I made for you spiced orange & saffron cakes bathed in sweet wine syrup and served with a refreshing lemon cream.”

“Careful, child, or I’ll have you married to one of my grandchildren yet--if only to have you around to cook for me!”

Allyria snickered, though even she had to admit how well the cakes turned out...and the sweet wine mixed with the lemon cream left her tastes tingling in joy. “I’m glad you enjoy them! Now’s a great time to ask a royal favor.”

Eyes at the table suddenly went from the sweet dish to Allyria herself. Royal favors?

“Gulltown’s going to get punished for Jasper Arryn’s madness.”

The Queen licked a bit of sweet wine and lemon cream from the tip of her index finger, and nodded thoughtfully. “The Free Cities first, and favorite, weapon is trade. This is true enough. White Harbour looks to gain the most from Gulltown’s future misfortune, but I don’t suppose it was Gulltown you had in mind?”

“Sunspear could use the extra trade, too. I don’t know about the sellswords or Knights of Faith that Jasper’s planning on deploying, but a sizeable yet still small force from the less extreme measures of Westeros society might be ideal should the Free Cities want an element within the Westeros born force to talk to.”

“To reason with?”

“Yes,” Allyria nodded fiercely. “Exactly.”

“And you would command this force?”
Allyria Martell, not even having reached her twentieth year, nodded firmly. “I would.”

Quietly the Queen sipped at her wine, and let her dark eyes scan the faces of Drayton and Byron. “No. You are still too young and inexperienced.”

It was, to Ally, as if she’d just been hit in the chest with an arrow. The Dornish Princess was speechless, frustrated, maybe even angry...not that the Queen didn’t know it. Knowing Aunt Myriah, she could read every emotion on the girl’s face like words from one of her husband’s books.

“Asking grown and grizzled veterans to follow you, sweetling, you must understand...will not be an easy thing.”

“...what if they followed Ser Drayton?”

The Sword of the Morning, with his cheeks filled like a chipmunk with orange and saffron cakes, looked up and blinked. “Wrhh?” came the questioning noise from the man, causing the Queen to chuckle and Allyria to smack her forehead.

After a quick swallow, or two, the Knight tried once more. “Sorry, come again? I’ll be commanding whonow to whatthen?”

“It’s no royal command, Ser Drayton.”

Even the Queen’s calm, gentle, tones didn’t change Drayton’s sudden new state of mind. “...I’ve seen a lot of war, your Grace. Princess.”

Allyria almost frowned. It was asking a lot of her sworn sword, and no one knew that more than she did. She was a heartbeat from dismissing the whole idea entirely, before Ser Drayton said something she never would’ve expected.

“My father lost his life in those Free Cities, protecting Princess Daenerys and Allyria here, getting them out safely...I’d like to find the Dothraki horselord that cut my father down. And if Allyria here is going to take her cooking talents to Essos,” he paused, scooping up a bit of sweet wine and lemon cream with his finger, tasting it and savoring the flavor, “...suppose I better follow, or else I’ll be left without these sweetcakes...and they seem as good a reason to die as any...certainly a better reason than a damned joust…”

“Good.” The Queen nodded, decidedly. “You shall carry Lord Bloodraven’s standard, many of his Raven’s Teeth have been given duties around King’s Landing and the Red Keep. I’ve heard they’ve been itching to get back together and do some fighting, so they shall accompany you. I’ll send word to Maron, and have him gather men-at-arms to go with you. Get these Free Cities folk to talk to you. I’d ask Lady Celena Lannister for help on the matter if I thought she’d give it.”

Allyria laughed. “What good is a Lannister in a Free Cities fight?”

This time, the Queen didn’t look half as amused as Allyria. “Most the time, none save for their gold and men-at-arms. But Lady Celena was once an agent of the Iron Bank, and a water dancer close to the Sea Lord’s inner circle.”

“I thought she was a pirate?” As confused as Drayton sounded asking the question, it confused Allyria even more.

...she was a pirate? What in the seven hells kind of Lannister WAS this woman?

“She was that, too.”

“And she won’t help us, Aunt Myriah?”

The Queen shrugged, taking another long sip of strongwine as the evening hour began to show weariness on her otherwise fine Dornish features. “Lord Bloodraven cautions against asking Lady Celena for help until he can learn more about her motives. But if you run into frozen lips once you arrive in Essos, send word and I will ask for her help.”

“What kind of woman makes a sorcerer like Bloodraven preach caution?” It was hard for Drayton to wrap his mind around. “I heard she’s busty and beautiful, even after childbirth. But I’ve never heard she’s something to be scared of.”

At the words ‘busty and beautiful’, Princess Allyria caught herself with envy. She would never have the curves of a woman like Celena Lannister--and just as well, she told herself, judging on the tone Drayton used when talking about the woman. Clearly he liked busty and beautiful. Best, then, that she not fit any mold Ser Drayton might desire.

After all, he was an oaf.

“What men say about her outside of Lord Bloodraven I couldn’t say, Ser Drayton.” And, clearly, Bloodraven wasn’t in the least concerned with Celena Lannister’s beauty, or her bust. “Tomorrow I will send letters before departing for King’s Landing, including a letter to Lord Jasper informing him of this royal force. Sail with me, or stay here and cross with the Arryns, I leave that for all of you to decide.”

The Queen said her farewells to Drayton and Byron, who even Ally noticed acting quieter than normal in the presence of Aunt Myriah, but otherwise shrugged it off. Outside, as the Kingsguard readied to help the Queen into her litter, Allyria said her goodbyes--for now.

“Be careful, Princess Allyria. The daughter of Princess Daenerys, Daemon’s beloved, will make you a target to the remants of Blackfyre’s forces hiding in Essos. Make sure you take that dragonbone bow with you at all times.”

Allyria promised, kissed her aunt’s cheek, gave a last hug, and waved goodbye as the wheeled vehicle drawn by horses cruised out of the Manse’s gates and into the streets of Gulltown. She even closed and locked the gate herself, watching the white cloaked Knights flank her Aunt as they went off into the distance and around a city corner to disappear.

“Don’t worry, Aunt Myriah. I’ll be fine.”

Even to Princess Allyria, the softly spoken promise seemed beyond what she could promise. But those fears and doubts, she would leave for another day--now was the time to run inside and steal any orange and saffron cakes left before Drayton and Byron stole them all.

The Narrow Sea, Somewhere Near Gulltown, The Coast of Westeros
Roughly a week before the beginning of the Gulltown Tourney

Although he enjoyed spending time in manses, palaces and castles - and the opportunities and experiences that were made possible because of the nature of such places, situated within cities or at least close by to them, on the most part - Arron Redwyne knew, in his bones, that he truly belonged at sea. Although he was a Knight of The Reach, he had always been infected - or, as he would like to say, blessed - with an overpowering urge of wanderlust, which he had sated for the last thirty or so years to be around in order to raise his children and to be a good husband to his wife.

Now, however, with his wife gone and his children all but grown, he was finally free to sail the seas again as he had once done in his youth. Standing on the upper deck of his galley, there was an incurable grin upon the aging man’s features, a result of his finally being able to do again what he felt he had been born to do; his snowy white hair becoming tousled, thrown about by the force of the wind. Arron did not dress in noble finery or armour when at sea - he, like the most of his crew, wore leathers and a baggy cloth shirt, although they were laced up quite a bit more tightly in the presence of the Ladies, Knights and Noblemen who were travelling with them to Gulltown, hailing from regions all over Westeros.

The sound of his bo’sun roaring orders could be heard, against the sound of the prow of his ship cleaving the waves before it: the massive, well-maintained steel ram’s head at the front of the vessel looking almost as if it was guiding the galley through the waters of the Narrow Sea. Gulls circled the vessel from above, their shrieks intermingling with the sound of oars dipping in and out of the ocean - their presence signifying the vessel’s closeness to Gulltown, and the tournament for which so many had travelled, from all over the Seven Kingdoms.

Lord Redwyne’s vessel - in company with the four other ships that had come with it from The Arbor - had cast off from King’s Landing after about a week at port, the party from The Reach having arrived on the fourth day, and Emmon Redwyne and Rory Reyne having finally reached the capital on the sixth. That night, a great party was held, and noblemen from The Reach, The Westerlands and The Crownlands alike feasted alongside one another in Lord Arron’s city dwelling, enjoying the good hospitality - involving copious amounts of wine - that those from The Arbor were known for throughout Westeros.

Although he was happy to see his children and his grandson again, Arron had felt the tensions rising within the confined space of his relatively small manse - his own patience beginning to run short with Lord Leos Tyrell, he had ordered that his ships be ready to leave as soon as possible. Once the necessary preparations had been made, Lord Arron had announced that it was time to depart from King’s Landing: the man, to his surprise, leaving his daughter Cassilda behind him, in company with Lord Leos’ bastard brother, at the request of the Tyrell. Not wanting to upset his liege lord, Arron granted the request, although he thought it somewhat queer: why would his daughter wish to remain behind in the City, when a great tournament was about to be underway? It was a question best left unanswered, he found, after a brief interrogation of his middle son, Halmon - a man who even as a boy who had always been too snakelike for Arron’s liking, but whom he loved and trusted all the same.

So, leaving his daughter behind him, Lord Arron had departed: grateful to be away from King’s Landing (which had always been too large and too dirty for his liking), and back to the sea, where he felt most at home.

He had found that the journey through the Blackwater and then back onto the Narrow Sea had been much more enjoyable than the few days he had spent with his extended family in King’s Landing, cooped up in his manorhouse: the bulk of Lord Tyrell’s retainers, along with the various Knights and Ladies from all over The Reach who had travelled with him, had been distributed between his other vessels, lessening Lord Arron’s burden quite significantly: although he still had Leos himself to deal with, and his scheming sons to keep apart; including Rory Reyne, who looked to Arron to be the same as the day he had left The Arbor to reassume his duties at Castamere.

Running his calloused fingertips along the polished bannister of the upper deck - which had been reserved for the use of Lord Redwyne and his officers alone - Arron turned, leaning back against the wooden barricade: casting his bright, intelligent gaze outwards. From his position on the second highest point of the flagship - save for the Crow’s Nest - he could see a great many things, and spied his grandson Vymar talking quietly with Halmon in a corner: the young boy seeming extremely attentive - enrapt, even - to everything that his uncle had to say, his eyes wide and alive with the innocent, vibrant curiosity of youth. Vymar seemed to be much more sane than his father, and his close relationship with Halmon made Arron feel reassured about the future of The Reach after his death; even if he did feel slightly guilty that Vymar’s uncle was more of a father figure to him than the man who had sired him, at the Lord of The Arbor’s subtle request.

Lord Leos, Arron knew, was somewhere belowdecks, in the ship’s second most largest cabin - in bed, likely recovering from the events of the night previous. It had been slightly stormy, that night, and Lord Redwyne had poked his head out of the door of his cabin upon hearing a strange and out-of-place noise: a battlecry, it had sounded like, followed by the sound of frantic footsteps. The Master of The Arbor had been surprised (and slightly amused) by what he had exited the warmth of his cabin to discover, but most of all he had been worried: the sight of Lord Leos Tyrell climbing his way up the ships’ rigging, bellowing a challenge to a so-called “Storm God”, with his armoured knights fluttering about the base of the mainmast like a dozen worried hens, had certainly not been something that had inspired Arron’s hopes for the future of The Reach after his death.

Leos had been helped down from the mast by one of Arron’s sailors: the man aboard the ship who was quickest and most experienced at climbing up the labrinth of ropes that hung down from the sides of the Crow’s Nest. ‘Helped’ was quite a tame way to put it, Arron mused, a small smirk on his lips as he made his way down to the main deck of the ship: Highgarden’s ruler had been thrashing and screaming as he’d been brought down again to the safety of the deck, and had been rushed off to his bedchambers by his bodyguards as soon as he was back in their grasp. Halmon had not been over exaggerating when he had spoke of Leos’ brilliance finding its roots quite firmly in the regions of insanity.

Seeking out one of the senior members of his crew, Arron addressed the muscular young man in a low tone. “Tell the crew to make ready for port - we’re almost there, by the looks of things. Shouldn’t be too much longer now: signal the other ships, and inform our noble guests of their imminent arrival at Gulltown - I’m sure they’ll want to look their best when they step off the ship.” The man grunted, murmuring an “aye, sir” as he rushed off to carry out his Master’s commands.

Arron sighed, running a hand through his hair as he headed for his cabin. Managing his sons, Rory Reyne and Lord Leos Tyrell all at once would be no easy task, but he would do his best - after all, it was of utmost importance that his extended family would not be seen as anything but completely respectable: and powerful, as The Reach had always been. He stepped through the door into his private room, steeling himself for the days to come.

King's Landing, Some Weeks Before the Gulltown Tourney

Willem's meeting place of choice was in a room on the ground levels of the Red Keep. It was his personal quarters that he had chosen as locale for the meeting, seeing as a clandestine rendez-vous with a man as notorious as the Lord Paramount of the Reach would be an impossibility. Spies and courtiers alike would know about the meeting, that was fine, Lord Morningwood thought. Lord Leos Tyrell was his former liegelord after all, and the specifics of the meeting would not be uncovered. Willem playing host to Leos was not unseemly.

A groom knocked on the door to announce Lord Leos' arrival, and ushered in the unconventional personality that was master of the Reach. The salon suddenly seemed smaller with three people in it, and the departure of the groom did little to alleviate Willem's sensation of suffocation. When he walked and bowed, his silver cane tapped the flagstones wherever they were bare, for he had only one carpet, and a bland one at that. It was nothing fancy like its Myrish or Dornish counterparts in the other rooms of the Red Keep. A simple carpet for a -Willem smirked- simple man.

"Welcome, my Lord Tyrell," he said, clearing his throat. A pitcher of Arbor wine stood on the dining table, little drops of condensation pearling on the silver reservoir. Two goblets rested beside, and Willem slowly poured two glasses of the cooled, crimson liquid. "How is Highgarden this time of year? How fares the Reach?"

The Lord of Highgarden stood stock still in the center of the room, his pale eyes dancing from the ceiling to the floor to Willem.

"Hmm?" was the reply, "The Reach? Purple, absolutely purple this time of year. Come visit the next time you visit. You know, you really must do something with these chambers, Wiltingwood, it looks like a stable in here. Terribly drab, depressing even."

Tyrell tapped his pointed chin with a long slender finger, "But enough with the niceities and polite questions, don't you think? Chit-chat is absolutely boring. If you even think of mentioning the weather I'll kick your cane out from under you and you can babble up at me from the floor. At the least that would add some drama to the situation, no? The stunted cripple, making conversation with a high lord while writhing on the ground? Much more colorful. No offense intended, of course, I have nothing but love for cripples, dwarves, bastards, that sort of thing."

Leos sighed, running a hand through his unkempt black hair, and slumped into one of Morningwood's chairs. He lazily motioned for the other man to sit.

Willem dragged his maimed body to the other chair and sighed with relief when he lowered his arse on the velvet cushions. At least now the searing pain from his up to his neck was alleviated slightly, his back no longer felt on fire, but it still burnt. "What use is a downed cripple? I am not fast on my feet, my Lord, but robbing a crippled man of his walking stick... tsk," he jibed. "That's not very gallant, while you said you hold love for a broken thing such as I."

Willem Morningwood leered his smile as he offered the Lord Paramount the cup of Arbor wine.

"Broken things?" said Leos, "I like interesting ones."

The Lord of Highgarden poured his goblet of wine onto Willem's carpet. "There, you have to get a new one. Something less hideous, I suggest. Now that that's settled, I find myself wondering- all the time, not to mention wandering- but I do wonder about the Red Keep these days. I am, by all accounts, an important man, wouldn't you say? Lord Paramount, and all the rest of it. And terribly rich. Yet when I have my man request a clandestine meeting with the master of whispers, instead I am offered a decidedly nonclandestine meeting with the master of coin's crippled assistant. It does seem strange, Morninglog, don't you think? Not to mention the teensiest bit insulting."

After taking a sip from his own goblet, with the appropriate gusto, Willem nodded in answer to Leos' objections. "Undoubtedly it has occurred to your Lordship that meeting me is far less attractive, not just to yourself, but also to others. There is nothing strange in us talking, nothing out of the order. I operate as the Master of Whisperer's agent in this. So in fact, you are having a rendez-vous with Brynden Rivers -through myself-, in a very clandestine way." Willem twirled his hand. "Hiding in plain sight and all that."

"I am familiar with the concept," Leos replied, giving Willem the merest ghost of a wink, "Quite a pair you are. Him one-eyed, you of the worthless leg. Almost a complete human being together- though I suppose you'd have some redundant bits if you were fused, eh Bloodwood?"

Leos chuckled at his own comment and poured himself a glass of wine, "So then, what are we going to do about this tourney the Arryn brat's throwing, hmmm? Your cyclopean master surely doesn't support the coming madness, unless this is all some elaborate plot to kill Bittersteel, in which case, is he behind it? It's not like him to be so obvious, but it does have a certain flair."

Willem was not knowledgeable to all of Bloodraven's plans and plots, and he told the Lord Paramount as much. "Bloodraven is a master of intrigue. I doubt his left hand knows what the right hand is doing most of the time." One-eyed the Great Bastard might be, but he usually saw everything, courtesy of his elaborate network. From what Morningwood had been told, and had been able to find out, this tourney and the underlying motive were discovered quite late. Forsooth, Bloodraven had not been involved with the conception of the idea...

"The young falcon has flown the nest earlier than expected, and Lord Bloodraven has been occupied with Baelor's death. He is very, very angry because he has been caught off-guard for the first time in... well I do not know." Willem paused, weighing his words for Leos the Loon. "Caught off-guard by a stripling boy and a zealot twat."

Willem continued on the topic of Baelor Breakspear's death. "Bloodraven and Baelor might not have seen," Morningwood chuckled, "eye-to-eye most of the time, but they had respected one another."

"Perhaps he has his claws in Jasper Arryn's plans, but it is practically impossible to be sure," Willem Morningwood said, returning from the tangent. "Jasper and his uncle are dangerously pious, which makes it difficult to keep them under control... Their loyalty is not meted out in coin, my Lord, nor land. They have a cause," Willem said calmly, observing his former liegelord. "So perhaps it is time we should take one up as well?" By the Seven, Willem loved politicking. He hoped, nay betted that this suggestion would rouse Leos's curiosity. Say one thing for Leos Tyrell, say he was mad but curious.

"Claws and coins and causes." Leos said, nodding sagely, "I do hope Bloodybird was not so blinded by his brother's death he missed all the gold trickling into the Vale, and so many ships being mysteriously contracted by the eastern lordlings. Then again, he only has one eye- one can loose perspective without all three. Causes though, and claws."

Leos' thin mouth broke out in a lopsided smile, "What's your cause, Earlytree? How firmly set are the raven's claws in you, hmmm? You interest me. A little lordling, crippled, hobbling around the Red Keep, counting fat old lord whats-his-name's coins for him."

"Lord Celtigar, though he's often called Lord Crab Patty for... obvious reasons," Willem admitted with a slight hint of a grin. "Not by me, of course, by staff. Your Lordship undoubtedly knows I sit on the Small Council. Sometimes in lieu of Lord Crab Patty, sometimes as his assistant. The truth is, the old crab is just a bag of wind. You may interpret that quite literally too." Willem nodded his head and then waved his hand in front of his face, pulled a look of disgust. Lord Sandor Celtigar suffered from indigestion and was incredibly flatulent as a result.

"As far as causes go," Willem said, "I find myself lacking one. My cause is my own, you might say. Nobody looks out for a cripple, my Lord, so I must, lest I be devoured by this world."

"You've climbed precipitously high, for a causeless, lonely, nearly nameless lameleg serving an old fat gasbag. Meeting High Lords in place of the terrible and great Brynden Rivers..." replied Leos.

Tyrell cocked his head to one side, regarding Willem like a bird watching a choice worm.

"Did you know there's currently no Hand of the King? Do they tell that sort of thing to assistant masters of coin? Why does His Good Graciousness dally and delay? Why not name one of his capable-if-creepy brothers to the position, I wonder? Old Bloodraven's practically drowning in his own drool he wants it so badly- we all know that. The fucking smallfolk talk about it, for the Stranger's sake."

"The smallfolk always talk. I am ever the butt of jokes myself, so I know. Didn't you know I'm called Lame Willie? Thinking up nicknames is a favourite pastime of people." He took another sip of the Arbor wine, rich and sweet like a noble's daughter.

"The truth of the matter is," Willem continued sedately, "that it is a family affair. With Breakspear in the mud, both Brynden and Maekar covet his old position. King Daeron cannot be seen to favour one over the other, for choosing either will sow discord. In addition, as you have so eloquently mentioned, Brynden is a bastard with a reputation... Besides, he is already Master of Whisperers. On the other hand, Maekar is responsible for the death of Baelor. He is lucky he is not called kinslayer openly. Neither of them has an untarnished reputation, and they have both killed their brothers." Brynden Rivers had slain his elder brother Daemon Blackfyre years ago, after all. Willem Morningwood tapped a finger against his lips in a pensive gesture. "There are no other valid Targaryen applicants. This one is banished, the other a drunk, yet another a melancholic, still another too young,..." Willem sighed and put up his hands in a mock gesture of frustration. "Hence why I believe good King Daeron in his wisdom will seek to find a suitable candidate outside of the royal family."

"The Small Council will be reorganised sooner rather than later," Willem said. Bloodraven wished to retain his position of power as Master of Whisperers. Now it was becoming increasingly clear that Daeron would not name him as Hand, the one-eyed bastard wanted to secure his fortune. "When that happens I hope to no longer have to circumvent the girth of Lord Crab Patty and become Master of Coin, while Lord Bloodraven wants to remain Master of Whisperers. Your support as Lord Paramount of the Reach in these endeavours is of course invaluable." The optimistically soon-to-be Master of Coin leaned forward, placing his two hands on the silver acorn-knob of his cane and whispered. "That still leaves the position of Hand of the King open. Perhaps we could pinpoint a suitably pliable candidate beneficial to the three of us?" Willem had to smirk. He might have been raised a knight, but he was born to be a politician.

Sini/Flagg Collab

The Bloody Lullaby cut calmly through the vicious dim waters, waves of murky blue battering against the sides of the ship’s colossal hull. A heavy downpour of rain pelted the vessel, drenching the deck’s wooden planks, and smattering against its sail.

A distant crack of thunder lit up the clouded sky in a display of potent fury, before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a perpetual grey gloom.

Whispering winds gently rocked the ship, whistling past in silent streaks, as blasts of salty seawater spilled over the ship’s gunwale.

The Bloody Lullaby was truly a sight to behold; a hull of dark wood wrought together with shimmering metal, a towering mast with sails of bright crimson upon a field of deep black, and a bulky yet sleek design.

Amidst rain and sea and storm, the ship pressed onwards, being gently rocked back and forth by the elemental bombardment of wind and water.

A loud thudding awoke Ravette Bolton from her sleep, which she deduced to be the sound of a fist hammering against her cabin door.

The cabin in which she resided was confined and cramped, with only a hammock and a small wooden desk to occupy it. The cabin’s lone candle was currently unlit, and no single ray of light entered the room, not even managing to straggle in through a crack in the wall. Ravette preferred the darkness to the light, and had developed excellent night vision because of this, doing most of her pirating whilst the rest of the world lay sleeping and vulnerable.

However, to Ravette’s knowledge, it was not currently night-time, and the sudden awakening was most unwelcome.

Her vision was blurry and her head pounded, which the loud banging at the door was doing little to ease. Her raven hair fell in messy clumps around her shoulders, hard and knotted from having been slept on.

She stumbled, weary eyed, from her worn out hammock, shambling across the stiff floorboards as she made her way to the door.

Ravette gently creaked open the door, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the lamp-lit corridor, to be greeted by Gap-tooth Gariss, looking an awful lot more awake than she felt.

He beamed at her through the gaped teeth for which he got his name, looking mighty please with himself.

“Afternoon, Cap’n.”

She hissed fiercely at him, grabbing hold of his leathery hand and yanking him inside the dark cabin, slamming the door behind him as she did so.

“What in the seven hells do you want?!” She seethed, fixing him with bloodshot eyes.

Gariss could not see her in the lightless room, but the sheer venom in her voice made her lack of appreciation for being so abruptly woken evident.

“A-apologies for the interruption, Cap’n” He stammered, gazing roughly into the area where he had heard her voice come from. “But I spotted somethin’ I thought might interest you.”

“What?! She fumed through clenched teeth, futilely attempting to keep the strained rage from her tone.

“A M-merchant vessel on the h-horizon, Cap’n; Looks to be from the Free Cities.”

Ravette unclenched her fists, and a slick smile spread across her likeness, bolstered by the wicked scars that ran along her cheeks, forming a distorted smirk that covered a great portion of her face.

“Make sure the men are ready,” She instructed, the prospect of plunder dominating her thoughts “I’ll meet you out on the deck.”

Gariss soon scurried from the room, to do as she had bid him, leaving Ravette to clothe and prepare herself.

Ravette fished her attire up off of a heap on the floor, sliding into her tunic, and fastening her breeches around her waist with a chord of hempen rope. She scrambled into her dark leather boots, placing a pasty white foot in each.

Her gloves and cloak were a frayed yellowish brown in colouring, with her own mismatched needlework having patched them together.

Farlen Reensworth, cabin boy of the Lady Erena she thought, as she pulled the gloves down over her pasty white hands, taking some satisfaction from feeling them rub against her own flesh.

Erryk and Emmon Pyke, Gawen Rivers, Rollard Redmane, and One-eyed Duncan Farring She mused inwardly, as she slung the ragged cloak over her shoulders, fastening it to her tunic with pins of tarnished brass.

She unhooked Bloodletter from a peg on the wall, sliding the gleaming blade into its scabbard, one lithe hand coiled around the rawhide grip.

She joined her men up top, the motley crew drenched through and through by the still persisting downpour of rain, awaiting her in a shambled line.

Ravette gazed out into the blue-grey sea, spotting a fat cargo ship with furled sails drifting uneasily nearby.

“There’s our target!” She exclaimed, having to battle over the sound of the rainfall to be heard, one outstretched hand pointing at the vessel, that slick smile creeping across her features once more. “What say we go raid some southrons?”

A cheer went up from her crew, their weapons raised above their heads, gleaming dimly as rainwater ran off of their metal blades.

By now, Ravette’s previously knotted hair had become dank and soggy, plastered to her head by the ceaseless downpour.

She yanked the cloak’s hood up over her head, a waif-like faced, blotched and pale, blocking out the rain, the mouth and eyeholes having been sewn shut.

She inwardly thanked Emmon Pyke for providing her with his likeness, so that she might shield herself from unsavoury weather, and remain warm in the long years of winter.

It did not take long for the Bloody Lullaby to cut across the murky waters, swaying in next to the merchant’s ship.

It was a fairly compact vessel, seemingly fashioned from oak, with square rigging and unadorned sails. Intricately crafted, and painted in a smattering of bright colours, it was certainly a pretty little boat, but looked to be lacking in ways of defence, with only a few sellswords littering the deck.

The Lullaby’s ram, an armoured beak of painted black metal, battered into the side of the vessel, tearing through its hull, and sending a burst of immense wooden splinters spraying through the air. A chunk of the boat fell away into the Narrow Sea, landing with a mighty ‘SPLASH!’, and the sheer force of the assault knocked a few of the vessel’s inhabitants off of their feet.

Ravette was the first to board, screeching like a banshee, Bloodletter raised above her head, the stitched together face of Emmon Pyke concealing her own visage.

She leaped from the Bloody Lullaby’s deck, landing on the Merchant vessel with a definite ‘THUD!’, sending off a spray of rainwater that had congealed beneath her feet.

A mercenary, clad in light scale mail, was quick to meet her, but the sheer force with which she came down on him sent him staggering back across the deck. He moved to parry her attacks, but was too slow, and soon his head went rolling across the deck, blood spraying from the stump of his neck, streaks of crimson mixing with the rainwater.

The wind sent her skin-cloak wafting behind her, and the face that formed her hood, contorted in a permanent grimace, with its stitched grin and its sealed eyeholes, sent men recoiling backwards, gapping in horror at the beast that stood before them.

“You would let a single little girl frighten you?!” Barked one of the sellswords, surrounded by men who clutched swords and shields and spears.

Ravette grinned, running her slender tongue through the gapping chasms in her cheeks, showing of rows of needle-like teeth. She raised her hand and bid the mercenaries to come and face her, purring like a jungle cat all the while.

The sellswords rushed towards her, but even now she could smell the fear that gripped their bodies, could test the terror lingered in the air.

She swung left, Bloodletter biting into the chest of a man who had not raised his shield in time, before blocking the cold steel of another man’s sword, mid-swing. She forced him backwards with bestial might, before slicing though his shoulder, leaving him to die in a pool of his own fluids, thrashing about on the deck like a sickly mule. A third man rushed her, but she simply ducked below his swing, slashing him in two whilst he was vulnerable.

Soon, her men came vaulting down behind her, raining arrows and steel onto their enemies. The battle did not last long.

Broken bodies littered the deck, and dismembered limbs were scattered about the place. Ravette had her men bind the merchant’s wrists, and gather them at the centre of the ship. They knelt before her, quivering in fear, dressed in expensive silk and rich finery.

She spun on her heel, turning to address Pale Lorimier, who was using a knife to pick at the grime beneath his finger nails.

“Scavenge all that you can from below decks, and then put the ship to the torch.” She instructed him. They had done too much damage to the vessel when they had rammed it, and it would be more trouble than it was worth in its broken state.

She turned back towards the merchant, smirking at the ripe terror that was in their eyes, as they awaited their fates.

That night the crew of the Blood Lullaby feasted on meat which was soft and sweet, and when the morning came they still had plenty to fill their larders.

When they next came into port, they sold off all of the goods that the merchants had been carrying, and made a pretty penny for all the expensive silk clothing that they had acquired.

Some Time Prior to the Tourney at Gulltown

Kraken’s Reach was a pebble among the Stepstones, three leagues square at most, and home to naught but a fishing village nestled in a rocky cove and a squat, four-walled tower perched on the cliffs above. It could not have been home to more than a hundred fishermen and goatherds, all of them living in ramshackle, driftwood hovels.Those present for Brandon’s landing watched him come ashore with an unfocused disinterest. He and his men wore wolf and ermine furs, a strange sight in this climate, but the villagers paid little mind to visitors beyond the occasional Tyroshi merchant. Brandon had nothing to sell or trade them.

The climb to the tower was a steep and rocky affair. The tower was worth little in terms of strategic value, but defensibly speaking it had great promise. With a half adequate garrison and further fortification it stood to be impregnable. The uphill road, wide enough for no more than a small cart’s width, was rough and uneven, a haphazardly cut gouge in the mountainous landscape of the island with steep rock walls to either side. Brandon and his companions walked single file to be surer of their steps over the treacherous terrain; the Greyjoys had chosen their outpost well. Crossbowmen atop the rocks and a line of shields on the road could bring an army to ruin, he observed.

The tower itself, however, was in disrepair, a weathered structure that seemed half a ruin. To its credit it had a wall Brandon’s height, and while hardly capable of stopping an enemy it would certainly slow him down. The gate was raised when they arrived, though no one was in sight. At least, no one save the three corpses strung from the portcullis. Their feet dangled half a hand from the ground, and upon closing the distance Brandon judged them to have been dead for some time. One of his men drew a blade and made to cut them down.

“Don’t,” Brandon hissed with great urgency, hand raised. The man looked at him quizzically.

“They’re in the way,” he said, stating the obvious.

“We are guests on this island, and this man is no host to offend,” the sellsail answered gravely, "nor question. These men are not our concern." His companion, a young Pentoshi man named Naheo, slid his dagger back into its sheath. Brandon pushed past the corpse dangling in the middle, holding his breath to shield himself from the stench of death. His men followed his example, and once past the gates they made for the tower itself.

-

An Ironborn warrior in iron brigandine showed them to the solar, and Brandon found their host slouched in an authoritative chair, inelegantly carved from what seemed to be driftwood. He was garbed in ornamental black and scarlet silks, cutting a striking image in the plain, dimly lit room. The oils in his black hair glimmered in the lurching lantern light, and his dark eyes smiled with the glint of fire. It had been half a year since they'd met last, but the man hadn't changed save for a white hrakkar mantle that had taken the place of the sable cloak Brandon recalled.

The driftwood chair was the only chair in the solar. It was the only object in the solar, in fact. The room, a square space at the top of the tower, was completely bare save for the seat of Kraken’s Reach. It was not a luxurious hall. Brandon, under the guise of a hedge knight, had chanced to travel to the Crownlands for a tourney some few years ago, and had visited the halls of half a dozen lords in that time. The Westerosi lords had decorated their solars with stag, wolf, and aurochs pelts, rich tapestries, and stained glass, and all had more lordly chairs than the one before him. Criston Greyjoy, the Lord of Kraken’s Reach, sat the chair as though he were born to exceed it.

A goblet swayed in his right hand, the gold clicking gently against the many rings that adorned his splayed fingers. Brandon espied the black glint of dragonglass, and the bloody red twinkle of a ruby set on a band of Valyrian steel, to say nothing of gold, silver, emeralds, and sapphires. The raven haired lord dismissed their escort with a wave of the glittering hand, and the Ironborn man saw himself out.

“Wine, old friend?” Criston asked, lazily gesturing to the serving girl at his side. She held a large crystal carafe, half full of the blood red liquid. Brandon shook his head and thanked him for the offer. “Do you want the girl?” he asked bluntly, sizing her up. There was a heavy silence and a heavier stillness, broken only by the girl’s trembling. She was a feather of a child, no older than ten years of age. The pause grew longer and more uncomfortable, and Brandon could feel the eyes of his men on him. With terrible suddenness. Criston’s mouth split into a red stained grin, and the hall echoed with his laughter. He laughed alone. “I jest, of course,” he clarified.

“A dark jape, Lord Greyjoy,” Brandon answered, eyeing the trembling girl. He’d suspected as much, but there was all too often no telling with this man.

“Mayhaps it was,” Criston replied, unapologetic, and then repeated, “Lord Grejoy.” He seemed to consider the words for a moment. “Have your men leave us. I must speak with you privately,” he continued, and took to draining what wine remained in the goblet. Brandon’s men showed themselves to the doors of the solar, a little too eagerly in his opinion. Once they’d seen themselves out, Criston rose with a violent swiftness and flung his goblet across the room. The golden cup skipped across stone, and what little wine remained within splattered across the floor. In the room’s dim lighting it looked morbidly like blood.

“Clean that up,” Criston roared, and the serving girl set the carafe down and scurried after his goblet with fear in her eyes and stride. Hrakkar cloak whirling as he turned, he stalked his way to a window offering a view out onto the rocky cove and village below. “Lord Greyjoy,” he spat, his tone all but dripping venom. Mad as ever, Brandon thought. Maron Greyjoy’s issue were rumored to be touched by a madness that ran in the blood. Brandon had dismissed such notions as foolish before he became acquainted with Criston’s erratic, half-manic fits, to say nothing of his encounter with the Mad Kraken of Wreckstone. “Lord Greyjoy of what?” Criston demanded.

“You are the Lord of Kraken’s Reach,” Brandon replied, fighting the urge to scratch an old scar, “a domain that is yours by right.”

“Aye, I got my damn island,” Criston growled, turning to face Brandon. Half his face was bathed in the reddening sun’s light. He offered a wickedly red smirk that had the color and sharpness of a bloody knife. “It’s merely on the wrong side of the fucking world.” He held out his open hand toward the girl, and she came hurrying with the goblet, newly filled.

“That makes it no less yours,” Brandon growled. “I have sailed a week to this island, and I place great value on my time. If you have you called me here for a reason, I would have you get to the point of the matter, rather than dance around its edges.” He’d told his men Criston was no man to offend, but Brandon knew how to keep him checked. Criston loved words the way the Red Priests loved fire. Perhaps there was something to be said of language's beauty, but Brandon had no interest in poetry or rhetoric. “Speak plainly,” he finished. Criston took a long draught of wine.

“My sweet, half-sane cousin and I are not the only krakens this side of the world, Brandon.” Criston returned to his driftwood chair and sat himself down. Brandon pursed his lips as he went through the Greyjoys he knew. Criston was the only one relevant to the Free Cities as of late, and he’d not seen nor heard of any longships other than his. “Gyselle came to me, bearing tidings of our grandfather’s health,” the Lord of Kraken’s Reach clarified.

“And how does he fare?” Brandon prompted, realizing, after a momentary pause, that a response was expected of him.

“He dies as we speak, and once he is dead we will have a new Lord of the Iron Islands.”

“And I am sure there will be a lovely feast,” Brandon said, hoping that Criston took note of his tone. He did not sail to this obscure corner of the world to hear of a man he'd never met.

“I trust you have not forgotten the debt you owe me, Brandon Greystark.” Criston regarded him with eyes dark with malice, his voice flat. Brandon felt a chill spread from his heart and into his limbs. He had not forgotten. Could not forget.

Brandon had first heard of Criston Greyjoy by way of a saying that had taken root among sellswords hired by Tyrosh and Lys. For ordinary sellsails a man pays with gold, but for the Eclipse he pays with the soul, or so they had said. Criston was an oddity among sellsails for rarely dealing in coin. He fought for other, darker treasures. Some said that, on the outbreak of the last war, Lys purchased the Eclipse and her captain for the price of a Lysene merchant lord’s eldest daughter. Others said it was the girl’s maidenhead, or all three daughters, or all five daughters and their mother, and so on and so forth. Rumors birthed new rumors, but one thing was certain; Criston Greyjoy was no man to hire lightly, nor a man to owe a debt.

Brandon had the distinct misfortune of owing Criston Greyjoy his life.

“I have not forgotten,” Brandon replied. Criston favored him with a long, languid smile, and his eyes were a confident promise.

"Good." He looked into the goblet and considered its contents a moment before continuing. "I believe names have great power. Do you know who Criston Cole was?"

"The Kingmaker."

"I suspect in naming me for him my late father had hoped I, too, would shoulder the burden of leading men, and laying the brick and mortar for new chapters in the annals of history." The Greyjoy corsair drained the chalice of its remaining wine and handed it to his cupbearer. "No more," he ordered as she made to fill it again. "Upon my lord grandfather's passing," he continued, "I shall be fourth in the succession to Pyke - fifth, if my dear cousin Victaria can rally men to her name. I mean to change that."

"You mean to take the Iron Islands," Brandon said gravely.

"I mean for the Ironborn to give them to me," Criston corrected. There was something in his voice that made Brandon uneasy, like the grating screech of steel edges dragged against one another. “Unfortunately, some of my kin may need to be sacrificed for the sake of my vision.”

“No man is so accursed as the kinslayer,” Brandon warned, shifting uncomfortably as he realized that Criston was slowly reaching the purpose of summoning the sellsail to his keep. Criston smiled an aloof, lazy smile.

“Incest and kinslaying are both affronts against the gods, old and new,” he replied, “yet the Targaryens are kings and Bloodraven all but rules the realm. The Faith grovels and the Drowned God’s followers kneel before men who ought to have been smote for their sins. The world is ruled by the godless, Brandon, and the godly suffer what they must.”

“And you are no godly man.” Criston turned his hand over and distractedly admired his carefully kempt fingernails.

“No,” he said, bored, “I should think not.” He flicked a speck of invisible grime out from under his third nail. “I require your services.”

“I figured as much,” Brandon said. He hoped his voice did not betray his trepidation.

“How loyal are your men?” Criston asked sharply, the question pointed and concise. “Do they serve you, or gold?”

“They are loyal to me, and I am loyal to gold,” Brandon replied evenly. “Not one of them would think of betraying me.” Criston drew a Myrish stiletto and worked the thin blade around the edge of another of his fingernails, extricating another fleck of dirt he’d likely imagined.

“I dislike coin,” Criston commented dryly, deftly working the stiletto through each successive nail, “much too obvious. and too easy for another to match. I pay you two hundred dragons, another pays one and two hundred, then I pay two and two hundred, and so it goes. No one wins save you, sellsail.”

“I was under the impression that I am working to clear my debt to you,” Brandon reminded him, “not for coin.” Criston nodded.

“You certainly are, but what I ask of you far outstrips the value of your debt.” He sheathed the stiletto and slouched deeper into the driftwood chair as he returned his fire kissed gaze to his guest. “You will swear your sword to me. You will serve to deliver the Iron Islands to me. In exchange, I will consider your debt fulfilled. Also,” he said, and here he paused, allowing a self-satisfied smile to creep into the corners of his wine stained lips, “I shall ensure the restoration of House Greystark to lordship, complete with a Westerosi domain to be inherited by your children and grandchildren until the end of days.

It was the not the Wolf’s Den, but it was a lordship, and an opportunity his forebears had never had. He thought of the stories his father had told him during his tender years, about the forging and reforging of the Greystark blade, about their exile from the North. He thought of a body in a Braavosi canal. He drew his bastard sword and laid the flat of the blade across his left palm as he knelt. He spoke slowly, carefully, but perhaps impulsively all the same. “In the sight of the gods, old and new, I, Brandon of House Greystark, son of Rickard Greystark, do swear my sword to you until the hour of my death, or the release from your service.”

“And I, Criston Greyjoy,” the Lord of Kraken’s Reach spoke as he rose from his seat and drew his own longsword, “accept your oath of service, and swear that I shall reward your loyalty with honors, your service with glory, and your trespasses with vengeance.” He laid the flat of the black Qohorik blade on Brandon’s left shoulder, the edge a hair’s breadth or two away from the nape of his neck. “Now until the hour of your death, or the release from my service, your sword is bound to me,” he continued, raised the sword, and laid the flat on Brandon’s right shoulder, “and your life to mine. May these vows be known to the gods, old and new alike.” He sheathed the blade and returned to his seat.

“Rise,” Criston commanded as he slumped into the driftwood chair, and Brandon rose. “Return to your ship and make for Tyrosh. Take on supplies there and wait for my arrival should the winds favor your sails over mine. From there we will make for the Iron Islands and Pyke.”

“As you command. My lord,” Brandon added quickly. Criston excused him from the solar, and Brandon saw himself out.

The Winter Wolf set sail for Tyrosh before nightfall.

The Arbor, The Reach, Westeros

The Arbor was a unique, secluded place. It was small in comparison to some of the lands which were ruled over by many of Westeros’ other Noble Houses, but almost none of those Houses could claim to hold dominion over such a beautiful and peaceful land. The island was more often than not warm and sunny, bright waves of sunlight illuminating it from above. Its coast was complete with pristine white beaches and clear blue water which lapped gently (most of the time) against the shore.

A small handful of these beaches and coves had been tarnished by human settlement, but the vast majority of them were left pristine and untouched (save for fishermen’s nets), a testament to the beauty that had been created by the Old Gods, and enjoyed by the Children of the Forest before Man had first come to Westeros. Unlike the rest of Westeros’ coastal settlements, these villages were of a small enough size - and spread out enough - that they did not pollute the water much; save for Ryamsport, which was a large town and far too densely populated to not create some form of pollution.

As one moved further inland, the beauty of The Arbor could still be clearly seen, but so too could the handiwork of mankind: well-travelled roads, both large and small, leading from the coastal settlements inwardly, to well-irrigated farms and vineyards where the grapes that went into the island’s famous wine were grown. The further inland one went, the more often human life could be seen. It was certainly less dense than on the coast (where settlements were more spread out and less frequent, but much bigger), but it was certainly more common - these inland settlements may only have been hamlets and farmsteads, but there were many of them, and the men and women who ran them were the lifeblood of The Arbor and House Redwyne itself.

Despite the frequent farms, the orderly, clearly man-made vineyards and the coastal settlements, The Arbor was still an idyllic place. It was beautiful, and Victor Redwyne rode through these beautiful lands everyday. It was his one escape, his one chance to have some amount of peace and quiet: the only time he had to get away from the stuffy atmosphere of the castle from which he ruled in his father’s place. Occasionally, he would bring his daughter along with him, but today he was alone - unaccompanied by blood, unattended by guards or retainers. He did not need their protection in his own lands, he’d say - and, privately, he would admit that he did not desire the company.

Lord Arron had left The Arbor some weeks previous, and his departure had been in some ways both a blessing and a curse. It had given Victor the chance that he needed to prove himself fully capable of ruling in his own right, but the absence of his father’s guiding and experienced hand had also left him feeling somewhat helpless. He was a militant man - he understood how battlefields worked, and had a thorough understanding of his own morals and ethics: but when it came to haggling with Dornish Merchants over the price of wine, he felt himself at a firm disadvantage. After a week of trying to best a silvertongued Dornishman in a battle of wits, he had handed the matter over to one of his senior stewards. It was a hard thing, to come to terms with one’s own shortcomings, but Victor knew he was no businessman: he would need one of his brothers (or both of them) whenever he became Lord of The Arbor.

He reigned in his horse at the highest point of one of the tallest hills on The Arbor - a spot where he would often stop to stare out at the ocean and think. His steed - a white, beautiful mare which he only used for riding - tossed its head impatiently beneath him, itching to be moving again; the man leaning forwards and running his hand down the beast’s neck, murmuring softly in an effort to soothe its impatience. The Lordling’s bright gaze settled upon a small merchant vessel, once he had straightened up again - the ship reminding him of another problem which had been coming up more frequently since his father’s departure. Pirates.

In the last month, three of The Arbor’s own vessels had been attacked by pirates while at sea, and only two of those had returned to the island relatively unscathed. The other ship’s crew had been almost completely slaughtered, and among the dead was one of Victor’s closest friends - a hedgeknight by the name of Robert, whom he had grown up with: the son of one of Lord Arron’s sworn swords. Even more vessels who had not been flying the colours of House Redwyne had been set upon, and each had reported different attackers, leaving Victor with a variety of culprits: Ironborn, simple brigands, or even pirates from the Free Cities.

Angry over Robert’s death, and wanting a payment of blood for his friend’s untimely death, Victor had ordered that six ships depart from The Arbor to search the water all around the island in every direction for any sign of the culprits, and had also sent a number more ships to patrol the Redwyne Straits, to ensure the safety of merchant vessels travelling to and from the island. This influx of piracy made him nervous, and he had some inkling - some sixth sense - that something more ominous was soon to come.

Sighing, Victor tugged on his horse’s reins - turning the animal around, and nudging her lightly with his heels: the animal’s long, swift stride quickly taking him back to the main road that led from Ryamsport to Castle Redwyne. He peered up at the heavily fortified castle, another sigh leaving the man as, not for the first time, he wished that his family were closer at hand - he felt that he would need their council, in the days to come.

Sisterton burned. The air was filled with smoke and the screams of smallfolk as angry sea-men ran rampant, looting, raping and murdering, not always in that order. Amidst the carnage Jonos Sunderland sat in what remained of The Bloated Whale, once a reputable establishment for disreputable characters, now a charred-out wreck. He was sipping a bowl of sister-stew, the taste was bitter-sweet.

No-one trusted a Sisterman, it was a sad truth brought about from a lineage of pirates turned crooked-lords. Jonos supposed if he declared his hair to be brown men would swear he'd dyed it and he'd heard a dozen lords had turned cloak when the sisters joined Blackfyre's cause. Only a madman would burn his own holdings though. You'd have to steal quite a bit of gold to justify destroying your largest port, Jonos wiped a blot of stew from his stubble with a webbed finger. How many eyes does lord Bloodraven have? A thousand eyes and one. The saying sent shivers running up his spine.

He'd had his first whore here when he was but one-and-four, over in the corner next to the now smashed in window. Jonos had taken her over the table like some dog, he remembered it like it was just yesterday, the whoots and cheers of his 'uncles', a collective term he used for those raised and advised him after his father died, pirates and smugglers all. He'd met many a good man in the belly of the Bloated Whale, a number of which were being slaughtered outside at that very moment, some part of him felt the old tavern deserved a final farewell.

The sound of nearby fighting made Jonos shrink behind the counter before the combat ended with a sharp yelp and the sound of someone slumping down the side of the building, the Sisterlord felt a pang of guilt. Of course he'd done everything he could to get people out beforehand, fishing expedition, markets elsewhere, but saving too many would of caused suspicion which would of defeated the purpose of it all. You're playing a dangerous game here lad, his fathers voice played through his mind, Jonos was not the first Sunderland to have dreams above his station.

Next to the broth was set a roll a parchment, upon which was a plea to the king, or whoever it was truly ruled Westeros. The Sisters had been caught at unawares against a foe that was larger than them, the Black-dragon had risen once more. It was as much a warning as it was a request for aid. If things went to plan then no-doubt a hundred similar letters would be making their way to Kings-Landing within the fortnight, the grand tourney had caught most of Westeros' attention, with luck Jonos Sunderland would be the only one to report any eventual success against the raiders, the meagre fleet of the Sisters and its very capable lord would of course be at the crowns disposal.

Jonos downed the last of the stew, rolled up the parchment and donned his cloak, it was past time he left. The Bloated Whale was no more and with it a part of him ceased to be, for the first time in his life he wanted something more than just whores and drink and he had the means to get it. He turned his back on the pub and his old life. Outside was chaos, bodies, fire and blood all done in his name, well, in Blackfyre's name, a final 'fuck you' to Bittersteel for dragging his family onto the wrong side. Jonos sighed uneasily, he was no true lord, a man raised by pirates and disreputable sorts, but his son he decided must be something more, for that the people of Sisterton and a score of others need pay with their lives.

---

Mace was a little young to be commandeering a pirate-fleet, but if his father had taught him anything over the past few days, you wanted something you had to take it.

"Hold her steady!" The bastard shouted out to his first mate, careful to make sure his voice didn't crack, he had a lot to prove to these men and didn't want to seem like some green-boy. Right now he should of been half-way across the narrow sea, carrying a cargo Jonos Sunderland valued more than all the gold in Casterly Rock, his trueborn son; the brat hadn't stopped crying the whole journey, who new babies could be seasick?

Mace Stone turned from the stow and headed below deck, he made sure to give grim nods of approval to the crewmen he passed, he was young aye, but he'd seen more in his short-life than most grey-beards in all their years, he knew he had nothing to prove to this lot. Mace had been a gutter rat most of his life before coming to live with his father, leadership was new to him but he found he enjoyed it, hopefully this wouldn't end in mutiny.

Within the dank captains cabin was a lone cot, the mewling squelch that lay inside had only been alive a few weeks but already Mace was intensely jealous of it. Jonos was starting a war for that, something that shit itself every other hour, Mace wasn't trueborn but he'd always been loyal to his father, a true son, even if Jonos had never been a real father to him.

"I could end you right now." Mace murmured softly to his half-brother. "Snap your little neck and this would all be over, dad would go back to normal and I'd be his only son." He knew that wouldn't be the case though, Jonos would hunt him to the ends of the earth, blood or no. The little squirt just stared back at him big-blue-eyed and stupid. "Fuck.You."

Jonos trusted him though, that thought stayed with Mace, His son needed to be kidnapped by the Golden company in order for his father to justify his conviction to the cause, the only person he trusted to take him away was Mace. It was oddly comforting, also irritating that it landed him with the thing he hated most in the world right now.

A cry of 'land' from above broke Mace's chain of thought and he quickly scrambled to get above deck. His father would be furious when he found out what Mace was doing, but he hoped the lord might also be impressed, his bastard might not be so easily disregarded after this, Mace thought as he climbed the stairs. Taking command of this portion of the fleet had been almost too easy, if you acted confident enough people just seemed to accept whatever you said and of course it was important to remember all of these men were motivated soley by greed. He'd announced to the group of captains that Jonos had an especially lucrative raid in mind for them, they weren't told with the others so as not to sow dissent, they ate it up. Now here they were about to bring fire and blood to-

"Arbor's two miles out ahead!" Came the cry from the crows-nest.

Mace smiled.