Garin rode back to the camp, taking a long and circuitous route through surrounding lands. His little mare liked to travel and she bore her armored rider with an endurance that would done a destrier proud. The sun shone through the lazily drifting clouds, the breeze was neither too warm nor too cold and the leaf-shrouded boughs of the groves waved gently in the wind.

Garin and his escorts rode from picket to picket, checking in with different detachments as his cavalrymen rode out, occupied key places or rode back in from their different assignments. All in all, the reports were what he’d expected. Throughout and field, all was quiet. Not a foe in sight. Still, he wasn’t paid to operate off assumptions and knowing something for a certainty was a far better thing to be able to tell one’s employer.

The grass ripped in the wind as he rode around a small hillock, scanning his surroundings with the unthinking practice of long years of experience. In places the emerald grass was up around his sand steed’s girth, like a sea of green, and he smiled slightly. Dorne was beautiful land in a harsh sort of way, but only someone who had grown up among the red sands and the jagged sheerness of the northern mountains could truly understand how precious green grass and good water were.

In truth, he wouldn’t mind settling here, it was a lush and lovely land in many ways, the kind of place a man could raise his family in peace. His slight smile faded, somehow he doubted that peace would ever be his lot. But perhaps what he did here could earn enough gold that his children would never have to try and eke an existence like his. And Martella, for all that she was a tough peasant woman, born of farmers, deserved better than this.

He didn’t regret the night he had asked her to play his favorite song. And he had never once bemoaned the births of his daughters. But while he was hardly decrepit, he wouldn’t get any younger. His family needed something more than what he had to offer and one day, time would take enough of a toll that a younger and stronger man would be the one to deal the death blow.

As the sinking sun turned the horizon the color of molten gold, he turned his horse back to the rode and rode in a steady trot. A big dothraki and his companion rode out to meet, the challenge and watchword were rendered and Garin passed on. He swung down from the saddle, his squire leading his horse away.

It would soon be time to meet with the Lord Commander once again and he would need suitable attire. While he hardly cared a whit for the pretenses of the nobility he had once belonged to, he saw no reason to give his employer any misgivings. People went off what they saw and he was no better.

As Garin neared the center of the camp where his tent was located, a dull cacophony slowly sharpened into the ugly rhythm of raised voices and harsh shouts. He rounded a tent to see a young man in a crimson and white surcoat, backed by a group of hard-faced men, all bearing the belts and spurs of knights. The youth’s face was mottled red and white with fury, the veins standing sharply from his neck, a drawn dagger clenched in his white-knuckled grip.

Before the young knight stood Martella, her eyes narrowed and her nostrils pinched with that silent rage she sometimes gave in to. Behind her stood Rylla, clad in man’s hose and tunic, a dagger of her own held in a reverse grip, her feet planted in the stance Garin had taught his daughter so many times before.

Thankfully little Myrna wasn’t there to witness what had happened. Between Garin’s wife and the enraged knight lay a youth who couldn’t have been much older than Rylla. A squire was clad in crimson and white, like his master, a dagger lay in the dust next to his outstretched arm. The boy's eyes were swollen shut and his sword arm lay in the unnatural angle of a clear and brutal break. Blood ran from his broken nose and his pale features were puffy, the way flesh will before the bruises have had a chance to rise. He lay there, an animal sound like a sob and a muffled scream rising from his pulped lips.

Around the whole disaster stood a score of Dornishmen and a few Dothraki, all gripped javelins, swords, spears and axes. Some bore the stoney looks of men who had killed so many times that they no longer felt anything. Others had a glint in their eye, of the unholy joy some men find in carnage.

“Quiet!” Garin roared above the tumult.

He stepped forward, glaring mercilessly at both sides, the way a master might stare down a particularly dangerous hound. If he didn’t act quickly, this would turn into a bloodbath that would spill over through the whole camp and there would be no winners, just survivors.
The shouting died to an ugly mutter and Garin marched between his family and the furious knight.

“I will ask this only once. I will hear the truth, you will speak one at a time.” He said with deadly calm. “What the fuck happened here?”



Father was long gone by the time the first silvery strands of sunlight had began to creep over the horizon. Rylla rolled from the small wooden bedframe in the tent her family shared and turned to see Myrna’s tousled hair and bright eyes peeking up from the nest of blankets. Rylla smiled, made a motion for silence and rose. Tea, a thick slice of bread, butter, cheese and a couple of eggs made for simple but filling breakfast. By the time Mother had risen, Myrna was fed, her hair combed and she’d reluctantly scrubbed her teeth with hazel twigs.
Martella had glanced around the neatly organized tent and smiled in quiet approval. True, there were enough lemans among the mercenaries and a few squires for such tasks, but Martella had come from a peasant family and Garin Sands was never one to demand something from his people that he couldn’t do himself.

Rylla helped mother dress and braid her hair, though Martella was never one to put on airs, a captain’s wife had to project a certain image. Rylla herself felt no such obligation, however. She had thrown on an old gambeson and a pair of hose and boots. Father had taught her to fight and ride. With time, she was sure, she’d be just as dangerous a blade as he was. These Westerosi seemed to have odd notions about women in armor. Though the lady that Father served now, seemed to be of a different sort.

She let the thought go with a mental shrug. Once she had her own armor and enough money, she’d head back to Essos. True, some places were just as foolish as these men of Westeros, but in other places, a woman with a strong sword arm and a quick mind could make her own way. Perhaps one day, she'd be the master of her own sellsword company. An estate and servants of her own and a squire to do her bidding. She might never have the titles and bloodline of someone like the Lady Vittoria, but what she had seen the difference between smallfolk and great houses was a matter of gold.

Her head full of future glories, she made her way through the narrow lanes of grass between the brightly colored tents. She came at last to the small pens of rope and wood that held the company’s horses. Though an even greater number grazed in the rolling fields beyond the encampment, under the watchful eye of Dornishmen, Essosi and Dothraki alike.

She led her little palfrey out, laughing quietly as the horse tossed her head and greedily gobbled down the apple Rylla had brought along. After carefully combing the little black mare’s coat and mane, she slung the saddle into place.

She had started to swing into the saddle when she had a snicker and turned to see a two pages and a squire dressed in crimson and white. The boy strutted past, arrogant as a fighting rooster. Rylla smirked, this wasn’t the first time some fool who thought he was already a man had let his mouth run away with him. But then one of the pages roared with laughter and she caught something about whether or not she was a man or a woman.

“You have anything you’d like to say to me, you inbred-looking little whoreson?” She said, loud enough for near the whole camp to hear.
The squire’s eyes widened in shock and then he drew himself up to his full height.

“I do not bandy words with peasants and bastards.” He said.

In truth, Rylla found his attempt at hauteur to be more that of a little boy clomping around in his father’s riding boots.

“I-I do not bandy with peasants and bastards.” She said in a very close approximation of the squire’s own tones.

“If your father hadn’t “bandied” with every swine-herding serf girl from here to Dorne, you might not be here, little lord. Perhaps you ought to be a little more grateful.” She said.

The youth’s eyes flashed and he went white with shock and rage.

“Touch a sore spot did I?” She smirked in her most infuriating way. “It’s alright, little lord, your father doesn’t want you. Most of them don’t.”

The squire’s face turned dark red and he looked like he was about to cry. “He’s dead, you fucking bitch.” He ground out.

There was a split second where Rylla almost stopped. Where she almost swallowed her pride and apologized for what she’d said. Almost. But youth and vainglory where her bane, just as much as a boy, whose heart was still broken with grief.

“Ah, well, you should rejoice. No doubt he’s sowing bastards with your mother in the seven hells, you’ll have a whole family waiting for you.”

“You fucking-” He was so infuriated, he could barely draw breath, yet alone curse at her. His insult turned into an animal-like growl and he swung clumsily at her, any training he might have had forgotten in his fury.

Rylla turned past the blow, seized his outstretched wrist, took his dagger from his belt and slammed the pommel into his jaw with a speed like a striking snake. The squire staggered back, Rylla followed him to the ground, her knee against his upper arm. She threw her weight into the joint and drew back. There was a wet crunch and the boy howled in agony, before Rylla brought the pommel of the dagger down on his face. The screams faded into sobs and then wet moans of pain as he desperately crawled.

Some part of her cried out with the squire she was systematically beating, some part of her begged for a halt to the madness. But a red sheet had fallen over her mind and her eyes. All she really wanted was for the piece of meat beneath her to die. Father had said there were stories of such warriors, the old legions of Ghis had called such people the Killer of Men. Warriors so filled with cold rage, that they would rend and tear until their last breath. In that moment, she had some dim, animal understanding of what it meant to be such a person.

In the end, two heavily muscled Dothraki warriors managed to pull her off the brutally beaten boy. The two pages had fled in terror and their master, a knight clad in the same crimson and white as his charge, came running up, his sword drawn.
The knight, man near Father’s height and build drew his sword and leveled it at her. The Dothraki drew their own curved blades and the other soldiers that had come running up, followed suit. Rylla, released from the grip of her Father’s men, readied the dagger she’d taken and spat into the dust.

“Seven Hells, girl, what have you done to my nephew!” The knight roared.

Even then, perhaps the right words might have at least quelled the situation for a moment. But Rylla’s pulse was hammering in her ears and her pride burned as hot as the black rage that led to her beat a fatherless boy into a quivering pulp.

“I taught a whoreson some manners . . . milord.” She said with drawn out insolence.

Even the Dothraki around her paused and her gave an unreadable look. Rylla knew she was wrong but she still wouldn’t back down. Even when Martella came running up and the look of horror on her mother’s face was almost more than she could bear.

The knight screamed a curse and took a step forward. If another heartbeat had passed, the whole camp might have fallen into bloodshed, westerosi against sellsword, with carrion as the only real victors.

It was then that Garin arrived.

He took in the scene with one glance and the look he gave Rylla was . . . she wasn’t sure exactly what she saw. True, life in a mercenary camp was not a kind one, but there were rules still. Unwritten ones, most often, but even the Dothraki had certain strictures. In Garin’s eyes there was something like shock, maybe even regret? Guilt? Whatever played across her Father’s face, it was gone in a flash. But it was still just as hard to bear as the shock and sadness in Mother’s eyes.

“What the fuck happened?” Father said. Though he was the only man there who hadn’t drawn his blade, somehow he seemed more dangerous than anyone there. At his motion, a few pages made their way forward and swiftly bore the wounded squire away towards the nearest healer.

Rylla attempted to explain, her thoughts came pouring out in an incoherent, stuttering jumble. No matter how hard she tried to justify it, somehow it just to make things worse and at last she shrank away, turning from Garin’s implacable gaze.

“I . . . see.” He said, turning to the enraged knight.

“Ser, I fear this is the product of a misunderstanding, if you will accompany me to my tent, perhaps we can address the matter.”

The young knight, still flushed with anger, shook his head jerkily. “I will not parley with some Essosi. My honor is slighted, I will have satisfaction, one way or the other.” He growled.

The knight drew a deerskin glove from his belt and threw onto the bloody dust.

Garin sighed, ran a hand through his hair and then picked it up. “I accept your challenge, will the morrow suffice, Ser?” He said with all the formal courtesy of a highborn.

The knight nodded jerkily, spun on his heel and stalked towards the tent where his nephew had been carried.

Garin pointed back to his own tent and Rylla walked there, feeling like a puppet with its strings cut. Her heart was racing, her stomach churning and her hands had started to shake. Not a word was spoken between her, Father or Mother on what seemed like an eternity. Father pointed to a chair and she sat in silence. Martella stepped out behind the tent and Father joined. Whatever was said was spoken so quietly she could barely hear, but it was said with increasing heat until Mother stormed out of the tent, her eyes brimming with tears of rage.

Garin stepped back inside a moment later and sat heavily behind his desk with a sigh of frustration. The silence grew ever tenser between father and daughter, until, looking much older, the captain turned to his child and regarded her with something like pity.

“Why?”

“Because he said that I-”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “No, why did you really?”

Rylla suddenly felt much older and as weary as her parents both looked. She looked down at the dried blood on her hands.

“Because he made me angry, I didn’t like him and I wanted him to pay.” She said, just barely above a whisper.

“Oh, little one.” He said.

Somehow the unexpected compassion was even worse than his anger.

At last, he stood and knelt before her, his hand on her shoulder. “I know you’ve seen how men treat each other, especially among sellswords.

“But I have taught you to do and be better, have I not?”

She nodded slowly, afraid to speak, but then, “Father, you said justice sleeps in your scabbard.”



Garin looked hard at his child and then shook his head, cursing himself for a fool.

“Aye, I have said that.” He sat again, wanting nothing than to just ride off and let this be someone else’s problem.

“Look at me, girl.” He said with all the kindness he could find within himself.

Rylla slowly looked up, her eyes full of shame and fear.

“It is true, I have said such things. But know I don’t blame you for this. I am your father, I have taught my child to be a killer, but I haven’t taught you anything else, apparently.

“Rylla, you can be a knight and a great name, but you can do so without being a monster. I have killed because I had little choice and I have killed because it fed you and your mother. But you are no common street thug, you have a noble’s blood and so certain things are expected of us.”

“But I am a Sand.” She said and it felt as though someone had just rammed a dagger through his heart.

He paused, trying to find some way of reaching her. The sweet, innocent creature Martella had blessed him with had become ever harder for him to understand and now he was reaping the reward for it.

“Do you understand?” He said.

She paused and then slowly shook her head.

He sighed. “Rylla, if you kill whenever you wish, men will fear you, but that’s all. That’s all you’ll ever be. Just another creature whose soul is dead and who has nothing in their future but damnation.

“You can put fathers and sons in the grave your whole life, like someone did for that boy, but there’s no shortage of men who can do that.
Or, you can be the reason sons don’t have to grow up without their fathers.”

She nodded slowly and reached out tentatively for a hug. Garin held her taught and rocked her back and forth while she shook with silent sobs.

“Your mother will be back in a bit, I’ve posted guards around the tent. I’m going to and meet with the Lord Commander.”

He left Rylla holding Myrna and swung into the saddle of his riding horse weaving his way through the tents with practiced ease. His escort, five horse archers, followed in silence. For which he was grateful. He was due to meet with his employer soon, but he hadn’t planned on having to explain the entire disaster that had just unfolded. Well, perhaps she could talk the enraged knight down from the challenge he’d issued. Though Garin had little hope of that. In truth, if it had been him, he would have done much the same.
His mind racing, Garin rode towards Lady Vittoria’s tent and tried to think of how he’d explain what happened. His horse and the gold belt around his waist meant that few questioned or stood in his way. Lady Vittoria’s mercenaries passed through the gate often enough that the town’s defenders rarely did anything more than a cursory check.

As the shadows lengthened and the light of the setting sun turned brilliant gold, Garin wove his way down the narrow cobblestones, until he came to the inn. He swung down from the saddle, and left three men to hold the horses. This part of Oldtown seemed safe enough, but it didn’t do to take chances. Moreover, there was no shortage of men in livery holding the reins of their own masters’ steeds.
Gritting his teeth and cursing the entire day, Garin strode into the candlelit confines of the inn, his guard right behind him and swore bitterly under his breath. Though the inn’s great dining hall was somewhat dim, he was certain he could see the Lord Commander at the head of a great oak table, clad in fine green . . . surrounded by scores of lords and knights.

He wove his way through the bustling crowd, the light, music and smell of roasting pig and spice lost on his troubled mind. At last he came to the table and bowed slightly, hoping that perhaps Lady Vittoria had a moment. She had to have already known what happened, but perhaps he could get a moment to cast things in the best light possible. Though at this point, the best light seemed to be that no one had been killed outright. Well . . . if that boy survived the night.

Vittoria Tyrell wore a silk gown, thick straps over her shoulders, a dramatic cut down her chest, but with a decorative lace in the style of roses that kept it from being improper, a lace cape flowing from her shoulders nearly down to the back of her thighs. Her face framed in small braids of her auburn hair, while the rest had been carefully brushed out and left to fall down her shoulders and upper back.
She looked ready for a night of noble society, and yet when Captain Garin appeared, with that look on his face…there was little more than concern and confusion left on a face that had moments before been smiling and laughing. His reservation caused her to stand, and motion for him to follow. In a beat of her heart, the smile was back, as she looked to the others at the table, and waved. “I’m not sure if I’ll return tonight or tomorrow from the Hightower, don’t get too rowdy without me.”

To Garin, she simply said, softly, “Follow me.”

One of the pages had her palfrey brushed and waiting her outside the stables of the inn, at the corner of the street and the alley behind it. He handed her riding gloves, and she began to put them on, slowly, thanking the page and telling him to go in for the night. It was only after he was out of earshot that she spoke again. “What happened, Garin?”

Garin bit back a sigh. Well, there was no point in trying to insult her intelligence. Still, it was best to phrase such things as carefully as one could under the circumstances. But nothing came to mind. Perhaps honesty was the best answer.

With a mental shrug he pressed on. “Lord Commander . . . a knight in one of your men’s retinues, crimson stripes on a white field, he has issued a challenge. My daughter- my daughter beat his squire into a quivering pulp. I have accepted.”

Well, Westeros had been nice enough to revisit. Garin supposed he could return back to Essos and see if he couldn’t find another war there. There was bound to be someone willing to pay to see others dead.

“Why did she do that?”

Garin sighed aloud this time and ran a hand through his dark hair. “She . . . well, Lord Commander, she didn’t like something he said. So she got him mad enough to take a swing at her.

“Once he gave her an excuse, she beat him like a drum. Because she didn’t like him and she wanted to, was what she told me.”

Vittoria looked away, to the palfrey, silent. It was a long moment of her gloved right-hand petting on the palfrey’s neck before she finally broke her silence, “Imagine, Captain, if I took every excuse to exercise my prowess and ability to the detriment of those lesser than myself?” Then, suddenly, Vittoria Tyrell looked right at Garin, still smiling. “And while you cannot know, imagine how gratifying that would be as a woman? To not live under a different set of rules, spoken and unspoken?”

Finally, the smile seemed to fade from her face, as her lips pressed together and a sigh filtered out through flared nostrils, “Such a break of discipline in my camp…would that I could ignore Lord Manfred and the High Septon to see to this all myself. Tell Lord Tarly, I want to know the condition of the squire. Tell our Maesters if we can move him, to take him to the Citadel. If we cannot, tell them to ask the Conclave to bring the Citadel to him, that I would consider it a personal favor…your poor wife.” This sigh came deeper, and lasted longer, as her brown eyes drifted back to the horse.

“I will visit your family. Your daughter isn’t under my employ, but she wielded weapons in my camp, therefore she is subject to my justice. A warrior without discipline is a danger to all, like a Valyrian steel blade in the hands of a man who can’t properly wield it. Tell Tarly to post guards. They are to keep her under arrest at home, but in truth, between Tarly, you, and I…they are for the protection of your family. He will know the Knights to pick for such duty. Do these things and then go home, Garin. I cannot stop a duel of this nature, but I can try to keep it from descending to madness. To your wife, tell her…I’m sorry I allowed this to happen in my camp. To you? I would ask, if you are victorious, that you show mercy. And I would ask we all pray that this squire lives.”

Vittoria Tyrell finished her thoughts to her Captain as simply as possible, saying sadly, “Go away, now, Garin.”

_{Cast: Ser Ryam Redwyne - @Apoalo / Lord Hespaerys Rahl - @Almalthia / Princess Ceryse Targaryen nee Hightower - @Vanq / Lord Davos Baratheon - @Ezekiel / Lady Mina Tyrell @Espada Emi}

Arriving to Battle Island was a glow of purples and pinks and oranges as sunset turned to twilight over the Whispering Sound that led to the Sunset Sea. They took the ferry, as the vaults weren’t something she wanted to risk, dark and dank as they were, let alone as utterly unknown as they had become unless you spent part of your childhood trespassing and sneaking around the ancient base of the Hightower.

The halls of the Hightower were alive with music and a bloom of spring flowers every direction she looked, a mask for an otherwise drab and dreary series of corridors of solid black stone. Tapestries hung, candelabras were everywhere you looked, yet the base of the Hightower was always just going to be the base of the Hightower. Impressive, ageless, but not beautiful. Especially when you grew up in Highgarden, or the Arbor.

Mina asked questions about the ancient fortress, and Vittoria answered what she knew, or what she was willing to share with her younger sister. Most of the men, young and old, seemed dressed in doublets and breeches of various shades, materials, and liveries. Some spared themselves the doublet and went straight for the tunic. Most of them wore various jewels, and too many rings on too many fingers. Vittoria had a necklace of golden roses, and a ring with the symbol of the Order’s Golden Rose, her sleeveless gown of thinly cut rich green silk with the kind of neckline that seemed to plunge down her chest to a nearly Myrish degree of cleavage, decency allowed her only in the golden lace from the bodice styled with as roses to the top of her breasts, and no higher.

The dress was certainly Princess Ceryse’s selection, though undoubtedly with a prodding from Lord Manfred. Rarely had Vittoria ever felt more ‘on display’ than she did this evening; worse came from their entrance and the realization there were few other Ladies present, and very few even close to her age, or younger. Lord Martyn, Lord Manfred’s eldest and heir, nearly ten years her senior, was the first to greet her. She hugged him easily, feeling him more an elder brother than her own.

Yet the way his eyes drank her in, the way his hands held her own after their embrace…she had never noticed his eyes look at her like that before. “You look like a maiden of song and story, Vittoria.” She smiled as much as she could, and quickly pivoted to introduce him to Mina. Yet he seemed little interested in Mina, and despite a polite greeting, kept his eyes on Vittoria. At least, her chest. “Save me a dance. Perhaps a union of Hightower and Tyrell would finally solidify House Tyrell.”

She promised, trying not bite her own lip off as she walked further down the corridors of well lit black stone with her sister, her cousin Ser Ryam close behind. When they reached the High Hall of the Hightower, Vittoria could smell the food, of which her dress would allow her to eat very little, and the music, which was at least high in tempo and played by younger minstrels. Lord Manfred looked too pleased with himself when he greeted Mina and herself. Past him, Vittoria saw mostly those in attendance were Lords, and their heirs. Some were even her own Knights, or men she had commanded before, and in no particular order:

Oakheart, Bulwer, Florent, Ambrose, Fossoway, Hunt, Peake, Ashford, Rowan, Crane, Beesbury, Appleton, and more. “Nearly every major bannerhouse of the Reach,” was all Vittoria remarked to Mina as walked in after their greeting from Lord Manfred. Other lower houses were present as well, from Wythers to Bridges to Oldflowers to Redding and more—the gathering was as political as it was focused on her.

At that, at least, she could be grateful. She spotted the High Septon in the far corner, Lords Rowan and Oakheart speaking to him. Lord Rodden complimented her appearance, and joked of his three sons by his late wife. In a short conversation, he said ‘late wife’ at least thrice, before complimenting her again on her appearance. Especially, he said, her ‘excellent hips.’

“As many sons as I have, Lady Vittoria, I know when a Lady has hips meant to bear heirs when I see them.” He grinned, toasting her. Vittoria managed to laugh and smile, even as Mina looked pale, and sick, and begged Lord Rodden’s pardon as she was famished, and didn’t want to risk the tables without her sister.

Vittoria thanked her younger sister, quietly.

Lord Meadows spent a long drone of a conversation about his smallfolk and their drilling for combat, asking what she thought about this knight and that, and if she would change their training at all. Only towards the end did he finish his strong red wine, let his eyes look her up and down, and comment, “Nice dress.”

“I want to die,” was all Vittoria admitted to Mina once they were out of ear shot from the man. Mina laughed, even as she agreed. Ryam however merely leaned forward slightly. "Please do not, that would make me a poor sworn shield indeed."

Young Edgar Sloane talked to her about the Faith, and the Targaryens. His younger brother was a squire in the Order, and, according to Lord Edgar, said many a good things about her. But, he noted, “I doubt he’s ever seen you dressed like that.” Vittoria held her smile as she might hold a dagger in defense. Edgar meant well, but he was awkward.

Mina tried to ‘quietly’ make a gagging sound as she sipped wine. Ser Ryam tried not to laugh. Sers Alec Woodwright and Miles Middlebury entertained her for nearly half an hour, both of them Knights of the Order, both of them assuring her they wouldn’t further her ‘discomfort’ of the evening.

“Is it that obvious?” Mina blurted, to the laughter of the two Knights.

Ser Alec’s head shook, slowly, “No. You just never seemed like the sort, Lord Commander.”

It was meant to make her feel better? Perhaps? Instead she found herself nearly frowning, and tossing her hair with a laugh and a slight arch of her back, threatening the lace of her gown’s bodice as she felt the bare skin of her breasts press hard against the thin cut of silk. After both Knights grew quiet, it was Mina who chided her after they walked away.

“What was THAT?”

Vittoria took a deep drink of wine from her glass, and said, unsmiling, “It’s not that I don’t want marriage or children, Mina.” Even though, she would concede in her own thoughts, it wasn’t the wisest course of action, that Ser Alec and Ser Miles had meant well. She didn’t want either of those things with her Knights, so Mina wasn’t wrong to chide her.

…not that Vittoria didn’t enjoy the hush and widened eyes that came over both the Knights before walking away. Fortunately, it was Lord Dennet Tarly and his younger brother, Ser Godric, that appeared before her next. “You look…” Ser Godric started, staring, but before he finished his older, larger, brother snorted, and finished.

“…like you’d rather be shot with an arrow. Ceryse picked this out for you?”

Vittoria tried not to laugh, only managing to stifle it. “Let’s pretend Lord Manfred didn’t give her sharp instructions on the purpose of such a gown.”

“Impressive enough. I’ve not seen this many lords so assembled and ready to bid since that Dornish horse trader with the large group of sand steeds year before last.”

Vittoria blinked, “Thanks, I think.”

“Make sure you eat something,” Dennet insisted.

This time, it was Mina who blurted it out, “In what she’s wearing?”

When Dennet just looked confused, the two Tyrell sisters snickered together at him. The long tables of the High Hall were well packed, though there were no chairs. Knowing Lord Manfred, he wanted no one getting complacent, or unfocused at the task at hand. Vittoria couldn’t help herself but wonder just how much of this was solely Lord Manfred, and how much her own father knew about.

And if her father knew all of it, could she blame him? That was the thought that warned her more. Godric had complimented Mina’s archery and knife skills, and had already started talking to her about hunting and the story he heard where she saved Garrett from a boar, when Vittoria thought she saw a face she did not expect.

“I’ll be back.” She was picking her way through the crowd and trying, politely, to keep moving towards the face she thought she saw when the man in white robes and crystal crown with a fresh shave on speckled and aged skin blocked her path.

“Lady Vittoria,” the High Septon said, offering her his hand. There was no hesitation in her, taking the hand, kissing his ring, and lowering her body in the small bow.

“High Septon, how are you?”

He didn’t sneer, but he seemed as if he might. “We will talk later, I am told, with some of the Lords of the Reach. You have been very busy, no? Still a loyal servant of the Faith, I can only hope…”

It stung. She’d be lying if she said otherwise, but her smile and widened eyes were all that met such a remark, “Yes, your High Holiness. I am, as ever, at your service.”

“Hmm. We will see. Later. I suppose my brother is to blame for the scandal that is your gown?”

“Yes, your High Holiness.”

When Mina approached, the High Septon merely looked elsewhere, and moved away. Vittoria just smiled at her sister, “…don’t worry about him. He’s old.”

"So, what is it we're all gathering about? I appear to have lost my invitation." His voice carrying across the chamber in the easy way of a Stormlander, shot through with no small amount of Valyrian regality, something no doubt at odds with the nature of the others gathered. In fairness, Ser Davos Baratheon had begun the night in more subtle attire, practically snuck into the celebrations in Tyrell livery, but that hadn’t been the case for long. He stood in the company of two of his mind, similar veterans of fighting along the Marches, and the both grinning almost as much as their lord, now regarbed in doublets bearing the crest of the Stag. Surrounded by houses that one could quite comfortably suggest to be at odds with the Crown, the men wore the defiance of their presence openly. “Seven’s blessings.” He followed up to a passing Septon, looking ever more aghast as he hurried along.

Mina gently tugged on her sister’s sleeve and stretched up on tiptoes to whisper to her, smirking pointedly at the blustering Baratheon. “Seems we’ve got a party crasher. Does this mean I can call him out for a duel and kick him out? Seeing him beaten by a little girl would give everyone here something to focus on apart from you, at least.”

Vittoria Tyrell could feel the High Septon broil in an outrage from where she stood, even though he was long behind her, back in his corner with Lords Rowan and and Oakheart. Yet not even the High Septon, or the black smooth stone of the Hightower’s ancient vaults, could stop the light from filling the eyes of the older Lady of Highgarden in that moment.

She didn’t even look at Mina when she responded, “…it’s him,” was all she said before she found herself moving away from Mina, across the High Hall of the Hightower, across the dressed tables filled with food and drink.

Ryam had smirked at the idea of Mina dueling Lord Davos, and was so filled with thought of the idea he almost missed Vittoria moving. He caught up easily enough and as he leaned forward to make sure the way was clear he could see her eyed, staring right at Davos. The young Knight couldn't help smiling then, well it seems like the dress might be more useful than Vittoria expected.

It wasn’t hard to sneak up. It wasn’t hard to catch Lord Dennet Tarly’s eyes, and his smirk, and simply KNOW what was going on. She laughed, seemingly to any that watched her, at total random…yet there was nothing random about it.

“I knew I saw you,” her voice was quiet as he sounded from behind him, yet her frame felt as if it could barely contain the excitement she felt.
The tall man turned at the familiar voice, the only voice in the room he truly cared to hear, no matter how quiet it was. The two men with him were facing in the direction of her approach and so their own expressions of mirth warned him fractionally before hand.

“I almost didn’t, but I think the ghost of my father would haunt me till the Wall melts if I had not.” He spoke as he was still moving, which was a fortunate thing as no doubt his voice would have caught had he still been in mid sentence. He had loved the Ardent Maiden for some time, certainly longer than he would care to admit, but they had only met on campaign. Even his father’s funeral had been a martial affair, and Argella had of course insisted Vittoria Tyrell be allowed to stand with and garb herself among the Knights who had fought by his side. He had kissed those lips, a fleeting chance, but never seen her prepared for a Ball rather than War.

Davos recovered quickly however, holding her his eyes with her’s as he lost himself once more in the pools of her emotion. When he smiled the lines of his face caught the length of his scar, earned the last time they had fought together, but all that served to do was to add to the twinkle of roguish charm in his dark purple eyes. “Your man was most helpful, I’m not sure me asking kindly at the door would have worked this time.”

Mina’s troublemaking smirk turned into a more genuine if confused smile as her sister practically lit up like a bonfire and drifted towards the newcomer. It was clear this was some old friend of Vitta’s, so maybe she would find a match at this stuffy party after all. She debated sneaking through the crowd to eavesdrop on their conversation, but instead she walked back to Godric. Maybe she could convince the younger Tarly to spar with her tomorrow morning. At least that would be fun.

A woman stood at the edge of the room, watching with hungry eyes as men of importance stopped and stared. Not at her, not anymore, but it was her work they appreciated. She had not even been certain she would make an appearance. Her own father had seemed to not wish for her presence. But after days and weeks of planning, of ensuring that Lady Vittoria would make all the right impressions, she had to see that her work was a success. She had to see it with her own eyes.

What did men whisper about her these days? No, they were silent now. She no longer served a purpose for them. She was past the age of offering children, her years wasted on a man who could hump but not put a child in her belly. A man who had cast her aside, subjected her to all manner of whispers and rumors. She hated that she longed for him, or may just the life she had had, even as she wished for him to be burned by his own fucking dragon. Preferably after he watched the beast devour his whore.

She was Maegor’s only true wife, Princess of the Iron Throne, and she would be recognized as such. She entered the room standing tall, her head held high, a woman who in approaching middle age was only more secure in her body. Age had softened her, but still the gown clung to her chest and hips in a way not entirely appropriate. She wore the colors of House Targaryen, black silk and chiffon that was just opaque enough to hide her form unless it was in direct light. Crimson embroidery climbed the skirt in fiery swirls, ruby encrusted flames that exploded at last across her chest. The neckline plunged so low that if her lord father caught sight of her, he’d threaten to send her to bed with no dessert as he had when she was a spiteful child. As if an afterthought, she had nestled a delicate crown of dark steel and rubies among blonde curls.

It took only a moment for her to lay eyes on Lady Vittoria Tyrell. She loved the girl, but gods, she was jealous. She came up behind her, a dour look to those around her. “I certainly chose well, the dress is beyond perfection for you. How many men have you wanted to lash for paying you their compliments?”

Ryam tilted his head as he began to mentally count the number and then winced slightly as Vittoria greeted the Princess to whom Ryam had already bowed.

“CERYSE!”

The Ardent Maiden felt like a girl again as she went from shock to screaming and jolting forward and hugging her arms fiercely around the neck of the older woman who taught her everything she had ever known about sensual politics and the world of noble women in an age of men. The elder sister she could only try to be to Mina now.

“I’m sorry.”

The two words were a secret whisper, Vittoria’s lips right next to Ceryse’s ear as it passed like a coded message between the two, a beat before Vittoria squeezed the hug a little stronger, then hands still on the woman’s arms, leaned back so only a foot or two. Vittoria was still beaming with a silly smile on her joyous features, stammering as she took a step to the side, opening up to stand next to Ceryse, and introduce the woman.

“Princess Ceryse, this is my little sister, Lady Mina of Highgarden. She likes stabbing things, I bought her a sword that your Lord Father had made specially for her.” Vittoria explained, chuckling. “Lady Mina, this is Princess Ceryse, still the most beautiful woman in the realm.”

A half beat of her heart later, and that star-shine returned to her features, as the spellbound look returned to her. Her voice lowered, softened, like she was letting her surrogate big sister in on the biggest secret she had. “Um…this is, uh…this is my, well…this is Lord Davos Baratheon. We campaigned together against the Vulture King.”

She said, looking to Ceryse, eyes begging the older woman for mercy. Vittoria Tyrell knew when she was utterly exposed. Quickly, her wits kicked in, and she was able to pivot, “Compliment me? You mean in the few moments they can look me in the face?”

She smirked, hard, and tilted her head just-so to the left, accentuating just how acute the problem had been. All. Night. Long. “Your BROTHER included.” She added, trying not to giggle, or keep looking at Davos.

Ceryse’s head snapped with a steady glare to the man Vittoria indicated, a boisterous fool. She gave a look to her girl, eyes softened just enough as if to question, really, him? But she let it pass, saving it for a time when they would be able to converse more privately. “Then I have truly done my duty exceedingly well, for once.” A faint smirk formed across darkened lips, “Martyn is going to like me less than usual once I corner him about such behavior. Much as I love you as a sister, Seven save you from that fate.” Being home in Oldtown had been like rubbing salt in the open wound of her abandonment.

In one of those moments where Vittoria kept her eyes away, or at least hopefully so, Ser Davos slipped a small palmful of golden coins to the man on his right. Ser Gwayne Tarth was another younger brother, and a close friend from youth. The blonde man grinned in even greater amusement as Davos muttered to him, “Your warnings were insufficient.”

“My apologies, Lord Baratheon, shall I extend your disappointment,” The whispered reply was dripping with both sarcasm and good humor, the pair only barely mature enough not to descend into physical shouldering as they moved a step behind Vittoria as the joy to greet Ceryse overcame her. Their muttered words of amusement earning a brief sigh from the third of their small group of troublemakers.

“Behave, the two of you, this is a dignified crowd.” Lancel Swann, even darker of hair than Davos, although much more closely shaven and cut, struck the figure of propriety next to the more boisterous pair. Nevertheless, he still held out a hand, accepting a similar collection of coins from Davos, who turned briefly to shake his head at his companions, mouthing a curse.

In the next moment he had spun around, however, and the rebellious, childish streak was replaced with charm and sensibility almost the match of any of the Reach lords around them, dipping his head to place a kiss of greeting to the fingers of the Princess.

“Hail, Good-Cousin, may that we have met sooner, but I feel whoever sent out the invitations for this even must have been too stunned by the pair of you, and forgotten to address mine.” He did not speak obnoxiously loudly, but there was a bass character to his voice that caused it to travel wider than it should, an effect he made no effort to suppress.

The Princess mostly suppressed her grimace, only sharing the judgemental squeeze of her brows as she traced Davos Baratheon from head to toe with her eyes, head cocked to the left in her review. Her gaze lingered too long, purposefully. She could see the hints of it in him. Of all the men. He had the look of a Stormlander, mostly, but the Valyrian touches were insidious until it was all she could see in him. She blinked once and the glimmer of it was gone. “Save your flattery for one who wants it, good-cousin.” Ceryse gave an empty smile as if it would soften the sharpness of her words. “I am certain now, though, that your presence will certainly liven matters here. Please, enjoy everything my family has put together for our friends and family in the Reach.”

The Westerosi people had tame parties compared to what the Volantenes could think up. But tongues were just as loose here as in a Lysine orgy. Well on some people… Watching the crowd Hespaerys leaned against a wall out of the way but able to hear and see people. He has put together who was who, catching on quickly and as most of the guest list was Reach lords He made his way through dropping the hint of doing business with a Volantene Triarch merchant house. He found quite a few interested parties and rather than pushing the subject Hespaerys decided to meet with them when the party was not in full swing. He shrugged inwardly and his eye was caught by none other than one of the more beautiful women he had seen to date. Her dress was just this side of scandalous all black lace and blood red flames. She wearing Targaryen colors obviously familiar with Vittoria. Ceryes? Interesting.

Hespserys’ father, and mother, would tell him not to think with his loins; but some acquaintances just needed to be made. Pushing off from the wall and setting his glass on a table he made his way toward the group of people that were around the lady he was fascinated with. Stormlander lords' voices fell on his ears like crows rattling caws while the woman’s voice low and sensual was effortlessly divine. He smiled, lifting one corner of his mouth and chuckled at her rebuff of the Stormlander lord. He could wait until he had her attention… he most certainly could wait.

Mina managed an awkward courtesy once she was introduced to Ceryse, grinning in spite of herself. “Your Lord Father’s gift is my most prized possession, My Lady. I can’t thank him enough. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too. Anyone who’s earned the praise and admiration of Vitta has my admiration as well!” She was doing her very best to be courtly and polite. After all, her sister had impressed on her that this was a battlefield and success here would determine the future of their House. Even if it was abominably stiff and boring. She glanced over at Davos and her smile became more mischievous again. “I don’t believe we’ve met. So, why is it that my sister can’t help stumbling and mooning over you, My Lord?”

Ceryse’s smile turned warmer at the young Tyrell’s attention. “Little Mina, though not so little anymore. I think the last time I saw you, you were still on a wet nurse’s teat.” She gave a quick wink, before adding in a softer, more conspiratorial tone. “And I do hear you’ve caused no shortage of mischief. I expect no less from Vitta’s little sister.” The girl’s accusation against her sister, while clearly true, was a bit too far even for Ceryse. She stifled the scold and laugh that fought within her, and turned away from the group. She’d really need to talk to Vittoria about all of this, later.

Mina noticed the man lurking at the edge of their conversation and waved him over as well. Surely, more of an audience couldn’t hurt the situation further.

Noticing the motion from the younger Miss Tyrell and playing along, even though Hespaerys had younger siblings and knew this was trouble, he advanced to be included. He had overheard her making comments about Vitta that made his dusty lavender gray eyes twinkle. “Hello Ladies Tyrell.” He gave them a very nice bow then decided to call Mina’s bluff. “Lady Mina by all means please introduce me to your lovely companions.”

Mina laughed “Well, I’m afraid that’s quite impossible my Lord, as I’m only just now being introduced to some of them myself! But for your benefit, everyone this is Lord Hespserys, of the Volantene House of Rahl, correct? Where is your amusing sister? We met a bit earlier.”

Hespaerys smiled at everyone, his eyes lingering on Princess Ceryse longest and reluctantly left her to address Mina. "She was getting dressed and realized that all of her dresses, which had been on the ship, she'd set to be pressed and cleaned. The odd thing was she sent them all at once. But to her credit she doesn't like large crowds. She's headstrong but we love her. She's likely out practicing her sword forms." His love for his exasperating sister was clearly evident.

“She is a fortunate soul, Lord Rahl, the luckiest among us” Vittoria tried not to smile too large, and failed.

Uninvited Stormlanders and now Volantenes? What a wonderful way to further spite her uncle. The princess felt eyes on her but ignored them other than a very brief glance at the Rahl man and an unnecessary sway to her hips as she shifted to tap Vittoria’s shoulder. The glance told her everything she needed to know about this Lord Hespserys. She whispered, her voice stern, “Don’t linger with one too long, you will have others you need to meet.”

Davos’ grinned almost as widely as the younger Tyrell daughter at her question, lost then amongst the string of introductions to the Volantene arrivals, even as he prepared to answer her, his own eyes settling on Vittoria again, simply being lost in the sight and sound of her. He was used to seeing her at least passingly guarded, ready for the pressing realities of war. Here, he could notice new things about her, like how the slight dimples of her cheeks deepend when her smile was for her younger sister.

“How terribly rude of me to not say so earlier, Lady Mina Tyrell, I am Ser Davos Baratheon, your sister had a habit of saving mine and my father’s hides in the Mountains of Dorne.” He dipped his head to the younger Tyrell, before speaking in a mockery of hushed tones, “And in truth, you might think she looks foolish, but she has far more practice making me stumble on my words and forget it was I was meant to be doing, probably well before she even remembered who I was.” His grin eased into more of a smile at the memories, many, but sparse among the years. “So I just have a little practice over her right now.”

The sight of the Princess adding a bit more sway to her step after she had been introduced to him was not lost on Hespaerys. His smile deepened and the half lidded glance he shot Ceryse made his eyes darken in intensity. He stuck to only a glance though. His attention was brought round to Davos as he spoke. It was obvious that he was smitten with Vitta and Hespaerys thought that was rather heartwarming. He looked at Mina with a raised brow then back at the two that were very much in love and tipped his head as if to say ‘well there you go’.

Gradually he eased around the others to stand next to Ceryse. “You look stunning in that dress, your highness.” Hespaerys let his eyes roam appreciatively. “Myrish lace never looked better.”

“Lord Baratheon is too kind. The command was Lord Sam Tarly’s.” Vittoria’s smile tightened, her tone clear and loud. If ever Vittoria Tyrell would take credit for a successful campaign, it would not be in the High Hall of the Hightower, with so many older Lords amongst her. She wasn’t stupid.

Behind her a man with a deep baritone could barely be heard as he muttered, “No one who was there will ever believe that.” Vittoria blinked, and turned, to find Lord Rennet Tarly standing next to her Sworn Shield, Ser Ryam. Dennet leaned in for a hard, quick, shake of Baratheon’s hand, offering nods to his companions. “Lads. Good to see you all outside battlefields." His throat cleared, as he greeted Lord Rohl quickly, before uncomfortably moving his eyes to the Princess. “Princess Ceryse.”

Vittoria blinked between Dennet and Ceryse, pink lips just parted. Oh. She had never seen a woman make Dennet Tarly uncomfortable. There wasn’t a moment Dennet left his eyes on the Princess, just quickly to her eyes, then quickly away, to Lady Mina, Vittoria noted.

“Lady Mina, your presence has been requested.” The towering Lord Tarly motioned for the younger Lady Tyrell to follow, his eyes hard cast iron and impatience, even as Mina waited for a non-verbal cue from Vittoria, which she gave, quickly. Dennet marched her to the entrance of the High Hall, and on the other side of the doors was Godric, with two wooden practice blades.

Dennet’s voice lowered as he eyed them both, “Break nothing irreplaceable, especially each other. Now go. Be young and unbored,” he said, snorting.

Vittoria tried to see what exactly was going on, but instead nearly blurted out an ‘ow’ when Ceryse poked her side. “Wh—oh, right. Lords, please excuse us.” Vittoria leaned into their little circle, loudly whispering, “I have to go visit others before they become jealous.”

The first was Lord Rowan. Not Lord Rickard, the Head of House Rowan, but his son and heir, Ser Thaddeus, one of her Knights of the Golden Rose. As she heard, Lord Rickard was furious with Ser Thaddeus for his decision to join the Order, instead of the Faith Militant. Thaddeus was a funny man, and a tall man of a lean strength, like stone. He’d been around her campfires many times during their campaigns, and had earned great renown in the night time raid on the King of the Basilisk Isles.

But his eyes were on the Princess. Apologizing for the Prince and his dishonor. Asking how she liked the Royal Family, besides the Prince. They were questions Vittoria might have asked, and after Thaddeus and she spoke of camp business. The ugly business with the Garin and the Knight. The likelihood of light cavalry vs heavy cavalry.

Ryam’s eldest brother, Lord Robert, was their next stop. Since Robert was much closer in age to Ceryse, Vittoria wasn’t even surprised when the entire conversation was spent with Robert speaking to Ceryse. He invited her to the Arbor. He mentioned there was a particular vintage of Arbor Gold they would love to name after the Princess. He offered to tour her on his personal ship. He, towards the end, thanked his cousin Vittoria greatly for introducing them again.

Vittoria turned to Ryam, and smiled, as Robert and Ceryse carried on. “Fun for you, too? You want me to ask her if she likes younger Redwynes?”

Luckily, Ser Ryam held his laughter to a low chuckle, and his response wasn’t heard by Robert or Ceryse: "No thank you. I only plan to marry my oaths and to keep to them as best as possible. I have a feeling they will take up most of my time. But I appreciate the offer nonetheless."

As Ceryse excused the two of them, Vittoria couldn’t help but lean in and whisper, “You’re right, this IS fun,” as she smirked. Lord Robert actually waved after them and shouted he’d see them later. Vittoria bit her lip nearly enough to draw blood as her body fell into Ceryse from contained laughter. Laughter that quickly left her as she noticed the High Septon’s dagger glance on them in the moment.

The heirs of Ambrose and Florent were next. Ambrose was nervous, awkward, and the conversation was stale as soon as it began. Vittoria actually found it odd when he stared at her, not Ceryse, and wished Lord Robert could come back. Lord Florent was silver-tongued, but distant, and seemed uninterested in either of them. The conversation was short, and mercifully cut short by Lord Dennet Tarly, with Lord Rahl hanging to his side.

Dennet spoke of Lady Mina and Lord Godric, and ignoring any reports of combat in the halls. Dennet leaned in and spoke to her of the injured squire. It was good news, but before they were done, Ceryse and Lord Rahl were already back to chattering.

The men of the Reach had less sense in their heads than she had thought. An attempt to wed into House Tyrell - for altruistic love or practical political reasons - and she had tongues wagging at her. Regardless, Ceryse played nice, if for no other reason than to set an example for Vittoria. Lord Rahl materialized behind Dennet - now that man sense enough to keep his tongue in his head - but the Volantene was something else. It took one devious grin, one slow tracing of her lips with her tongue and she had pulled him to her side.

Her hand went to his arm, and though she did not shout, she made no attempt to lower her voice or hide her conversation from those around them. “Lord Hespaerys Rahl of Volantis was it?” She traced her finger over his arm, took a step to the side and looked him over top to bottom, she pursed her lips in thought, gave a few tut-tuts. “You have good taste in clothing, Lord Rahl, even if it is not of standard Westerosi tastes. Such a fine fit indeed.” Her eyes lingered on his rear before drifting back to his face, a hungry contact with his dusty lavender eyes. “Tell me though, are they terribly difficult to remove?”

Without batting an eyelash Hespaerys’ smirk turned sensual. “At the moment they would be unless you used your teeth, your highness.” Looking down at her Hespaerys found that unless he spoke to Hightower before Ceryse left he would not be doing so for a long while. He was not sure that he really minded. “I do not suppose that you might have been on the receiving end of that particular talent? There are brothels in Lys that specialize in it, your highness. They teach, sometimes.”

"My sweet Volantene child, I may allow you to demonstrate talents you think you possess. But you'll need to do more than use your teeth to impress me." Ceryse pushed her arm through his and set them off on a slow meandering path as if to ensure every single man in the room took notice while they continued their conversation. "Are you game for a little fun? You seem quick-witted, let's hope you can keep up." A devious grin grew across her face as she set her eyes on her target. Her uncle. The high septon of the Faith.

"Your Holiness." Ceryse approached with almost an appropriate curtsy to the head of their faith. "What grace the Seven have provided me, to return my wayward husband to me from across the sea." She feigned innocence, cast a look of utter devotion to Hespaerys. "And look he returns to us looking as youthful as the day we were wed when all the realm rejoiced for it." The princess leaned into the Volantene, nestled into his side. Her fingers wound through his as she brought their hands down the side of her body to rest atop her hip.

Curiosity piqued Hespaerys let Ceryse guide him around like a trained horse. She brought him over to the High Septon and Hespaerys smiled down at her slyly. He looked down at Ceryse and stroked her hip as she put their linked hands there. His mind shifted to a more Westerosi accent and smiled at the High Septon. “Your Holiness.” He kept the words few so he could get the feel of them. He had spoken to Maegor maybe twice but his accent was generically Westerosi and it was deep enough to be on a range with Hespaerys’ own.

Suddenly the High Septon wasn’t looking at the pair before him, but past them, his face red, his voice dangerously low, “Is this cruel jape your idea?”

When the Princess and her escort looked behind them, they would have seen him. Bellied but barrel chested, shoulders wide, face strong with wrinkles and white beard, and grey-blue eyes the color of Oldtown fog. His doublet was Hightower blue, and fit him perfectly, despite his age and belly. His hair was combed, his beard clean. He had made effort. He had cared about this night. Behind him stood Lady Vittoria, eyes down, looking as if she begged the Hightower to swallow her whole.

He said nothing, until both of them had turned to look, and even then only quietly, “Rahl, if you want to leave peacefully, leave now and maybe I won’t invite every competing family in Volantis to take up your father’s trade agreements so you can explain why to him.”

When his eyes hit his daughter, there was some kind of pyro-alchemical reaction, some mix of love and anger, the kind that only wildfire and other disappointed fathers would ever truly be able to relate to. “If your goal was to prove the prick Prince wise and sabotage our chances at keeping Vittoria in the Reach so she wouldn’t face similar humiliation by a Valyrian blooded shit, you’ve done wonderfully.”

“Lord Ma—”

It was the quickness in which the old man turned to face Vittoria as she tried to interject, and the intensity behind his eyes, that truly told the story of how close to violence he truly was as he looked at Lady Vittoria. Yet his voice never rose, it only stayed low, simmering, shaking with thawing rage, “—get your asses in my solar. Both of you. Now.”

“Brother, this will not st—”

Lord Manfred Hightower turned his head back forward, past his daughter and the Rahl, to the crystal crowned brother of his, “—save it. Get your Lords, meet us there.”

To everyone watching, Lord Manfred simply turned towards the room, glared about, and growled, “DRINK AND BE MERRY OR GET OUT!”

When Ser Ryam moved to follow Lady Vittoria, Lord Manfred stepped in front of him. The anger shaking his otherwise solemn tone. “Boy," he began, before his mind set in over his emotion, "Ser, go back to your inn. I raised her like a daughter, she needs no shield here.”

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The Dothraki had struck in the early afternoon, once the city had failed to capitulate.

The battle had lasted but a few hours, if you could even call it such, but for miles around, the lands outside the city of Volantis had been plunged into a darkness as thorough as the depths of night.

The acrid tang in the air spoke of its cause, the choking swirling patterns in the great deep clouds of onyx flared and spun in a way that could have no celestial origin.

The ground crunched beneath the heavy tread of Maegor’s armoured form. Already ash had settled over the destruction, the earliest to be inflamed falling down to cover the more recently deceased.

There would be little loot for the Free City, little that could be reclaimed from the Dothraki's vast train of plunder, no doubt bound for their sacred tent city, had the last city on their journey of plunder not been Volantis. The city had been weak ever since the Century of Blood, since his father had sided with Pentos against their expansion. Maegor considered that to have been the stronger action at the time, but now the Three Daughters were growing strong at the expense of Volantis, it did well to even the scales.

In all honestly, he had simply been bored.

He came to halt as a distressed animal moan rose from the ground, a few meters from his feet. It would have been a whiney of pain, no doubt, had the damage not been too great. He paced forwards through the ash, coming to halt behind the stricken form of one of the Dothraki's fabled horses. The dragon fire had claimed its hind quarters and much of its flank, but it clung to life, no longer strong enough to even thrash. Maegor regarded it for some time. A waste of a fine breed.

He did not delay in his granting of mercy, but he provided it none the less. Placing one boot down on the beast's head, his tread barely registered the end of its life as he proceeded through the burning maelstrom that had once been the Khalassar. There was no real reason to have landed, it was not his task to scout the land and ensure the Dothraki had been driven off, but one never knew what you might find beneath the forge of battle.

Their warcries broke out of the ash the moment he had cleared the remains of the steed. The warbling screams of Dothraki as they burst from the ash cloud. Three of them, barely more than youths, for the greatest of their warriors had all died in Balerion's first descent. They rode no steeds, no doubt having to abandon them in the process of survival. Here, perhaps, was a chance for them to redeem such cowardice by their peoples' merit.

Beneath his helm, Maegor's hard features split into a momentary grin.

"Come and take it." He snarled in their own tongue. Those who knew him passingly might mistake Maegor for a simple brute, he had always preferred martial and physical pursuits. In reality, he was singular. He could learn and focus on anything that brought him closer to his ambitions and that which he excelled. He felt it only fitting the enemy might understand him when he claimed their lives.

The first, and youngest, fell swiftly. He barreled towards with Prince with all the hot headed energy of youth, arakh posted to strike at the Valyrian. As was so common of the Dothraki, they underestimated the flexibility that plate of Westeros design allowed. Maegor ducked low under the blow, Blackfyre held even lower and pointed up in a thrusting motion, he took the young man in the gut, before rising with his own natural motion, splitting him in two from waist to temple. The resistance offered by the ending of this life slowed him no more than the death of the steed prior, literally stepping through the still disintegrating remains of the first man to get at the others.

While still young, they were no doubt more experienced than the first, and were moving forwards together. They must have seen at least one battle prior, even if it was simply a sack of a village, for they did not start at the sight of the foe appearing to simply burst through their prior comrade.

Usually, Maegor would fight such battles with a shield in hand, but he had left the protective implement upon his saddle. Against two opponents he would then have to rely on speed, force and the superiority of his weapon. Their first strikes met Blackfyre only a moment apart, the valyrian steel rebound on one arakh to throw back into the other. Their swords were back up too fast for Maegor to push hard on either. They were not fools, after the failure of their first strike they backed away, creating greater distance between themselves so that another combined parry wouldn't be possible from a second attempt.

Their first mistake, however, was to hesitate. Maegor's ability to fend off both blows put unnecessary caution in them. In their place, he would have pushed immediately. The pause could only benefit the outnumbered party.

"When you ran, was it your horses' or your mothers' screams that shamed you?" Maegor spoke again, perhaps the limits of complexity he had in Dothraki, but it was a phrase he'd learned deliberately for such a moment. It worked as intended, baiting one of them a moment before the other prepared to strike.

He entirely ignored the one slower to act, switching Blackfyre to his left hand, he took the arakh's furious blows on the weapon and gave them back in turn. The arakh was a weapon of great design for downward strikes from horseback, but it had a singular weakness in extended combat on foot. Turning the blade of his weapon, Maegor looped the bind of their blows through the curved hook of the weapon. Before the Dothraki could even realise what had occurred, Blackfyre had ruptured through his right eye.

The other man was not slow, and struck for Maegor. Even with the cutting edge of Valyrian steel, he would not be able to pull the blade free quite in time. With a desperate lunge, Maegor's right gauntlet caught the blade in motion.

The Prince emitted a howl of battle rage and pain as the force shuddered through his palm, but this gauntlet was that which held the reigns of Balerion, it had been reinforced against the pulling might of the world's greatest dragon, and one swipe of the blade would not cut through. Caught by surprise, the last Dothraki stumbled backwards as Maegor advanced towards him, driving him away and downwards, even as the motion pulled Blackfyre free from its previous kill.

As the final youth staggered and fell to his knee, still attempting to drive back against the force Maegor was applying, the pommel of Blackfyre came down atop his head. While the other two deaths had been clean, this was a brutal affair. Enough of whatever resided within the Dothraki's shattered skull clung on to life to still wrestle with the Prince, and so he hammered again…and again…and again. Only on the fourth strike with the blunt end of the weapon did he finally slump free.

Prince Maegor let out a satisfied grunt of victory at last, pausing only to wipe both ends of the ancient weapon upon the scorched rags of the final kill's clothing, before kicking him aside.

A moment later, and one of the vast clouds of smoke billowing around him seemed to rise. Balerion himself lingered close to the Prince, resting in the burning embrace of the carnage he had sown. The great beast stirred only to emit a roar, his vast head turned upwards towards the sky. For all the bone chilling horror such a roar could provide, it was not a roar of challenge, but of greeting, followed only shortly by the heavy beat of wings.

Vhandyr Balaerys watched in silence as the western prince let out his frustrations on the youth of the horse lords. Misguided and foolishly prideful, he thought, regarding the Dothraki youth…though he supposed there were moments the quick of such a thought could have pressed in either direction of the melee.

The towering, stoic, Valyrian dragonrider was now mounted, having shifted from Terrax shortly after Maegor had. Terrax busied himself behind Vhandyr and his warhorse, landing near the giant black dragon and giving a roar that was more playful than it was terrifying. Vhandyr understood it on a level deeper than his own bones.

Fly. Fly. Fly!

Terrax wanted flight more than he wanted meat or war. For the first time since the Doom, the dragon felt he had a partner in flight. Vhandyr felt only bittersweet joy for the two beasts, certain of the parting of the two, knowing how much of Maegor still stayed focused on the slights and shortcomings in Westeros. Perhaps he would take the Prince up on his offer and tour the Westeros continent. His sister had already been dispatched, as wayward a traveler as their ancestors had always been.
Wisdom was to wait for Vaera’s dispatches before he decided, however.

“Shall we retire to Casmus Valelyx, Prince?”

Blackfyre was returned to his swordbelt before Maegor turned to regard the other Valyrian. For all their visual similarities the pair had more differences, but in many ways that is what allowed the bond of their friendship to function. Much akin to Balerion and Terrax, the differences turned what would be the competition of rivals into the bond of companions.

"Little and less still to do here. If the fire was less consuming, I imagine we'd have cut more victory braids here than any since the Doom." As Maegor spoke and approached Vhandyr, a whiney of distress roused the nearby dragons, snorts of curiosity more than hunger, as a single rider approached. It was an impressive feat of both husbandry and handling that allowed the rider to bring his steed so close to the Dragons.

"Hail my lords," The rider sweapt down from the saddle, his accent and bearing marking him as one of the few that lived within the city that hailed from Westeros, or at least seemed so. In Maegor's sparring visits to Volantis during his exile he had moved a small portion of his household to Volantis, such that he was not entirely reliant on the whims of Vhandyr's people to remain informed and housed. The rider, clad in the red and black of the Targaryen household, waisted little time in approaching Maegor, handing over a bound scroll, set with a seal in the shape of the Citadel. There were few among their order that regarded Maegor with anything but scorn, but those few he had cultivated well. With a swift motion, Maegor broke the seal, before his eyes fell to read the letter. After but another few seconds, he cast the letter away and into one of the sputtering fires that had once been a Dothraki steed.

"I will return to Pentos, the Blood of the Dragon has need of their exiled son."

---

---

Queen Alyssa’s hands trembled, they covered her mouth, a valiant effort to stifle the sobs. Her body convulsed through the effort. She had been brought the news first, in private, while the other children kept their father company in his convalescence. Now the queen needed more strength than was left for her.

The gods were cruel.

Her husband’s collapse had been terrifying enough, only for a raven to arrive a day later with news of a vicious attack in the Westerlands. That Aenys had managed to begin recovery in spite of that had been a welcome reprieve from what had seemed certain tragedy. Visenya may have been a hard woman, but Alyssa credited her entirely with the fact that the king had avoided the Stranger’s cold grasp. Thank the gods, she had reiterated over and over, Aenys saved, her eldest children attacked but under the protection of House Lannister.

How could she tell her husband now? How could she tell the children? It did not feel real, no matter the gaping hole in her soul, the ache only a mother would understand.

A hand to her shoulder startled her. The maester, with pity in his eyes, wordlessly motioned to the door. The news had to be broken. There could be no further delay. Alyssa wiped at her face, a futile effort for the tears did not halt. She gripped the man’s arm with both hands, a heavy dread that deepened with every step that brought them to her husband’s chambers.

She paused at the door, no longer able to stop the grief from spilling over. A piercing wail broke free from the queen, shattering the silence of the corridor, halted the quiet murmurs she had barely noticed from within the room. The door opened, she was face-to-face with a maid whose look of pure confusion quickly turned to fear. Alyssa barely held herself upright as her eyes moved towards the bed where she could see her husband and children staring back at her.

The maester, one hand to the queen’s back to free himself of her grip, and the other to the maid to take his place, stepped fully into the room. “My King, with deepest regret I must inform you we have received word from Casterly Rock -" He was interrupted again by the sound of the queen falling to her knees. “Lady Rhaena is said to be recovering well, but Prince Aegon, he has succumbed to his wounds."

Aegon? What? Stunned, Melyssanthi was not processing exactly what the Maester was saying. "Aegon… you must be mistaken… Why would he be wounded?" The message started to sink in. "Who owes me a life?! So help me I will take a page from my grandfather's book. There will be fire and blood in the Westerlands."

Her temper burned within, making her vivid purple eyes dance with a fire that was born of rage. She looked down at her mother and snapped. "Get up. Your living children and husband need your strength." Turning to the Maester, Melyssanthi lashed him with her temper as well. "And you. Did you not think this would exasperate the King's condition. You who are supposed to be the greatest Maester in Oldtown. GET OUT BEFORE I DROP YOU FROM A HEIGHT INTO YOUR PRECIOUS FIRE IN OLDTOWN!" Melyssanthi bellowed with authority and a terrifyingly exquisite rage that heightened her color and deepened her breath.

Still in a beautiful rage Melyssanthi turned to the maid and in a less severe tone said. "Fetch my Aunt Visenya to me." She took a breath in and out. "Please. And be quick."

The maid left quickly, running, towards the Dowager Queen's rooms. Despite Melyssanthi's outburst, the Maester stayed firmly in the room, waiting for the king or queen to dismiss him. Alyssa stood, jarred to action by her daughter's words. It was Aenys she should go to, worried as she was about what this would do to him, what it would do to them. But her daughter needed her. Unsteadily she swooped onto her daughter, enveloped the girl in a surprisingly firm embrace. "My darling," she got out before sobs could overtake her again, "Rhaena will need you more than ever, do not be rash."

The king's gaze stayed on the maester though he struggled to see anything. He heard words, he heard cries and anguished yells, but none of it was cohesive. His son, dead? The little boy who had ridden wooden dragons? The sweet child who had trailed after his older sisters? The little leader who corralled his younger siblings? His heir who would have made as good a king as him, with time? "Impossible." He muttered it at first. Quietly, barely audible except to young Alyssane who had been curled up on his side. Her little face peered up to his, tears in her eyes though she too could not comprehend all that was said. "Impossible!" The king spoke again, louder this time, pain and fear in his voice. His fists tightened as he gripped the blankets laid over him, his knuckles whitened even against his paled skin. "IMPOSSIBLE!"

The treatments Visenya had worked on the King were effective, but taxing. She had delved into the knowledge saved from Valyria, both the mundane and the mystical, spoken the names and prayers of the ancient Gods into the flames and only just been rewarded with saving her ailing Nephew from the brink. She had rarely been shy in her council or criticism of Aenys and his reign, but he was still her blood. The son of the Dragon. She would have placed her own child on the throne in his place, but it was not the right of the Seven Starred barbarians to take him from her.

She had maintained the same chambers on Dragonstone for all of her long life. If any of her family had thought that the chance of title would have altered that they had been sadly mistaken, and none had voiced it. The chamber was the largest not reserved for the Lord of Dragonstone, high up in the spires. For all her reputation, the space was brightly decorated and well lit, the adornments were mostly in the style of the Free Hold, but there were a few scattering of trappings that originated from the peoples of Westeros and more exotic climes. The only truly ominous feature of the room was the vast reflective slab of Dragonglass, which she now stood before. She eyed her own reflection intently, pale violet eyes gazing back into themselves.

The Queen-That-Was regarded herself, clad in a gown that was part black metal, part red cloth, and allowed a slow breath to leave her form. She could feel the commotion rising through Dragonstone as if the citadel was an extension of herself.

"What now, old friend?" She spoke the words, gazing upwards as she seem to regard the place itself. "What more would they have of me?" The last words to leave her lips before she was interrupted were barely a whisper, a ghost of a sound. Then the maid entered her chamber, and the tidings she brought were desperate enough that even Visenya would not punish her for the break of decorum.

“Out." The next words Visenya spoke were to the whole room as she entered Aenys’ chamber, an unconditional and uncompromising command that came without panic as to the situation. When the Maester protested, something as to only being dismissed by the King or Queen themselves, the two of her footmen that followed simply dragged him from the room, the Dowager Queen having no time to settle the matter herself. She paused only once, a hand calloused with a lifetime of sword work placed with surprisingly gentle touch on the shoulder of the Queen, speaking softly; “Strength, Strength for your children." It was only a moment, her stride barely halted as she reached Aenys’ side. The emotional outburst of the King was rapidly turning into less deliberate convulsions, what little strength his form had from his last bout of illness being forced into the task of his own destruction.

The air cooled around Visenya, the vibrancy of her eyes rising as it did, perhaps a trick of the light, or the Sun dipping lower, the seabound air rushing about the chamber, or it could be more. There were few options left to her at such notice, but there wasn’t anything she would leave unturned here, willing the nephew she had always thought weak to find his last strength.

Relaxing a little as her Great Aunt entered the room and in the next moment defiance and rigidity stiffened Melyssanthi’s countenance as they were ordered out. She looked at her mother as the Dowager Queen spoke to her. All the pain, fear and rage boiled inside her and she stood rooted to the spot so that her mother had to drag her from the room. She did not fight her mother. She merely looked at her mother with all of her emotions playing across her face and as the door shut she shook with the force of them.

Shaking off her mother, Melyssanthi stood tall, her rage draped about her like a living breathing thing, her eyes bright with it. “I will hold her personally responsible if father dies. Just as I will hold all those who killed my brother personally responsible." Her voice was firm and confident as well as filled with an unquenchable anger.

Alyssa stood facing her second daughter, Visenya’s words pounding in the echoing void of her grief. Little Alysanne and Jaehaerys gripped her on either side, seeking her comfort and asking questions that she could not answer. Viserys behind her tried to be strong but his face was wet and red from crying. The queen stared at Melyssanthi and for one fleeting moment felt herself shatter. Her hand was raised before she knew what she was doing and the sound of her hand meeting her daughter’s cheek was sharp, vicious. “He is my son. I pray you never get a taste of my grief." Remorse quickly flooded her when she saw her daughter’s face clearly, the fresh redness of a handprint. “Come, we’ll go to the sept and pray." Pray that whatever it was Visenya had done to save her husband the first time, she would be successful again.

Within the bedchamber, Aenys found a moment of lucidity. His breath heavy and ragged, he felt as if a heavy stone had been placed on his chest. But he was able to focus on his aunt, to see her and to know that there was nothing she could do. Tears came to his eyes that he could no longer protect his family. “Aunt." He raised his arm, with frailty, towards her, beckoning her to his side.

The moment was shared between them, a brief flash of grief and rage as Visenya knew that their foes had succeeded. She had spent the last weeks caring over Aenys as if he was her own son, and even had she not relied on arts that perhaps only she could still master, she felt his strength flooding out of him as if it were her own. Only then did she allow the tension to flood out of her, giving up the fight in the same moment. The same weakness rushed into her, staggering as she took the step needed to bring herself fully to his side. Another fleeting reminder that soon even her supernatural ability to hold off the curse of time would come to an end. Just a few more years, there is still so much to do.

"Hush now, nephew, I am sure there are kinder souls to you than I that you would wish to share your last words with." For a rare moment, she took his hand in both of her's, stroking her fingers over the sickness-wracked heat baking from his skin. When she looked at him, a spattering of tears fell from her eyes, unable to ignore the likeness in his face.

So like Rhaenys, another who this land had taken from her. Perhaps no one else but the dying man before he could understand the ache her passing had left, the great chasm in their lives. How different, happier, they all could have been.

"Please, I need -" His lips were dry, his mouth struggled to form the words he needed to get out. Every syllable was a battle, and he felt the return of being a disappointment in comparison to his brother. He had always just been sufficient. A lark of destiny that he had been conceived first. But for his children, he could fight to at least ensure their future. The Stranger would have to wait just a little longer to claim him. Aegon gone, young Viserys would need a strong hand. "We named him for you. Protect him, make him a king like father was." Aenys fell back, sweat dripping down him, soaking the bed, from the effort and the sickness that ravaged him. His hand went weak in his aunt's embrace, but he kept his eyes on her, searching for her promise so that he could pass in peace.

"I will keep them all safe, Nephew, they will never harm your blood again." She did not mention that what he asked, in the way he meant it, was impossible. His second son was young, barely out of infancy, and for all that time seemed to rest only lightly on Visenya, she did not have the years left to forge a new King from such clay. She had tried, for so long, to guide her family. Even her beloved siblings had often ignored her council, while leaving the consequences of both their mercy and brevity for her to resolve. She leaned down, feeling more of her own strength returning to her with every passing moment as Aenys faded, the vitality she had worked into his recuperation left unspent by the failure of his heart for this final time. With another moment of tenderness that surprised even her, she placed a kiss to his cheek, pausing only to give her final words to the passing King, switching to the ancient words of their lost people as she did so, "The fires will dance with your mother's joy to see you once more."

As she pulled away, and her own tears fell on to the face of her departing Nephew, she spoke louder in Valyrian, enough that the sworn guards of the household pulled the doors reverently open, allowing the light to return to the chamber.

The slap jerked Melyssanthi’s head to the side. She'd never been struck before and she froze after her mother hit her. Slowly she turned her head and regarded her mother as if she were a stranger. Her mother's words rang in her ears and bounced around within her and faded into inconsequential noise. Of course she'd bury children. A husband. Friends. No one was immortal.

"You would not have a reason to if Dreamfyre had gone with them." Melyssanthi’s face was colder than the land of always winter. "You could have pushed for them to take her. You're the Queen and his wife. You alone had the right to press that decision. So while yes I may bury a child, husband, friends or lovers it will not be because I did not fight for their right to protect themselves to their fullest capabilities."

Melyssanthi stood firm and shook her head. "I shall wait here to receive word from Aunt Visenya."

The queen had been stopped fully at her daughter's defiance. The littlest ones began to wail, from confusion and anger and grief. It only served to enrage Alyssa further. The girl was selfish in her grief, so absorbed in herself she could see little else. And the queen, the mother, the wife, she could do little but stare open mouthed in shock. As if she had not been living lifetimes of regrets in the little time since news had arrived.

It was Viserys instead, who stepped around their mother, his hand scrubbing awkwardly at his face to clear it of tears and to steady his voice. "Do not speak to mother that way." His voice had yet to deepen, he still sounded like the boy that he was, barely out of playing with wooden swords instead of learning swordplay. And yet he knew that he was now heir. He feared that he was now king.

Looking down at her little brother, Melyssanthi's heart broke for him. He would never truly be king. Very quickly he would be something to represent a king but at his age would have a regent. Visenya and or Maegor would rule. Her mother was too soft. Rhaena would be remarried. Probably to their Uncle as was suggested earlier. She'd be stuck somewhere, gods knew where. Jaehaerys and Alyssane were young enough that they could be molded; maybe this let them fight for a place. That is if they weren’t all just killed. "Viserys. May you learn to listen and hear truths when they are spoken little brother." She looked at her mother. "Then when you are King you can make the right choices yourself."

Try as he might, the boy struggled to respond. He turned back towards his mother instead, seeking comfort from harsh truths or encouragement to act like a man. He floundered in both for the Queen had knelt to hug the two youngest to her. She sang to them softly, between gasps of trying to stifle sobs.

"The Seven Gods who made us all, are listening if we should call.
So close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children.
Just close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children.”

The doors swung open and Alyssa slowly lifted her head to look over the heads of Jaehaerys and Alyssane. She looked behind her to see Viserys with his head bowed, sniffling heavily. She looked to Melyssanthi, contempt and anger but a mother could see the grief it buried. Her heart ached for the loss of her son, her husband, her living children. Strength , Visenya had said, but where in seven hells was it to come from?

“Come, but quietly and gently, to see your father."

The King’s eyes remained open, his breath alternated between quiet wheezing and sudden, ragged gasps. He knew that his family surrounded him, but not all of them. His mother, he could barely recall her face, knew only the stories that had been told to him. She was nothing and everything. His father, would he be remembered the same? How could he be, he had done so little. Aenys’s eyes looked over those assembled. He wished he could stay, wished he could grow old and see his children have children. He wished that he had never sent Aegon and Rhaena away. Aenys’s strength faded, his mouth moved to form the name of his wife, the names of his children, but there was no sound except for the awful rasping breaths.

He closed his eyes, unsure of how much time had passed but so tired. He was so tired of everything, he wanted to see his mother like he sometimes did in his dreams. He wanted to fly on Quicksilver beside her on Meraxes. He wanted to see what he had only spoken of with maesters. He closed his eyes and felt a dozen hands on him, warmth, finally he was warm again. Aenys felt the warm sun on his face, land and sea whirl beneath him, and then nothing.

The white hot rage that burned like dragon fire sputtered and died as Melyssanthi viewed her Aunt's forlorn expression and she knew. The press of the Stranger was heavy and in a conciliatory gesture she paused and grasped her Aunt's hands. Grief threatened to suck her down into a bottomless abyss that she knew she would end up walking alone or it would swallow her whole. Her pause was brief but spoke volumes about her reigning herself in.

Moving to her father she watched as he struggled to breathe. Silent tears fell as Melyssanthi held his hand and gave him what comfort she could. She sang. Her voice was soft and unsteady at first as her broken emotions laid bare. Gaining strength her voice steadied and became stronger with each note.

She sang an old Valyrian lullaby that spoke of being the one that was called home. A home across swirling seas where you could feel the pulse of the land with the sun warm on your face. A place untouched by time where you wait for your loved ones with love and patience knowing that time has no meaning, that you would see them soon. She sent him off with the Stranger knowing that he was loved and missed but someday he'd see them just like he would be reunited with his parents.

Collab with @Runic, @Vanq and @Ezekiel

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The city’s night song was a seductive symphony of vice and violence. Men challenged each other for honor or greed, coin exchanged for thrill and drink, women to entice or be taken. It was the courtesan’s favorite time of day, as the sun finally dipped below the horizon and her day could truly begin. Her miscreants sought her out, a few words exchanged before slipping back into the shadows. She did not fear the night or those who claimed it as their own.

She was expected elsewhere, but there was one small task requiring her attention first. She turned down a small alley and ducked in through a rotting wooden door to a room that reeked of spoil. The woman barely noticed it, her eyes immediately moving to the form in a dimly lit corner. A man, slumped over, his breaths came in rasping wheezes. A dagger’s hilt was visible, the blade plunged between his ribs. He was in pain, panicked, but the poison she had dosed him with kept him immobilized. She had been curious if he would drown in his own blood or if terror would render him dead first. It seemed to be the former.

“You are an interesting man.” She paused as if to give him time to respond. Her voice was deep, but coldly smooth. “More resilient than I had estimated. Impressive, truly.” She smiled though the man would not see it, nor would it provide comfort if he could. “But I have no need for you anymore. Your house has fallen, extinguished. And your collection, well, I will safeguard it, do not fret.” The courtesan took careful steps forward, ensuring nothing touched the trail of blood leaking from her victim. She bent, breathed in deeply at the foul smell of fear and sweat and impending death. Her face nearly brushed against him. “Night will fall for all, for now it claims just you.” Long fingers wrapped around the hilt. In a smooth movement she twisted the blade and withdrew it from between his ribs. Blood spilled out and the man’s wheezes turned to gurgles.

Blood had splattered against her, with annoyance she checked if it had stained her clothing. She’d hate to miss her appointment, and was satisfied to find only a few drops on her wrist. She held her arm up in the dim light, admired the deepness to it, the way it seemed to drink the light. She pressed her tongue against her skin, lingered where the man’s life had stained her. She was cleansed, the dagger dripped next to her, small thuds as the thick liquid dripped to the stone floor. For a moment, Tyanna of Pentos thought to keep the blade, but it was far better to remove it from use by anyone else. She wiped it clean with the man’s fine silk tunic. When her evening was finished, she would dispose of it in the bay, a watery grave for she had yet to find a way to destroy Valyrian steel.

An hour later as the city truly came to life, she was given entry to the exiled Targaryen’s manse. She was known, now, to the servants, though they cared little for her presence. Prince Maegor had yet to return, but that suited Tyanna. Men were simple things and posed no challenge to her designs. Women, though, required a different approach, and she needed his lovely, besotted wife.

“Lady Alys, I’m so sorry for the late hour.” Her head tilted in greeting, long raven locks twisted with white lace and black pearls hung freely around her bare shoulders. She was a stark figure even in the warm light. The courtesan bordered on being pallid, only exaggerated by her preference for dressing in cold, inky, indigo.

Lady Alys, the wife of Prince Maegor, the whore of Harroway. Her dress was light silk that wrapped about her curvaceous form. Her hair styled in the tumble of curls found in Essos was being brushed by a maid as the Pentoshi woman entered, and Alys raised a hand. Sending the servant off. They had learned to obey well and not risk their mistress’s sharp tongue. “Not at all, Lady Tyanna.” She doubted the woman was a lady at all, but she had few friends in the city and longed for Westeros, even if her own would mock her for marrying a man with one wife already. So what if he did? His father had taken two wives, and she was not sister to Maegor.

“Bring a goblet for her and vittles.” She directed with a curt snap of her fingers. Imperious as any Princess, which was her right. The maid scurried off to do so, while two others remained in the room, tucked out of sigh and ready to answer her call. It was just as she would have it. Everyone in their place.

Except her husband. Maegor, Prince Maegor, should have been home with her and working on an heir and spare, and home would be across the sea in Dragonstone. His rightful seat as the Lord of Dragonstone. Let King Aenys and his children control the realm, had her husband the mind they could have controlled the dragons. Instead, her Prince was off burning off some barbarian horses for Balerion’s supper. Not a unwarranted thing perhaps and it could gain him good will. Gods knew it was better to have a man let his temper wear off in battle than bring it his home, but still Alys would not lie to herself. She wanted children, she wanted Westeros and by all the Gods she wanted to strangle the next person who called her the ‘whore of Harroway’. “I trust the city fares well? With all it’s ruffians and glamorous sights?” She reclined in her seat, a small basket next to her with fine embroidery. It really was nothing but something to pass the time. A musician played behind a screen a soft song that she had halted not too long ago. Perhaps she ought to have him begin again?

“One of these nights, I will convince you to join me for my journey through Pentos and allow me to show you all that she has on offer.” Tyanna gracefully lowered herself to a cushioned seat near the prince’s whore. Or so she had been called, it was at least alliterative. Her gown shifted with the movement, pooling in soft ripples around her legs, the neckline plunged deeply down her chest and cinched round her waist with white gold and silver chains. She was warmer to her companion, but just barely.

Food and drink was delivered and the courtesan enjoyed a long drink of the heady red. At least the Westerosi could identify a good vintage from time to time. “I have heard rumors of your husband’s exploits against the savage horse-lords. This is good for him, and for you. A battle won will increase his virility.” Her hand reached into folds of inky fabric near her waist. A hidden pocket, her fingers found the small vial she had prepared for Alys. Tyanna held it out in the palm of her hand, the liquid was an unsettling green color. “Drink it when he returns, but you must be sure that he beds you that night.” She spoke of fucking in a way that the prudish Westerosi seemed to prefer, euphemism and poetry. Tyanna had been introduced to Alys as courtesan yes, but also as a woman who helped women. She knew how to make women fertile, and how to end a life before it could begin. Or so some said.

Gray-green eyes, devoid of emotion, glinted as she watched Alys. “A child, an heir, what every rightful king needs - no?” For a price, always for a price and who would not pay for it if it meant a crown?

Alys was hesitant as she took the liquid, she had been married to Maegor so briefly, yet if she could quickly get with child? All the better, and better to insure it was a son. There was a flash of greed at the thought that Maegor could be king, she could be Queen and his marriage to his first wife could be put aside by his decree then. She would no longer be considered by the Faith to be a whore. “I shall remember and keep your words close.” Alys mused, her fingers holding up the strange liquid as she watched it before setting it into the small basket of her work. “But what could I offer for repayment? If it does work so well?”

“You are wise, princess.” Tyanna chose her words carefully, enunciating each syllable of the title. “I will not obscure that I seek something in return. But it is an easy cost, I only desire your continued friendship and passage with you to Westeros when you return.” The courtesan picked up her goblet, slowly tipping the glass before taking another sip. “You..intrigue me. You and your husband. You are destined for greatness, I know it.” She leaned forward, her arms crossed, the goblet held delicately to the side. “The Doom did many things, it weakened and sundered magic, is that not what your maesters teach? But I tell you, it is not gone, just hidden to most. Not hidden to your husband who can tame dragons.”

The private conversation between the two women was momentarily shattered by a crescendo of noise. The screeching roar of a dragon burst the air from on high, shaking through the manse. The staff, as used as they could be to such things from the previous presence of the Prince and Balerion, still recoiled in place from the surge of noise, as cries of alarm arose unbidden from the wider city. While Maegor had been in residence for some time, the common people were still not entirely used to the sporadic presence of a dragon in their midst.

The assumption among many, of course, would be that the Prince had returned to Pentos, back from his adventures to the South East of the continent among the haughty people of Volantis, but this was not the case. With a heavy tread that shuddered through the manse as much as the roar before, the large, but ultimately smaller than Balerion, form of Vhaegar landed in the great expanse of the courtyard, the dragon emitting another roar of challenge into the air, before lowering to allow her rider to descend. It was not the first time that Visenya Targaryen had visited her son in the East, and both the city and the staff knew to allow her entry, but that still did not prevent their pause at the arrival of the Dowager Queen of a continent.

It had been some years since Visenya had fully embraced the raiment she was most famous for. The dark plate armour and red flowing cloth of both tabard and cloak flowing in the air as she pulled herself free of her mount’s saddle. As if it were the day she and her siblings had landed upon the shores of Westeros, the silver-gold of her hair, still free of true-white despite her many years, was drawn into a tight but long braid, reaching far down the expanse of her back.

With force the armoured woman swept into the chamber, the cold intensity of her eyes falling on the pair of women, regarding Tyranna for but a moment, before refocusing on Alys.

“Where is Maegor? The matter is urgent.” Her tone was not entirely dismissive for the woman who her son had gone into exile over, who’s ceremony she had overseen, but it was direct. Time, of course, was of the essence.

The arrival of the dragon had brought Alys to sit upright, no longer lounging at her pleasure in the open room. It was a large enough roar to be Balerion, yet her heart stuttered as she felt a pang for who it was. “My husband is in the east culling the Horse Lords.” Her curtsy was deep as she sank back into her seat. “Along with the Dragonlord of Volantis. What is so urgent to call him back?” She gestured and a servant bowed, offering Visenya a goblet of wine. There were many who disdained Visenya, but Alys was not one of them. She was rather impressed by the woman. Having been through so much and still strong. She could understand the wear of time. “My Lady Dowager Queen Visenya Targaryen may I introduced Tyanna of Pentos.” She did not design to off the woman the title of Lady before Visenya. It was not so much a slight but a fact that she knew her mother by marriage would see Tyanna for what she was.

“A woman of skill and interesting conversation.” She smiled gently and cocked her head. “Yet, I must ask again. My Lady, what has brought you so swiftly? Are we called to return to King Aenys?” There was scorn in her eyes as she sneered the name, unable to completely hide her dislike. It was not as if Aegon had not taken two wives and yet Aenys had called out his brother for the same thing his father had done! Then went and married his son to his daughter! Hypocrite!

Tyanna’s eyes narrowed, if only for a moment. This was an unexpected visit, and for her, an undesirable interruption to her plans. She was not so quick to rise and bend herself before the woman. She may have been a queen in Westeros but in Pentos she was just a dragonrider. It left a bad taste in the courtesan’s mouth, like a swallow of wine that had been left to turn to vinegar. Still, she was a resourceful woman and it was not the first time carefully laid plans had needed adjusting. “Queen Dowager Visenya, what a fine pleasure to meet such an illustrious woman.” Her head bowed with respect, her face kept stoically blank even as she tried to put together the pieces of the impromptu visit, the urgency behind it.

“The matter is not for the ears of others.” Visenya’s tone was stern as she regarded the Pentoshi woman once more, but as previously, her focus did not linger, settling instead on Alys, a few of the hardest edges of her features disappearing as she did so. “I will call for Maegor’s return, until he does, none may leave.” She turned to leave, to be about the business of calling her blood to her, before she paused, willing to offer the Westerosi woman at least some measure of catharsis. “His destiny is upon him, and his chosen wife shall be at his side.” Without so much more as a brief nod, she swept from the room in full, the doors opening before her as she moved, without a hint of delay to her stride.

So the matter would have to be discussed later. Alys sighed and inclined her head. “As you wish it.” For it could be no other way. If Maegor’s destiny was upon him… Had something happened to Aenys and his children? A small seed of greed in Alys snarled in glee at that thought. “I shall be delighted to see Maegor’s return. He has been gone far too long.”

It seemed she was trapped tonight, how inopportune. Tyanna leaned back again, effortlessly letting her body sink into the chaise. Better to not let Alys see her annoyance. The woman was clearly on good terms with her mother by law. Visenya was much as she had heard but seeing the woman in person certainly put things in perspective. She twirled the goblet of wine, thinking quickly. “Lady Alys, it seems I must impose on your generosity for longer than expected.” Destiny. The word played over in her head. Destiny, for Maegor and Alys, destiny that called to Tyanna. Destiny, if only the queen knew of what she spoke.

“I am not often left alone for an evening.” A glint entered her dark eyes, a softer look than her clients received. “Whatever shall we do to keep ourselves entertained?’

“Denying the Dowager Queen is rarely something I saw attempted or wise. The woman is iron.” Alys commented with a dry tone, so like her nephew Elmo’s. “My apologies for this imposition. I shall see you compensated for it.” After all, it was reasonable to do. Tyanna had her own business to be about and Alys, thought a noblewoman, could understand that. “If you wish, I can have musicians, entertainment and other such amusemsent summoned.” She shrugged in a nonchalant way that made her voluptuous chest move. The weeks spent in exile with little to do aside from being entertained had left the ‘Whore of Harroway’ with a bit extra about her curves. “I have the benefit of being able to summon what I desire, without having to leave.”

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_{Location: Few miles off the coast of the Reach - 41 AC}

Chapter 1: Face to Face @Archangel89 @Ruby

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The hunt in Harlaw had been successful to a point, a band of Faithful had escaped on a longship under the cover of confusion. The Harlaw boy had put up more of a fight than previously thought and in the ensuing fight were gone before they knew it. They had taken advantage of the couple of hours lead and prolonged the hunt. The fools would be heading towards some sort of sanctuary, some port to stow away in. There were only two that came to mind and neither would bode well for Rowan if they chose them. In the distance he saw their sails unfurled, catching the full breath of the wind.

”They’ve caught the wind, they’ll be pulling into Lannisport soon. If they dock there then there is nothing we can do. The Lannister’s will kill us as soon as let us leave.”

”There’s another port they could get to, it would depend on them thinking that they can out run us…”

Rowan’s face turned into a mischievous grin, his gaze never leaving his prey,

”...they’re going to Oldtown. They’re going to hope to outrun us and get down to the Reach and make a run for it. Bring the sails to half mast and give them some space, let them run, let them think that the Seven have saved them. Before we show them the true might of the sea.”

The sails raised and the Faithful took a slow lead as they started to edge further and further out. The other sailors looked on in a sort of confusion as Rowan stood there and watched them go further and further out. It had long been speculated that while it was ordered by the Lord Reaper to drive out the Faith of the Seven from the Isles, Rowan had seemed to take it overboard by tracking them down like this was excessive; though they dare not say anything to him, especially after what happened to the Harlaw kid.

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_{Location: The Mouth of the Mander - The Reach - 41 AC}

Chapter 1: Face to Face @Archangel89 @Ruby

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The chase had gone on long enough, and an impatient captain began pressing the attack. It was true that the Faithful had chosen to forgo Lannisport and tried to make it to Oldtown like Rowan had said but his impatience pushed them towards the Shield Islands but they breached themselves at the Mouth of the Mander and took off. The forest was green thick, life teemed in every nook and cranny and it sickened Rowan. The weak had inherited such fertile ground and had to earn none of it, the greenlanders had to do nothing more than go outside and take from the earth. The tracks were sloppy and easily readable; they were heading towards the nearest village. He was going to bring them back.
“Signal fires, from the Shield Islands.”
The messenger was breathless, a soak of sweat and near panic as he crashed into her pavilion in their camp outside the walls of Oldtown, where she’d been removed to following the incident. There was little time, as badly as she felt, purple and black as her shoulder was, there was just no time for discussion. “Mount who we can. I’ll dress quickly.” Not even Ren argued. He’d stay behind, but from the camp and Garin’s men they assumed possibly thirty. By the time she was on her horse and meeting them on the other side of Oldtown, the number was thirty-two. Half were Garin’s men, half was her knights.
Ryam cursed mentally as the messenger simply had the worst timing possible. He knew exactly what Vittoria was going to do and he felt his duty to defend her rise up… But no, he didn't say a word. He simply left the tent while she dressed and secured his, and Vittoria's horse.
It wasn’t much, but they could easily be joined by men from the Shield Islands themselves, let alone the nearby villages and towns. She herself had gotten quickly into plate, the simple silver, with a thick wool cloak dyed emerald with the golden rose of Highgarden upon it, trimmed in gold.
They found other messengers along the way; Ironborn, for sure, possibly three longships near the mouth of the Mander. Another messenger had reported longships of the Reach dispatched from stations along the Mander, itself, heading down towards the mouth of the river. Messengers from Brightwater Keep found them last: the truth of it was a small force from the Shield Islands had chased the Ironborn who landed, though they had quickly lost the Ironborn after a quick skirmish.
Men from Brightwater Keep had found a band of fleeing men and women of the Faith, and there the story was finally learned: one, maybe two, longships of Ironborn chasing the members of the Faith. Vittoria had a sick feeling when she heard the news. There was little choice but to go as fast as they could, they had gotten a fresh horse for the Brightwater Keep messenger, and he rode point to guide them.
They were found by Garin’s men, between the mouth of the Mander and Highgarden. They crossed at the ferry near Orchardtown, a village, not a town, but the merchants of the village had always been a braggadocious, ambitious sort. By the time they found them, the men from the Shield Islands were gone. Dead, or lost, and only a handful of Brightwater Keep scouts in mail were found with the members of the Faith.
The moment they saw her ride up, they began to sob. She hoped in joy,

“They come quickly!”
Vittoria’s Myrish looking glass confirmed their story. Those were, indeed, Ironborn making a sprint through the rolling fields of golden roses, hot in pursuit. Garin’s men were split in half, one to the right flank, one to the left. The scouts of Brightwater had found a small grove of old oaks atop the tallest hill in the area. Two were left with the Faithful and told to lead them to Highgarden, the other three went with her, inflating the number of mounted men directly with her at nineteen.
“Should we charge?”
Vittoria saw no reason. Garin’s men were on their side of the ridge, not close but not too far for a shout to reach them. Two of her own knights had brought longbows, whereas Vittoria herself couldn’t move her left arm nearly at all without a good deal of pain. The milk of the poppy the Maesters had given her had all but worn away by now, leaving her with a splitting head and an aching body.
“No. We’ll wait for them here.”
The sun was red and sinking fast in the late afternoon by the time the Ironborn got close enough. The spyglass alerted her to a certain presence, one she openly cursed, hotly, without naming a name. The Knights around her stared, never before having heard their Lord Commander’s temper rise so hot, so fast. When they were close enough for the two longbow wielding Knights to reach, standing in front of the horses, Vittoria had them all move forward to the edge of the ridge, so those approaching the steep hill with the grove of old oaks could see the figures on the ridgeline.
“ROWAN!!!”
She screamed so loudly she shook, her shoulder throbbing hot, her left hand going near enough to numb, her head swimming,
“Let’s go,”
,was all she said, as her ears rang. Two of her own mounted knights carried tall, broad shields, flanking her closely as they went down the hill that was just kind enough to their horses. Near the foot of the hill they stopped, awaiting the Ironborn leader to approach.
She looked to either side of the ridge, and saw Garin’s men, both flanks, appear as they got closer, bows drawn. If he tried anything stupid towards her, he and his would be dead, and fast. It was either talk, die, or try to run. Honestly, Vittoria had no idea what the man would do.
That voice, that commanding presence that radiated from behind him, there was only one person in the seven kingdoms that could have that kind of presence. He knew that the Reach was her territory he wasn’t sure that she would even be in the area. Mirth quickly spread across his face as he turned to see the Ardent Maiden herself, Vittoria Tyrell. Rowan hadn’t seen her since their campaign against the so called pirate king but to see her here in force was something truly masterful to behold. Rowan turned and to his party with two of the faithful held hostage, his joy unable to be contained,

”Stay here and keep a blade to their necks, we wouldn’t want them to get to…anxious.”

As he turned back to his swarm of advisories and pointed his drawn axe to the object of his glee,

”VITTORIA!!!, IT HAS BEEN AGES HASN’T IT!!!”

Rowan stolled towards the collected armored knights, in the back of his mind he knew that this was a bad idea. He was strategically at a massive disadvantage. The divided mounted soldiers on either side of the ridge were staring with intent, simply waiting for their commanders orders. The knights behind her were also well equipped, Rowan could make out several longbows with arrows notched and ready to be fired. In any sane commander's mind this should be as simple as letting the prisoners go, getting in the longships and walking away to see another day. Rowan, however, was always known to push the boundaries of greenland behavior,

”Good evening Vitt, still traveling with those armored scarecrows is see, are their sticks still firmly planted or have you gotten them to loosen up?”
Lady Vittoria of House Tyrell, High Marshall of the Reach, looked anything but pleased,
“Lord Rowan the Reaver, so good to finally see you again, instead of just trading letters. Speaking of letters, did I mention to you I spent some time in the Citadel going over copies of the letters sent from the King to the Lords of Greyjoy? Did you know the King rather explicitly states in those letters that members of the Faith may be DEPORTED from the Iron Islands, but NOT killed?”
There was a rise in her voice towards the end of her words, with emphasis on ‘deported’ and ‘not’, without ever approaching the anger of her earlier shout of his name,
“We have most of the members of the Faith running from you. Where are the rest, Rowan? Give us the rest and your crew may live to see another day.”
Despite her straight posture in the saddle of her palfrey, someone who had spent time with her before would hear it—pain hiding under her tone. The sound was familiar to Rowan, the sound of stifled pain while attempting to be strong in front of a command. As he looked up under his eyebrows, staring with an almost hungry and malicious intent, Rowan grinned with an arrogance that he should not have in the situation that he finds himself in,

”Careful Vitt, your humanity is showing, wouldn’t want any of these fine soldiers knowing the great Ardent Maiden is anything less than impervious,”

With outstretched arms his voice rose to a roar, almost loud enough for all in attendance to hear,

”, AND I HAVE BEEN DEPORTING THEM, I DEPORT THEM TO THE TEMPLE OF THE DROWNED GOD, AS I WILL GLADLY SEND YOU ALL TO SEE! YOU FAITHFUL HAVE GROWN WEAK, BELIEVING IN THE SOFT AND FORGIVING SEVEN! YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN THE GODS OF YOUR FATHERS FATHERS! THE IRONBORN ARE STRONG, HARDENED BY THE CRUEL AND UNFORGIVING SEA! WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!”

By instinct the other reavers behind him chanted in unison, the sound of their cries could be heard at least as far as those in immediate attendance as Rowan could see the nerves of Vittoria’s shieldmen waver just a little,

”How about it Vitt? What say you give this merry band of a******s the slip and be my stonewife? We could conquer the coasts taking all that we please and pay the iron cost for all of it?”

Her jaw clinched, and with her one good hand, she pointed at him,

“You are insufferably mad sometimes!”

She didn’t yell, but the heat from her was enough to lift her in her stirrups until the haze of her head and the weight of her armor immediately pulled her back down, again. To its credit, her palfrey simply snorted.

Vittoria Tyrell didn’t let her mind even entertain his proposal. She was enough of a bookish girl to know what a stone wife was. Deep down, she was flattered. Deeper down, far away from this moment, when she was very much alone, she might even think about the idea in some twisted thought.

But now? She wanted those members of the Faith alive. It took her long, long moments to calm herself, and wait until her heart slowed in her chest,

Gods, it hurts. All of it. Everywhere.

She sighed. Then, after a moment, she sighed again, deeper. Her eyes looking past him,

“Your people will never make it a hundred yards, Rowan. You’ve doomed them to death.”

He irritated her. He was at every war council. He was everywhere she turned. He was also, by far, the best man at sea she had ever seen. He was as a spirit of vengeance with an axe in his hand. He scared grown, veteran, men just with a shout and a charge. He was mad. His madness intimidated,

But not her. There were times she suspected that’s why he pushed her so hard. She sighed, for a third time, and just…looked at him,

“Rowan, give them to me. You will live. I will make you my prisoner. Don’t make me kill you.”

She said, as tiny beads of sweat started down her brow, as her head began to flutter, as her arm began to burn in a heat she had not felt before.

”You know that I can’t do that Vitt, as serious as you are about the Seven, I am about the Drowned God, these are not just ’faithful’, these are Ironborn from the Iron Islands. I have to send them to his temple for his judgment.”

Vittoria looked to one of the knights next to her, the one on the right; her sworn shield, Ser Ryam. Her brown eyes just started, but for a moment, before they slid away from her cousin and returned to the horizon,

“I suppose so, you’re right. NOW!”

It was yelled, loud enough to make her visibly wince in pain and draw her left arm ever closer to her body. Before she was even done with the short word both flanks were kicking up dust. Steeds between one thousand and two thousand stones picking up steam, drawing and readying arms,

"Move, my Lord, and they will gut you like a fish and sew the ground you stand on with your entrails. See how your damned God likes that,”

,she said, never even directly looking at Rowan. She had wanted all of the members of the Faith alive, but her patience was gone, exhausted by him. The mounted archers would make the first contact. If they tried to use the two members of the Faith they still had as a hostage or shield, they would be pinned with arrows by the missile cavalry, or ran through with sword or lance by the light cavalry.

“Bind him, we take him with us as prisoner. Have the Brightwater scouts locate the longships. I want them found and dragged onto shore and burned. I’ll be speaking to the others.”

She sounded as casual as a comment upon the weather as she turned her palfrey and headed off to speak to the members of the Faith they had rescued. The sound of approaching calvary was dim in Rowan’s ear as he watched Vittoria turn his back on him. In that moment everything fell away; his crusade, the faithful none of it but only the words burned rang in his ear.

TYRELL!!, HAVE I NOT EARNED YOUR RESPECT! DO YOU NOT KNOW WHAT A LONGSHIP IS TO AN IRONBORN CAPTAIN! YOU CAN HAVE THE D****ED FAITHFUL, YOU CAN TAKE ME HOSTAGE BUT BY ALL THE GODS BOTH NEW AND OLD IF YOU BURN MY SHIP I WILL REIGN HELL UPON YOUR SHORES AND BRING WAR TO YOUR HOME!!

Rage flashed in his eyes and foam gathered in the corner of his mouth as in defiance he roared in command. Until this point Rowan had been calm, he had been respectful in his own way, but the mere thought of burning his ships sent him into a whirlwind of anger that if he had not had some grasp of himself he would have made the wrong move and killed his entire crew,

”IRONBORN, RELEASE THE FAITHFUL AND MAKE IT BACK TO THE SHIP INFORM MY FATHER PERSONALLY OF WHAT HAPPENED HERE, GO NOW!!”

The Ironborn quickly turned from their prey and darted away running in haste back to the shoreline, as the mounted knights began to pursuit Rowan once again roared in command,

”NOW HEAR ME KNIGHTS OF THE REACH! I AM LORD ROWAN GREYJOY, FIRST OF HIS NAME AND HEIR TO THE IRON ISLANDS! I HAVE RELEASED YOUR FAITHFUL AND YOU HAVE ME CAPTURED BUT KNOW THIS! I AM THE PERSONAL CAPTIVE OF THE ARDENT MAIDEN, I WILL ONLY BE HANDLED BY HER AND HER ALONE! ANY MAN WHO DARES TO SO MUCH AS TOUCH ME WILL BE SLAIN AND SENT TO WHATEVER GOD YOU SO PLEASE!”

Rowan moved with righteous fury up to Vittoria’s palfry wrists in front of him in a bound position,

”Your move Lady Tyrell.”

“Marshal, how fares the view?” The question preceded the arrival of Rogar by a few paces, the trot of his steed bringing up abreast with another, albeit considerably older, mounted man. Despite a reputation for boisterous living, the young heir to House Baratheon seemed to have no lack of zest for the early hour. Marshal Kerrick had seen him gambling and drinking in all of the various stops the Baratheon force had made on their journey from Storm’s End and yet he was ever among the first to be prepared for the next day’s march. There was a time in his youth he’d have envied such a thing.

“Well my Lord, sound asleep still, by the looks of it.” The older man, just a few good years in his position left, he reckoned, turned his eyes to regard the fierce pink light rising from the horizon, “Won’t be much more of that though.” He mused, even if the fellows they were tracking had no reason to rise so early, the more permanent inhabitants of the township would certainly soon be on the rise. The towns of the Kingswood had largely been free of banditry since the time of the Conquest and for the time it showed in how few sentries were posted across the town, few enough that the Baratheon host had been able to move through the surrounding woods unchallenged so far. This probably could explain how the town had also ended up hosting the mass of Poor Fellows’ currently bunked and encamped within.

“A good job then that the men are in position, I should think.” Rogar Baratheon pulled the long haft of his great axe free from the binding of his saddle. The weapon was large enough to still be effective from horseback, should it come to that. While the youngest of the surviving male Baratheons kept his face free of the renown family facial hair, his build still betrayed his heritage, a powerful form sitting atop the snorting destrier he rode. As he finished speaking with the Marshal, he turned slightly to address a new rider, drawing up beside the other two men. “How about it then Ser, let us signal the men to play us in.” The idea was Rogar’s own, although none of his party felt it a particularly bad one. They had mused how best to not lose the advantage of surprise without also ensuring that matters would turn violent, when there was still some possibility that might be avoided. The somewhat jovial plan was the solution. With the wave of Rogar’s axe, the signal passed down through the various subdivisions of the force.

With only a brief delay, a crescendo of noise sounded throughout the Kingswood. A great blaring of hunting horns, in tune with each other, crashed through the foliage. The first retort still echoing in the air, and the men-at-arms began to move forwards. Several hundred well drilled men spurring into action, even as the second blast of the horns sounded, beating down on the township below. The Baratheon force had the town surrounded, firstly by rings of foot companies, then a thinner, but not less intimidating, group of Knights. The horns continued to sound as they marched forwards in tight lines, filing out of the cover of both darkness and wood with the precision of well drilled combatants.

“Hail there!” Rogar called out from atop his barded steed, his powerful frame emitting a noise loud enough to signal the hunting horns to silence as he began his negotiations. “I am told we have guests who have been enjoying the hospitality of House Baratheon without leave!” The good natured tone of the Stormlander heir washed over his men, and there were more than a few chuckles from the marching party. “Now, while we have no need to get too angry with each other, we’ve been instructed by my lord father to tell you to, kindly, piss off!” The marshal beside Rogar gave a brief huff of disapproval, but it buoyed the men further none the less. “And we’ll be happy to show you the way!”

A woman flailed, flung to life with a great startle. She bolted upright, hand to her chest where her heart beat as though she was under attack. It took a moment, a minute, to place where she was. In her dreams it always started with a dragon overhead, black enough to blot out the sun. Or it was a company of Dornishmen sent to retrieve her for judgment and hanging. She blinked, she was in her tent, another small village same as any other. What was that godsforsaken sound?

Lady Ellyn launched herself from her bed, scrambled to get dressed. The cacophony faded as she donned a gambeson and riding leathers - though she hadn’t had a mount in weeks, traded instead for food and ale. Instead of the horrible noise, a voice carried to her tent. She grimaced, no Faithful house would purposefully force some Poor Fellows from their land. Surely there was confusion, or the corruption of the dragonlords extended to the bastardized Stormking line. Her grimace deepened.

She strapped Dawn to her waist then paused with her hand at the flap of her tent. Looking behind her, the tattered rainbow cloak was neatly folded by her armor. She may have been barred from entry to the Warrior’s Son, but she wore the gift with pride. Never one talented for mending, she kept it in as good condition as her skill allowed. Ellyn went back and secured it over her shoulders.

It wrapped around her in the soft breeze as she made her way through the camp. She hushed her people as they clambered to know if she had expected this. As they asked her what they should do. Dawn stayed sheathed, she urged them to calmness. Her Septon found her and joined her side. He wore the gray robes of the Poor Fellows, a seven pointed star sewn to the wool but not carved on his body. His cudgel was noticeably absent. “Brother Mal, ensure our people do nothing rash. But have them ready to scatter to the forests if need be.” He nodded his agreement, Ellyn did not stop to see it and he stood for a moment longer looking after her before turning to tend to her command.

“Hail, Ser Rogar.” She came to a stop several feet back from the man she assumed to be Lord Baratheon’s only son and heir. She looked left to right over the line of his fellow knights. “I am Lady Ellyn, Sword of the Morning, commander of these Stars. And we answer only to the High Septon who has given us welcome across any lands of those faithful to the Seven.” The lady paused, feet squared and rooted to the ground beneath her. Her hands rested on her hips, words spoken as simple truths. “But to have arrived so early, perhaps you would prefer to dismount and break bread with us before our morning prayers.”

Despite the rather decisive, if crass, nature of his initial proclamation, Rogar seemed to take the refusal by omission with good humour, a slight laugh tumbling from him, before he looked to the older man beside him. When he spoke he clearly addressed the other man, although her did not whisper to conceal his words, “Do remind me to suggest my Lord Father adds a flogging to that man’s confinement. Lying to your liege lord, shameful really.” That seemed to give the man pause, before Rogar continued, “She might be many things, but she’s certainly not homely.” The explanation only bringing an exasperated sigh from the Marshal, before, as planned, he handed over what appeared to be a large scroll the Heir to unfurl.

Taking a moment to let out an overacting clearing of his throat, with an added wink of his dark eyes to Ellyn, he began to read, “Lord Baratheon, the people of Helmford wish to report the theft of two swine by a band of fellows under the protection of the High Septon,” Rogar hardly paused before moving onto the next town, then the next town, and the next. A long list of complaints of hardly murderous, but certainly improper behaviour, each condemnation rising in volume from the young noble’s lips, “Oh, this is my favourite, “House Fell feels a duty to all good men and women of the faith to write in warning to House Baratheon of a band of wantons, a licentious group who allow a woman to lead them, who are corrupting our smallfolk with their deprivations.” With that, Rogar handed the parchment back to his marshal with a winning smile as ever, “Now, I might not be the most pious man, but I don’t think that’s what the High Septon meant by ‘free passage.’

The Seven truly sought to test her. Much as she tried to maintain her posture in the litany of complaints, she shifted uncomfortably before the knight and his host. Not homely, Maiden save her from herself that her own first impression had been one of despair to find the heir looking as he did. She should have had Septon Mal accompany her. He grounded her and he would have some passage from the Seven Pointed Star for an eloquent rebuttal.

As it was, she had only herself. Her lips pressed together tightly in momentary thought as the man japed at her. "We are all sinners, Ser. I will not dispute it. But only the High Septon may judge and punish us. You should send such charges on to him." The charges from House Fell wounded her the most, a charge that only she could answer to and that was not driven by need of hunger or warmth as her people's sins were. "If there's nothing else, Ser, I will see to my people and their needs." Ellyn Dayne turned on her heels, away from the mounted men and back towards her people. They had formed a semi-circle in the distance, curiosity brought them to see what would happen but fear had them keeping their distance.

"There was one other thing." Rogar called out as the woman turned, his smile turning to a slight grin at her incessant refusal to play the proper part in the situation. "On top of all of that, a light spot of treason." With that, Rogar raised one arm behind him. The previously jovial nature of the men at his command collapsed into cold discipline as they stood to attention, the haft of spears beat to the surface of their shields in a cacophonous salute. The force Rogar marched with would be considered a large hunting party, but a small force for putting down bandits, still, it outnumbered the poor fellows by at least a magnitude of five, and in all honesty, he'd have placed his coin on his men even if they'd had half the number of the rabble.

"By order of my lord father, Durran Baratheon, son of Orys Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, you are hereby to be expelled from these woods. You may not disperse and are to be escorted from the lands held by him, in the King's name. In his clemency we have been offered to extend to you the choice of Dorne or the Reach, the latter we shall accompany you far enough that immediate return shall be unlikely. Comply, and words of treason against House Baratheon and House Targaryen shall not be passed on to greater authority. Refuse, and we shall exact their punishment in the King's place." Despite the threat in his words, Rogar Baratheon retained his demeanor, his grin breaking back into a smile. "Comply quickly and we can even make a pleasant jaunt of it all."

No. Her fists clenched briefly at her side but she quickly waved her hands at her people in front of her, urging them again to take no action. She took a deep breath, her head briefly dipping in defeat, before calling out the order to break camp and be ready to leave. She could see Mal at the front, uncertainty overcome by her commands. He'd see to it, even if he did not know why.

Ellyn turned back to the Baratheon host, her face as emotionless as she could hold it. Returning to Dorne would be a punishment all its own, for a fleeting moment she thought perhaps it was time to end this farce. It left quickly, something deep from within that refused to be stilled. There was only one choice. "I will accept an escort to the Reach where I may provide witness to the treatment we have received at the hands of those who should be faithful servants of the Seven." Her voice wavered, betrayed her emotion. Ellyn cleared her throat, steadied herself again. "I'm sure you will offer a mount to me and to my septon. I'm afraid we sold ours to a village some weeks back. Perhaps they mistook them as a gift if they've since accused us of theft."

"Perhaps if the High Septon did not want a Targaryen as a King he should not have annointed one with sacred oil." Rogar mused aloud, before returning to a more decisive tone, "But of course, we have steeds spare for yourself and a few others, and rations aplenty for us all, I'm so glad we could reach a cordial agreement." There was a brief pause of inaction, before Rogar turned his head slightly to address his marshal once more, "Please find the lady a steed, her Septon as well. Should they have any injured among them, they may ride in the train." There was a wavering moment at the thought the Stormlanders might provide the rogue dornishwoman with a steed, but it was soon overcome and the order was set about.

"Oh and I wouldn't be too upset my lady, it is never an easy thing when what we believe to hold true is proven false. I am sure you will find the Reach much more inclined to your presence. We are a hardy and brutal folk, here in these wild lands." The Heir to the Stormlands chuckled, and the good humour once more rippled through his men. "ARMSMEN, PLEASE ENSURE THE SAFETY OF THE TOWNS FOLK AND OUR CHARGES, THOSE WHO VOLUNTEER TO OUR CARE ARE NOT TO BE HARMED." He called out over the host, who, with another shield-bound salute, began to move into the town proper to ensure the order followed.

Most of Lady Ellyn's Stars complied when word spread that an accord had been struck. A few, there were always a few, had made an attempt to flee towards the forest, or had spat at some of the armsmen. None had the foolish thought to raise a weapon against the Baratheon men. Septon Mal had been able to calm the hottest flames of resentment. They had talked, as their people had been soothed and horses prepared for them, under watchful and distrustful eyes. Ellyn tried to apologize to the old septon, for bringing them so far and failing them. Mal offered her what comfort he could, they would be delayed for weeks now, to join up with a larger force and make their way back to King's Landing in a way to avoid the Storm lands completely. But the Seven would guide her, he promised. He had faith in her even when she had none left in herself.

She rankled at the allegation he laid against the High Septon who had capitulated to the Targaryen host decades past. Dire times had called for desperate measures and the Targaryens continued barely paying lip service to the true gods. If one could receive the blessing then one could see it withdrawn, an argument she kept to herself even as they mounted the offered steeds. Lady Ellyn was not a small woman, taller than most women even if of only average height for men. But she was glad to have a proper horse beneath her rather than the sad creature she had ridden for weeks.

It knickered at her softly as she pressed it forward, alongside a line of knights who gave her passing glances, judgemental glares, or some few who gave hungry looks they seemed to think she would not notice. One of the ladies had thought it more appropriate for her hair to be plaited back if she was to ride with the lord's son. Ellyn had thought it silly but allowed the woman to tend to her. Whether it was vanity or a just bit of common sense, she wasn't sure.

If she was not to be treated as a prisoner, she would demand to be treated as a peer. So she rode to the front of the column when none moved to stop her. Ellyn stopped next to Ser Rogar. She looked him over, that smile, the smugness, the confidence only a youth could have. She wasn't sure if it was hatred or jealousy that flared within her. Perhaps she stared too long, but all she offered in the end was a nod and turned her attention ahead of them both. "My people are ready, we await your signal."

Not since the days of the Conquest had a single city hosted three dragons as great as those which descended on Pentos. Two great beasts, older than the Doom itself, made swift work of the Night air as low light of the Moon marked them out against clear skies. Terrax and Balerion swung around each other, the hot air of Essos allowing easier gliding than the colder climes to the West. For such vast and violent beasts, their riders commanded them with surprisingly gentle subtlety, wordless commands with the reigns causing the former dragon to peel away, steadily gliding lower to the ground well before the city itself. The Pentoshi may have welcomed the Targaryens and their dragons on many an occasion, but an uninvited arrival of the ruler of Volantis was another matter entirely.

The courtyard of the Targaryen manse was lit with blazing torches, identifiable among the affluent outskirts of the city’s hinterland. A design of relevance to the visiting dragonlords, the licking flame identified the presence of another dragon well before Maegor commanded Baelerion to land. A dragon he could pick out from afar as familiar to him as his own steed, that of his mother’s. With a simple Valyrian command, Maegor ushered Balerion towards the from of Vhaegar below, the command for a quiet landing, without the great crescendo of noise that would usually herald two dragons meeting each other. A few moments later and the vast, almost pitch black, form of the dragon touched down. A quiet rumble was all that passed between the two dragons, familiar as they were with each other.

Rather than crouch low, Balerion extended his vast neck upwards to the second level of the manse, allowing Maegor to dismount directly onto the walkways ringing the structure, before the vast beast settled to rest after the long flight, set at the grueling pace of his rider. While Maegor had not spend a great deal of time of his exile simply waiting in Pentos, preferring to journey where the whims of adventure took him, he equally did not wish to linger elsewhere, and in doing so abandon the ability to return to Westeros swiftly. The presence of his mother’s dragon had earned his curiosity, but as far as he was concerned matters of family could wait at least the small hours of the morning.

It was not exhaustion which spurred him to journey first to his bedchamber. Lingering thoughts of bloodshed and victory roared through him, a distracting ache that needed fulfilling. The pain across his hand from the spreading bruise did little to check him, only enflaming the furnace with its constant reminder.
His arrival, while quieter than it could have been, was hardly subtle, and so the guards across the manse were very much aware of the powerful form moving across the manse terrace, but there was little doubt as to his identity even in the darkness. Even among Valyrians he was distinctive, and no other dragons could entirely compete with the unsettling force of Balerion.

With force which echoed the storm within him, Maegor threw open the largely stained glass doorway into the master bedroom, sending a shudder through the chamber soon echoed by the onrushing night air, the moon and star light casting through the chamber as he moved without halting. It was thankful, perhaps, for those present, that Vhandyr had convinced the Prince to hold at least a short while in Volantis to appreciate the gratitude of the city. It had meant Maegor had changed out of the battle plate he had worn, instead in his fine riding leathers emblazoned with his crest. Still, he had ridden almost immediately on dragonback, and so the exotic aroma of Dragonkind clung to him, along with a fainter tang of Fire and Blood. He could sense it himself, and it only further emboldened him.
“Princess, I have returned.” His voice carried through the remainder of the room even as he strode onwards, his eyes adjusting, along with the spreading but soft celestial illumination, to reveal his own chamber. His wife, the second, always enjoyed the reminder that was her true title, and he was not above stoking that font of ego within her. Even so, he paused as he drew close to the foot of the bed, and the tangle of motion that was no doubt that of slumbering figures awakening to the sudden crescendo of noise that was his arrival.
Figures, plural.
In the initial moment, with thoughts of conquest and death lingering across his mind, assumptions were drawn in Maegor’s mind that he might otherwise have dismissed, and sudden thoughts of brutal justice overcame him, the creaking of leather from his closing fist audible over the wind still rattling the terrace doorway. With even greater force than he had entered the chamber, his glove closed around the sheets ot the mattress, simply casting it away without so much as a grunt or snarl. The quiet fury was beginning to rise upon him, and that was an entirely more dangerous beast.
What he saw in the gloom after gave him pause, his senses catching up to the unbidden emotion he was feeling.

“Interesting,” He mused, in a tone quieter than he had spoken before.
The kiss of startling night air had awoken Alys, rather than the arrival of Balerion. So worn had she been after a rather passionate night of lust. She had always known she could endure men, even enjoy them, but women… never had she known that she could enjoy a woman in such a way. There were always the whispers of Prjncess Rhaena, but she had dismissed herself from such nonsense. Now the touch of skilled hands and dark locks had unlocked that. Wooing the woman into the bed.
Awaking to snarl an the chill of the night air even in warm Essos, to find her husband at the foot of her bed? Alys froze her brown eyes soft and wide as she rose to sit upright, dismantling herself from the forbidden embrace sith Tyanna. "My Prince…" She crooned the word in that tone he liked, moving across the bed to him. A hand reaching imploring, pleading him to understand that the woman was a flight of fancy.
He was and always had been her true desire. Even now she could feel that desperate need for his son and heir. She was his chosen bride, the one he wanted. Thinking fleetingly of the potion, she knew there would be no time to get it. Not unless she wished to perhaps raise more questions or risk rousing the dragon of a temper her husband had.
Daring to risk kneeling on the bed before him, she wrapped her arms slowly about his shoulders, drinking in the scent of dragons and smoke. Battle and his steed. "Your mother closed the manse to all coming and going. It has been far too long, husband." Her gaze ran over his face and she drew a hand through his silver hair, enjoying the feel even as she whispered in her soft sultry tone. "I…" She trailed off hesitating as what to say. How to explain, lest he think she enjoy other men as well.
"I had not known, not before this night, and long have I hungered."
She had woken to the sound of a dragon, a sound not unlike when Visenya had arrived. Alys, next two, their limbs entwined, had not stirred. There were only so many possibilities of what this arrival meant and she was a betting woman. She closed her eyes, not to return to restful slumber, but to attune to her other senses. Sight would tell her little.
The entrance managed to startle her anyways, cool night air across her naked limbs sent a shiver down her back. Was it anger that she felt bristling the air, a typical response. And Alys had woken at last. Tyanna slowly sat up, her legs pulled across and beneath her. At least she had managed to bed the woman before her husband's return, even if she would have preferred more time to solidify the woman's affections for her.
She waited for Alys to throw herself at the dragon prince, pathetic. Powerful men, whether in physicality or money, shared enough traits from what Tyanna had seen. She chose the risky path forward, one done with quick calculation of the couple's brief interaction. "Fear not, she chose only a woman to satisfy her when it seemed you could not." Her voice would never be described as sweet, but strong with a seductive lilt her clientele craved.

The heady rush of adrenaline that still coursed through Maegor had returned, driving his actions as Alys drew near, one hand reaching out for her even as she spoke, ready to take the softness of her thin night gown, suitable for the Essosi climate, between his fingers. It was the words of the Pentoshi that brought him back. The pounding of blood through him did not cease, but momentarily the furnace of rage roared again, the whispers of vengeful madness twisting across his mind. Who was she to say such things to him.
But then again, even more simply, who was she? There were those who simply thought him a brute, but they were wrong. They was method to his brutality, the keen sense of those who truly hunt, and in the darkness of her eyes, perhaps there was the same.
"So it would seem." Maegor paced away from the bed, a slow tread of the metal caps within his leather bound boots, made hardy to survive the ravages of dragon riding. The cooler night air still swirled in the room, starlight gleaming off the silver-gold of his hair. He removed his gloves as he did, flexing his fingers. Where he had caught the Dothraki blade in gauntlets hand flared a morass of bruising across his palm, the thudding throb of pain continuing to stir him. His gloves cast simply aside, both hands gripped the rim of a nearby cushioned chair, dragging it slowly back with him, to set it down at the foot of the bed, within which he simply sat. Even lowered so, his towering frame brought him more than even with the women poised on the higher rise of the bed.
"Let us see what you do to my wife that I cannot." While he lent back slightly in their chair, hands steepled together, there was an intensity to his gaze which went beyond simple carnal enjoyment. It spoke the sense that any danger had passed to be a false one, the look of a mountain line who allows its prey to scurry before it finally bites down.

Big men, small men, they were all the same in the end. But even in the low light, Tyanna knew better than to let her brow furrow too much. He had accepted the barb and returned it with lust, she could work with that. It would be easy to give him what he asked, Alys would perhaps warm to it if it meant pleasing her husband, but there were other ways. "I think your wife has had her fill of what I can provide. Perhaps I can instruct you in what to do instead." The courtesan moved to place herself behind Alys, her arms draped over the woman, black tresses pressed against auburn. "Your dearest Princess needs your dragonseed and not just pleasure, no?"
Alys was not pleased in the slightest by the dismal of Maegor as he pulled up a chair, as if he wished for a show. Yet feeling Tyanna at her back, she shuddered at the feel of the woman. A worthy partner in her bed, yet not the one she desired. No, that desire alone was pulled towards Maegor. "What she can give me is only amusement. What is that compared to you? Compared to the joy of bearing your heir? Your son?" She decided to ignore Tyanna's offer. Preferring instead to try and eel her way into Maegor’s lap. To urge him to the bed, or to the activities that would ensure what they both desired.

The intensity of those violet Valyrian eyes only grew in intensity, surrounded by the dark of the night as the Prince studied both women. The express on his face seemingly held somewhere between cold fury and a more insidious curiosity. Steadily one hand moved down towards his belt, but rather than the more predictable of motions, his digits drifted to the side, taking hold of the hilt of his dagger rather than the buckle of the clothing.

Whatever Maegor had meant to do, the train of events were interrupted by the doors bursting open, bright light flooding into the chamber from the more well lit corridors before them. Still in the riding mail-gown she had arrived in, Visenya stood with the light of the fires behind her, the paler tone of her own Valyrian eyes falling first upon her sign, then those on the bed, and back again. A flicker of annoyance passed over her features and the failure of her message to be passed on, but she expected little better.

“How quickly can you be ready to fly? We must return to Dragonstone.” When Visenya spoke, she did so in Valyrian, speaking in the fluid manner of one who spoke it as their first language. It hardly was an assurance of privacy in Essos, but none seemed to speak it in the manner of the true Dragonlords.

“Mother, I am entertaining two interesting women, can this not wait?” Despite the retort, he leaned back further in his seat in interest at her words, the fingers slipping from his dagger.

“Your father always managed both.” Visenya snorted in contempt, her eyes falling back on the bed once more, before a more stern expression descended on her features. “You may have heard of your nephew’s murder, your brother has passed beyond as well, from his illness.” While the event had brought her grief in of itself, now she was as emotionless as the cold valyrian steel at her belt.

That had Maegor on his feet, the previous balance between chaos and restraint shattered at the news. The back of his chair was caught in one hand and thrown in the same motion, smashing and splintering against the wall disconcertingly close to the unmoving form of Visenya. The snarl that had failed to materialize at the sight of his wife abed with another now ripped from his lips.

“The progress Aenys made the Prince and Princess attend to, they were held up by dissidents in the Westerlands, Aegon did not survive the wounds he received in the attack,” Visenya spoke calmly, even in the face of Maegor’s rage. She was tall for a woman, but still his hulking form seemed to tower next to her.

“Dissidents? Aegon was killed by rabble!?” Somehow the Prince’s voice seemed both a deadly whisper and to rebound around the room. The Dowager Queen shrugged her shoulders in return.

“They did not have their dragons.” With that Visenya took a step forwards, placing a hand atop her son’s chest, not a warm gesture of affection, but instead grounding them together. “There will be vengeance, Maegor, but I need you to return with me if we are to achieve it. No one else is strong enough, there is only us.” She paused for a moment, allowing a few stinging motes of sadness to pool in her eyes, “Or two won’t be all they take.”

Maegor’s form seemed to ease, pacing away from his mother, but still only addressing her as he continued to reply in Valyrian. “Did my brother call me back on his death? Some last effort that I might resolve his mess lest it consume his son?”

“No, he asked me directly, but not for you.” Her voice did not hitch or halt at all, even if the words seemed to give Maegor pause, a dismissive grunt passing his lips that was perhaps the closest thing such a man would get to a sigh of sorrow. “I am not here to bring you home and languish as your infant Nephew’s hand.”

Maegor turned back to face her once more, as Visenya pulled her hands free from her cloak, holding between them a circlet of black Valyrian steel, studded with blood red ruby gemstones. Finally, when she spoke again, she did so in the common tongue.

“I am here to bring Westeros its new King.”

Elayne sighed and slumped against the wall of what could not quite be called a castle. It wasn't grand enough, but it was far better than the ruins of Harrenhal. Jeyne had been delivered back to her studies, the Lord Lucas pacified with such though he raged at the scene when the guard had reported it. Slim fingers danced over the fabric of her gown. The neckline was a bit low, as she lacked the bosom of Alys, the skirt a bit higher from their difference in height. It was acceptable enough for a lady-in-waiting, the cast off of a mistress for a favored servant to explain the fine fabric. As it was, the other servants, even here, did not accept her and the nobles, once they knew who she was, dismissed her.

Harroway's ghost, a servant, a bastard. Lord Lucas had dismissed her after a stinging lecture that had scorched her ears. He had struck Jeyne, finding her in lads clothing too much especially when she had risked her purity among the lowborn. Animals, with only baser instincts as he would say it and had. The Lord of Harroway would not raise his hand to her however, she bruised too easily and was too fair. Plus it could be misconstrued as an insult to the Valyrian blood, that he would never do.

And so she wandered. Her feet treading into the various halls and gardens. Absently admiring a wall hanging or flower. Her fingers twisting with the lack of anything to do. Her mending was in the rooms she shared with her sisters, neither of which would take kindly to seeing her at the minute. Her books as well, and she did not think to dare the libraries here. So she finally found a quiet spot in the small gardens that pleased some ladies; it was a rather pathetic thing compared to the ones in Harrenhal that Catelyn kept tended. The small bit of joy the woman had torn from grey and melted stone. Sitting on a bench she leaned against the old tree that had been spared in the building, sheltered by hedges. Her eyes closing as she basked in the sun's warmth. At least it was quiet with the sea breeze, a lovely day and it would have been perfect if it had been just a tad warmer!

The day had started so pleasantly. The Flame of Lys more than met her reputation, and she had been more than worth the coin. His pocket was noticeably lighter, but nothing that couldn’t be resolved with a few wisely placed bets or brawls. Yet the sighting of a dragon had been enough to stir him to action other than trying to find his way beneath the Lyseni’s skirts. If Maegor had returned to Westeros, Ser Osric was certain he needed to be there to represent the Vale in greeting their Prince.

Alas, by the time had dressed and stumbled from the Sheath and Dagger into the light of day, there was only confusion around what had occurred or who had been there. The crowd of smallfolk seemed more concerned about some dispute in the street than anything else. His companions, those who had joined him at the brothel the night before, had long since cleared out as well. With annoyance, too much annoyance to return and see how much coin it would take to convince the Flame to enrapture him again, he made his way back towards the Red Keep and his lodgings there.

The knight’s mood had turned sour on his journey back. While the Red Keep, or formerly the Aegonfort, was nearly complete, much had been built up even in the past year he had taken up residence. His mind was elsewhere and he had taken a few wrong turns before realizing it. “Maiden fuck me sens-” He muttered to himself as he paused and leaned against a stone wall. He had been here before he was certain, was it the Rosby girl who had dragged him here for privacy? Or the pretty little serving girl who he’d let entertain him for a week? One of them, he was certain, had found themselves pressed against these walls. But he knew where he was, with some degree of certainty, and so he set off again, heading for what he thought would be a garden that he’d pass through to noble’s housing.

Osric turned a corner and smiled, he had been right. At least his penchant for remembering trysts proved to be multipurpose. It wasn’t abnormal for the gardens to be in use, but he was stopped suddenly short at the form he spied ahead of him. A slight, pretty thing, with silver hair, the Arryn knight pressed his lips in thought. Princess Rhaena had left some time ago. King Aenys and his family had been on Dragonstone, unless…Unless perhaps Princess Melyssanthi had returned alone? Or perhaps she was one of the Velaryon cousins. It was intriguing regardless and he found his mood shift back, just a little.

As he drew closer, he planted a confident smile across his face. He was handsome, refined in a roguishly handsome way. Or so women had told him. He kept his blonde hair cropped close, a beard neatly trimmed and almost golden in the sun. At this distance now he was even less certain of who the girl before him was, but she was still a very pleasing sight, if a bit sad.

“A lady as beautiful as you, how could you be here all by yourself? Ser Osric Arryn, at your service.” He spoke loudly, too loudly, and offered an exaggerated bow in her direction. His brother - half-brother - had always hated how he seemed to say their family name as a boast. Even before Maegor had elevated them to lords of the Eyrie. But it had always been so very effective at getting Osric whatever it was he desired.

There was a voice interrupting on Elayne's private thought that was nearing a doze. Green-blue eyes opened to an incredibly handsome man, a fighter by the look of him, bowing to her. Her gaze dropped as she stood, mourning the loss of the quiet she enjoyed. Dipping a curtsy to the Ser Arryn, a relation to the Lord of the Vale doubtless, the woman raised her hand to flick the tumble of silvery hair from her shoulder.

"You flatter me, Ser, but I am no lady of renown. Merely a handmaiden of the House of Harroway." It would be best to say such right off, lest he thought her to be lying as to her position. He was a loud man, boisterous. Watching him through the veil of her lashes, she folded her hands demurely. If he was merely passing by and mistook her, perhaps she could maintain the peaceful moment as of yet. "Is there aught I could aid you with?" Her voice was politely interested, even if her wish was to see him on his way.

His eyes eagerly took in her form as she bent in a curtsy. Her eyes were wrong to make her Valyrian, but she was entirely enchanting regardless. Particularly in the way the neckline fell away from her. She was a sweet one then, he read her instantly. A handmaiden she said, but something did not sit entirely right about it. House Harroway, that was a house he knew enough of to know there were too many to keep straight. Osric knew of Lord Lucas at least, though he was certain to have never crossed paths with the man. “Your sweet voice is all the aid I need, I think. I was on my way back to my rooms, but now I fear I’ll lose myself in the beauty of your eyes and never find my way back.” A sweet maiden could not be pushed too quickly, he approached her as delicately as he knew how. She was not the Flame of Lys, but she was at least a very pleasing distraction.

"You honor me with your words. If you were to tell me where the Arryns are housed, perhaps I could be of assistance. I have wandered these halls for some time." Considering she was often banished from Lucas's or Hanna's sight for some perceived slight. Perhaps if she guided this man back, he would then let her be to her own pleasure again. Yet his words made her cheeks turn a slight pink, such words were rarely spoken in a flattering tone. Damon always was scornful when he appraised her. "A Knight so handsome and skilled with words, I can hardly pay back the compliment without offering my small service in directing you on your way." Or she could leave. Perhaps that was the better option.

That was easier than I expected. It nearly took the fun out of the game, but she seemed so earnest in her offer, Osric stopped himself from overthinking it. “My lady is far too kind. My men and I were put in what I’m told has become known as ‘Lordling Row’.” His grin flickered, it was a long stretch of rooms with men much like himself. Second and third sons from respectable houses. Lord Hubert had yet to visit and would surely have found the atmosphere not to his tastes. “I’m certain it’s not far, but your kindness in this is not something I will forget.” He waited for her to guide him away so that he could get a better look of her from behind, certain it would not disappoint.

Elayne had been passing Ser Osric and paused in the entry way they now both occupied. She knew where the Lordling Row was and that her sister, and by extension her, had been forbidden to go there. "I see…" She turned her form meek as she twisted her finger into a strand of the silvery hair, tugging at it absently in thought. "I shall give you directions, it would be most improper if I were to be seen there." She sighed, almost disappointed she could not waste some time helping this Arryn knight. It would have filled the absent hours of the day. To the man it might seem a sigh of forlorn longing as her eyes looked distinctly sad. "I do apologize for the inconvenience."

A soft hmmph, he stopped it from being a grunt of annoyance, passed his lips. How innocent, for her concern at propriety. It did little to dissuade him, and more to encourage him. She just needed convincing that the risk was worth the reward. “I assure you, sweet Lady…” Osric paused for longer than needed. “You’ve not told me your name.” He let his smile diminish, crestfallen at the realization. But, for the first time, he drew closer to her, placed himself close enough that if he wanted to, he could barely extend his arm to grasp the hand that played with her hair. The knight’s arm flinched, as if he intended the gesture but thought better of it and dropped his arm back to his side.

Her eyes widened at her rudeness for not giving her name. "Elayne. Elayne Rivers." She whispered, hating that she was placing herself as the scorned bastard rather than a simple servant. Her finger was still twisting and twinning in that strand as her pale skin turned slightly more crimson. Dipping a very small curtsy. "My apologies, I should have said."

The name stirred nothing other than small joy in the minor victory. The smile returned but so too did a hunger in his eyes. He reached out this time, and took the hand that was tangled in her silvery tresses. “Elayne. No need to apologize. Nor to appear so demure.” He pressed and prodded at her walls to see if they crumbled in the slightest to his advances.

She blinked, startled as the man took his hand. Not be demure? No need to apologize? "But-" She hesitated, then gave the man a small smile. "You are kind, Ser Osric, to a humble woman like myself." She left her hand in his. There was no reason to protest, but she would if he continued holding it! Or Elayne hoped she would have enough of a nerve to do so.

She demurred still, but did not flinch or push him away and so Osric took it as acceptance, even eagerness. “I am not kind, just not blind, Elayne. We will leave your reputation intact, I promise.” He kept one hand holding hers but brought the other to the small of her waist and pulled her towards him. “Lead me to where my rooms are, and let us share a bottle of Arbor Gold when we arrive.”

Elayne blinked, startled as a hand wrapped about her waist. An uninvited hand that did feel quite good. But… She stiffened and blushed a deep crimson. "I- I do not think- Arbor Gold is a bit rich for a handmaiden!" She protested, feeling her form pressed up against this man, her hands pressed against his chest. "It would potentially lead to a lie to your words and my honor not in tactics, Ser." Did he- Was he suggesting to bed her?!

The sound came to the small garden as a surprise; it was guttural, yet strained at a higher pitch than any such sound should rightfully be. Its volume could have reached well into any nook, alcove, or corner of stone. Like a flame sparked in pitch, the sound blazed through walls and shattered narrow focuses.

Both the woman and the man in the garden stopped cold, and darted their eyes in the direction from which the sound emanated. Vaera Balaerys just happened to be leaned against the far garden wall, opposite the one nearest the man and woman, her arms crossed over her chest and lilac eyes burning a hole through the scene the two of them were making. She knew better than to believe it was pure chance; something inside of her was felt through her, and Saeryx reacted, calling out to her.

She had come back to the unfinished Keep to send a message. When the Maester protested, she dismissed him, knowing damned well that a raven could reach one of the Free Cities just as easily as it could the Citadel. Knowing that the Maesters of Oldtown had their footholds on Essos, even if they were temporary ones, meant for study. They had been very insistent, and she believed them. But did she believe no message could reach the shores of Essos from this city? She did not. Send the message, have the messenger get it to Volantis. She promised to owe the damnable chained man a favor. When he brought up asking her about Sothoryos, she only sighed, and nodded. Fair enough, but another day.

It was on her way she just happened to catch sight of the girl from before. And, this time, it wasn’t with one of her entitled half-siblings, but being approached by an actual little lordling of Westeros. So she stopped, still head to toe in black leather and shining mail, weapons, and all, to watch the scene unfold. Surely any woman would recognize the stress of the moment.
Not that she let on for a second, even as the two noticed her, her lips breaking in a playful little smile, “Oh, don’t mind me. Elayne and I were just talking about Valyrian blood earlier. Nice to see my words falling so close to the breast.”
Breast, she said, instead of heart.

For her part, Elayne looked horrified at the other woman. Now fully pushing to try and slip away from the presumptuous knight. That sound had caused her body to stiffen in terror, more than the concern she was already facing. "No, I- You are both mistaken. Ser, Your Highness. Nothing like that-!" She was saying words was she not? Yet it felt like nothing was making sense, and worse, why did know knights one and all have to be large men?!

He had assurances at the tip of his tongue for the woman he pulled against him. Honeyed promises of both joy and discretion that awaited her. Yet he was stopped short, quickly driven to annoyance for the interruption. The knight’s annoyance faded when he took in the sight of who was to blame. He dropped his hands from Elayne and put two steps between them quickly. Osric made a proper bow in the interloper’s direction. Silver haired woman in black armor, he didn’t know who she was exactly, but few would be so bold as to walk the Red Keep like that and not be of dragonblood. And somehow Elayne and this woman knew each other? The Arryn knight was dumbstruck, an usual event for the confident man. “Your highness.” He spoke at last, having found his tongue.

Vaera Balaerys smiled sweetly. “Do you like dragons, my Lord?”

Osric blinked, momentary confusion cast across his face. “Of course I do, your highness.” Still, she was so casual, so bold, so flippant, he found her rather appealing. And that was always his undoing. The confusion remained but the smirk returned. “Majestic creatures, and their riders put the rest of Westeros to shame in both power and beauty…your highness.” He bent his neck to her, a recognition of how very precise he was being in that assessment.

Elayne had felt shame at what had gone on and been assumed. Now there was snapping anger as she looked on at Osric. How dare he have been so presumptive of her! An honest attempt to give him aid and he thought to take more than she had offered! Damon would have sold her to the Lyseni if she had gone through with it. "They are majestic, Ser. Though only the bravest and those of good sense have the ability to dare attempt such a challenge." She snipped, her voice polite but cold, as she edged around the garden towards Vaera. Not wanting to leave even the sword-toting woman alone with this man.

For all the talk and bluster of the man, it was the girl Vaera found herself staring at strangely. The girl seemed to be creeping closer to her.

…what the fuck are you doing?...

Vaera understood it. Truly, she did. She wasn’t the tallest, most physically imposing woman in any land. She was tall, but she was more quick, lithe, understanding in full every weapon she touched and the leverage and angles to be as lethal as possible. A dragon and Valyrian steel were also two very effective equalizers.

And, yet…what the fuck was she doing? She had fought dark men wielding weapons she had never seen before, just out of the bush of Sothoryos. She had fought off ambushes in the Bone Mountains, days from Kayakayanaya. And this girl thought…that she would protect her, Vaera Balaerys?

So Vaera just…stared at the girl. Flat, confused. “You do know if I’m killed, my dragon will likely frenzy and burn everything in sight, make a nest of the rubble and bones and ash, then do it all again and again until its grief is sated by vengeance? Do you really think they want to kill me? We’re not Targaryens. Our dragons aren’t Targaryen dragons. They don’t even…”
Eventually, Vaera just shook her head, said, under her breath, “fuck it,” and returned her attention to the Lord. “Would you like a ride on my dragon, Lord? I feel my time in King’s Mudpit is at an end.”

His arms involuntarily flexed, was this woman serious? If she was not a Targaryen, then there was only one other family he knew who still tamed dragons; he felt rather emboldened by the knowledge. “My apologies for not seeing it sooner - you must be of House Balaerys.” Osric gave a smug smile. Free Cities nobility, as it was, though he thought little of rulers of cities when his family held a kingdom. What a match that would be. Nevermind whatever warnings she had given, “I would be honored to ride with you.” Pleasant words, but tainted by the way he said it, as if the riding with her was an afterthought.

Elayne did not like this man. Not in the slightest. Her eyes were worried as she glanced towards the noblewoman. Even with a sword and a dragon… Well this man was going to attempt what few dared. Perhaps he would be devoured by his hubris. A wicked thought but Elayne knew his type. The same type that would see her with a bastard in her belly and her skirts about her head.

She found it a desperate sense of entitlement. He was so sure what he saw and what he felt was the result of a trap of the life he was born into. Certain he’d be fulfilled, just looking at her, at the prospect of the dragon and destiny. So certain in the tale told to him by his birth of nobility, the capacity of self-delusion encouraged by that entitlement, walking around like it was some kind of fucking virtue.

Pawing Elayne. Drooling at her. Deep inside, the Valyrian blooded Balaerys began to boil. He was a fool. If she gutted him here and now he’d die on the ground, and in his eyes? Would be the certainty that he was someone, that his life mattered, that this was all for him. All his love and his hate and his want and all his dreams and all his ignorance…she had seen the finale of so many countless lives, and each of them certain there was purpose and meaning robbed of them by death.

Then after the fear came and went, dead or alive, staring at their eyes she would always see it…the release of that fear, the comfort of realization that life was little more than a dream of being a person. That it was so easy to just let go.
Instead, her blade stayed sheathed, and the man before her stayed consumed in his own futility of self. So Vaera Balaerys just smiled, and motioned for him to follow, “Good. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t far to reach Saeryx. A courtyard, a long corridor, a few turns to smaller corridors, than the main entrance of the Red Keep and all their bloody stairs. Everything was new, everything smelled new; mortar and paint seemed to fill every breath not filled with the salt in the air from the Narrow Sea and Blackwater Bay just beyond.

Saeryx waited, ready. The blues and purple hues of the dragon seemed to ripple together when it moved at all in the light of the sun above, an iridescence to its wings and large eyes of a molten gold freshly kissed by the furnace flame. The only sudden move it made was a jerk of its head as it regarded the man that accompanied Vaera. It made nearly no noise but for a quick snort, it’s shoulder lowering to allow Vaera the easiest path to the saddle of chain and leather.

Vaera helped the man up. She’d forgotten his name, or perhaps, actively forced herself not to remember it. It wouldn’t matter, either in the short or long run. He was uncertain, he prattled on about dragons, about Valyrians. As much as he talked about others, including the Prince that had irritated her so much just by being, all of it really seemed to be about him. His insecurities. His obsessions.

She smiled and asked him if he was set, before the dragon seemed to just read her mind, and off about it they went. Not that he could see it, but her face remained detached, unmoved, as they went. It wasn’t until they made a quick circle of Aegon’s hill and swept in a low, low flight towards the mud gate that she leaned back, over her shoulder, to shout words to him just so he would hear her over the rushing air.

“You really shouldn’t try to act so entitled. You terrified that poor girl in the courtyard. You looked at me like a prize to be won.”

Then it was, as Saeryx came gliding down near enough the top of the city walls to spook men manning the gate towers, heading for the river, that she twisted her body and took a hard hold of his clothing about the collar. “DO BETTER ONCE HUMBLED.” Her eyes alive with a lilac colored fire, as she did…something with her other hand, that was wrapped in the chain of the ‘saddle’, and Saeryx took a sudden, dramatic, change of direction straight up.

She both let go, and shoved, and given the steepness of their ascent…she just smiled as she watched him float away, trying to desperately cling to anything, and finding nothing but air. It made her happy enough that she even waved a farewell to the man.
The hunting party had been riding out for some time, returning in the buoyed mood of a successful excursion. It had been an affair of several days, a boar hunt, something to get the lively nobles of the Targaryen court excited for a little more danger than tracking fowl or hind. In the end they’d still claimed three deer and the prize they had set out for, a breeding pair of wild boar that had been ravaging some of the outer farmsteads. The small folk had been happy to be rid of them, and they’d make for a fine feast.

Roelle Baratheon didn’t think much of that, beyond perhaps a few trace thoughts of some fine boar sausages, instead she grinned from ear to ear as she raced at the head of the gaggle of nobility. The long tresses of her coal black hair whirling around her as she spurred her steed, a chestnut mare of lively temperament, into an ever faster run across the beaten path. While a boar hunt was achieved through spear, that had been left to the men, and so she was still garbed in the simple, but elegant, white of her archery attire, bow and quiver attached to the side of her saddle. Admitedly her eyes weren’t on the sky, not until the sudden rush of oncoming air from the fast pace of her steed altered slightly.

Was that screaming?

Roelle pulled back on the reigns of her steed just in time before the flying form of a man struck the water of the river infront of her, her horse neighing frantically first at the sudden impact then at the sight of dragon from above, swooping away. At least that explained the falling man.

Quickly Roelle cast her eyes to where the man had impacted, there was still a frantic amount of thrashing, but whether that was from the impact or a sign of life might have been unclear. She was still possibly a minute ahead of the rest of the hunters, and didn’t have a huge amount of time to act. A girl who had grown up in Shipbreaker Bay knew how to deal with the current of a river, but she had found that not many others at court did. Quickly, she extracted herself from the saddle, hopping down to the ground, pausing only for a moment to kick her shoes away, she then took a running start and dived forwards, bridging her hands together into a forward throwing dive that cleared her well over the shallows and into the deeper water the unfortunate temporarily-flying man had plummeted.

Roelle was a powerful swimmer, combined with her tall build, meant that once she had powered forwards and took a hold of the man, she actually had something of a hope of getting him to shore. It wasn’t as simple as trying to pull him back, that would be impossible, instead she waited, keeping them both floating, until the current of the river brought them alongside the next bend, then lunged for the shore.
She let out a cry of exertion which almost drowned her simply from opening her mouth, but with a force which made her shoulder feel like it was about to explode, she dragged herself and the man out, onto the brief rocky outcrop, then collapsing back onto the grass.

Panting, only then did she mumble the words, “Stupid day to wear white.”

William:

The stars still burned in a sky like black velvet and the moon hung low and full. The first pale rays of the dawn had not even risen over the inky crags of the red mountains to the south. But in the courtyard below the single tower of Larkwood’s moss-lined keep, a man worked at the pell with a lead-weighted sword. Time and time again he struck with focused patience born from a life spent training. Sweat ran from his brow and his nostrils flared as he kept his breathing under strict control. The old gambeson he wore was soaked in sweat and every muscle burned.

But he forced himself to go on. He had already practiced at vaulting into the saddle, climbing a narrow space between two walls and going up and down a ladder. Then he had sprinted up the narrow stairs to the curtain wall and walked back down to kick and punch the old cloth-wrapped post that stood next to the pell. Before that he had lifted the thick iron plates he’d ordered the castle’s smith to forge some years prior. He knew his body’s limits and he had not reached them yet.

The man called William Marston continued to train in near silence, forcing his exhausted limbs to perform the different stances and techniques with perfection, or as near as he could get to it. At last, he halted. Careful setting the training sword down with shaking limbs, he forced his trembling legs to carry up the stairs to his chambers.

A fire roared in the hearth, a plate sat next to his table and a tub full of icy water sat near the fire. He nodded in approval, a servant who knew to stay out of sight was a fine thing indeed. He sank into the frigid water with a low groan and after a while he emerged from the water and dried near the fire.

He dressed quickly and stood in his arming clothes, a moment later the door swung and his squire strode in, already clad in his own armor. William nodded approvingly. He would have helped young Robert happily enough, but he was glad to see the boy could stand on his own. Strange, he wasn’t much older than Robert, but he still thought of him as a youth. Then again, he was a blooded knight of a half dozen different raids and skirmishes. Robert was a stout-hearted sort, but had yet to see combat.

He smiled grimly to himself as Robert strapped the sabatons and greaves over his mail chausses. There would be time enough for that. Life in the marches was never easy, but lately he couldn’t even go hunting or south to the little lake that bordered his holding to fish, without donning his armor. A fortnight ago, someone had even loosed a crossbow bolt at him while he was out riding.

Robert strapped his longsword to his side and lifted the mail aventail and hound-skulled helm over his head. A quick adjustment and helm sat securely over his arming cap and the mail collar under his plate gorget. William strode down the narrow stairs, taking his time in the dim candlelight. He reached the courtyard, where four score mounted archers in gambesons and coats of plate waited on their sturdy hill ponies. Behind them were two score billmen in mail and with thick kettle helms that shrouded their features from the dim silver of the early dawn.

William took a running jump and vaulted into the saddle without the use of either hand and settled there like one born to it. His squire handed up his shield, which bore the sign of a two-headed falcon over the thick oak. He checked to see the dreadful black mace he preferred was slung from his saddle and then took up the short lance his squire handed him.

Robert swung into the saddle behind him and handed the reins of his master’s remounts to one of the armsmen. William turned in the saddle and surveyed his assembled company for a moment before nodding shortly. He raised a hand and the drawbridge slowly fell into place with a rattle of chains and a dull thump. The portcullis slowly rose with a groan of metal and William rode rode out before the sunrise.

***

It wasn’t even midday and though the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, the chill wind rolled down from the mountains and over rolling fields of stubbled sere grass that covered the moors. The skeletal boughs of the ancient trees whipped back and forth in the wind. Below, the turgid flow of the river snaked its way through the forest, the deep water seeming to gleam like obsidian in the pale light of a spring still trying to emerge from a long winter’s cruel grasp.

Where the river had spilled its banks, thick stands of amber-colored reeds stood from ground that had turned into marsh. Between the flooding waters and the dense clusters of trees and thickets there was a narrow path that wound its way north and then east through the moors and woods of the Dornish Marches. Once a traveler left the treacherous path that fed through the pass of princes, such paths were the only real roads through that part of the land.

The road, such as it was, often narrowed to a series of ruts through the loamy soil or to a game trail as the forest deepened. Piles of dead leaves rustled in the wind as it roared through the leafless limbs of the slumbering groves. Here and there, they rose from the mulched earth to swirl in the air, before the ceaseless storm subsided for a moment.

Under the quaking boughs, the light was lost in the depths of the woods and a man would have had to shout to make himself heard. Between the undergrowth-choked woodland and the marshy bend in the river, it was the perfect day and spot for an ambush. Which was exactly why William had chosen the spot. Hillmen, fleeing peasants and brigands might have made their home in the woods, but a column of raiding Dornishmen would need to take the quickest way home. Especially if any of the lords north of William’s own holding were in pursuit.

His scouts had reported glimpses of men on horseback and the occasional fresh hoofprint. Whatever he might have thought of them, they were crafty veterans, trained in a merciless school and learned from generations of raiding back and forth between the Dornishmen and the Marchers.

They were no fools either, William let himself enjoy a moment’s self-congratulation. By allowing his smallfolk to keep crossbows and fortify their villages with ditches, stakes and earthen ramparts, the lands around Larkwood had become a tough nut to crack for any light raiding force. True they could pillage and burn, but they couldn’t take the land with them. Besides, war without fire was like sausages without mustard.

So now he waited, lying prone in a thicket, his armor and gambeson shielding him quite nicely from the finger-length thorns and the chill wind that snaked through the clustered trees with icy fingers. To his left and right, his men lay waiting as well. William focused on the fresh tracks and hoofprints in the damp earth before him. Someone's scouts had ridden ahead only moments before and there weren’t enough tracks for the three or four score men that were supposed to have been raiding up and down this part of the Marches.

So either they had found a ford through the deceptively slow-looking flow of the river or they had halted for the day. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he had waited all day and night for a enemy that never arrived. Sometimes you ambushed the enemy, sometimes they ambushed you. Sometimes both forces tracked and evaded the other without ever actually clashing.

Such was life in the Marches.

Still, he hoped that the enemy would make a decision soon. He couldn’t afford to stay gone from his hold too long. His neighboring lords might start to get ideas. And one couldn’t simply hang a knight or landowner from a tree like a common bandit without . . . complications.

So he waited, partaking in the same struggle as his men. The age old one soldiers have faced since time immemorial. The fight between discipline and boredom. Old memories, jokes and snatches of songs ran through his mind while he lay under the leaves and brambles, waiting like some lion in the bush.

Then he heard, at first he thought it was simply the product of a bored and over-eager mind, trying to produce what it wanted to happen. Then it came again. A grim smile flickered across his patrician features before he slowly eased his visor close and kicked the leg of the armsman next to him.

All the line men checked their weapons, strung their bows and tensed, waiting for the attack. The next few moments couldn’t have been more than a few heartbeats long, but it seemed to stretch on into eternity.

A column of Dornishmen rode or walked, strung out along the path, their eyes dim with fear and fatigue, this was not the party of ravening wolves William had expected. Their horses were lathered and exhausted. Even the few sand steeds he saw walked with their once proud heads low and their breathing coming short and harsh. Their armor and weapons dented and notched from hard use.

One or two limped along on bare feet, a few had been lashed to their saddles and William raised an eyebrow. Their wounded bore clear signs of torture. Here a man with no hands, weeping silently at his raw stumps. One slumped in the saddle, his dangling limbs showing the marks of the rack as they shook with fever. Another man stared sightlessly ahead, raw red craters where his eyes had been.

More to the point, there were no carts of sacks full of plunder that William had hoped to take for himself. He cursed his poor luck and then shrugged mentally. Wounded prey was easy prey. Besides, a party of Dornishmen riding up to raid the Marchers and then never returning would send a very clear message.

He rose and surged through the dense undergrowth with a shout that rose above the wind, his squire followed him, lifting the red of the banner up high. The signal given, Marston’s soldiers rose from their positions, nocked their longbows and loosed in one smooth motion. After a year-and-a-half of relentless drills, Ser William’s men had more than met their lord’s intent.

Though the wind was strong, William had positioned his men accordingly and under the dark limbs of the trees that sheltered them, they fired with the wind and not against it. Though some shafts blew off course, the majority of the black-feathered arrows struck into their lightly armored targets with punishing force.

Men staggered or fell, the survivors screamed and clutched at the barb-headed darts that now stuck from their bleeding bodies. Horses reared and screamed, trying to bolt or simply charging into the icy flow of the river and being swept under the seemingly smooth surface.

The archers loosed once more and the survivors of the column were flayed. They turned in desperation. Some sought to try and avenge themselves on their hidden foes or organize a defense. Most, their nerves already frayed but whatever earlier ordeal they had endured, simply tried to run. But between the river and the woods, there were few options left.

Cowards died right alongside the few with any heart left to fight. Others were trapped by their panicked comrades and stampeding horses. Only then did William give the signal and the banner waved and then dipped twice.

As one the men of Castle Larkwood charged from their positions. The billmen led the assault, their mail and brigandine providing good protection. Behind them the archers unstrung their bows and then followed with sword and buckler in hand.

William led his men with a bull-throated battlecry that echoed over the windswept land. Before him a raider pitched from his saddle, two arrows sunk a hands-breadth in his spine. A man lifted a small pennon and raised an Auroch’s horn to his lips. William brought his mace up and around in a swift and brutal arc.

Blood spewed across the muddy earth and as the enemy standard bearer collapsed bonelessly to the ground. William slammed the iron-wrapped rim of his shield into the throat of another and then brought his sabaton-clad heel down the man’s face. His squire followed, Robert’s longsword flickering out with serpent-like speed.

A man reeled back, clutching at the spurting ruin of his throat, his wide eyes rolling in terror. William slammed his mace into the bridge of the man’s nose, pulping the front of his skull. A Dornishman tried to grab William’s shield and lever his arm up. William’s armored foot flashed out and the man howled as his knee bent at a right angle. A heartbeat later, the foeman’s skull exploded like rotted fruit dropped onto stone.

William brought his gore-smeared mace around and shattered the leg of a warrior in what had been a fine mail harness and helm. The man fell to his knees and tried to crawl away, until William planted his armored boot on the fallen soldier’s back.

As quickly as it had begun, the fighting was over. The surviving raiders attempted to run or surrender and were hacked down. The few who had tried to fight had been swarmed, dragged down and then hacked into pieces by the billmen. Archers milled among the dead, rifling through clothing, finishing off any wounded or slitting throats to make sure their fallen enemies were dead.

Maybe twenty attempted to flee into the river, those that weren’t swept under bogged down to their waists in the marshy riverbank. A few archers took up their bows again and shot into the trapped Dornishmen. Though they held up their hands and pleaded for mercy, none was given. Some fell where they stood. A few that manager to free themselves from the clinging mud were riddled with arrows and fell into the black of the river with a splash. At last, the screams faded away on the surging winds.

Corpses carpeted the gore-caked mud of the path and arrow-feathered corpses lay in the reeds or bobbed in the river, before they were pulled under. William turned to survey the scene and then snapped out orders. Men dashed back into the woods and reemerged moments later on horseback. Scouts rode up and the trail, while others brought the rest of the band’s mounts to their riders.

Though there was little enough to loot, William allowed his men a moment to search the bodies of their victims. His squire put their sole prisoner on a horse, as the men reformed. William swung into the saddle and led his troops back through the woods.

Only a fool ever took the same path home in the Marches.

---

---

The sea had always called to Pheynix, or Nix as she was called by those close to her. All bodies of water really. Her mother referred to her as a 'little sea dragon'; quite irritating now that she was grown. It made her feel infantile. She was twenty. Not an infant.

Sighing as she leaned against the ship rail watching the ship, Swift Lady, cut through the water. The spray barely reached her boots with tiny droplets that rolled off the oiled leather.

“LAND HO!!" The bellow came from far above the deck of the cog that Nix stood on. The consensus was that land was close since the gulls had started screaming at them. So the crew that had been impatient cheered to be relieved of their sea legs for a short while.

Nix straightened up standing so that the tips of her fingers were the last to leave the railing and she pushed gently swaying with the ship. The breeze picked up as the sun started to set and they would be landing in Dragonstone in about a half hour, possibly less if the breeze picked up and a cross current didn’t foil their landing. One could never be sure with islands.

A terrifying scream that was unearthly shattered the sounds of the crew who froze for a moment. The setting sun striking the stone molded to look like dragons gave off a menacing aura for a moment. Nix scanned the sky as much as she could to see the dragon that had made that trumpet. To her it sounded like it was grieving, but that must be Nix's imagination.

Men froze then scrambled to their duties of getting the ship ready to drop anchor and row in. Meanwhile Nix, rather distracted with pondering about a dragon, trance-like stepped out of sailors' way seemingly at the last possible moment. As the wind lifted the locks of hair that had come down out of the tight braids she had wrestled it into she pulled one of the braids over her shoulder. The heavy, thick braid shone ebony in the setting sun with a strand of snow white running through it. She stroked the reminder of her heritage and smiled.

Tossing her thick braid back over her shoulder Nix felt and heard it side across her back with a soft swish. The dress and jacket were the house colors, a deep ebony and a rich purple silk that had an iridescent shimmer. The collar was high and circled her long pale throat pinned at her clavicle with the house sigil of a shooting star blended with a bird that resembled a swan crossed with a raptor. The jacket sleeves were long and fitted to the wrist with an overlay of delicate smoke colored lace designed to look like smoke. The dress itself was fitted snugly to Nix's frame to her hips then spilled down like a waterfall, stopping mid calf in the front and floor length in the back. The hem covered the tops of the boots she had on.

A smaller childlike hand fitted in Nix's and brought the woman back from her daydreaming over what it took to build the imposing fortress. “Nixie was that a dragon?" Looking down at her sister Cassiopeia and smiling into her sea blue eyes, Nix leaned over and kissed the top of the child’s head.

“Yes." Nix rested her cheek on the girl’s head. “One of many. I hear that every one of our Targaryen cousins has one. And before you ask, we're not here to trade for a dragon egg. Mother would have my hide." She smiled as Cassiopeia pouted mockingly.

While Nix and Cassiopeia talked dragons, the two other Rahl children missed the dragoncall, as the sound of steel meeting steel was too loud. Below the main deck, Castor had deemed the area a practice 'field' during his and his siblings' journey. That was where he currently stood, clad in training weights to simulate armor and brandishing Shadowfang. His opponent was his younger brother Pyxis who didn't seem to really understand what he was doing. Pyxis simply stood, sword pointed upwards and outward and tried his best to slap at the Valyrian blade. "No, no Pix. You gotta move your blade where your enemy is GOING to move it, and not where it currently is. Try and think about the different attack angles and outsmart them." Pyxis simply shrugged and lowered his sword, walking over to his brother and placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm just not a fighter Castor. But that's OK, you got enough for the both of us. We should probably go and get ready to be presented to civil society, we'll be at Dragonstone soon and Nix will kill you if you show up in your fighting clothes." The younger brother had an easy tone about him, and a soft smile that seemed to tell you that he was right. Castor for his part just sighed and nodded a few times.

"You're right of course." Castor looked over to his various instructors and bowed toward them. "Gentleman, thank you for your training today. I still find something new to consider with every spar." The group of instructors just chuckled and shook their heads. They were a peculiar lot, with all different backgrounds. Ser Jeorry Redmont was a Knight of Westeros who had come close to being considered as a Kingsguard and who left the continent sometime after that to pursue new ways of fighting. Ilyro Saer was the opposite style, a water dancer of Braavos who had trained many fighters who eventually went on to compete and even gain the title of First Sword. Saavhos was a gladiator of the fighting pits of Meereen and had a more personal hand to hand style used with spiked knuckles. Zheirdas Shaqui, a Ghiscari Legionnaire preferring a spear and shield style and finally a native to Volantis who had been Castor's sworn shield since birth, Tychonos Orloris. The group began to pick up various weapons as Castor and Pyxis left, and would no doubt put the training area back to shipshape.

The two Rahl brothers made their way to their shared room and washed up as best as possible, each ignoring the cold water and then dressing in their family colors. Castor opted for a more elegant choice, his purple tunic made with the exotic and expensive silks of the East. A black leather robe-jacket was worn overtop, the buttons all gold and engraved with the Rahl sigil, the purple from his shirt peeking out at the neck. A heavy belt went around his waist, tied and knotted tightly to carry the weight of first the Valyrian sword Shadowfang, and then two separate knives. A gauche at Castor's right, and a more curved and wicked looking throwing knife behind his back. Castor didn't even bother with his hair, the cursed mess of pale blonde did what it wished and only got messier if the Rahl attempted to tame it.

The boys now ready, they walked onto deck just as the final approach was being made to Dragonstone. Finding their sisters wasn't difficult as the four of them truly stuck out from the sailors despite the Rahl colors and sigil being all too common on the ship. Castor moved to his eldest sister and smiled happily at her. "So, it seems that we've finally arrived in Westeros. The edges I'll admit, but it feels weird to finally be at a place you've only read about."

“True. We shall have to take the long boats ashore. Seems Dragonstone was made more for flying in than boating. Rather proud of those dragons are they not?" Nix rolled her eyes and Cassie giggled. “Alright we have a few things that the sailors can not fit into one trip. So multiple trips it is. We are all going on the first trip."

All four of the siblings climbed into the long boat and set off for the row into Dragonstone. As the shore came closer into view Nix scanned the sea and shore to see who had come to greet them. Upon seeing the singular Valyrian man with a couple of guards and a handful of servants; Nix looked over at Castor with her eyebrow arched in speculation. This was not the welcome they had anticipated, and the enthusiasm -or lack thereof- was rather disconcerting. The Valyrian man was tall and lean with long white hair dressed in black. His grave countenance made the Rahl siblings look to each other then back at the waiting party.

Edwell Celtigar watched the long boat pull up with the Rahl children within it. He silently admitted wryly that they were a captivating bunch and that he wished that he were a younger unmarried man as his gaze covertly roamed over the young woman with raven hair. The calm blank faces that gazed back at him were almost unnerving especially when compared to the wariness of the sailors that pulled the boats ashore. The two males had more of the Valyrian look with the silvery blonde hair. The younger of the two had sea colored eyes that were both blue and green, as if they did not want to be tied to one color. Coltish and lean the boy looked like he only had a few years before he would be close to his older brother’s height.

As Edwell set his sights upon the elder of the brothers, he saw the full force of the Rahl’s Valyrian heritage. The man, for that is what he was, was tall and graceful with a wiry build. The pale hair that topped his head was disheveled in a way that looked like he had just risen from the attentions of a young woman. Violet eyes were intent on Edwell’s own orchid color as Edwell greeted them. “My apologies to the House of Rahl. We have not had good tidings of late. I am Edwell Celtigar, Lord of Driftmark.”

"Indeed, our cousins always have liked their dragons. I can't honestly blame them but still I imagine supplying the island a nightmare with constant trips with longboats." Despite his words, Castor was deeply impressed with the formidable looking fortress that stood before them. Even from the sea it was imposing and Castor vaguely recalled the year of its construction. "We'll go first and take Guilermo or Seb so they can see where our rooms will be and direct our belongings." It was phrased as a question and as a statement, the way that Castor and his sister Nix communicated. Each knew that they could seemingly override one statement and suggest another. If agreed upon the matter was dropped, if not then it would go back and forth doing other activities. It was quite intriguing to watch but most of the time the two of them agreed.

In any regard, Castor and Pyxis found themselves being rowed to Dragonstone. Pyxis had a blank expression on his face but Castor could tell that the boy was impressed and taking in every single detail. Pyxis was the kind of boy that would look at each segment of the wall and try and determine which mine in old Valyria it came from all while silently being a beacon of calmness to everyone else around him. Castor envied his brother a little for that. Castor himself struggled to remain inwardly calm unless his sword was bared and in the middle of a fight. It seemed that only then was he truly alive. Though, he supposed that he did also like to just have fun, but it was different, almost like a thin sheet placed over top of Castor's true nature.

He was broken out of his thoughts when the ship landed and he almost revealed his true shock as he realized their welcome was quite Individualistic. Castor realized he had unconsciously locked eyes with this individual and as Edwell introduced himself Castor nodded respectfully and stepped off the Longboat. "I understand, while it is unfortunate that we could be greeted by our hosts, our family more than understands that at the end of the day family comes first. I thank you for introduction I am Castor Rahl and allow me to introduce to you Pheynix, Cassiopeia, and Pyxis Rahl." Castor indicated each of his siblings as he introduced them and then tilted his head to the right. "We have been traveling nonstop since Braavos, and are looking forward to having ground under our feet again. You mentioned bad tidings, what news do you have for us?"

Edwell sighed heavily as if the news weighed heavily on him, which it did. "The Crowned Prince Aegon, heir to the Iron Throne, and his bride Rhaena were attacked. Aegon was wounded and died. King Aenys has also passed."

Cassie's hand flew to cover her mouth as Nix turned her sister to cover her reaction. Stroking Cassie's hair in a soothing gesture, Nix looked up at Edwell, her large golden green gaze like a cat's in the fading light. With her raven hair and cat eyes Edwell thought she could be the picture of Nymeria from ages long past. Until you took in the classically pale complexion and angular features that screamed Valyrian which were only softened by her sex. She was almost an opposite of her brother, Castor, as if two sides to the same coin. One side in light, the other in shadow. Pheynix Rahl stood as tall as the Princess Melyssanthi or the Dowager Queen Visyena but rather than their svelte figures the Rahl girl was voluptuous and willowy.

As the Rahl girls turned to give Cassie a moment to compose herself Edwell also noted that the younger girl, Cassiopeia, would also turn out to be a real beauty. Her hair was a deep mahogany color and her complexion like her sister's was as pale as moonlight. Eyes that had shone with tears before Pheynix had turned her. Edwell could only say that they looked to be a deep blue. The family as a whole were striking each in their own way. He sucked in a breath at the dramatic streak of pure snow white that was divided and ran through Pheynix’s braids.

Looking over her shoulder at Edwell and noting the direction of his eyes, Nix recalled that she had wanted to wrap her braids around her head like a crown. Everyone was startled by her hair. She liked to think it was her mother’s stamp on her since she looked so much like her father’s side of the family. Ever the diplomat Nix rubbed her sister’s arms. “Lord Edwell, our condolences for your loss. We shall express our condolences to the family in person." Nix indicated the imposing fortress above them.

The things were gathered and the stairs were negotiated. Swiftly the trunks disappear to rooms that have been prepared. Nix nodded to Guilermo and Seb as they cast looks of question at both her and Castor. She knew that Castor had already spoken to the two of them and that they already had a plan. Cassie thankfully had composed herself and though mournful for their Targareyn cousins was not openly weeping. The quick spate of tears that the girl had was enough for the present. She would be better till she saw the family Nix was sure.

Ah, that would explain the lack of a large welcome and the overall somber mood that seemed to smother the area. Pyxis for his part nodded sadly and then kept his face blank. Castor didn't even nod and instead gave a sigh and glanced back to see if the second Longboat was about to arrive. He returned his attention just as Pheynix spoke and he quickly added his own words as was expected. "I share my sister's regrets and hope that our presence might be a small distraction and perhaps even offer some comfort if at all possible." Pyxis gave a nod of approval as if a voiceless echo.

The four were escorted up into Dragonstone proper, and then separated. Pyxis and Castor were taken to one shared room which seemed quite large and well furnished which meant it was obviously suited to noble visitors. Castor could only chuckle as he looked over to his younger brother and pointed to the larger bed. "That one will be mine." Pyxis merely plopped down on the other bed, having already thought what Castor was going to say. The two then looked to the door where a servant had curtsied and cleared her throat.

"Pardon me My Lords but did you require anything while waiting for an audience? Food? A bath?" The servant's eyes couldn't help but linger on Castor as she spoke and her cheeks might've even reddened a bit.

"Ah, for the moment I believe we are OK. Thank you, just let us know when we are prepared."

The girls had been escorted to their rooms just as the boys had been. They were also asked if they needed anything. Nix smirked at Cassie. "Baths. And no matter what our brothers told you they need one too. Sea baths do not get you clean." Nix grinned as they waited for their baths to be drawn.

---

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Oldtown was so classically named it was imaginative—an epitaph of the genius of modern man. The sarcastic thoughts of Elmo Harroway were bitter as he walked down the cobbled streets, his cane thumping the stones as he leaned on the wood and ivory. He, who once had been heir to Harrenhal in his own time, would now study under Maesters and scribes. Old men who had the imagination of dullards in political squabbles. The port had once been a trading town for the ancient Ghiscari, Valyrians and other fallen empires on Essos. It’s importance had not dulled with time. Here the Starry Sept held sway over the continent with the Faith of the Seven. The Hightower stood as a monument to the House that ruled over the city

A place of wonders and Elmo scorned the late King Aegon for not using this as the seat of his power. The Hightowers would have been strong supporters and it would have kept the Faith in constant reminder of the power of dragons. Yet that was all speculation that the young man knew better than to voice. Still, he couldn’t keep the sneer of disgust and irritation from his face as the dampness from the sea air made his leg ache.

“Port cities are nothing but an irritation.” He commented to his companion, Lady Vittoria Tyrell. A woman the man had come to respect over their travels together. Though how she had managed to learn enough to gain chains from the Maester left more to be wondered as to her possibilities. “I trust your meetings have gone well.” He offered, a small bit of conversation that would be considered the small talk Elmo had scorned so often. A pale hand moving as he paused to massage the muscle of his leg. “If those Maesters try to treat me rather than teach me, I shall be reduced to breaking heads.” The great sphinxes rose above them, green and impassive as they looked out at those so ignorant of the mysteries within the walls they guarded.

Vittoria found herself walking into the viper pit. Though she would silently scold herself, something in the back of her mind rose like a shadow—something that told her she wasn’t necessarily wrong. The Citadel had been better to her than she could have hoped in her formative years. Her father had been good to them. She had been better to them, oftentimes convincing Lord Manfred of their cause in one matter or another during her time in Oldtown.

Things were different now. Her voice came high and sweet today, even as she barely gave any thought to what she said to him in response, it just came on muscle memory: “Port cities are vitally important for the realm and wider creation, Lord Elmo—commerce, trade, art, the exchange of knowledge and news—all far worse without port cities.”

She said it even as she was preoccupied by those around them. Even getting close to the front great doors of the Citadel was a daze of people. She saw Maesters, Acolytes, and Novices. She smiled to a few as they marched past, her mind constantly reminding her body to keep her pace slow and deliberate for him…when all she wanted to do was race inside and get this over with.

“Banners were called, Lord Elmo, some of my father’s banner lords have decided to be defiant under the cover of the Faith, I saw the woman I consider my older sister berated and snapped to rage, and I’ve never wanted to hit a High Septon before.” That was a new impulse in her life, she could attest, not one she had ever had before. Despite the brightness of her voice, the tone under it was unmistakable: Does it sound like the meetings went well?

“Hello,” she offered as passed a group Acolytes and some of the Novices with them beginning to stare as she passed. She was recognized. She wore no armor, but the simple green thin woolen dress which she typically wore under that armor. The green cloak with a golden rose pin could have been a hint, too. When they entered she was met by a Maester that brought an instant smile to her face, “Why hello, MAESTER.”

The title was obviously exaggerated, a new spark of excitement to her as she said it: she knew this man.

“Lady Tyrell, they have been asking for you since your arrival to the city.”

A playful light struck her as her head tilted to the right and her voice lowered just-so, “Lord Elmo, this is MAESTER Theyln.” The man was of medium build, dark hair kept short, and just an inch or so taller than Elmo. His robes looked freshly made, and there was a shine to his chain. Details that made more sense to Lord Elmo as she continued, “Congratulations. When did it happen?”

Theyln’s eyes patterned between Elmo and Vittoria for a moment, before he decided it was safe enough to smile and indulge himself, “A month past.”

“WHAT?” She might have yelled it, but instead kept herself to a Citadel appropriate whisper. He all but blushed at her, “They made you wait that long?”

Theyln’s eyes danced into the air before coming back down to her, “It’s my fault, truly, Lady.”

“…was it Millin?” He shrugged, and nearly let a laugh past his smile to confirm it, “I’m not surprised. Archmaester Millin,” Vittoria began, leaning towards Elmo to explain, “is an Archmaester of the silver link—the healing arts. The nerves are an utter fascination to the man, and be damned the Acolyte who goes to test for his silver link that doesn’t seem as dedicated to the study as he has always been.”

“They really are waiting to see you. So many of them seem…anticipatory. What have you done?”

Vittoria Tyrell grinned, “Me? Tsk, you know of my innocent and obedient nature Theyln.”

“Ah, yes, the girl who was hiding in the library for three days before she was caught stealing food and sleeping in a restricted area she was small enough to sneak past the bars of.” His good nature laugh came again, easy, free.

“I was fine.”

“They couldn’t find the daughter of the Warden of the South!” He might have laughed harder, if not for the appearance of a man through a door to the back and right of the room that he seemed to sense, having a quick look back. An older man, of middling height but impressive broad, muscular, build and a set of robes that seemed a little darker than most.

“Good to see you, Theyln. And make sure you ask for an appointment within the Reach,” she reminded him, before she moved on to the older man, her lips reserved into what might have been a smile once, years ago, “This is—”

The older man just cut in, his voice deeper, gravel, tempered with time and age, “—Elmo, yes, we have heard. Did you bring it?”

“No.”

The man wore a ring of Valyrian steel, and regarded her carefully, as if her answer unlocked a chain reaction of thoughts and conclusions in his mind, “…smart.” Even his Maester chain, a mix of many various metals, was notable for two Valyrian steel links in the front center.

“What happened to the page I sent, Gerrick?”

His eyes flicked to Elmo, taking a quick measure of the man before the Archmaester dared to respond to the question of Lady Tyrell, “…they did what they always do. Talked a lot. Asked me to verify. How is something like that able to be verified? It seemed outrageous, but…well. Being what it is, of course it’s outrageous. Oh, but ho, worry not, after a fortnight they all agreed the handwriting was yours who did the copying. Where did you find it?”

“Saan, the pirate king, had it. When I went to Volantis, they asked about it.”

His dark blue eyes narrowed, just slightly, and he leaned in closer to her, “They?”

“Their dragonlord.”

His brows perked and one of his hands scratched, absently, at his three day old growth upon his chin. “The Balaerys boy?”

“Oh,” she began, eyes widening, “a boy no longer I assure you.”

He almost looked to frown at that, “We’ve heard. Great warrior, apparently. Poet, too. Not bad, if a little dark and morose for my tastes.”

“…I thought you loved dark and morose?”

He shrugged. “Go, meet with them before the Conclave comes to you. They’ll know you’re here. I will be behind you shortly. I will see Lord Elmo to the Seneschal. Anything I should know?” He asked, looking between them, a question posed to them both, as Vittoria turned and looked at Elmo, letting him take the lead now.
It was his life, after all.

The pale man studied the two Maetser and seemed to glance toward Vittoria’s reaction towards them. Friends of hers, allies, if he had a guess. Laying both hands on his cane, he inclined his head in acknowledgment to both Maesters. The younger of which seemed to have been here and studied with Vittoria. “Only that I am here to learn.” Elmo answered simply, his voice dry as he absently massaged his leg. He had lived with this leg for years, suffering through a few years at the Citadel to forge his chain would be nothing. “My Lady, your aid has been most generous but I fear I would only hinder the business you must attend.” He bowed to Vittoria, a cold smile on his lips and slightly warmer one in his eyes.

“Reach out should I be able to help, Elmo.”

It was the first time, ever, she had addressed him so simply, so informally, with a smile to match as she nodded to the Archmaester and moved past him, through the door in which he came, to face the Conclave of the Citadel and answer their inquiry about ancient Valyrian scrolls that laid out instructions on waking dragons from stone. When she was gone, Gerrick spoke to him, “You will be sore and exhausted from dawn to dusk. You will learn much, especially if you learn to stay silent unless asking a question. Everyone will think you Vittoria Tyrell’s man. Ignore it; it doesn’t matter, true or not. So, then, Novice Elmo…do try to keep up.”

Elmo grimaced and gave a cold smile. "Why Archmaester, that sounds like an average day amongst my family. Shall we continue on, rather than dwaddle here?" His dry and languid tone was in it's classic drawl, but his eyes were sharp as he gestured the man to lead on.

Tytan stomped through the camp, pushing past those who got in his way, with a bowl of warm soup in one hand and a piece of bread he was dipping in it in another. His bulk made it easy for him to see well over the head of nearly every man there, and the crested emblem of the Golden Rose pinned to his fur short cloak ensured he was not molested by anyone that didn’t matter to him, not that he would have paid them any mind should they have tried. He chewed his food thoughtfully as his mind worked. “If I was the richest, and most important sod in the realm, where would I park my ass?” he mumbled as he looked for the gaudiest and nicest tent he could find. He finished his food with little thought as he made his way closer and closer to the goal of his little lady.

He threw his hand over the shoulder of another member of the Golden Rose when he saw them, feeling the man shake in fright at the sudden action before realizing who had done so with a blanched expression. “What is it Tytan? What do you want?” he said, almost sounding depressed. “Come now you sod, why the tone? You should perk up, the flame burns blue and it means we are gonna be in for a spot of fun! Who knows you might actually get your blade wet this time! I jest of course.” he said as he slapped the man's front playfully, though driving the wind from him a bit in the effort. “Now. Why don’t you point me in the direction of our Little Lady and I can be on my way. I can only assume that with all that is going on she will have a few things to say and do and it is our place to see them done.” he said as the man complied with a nod of his head and pointed him in the direction of Captain Garin’s tent. He moved forward, and bid his compatriot good bye, tossing the empty bowl on a stack of such dining wear as he passed a campfire where some food was being served. The large red knight had begun his trek towards his lord, simply bowling people out of his way as they got close.

Stretching in the saddle during the ride to the camp with Den, Mina glanced down at her clothing for the day, wondering if her father and sister would approve. Gone was the lacy highborn lady’s dress, since inevitably and against her sister’s orders she’d ripped the confining skirts to free her legs up for better footwork during her spar against Godric Tarly last night. Now it was replaced by brown riding breeches, sturdy boots and a green and white doublet with matching cloak. Mina felt more free and comfortable than she had in days, and Godric Tarly was as much a part of that as her change in clothes.

They’d fought up and down the halls of Hightower in bursts for the rest of the evening, talking in between bouts. The fighting was fun, she had the bruises to prove it, but it was the talking that really surprised her. Nobody had ever talked to her like Godric did, with no half-hidden disapproval or weighty expectation of who she should be in his voice. Father looked at her and saw the lady he hoped to shape her into, Bertrand looked at her and saw a joke, even Vittoria looked at her and saw the sacrifices they’d both have to make for their House.When Godric looked at her, it felt like he just saw her! More than that, rather than mocking or scorning her he’d actually seemed to like her. It was new and different and made her smile in spite of the grim atmosphere of the morning.

Still, the camp coming into sight reminded her of the circumstances of the day and sunk her mood like a stone. Den had abruptly woken her and Garrett up and rushed them all out of the inn. As soon as they were out the door, dark rumors of war swirled and hung in the air like flies buzzing around a corpse, just one of the many signs confirming something rotten. The Hightower’s flame burned blue and they were calling their banners, that much she’ld confirmed with her own eyes. As to the why…well, she didn’t yet know. More troubling still, Den had said her father was here unexpectedly early at the head of an armed host of a thousand men and that Vitta was meeting with him and Captain Garin already.

Mina had only been in one battle, caught above decks when some pirates had attacked a ship of the Redwyne Fleet. But the tension in the air, waiting for that ship to close in on them with its sails on the horizon, it had felt a little bit like this morning. She shivered, grateful for the reassuring weight and slight jostle of the water dancer’s blade at her side balanced by the dirk on her other hip. She reined her horse in closer to a still bleary eyed Garrett protectively as they entered camp. Whatever father thought of her being armed, whatever was really going on, she’d be ready today and keep her family safe.

Vittoria wasn’t surprised that her father’s pavilion had already been raised, or that it seemed to tower over every other pavilion and tent in the camp that was suddenly much, much larger than it had been, and was getting larger—the hill they had placed her father on gave her enough view to see the literal army behind it that was in the process of putting up more tents, more pavilions, some starting fires, some digging for trenches and other uses.

Everything stopped when people began pointing up, and a shadow streaked across the camp in the form of wings. A Targaryen? It was the last thing they needed as she walked up to Davos and asked him if he invited them, pointing to the bluish and purple dragon that streaked overhead.

“Uh, no,” was his half-chuckled, half-serious answer.

She went to take a step before she nearly ran head first into the former Wilding. Was he a former Wilding? Could one ever be a former Wilding? Were they always a Wilding? The academic debate of the term quickly left her term as she looked up at the man, and stifled her own little laugh.

“Do pardon me, Ser. I don’t suppose you could go see about that dragon?” She said, pointing to the dragon that circled once, twice, and then again as it descended onto the field between the walls of Oldtown and the Tyrell camp. “Just escort them to my father, you can’t miss his pavilion.”

Tytan blinked once, looking over the leg of mutton he had in his hand. “Uh? Me? Talk to the big lizard?” he said as his eyes moved over to the others and flattened. “Yea Me. The others might piss themselves when they see the Iguana.” he said as he tossed the leg to a dog nearby. “As you command Little Miss.” he said as he rose up, picking his twin axes up off the log he had buried them in and holstered them behind him. He placed on his Red Skull Helm, and moved out with purpose. The massive Wildling practically growling already as he marched out to the open field, the area most likely for the dragon to land closest to the camp. He stood there and waited, one hand on the head of and axe, as his thumb dragged over it questioning what he first move should be. It was clear Vitt was not looking forward to this, granted her tone, so he would do his best to make this as ‘Amicable’ as he could. The thought twisting a grin on his hidden face.
“You look fun. You also look nothing like a Westeros Knight.”

Vaera Balarys was all leather and chainmail and attitude as she patted the dragon of bluish purple scale, or as the dragon twisted, coiling, it became purplish blue, and other times nearly all purple, and it’s other side all blue, as hues danced and dappled across the body of the great winged beast. Eyes of similar shades stared hard at the big man that was a tiny ant to the creature.
Before she stepped away from it, Vaera patted its nearest leg, chuckling, “Relax, Saeryx. They’re scared because of Targaryens, not us.”

Her sword looked near black as she unsheathed it from the saddle-bound sheath, transferring the bastard sword to her back with a dip of her head and a nearly amethyst glow from the blade as the sunlight of the morning struck it. The long dagger she put on her hip was similar, her long silverish blonde hair tossed behind her shoulder, and her lilac eyes back on the oversized man.
Cutting him up would be easy, she thought. Men like that never expect Valyrian steel to slice through their armor, their flesh, like a hot knife. They were arrogant. Fast, but almost never fast enough. She motioned with her head past him, to the camp beyond, not the city and its walls behind her.

“I’m Vaera of House Balaerys, ruling house of Volantis. I’m to be fetched to your lord, is it? It’s always the same, really, no matter what continent I’m on. Eh, let’s get it on with then, ‘Ser’,” she said the title in exaggeration, a not-so-subtle jape of a tone as her lips played with a wicked little smile. “Don’t worry about the dragon, it won’t move unless I don’t come back or someone threatens it.”
Neither she would suggest.

Tytan scoffed as he saw the same look in her eye, the one born of confidence and arrogance, then again he held the same look. He knew of the magic metal she held, he was not a fool and he had been here long enough to know better. “Meh, I don’t care who you are. The Little Miss said come get you, so I came to get you. I’d much rather be eating but what the little miss says, goes. So yea, come along then little lizard I am sure his rosy greatness will love to see you.” he said as he stepped aside and began to walk back not caring if she actually followed. Though he imagined she would if only to try and throw more barbs at him.

“You see when the little men see your big lizard flapping through the clouds, their wee balls shrivel up to their throats and they start pissing themselves and asking for their mothers. I am sure that has the Lord all giddy inside, as if some had walked up and started giving his cock a nice stroke I am sure.” he said with the same humor in his tone that she had. “But I am sure you will be fine, after all what will they do? You have the flying death trap waiting, so I imagine it will be a short conversation.” he said with a huff. “They get their conversation, I get my food, and they don’t all die to an angry lizard and their balls can finally vacate their throats. Win Win all around I say.” he said as he began walking up the path to the High Lord’s Tent.

Vaera grinned, “That what she is to you? A personalized pet name? That’s cute. Adorable. I’ve met her, we hosted her with a triumph in Volantis. Smart woman. Pair of teats on that woman, pretty face like that? I think I’d give her a personalized pet name, too.”
She shrugged, “They know I’m coming. I don’t tend to make a habit of surprising cities and towns with a dragon. Killed an old Master in Mereen when I did that as a younger woman, just had a heart attack at the sight of Saeryx on the horizon. They were plenty pissed, but fuck them—she was old and scared. Maybe don’t live in tall pyramids surrounded by slaves who’d sooner kill you than serve you if you’re terrified of dragons. Where are you from?”

“What are you staring at girl?” Vaera asked as they passed two children unmounting from horses.

Mina had just swung down off of her sand steed and paused to look at the dragon rider trailing Vitta’s Wildling.It seems the Valyrian took notice and offense, given her derisive tone. “A whore’s fake pearls in an iron clamshell, apparently.” She half-muttered in her best and rudest Low Valyrian. Then she helped Garrett down from his mount and started on her own way towards her father’s tent to present herself.

Tytan couldn’t help but stop and laugh at that, the sound like a war drum being beaten, as he turned to face her. His eyes staring into her own, “I like you. You have balls, bigger than most of the men here at least.” he said as he eyed her up and down. “Tiny thing like you, will have them quivering as much as your mount. I am Tytan, I am from the North and that is all your getting out of me until we share a few drinks.” he said as he slapped her shoulder once. “You can’t tell a person’s true nature until they have had a few cups.” he said as he grinned.

“But you are right, my little lady is a very beautiful woman. I am sure many a young man here has fantasied about her at least once in their time in the camp alone. And as bountiful as her chest may be, I find her Steel far more beautiful. A woman is no good if she has no fire! The best lovers, the best women, the best mothers to strong children. A strong woman, there is no better gift from the gods.” he said as he felt something stir inside him.

“Consider me crazy, but it is the dangerous women that have value. The rest are no different than the woman you find on the street. Common or Noble, they have no worth hiding behind the skirts of others. You have one life, fight to defend it, stand up for yourself alongside the men. Sword, Shield, Spear, Bow, it doesn’t matter. If your at threat, or those you love, you take up your weapon and you murder the fuck doing the threatening.” he said as he stopped by a fire and took another cut of meat. Taking his helmet off, and holding it beneath one arm as he turned to face her again as he ate. His fire red hair shining in the sun, as his black eyes glowed in the firelight like smoldering coals. “Forgive me then, Little Dragon.” he said as he discarded the lizard title, out of respect. Resuming his trek as he ate, he spoke again. “I tend to ramble when I am stoked up.” he let out with a chuckle.

Vaera found herself chuckling, “I hate boring. And boring people, men or women, aren’t worth the fuck. They’re barely worth a blade. Enjoy your meal, find me after this and we’ll have that drink.”

It was a promise, and she tended to keep those whenever possible. The Lord’s pavilion was an obvious thing; wide, tall, green with the Golden Rose she’d seen Vittoria Tyrell wear so prominently when the woman had come to visit Volantis.

Guards stepped up, flanking the entrance, telling her to stop and relinquish her weapons. Vaera just stared, until another voice cut in, one from behind them—the pretty girl with the pretty chest, herself, Vittoria Tyrell.

“She can keep them. Hello, Vaera. A pleasant surprise after seeing a dragon overhead.”

Vera just grinned all the wider. Gods, I’d have fun with that… Only a moment’s pause for the thought, and her head bowed just a notch, “Lady Vittoria,” she started, stealing a sharp glance to either guardsman before moving forward and into the oversized tent with the woman, “you should lose the armor more.”

“Why’s that, Vaera?”

”More fun that way. For me, anyway,” she said, adding a little shrug as she looked around. Pelts and rugs covered the floor, braziers to keep away chills, she didn’t see a bed but saw several off-branching sections hidden by green canvas curtains, meaning it was probably hidden off in one of those nooks. A long table was on either side, with a wide and empty path from the front to the back, where the main pole of the pavilion was, and past the pole, nearly at the back, where the big chair was.
Where he sat, talking to Knights and Maesters huddled about him like pets.

Vittoria laughed out loud, eyes wide in some level of shock. “I’d forgotten just how direct you can be, Vaera. Are you here to see my father?”

“Came for the Citadel, but saw the camp, saw the banner. Had to say hello…and no worries on having forgotten, Lady Vittoria, I’m always happy to offer a refresher,” Vaera said, smiling, turning her eyes to stare at Vittoria’s big, pretty, brown eyes.
That Lady Vittoria blushed was enough to make the trip down south all worth it. “How is your brother?”

“Eh,” again, Vaera shrugged, “Overburdened by his own mind and emotions. Seems to have taken to that prick Maegor. I think he’s headed to Westeros, himself, maybe with Maegor. Who the fuck is that?”

Vaera motioned to the man that kept stealing glances of Vittoria and Vaera, even as he talked to a few others. Vittoria looked back at the man, and back to Vaera, smiling that certain kind of smile. The smile was enough for Vaera to groan, “Him? Ugh…I’ll have to congratulate him.”

“Be nice, Vaera,” despite herself, Vittoria grinned.

Vaera Balaerys looked utterly wounded, “My Lady, I will always be nice to you.”

“Lord Baratheon, too.”

Vaera’s eyes half-rolled, as if some great thing had been demanded of her by the Ardent Maiden, “Gods, sweet woman, you are demanding. No wonder you’re good at what you do…fine, fine. If I behave, can I come visit you later?”

Vittoria Tyrell laughed, and nodded, “Of course, Vaera, I’m always here for your stories.”

It wasn’t just stories that Vaera had in mind, this time, but it also wasn’t ripping the laces off that woman’s bodice and shoving her on a bed, either. Instead, Vaera had more serious things on her mind. Westeros, for one, and dragons, for another.

"That's my father, and brother now, I suppose." Davos corrected with a grin as he drew closer, managing to shed the various hangers on who seemed utterly enthralled with the ides that he was among them, although mostly in a negative sense. It was strange, he imagine for anyone, to hear the term Lord Baratheon and not think of his father. He was more than family to Davos, a near mythological figure, almost of equal renown to the Conquerors themselves, and a little less contentious in some circles. He doubted his brother felt differently, but he hid any sense of inadequacy well. "Davos will do just fine." The Valyrian woman was certainly a firebrand, in more of the literal sense than usual, an intensity of rebellious energy among the orderly and affluent Tyrell camp, a thought which provoked Davos's next words to Vittoria.
"Do you think someone should let your father know that to go camping you aren't supposed to bring your castle with you?" It was a lighthearted murmur of words, kept low, but despite the jest there was a real sense of concern to his voice. When dragons were about, marking yourself out by the largest pile of kindling seemed less prudent than perhaps it once was. That, and his own father would have laughed as the ostentation, but he kept such words to himself.

“It’s all power projection,” was all Vaera commented about the affair.

Vittoria took a different approach, “Different culture, different expectations. My father rules more smallfolk and banner lords than anyone other than the royal house. It’s a lot of a lot, and he’s always taken a very active, direct, hand in it all, despite all the stewards and maesters and septons hover about him constantly.”

There were times she understood Bertie, because there were times it was as if their own father was too busy for them.

Mina had entered the tent and was waiting for a good time to approach Vittoria and their Lord Father, though for now she just watched and listened as the different interactions played out. She couldn’t help rolling her eyes at the way the acidic Valryian woman seemed to act much more warmly towards her older sister, and note Vitta’s body language in kind. Another on the list of those apparently flirting with Highgarden’s steel rose, though Mina doubted she’d ever understand the point of it all. Seeing her opportunity, she slipped into the little group with a little flourish of her cloak to show off the Braavosi blade and dagger at her waist.

“In my experience, all you have to do to get the maesters and septons away from Father and grab his attention is sing a few bars of ‘Her Little Flower’ in public. I can demonstrate, if you like!” She grinned, rather pleased with herself over not having to act quite so demure as she did last night. She glanced at Vitta and Vaera and arched an eyebrow. “Will you introduce me? We met briefly outside but as usual it seems you know everyone already. Also, what is it we’re all doing here? All of Oldtown’s in an uproar.”

Vittoria lips curved in amusement, “Of course, La—”

The hand of Vaera Balaerys touched Vittoria’s unarmored shoulders with a quickness as the Valyrian woman stepped forward in the small space within their little circle. The act both silenced Vittoria, and made Vaera the sole focus of the moment with her step towards Mina. Vaera’s lilac eyes held the intensity of dragonfire in the moment, and though she was a shade shorter than Vittoria, it turned her into a giant of the moment.

“Introduce yourself, girl. Would you like an example? Very well: I am Vaera, of House Balaerys, one of the last scions of the Freehold. I offer no title or rank, for I NEED. NONE. I am a dragonrider, warrior, and adventurer….do you like the clamshell now?”
It wasn’t until the very end that Vaera let the grin slip on her lips.

Mina grinned back, truthfully more than impressed and enjoying the boast and the acknowledgement of her earlier insult. Though, if she were being challenged to introduce herself as well…

“I am Mina, of House Tyrell. I shuck clams and kill pirates off the coast of the Arbor in my spare time, My lady.”

“That’s a lady,” Vaera said, jabbing her thumb in the direction of Vittoria, “you would do well to learn the difference.”
“AT LEAST ON THAT WE CAN AGREE,” the shout came from the high chair flanked by men at arms in mail, the Knight of Ambrose, Ser Aldon Ambrose, an impressive figure in armor under the sigil of his house, standing just off to the side as septons, maesters, and stewards filed out past the assembled group. The loud boom of a voice came from the man atop the high chair, dressed in dark green leather, dagger at his hip—the dagger of the Order of the Golden Rose. His brown eyes took them all in, but when his eyes hit Vittoria and Mina…he finally broke into a smile.

“Lord Manfred armed you? Gods forgive him.” A short chorus of chuckles came from the assembled men-at-arms and lords and knights along the two long tables, and standing about the pavilion. “We are here, daughter, because the banners of the Reach have been called. The King is dead, his heir, Prince Aegon, is dead. There is no word from Dragonstone. Lords Rowan and Oakheart have decided to call banners for the defense of the Faith, I am told without my leave, or the leave of the High Marshall of the Reach.”

Dennet and Godric Tarly entered just then, Theo Tyrell’s eyes looking past the assembled group in the center at the sight of them, “Ah, good. Let us do this.”

“LADY MINA, LORD GODRIC, APPROACH,” came the command from Ser Ambrose.

Ser Dennet Tarly trailed Godric, as Vittoria nudged at Mina as their little group broke into a line, all facing the Lord Paramount of the Reach.

Mina half-stumbled at Vittoria’s nudging and approached her father, using her green cloak to approximate an awkward curtsey, eyes down, waiting and wondering what this was all about, her mind already reeling from the news her father had given her. Were they in trouble for sparring at the Hightower party?

“Dennet, I have received your father’s raven. You represent him here, now?”

Ser Dennet stood tall, proud, and serious as he nodded, “I do, my Lord.”

“Good,” Theo Tyrell said with the force and quickness of a man officially sealing a deal already agreed upon, “I am honored to receive the request by Lord Sam of House Tarly of Lord Godric of House Tarly for the hand of my daughter, Lady Mina, in marriage. With the authority granted in myself, Lord Theo Tyrell of Highgarden, by the Royal House of Targaryen, under the eyes of the Seven and men alike, I declare you both betrothed.”

Lord Dennet was the first to shout in celebration, even as Vittoria gave a cheerful whistle and excitedly squeezed the shoulder of her younger sister. Lord Godric a sturdy squire with a handsome, boyish face under a wild mop of dark brown hair, on the strong frame of a young man given to the barest hint of blush as he nodded and accepted the strong handshake of his eldest brother, before turning to Mina amongst the cheers all around. “We will fight together, Mina, until our last days, I swear to you.”

As soon as the word ‘betrothed’ left her father’s lips, Mina’s world suddenly started to spin. Not out of horror, in fact her own lack of horror was the cause. Betrothed to Godric! Godric, who saw her for herself, who just now was promising to fight together with her, not sit her at home dying of boredom.

All her life, she had expected to have to struggle against whatever husband life forced on her, give up who she was and what she wanted for her duty to house Tyrell, like Vittoria and her mother had both told her. She’d been braced for it, pushing against it, dreading it. Now that was gone, and like anyone who’d been pushing against a force that suddenly wasn’t there, she almost fell flat on her face from sheer shock. Vittoria’s hand on her shoulder steadied her and instead of fainting, she did something even rarer: The Thistle of Highgarden blushed bright red like the maid she was. She took Godric’s hand and smiled at him, almost shyly for a change rather than her usual cocky, troublemaking grin. “Right. Together for the rest of our days. I…Thank you, Godric. Truly.”

Mina was spun, fast, with force, coming face to face with the person with the strong hands that took her shoulders and spun her about: Lord Theo Tyrell smiled, wide, and hugged his youngest daughter tighter than he ever had before in her entire life. To break the embrace, Theo held her just a foot apart, just enough to look at her, “I am proud of you, Mina, truly I am. Congratulations.”

His hands patted at her shoulder once more, before releasing her back to his right, to Godric, even as his smile seemed to fade as he found himself face to face, now, with his eldest daughter. Vittoria felt her heart nearly stop, her breath slow, deep, in a breath to steady her nerves. Cheers had died down, and silence seemed to reign as Lord Theo moved his eyes from Vittoria, to Davos.

“Lord Davos of House Baratheon, I’ve no word from the Lord of Storm’s End on your purpose in the Reach. Why is that?”

Davos somewhat booming laugh, as he congratulated the newly betrothed, finally stilled as he was addressed, the long height of the man straightening as Lord Tyrell made suit to notice him.

"Well, if they'd have known I was coming, they wouldn't have let me in, my Lord." Davos spoke with the careful combination of proper respect and irreverence that his father had tutored him in from a young age.

You are the Conqueror's blood boy, don't let them forget it, but even Aegon had manners.

Without much flourish, Davos retrieved a letter from the inner chest pocket of his outerwear, pausing for a moment as he studied it, as he had many times on his journey over. He was often a man to give pause to words on paper, but few had meant such import to him, even as chaos seemed to sweep the realm. When did it not? Waiting for calm would be akin to trying to command the waters of Shipbreaker Bay.

It felt like a long moment for the Baratheon, but truly he barely hesitated, handing the letter, sealed with mark of the Crowned Stag, over the Lord Tyrell.

"I wish to wed your daughter, you'll find my brother's permission and request there, full of all the good reasons as to why our Houses should be joined." He stepped back away as soon as the missive was passed over, giving a look towards Godric as if to say 'don't worry, not your one.'

His attention turned swiftly to Vittoria, a smaller, gentler smile than normal, but one brimming with just as much emotion. "My own reasons are rather more selfish, and had she not been too busy making heroes of men who did little but watch her work, I'd have done so far sooner." He paused once more, before addressing Lord Tyrell once more, "Fear not, I'm sure she'll steer us through whatever dire portents lay ahead of us no matter what cloak she's wearing."

Vittoria stood straighter than a dagger, hands clasped together in a tense, nervous, moment. Lord Theo regarded Davos with a look, and though Ser Aldon moved to take the letter for the Lord Paramount of the Reach, Theo signaled with a half raised palm for the Knight to stand down, taking the letter himself.

I should’ve made sure this was done in private. Her father was different behind closed doors than he was in public, officious, moments such as this one. He would’ve taken the unusual way House Baratheon went about the marriage alliance better in private, she told herself.

Theo raised his eyes to Davos from the delivered parchment at the comment of being unlikely to be let in, his tone drier than before, “perhaps that makes two of us, Lord Davos.” He then turned and made steps back to his seat, reading through the document handed to him as he went, though once Davos broached the issue of the cloak she may wear, Theo turned once more, eyes straight on his eldest daughter, his tone as serious as it could ever be, “You understand what happens once those vows are made, girl?”
She nodded, slowly, “Yes, my Lord.”

His gaze lingered for a few beats of her heart, and then turned back to Ser Aldon, handing him the parchment, “Very well.”
Vittoria’s breathed deep, a mix of relief and tension, as she felt a hand on her back and turned to see Vaera, nodding at her. Back to his seat, Theo motioned to the Valyrian woman, “Vaera of House Balaerys of Volantis, as expected, will you stay the evening with us at our camp?”

Vaera gave a nod, as respectful and polite as she had ever looked in her life, “Of course, Lord Theo. I had hoped to speak with you in private.”

“So you shall,” Theo nodded back, before looking to Ser Aldon, “are we done?” Ser Aldon said something quiet enough to only be heard by Theo, something that made the Lord of Highgarden go ‘ahh’ and nod a few times, “Yes, thank you. Friends, thank you for coming. Food and feast and music at the long pavilion across from here, please enjoy. Would my daughters stay? Lords Davos and Dennet, you both as well.”
Godric gave Mina a smile that was far too big before he pulled himself away. Vaera left a grin for Vittoria along with a graceful tiny bow, before emptying out with the rest, striking up conversation with Godric about the quality of ale to expect. It wasn’t until they were all gone that Theo, back on his seat but leaning forward, elbows on thighs, spoke again.

“This duel is madness. We’ve talked to both men?” Dennet and Vittoria both responded that they had, to which Theo simply shook his head,

“The best we can hope, then. The squire is recovering?”

“He will recover in full, my Lord,” Dennet reported.

Theo seemed content with that news, at least, “Mina, the daughter of this Captain Garin…Ryalla?” He said, unsure of the name, looking to Vittoria for confirmation which she gave with a nod before he continued, “She will be a Lady in Waiting for you as of today. You will both dress as Ladies and act according when expected, but otherwise you both will train together, and she will likewise act as a bodyguard for you. We’re taking in the rest his family to Highgarden?”

“His wife, Martella, and their littlest, Myrna.”

Theo gave absent nods, “Very well. Get your people out of Oldtown. Before sundown.”

“Already ordered, my Lord,” Vittoria informed him, much to his apparent satisfaction. “I must deliver someone to the Citadel, but after
that I shall head straight to the inns. Lord Thaddeus is already rounding up those at the Rose Garden.”

“And we know why Vaera is here? Besides scaring our camp with her dragon? Her message spoke of her desire to visit the Citadel, is this all of it?”

Vittoria hesitated, as someone might if they’d rather not speak of a subject before other sets of eyes, “There is more to it…”
Theo’s lips pressed together and brows raised, but he let it be for now, “Later, then. We will meet for council at sunset. Lord Davos, we will, the three of us, speak more upon your return. Let us make this an easy day, all of you…okay, Aldon, let’s go.”

It was then Septon Pater snaked his way through the small crowd to Mina, “Lady Mina, could you do me a great favor? One of our newest lads, Dake, asked to see Lady Vittoria again before they depart the area, and she has graciously agreed. Could you retrieve him from the Sept close to the Rose Garden?”

Mina had let go of Godric’s hand reluctantly, but now kept her eyes down again as her father explained the situation to her. Though this time rather than just hiding her anxiety, it was also so he couldn’t see her excitement. In fact she had to dig her nails into her palms to look suitably pained. True, this new order to act and dress like a lady when appropriate was…restricting. But Rylla was Captain Garin’s daughter, the Dornish girl who’d beaten that squire, wasn’t she? She was going to teach Mina to fight! Not just daggers and water dancing, but the Dornish style of combat that had vexed her family and aided her sister! Besides, this was someone her own age and, judging by the way she’d put that squire in his place, maybe even similar to her? The extra restrictions her father had placed on her might just be worth it!

Mina glanced back up as Septon Pater addressed her. “I…well…yes Septon of course.” She was a little disappointed at being denied her chance to see the duel everyone had been talking about, but after all the good news she’d received today so far, she was practically floating. Besides, if she hurried up and fetched this Dake boy, maybe she’d get to see the tail end of the duel after all. She took her opportunity to dash out of the tent, pausing only to squeeze Vitta’s hand and whisper a congratulations to her before running out at full speed, grateful she’d chosen boots and trousers today and wistfully thinking that she’d miss being able to wear them whenever she liked after this.

Kings Landing

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The Flame of Lys started to straighten up her room. Leandra never let anyone else clean her room. She paid the girls to clean the other’s rooms that couldn’t afford it and kept a running tally for the girls so that they could pay her as they saw fit. There wasn’t much that needed cleaning besides her person and as she left her room she caught one of the girls. “Can you please run me a bath Mya?”

The slim girl nodded grinning. “The lordling sounded like he enjoyed himself.”

“Yes, more than once. Though if you ask me he was a bit selfish." Leandra smirked.

Mya blinked. “Really?”

Leandra shrugged. “Some are like that. When I come out weak kneed is when I’ll cut my prices if the man, or woman, returns." Mya laughed as Leandra waggled her eyebrows moving past her.

“Never seen you like that Lys." Mya commented with confusion.

“Exactly." Leandra looked over her shoulder and smiled as she walked to the stairs. Past the stairs was a common room where things that did not have to be hidden happened. Though that skirted propriety more often than not.

Unlocking and opening the front door Leandra leaned against the threshold and looked around. Kings Landing was the start of a massive city that, at times, she wanted to beat sense into those who decided to put a stick in the ass end of a drunk horse to mark the streets. The crowd had thankfully dispersed. Likely because the spectacle was over.

He was half awake when it moved. Just a click, when he went for the bottle at the top that said ‘pickled yams’ upon the neatly scrawled label. Was he drunk? Yes. Did he remember how drunk? No. ‘How drunk’ just happened to be Serenna of Duskendale drunk, and that had been at least a bottle and a nap ago. When he woke up, still drunk, all that mattered was singing with the Tyrell guardsmen out front to the sun above.

When was there sun? When was the sun? “WHAT IS THE SUN!?........why is there a fucking door here?”
He’d stared at it for time. How much time was to be debatable, but the point beyond contestation was the point of steel he held with the overhand grip within his right perfectly soft, supple, gloved hand. The bottle wasn’t a mistake, it was a confluence of fate and randomness, a true juxtaposition between what was and was could have been.

Did he always pick that bottle? Was it really random? Was anything random? Did any of them have a say in what happened in their life, were they simply mummer’s puppets on the ends of a string? The tip of the sword proved to him the door was real. Dust, cobwebs. “Why, hello…you have not been used in a very long time…”

The destination was infinite. A great expanse of the higher mysteries that echoed with the sole of his leather boots and the swish and swoosh of his dark green trousers as he walked through the hidden vaults between what he believed, and what he saw. These were the thoughts that kept Lord Bertrand of House Tyrell up through the night into the day and back past twilight, second star down.
“Are we reborn? Are we reborn into the same life?...how many times have I picked that bottle? How many times has it opened?”

His head tilted, eyes sharper, narrowed, in focus. There was only darkness, like a room with no door, no windows. On either side was stone, though of what luster, banding, layering, and grain size his other ungloved hand seemed to simply sputter at. There was no satiation of the underpinning unknown until he arrived at the threshold of light.

It was there, in that gentle glow of the ghastly guise that guided him that he saw it. Dangling, noiseless, entombed in dust but as tangible and functional as his own flesh and sinew ever were, in darkness or in light. The decision to take it, to feel it’s rusty ring, to yank upon it with the strength of equal parts fear and fearlessness…so it gave him the mirror of the sound that had begun the journey through what he could not, did not know, and where he was now.

The steel tip of that blade once more thrusted out, but to this end, it took more power than before. Wherein the scattered, dark, unvisited basement of the House Tyrell manse there was little but broken furniture and empty wooden barrels and a wall of shelves littered with bottles of various potent potions and picked parts, there was greater resistance here.

Here, at the end, or the beginning, were it up to fate.

Or up to him.

He stepped lightly, blade out, arm ready, mind stiffened for the great climax of conflict! HE WAS READY NOW! FOR THE BEAST, FOR THE BURDENSOME WRAITH!...but there was nothing here, he saw, blade ‘clanking’ about the stone floor of what…just a…
“It’s just another fucking basement.”

The basement door of the establishment erupted, and out of it like a man from the grave with heart and mind asunder Bertrand Tyrell entered the short hall that led to the common area of—

“—wait a fucking…I’ve been here before," he stated in confusion, puzzlement upon his fine, dark, sharp handsome features and parted mid-length dark brown hair. The very first person he saw, the tip of the blade came to point at, his eyes bubbling brown in intensity and the very hasty threat of violence. “YOU! Why does my door have your door…on the other side of the…with the chain…..”

The sword fell again, as he turned this way, that way, and back again, head cocked, “…what the fuck?”
The commotion of a muffled bellow in only semi-intelligible words turned Leandra's attention to her storeroom, cellar really. She went to investigate and a very, very intoxicated man stepped out brandishing a sword which was currently pointed at herself. He turned and Leandra shooed Mya back down the hall with a jerk of her head. “Good day my lord. Unfortunately I do not have any idea what you are talking about. Please put your weapon away and I would be happy to see what I can do to clear up your issue. After all, what chance can a young woman like myself, unarmed, and in no way martially educated have against a fine specimen of manhood even if you were to sheathe your sword?”

The slight accent made the words huskier than normal. Seductive to the ear. Her lips turned up at the corners ever so slightly as Leandra gracefully indicated with fluid gestures his sword, scabbard and person. She tilted her head and looked him up then down and tapped her cherry red lips waiting on him to put the sword away. She found that baiting men with honor separated them into two categories. Boring and dangerous or; interesting and dangerous. She had yet to see which one this man was.
“...day?”

The very idea of daylight, of just what state creation outside the walls were, seemed to give him a pause of confusion—if only for the precious few beats of a heart. Immediately thereafter, his eyes refocused and his head set in the direction of the woman who challenged him so publicly. Not him in the sense of the man that he was, but him in the sense of who he was, and the twist of irony and presupposition.
At her, this unnamed woman, his eyes narrowed, pride and love for the person some part of him hated more than any other bubbling to a surface, even as doubt and anger slithered beneath his skin, “The most dangerous woman in the Realm can’t swing a sword to save her life, do not play at that feint, for I will not succumb to it’s temptations.”

That secret, the one that burned through his veins like a sickness, that hollowed his heart whole, came to him as he carefully crossed the distance between them, blade still down by his side as he came closer, and closer, smelling like a drunken man recently doused in a fresh bath of rose water. Closer he came still, until there was not the possibility of anyone, or anything, else in all creation hearing what secret burst from him in that shaky whisper, “...they’re my little sister."

His hand became a steel trap upon her nearest upper arm, taking possession of her with the utmost of courtesy, “Apologies, nameless lady, but we must take this to the very center of the matter at hand," he said, even as his brown eyes scanned the room around, looking at the faces of uncertain women and a few men who looked poised, but ultimately did not chance the dice of destiny with her safety.

The cellar door closed behind him, as he ushered her firmly, but unroughly, down the stairs and to the same sort of shelf filled with dusty old bottles that was mirrored in the cellar of the fortified Tyrell Manse from which he had begun his journey through intoxication and mystery. He pointed, with the non-sword hand, at the open heavy door disguised as a shelf. “You’re lyingggggggggg," he said, his voice a sing-song of playfulness over an undertone of pure intensity, bordering on real anger. “The truth," he stated, in open demand, before his body forced out a deep breath, an exhale of intoxicants and a long blink of his eyes as his mind tripped from the haze only to find its feet again, to refocus on the woman, to come back to the purpose at play, and his read of the woman before him, thinking to add, “Please.”

The shaky whisper raised the hairs on Leandra’s neck. Danger sense was inherent in her profession if a fallen woman wanted to stay alive, and normally men do not like scars on their whores. The men that did were either Ironborn, Northmen or deadly, sometimes all three. This man, this man was either a guard or - hopefully not - part of Lady Vittoria’s family.

The odd way that he "escorted" her made Leandra think he truly just wanted some answers from her. The fortune that she thought to have smiled down on her by seeing the dragon and the argument. Finally having something to report other than the Faith and their grumbles. Which had been getting louder. Not something someone in her line of work could afford to ignore. The Faith were dangerous either before or after they had sated their worldly appetites and unless you were paying or fucking a guard then you stayed out of the way.

The fact that he had called Leandra a lady had raised her eyebrow and kept her silent. He really does not know or perhaps the drink impaired his vision in some way?

He did not force her unkindly through the tunnel that led to the Tyrell Manse revealing more of his drunkenness in the sing-song way he accused her of lying and demanded the truth from her. "Forgive my ignorance and impertinent questions but how are you gauging the truth? I do not wish to start off on the wrong foot and lose more than my morning."

“I’ll see the truth, as clearly as I see you dodging it." His head tilted, everything about the man’s body and face sharpened close enough to the degree of the sharpness of the short sword that he now raised into the air, towards her. “No more lies. No more half truth. I am Lord Bertrand of House Tyrell, future Lord Paramount of the Reach—you will answer my question, or your life will never be the same again, one way or another.”

His eyes darkened, his jaw set, and that blade never moved, tight and accurate as if it was an extension of his body, from mind to shoulder to forearm to hand to tip of that steel blade, it couldn’t have been more clear how comfortable and capable he was with the weapon. “...why is there a tunnel from my manse to your brothel, my Lady? What does my sister, Vittoria, have to do with it?”

He didn’t have to know, to know it in his bones. Vittoria was always ahead of him. Vittoria was always the one with the answer. She was always their father’s favorite.

Leandra dipped into a curtsey that would have done a court lady proud. “My apologies, Lord Bertrand of House Tyrell." She rose from her curtsey. “I find myself in a singular position of you having more information than I do. I did not know that the Lady in question had anything to do with it. I confess I had thought it was a smuggling tunnel or perhaps something more… salacious in nature. I have never personally been through the other door and thought we had secured it quite well. I stand corrected. I can only guess why it was originally created for if you notice I am not quite old enough to know the exact reason."
Bertrand Tyrell cocked his head to the side, and blinked at her in casual confusion, “…why would you apologize? You’re not the one holding the blade.”

And so it lowered, that steel, as he looked at her one last time. This woman who so clearly was part of a ‘we’ with his sister, he only nodded to, muttered an apology even as he moved past her, back into the tunnel of darkness, pulling the hidden door shut behind him, sadly, and leaving.

Perplexed by his sudden retreat, Leandra considered her position. As much as she was moved Leandra, The Flame of Lys, knew who buttered her bread. Lady Vittoria. She would die before that confidence was betrayed, even to the Maiden’s brother. She bit her lip and turned away, then back again. Walking into the darkness she made to open the door Bertrand had just closed.

Reaching for the door her hand stilled. Leandra was not going to give Vittoria away but she could at least assure the Lord Paramount of the Reach that the tunnel was not used for nefarious purposes. No. To answer more deeply will invite more questions. Prudence is the better part of valor in this case. Dropping her hand Leandra turned and walked away moving silently.

Shaking her head she headed for the upstairs so that Mya did not panic.