Willem Morningwood’s walking made a steady rhythm on the flagstones. First the confident click of his left heel, then the tap of his cane, then the endless sliding of his right foot, with the familiar stabbing pains in the ankle and knee joints, arse and back. Click, tap, pain. The dreadful rhythm of his pace was interrupted by the steps. His face drooped for a moment when he gathered his courage. Click, tap, pain.

In the past, when he was young and widely admired, before the misfortune, he had never really noticed them. He had sprung up or down them two at a time and gone blithely on his way. Going down is worse than going up, he had learnt. It was something most did not realise, until they fell.

Willem knew this particular flight of stairs well. There were fifty-five of them, leading up to the Small Council’s meeting room. Grimacing at the enemy in front of him, he commenced the ascent cursing the architects for not including a banister or anything else to cling to. Pain shot up through his leg, along his backbone and into his neck. Hands atremble, he reached the top of the stairs, panting and suffering a horrifying burning sensation in all of his muscles and nerves. Willem felt his neck and knee click back into place, smiled and pressed on, clutching the ledgers in his talons. Little shocks of hurt fibrillated through his nerves.

“Whom do you support?” An icy voice reached him when Lame Willie limped into the council’s chamber, fumbling with the door. Dragging his numb right foot, he came forward and deposited the ledger containing parchment and papers onto the table, at the head of which one of the most powerful men of the realm was seated. A man responsible for the recent mend.

While he respected the old Velaryon immensely, Lame Willie had always felt a discomfort when dealing with the Lord of the Tides. Likely it was because of the craftiness the old fellow had, and his honourable reputation. Honourable men were dangerous, Willem knew. That discomfort had only intensified when Corlys Velaryon had re-emerged from the Black Cells beneath the Red Keep. The old lord had warned his legitimised grandsons of their impending dooms, thereby bringing the wrath of the Black Queen on his grey head. Bound and beaten, Corlys was confined to the dungeons which had cost Rhaenyra her fleet, but in time released by her brother Aegon II upon his reclamation of King’s Landing. Willem knew that Corlys had known his share of hardship, and had cheated death more than once. “My lord,” Willie grovelled, “I am merely an assistant to the Master of Coin, I-”

“Please spare me. Even if I was foolish enough to not realise you practically hold the office indirectly, then I would still want to know. The Red Keep will be a battlefield soon enough when these Northmen descend on us. The Dance might be over, but there are still many lines to be drawn.”

The Reachman sat down in a more humble seat, his back aching as he slowly planted his arse. The Sea Snake’s violet stare stayed on him, like a bloodhound on a scent. A comparison with a hawk and mouse came to mind, except that Willie did not much care about what happened at the moment. Accustomed to threats and cajoling, he existed solely to… to what? I’ll have to think on that later. A goal in life… It’s supposed to keep focus. Perhaps it was indeed time to step forward, to move out of the immense shadow that Lord Crab Patty literally cast. His part, and mine as his assistant, has been played out. Soon he'd be replaced by Tyland Lannister again.

“I support those who support me,” he stated plainly. Working with funds for whomever was in power, out of the limelight, had ensured he had stayed alive this long. Yet it was as Corlys proffered: lines were being drawn, and if he wanted to move up, Willem would have to make some choices of his own. “I believe in income and expense, my lord.” In fact, it had been Lord Corlys for whom he had most recently brokered a contract. Timber from Crackclaw Point and the Kingswood for the wharves at Driftmark in order to rebuild the Velaryon fleet, which was pretty much synonymous with the royal fleet.

Sea Snake offered him a cold smile. While old, he was still as sharp as ever. The time he spent languishing in the Black Cells had turned him into a wisp of a man, and the image of the Stranger came to Willem’s mind. It was as if death’s shadow hung about him like a cloak. “Mayhaps I do like you then. A cripple you might be, but slippery as an eel.”

“Takes one marine creature to know another,” he gambled. Willie answered the Snake’s smile with his lopsided grin, his tongue flicking over his lips. Humour? “What of Aegon, second of his name? Not the young prince who took your place in the dungeon.” The accountant made another gamble.

“Careful now…” Lord Velaryon let the threat linger in the air, like a shimmer in summer, regarding his close kin. “I have advised his Grace to take the black,” Corlys said, his voice little more than a whisper. He ignored Willem’s presumptuous retort. “Yet it has been a long time since anyone has heeded my words. To no one’s advantage, I may add.”

“His Grace refused then, I take it? Even after word reached him of the Baratheon host’s defeat?” The Northerner’s had soundly beaten the last force standing between them and King’s Landing. Making their way south along the Kingsroad would bring them to the gates of the city within days. A young Steffon Baratheon had brought the news, though Willie measured this action daring rather than stupid. Borros had been the one to inherit all the folly of his House.

Willem, not altogether the most pure of men, still felt dismay when he thought about how Aemond Targaryen had been allowed to slay his kinsman who had flown to Storm’s End for parley. Lord Borros should have prevented such a heinous betrayal. Boy versus man, hatchling versus dragon.

A gentle nod of the old Velaryon confirmed Morningwood’s question. “Aegon thinks he has won, that he is untouchable. Though I reckon that will not be the case for long.” Winter was coming, as it ever did.

“My Lord?”

Corlys stared in the distance as if the walls offered him a vista, seemingly drifting off. “Nothing, Willem. I am just so very tired.” The smile the Sea Snake treated the cripple to, sent more shivers through Willie’s body than when he limbered up his tormented leg in the morning just so he could take a shit. Indeed, he needed to go this very instant. “Just do not underestimate the results of snakes and cripples joining forces, Lord Morningwood.”



“Cut off his ear and send it to the Lads and Starks as warning,” a shrill voice sneered from across the Small Council room. “If our line dies, then so does that of our bitch sister.” Aegon, second of his name, was the sixth Targaryen to sit the Iron Throne and commanded, without hesitation, the mutilation of his young nephew of the same name.

“Your Grace,” Corlys started, careful as ever. “I suggest once more that you take the black. The Starks are notorious for their swift and deliberate sense of justice. The wolves are at our doorstop. You will not retain your crown.”

The Sea Snake had hoped for support of Larys Strong, the Clubfoot, but the Master of Whisperers merely observed the exchange, his small eyes smouldering. The Clubfoot rarely spoke, preferring to listen. When he did speak it was either to be glib or share words of great importance. As with most masters of whisperers, he was enigmatic and cunning… and of no use to Corlys.

Aegon’s pale lilac eyes blazed with fury, as he tugged on his wispy moustache. “What you say is treason, Lord Velaryon. Did we not save you from the abyss the whore had thrown you in?” The weight on him made his rage look almost comical, making a mockery of his Valyrian features.

“Yes, your Grace,” Corlys admitted. “You did. For which I am most grateful.” While he had the title as Master of Ships in an attempt to win over the Velaryon fleet, the elderly Corlys was also a hostage of the crown. Many knew, and the vast majority of Corlys’s ships remained at Driftmark or had set sail to as of yet unknown waters.

“We shan’t relinquish what is rightfully ours,” the fat monarch yelled, enraged. Lately his sulking moods easily gave way to bouts of anger, likely a result of losing his beloved Sunfyre. The dragon had been one of the few things Aegon II genuinely loved. The other were power and women.

And wine.

His litter arrived, headed by a helmeted member of his Kingsguard. Ser Jon Flowers saluted and announced his arrival. Aegon was still a young man, in his twenties, but already his gluttony had made him heavily overweight. With considerable effort, Aegon II dropped himself in the pillowed pit of the litter. The sausages that were his fingers curled around a silver cup, twitching.

The king did not manage to walk long distances, and even within the Red Keep he was carried around from room to room. Most of his days, his Grace merely rolled from his bed into a litter, only to be brought to another bed where one of his paramours laid awaiting his doughy body. On other days he did not even bother.

The grooms huffed and puffed under his weight, and one joked when they pulled back the drapes of the litter that “he was the coffin bearer’s problem now”. The knight hissed audibly through his visor. For as the curtains were opened, Aegon II was found dead, with blood on his lips and piss in his pants. “Who gave his Grace that wine?” Ser Jon growled, wheeling on the servants. “Who?”



By the time Lady Alicent Hightower heard of her son’s death, Aegon the Younger had been retrieved from the cells beneath the keep and was sat on the Iron Throne.

Willem Morningwood heard of it around the same time as the Green Queen, and hurried as fast as his crippled leg could carry him, to the throne room. Entering, he saw the boy seated, his eyes blurry and watery, surrounded by three figures in white, among whom Ser Jon Flowers whose cloak was stained crimson. It seemed the transition from Aegon to Aegon had not gone as smoothly as expected. At least some of the Kingsguard had chosen life over loyalty, though their reasons could be easily explained as allegiance to the soon to be crowned Aegon III.

Tension and fear muddied the air.

“All hail King Aegon, third of his name,” a herald called out to the court as they sunk to one knee. Here and there, Willie discerned armed men and goldcloaks scrutinising the assembled courtiers. “Long may he reign!” Willem too fell to one knee, cursing under his breath for the pain it caused him, his knuckles cracking as he grabbed his cane.

When he was bidden to rise, he saw Corlys standing behind a pillar to the right of his Grace, and Clubfoot to the left. The two men looked at one another but did not flinch or betray a single emotion. Their faces were like ashes and smoke, but they had to be the only ones who knew. When cripples and snakes join forces...

It is done, Corlys thought. Did the Seven keep me so long for this? The old man looked at the boy sitting on the Targaryen throne and felt as if a massive weight slipped from his weary shoulders. I am like a drowning sailor clinging to the wreckage of a sunken ship. He had often said it, and thought it even more. But now there might finally be peace, with Rhaenyra's son on the throne. The ravens had been sent, soon the mending might start. Lord Corlys did not expect to live much longer, not with the ruthless Starks bearing down on them. Death did not frighten him, and he took comfort in the thought the throne now belonged to the rightful king and that Driftmark had a worthy heir in Alyn.

When Corlys's violet eyes locked with Willie Morningwood he could not help but smile from ear to ear, grimly like the leer of a bare skull.

Storm's End was a place of grim preparation these days; the howling wind and waves crashing against the immense walls of the Kingdom's strongest keep seemed to match the black moods within. All the same, Lord Steffon, still new to his title, sat at the head of a table of his own advisors, impassive and stonefaced as he listened. He wore a yellow and black doublet in his house's colors, studded here and there with black steel. Not one for frippery and finery, Steffon impressed all the same with breadth of shoulder and his stature. Blue-eyed, fierce looking, he was lean and dark, a Baratheon, though he had little of the combative temperament of his two forebears, his uncle Borros and his grandfather, Boremund.

Maester Alyn, conspicuously absent arrived through the doors and immediately delivered the news to the ear of his Lord in a breathy voice, as he'd limped through the halls of the keep as fast as he could to bring the news, dark wings, dark tidings.

"Aegon II is dead, my Lord, and Aegon the Younger has been crowned Aegon III." Old and stooped, he wheezed as he whispered.

"Any word of how our dead liege died?"

"I am afraid that the raven I was sent was the official word from the Red Keep."

"Aegon was nowhere near death." And foul play had happened in the Castle before. Daemon Targaryen, for example, had sent Blood and Cheese to butcher the boy, Jaehaerys.

"I agree, my Lord, it is very suspicious." Alyn wasn't merely the Maester, but Boremund's own master of shadows, though it was hard to find good sources of information in King's Landing anymore. It had been invaded time and time again during the Dance, and the information was suspect. Particularly, after the deaths of princes, within the Red Keep itself.

The others were watching the conversation, and that is when Steffon cleared his throat and spoke, that rolling basso of a voice turning heads raptly, "We have received news from King's Landing that our liege, Aegon the Second of His Name, has passed on. By what circumstances this has come to pass, we do not know. Now the lad Aegon, Third of His Name, son of Rhaenyra, sits upon the throne." And, it was said, the boy had been kept in a black cell, slated to die, after Aegon had murdered his sister. More aptly, he'd fed her to the dragon and made the boy watch. What sort of liege a traumatized boy would make was an easy enough question to answer -- an easily manipulated one.

"There is another raven, my lord," Alyn pointed out with a dry cough," And this other one bears the seal of House Hightower, the Queen Dowager..."

"Burn it. Unread." Steffon commanded, with a bit of anger behind the words, "Would that Criston Cole said those very words when she proposed this folly to begin with, and would that Borros said said it when Aemond made it clear he intended to do murder practically under our roof. Burn that missive, do not read it. The realm has had enough of her poison for several lifetimes."

"As you wish, my Lord," Alyn bowed, even as he moved to the fireplace and condemned the parchment to the flames.

He gave his advisers a moment to compose themselves and then let them have their say.

A variety of options were presented, but Steffon closed his eyes for a moment and massaged his temples before speaking, and when he did, it was a crack in the Lord's Mask.

"It seems we are quickly running out of Targaryens, when we started this war with a wealth of them. I see no sense in continuing Borros' war when we were forced into it by a lapse in judgment, to the eternal regret of this house."

"Does that mean, my Lord," inquired Martyn Storm, "That we should cease our preparations to raise the host that Aegon requested of us before he died?" A good man, Martyn, but more of a tactical fighter than a strategic thinker. He was no lord.

"No, we have many ravens to send to the other lords here. We need to pickle the vegetables, salt the meat, cask the water and prepare for the vengeance of the Blacks while hoping it doesn't come. Alyn," he turned to his Maester, "I want those instructions sent to our vassal lords, and I wish a raven sent to King's Landing, acknowledging the ascension of Aegon to the throne," he added with a wisp of a smile, ironic acknowledgement, "As he is, after all, the eldest male heir and that's what the Greens fought for, isn't it? Seven forbid a woman lead us, and between Allicent Hightower and Princess Jaehaera, we find ourselves strangely cockless in terms of leadership."

"Who gave His Grace that wine?"

Jon Flowers wheeled around at the king's grouped servants. Shock and disbelief painted their faces, some of his chambermaids held their hands over their mouths but the look in their eyes was all the same. Utter surprise. Jon growled and turned back around to look down at the king, he held a fist to the front of his helm.

Ser Gyles Belgrave entered the room and put a firm hand on his shoulder, "Jon, come with me. We have to fetch His Grace from the cells."

"His Grace?"

"Aegon."

Ser Jon closed his eyes and nodded solemnly. He dropped his arms to his side and turned about, marching purposefully beside Ser Gyles. They reached the cells in no time, Ser Gyles unlocked the door and torchlight flooded into the otherwise dank dark cell. Chained to a pillar was Aegon the younger. he jumped and his chains rattled, startled by the knights' barging in.

"Wh- what do you want?"

"Come with us, Your Grace," Ser Gyles crossed behind Aegon's pillar, unlocking his chains. They fell to the floor with a rattle. Aegon smiled briefly and rubbed his wrists before the sound of boots marching and the clanking of armor echoed through the hallway.

Ser Gyles drew his sword with a distinct shashing. Ser Jon turned his head to look at Ser Gyles and furrowed his brow. The sound of blades being drawn - shashingshingshing - radiated off the walls and Ser Jon followed suit.

"There the traitors are!"

A bold voice screamed out in the hall, turning the corner the Lord Commander and a helmet knight of the Kingsguard approached. The torchlight gleamed off their pristine white armor. Their blades shone as they charged the door of the cells. The Kingsguard's unblazoned shield was raised to chest-height. The Lord Commander gripped his greatsword with both hands its point led in-front of him.

The knight charged at Ser Gyles, he swung his sword at him. Ser Gyles parried; the blade missed his head by mere inches. He lunged at the man, but his sword stuck shield. The man swung his shield arm and Ser Gyles reeled back. They both regained their stances. They circled around each other, neither man gave quarter.

Ser Gyles leapt at him, bringing his sword to the man's shield-side. The man blocked. Ser Gyles rolled the attack off and crossed behind him and swung the sword at the man's head using the momentum of his lunge. The sword made contact with the man's helm - clank - the man stumbled and Ser Gyles kicked him down.

The man dropped his sword and fell face down. He rolled around, bringing up his shield in both hands just in time to deflect Ser Gyle's stab. He swung his shield arm and Ser Gyle's arm flung back. Ser Gyles stomped down the man's shield arm and plunged his sword under the man's helm and into his throat.

The Lord Commander attacked Ser Jon, swinging his greatsword at him, once, twice, three times. Ser Jon tried to keep up with the blows, however each got closer and closer to making contact until one collided with his breastplate. Jon grunted and stumbled back. He gripped his sword tightly and returned with a series of blows.

From the right, from the left, from the right, stab. The Lord Commander deflected Ser Jon's blows with powerful swings of his sword. Jon and the commander reached a standstill. The first knight fell to Ser Gyle. Ser Jon's eyes shot to the side as the the knight gargled in his own blood.

The Lord Commander smirked and took his misdirection to begin his assault anew. The sword came down hard on Ser Jon's left arm. Ser Jon collapsed under the blades weight and fell on his back. The Lord Commander began his triumphant walk to finish him of when a blade punched through the back of his head.

The Lord Commander collapsed beside Ser Jon. Ser Gyle put his boot on the Commander's head and pulled his sword out from the base of his skull and sheathed it. He held his hand out to Ser Jon and pulled him up to his feet. The two looked at each other and both breathed a sigh of relief. Ser Gyle put his hand on Ser Jon's shoulder. Ser Jon nodded and turned around with him, escorting the boy king out of the cells.

...

“Long may he reign.”

Ser Jon Flowers repeated the benediction with the gathered nobles, septons and septa and fellow knights of the Kingsguard. He folded his hands in his lap and faced out towards the gathered crowd of nobility. It was a relatively small crowd, given the exceptionally short notice between the death of their king and the coronation of the next. Not even time enough time to wash the previous king’s blood out of his once-white cloak.

He could feel the ends of his mouth curling upwards as he glanced to his right at King Aegon out of the corner of his eye. It was a smile he quickly had to hide by redirecting his focus at the far wall. A new king. Not a glutton. Not a drunk. Not a whoremonger. A right proper king. A man he could serve cheerfully and with honor. He dare not say the words aloud, but whomever killed this boy’s uncle may well have done the realm a service.

Though he couldn't quite shake the feeling. A sickening turning of his stomach. Guilt. The guilt of being Aegon's Kingsguard - the person's whose sole job is to protect the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. To have Aegon die in his presence. The blood of his Lord Commander stained his white cloak. It was reaping havoc on Ser Jon.

Ser Jon glanced towards Aegon again, but what caught his attention was not the boy, but rather a man far away from him. The faintest outline of a man peeking out from behind the pillar. A blur in Ser Jon’s peripheral vision, but a man no doubt. Who this man was, however, he could not tell. Ser Jon gulped silently and quickly averted his eyes towards the front of the hall. Remaining vigilant as the long procession of nobles began.

...

Knock, knock, knock.

"It is time for your watch, ser.”

With that a young boy, no more than fourteen let himself into the chambers. He crossed the room and threw open the shutters. Outside the window, a magnificent view of the grounds of the Red Keep. Eight full hours had passed since Aegon’s assassination and his nephew’s subsequent coronation and Jon Flowers slept through none of it. The horrors of the last king’s demise still fresh on his mind, Jon rose from his bed silently, threw open his wardrobe, donned well-fitting clothing and marched quickly to the armory in the undercroft. His squire followed suit.

“Are you all right, ser?”

Jon held his hand up to the boy as they walked, signaling him to be quiet. The squire frowned and looked at the ground, opened his mouth and shut it again. He gulped silently. The two entered the undercroft in silence. The boy squire handled Jon’s smooth white lacquered armor and fitted it to the man himself. Cuirass and faults, cuisse and greaves, vambrace and cauldron, a fresh white cloak and finally the intimidating great helm of the Kingsguard.

Jon’s squire wrapped a sword-belt around his waist and Jon fasted it in the front. Immediately afterwards he turned around and saw himself in a full-body mirror. He watched himself in the mirror and pulled each arm in front of himself to check his armor.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

And with that, Jon left his squire to guard his new king. At least this one won’t need to be toted around.

...

Maester Ryam’s chain-links slapped together as he walked leisurely through the halls of Highgarden Castle. Clink, clink, clink, clink. He yawned and pressed his hands into his lower back. He leaned backwards; his spine creaked. Crack, crack, pop. He groaned and stood back up straight. He held his arm out and twisted at the waist. Crack, pop, crack. And the other way. Pop, crack, crack. He sighed deeply and dug his thumbs into his neck.

“I’m getting too old for these halls,” he muttered under his breath. Not that it mattered, the hall was desolate save for the lone middle-aged maester.

Sunlight filtered in through narrow arrow slits in the castle's wall and shone against its polished white marble floors. The maester’s footsteps muffled by a long emerald green rug, bordered with gold, with the rose of Tyrell embroidered in the center. At the rugs end the maester was fronted by a spiraling staircase of marble slabs. The maester lifted the edges of his robes by the skirt and began his long ascent.

His boots clacked against the bare marble. Clap, clap, clap. One step, two step, three step, four. Et cetera, ad nauseam. His breaths drew shorter and shorter, his heart beat quicker and quicker, his calves burned, bile rose in the back of his throat and a constant pressure developed in his chest. Then, he was at the top. He threw open the door to the rookery, hobbled inside, and collapsed into a small wooden chair.

He put his arms on his knees and breathed heavily through his mouth, “Definitely… too old… woo…"

After several minutes he sat up in the chair and leaned his head against the marble walls of the rookery. He turned his head to the side to look at the huge ornate iron cage that housed the ravens. Each of the birds had their own cage and they were all labelled with intricately carved brass labels: HIGHTOWER, THE ARBOR, KING’S LANDING. He turned his head back around, there was a large open window on the opposite wall where the ravens would come and go. A wooden roost extended out from the windowsill.

On the roost perched a pitch black raven, the bird stared down Maester Ryam with its beady black eyes. Tied to its leg, a rolled-up strip of parchment. The aging maester pulled himself to his feet with a huff and waddled over to the windowsill, he reached out with both hands and picked the raven up. He held the bird’s wings down while he untied the note from its leg then he tossed the bird out the window. The raven caught itself and flew back to its perch on instinct.

Ryam unfurled the parchment and muttered under his breath, “…titles, titles… long may he reign… we expect a delegation…"

The maester could feel his mouth tensing up. A lump rose in his throat; he swallowed hard.

…

“Dead?”

Lady Leonette’s voice rung out through the great hall in with a tone that teetered between disbelief and surprise. She leaned back in her throne and let her eyes wander over the hall. Tall white pillars, marbled with shades of grey and black, flanked a massive rug that stretched across the breadth of the floor. Green and gold-bordered with a massive rose of Tyrell embroidered in the center. In the far back two knights in silvery polished steel armor stood with pikes in hand on either side of a massive oaken door. On the close end, the rug emptied out onto a stack of marble slaps three high, each continuously smaller than the last and she sat atop of the pile.

“And our new king is…” Leonette began, inquisitively.

“Rhaenyra’s firstborn. Aegon the younger,” Maester Ryam finished.

Leonette nodded slowly, her hands tensed around the round ends of her throne and she stared down the tall oak doors at the end of the hall. Both claimants are dead, then what of the war? Does it just stop like that?

Maester Ryam cleared his throat and Leonette’s eyes darted directly at him.

“The small council requests that we send a delegate to swear our fealty to our new king.”

“Let us not keep our new King waiting then. Send for Desmera, instruct her to gather whatever she needs. We ride for King's Landing tommorrow.”

"Yes, my lady."

STORMLANDS, NIGHTSONG, NOON

"Well..."

A few heads turned in expectance. Lord Royce Caron sat a while thinking, then dismissed their attention with a quick gesture.

Truth was, he could not abide this anymore. The Hall of Nightsong had always been larger than its attendants accounted for, even with all Carons present. Of late, though, its useless enormity had been more obvious than ever. Royce had even called Ser Denestan Masterson with the guard to join their table, hoping to fill the emptiness in their Hall and hearts both. It did no good - after a few similarly clumsy attempts to begin a conversation, they had given up, and absolute silence claimed all. It was an odd sort of silence, too. It wasn't the sheer lack of talk, nor the short, muffled breaths they drew. The song of birds was no longer heard from outside, neither that of silverware from inside, yet that was not where it was at. The thing about this silence was the tension in it, stark, strangling, almost alive. Like everyone was constantly at the verge of saying something, and then thought the better of it.

Guyard had served hot pork stew, with bread and several salads, as well as cheese and fruit. Yet no-one appeared to mind the food. Lord Royce Caron sat at the head of the table, with Ser Masterson at his left. The man sat staring at his plate, working open a wound on his lips. Then followed the household guard, and Hubard, with his harp on one side and the lad Justin on the other. Across them sat Ser Thomas Lane, chewing bread under his thick, greyish moustache, and then Petyr Pickle with his daughter Kella seated by Septa Cedra. Finally, his stare fell on his own children.

Ser Reynard Caron was a rather comely lad, broad of shoulder and tall of stature. He used to be a happy one, too. However, the war had certainly robbed him of his broad smile and jolly demeanor. He was full of a ghost anxiety, always checking his surroundings in a hasty and wary manner, looking at everything and nothing in particular. Royce was worried about him, yet not as much as for his other sons. There was still no word from Eldric - after the Muddy Mess, he had gone amiss, and as days and ravens came and went by, Royce was growing more and more desperate. As of Jason, he was still in King's Landing, and with all the remaining armies of Westeros descending upon it, he was not quite likely to survive the fortnight.

And then there was Elenda, with her big sad widow's eyes that no father should ever have to look upon. Royce had always been thinking that Elenda among his daughters had had the best marriage, staying close to her home and taking the lord of a Great House to husband. Yet the course of events proved him wrong.

Lady Ashara was silent as well, her worrisome, wrinkled face giving away her troubled thoughts. I have failed her, thought Royce, and poured himself a cup of wine.

"My lord, a letter just arrived".

Maester Justin was young for his office, yet his heavy chain of many metals doubtlessly proved his worth. In four quick strides, he stood by his lord, clutching a letter with his long fingers.

"Is it from Eldric? Is he alive?", Royce asked, full of sudden hope.
"I'm afraid not, my lord. It is from King's Landing."
"Jason then! Give me!"

He teared it open and read:

To Lord Royce Caron of Nightsong,

We regret to inform you that King Aegon Targaryen, the second of his name, is dead. By rights of birth and law of heritance, the eldest male offspring of the royal family, King Aegon Targaryen, the third of his name, son of the late Prince Daemon Targaryen and the late Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, has ascended to the Iron Throne. We request that House Caron send a delegate to swear fealty to the new king, so that you may be properly restored to the King's Peace.

May the king reign long and prosper, in peace and justice.

The Small Council

Beneath, a list of names and signatures continued to the end of the page.

One more wrinkle was added to the many upon Royce's face. Aegon was dead? And Rhaenyra was referred to as a Queen by the council that had served him? That could mean but one thing.

"Whatever happened, sire?", asked Ser Lane.
"We lost the war", said Lord Royce, and forced a spoonful of stew in his mouth.

Hubard had began to play a slow, sweet melody on that harp of his when Maester Justin reappeared with another letter.
"Another one?", Royce asked.
"This one is from Storm's End, my lord."

The letter read:

To Lord Royce Caron of Nightsong,

Following the death of Lord Borros Baratheon, by right of age, Lord Steffon Baratheon has succeeded him as Lord of Storm's End and the Stormlands. As ritual demands, you are expected to plead your fealty to your new liege lord.

As of the matters of war, Lord Steffon shall return the Stromlands to King Aegon's III Peace, yet requires that his vassals remain armed and prepared. Specifically, he orders that the following measures be taken:

-provisions be gathered and stores be filled with food, building materials and toolware
-water be gathered in the castles' reservoirs
-army be raised and armed

May your summers be long and your crops plentiful

,followed by the Baratheon seal.

That caught Royce by surprise. So, Steffon Baratheon would put an end to his uncle's war? Quite peculiar, for a Baratheon to end a quarrel rather than start one.

He knew the time had come to act.

"Well", he announced loudly, "it appears that Steffon Baratheon is the new Lord of Storm's End, and quite an eager pacifist as well. According to this letter, he intends to accept Aegon the Third as his king and be done with it".

Now, that turned some heads!

"That would probably be a wise thing to do, my lord", commented Maester Justin, and at the same time Reynard yelled: "Is he insane, father? Were all these lives given away for nothing? Did I have Terro bleed to death in my arms for no purpose at all? And what about the right of our cause? Can we forsake our rightful king and just bend the knee to the wench's nestling?"

"We can, and we will", said Royce, finally feeling his way out of this haunted dead-end. "Maester, send a letter to King's Landing, pledging the eternal fealty of our House to King Aegon the Third and House Targaryen". Reynard and Ser Lane tried to say something, but he cut them off.

"Send another to Jason. Tell him to bow that stiff knee of his, and the Starks are sure to spare his head". That he trully believed. The lad had fought no fights and done no crimes.

"And, Maester, send a third one to our lord of Baratheon. Write him to expect me within the fortnight, so that I may renew our vows to Storm's End and his House".
"My lord", said now unhindered Ser Thomas Lane, "no need for such a long trip. You could send a letter instead, as everyone".
"A Caron of Nightsong is not as everyone, ser", answered Royce Caron. "The Marches are the spine of the Stormlands, and House Caron is the spine of House Baratheon. My son-in-law respected me and cherised my counsel. I would have the same treatment for our House from our new liege."

"After all", he continued, "I would much like to see Steffon Baratheon again from close up. I've heard that this little fawn has grown to be a stag of a different demeanor."

The sun was already in the sky, a clear brilliant blue above the haze of dust and heat shimmers that danced like light on water. Aliandra stood behind the litter that bore her father’s body, she could smell the staleness of the dead flesh even beneath the scented oils and desert flowers that surrounded him. Qoren Martell’s dusky skin was ashen and when she looked upon him, she realized there was little of the man that was her father left. It was just a husk and if the Father was fair, then he was in the Heavens already. The Prince of Dorne was dead, his copper crown of suns still in place but soon it would rest on her brow. Wrapped in red and gold silks, he was stately as ever, his salt and pepper beard combed out, decorated with gold and copper rings. The Silent Sisters had done well enough, her father’s expression was slightly sardonic as it ever was.

She could hear the din of noise from outside the sept, the large crowds gathered to pay their respects to their Prince. Among them would be representatives from the Houses that were vassals to the Martells, visitors from Lys and Myr and other ports of the Free Cities that Dorne traded with. Aliandra glanced to her side, her mother, Dorea who was draped in black silks with small winking garnets and black sapphires trimming the bodice and sleeves. Her face was taut with grief but still managed to be elegant, her high cheekbones and firm chin that was held high. She had cut her dark curls, leaving them just at the nape of her neck, as a wife in mourning often did.



Aliandra wore a gown of fiery orange samite embroidered with the sun and spear of the Martell sigil in golden thread though it was covered with a diaphanous black cloak, pinned at her shoulder with a simple polished sun shaped copper brooch to dull the luster of her gown until it was time. Her dark hair was left loose flowing across her shoulders and her back and she wore dark kohl around her eyes to protect the from the bright sun. She also knew it would make her look more somber and stately, so that the crowds might look at her eyes and see both a bereaved daughter and a strong leader. She touched the litter once more, looking down at her father before nodding to the septon.

When the doors of the sept opened, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply as the sounds of the crowd grew in anticipation of seeing their prince for the last time. The septon held up his staff as hundreds rainbows shimmered like butterflies, dancing along the faces of the funeral party. Aliandra could hear her half brother make a soft sound of annoyance as Septon Albin finally stopped with the prayers and began the slow walk outside. Even if it had not been a funeral procession, Aliandra doubted the old man could move much faster. His broad stomach swayed as he lumbered down the stairs, followed by the litter bearing Qoren carried by four stout guards that had served him in life.

She walked just behind and behind her was the members of her household along with distinguished heads of houses. The lords and ladies followed along and once they were moving a cheer from the crowd rose. The voices of the seven septons and septas rose in their songs as the rainbows capered over the corpse.

The Dornish would mourn their dead by celebrating their life and standing in the bright sun it was hard not to smile. Her father had been loved by his people and his death a shock to them all. A simple accident of his horse shying at the sight of a viper coiled and the fall had taken him. The walk down the road paved in white limestone that gleamed in the sun was not very long as the party cut straight through the Three Fold Gate, avoiding the labyrinth of the shadow city that had clung to the sandstone walls of the stronghold.

“They really did love the old man, but perhaps they cheer for you too, sister..”

Aliandra turned her head to see her half brother, the famed Dervish of Dorne, Maron Sand. He was well dressed in flowing robes of silk in reds and golds, his thick black hair pulled back with several thin braids scattered through it, decorated in copper rings. His handsome face was still for once, the devilish smile hidden under a rare moment of melancholy. She supposed he mourned not only the loss of their father but the fact Qoren had not got around to legitimizing him.

“I should hope so,” she replied quietly, keeping her head tilted slightly downward, enough to be respectable but not bowed. She was a Martell afterall. “I plan on having a very long reign.”

“Hmm, I wish that as well,” Maron said sincerely, “Be sure to not to ride skittish horses.”

She glanced at him, seeing the merry twinkle in his dark eyes and had to press her full lips together. He always managed to find a jest, even at a time like this and it was hard not to smile back. Though it was painful, she took comfort in knowing her father died doing something he loved, riding through his lands on his favorite steed rather than wasting away from some disease.



Once the procession was outside the city, the litter was placed on a gilded wagon drawn by four matched golden sand steeds. Qoren’s chestnut stallion was fully tacked in ornate dressing, the empty saddle symbolic of the last ride of his master. The wagon was pulled along the road at a slow pace until they reached the shore. In a ceremony that was distinctly created to celebrate the Nymeros Martell heritage, the Prince of Dorne was taken past the sea and towards the crypts where he would be laid to rest.

The funeral feast was in full swing as Aliandra sat at the head of the table with her cup filled with good Dornish wine. To her left her mother ate sparingly but indulged in stories of her late husband to those who asked, entertaining the ladies of Gargalen and Fowler with a rather tawdry tale involving pomegranates. At her right was Maron, drinking freely and dandling a serving girl on his knee, the thin gauzy gown doing little to hide her ripe body. It was near sunset and most people were tipsy and happily on their way to being drunk. The table was scattered with numerous dishes half eaten and stained with wine sloshed from goblets.

Aliandra rose when she spotted the pale figures that could only be from the House of Yronwood. Lord Osmond was a dour faced man, his hair streaked with grey where he still had it, he wore a fine black velvet doublet and pale cloak with the gate of Yronwood embroidered on it. Just behind him was his wife and daughter, Gwenyth and Gwendolyn also finely dressed. Her dark eyes flickered at the young woman, they had known each other growing up for Gwen had been a ward of the Martells until just a year ago. The young woman was soft and pale as a peach, sweet faced and gentle spoken. The glint in the pale blue eyes told Aliandra the girl had not changed much, the outward appearance was something not to be taken lightly.

“Princess,” Lord Osmond spoke, taking her hand and bowing over it, “We grieve for your father, please know you have the condolences of all of Yronwood. While our houses have had our differences, I respected Qoren, he kept us out of the wars of the bloody dragons.”

“That he did,” Aliandra replied lightly, “He was always concerned with Dorne keeping out the Targaryen's affairs,”

“As will you, Princess?” he asked, his watery blue eyes observing her carefully.

Aliandra Martell raised her eyebrow and smiled enigmatically, “Today is for my father, tomorrow will bring many things to light.”

*********************

She was crowned Princess of Dorne as the sun reached its zenith, despite the heat the crowds were just as big as they had been for the funeral the day before. The copper was warm against her skin, the small suns glinting as she stood still for Septon Albin to anoint her with the seven oils. Another day of feasting and drinking was ahead of them, the Martells set a fine table and there was a lighter mood today. A celebration of life and the future, of a young beautiful princess taking her place. Aliandra was stunning in her golden dress, her brown skin shining in the sun as she stepped forward.

“Today marks a new chapter in the long history of our land,” Aliandra spoke to the crowd,her lovely face infused with pride and passion, “My father kept the peace for a long time, kept Dorne from the trouble of the north. We value that, our freedom is our life’s blood but we are not made to hide. I look at you all, how blessed am I to serve such a wonderful people, we deserve abundance and greatness and that is what we will have. Peace in our land and prosperity for all. We shall continue,'unbowed, unbent and unbroken.' ”

Raising her hand, the fire opals of the red-gold bracelet shimmering in the heat, Aliandra toasted the crowd, smiling as they cheered. Dorne would prosper, increase its wealth from trade across the sea but there was the north as well. While her father preferred to stay away from anything outside of the desert, the Princess had other plans. Beyond the desire of the rest of Westeros for Dornish wine and fruit, she knew that Nymeria was no merchant queen, she was a warrior queen and Aliandra would be as well.

Once the public display was over, Aliandra strode down the hall with her attendants following along. She would feast with the heads of her vassal houses and make herself known to them, as a leader rather than a woman. Her footsteps echoed along the pale marble floor, the thin cloth of gold and yellow gauzy silks floating around her long legs. Up ahead, she spotted the figure of Maester Ulrick Dayne hustling towards her.

A lean man with a shock of silver hair and pale violet eyes, marking his heritage, approached her with a grim look. He held a tightly bound letter in his hand and stopped, bowing slightly before speaking, “Princess Aliandra, I hate to interrupt but I’ve just received a raven from King’s Landing.”

Blinking in surprise, the young woman waved him forward to walk with her, slowing down her pace. “What did it say?”

“King Aegon II is dead,” he replied, touching his chain thoughtfully, “No word on how.”

“Another Targaryen king dead? Well, this is a joyful day,” Aliandra smiled a little, giving him a wry look, “They do tend to drop like flies, must be that sickly Valyrian family tree with so few branches. No offense.”

The Dayne shook his head, “None taken, your grace.”

Aliandra took the letter, reading it for herself. It said little other than just the facts, “So the young prince is now King, a child on the throne. That bodes well. Do you think they’ll raise arms again?”

“I cannot say but though their war is over, old wounds tend to fester,” Ulrick replied, stopping before the doors to the hall. “What I can say is that there will be unrest and hardship in the north. They have been burned and bled and winter has set in with a vengeance.”

“They are weak,” Aliandra said quietly, her dark eyes meeting the lavender ones, “They follow a child no doubt attended to by a council full of greedy men with their own agendas.”

“No doubt,” the maester agreed, raising his eyebrows at her, “What is on your mind, your grace?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, her old teacher giving her a penetrating look, “It is just surprising, to hear their king is dead nearly at the same time my father died. Odd how that works. Luckily, we all know who is the princess of Dorne and there is no need to shed our own blood over it.”

Maester Ulrick Dayne took a deep breath, he recognized the mischievous glint in the lovely dark eyes of the princess. Something was on her mind, he knew her since she was a child and she could not hide it from him. Cautiously, he cleared his throat, “And whose blood might be shed?”

Aliandra glanced at him askance, “Why ever would you ask that?”

“Because the stories of Nymeria were your favorite, Princess,” he replied, his eyes holding her gaze.

“So they are,” Aliandra gave him a slight smirk and opened the door to the hall, ending their conversation.

Faircastle had been redecorated in red. Tapestries once enamouring lay strewn across the floor torn and charred, gold coins were scattered about soaked in blood and sobbing could be heard occasionally, breaking an otherwise deafening silence. A great banquet had been laid out in the main hall, fine food from all across the Seven Kingdoms sat delicately untouched or else splayed out across the floor like many of the unfortunate guests. Their celebration had come prematurely.

“Peace?” The word sounded queer coming from his mouth, like a man tasting sour wine. Dalton Greyjoy swilled the idea around in his mind before spitting it out, face ever passive. He was the only person sat at the great feast table, but he wasn’t feeling much of an appetite, he hungered for something different.

“Please, the war is over damn you!” The lords voice sounded desperate and distant, Dalton paid it no heed. She looked like her...His attention was focused on one of the serving girls, her hair a faint shade of gold, almost grey, her blue eyes staring vacantly into nothingness as blood pooled out of her. No, he thought, not like her.

Why do this? The question came to him unbound. A thought that had haunted over him for a while now, he had never cared for gold or glory, but he liked to believe there was some method to his actions, some overarching point he was trying to make. He’d made a mistake so long ago and for that it seemed the world needed to pay.

“Someone, write this down.” Dalton’s voice was hoarse but there was power behind it, one of the Ironborn scrambled to retrieve paper from the twisted remains of a Maester. “Tell the king that I will keep his peace.” Dalton’s eyes slowly wound down to the letter upon the table, half blood stained; the Dance of the Dragons was over and Aegon III now ruled.

“Tell him he need not concern himself with the western shore now, his friend Dalton Greyjoy will protect it for him.” The remaining citizens of Faircastle were huddled against the throne, their eyes spoke fear and each hung on his every word. “I will be his warden of the west, hunt down the traitors and supporters of his false uncle and they will never trouble him again.” Dalton’s eyes locked with Lord Farman’s. “My lord,” He murmured softly. “You’re looking a little green.”

Dalton stood up with alarming speed; Midnight was in his hand, his stolen sword of Valyrian steel and he had the aged lord by the throat, Dalton’s formerly passive expression was now twisted up in rage. Slowly, slowly he slid midnight up into the man’s ribcage, watching as an expression of abject horror took over Farman and a scream that turned into a gurgle as blood dripped from his mouth before darkness finally took him.

“The Red Kraken does not heel.” Dalton spoke with a distant voice, but there was an undeniable edge to his tone. He wiped Midnight across the lords already sodden cloths then turned slowly to the nearest captain. “Where is my brother? I must plan and I need Veron.”

As the captain turned away Dalton found his eyes wandering back to the girl, this one was younger and her mouth was wrong, hers had always been smiling, this, mouth was screaming. He would find whichever of his men had done that to her, it was unforgivable.

“Her.” He said walking over to the corpse, his cloak draped across the floor soaking up blood as he went. He stopped in front of the girl, knelt and carefully ran the back of his hand across her lifeless face. “Take her to my bedchambers.”

Westeros, King’s Landing, Corlys’s chambers

The Starks were close. According to his scouts, the Lads under Kermit Tully had joined with them. If it had only been the Rivermen, then Lord Corlys would have been able to make them see reason but these Northerners were notoriously just, to the point where it became a flaw. These winter wolves would be dispensing indiscriminate justice left and right, paying no heed to allegiance or motive. Being a man of honour was not a matter of seeing things black and white, Corlys knew all too well. He doubted whether the Starks in doling out judgement would agree… Most likely his head would be among those comprising the capital harvest.

He had sent Alyn to Essos in order to acquaint the lad with his trading deals, and also keep him out of King’s Landing. Before Aegon II, it was just as important to keep the young Velaryon safe from Rhaenyra’s blind scorn. Of course he had done what he could for his house and grandson, Driftmark would survive him, but he was so tired.

He was old, and looked back on his life realising he had fully lived it. The Sea Snake had known everything; untempered joy, ashen sorrow, victory and defeat, hate and love, and more slights than he cared to count now. In his old age he had even overcome the hate he held for the Hightowers, whom he held accountable for the Dance and its horrors. The only hatred he still possessed, which laid curled around his chest like a poisonous snake, was for the game they all played.



The Narrow Sea, The Gullet, two days after Aegon II’s death

“Why don’t you make yourself lord of Driftmark? The same blood flows through your veins, you have the same name.”

Ser Gared’s argument was one quickly rationalised, complex in its simplicity, Daeron Thought. He shook his silver head, tresses flowing about his shoulders. “Do you remember the last time someone tried? Vaemond and his sons were killed and maimed. The Sea Snake might be old, but he is still alive. I do not want Driftmark. Besides, the lad is his heir now, by law.”

“Pish on the law,” Ser Gared hissed, spitting a thick glob over the railing. It made its way through the heaving oars and vanished into the salty foam of the Narrow Sea. “Where was the law when Aegon the Elder took the throne from our queen? The same queen, I might add, who threw Lord Corlys in a Black Cell?!” There was a temper on this middle-aged knight indeed. The Dance of Dragons had caused bad blood on all sides.

Daeron smiled wryly and shrugged. “Someone has to uphold the law.” He had no ambition to rule Driftmark at all. Loyal to his House, he had made the choice long ago not to pursue the Driftwood Throne. It was not his in the first place, for he was only a cousin, a distant nephew to the Sea Snake. It had done him much good actually, he found. Lord Corlys had lost his children, grand-children and wife. Even when he gained two others, Addam and Alyn, still one had to be sacrificed on the altar of war. “Remember where and to whom we’re sailing, Frothbarrel.”

Ser Gared muttered something incoherent and stared out across the grey water. The Velaryon knew not to take his malcontent for treason. Gared’s family had bought their knighthood by selling beer, hence the name. To his father it had been an applicable semi-joke, but to Gared it was most annoying. His short temper was a result of a lifetime of scrutiny by the ancient Houses.

Daeron’s wife had drawn a solemn promise from his lips, the day she died, to take care of their daughter Daenaera. That was his first and foremost duty in this world: to uphold that promise and keep his little girl safe. Yet he was not free of duty altogether, for when Queen Rhaenyra had thrown Lord Corlys Velaryon in the Red Keep’s dungeons he had set sail, joined by the Velaryon fleet and most of the blacks supporters. He was after all still a Velaryon and sworn to Driftmark, family and duty overlapped.



Essos, Pentos, five days after Aegon II’s death

Pentos was a large port city, likely one of the most populous of the Free Cities. Its many square brick towers, controlled by the spice traders, looked out over the Bay of Pentos off the Narrow Sea. To its east, beyond the Sunrise Gate, laid the Flatland Plains and Velvet Hills. Eventually the road would lead to the Rhoyne and its tributaries, flowing south towards Volantis. However, the First Daughter of Valyria was reached faster over sea. Alyn looked out over the cityscape, admiring the tiled roofing and huge red temple. The huge wall had apparently allowed the Pentoshi to relax in safety, for their manses were splendid and clearly not built to withstand violence, unlike the Westerosi keeps and castles the young Velaryon heir was used to.

A servant, sash of silk along his neck, brought him a saucer of fruits, which he had deposited on an intricately crafted wooden table. Braavos and Pentos had quarrelled off and on for years, and most recently peace had been established between the two mercantile city states. Alyn Velaryon had learnt no less than six wars had been fought over the subject of slavery. Nevertheless, Braavos’ arm was long and strong, and prohibited the use of slavery in Pentos. By law, slavery was forbidden.

Pentos flaunted these laws however, by running Lysene or Myrish banners when challenged, whilst the city was full of "free bond servants", who were collared and branded much like slaves in Lys, Myr, or Tyrosh, and subject to similar savage disciplines. In law, these bond servants were free men and women, with the right to refuse service if they will, provided they were not in debt to their masters. All of them were, however, for the value of their labor was often less than the cost of food, clothing, or shelter provided to them by those they served.

At first, Essos and its wonders had bewitched him, making the young lad forget about his suffered sorrows for nights on end. However, as days turned into weeks, with little word from Westeros and his imprisoned grandfather, Alyn felt caught up and constrained. Even the dyed hair and beards of the Pentoshi started to pale in the dusty streets.

Indeed, he had acted as Corlys's agent, dealing in information, secrets and merchandise. The Sea Snake had spent many years in Essos, and he had sent Alyn to maintain his lines of communication. Managing trade, however lucrative, was not something Alyn Velaryon wanted to be doing the rest of his life. He wanted to return to Westeros and see those responsible receive their just dues. While his zeal was admirable, it still lacked focus; he was like a strong blade that needed a whetstone.

The urge to act seeped into him, fused into his bones and inflamed his marrow, and so Alyn had sent for a man of repute in the Free Cities, though he was of Westerosi descent. Hiring sellswords was one thing, enticing them with a promise and pointing out his lineage another. After days of haggling and dealing with a horde of lawyers, his grandfather’s name had thrown in the necessary weight. Nevertheless, the true issue was getting the mercenaries across the murky depths.

As he nibbled the fruit, he looked from the city to the waterfront and saw the sea green sails of Velaryon ships. There were at least a dozen of them making port. More sails appeared at the horizon, like haphazard pencil strokes. He blinked and subsequently let out a yell of mirth, flinging the peach from the window. Strapping on his sword, he dashed from the room, calling out to his friend Chaule to follow him.

Nigh on a week later they would set sail for home, carrying steel within their holds.

Lord Otto the Younger was in his quarters with Ser Tobias Silvershield and Ruben Blacktower when they first read through the letter from King’s Landing. Multiple times they agonized over the words written on the parchment before them. King Aegon, second of his name, is dead. Otto repeated those words in his head over and over again. The man they had sacrificed so much for in Lady Alicent’s deadly power-grab was now deceased. No longer did the Hightowers have influence over the crown: all they had now were smashed armies and empty coffers. The sacrifices of hundreds of so many noble knights, and of Otto’s father and brother...

Their deaths now seemed entirely in vain. It was almost more than the lordling could handle. Do not show weakness, not even amongst kin. Do not cry or shy away from the truth. No longer are you Young Otto: you are Lord Otto of Hightower. A single tear rolled down his cheek, despite his best efforts to contain it. “... How many men, Tobias?” mumbled Young Lord Otto.

Tobias was puzzled. “Pardon me, coz?”

“How many of our men died to place my fat wretch of a cousin upon the Iron Throne?” Lord Otto stood up, now masking his tears with rage. “My father, Tobias! And yours as well! My noble brother was lost to me, and Daeron the Daring, my best friend who might have very well been king one day. Bryndon and Gwayne, and all their noble knights and retainers... How many have died?” He clenched his fists in the middle of the room for several seconds, taking three deep breaths to calm himself. Do not show weakness. You are Lord of Hightower. He slumped back down in his seat, now utterly ashamed of his outburst.

Tobias had no good answer to give him, but did his best to ignore Otto’s rage. “Too many to count, coz,” he replied. Lord Otto disliked being referred to as anything but ‘lord’ amongst his court, but Tobias was like a second father to him, and so could use whatever titles he liked in private. “I too am weary of war, and I have lost much during these past few years. Gwayne was my beloved brother, and my sister is no doubt rotting away in the Black Cells by now.”

“What do you propose we do, then, Tobias?” Ruben asked. His tone was neither exhausted or sad, he was more irritated than anything. As per usual, Ruben was cunning and clever, but as subtle as a Stormlander army to those who knew him. No doubt Lord Blacktower had some sort of personal motive in keeping Aegon II on the throne. He was up to something, and one of these days, Otto would figure out exactly what he was up to. That could wait, though: Ruben’s exploits, though shady, were incredibly profitable for Oldtown and for House Hightower.

“I don’t know, Ruben...” This entire situation reminded Lord Otto the Younger just how inexperienced he was. “I do know, however, that we must cease any attempts at war. My own men do not even feel secure following me into battle, let alone the greens from halfway across the Seven Kingdoms. The only claim we have left is that of a dead man, and Jaehaera is the only one of Alicent’s brood left. She’s a little girl, even younger and further in the line of succession than Aegon III, and we’ve just fought a civil war to get a male heir on the throne. We must kneel for the sake of our house’s survival, and pray that things will return to status quo.

“You two are to accompany me to Highgarden, and then onto King’s Landing. The Tyrells will be sending a delegation to confirm their fealty, and I intend to go with them. We will tell the Targaryens ourselves that they will no longer have trouble with House Hightower, and we will continue our rule over Oldtown as we have done in the past. We’ll see what has become of your sister and her granddaughter, and attempt to negotiate... well, something. Anything. Considering what the charges are, I wouldn’t be surprised if that blasted woman has been executed already.”

“You will not speak about my sister in such vulgar terms,” Tobias snapped, rising up from his seat in an intimidating fashion, “Lord or no, you owe your family and your elders some respect.”

Otto was taken aback by Tobias’ response. “I didn’t mean it, coz,” Otto the Younger had barely known Alicent, whereas his two cousins were of the same womb. I must think before what I say, even amongst friends. “I’m sorry... just stressed, is all.” Otto allowed himself a sensible chuckle to break the tension. “Funny how I’m fed up with politics, and I’ve only been a lord for two years. I have a long road ahead of me, don’t I?”

“You certainly do, Young Otto,” Ruben retorted, allowing himself a chuckle as well, “But let’s only worry about the Roseroad for now.”

The trio left Oldtown shortly thereafter, accompanied by two dozen of their household knights, and sent a raven to Highgarden in order to warn of their arrival.

(Howler/Ruby collab.)

From salt spray and thick grey fog over an unexpectedly choppy bay to the crypt like silence and lightless darkness in just over fifteen more counts than Celena Lannister had figured earlier when playing through it in her mind. So far the only blood shed had been the 'keeper of the secret door'--some former Knight with no business sense running a fish market outside the walls. The information had been gifted to her by an old friend, and it was a favor repaid. That worried Celena more than the former Knight that refused to give up a door to someone he did not know. If there was anything Celena liked to hoard, it was favors. Losing even one was painfully done.

And she had lost plenty helping the Starks.

But from Winterfell to black catacombs under Aegon's High Hill? For an adventurer and traveler who had never known her homeland, it was simply too tempting a cause to pass up. Celena had warned the Starks that waiting so long to allow forces to gather would hurt them if they wanted any engagement that might garner honorable renown. Anything else might just be opportunism.

So Lord Beron, in that low thunder of a voice, declared they would ensure justice was done in an honorable way at King's Landing. He'd gone as far down as the Twins before turning back. It was just now turning spring, and in the North that meant it was still winter. It was a dangerous journey considering just how cruel a winter it had been. Celena had gotten no end of comments claiming she was no Northerner until she lived through a bad winter. It certainly did not take the Gods long to provide her the opportunity.

Honestly, she was happy to go with Deckard. Just as she had been glad when the war council agreed to let Celena take a very small group into the 'back door' of the Red Keep. Some of them scoffed at their even being such a place, but when Celena gave them the location of an entrance and the story of the man guarding it it was enough to convince those that were willing to give it a chance.

With her was Jack of Moletown, an archer so skilled he wound up in the service of House Stark, and more importantly to Celena a one time thief. Ser Olyvar 'the Good' of House Condon was sent because those that didn't like Celena or her plan liked the young Olyvar Condon just fine. He was a veteran of the Winter Wolves that had managed to pick up with them on the journey south, and if nothing else had been in a survival state of mind so long Celena was more or less comfortable Condon wouldn't get her killed. He was also one of the North's best swordsmen, though Ser Olyvar was never one to say so himself. Rarely he ever so much as sparred; though he had approached her one night in the Riverlands about sneaking off with him...to "see what those Water Dancers are all about."

Celena declined, though only out of fear someone might see them sneak off together. Something she could not risk doing to Deckard, even if he would probably understand. 'Maybe another time' was the best she'd been able to give Ser Olyvar.

The rest were her own people: the Qohorik smithy Big Branch, and the Old Blood Volantene Alvos Qohr. Celena went ahead of the small group for most of their journey; though the precaution proved unnecessary. Even Celena almost got lost once or twice, but never once did she honestly think she heard anything more than a rat down in the depth's the Targaryen maze. And quickly enough, the ground felt tiled over instead of mere dirt path, a good sign they were in the Red Keep itself.

From there it had been impossible for her to know for sure just how long it should take them, but her memorized instructions turned out to be worth the lost favor. Soon enough the small group was slithering into the Red Keep from behind a store room false wall. When she heard commotion in the corridors of even the basement, she knew they were running late, or Sela was early. That made her care less about servants spotting them, which let them really make up some ground quickly. In just a few minutes they were high enough to see light was starting to really shine through windows: the fog had started to burn off, the morning hour grew later.

As they approached their target, the group slowed to a careful pace. When she put eyes on the tower door they needed, and the White Brother guarding it, Celena turned to give a quick signal before she took a long breath, and began to move. Getting the Knight to engage her wasn't very difficult; getting him to turn his back on the stairs even easier so that the Big Branch could come up behind the Kingsguard knight and thump him about the back of the head.

"Which is it?" The Branch asked, staring down at the unconscious white knight.

After a long glance, Celena shrugged. "Waters, I think. Watch the stairs, I'll go get him." She stared at the chamber door longer than necessary. It's wood was polished and it's ironwork finely crafted. It even opened easily enough, though she was careful in it's opening. There was no one waiting to spring an attack on the other end, just a small boy with big, sad, eyes.

"Are you going to kill me?"

Celena shook her head, slowly. "No."

For a heartbeat, it looked to Celena as if the child didn't believe her. Then he took a half-step towards her, and got a better look at her with his lilac eyes. "Your sword is small."

"It needn't be heavy and large."

"Are you a Water Dancer?"

Celena smiled, even if just faintly. "Yes. Do you like Water Dancers?"

The boy with the big, pretty, eyes just ignored it and stared. "Are you a Green or Black?"

"It doesn't matter, any more."

The little King sniffed. "It's always going to matter..." It was resignation the likes of which a person never saw...in a child. Even most adults had a hard time coming to grips with realities they weren't fond of. But there was more to the boy, as he inched closer and closer to the woman who had never moved once inside the door. That was good, because the boy was all but sniffing her for danger, like some sort of wild thing. Only when he seemed certain she wouldn't hurt him did he get close enough to lean into her, and whisper in her ear.

"The white knights won't help me kill all the dragons...will YOU help me kill all the dragons?"

Aegon...the Dragonbane? It was shocking to hear from a Targaryen's mouth. But when she thought about it for a moment more...it began to make sense. Firmly did Celena respond to the boy, nodding and looking into his eyes as she spoke, "Absolutely, I will do this thing. Will you help the Starks and I bring justice and peace to King's Landing?"

He nodded, on the better half of shy, but it was enough. "The King has died."

It was one of the strangest sensations in Celena's life, when the warm, chubby, little hand reached up and took her own. Of all women in Creation, Celena Lannister was never meant to be a mother, of this she had always been certain. To have such a little hand in her own...it took her mind to deeper thoughts for a second, delaying her response and quietening it: "You're the King, now."

Again, the boy whispered to her, secrets he wanted none others hearing. "I don't want to be."

It snapped her head back down to the boy, as her big green eyes searched him; for emotion, for sensation, for truth and lies. In the boy, she found only sad little truths. Without thinking, Celena squeezed the boy's hand just slightly. "I wouldn't want to, either."

---

It was ironic, Deckard thought, that the center of such turmoil could be such a cesspit.

Though the rear of a marching column was offensive enough to the nose at the best of times, there was something different about the odor of King's Landing. It spread through the morning fog like a miasma, curling the lip and offending the nose until it became so omnipresent that one simply grew accustomed to it. Though he'd visited once before, even the scent of the place had changed in the memory of war and dragonfire, smoke and char as much a part of the air as offal and excrement and squalor. A reminder, he thought, how fluid the world had become in the wake of the great Targeryan split, how mutable--if King's Landing spoke for the realm, the realm was for the taking.

As always it was the small who first saw the army, and Deckard Stark would have been curious to know what it was they first said of his fierce She-Wolf of a sister at the column's head. Of course she would lead it, that much was obvious--what better a symbol could have been asked for? He knew too well the chill of her gaze, the steel of her eyes like the heart of Winter, and with a direwolf at her side there would be no room to misinterpret what had brought the Starks to King's Landing.

Judgement. Justice. The return to Order. Good for them to see Sela at its head, for many who resided within its walls had good reason to be afraid.

Still, Deckard wondered as always if the obvious gambit was indeed the best. That Sela was a symbol of all that was thought of the Starks, her brother knew better than most that the wilds had changed her. She was not the same sister she had been when she left and he knew now that the world beyond the Wall had changed her. When they looked to her would they see a Lady of House Stark or a wildling, battle ready with beast at beck and call? Would they see her honor as justice, or her ferocity as barbarism? They could not afford to be known as brutes and savages in a realm of gentility and courtly intrigue. In truth, Deckard was quite sure, it was this more than anything else that had caused his brother to turn over the Host to his dear sister and return to the North where he was comfortable.

Beron had no time for the games played South of the Neck. They would not put food in hungry bellies or help his people weather the winter. Though none could call the man a coward, Deckard Stark was disappointed in his family's eldest. He had chosen his own people over all of Westeros and left it to his younger brother to see that the world did not suffer for it.

His shoulder burned. Looking to either side he could see the faces of the smallfolk watch the soldiers in their midst, familiar by now with the feeling of occupation. Could they know, could they truly believe at this junction that someone wished peace for them? The thought was almost laughable after the trials they had been put through--they who had savaged dragons and died by the drove, fought and killed and been killed in the name of the line that they all of them held fealty to. As he watched cold eyes and dark, curious hearts, he wondered if the hope he saw in the eyes of the few wasn't simply a trick of the mind, a reflection of his own.

As they began to pass the Dragon's Gate and enter the city proper, Lord Deckard Stark motioned to his guardian at his side and began to move his way up the line. "We've spent enough time at the rear of things." He finally spoke, his voice soft enough admist the commotion that Ser Quinton Snow could barely make it out. His guardian, his watchmen, the Cripple's Keeper, bastard son of a bastard son knighted young and ridiculed for it until he'd proven his honor time in and and time out, he hastened his horse to better listen to his Lord but found himself trailing instead as he moved through the center of the column after his sister. Though he was not worried of her acting rashly, he had business to attend to and his dear betrothed to reunite with--though the procession was the necessary display for the people of the realm, it was the business beneath and within the castle that would hold it.

It took him some time to catch up with Sela--she rode well and without hesitation, the crowd parting before her great wolf and chill gaze in silence as they watched her pass. They were almost upon the castle by the time he found himself at her side, and she barely flicked her eyes to him before looking once more towards the castle proper. "Tired of following after, were you?" She asked as their horses fell into step, the familiar dull rumble of Snowfall's growl a bass current in the air before she silenced it with a slight whistle through her teeth.

"Any man should be eager to see the return of his bride-to-be." Deckard's voice was light as ever, his lips quirked in a slight smile as he surveyed the crowd. "Quite the impression you've made."

"Are you jealous?"

"Hardly. Just be sure they see you as more than the wolf in your wake."

"Better a wolf than a cripple."

A barb without malice and they both knew it--the corners of her lips even twitched a bit, an all-too-rare sign of affection from her these days. Deckard chuckled, unoffended. Looking over his shoulder, Deckard called to his guardian over the sound of their advance. "When we reach the keep proper, break off and marshal the men. We need order restored and the city held fast."

"And your protection, my Lord?"

"Between my sister and my lady I think I'll be just fine, Quinton." He offered with a chuckle, the knight acknowledging with a nod as he slid back into the host proper. Looking ahead as they readied to dismount and proceed to the Great Hall proper, Deckard breathed slowly through his lips and ignored the spider-web pain that the march had inspired in his shoulder and chest.

It would not, he imagined, be any better in the days to follow in sight of the Iron Throne.

---

"You're okay."

He sounded less than sure as he entered the room from the rear door, and saw those present. "Is the great wolf bound to her?"

'Her' heard the comment as the woman and the boy snuck into the back of the room, and eyed those assembled. Peeking behind the raised platform in which the Iron Throne sat, Sela Stark discovered the boy, and the Lannister woman with him. "They're called Direwolves, not Great Wolves." That was the extent of Sela the She-Wolf's response as the boy King and Celena walked towards the throne--until Celena gave the She-Wolf a long look.

Sela didn't quite understand such a look from her brother's intended...at least, not until the woman motioned to the boy with a quick jerk of her head. Oh, right. Him. Still, those listening would note the lack of patience in Sela's voice as she discussed the subject of Direwolves. "The direwolf is not bound to me. I am not a Dragonrider. Snow is free to come and go as he pleases."

"Will it hurt people? We don't have a pit to put it in, anymore."

Sela did her best to not be insulted. It was a Targaryen child, afterall. "Snow has never hurt someone that didn't have it coming."

"Oh," was how Aegon the Younger responded, his big eyes stuck on the Direwolf...that had curled up a few long strides from the base of the Iron Throne, unmoving and eyes closed. "...what did they do to have it coming?"

At that, Sela the She-Wolf narrowed her eyes, and peered into the young Targaryen boy's eyes...all the way down to his soul. "They. were. bad."

The boy king took a half-step towards the Lannister woman, and Celena hid her laughter behind a smile, her emerald eyes shining at the She-Wolf; a mix of amusement, and bemusement. "Worry not, Aegon; the direwolf is the same to you as I am, as Lady Sela Stark is--a protector. We will see justice done, and then the House Stark army will go home. You've no need to fear us."

...but it's good that you do, for now.

The boy nodded, his eyes unable to stay off the curled up, oversized, ball of fur and fluff and fangs. A new arrival had stolen Celena's attention; Lord Deckard, walking with Ser Lothar Borell, Lord Commander of the City Watch, and Ser Olyvar Condon. As Celena approached, it was Ser Olyvar who greeted her. "Lady Celena, Lord Lothar believes he knows where in the city Lord Strong is, and I've already seen Lord Corlys arrested."

"Lord Strong is the only name on your list of twenty-two we do not have in custody yet, my Lady--but we will have the Clubfoot soon."

Celena's smile was bright, pretty, and entirely hollow. "Thank you, both. A word alone, my Lord?" Deckard excused them both, as Stark men held each door to the Throne room it was easy enough for the couple to step out of the room and into the corridor that snaked around one side of the Throneroom, allowing courtiers to come and go from the gallery even as the King held court.

In the privacy of the corridor, the golden lioness pounced; her arms flew around his neck, gingerly and gentle as she could grab him and pull herself close to him and kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him...until he was making a face, and she was biting her lip to keep a giggle from echoing down the corridor. "Hey, you." Celena Lannister's voice was barely a whisper, her big green eyes searching his for anything, and everything. "I know things are moving very quickly right now, but in a few hours we'll have a chance to talk. I promise."

In the play of shadow and light in the corridor, it was hard to tell whether Deckard's mouth became barely a smile, or barely a frown. "Why in a few hours? You just orchestrated mass arrests and technically kidnapped a child King. You haven't earned lunch?"

She wanted to laugh, but instead she just smirked at him. "People I need to find. People I need to talk to."

"Oh? Anyone I should worry about?"

"William Morningwood."

Deckard chuckled, mostly to himself, "Well if it's Morningwood your after..."

It was hard not to feel Lord Deckard Stark's hands all over her. Celena Lannister was okay never falling in love again. She had come to peace with it. Her life had provided her more opportunities than most, even if it was at the cost of more misery than most men, or women, would ever know. Then a Westerosi man who could barely swing a sword had accidentally sat in her box at the mummer's stage shows. 'Accidentally', he had said, probably lying. It hadn't mattered. Once Deckard Stark got that close to her, he'd never let her run away from him.

At least, not without a certain promise, the same promise she whispered into his ear now, the same promise she always gave him when they parted company: "I'll be back, lover." Her lips lingered hungry and hot at the edge of his ear, at his neck...Celena pulled away groaning, muttering, drunk on the scent of the man who simply never gave up until she loved him back.

Morningwood better be worth the information.

The Eyrie

The old proverb stated that The Wall was always the last place to get news but things were hardly better atop the Eyrie. It was true that Lady Jeyne Arryn, like other Lords Paramount, had received a brief message announcing the death of the King from the Capital yet ravens lacked the strength to bear overly detailed messages. Therefore, it was almost a week later, when the first outsiders made their way up the windy mule-track past the three waycastles, that any details found their way to her ears. King Aegon II was dead-poisoned after apparently threatening to murder his nephew. No one had been held responsible as of yet. This news of the royal death brought Lady Jeyne no sadness, Aegon II had been no King of hers, house Arryn had supported the Princess's and her Blacks during the Dance so the Loss of Queen’s boy was a relief. According to the Dan the mule-boy and Dafyd the food merchant who had come to deliver the cheese, flour, oats, salted meat and horse-hay, Aegon’s nephew the son of Princess Rhaenyra’s boy who by blood was a quarter Arryn. Lady Jeyne was more than aware that Dafyd and Dan could not be entirely relied upon to provide a true and honest accounting of all facts but she was equally aware that they would be her only source of information for a long time until the official story made its’ way into the history books.

The two men brought her further news; another royal was dead, Lord Qoren Martell had apparently been thrown from a horse making his eldest daughter Aliandra ruling Princess of Dorne. This news brought a smirk to Lady Jeyne’s face. The Lady Paramount of the Vale smirked for Dorne and The Vale were two kingdoms more though far apart were more alike than most would think. Both being separated from the rest of the Kingdoms by large chains of Mountains which had a tendency to isolate the two regions from the world and both having to deal with troublesome elements with the Orphans of the Greenblood in Dorne and the clansmen in the Vale. And now both kingdoms were ruled over by powerful women after the rulers heirs had died stupidly as men do best.

Despite the Dance of the Dragons having been a conflict between two female would-be Monarchs it seemed to Lady Jeyne that it was the first time in living memory that two Lady Paramounts had ruled. Well…one lady Paramount and one Princess. She smiled again dipped her quill in ink and wrote an elaborate letter to her Dornish counterpart offering her condolences for her fathers’ death and congratulations over her own coronation. This letter would be a long one and would include a gift so would not be sent by raven; instead Jeyne would send a messenger through Gulltown bearing the letter and pear brandy and scented candles. Jeyne usually sent wine to high Lords but she imagined that Princess Aliandra of Dorne would have no shortage of fine wines. The scented candles were the speciality of house Waxley who were able to infused candles with essences of fruits which supposedly could subtlety alter the moods and emotions of people exposed to the candles. Lady Jeyne had frequently burned Waxley candles during a meeting with troublesome lords to make them more positively pre-disposed towards her political propositions. These almond and rose oil candles would be packaged in such a way that they would be protected from the sun’s heat throughout the long journey to Sunspear. No doubt the letter would arrive several weeks after Aliandra’s crowning ceremony but Lady Jeyne trusted that it would be well received nonetheless.
Turning her thoughts to home, she called her niece and nephew to join her over dinner and would gauge their reactions to the new, particularly with regard to the death of the monarch. The Targaryen one.

Roland was the first to arrive to the table, still sweaty from sparring with the Ser Brus master at arms dressed in his leather surcoat with beads of sweat clearly visible upon his forehead. Ser Brus had been a great fighter in his day but that day was past and he was too old to even have participated in the Dance making it very likely that her Nephew had decisively beaten the old veteran warrior thanks to his own youthful energy. As Roland made his way towards the table a servant approached him with a basin of cool water. No doubt the contents of the basin had been snow earlier this day, the servants were incessantly talking about how still covered the roofs and walkways of the Eyrie despite spring having arrived. After rinsing his face and hands in the basin Roland sat himself down at the table heavily with little regard to how others might perceive him. In doing so he was very much like his father, Lady Jeyne’s late brother, a few years ago when, before he had gone to serve has Ser Belmore’s squire, Roland was more impressionable he would have taken more care as to how he presented himself to others and would have practiced even when he was around his family. Jeyne often wondered if it had not been a mistake on her part to send her nephew to Strongsong, after all, most high lords did not serve as squires to their own future bannermen and serving as a squire always carried some element of risk to it. She accepted , however, that Roland was not ‘most high lords’, he had lost his parents at an age when young boys needed the counsel of their fathers the most. Lady Jeyne serve as an adoptive mother but could never replace her brother even for her own nephew, she could not teach him to fight with a sword, nor to ride like a man nor play games with other boys his age. Nor could she allow Roland to grow up a weakling locked away from his people surrounded by women without learning how to fight for himself. No one would respect or wish to marry a Lord of the Vale who had never fought for himself nor seen beyond the walls of his own castle.

Thus, when Lord Belmore had made the offer to take on Roland as a squire she had been quick to accept it. For a Lord who had successfully raised a five strong sons of his own, each braver and nobler than the last, to take on her nephew for a few years as he had was a great opportunity for her and the future Lord of the Vale. Roland had since grown so alike to the Belmore boys in manner and appearance that when he returned home in their company lady Jeyne had mistaken Erryk Belmore for her nephew when the two decided to play a practical joke by donning each other’s armour and surcoats. The boy who had left the Eyrie almost three years before had been nothing like the man who had returned smiling, confident, and broad shouldered. Jeyne had been particularly surprised by how much Roland had begun to resemble her brother in his all things. All he needed now was to grow a little taller and grow a beard and he would make a fine Lord paramount of the Vale. The next task would be to find him a suitable bride.

Yet this was not the most urgent match in need of making, her niece Sharra was older a year older than Roland and was also unwed. With regard to her Lady Jeyne would make it her upmost priority to arrange a matrilineal marriage for Sharra so that the fragile Arryn name might live on if a similar fate to her brother was to befall her nephew. Hours later with Roland gone to bed. his muscles aching from practicing with Ser Brus. and Sharra gone to take a bath, Jeyne took up her pen once more and wrote to the Lords of the Vale.


To the noble Lords of the Vale,

As many of you are aware, my regency for Lord Roland Arryn will shortly draw to an end. On the date of his fourteenth name-day my nephew will assume his rule over the Vale. To celebrate this occasion I wish to invite you and your families to a tourney that will be held a month from now at the Gates of the Moon. There will be opportunities for squires to participate in a melee amongst one another after which the most deserving will be granted their spurs and knighted for their efforts. Furthermore Jousting Lists will be assembled for any anointed night of the Vale to test his mettle against his valiant peers. The Champion’s purse will be a full set of armour tailor-made to the champion’s measurements, the runner-up will win a fine destrier from the stables of House Arryn and the knight who achieves third place will receive a fine Summer islander Goldenheart Longbow, quiver and arrows. The first to arrive shall be lodged in the Gates of the Moon where a banquet shall be prepared in the great hall. Space outside the Castle will be cleared for guests to assemble their tents and house their servants and equipment. Lord Roland and Lady Sharra will both be in attendance and we all look forward to your presence.

May the seven bring you joy and health,
Lady Jeyne Arryn
Regent to Roland Arryn Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East.

A day after the Lads crushed the Baratheon army ten times their size, a messenger reached Lord Kermit Tully and informed him of the death of King Aegon II. The war was over, but Kermit felt no relief or satisfaction. His father still lay dead, his friends still buried next to the field of yesterday’s battle, and the Riverlands still lay burnt and plundered. The war had become his life and his revenge. In his first battle Kermit was scared to death, barely able to keep his sword hand steady before the adrenaline kicked in. It did not take long for fear to be replaced anger as the war progressed. Anger soon made way for anticipation and even excitement as Lord Kermit began to long for battle and the opportunity to soak the ground with greens blood.

Certainly friends and acquaintances who recognised his blood thirst were worried, but soon most of them passed away. At the Battle of the Kings Road, his moment of greatest glory, Kermit was no longer a young squire, or even a young knight, taking orders from wiser men. Instead he was Lord of Riverrun, leading his own army of veteran warriors, flanked by commanders his own age and even younger. Before the battle he had already become a good fighter and one of the key blacks commanders. After the battle word spread quickly of the exploits of Kermit and his Lads. His soldiers were skilled, disciplined and loyal. In a way Kermit regretted having to end his campaign.

The Lads linked up with the Stark host of untrained men and boys, but sent out part of their force back to the Riverlands to restore law and order. Kermit’s mother Lady Lanna and his uncle Ser Osryk would return with around 2000 men to remind all Riverlords of the continuing Tully dominion and all bandits of Tully justice. As the host reached King’s Landing, Kermit, his cousin Ser Erryk, Benjicot Blackwood, and 70 skilled soldiers left the remained of the troops camped outside and entered the city. If it wasn’t for the Tully banners few would have recognised the Lads, but even though they were met largely with silence, some hushed voices could be heard as they rode past. As they entered the Red Keep they were still clad in the armour they had worn during the Battle of the Kings Road with the blood and mud purposefully left on.

After the Starks finished making small talk of wolves and arrests, Kermit Tully spoke up. Though the king was only a year younger than his friend and commander Ben Blackwood, it was clear that he was still a child and would have little say in what was to come. Despite this fact, Kermit’s pride kept him from holding his tongue. The Starks had come in clean and proper, their troops merely weary and muddy from a long journey. However, Kermit had instructed his troops to keep the blood on their armours and swords. In a sea of unbloodied and green northmen, the blood of the enemies would be a powerful symbol to show the sacrifices made by the riverlanders and the power of the Tullys.

“My king.” He said with a smile. “It is good to finally see the man we put on the throne.”

“The responsibilities of a ruler are many, and much will be asked of you. Know that you will always have the support of the Tullys and the riverlands. Some will come asking for favours, others will even dare to come with demands.”

Though he spoke in earnest, his words were meant just as much for the boy king as they were for the Starks and others still in the room.

“Many men had to die in this war. Many I had to kill myself.” He continued as he dramatically gripped the hilt of his bloodied sword. “Wealthy nobles, powerful lords, intimidating men… or women” He said as he shot a quick glance at Sela Stark. “will use their power to sway you. As you consider justice and peace in the realm, consider too who are truly deserving of the favour of His Grace.”

The Northmen host had warmly welcomed and celebrated the Lads as the two armies linked up but for Kermit a certain tension remained. The green men and boys that missed out on their chance for battle seemed jealous of the riverland soldiers, but none seemed to understand the losses that they suffered. The Lads had not become commanders by choice but by inheritance. Entire villages were burnt down and entire families slaughtered. However, this was not what had worried Kermit. Too late for the war, the Starks would soon be in King’s Landing to do as they see fit, backing up their demands with their army. The young Tully lord had little experience in politics, but he would make sure that he would receive what he deserved.

Hella-Cute, Lightning Fast, and Ruby

Clop, clop, clop.

The hooves of four strong steeds beat against the stonework avenues of Highgarden. Their meticulously brushed coats were hidden beneath regal green caparisons; the golden rose of Tyrell checkered across the cloth. Polished steel armor covered their heads and their chests and peeked out from under the coverings near the horses’ rumps. Their barding shimmered in early morning’s light. No less shining were the four horses’ riders; they wore polished steel suits of armor and none covered his head. Like their steeds, they bore the heraldry of House Tyrell on their shields and on their tabards and one wielded the golden rose on a pennant at the end of his lance. They rode in a square formation, one man to each corner.

Wooden wheels groaned and solid oaken chests rattled as they passed over the uneven cobbled streets. The cart was laden with rich-looking totes, but to the outsider it was simply a well-crafted wagon covered with taut leather. At its helm, an adolescent squire boy wearing a padded green surcoat took the reins of its two mules.

Two noble white horses ambled along in front of the cart, their backs carried the noble ladies of Highgarden: Desmera of Tyrell and Leontte of Redwyne. They wore bodices made of silken sea green cloth, embroidered with gold thread like vines and having rigid sleeves that cover the shoulders, well-fitting leather riding breeches, and dark leather riding boots that lace up the calf. Their hair was braided around the front and done up in the back, held in place by gold cords.

The procession continued in relative silence, save the occasional clank from the knights’ armor or the constant moaning and rattling of the cart, as they neared on the outermost gatehouse. Eight men-at-arms met them there, clad in green surcoats, polished cuirasses with roses emblazoned in their centers, bracers and greaves and kettle helmets. They wore swords at their sides but had no shields. Their horses were not covered in barding or caparisons and were neither as well-bred as the knights' or the ladies’ nor were they as large. But they were still plenty hardy.

The procession continued through the bright white stone gates of Highgarden, followed by the eight men-at-arms, four abreast and stopped just hardly outside the gate as they waited on their riding companions and loyal bannermen: Lord Redwyne of the Arbor and Lord Hightower of Oldtown.

Lord Ruben Blacktower of all people was the first of their bannermen to be seen from Highgarden. He had been riding slightly ahead in the hopes of escaping his brother and cousin’s banter about how to conduct themselves in court. Though the other Hightowers wore their finest vestements, Ruben was content in his black cowl and hard leather armour which bore his personal sigil, a red and black variant of his house's, on the left breast. Funny that though no one was more experienced in these dull courtly niceties than Lord Blacktower, and yet no one dreaded them half as much as he. The moment Highgarden game into view, he felt an immense wave of relief that the trip was finally over, slowing down to allow his lordly and knightly companions to catch up. The Hightower party rode eagerly forward to meet the Tyrells, with Otto being the first to speak. As he stopped, his brown mare gave an aggitated whinny.

"Lady Leontte and Lady Desmera, my beloved cousins!" The young lordling wore a simple white shirt under an equisite black and gold vest, as well as a thin set of chainmail over his arms and chest for protection. "It is wonderful to finally see you again. This is the first time you are greeting me as Lord of the Hightower, is it not?"

Leonette chuckled, "Yes, first time greeting you as a man too, isn't it?"

She lingered on a smile, but it faded soon after, "I do wish it were under better circumstances, though."

"I suppose it is, yes. Another king dead, and so soon after the war..." Otto shook his head. "I hope our new king is merciful. I don't doubt there are lords in King's Landing who still resent our house after the Dance."

"Some even in the Reach, I'd wager. Lord Tarly put in for the blacks last I heard. I hope you'll be able to overlook this. The last thing we need is the Reach divided over the loyalties of our fathers," Desmera interjected.

"It is not Tarly I am worried about," Otto replied, meeting Desmera's gaze directly, "This was a war waged by my house against the king's mother, one that would have seen Aegon the Third deprived of his throne."

"Yes, and now a Hightower sits in the Black Cells on charges of treason. The crown will expect you to answer for her crimes. There will most definitely be a trial and I would ask that you keep yourself removed from it," Lady Leonette replied.

"Lady Alicent is my sister," Tobias interjected, "Pardon me, milady; Ser Tobias Hightower. I do not know if we have met, but if Lady Alicent that I fight on her behalf in a trial by combat, I am bound my honour to comply. And yet, to do so would make me an accomplice to a traitor, supportive of a war against the crown I never wished for."

"And it will reflect on your house. And your house reflects on me," she said coldly. "Although- it will be for the gods to decide then. Are you prepared to die for this? To bring the crown down on the Reach? Because win or die, that is the result."

Tobias sighed. "I would be ready to wager my own life, but mine alone. To fight on Alicent's behalf may threaten the well-being of other Reachmen, milady, perhaps even yours or that of my dear lord cousin. My sister acted without considering the consequences, and may soon pay with her life." He did not seem pleased by the thought of abstaining from Alicent's trial, but kept his further obejctions to himself.

Leonette sighed and nodded, "Right then."

"My cousin speaks truly, milady," added Otto, "I only hope my own advisors and vassals will not take this as a sign of weakness."

"If they do, I trust you to remind them who their liege lord is, Lord Hightower."

"... Yes, milady." There was little that Otto or Tobias could say in their position. "They are sworn to me as I am sworn to you. Now on to less grim matters: will Lord Redwyne be accompanying us on this trip?"

"I believe so. But you know how he can be."

"I don't think I've ever met him, actually," Otto replied, giving a light chuckle to break the tension, "I've mostly just heard humours from my master of ships."

Desmera raised her eyebrows, "I'm surprised he hasn't visited with you yet. Or that you two haven't even met. What about the tourney at Bitterbridge?"

"Well... I haven't personally met him, anyways."

They had arrived later than hoped, well past the midnight hour when the Highgarden men-at-arms opened the outergates for Joss of the Jade Sea, Lord of the Arbor. He and his small band of companions did little more than get a bite to eat, a quick washing, and a short nap before they were being roused by the Understeward, warning them that the hour of departure neared. Joss rose first, and hurried each of his fellow travellers by tapping at them with the toe of his boot until each started to stir and stretch.

Breaking their fast was a matter of hot tea and sausages grilled by the Highgarden kitchen, though Joss settled for tea only. Witnessing the sea bubble and boil as he'd passed the remains of Valyria had unnerved him, a bit. Fighting slavers off the coast of Sothoryos had unsettled him. Both prospects seemed far easier to his system, in the current morning moment, than the idea that Leonette Tyrell was waiting for him. Luckily for him, none knew it, and none suspected it; but nothing made Joss Redwyne more nervous. Leonette was a girl...or she had been.

Before she left the Arbor. Before she became the Lady of Highgarden.

"Let's get this journey started," was all Joss said as he noticed his four fellows nearly finished with their morning meal. All grunted and went about getting outside and on their horses. Joss wore wine colored riding leathers, the two Sers with him chainmail and boiled leather, the two archers simply boiled leather. The two Knights were young men, the oldest barely halfway to thirty years. Ser Raymund Redwyne, a cousin, and Ser Anders Ball, a Knight his elder brother hired into the Redwyne household. The two archers were a touch older; both tall and lean, Lock with skin a shade darker than most men and almond colored eyes, Sonny dirty blonde, blue eyed, and pale.

They were baseborn, the both of them, but they had something the Knights did not--they had been with Joss when he left for the Jade Sea, and both had made it back with him.

Quickly enough they were all ahorse, and meeting with the rest of their waiting party. "Morning, Lords of the Hightower..." Joss nodded to the men, before quickly giving a half nod to Leonette and that other girl, "Ladies. Apologies for our tardiness. Are we all ready?" The big man smiled from his saddle...even if it was the kind of smile and friendly tone he'd give a Braavosi dock official.

"Lord Redwyne, I presume?" Otto smiled, reaching out to shake Joss' hand, "I remember you now."

"Ay, that's me," The only salty Redwyne bastard fool enough to jump on a horse and ride to King's Landing. A thought that nearly made Joss snicker under his breath, had it not been overshadowed by the Hightower Lord's words of recalling him. "Hard to miss us Redwynes, true enough, though I can't say I recall you...very few I recall first hand after my long journeys across the Narrow Sea and beyond."

Joss did his best to not look right at Leonette as he said it, but he failed. "Some I remember just fine how they were when I left, but of course, precious few of them remained the same between my leaving, and my returning. Some I hardly even know, anymore." He shrugged, quickly, and turned his attention to the four men with him, starting with the Knights: "The Redwyne knight is my cousin's boy, Ser Raymund. The other is Ser Anders Ball. The two archers...the darker is Lock, the lighter one Sonny. Both of 'em made it back from the Jade Sea with me. Good men, better archers."

Something about the way Joss spoke put the young lord at ease. "Ser Tobias Silvershield, and Ruben Blacktower," Otto said, introducing his own kin and companions, "The former a brave yet cautious commander, the latter one of the smartest men in the Seven Kingdoms."

Lady Leonette motioned to her riding partner, "And this is Lady Desmera Tyrell, my stepdaughter. You met briefly last night, I believe."

Joss gave a nod and a glance to Lady Desmera; both quicker than a grasshopper as his eyes hopped to the horizon, though Ser Raymund gave a slight stare, a big smile, and a much friendlier welcome.

Ser Anders and the Bowmen just stared that-a-way.

"Shall we then? A messenger caught us in the night on our way to Highgarden, it delayed us but did inform us the Starks will probably hold King's Landing when we arrive. Our small escort is a protection on that front, at least."

Then Joss' sea green flecked brown eyes twitched--to the Hightowers. To that sigil. "...though our company makes this a dangerous enough trip, no matter how we cut it. No offense, my Lords; just dangerously unpopular at the moment. Could be worse. Could be wanted."

"I hate to admit that you may be right..." Tobias replied. He turned to his knights and ordered their banners be taken down and shoved back into their saddlebags. "At the very least, bandits will not be a problem given our numbers. Hopefully any allogations of high treason will be cleared up once Otto reaffirms our loyalty to the crown."

"I'll make it clear you weren't involved with House Hightower's actions during the Dance beyond the measures you took to defend your own territory," Otto added, "Best not to bring your reputations down with ours. We're ready to depart when you are, Lady Leonette."

"Right. Let's get going then, its five and twenty days to King's Landing."

Leonette patted the neck of her steed and jerked forward, the rest of her companions followed along with her, keeping their formation. Lord Hightower and Lord Redwyne rode abreast to the ladies of Tyrell. Their respective hosts followed along behind.

...

The Reachmen rode six and twenty days on the Roseroad before the Red Keep rolled over the horizon. The city sprawled out from the sea and along the banks of the Blackwater Rush. Its massive walls towered over surrounding farmlands and the violent rapids of the river's mouth. The buildings were so tightly packed such that only the septs and the Red Keep were discernable from the mass of brown and grey that made up the rest of the city.

"There it is," Desmera noted, "Kings Landing. It's quite impressive, isn't it?"

"It is, milady," agreed Ser Tobias, "Though no doubt the Northmen have arrived by now... Be on your guard, Otto."

"You worry too much, coz," Otto had tried to keep his childish complaints to a minimum on the way there, though it was easy to tell that he was fed up with his traveling by his looks of discomfort and passing comments about the soreness in his thighs and groin. "If I never have to ride another horse, it'll be too soon..."

King's Landing was a town, not a city, by any standard outside Westeros. It was smaller than all the Free Cities, even Lorath and Norvos. It was smaller than nearly every 'town' in Essos, at that, such as Mantarys. And it's small size made Qarth look like the center of all known Creation from what he remembered of it.

"Gates aren't closed," was how Joss finally responded, his eyes scanning all he could see before him, even noting what river traffic he could spot, as well as a large group of men around the Tourney grounds just outside the city, working. "Starks must not be expecting a fight. Men working on the Tourney grounds...Coronation tourney already being planned? Odd...shall we go say hello?"

"I'd imagine the Starks were fairly well-recieved," Ruben mused, "They did side with the blacks, and new Aegon is Queen Rhaenyra's son."

"The sooner we can get inside the better. I'd hate to not have any accomadations waiting in the Red Keep," Lady Leonette jested. "Though, worst comes to worst we can hole up in a brothel, hm?"

Ruben chuckled. "And throw the poor whores out on the street? Shame on you!"

Desmera rolled her eyes and Lady Leonette patted her horse's neck again, steering the party further down the Kingsroad. Within the evening they had crossed the Blackwater Rush and approached the monsterous walls of Kings Landing. The tumultous sounds of the Blackwater roared in the background and the party came to a halt. The cart gave a final groan and the chests inside rattled.

The gate was closed and Stark bannermen stood on either side of the gate. They held their banners tall and stood side-by-side with members of the war-torn City Watch. The captain of the gate stepped forward, his glistening gold cape waved out behind him as he approached the party.

"Who approaches the River Gate?" he bellowed.

"Lady Tyrell and her daughter Lady Desmera and her loyal bannermen, Lords Redwyne and Hightower," Lady Leonette replied to them.

The Stark men narrowed their eyes and murmured amongst themselves at the mention of Hightower. The gate captain turned around looking at them and back to the party, "What is the purpose of your visit, my lords?"

"To swear fealty to our king, His Grace Aegon of the House Targaryen, Third of his Name."

The Northmen scoffed amongst themselves and cast sideways glances at Tyrell and company. The gate captain turned his head to look over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at them. Before readdressing the group, "Very well then, welcome to King's Landing, my lords."

The unmistakable scent of raw fish hung in the air just beyond the River Gate. Salmon and river trout flew between hands and stacks of the creatures lined wooden stalls. Fishmongers dug knives into the flesh of the catch and innards fell out onto the distressed cobble streets. Gulls flew overhead in the hundreds, swooping down and picking the scraps off of the ground and flying away in satisfaction.

Desmera pulled a scarf over her nose, it was heavily perfumed and masked the scent of Westeros' premier fish market. Somewhat.

"I'm glad we don't have fishmongers in Highgarden," she thought aloud.

"You should visit Oldtown, milady, or take in the smells of Braavos," Ruben proclaimed, "I've seen the sheer stench of a Braavosi port knock a lesser man clean out," Ruben's taunts and jests made it clear that he was nowhere near as consistent in his courtesy as his brother, or even the young Lord Hightower.

Joss said nothing when Leonette aimed them away from the outer city and away from the open King's Gate. Not openly, at least. He did immediately put the back of heels into the ass end of his horse, causing the animal mild discomfort and making it clear Joss wanted it to move and move quickly--only slowing when Joss' horse was as so close to Leonette's as it could have gotten, matching pace as it's rider leaned into the other horse, and it's younger woman rider.

"Smart girl."

At first, it was all Joss said, his eyes scanning the Fishmarkets and their alleys. It wasn't the curious gaze of a traveller, either; Joss was looking for something. WAITING for something.

"The Mud Gate gets us in close to the Red Keep, without having to parade Hightowers through the streets of a city probably tired of seeing that bloody tower sigil. Seven help us, you're still a Redwyne afterall, aren't you?"

Leonette smirked and shot him a glance, "Perhaps."

"JOSS."

The way his name had been spoken was that of a warning. A warning that came from the Knight of the Arbor, Ser Raymund. When Joss turned his head to see where the lad was staring, it didn't take long to spot the woman coming down River Row, the street that hugged the walls of King's Landing along the Blackrush, the street that started at the foot of Aegon's High Hill.

And it took even less time for Joss to spot the beast padding along quietly behind the woman.

"...don't let the size of it scare you."

Ser Raymund snorted. "Pretend as if it doesn't scare me, like you're doing?"

"Aye." That was exactly what he meant. A man would be mad not to feel the icy fingers of fear scratch at him upon the sight of that beast, even if it's attention was on all the fishmongers and their waste, not the small Southron party.

"Greetings, Reachman. I am Sela Stark, this is my companion, Snow."

The wolf raised it's honey-gold eyes to the Reachman, and quickly returned to the fish, and the smells of the Fish Market.

Otto gulped, as if to physically swallow his fear, glancing down from his horse at the wolf... though didn't have to look down nearly as much as he would have liked. "A... a direwolf, yes?" He'd heard about the wargs and giant wolves of the North many times, though had assumed most of them to be myths.

Joss remained steel, unmoving and unsmiling. "Do you mean to intimidate us, Lady Stark?"

"No," the woman with black hair and dark brown eyes said, before laughing...as if Joss had suggested Winter was warm, and filled with fun. Otto uneasily joined in on the laughter, but quickly quieted down when Sela began to speak again. "If I meant to intimidate you, Lord Joss, I would have meet you at the Red Keep. As it happens, I was on my way out with Snow here."

"Out for a walk, then?"

The young Stark woman shrugged. "You don't want this direwolf missing it's stroll through the Kingswood when it wants it."

"Oh?" Joss scratched at the stubble upon his chin, though his eyes never left the woman. Or rather, the direwolf. "Why is that Lady Stark?"

A smile as pretty and filled with laughter as ever had been came from the Stark girl, and nearly put a new sort of fear in Joss Redwyne. "Because, Lord Joss, you're in these city walls now."

Stuck in these city walls, with that direwolf. "Seven help us, Lady Stark."

"Wrong Gods, Lord Joss." A reminder given with a smirk.

"Let's keep things civil, please," Otto said uneasily, "We have come to reaffirm our fealty to the crown, and to be accepted back into the King's Peace." His words were that of a lord, though his voice was shaking like a small boy's.

Sela snorted back a bark of bitter laughter. "Rich to hear someone with your sigil saying let's keep things civil."

Otto looked down at his breast, realizing he'd forgotten to remove it before entering King's Landing, then back to Sela. Summoning up what little courage he had, he spoke again: "Yes, Lady Stark. I am Lord Otto Hightower, Second of My Name. My father and brother both died at Tumbleton, along with many of the greens' most ardent supporters. If the gods are good, be they yours or mine, the hostilities will have been allowed to die with them."

Sela Stark just stared. With the sun over head and causing her to wince just so, it could have been difficult to see just how hard a look she might have given. Then her head went this way and that--taking full measure of the growing crowd of smallfolk all about them. Even several groups of patroling Goldcloaks had stopped, nervous.

Eventually Sela's eyes returned; not to Joss, but to Otto. A softness rarely seen that in her look, and her sound.

"I'm very sorry for your losses, Lord Otto. House Stark is here to ensure justice is done and peace restored to the Realm. No more, no less. You've no reason to worry about your safety around us.........that is, unless Snow here gets delayed much longer."

It might have been a joke. Joss, at least, prayed it was.

For it's part, the direwolf had rested itself upon it's hind legs...and began to look at Sela as if the beast were begging for something. It's honey-gold eyes had grown the size of saucers, taking in every movement of Sela, and those ahorse to which she spoke.

When Sela did not immediately motion for Snow to follow, for them to carry on past these strangers on horseback...the direwolf gave only a tiny groan, and turned it's head to it's hind section, teeth nibbling on it's backside to scratch some irritant itch.

"I didn't know you were afraid of wolves, milord," Ruben mused.

Otto waited until Sela was out of earshot to speak again. "Only the wolves who walk on two legs, cousin. The ones who can swing an excecutioners' sword, and whose harsh justice may be the downfall of our house."

The late Lord Hightower, a sheep amongst wolves. Leonette humored the thought with silent laughter before leading the parade through the Fishmonger's Square and around the Hook and into the shadow of Aegon's High Hill and the Red Keep that sat atop it.

“Ah the city,” a voice said, coarse like gravel. A snort and deep breath followd. “The aroma of civilisation is truly potent.” The air was heavy, lathered with the scents of a large urban conglomeration. “The delicious fragrance of boiled cabbage does assault one’s nostrils, not to mention the salted fish that harries us,” the voice continued evenly. “Yet, the characteristic olfactory accent is also created by the effects of bodily functions, carried out in the most random of places. I’ve never understood why we so ignore the need for latrines and sanitation.” The man knew that in Essos, several cities had been equipped with extensive plumbing to carry the filth and dirty out to the waterways to be disposed of.

The city stunk of cabbage, fish, shit and piss.

Yet, stench was not the only thing impregnating the city air, it was filled with sound - the sound of thousands upon thousands of throats, joined by the racket of bovine, ovine and anserine origins. Women squabbled, children bawled, men shouted, merchants bickered and priests complained.

The man performing the soliloquy concerning odour and sound, stood atop a wooden balcony overlooking a muddy street – one of many in the city, seeing as only a few were cobbled. Strings and ropes connected the houses, most with flint roofs, on either side of the street in a random pattern, somewhat reminiscent of a spider-web, upon which a wide variety of garments were hung in order to dry.

To the far end, the radiant disk of the sun was creeping towards the bay, turning the water’s surface into liquid gold intersected by the long shadows from canvas sails belonging to ships and fishing boats returning home.

King's Landing was the trade capital of the South, a city that had sprawled up like a mushroom in the wake of Aegon's construction of the Aegonfort, a wooden fortress that had turned into the red stone monstrosity the world knew as the Red Keep.

“The city is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, nostalgia, paradox, a dream and a nightmare. King's Landing, young as it is, is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped stone, cracked windows and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky-tonks, eateries, brasseries, bordellos and whore houses, and little crowded victual-shops, workshops, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitants are,” as the man was wont to say, “whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches,” by which he meant everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, “Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,” and he would have meant the same thing. Perspective was blurry in the city.

“Of course, Ser,” a hawkish cohort exclaimed. He was a short fellow but lanky, with a long downward-curved nose and floppy ears and thin hair. His length impaired him from properly overlooking the city’s vista, limiting his view to the brick chimneys spewing black columns of smoke towards the sky.

Willem sighed. Eloquence was wasted on his gnomish assistant, and displaying it in this manner was merely vanity for his own tongue. He had retreated from the Red Keep in the wake of the Stark arrival, for while he was uninvolved in Aegon II's death, he was far from innocent. The accountant had gone through a lot of effort to leave his affairs as clean as a new vellum of parchment.

"My lord Morningwood," his assistant said impishly. "There is someone calling on you."

"What? Who is it?" Willem demanded to know, wheeling on his cane.

"He did not say."

"Fine. Send him to the suite."

Two sets of heavy steps proceeded the arrival of the 'he' sent up to Morningwood's suite. Both were figures tall enough, though one had a clear handful of inches on the other. Both had been silent and statuesque in the face of the temptations of the Salty Clam's first floor. Though by a mere glance, it was easy to understand why:

They wore the black mail and gold cloaks of the King's Landing City Watch. And while any King's Landing whore knew that the Gold Cloaks were anything but focused on the purity of their purpose, the two waiting for Morningwood to receive them were all but blind to the women prancing about them as they waited for the call. One wore a bastard sword on a black leather belt, and the other a short sword.

It was the slightly taller Watchman, he with the bastard sword, that stopped just outside the suite door before yanking it open, and ensuring it was Morningwood waiting on them. At least, ensuing the man waiting in the suite matched the description of Morningwood he'd been given.

When satisfied, the first Watchman stepped further into the suite, allowing the second to step into the room. The second Watchman pulled at the half-helm covering key bits of skull and face and brain, a hand going into the golden hair that had been hidden under the half-helm, unpinning the blonde silken strands and letting them fall free about armored shoulders in half-curls that glittered every time daylight struck them.

Celena Lannister smiled, her purposely dirtied face being wiped off with the end of the gold cloak she wore. "Hi." Beyond the smile and the single word, the woman who had been disguised as a man gave nothing.

She only stared at Morningwood with big, round, green eyes. Eyes that showed no share of the amusement that sparked the smile; only shadow and light and the intensity of a hunting lioness in the dark.

"Lord Morningwood," she began, before immediately motioning to the other Watchman, "may I present Ser Olyvar of House Condon. Grew up hearing so many stories about the South, he had to run away from home and come join the Mummer's Show."

The Knight chuckled, seemingly amused by the possibly (probably) made-up origin tale of the Northern knight the golden haired woman had spun without so much as hesitation or hint of falsehood. "I am.........well, you know who I am, judging by what I've been told about you by those that watch from shadow and silence."

Celena's smile gave way to a more serious expression upon her face. It would become very obvious, very quickly, that Celena had come to discuss business. And nothing else.

"As the Stark spymaster, I put together a list of names for arrest. You were not included on that list, because word on these shit-smelling streets is that you might have an account of what happened the night the former King died. I would hear it, and see how it differs from other accounts. If you would decline me..." Celena gave a tiny shrug, and looked back to the Knight for a breath, before those green eyes hit Morningwood again. "...then I would be forced to trust these other accounts, accounts that put you physically in the plot to poison a King. I'd much rather give you the carrot of whatever you want, than bother with that unpleasentness."

There Lena the Lioness drew silent, leaned back into the chair she had settled in, and waited.

Morningwood answered the revelation with the arching of a brow and the parting of his lips to leer uncomfortably. Goldcloaks he could handle, he owned quite a lot of them too by favour or purse, but Celena Lannister was an entirely different article. "Not looking for work then? I believe you would be expertly able to teach my girls a thing or two." He joked, stalling for some time to think this development through.

The Condon fellow looked capable enough, tall and wide across the chest. A knighted Northerner was as rare as snow in Dorne. How and why he was in Celena's employ was still a guess, though they likely had met on the journey south to answer the call to war. Willem glanced over their weapons, still sheathed fortunately, for the Reachman did not really like his chances if they were to be bared. There was some muscle in the Salty Clam, but they were used to dealing with drunk patrons and abusive thugs, not these two... rarities.

Willem waddled to a chair and clicked his cane against the floorboards as he sat down. "I am sure I can find Ser Olyvar an appropriate position in the Mummer's Show," he said with a wink. "You can sit if you want to." He knew how tense these characters could be, but he was not about to make any sudden movements. The fact Celena was here incognito, sans obvious threat suggested there was none... from her. It meant she still saw a use for him, perhaps a favour to be called upon in the future if she kept him from being incriminated, implicated.

It would be foolish to claim he did not occupy himself with the infesting intrigue that grew tendril-like through the Red Keep. "Everyone has an account for that night. You are sure you have not mistaken me for another cripple? Sneaky looking figure. Lord Strong perhaps? No, I see that you do not." Morningwood placed his palms on the silver knob of his cane and sighed, stretching his aching, twitching leg out. "Who told you what? What is the current version of the events? We can hardly all be responsible for the late Aegon's death. The more people who knew, the more likely the secret would be spilled. I think you're acquainted with those principles." A chuckle followed.

With the same tone and expression used during an uninspiring Mummer's Show, Celena readjusted just slightly in the chair, and thought on what she might say, made obvious by the moments long silent pause she took after he finished speaking.

In the end, the woman was left wanting more, disappointed Morningwood wanted to talk about who and their stories, rather than his own story. "I think...I don't have a lot of time or patience in this to begin with. A King has died. There will be justice. You can either try to work with me here and now, or wait to talk with one of the Starks when they summon you before them to dispense justice. Now, as with when I first entered this room...that choice is yours, Willem. I only ask we stop dancing, and you make it."

"You must understand I am having trouble with confiding in someone who shares a bed with a Stark, acts as their agent and is in the company of one of their bannermen. No offence Ser Olyvar. Sleep with the dogs and you will catch their fleas," Willem replied calmly. "The distinction between yourself and 'one of the Starks' is not easily made... Dance you say? That word is being used wrongly of late. Besides," he tapped his crooked leg. "My dancing days are done." The Reachman weighed what he knew against the risks. "What guarantee do I have, if I testify?" He was a businessman and wanted to know what gains this investment would yield, so as to avoid bankrupcy. "What arrangement do you suggest?"

"If I think you're being forthcoming and honest? You can have damn near anything you want. Anything I can give, that I may actually have to give. There is a task at hand; to discover what really happened that night. My read of the leaves tells me you had the best seat and aren't certified to hang. As you are not certain to die, that allows me to work WITH you. I am no child, nor am I new to this game...I know you're a potential asset to me, and I know it would not do well to treat you roughly, my Lord. Should you testify and be truthful, I cannot see why you would not be entirely cleared of all charges and welcome once more at the Red Keep. If you have a steeper price..." Celena smiled again, this time a small thing made from memories, subtle but unmistakeable. "I am an agent of the Iron Bank, and no stranger to buyout negotiations."

"Those disparate loyalties will one day be out of balance and you will be left with hard choices to make," Willem commented. "But you're not here for advice."

That...only made the woman grin. "You have no idea."

The Reachman smirked, for at least there was a mutual understanding present. "I know nothing for certain," he attested. "But Lord Corlys Velaryon, the king's Master of Ships, and I had a... dubious conversation. One of the things mentioned was an allusion on what cripples and snakes might aspire to and succeed. At the time, I only took it as flattery of course." Obviously the last part was hoax, Willem knew exactly what the old Sea Snake had hinted at, especially after the bells tolled for Aegon II's passing. The Lord of Driftmark was in Stark custody, already.

Forever, it might have seemed given the staggering silence that Celena Lannister unleashed, the woman stared at the crippled man. Blankness in her look soon gave way to the creases and narrowing eyes of pain and slight irritation, as if Celena had TRIED to accept the words at face value......but could not.

"You mean to tell me the man that is wise enough to know my own internal and inevitable life crisis simply by having heard some things and just meeting me...didn't catch on to what the Sea Snake meant?"

As if appearing by magic, that tiny smile came again to her pink, full, lips. This time, there WAS amusement in it. "Is that the final edition of your story you want me to walk out of here and make decisions with?...is it, REALLY?"

"Foiled again," Morningwood rapped his knuckles on the silver acorn knob. "That is the final edition I will murmur shocked in front of the judges, yes. Everyone wanted Aegon II dead, he was a bad man and an even worse king. I had nothing to do with his poisoning in so far as that I did not prevent it. After he had that golden beast of his devour his own sister, his days were numbered. He was a dead man walking. If not this week then next year." Willem had to grin as he wondered if this would still be seen as lèse-majesté or not, for the crook was dead after all.

Celena's index finger upon her right gloved hand rose into the air for a pause, and then flicked back down, the small memory's smile replaced with something less identifiable upon her lips...save that there was satisfaction in it, now. "There is it. The truth. Or most of it...Mushroom mentioned something to me, though, something I found...baffling. A moment of madness, really...did the dead King really threaten to dismember young Aegon?"

"Cut off his ear and send it to that dashing young lad you waltzed in with, Lord Kermit Tully. I suspect that spurred Corlys and his cohorts to action."

"Thank you for killing him, then." Ser Olyvar's head visibly tilted at Celena's direction, but the woman was already up from her chair and standing. "Tell whatever safe tale you want in public, this has been more than enough my Lord. You are welcome back to the Red Keep whenever you want. I'll tell the Starks, and their guard, as well as the Royal Guard. Wouldn't want someone giving you a hard time now...would we?"

Willem nodded, the very image of humility. "It will save me some bribes, Madam Stark." He tipped an imaginary hat. "Thank Lord Corlys though, when you hang him. Killing a king, no matter how bad, is still a capital crime."

"He won't hang. Good day, my Lord."

What sort of justice was this?



-Collab with Ruby-

Westeros-Ten Towers

Rodrik Harlaw sat waiting for news from his liege lord. The War was over, true, but that is not something that would stop Dalton from reaving. Rodrik Sighed, if the war were to continue for the Ironborn, they would need allies on the mainland, for the Ironborn do not have the numbers to take on the whole of the seven Kingdoms by themselves. He resolved to write to those allies of his who would be willing to aid the Ironborn in exchange for potential lands or gold.

Looking down at the hall he gave a small grin. His captains and bannermen were enjoying themselves, should he not do the same? After all they had just come off a successful campaign, flush with gold and other riches taken from the Greenlander Rebels. It should be a happy occasion. To that end, Rodrik took up his cup and began drinking. The Ale tasted good and soothed his troubled mind, but he knew that he would have to drink many more cups this night in order to fully soothe his suspicions.

Apparently, his Brothers noticed his mood for Quellon asked "Why the long face brother? We've had a successful campaign, and while it is true that it was more raids and blockade than outright conquest, we did manage to come away with a mighty haul of loot?" Rodrik gave a small smile and said, "I fear that Dalton might seek to continue the war, in which case the Ironborn would be on their own against the entire might of Westeros. Still, you are right, talk of future battles can wait until we have properly feasted our men and drank to our good fortunes." He shook his head and resumed his drinking.

Finally the main course was brought out, Fried Fish, breaded and seasoned with spices taken from Greenlander Rebel Trade Ships, alongside mashed potatoes and greens. Rodrik dug into his food heartily, being famished worrying over whether the war would continue or not. He even had a second helping of the fish, which burned on the tongue pleasantly, but not so much as it would if it were prepared in the Dornish Fashion.

Soon, everyone was full, and off to their respective berths for the night, and Rodrik went off to his study to write to his Mainland Allies, subtlety hinting that should the Red Kraken Decide to Continue the War, it would behoove them to join up, so as to recive lands from the Greens. It was a risk, but many of his Allies were ones that could be counted on to stand by him, even in the face of overwhelming odds, as many of them were blood related in some way, like the Kennings of Kayce.

He sighed, this was going to be a long night. . .