Kings Landing

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The Flame had covered her distinctive hair with a deep brown shawl securely tucked in and tied down so that it didn’t fall and she didn’t have to clutch it to keep it on. The dust brown homespun dress was unassuming and the only thing that would set her apart would be the fact that she was clean. A left over from being a former slave she had the compulsion to be clean.

Carrying food and some clothes that looked like they were made for children The Flame rounded a corner and ducked into an alley. The noise from the Sept was like a dull roar in the alley. One could almost ignore it. Maegor fought seven of the Faith today. She supposed that it was a momentous occasion. Truly she didn’t care unless Maegor purged Kings Landing of her ilk then she would worry. Men that didn’t realize that services she provided and the wheels she turned would stop once she was gone were stupid and didn’t deserve loyalty. The Faith liked to think that men’s base nature could be wiped clean. History proved that wrong. This alley proved that wrong. “Finch? Wren?”

The Flame called out. They were two of the older children that lived down here and ran the streets. When she had learned that they were here and not living with their parents; either because the parents couldn’t provide or didn’t want them, she had started coming down here to give them what she could. She was normally here every other day and sometimes daily multiple times.

There was movement in the shadows and two slight almost tiny figures materialized; defiant and eyes darting. “Shouldn’t be here, miss. Things goin’ on not good.”

Finch and Wren were twins that ran the group of urchins, or they were outspoken enough that they got the point across easily. They'd been meeting with The Flame for at least a year now. Prior to them a bold boy had been her contact. She handed over the basket easily and one of the two scuttled away quickly and for the most part silently.

From a corner of the alley, another girl trailed after the twin with the basket, waiting for an opportune moment to sneak a peek at its contents. She was wiry and covered by a roughspun and ragged traveling cloak and had a hunted look about her. “Hey, what’d the posh lady bring?”

“What she normally brings unless we ask for different things. Bread, dried fruit, dried meat, some clothes and shoes for the babies.” Wren dug around in the basket. “What, you want something fancy?”

The girl shrugged, tugging absentmindedly on a length of cord wrapped around one arm and glancing at her feet. “Nah, beats rats n’ pigeons is all.” She scampered back toward The Flame, eyeing her up and down. “I see you comin’ here all the time, Lady. S’not just out of the goodness of your heart, is it? You got an angle?”

The new child raised The Flame's eyebrows. “And what might that be? I can't care that children are fed and clothed? Some of if not most of these children are here because I turned a man away from my establishment. Why shouldn't I help?” Leaning back The Flame looked over at the newcomer as she waited.

The new girl tilted her head at the Flame. “Could be, but it’d be a first for this city if that’s the only reason. Been watching you. You’re always clean, like the grime can’t touch ya.” She displayed her own ragged cloak and matted brown hair, the bruises on her cheek and knuckles. “You dress rough when you’re here, but you smell like scented lye-soap and for some reason you always cover your hair. You always come in person, so it can’t just be that you wanna hide your kindly acts from someone or not risk mugging in a bad part of town, you could prolly send someone. ‘sides, it’s always Wren n’ Finch come pick up the baskets. Never any of the other kids. N’ always just one brings it back and the other stays.” She glanced meaningfully over at Finch as she said it. “So, I think you do got an angle. I want in.”

A nod from The Flame at the words of the urchin. “So you're observant. To run with this crowd you’d have to be. I’m clean because I don’t like to be dirty and I have the option of washing daily.” She ticked off her reasons on her fingers. “I cover my hair because it’s recognizable. I come in person because I don’t trust others easily and shockingly,” The last part she stressed being overly sarcastic. “The little birds Finch, Wren, Magpie, Sparrow, Lark, Robin; you get the point. Well they’re all ignored and are everywhere. They tell me things that I like to know. Even if they didn’t I’d still make sure that they were fed and clothed. Only decent thing to do.”

As The Flame finally admitted what the young girl suspected, a wide grin broke across her face. “I knew it! So, can I watch for you, Lady? I’m observant like you said, I can even read lips and I guarantee I’m lighter on my feet than any two of your other birds put together. I even caught a nesting treecat kit once, before I came to the Landing.” The girl’s eyes, formerly wary and anxious, glittered with enthusiasm.

The Flame smiled at the younglings' excitement. “I’d never turn down another bird. Now let’s see…what to call you?” She tapped her lip thoughtfully.

The girl’s expression turned serious once again and she clenched her fists until they went white underneath her bruised knuckles. “Shrike. Call me Shrike. If I have to be a songbird, it’s best I’m one that doesn’t mind thorns or blood. Especially in this city.” Her eyes still gleamed, but there was a hardness there, a coldness. She tugged tight the length of cord around her arm again, her weight shifting from one foot to another, restless.

The Flame noted the suppressed temper and the sharpness of the youngling. “Shrike it is.” Turning to Finch she ruffled the little one’s head. “I’m glad you came along Shrike. The twins are still a little young to be running things. You however… maybe on the scrawny side but you’re older. Not planning on taking the easy way out on your back are ya? Can’t have that.”

The girl pressed her legs together slightly even while standing and made a face like she’d just tasted something sour. “Y’mean whorin’? I won’t. Not yet, ain’t starvin’ yet. Would rather stay in the gutter n’ catch rats n’ pigeons for a pot o’ brown.” Her guttersnipe accent seemed to come and go slightly, and were her boots a little too new under that mud and scuffing? “But this, I can do Lady! I can do it better too! I know ways of seeing and moving, and I’m damn good with a knife and a sling.” She flicked the cord unwrapped from her arm to reveal the improvised weapon. “I can teach the other kids, keep ‘em safe, maybe more!”

“I do mean whorin’ as you put it. I can understand not wanting to be in that situation. I’d rather be a hardworking servant than what I am. No use crying over it when its already done.” She smirked when Shrike called her Lady.

“Not Lady Shrike.” Finch chimed in. “We call her Sissy, or Miss.”

“That way you can’t accidently give my real name and I can’t give yours.” The Flame nodded at Finch. “And it all sounds natural. No one questions it. Been this way for going on five years. Right Finch?”

Finch nodded and reached out to touch Sissy’s cheek with affection. Sissy smiled lovingly at the little urchin. “Well Shrike sounds like we have an understanding. If you need anything leave a note for me at the Sheath and Dagger. Finch go with Wren.” Finch scampered off and The Flame watched as they giggled over a piece of bread that looked like animals. She had a girl in the kitchen that made the bread into animal shapes for the little ones.

Turning to Shrike and staring silently she waited for the silence to intimidate. Looking over the urchin there were little things that didn’t add up. The little snipe was going in and out of the accent. Barely but it was there. She stared not moving and silently waiting in anticipation.

‘Shrike’ stared back at the woman, unmoving, her chin stuck out defiantly and her fists balled up and white-knuckled again. “You just admitted to being a spymaster, Miss.” All trace of the accent was gone, a bit of icy refinement even slipping in to take its place “I’m not telling you more until I know my secrets won’t get whispered to the wrong ears by some little bird later. I’m not living with urchins in a Flea Bottom back alley for the fun of it, I’ve got reasons to be here and reasons for hiding.”

“And who would believe you that I was a spy? And if they did then every child in Kings Landing would be marched into the sea. Then whose fault would that be, humm? Your secrets and reasons are yours till you wish to share them. Or run from them.” The Flame shrugged then pointedly looked back at Shrike. “The point is that silence can get you the upper hand. Lesson one. Lesson two. Work on your disguise.”

Pushing off the wall The Flame looked out of the alley into the sunshine of late morning early afternoon. She looked back at Shrike. “Never and I mean never compromise what is hidden deep in you Shrike. Keep that forever yours and you will always be you.”

Shrike nodded, absorbing the lecture. “Like I said, I can run things for you. Even better than Finch and Wren. I’ll help with your secrets. There’s a lot I can learn from you Miss, I think.” And, Shrike once called Mina Tyrell thought to herself, I can learn if you’re a threat to my family and kill you, Miss Spymaster.

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Damon knew the expressions of wealth and, since coming to Volantis, the ways to fight the desert's intense heat. Though his weakness was as always a beat of another sort. The woman who gazed at him and taunted was pleasant enough to look upon. More suiting to his tastes than his frail wife. The concern he felt was for the sharpness of her gaze, but that was something that could be corrected with time. Smiling with appreciation for the game she played, the Riverlander gave a deep and sweeping bow. "Revealing that so soon My Lady would be in bad taste. Though I can say while I have seen many a beauty while sailing the seas, you are by far the most exquisite."

"I find myself fearing that while often I was the one pursuing the ladies in my younger years, it is I who should be wary of being pursued." His words were light and in jest but his eyes roamed her in turn and appreciation. For he had spoken no lie.

"Humm… this one lies like he breathes brother." She smirked at Damon's response. "He fears being pursued? Perhaps you shouldn't have told him that tale about being related to Nymeria and some Asshai sorceress in the line somewhere."

"Calm yourself Calytrix. I did no such thing. Even if there is some truth in it. Can't go scaring off the faint hearted Westerosi peoples can we?" Darkin rumbled as he took Lyra's hand and turned them toward the trio that had joined them. "Lady Sharra, my dear, how are you?"

"Care for some juice, little bird?" Lyra indicated a carafe that looked cold.

"Mother, that pet name is irritating." Aster rolled his eyes. Though he was pouring a glass of juice₁ for Sharra. It is a deep red like wine but smells rich and fresh with a bite but sweet all at once.

The overt flirtation was enough for Sharra to maintain a crimson hue even in the relief the room offered. Her eyes drifted along the murals, out to the view out to the city. The closest she had seen in their tour across was the seven kingdoms was maybe Casterly Rock or Highgarden. In comparison, they looked as impoverished as the Eyrie had felt when she had stood within those great castles. She wondered, with embarrassment, if the charge of being faint hearted was not at least indirectly targeted towards her. Sharra could not blame them for thinking it if it was.

“It looks so refreshing, Lady Lyra. Thank you." She accepted the glass, the rich scent pleasing but it was the chill as she brought it to her lips that led to her gulping an unlady-like mouthful of the nectar. Her eyes brightened with the relief of sugar and a chill that ran down her spine. She hoped that Damon would be content to ignore her again. The unsteadiness seemed to have dissipated. Though Aster seemed annoyed with the pet name, Sharra found it sweet, though her tongue stumbled in finding a way to navigate between mother and son, but she gave a soft smile of appreciation towards the woman. A much warmer sort than her mother.

“Had you entertained the Prince…the King, while he was here?" Sharra asked quietly, hoping to avoid drawing Damon into the conversation. She had never met the man, but she knew her brother’s views on him and the difficult line it was to walk between owing their position to him and despising his mockery of the faith.

Both Lyra and Darkin shared a look and a smile. Lyra turned back toward Sharra. "My dear do you mean Vhandyr or do you mean Maegor? Not that the distinction would make a difference but yes we entertained both. As well as Vhandyr's other family members. We have entertained House Balaerys for as long as I can remember. Maegor is not our Prince or King, remember we elect our Ruler here in Volantis." She smiled and handed a plate of food to the girl patting her hand gently.

Aster led Sharra over to the pool. "My sisters like to set chairs in the water and dangle their feet in. If they're wearing pants they just sit in it but dresses are a different matter. Besides that mixed company. Only Lunaerys would flout convention so hard. Probably because it is a convention." He lead her to a chaise in case she felt that dipping her feet was too impertinent.

Dipping her hand in the water Calytrix made ripples then flicked them off and set her drink down. The wading pool was at most up to her mid calf and had a hidden shallower end; that they were at, that was only ankle deep here. Swinging her legs over she stood from the chair and walked through the water to stand by Damon eyeing him critically. "You might pass testing. Have any children?"

Lyra bit her lip to smother a laugh at Calytrix and her attempt to overset Damon with her boldness. She wondered how Damon was going to handle the woman. She was less subtle in conversation than with a blade. Calytrix had trained her children that had wanted to learn water dancing and Lyra knew she was strict but full of knowledge. Calytrix and the Braavosi water dancer they had handpicked were quite a team teaching those who wished to learn the art.

Passively watching his sister flirt, Darkin led Lyra to sit near where Aster and Sharra were. Personally he wished the girl would stay. Aster seemed to like her. But if she wanted to go Aster would follow her and eventually bring her back. Or possibly stay with her, though that was much less likely after the "little bird" got used to Volantis and her weather. Sharra seemed… undervalued by her family. Darkin felt like she would bloom in Essos.

The young Arryn picked at the plate she had been offered, and sat it at the small table beside the chaise Aster had led her to. She began to sit, but paused. The other women were so at ease, perhaps - perhaps it would be rude to ignore such a custom. Nevermind that cool waters on her ankles and feet sounded so pleasant. Like when she had been a small girl along the family’s piers in Gulltown. Before her mother had found her and berated her. Instead, boldly she felt, Sharra delicately lowered herself, softly lifting the skirts away to slide off her delicate silk slippers and touch a toe to the water. They were right, it felt marvelous, an impish but genuine grin flickered across her face as she turned her head to Aster, a moment of seeking approval.

Calytrix had given up her seat, and Sharra cautiously made her way towards it. Skirts lifted to skim across the top of the water, soft splashes with each step, until she could settle into the chair, feet dutifully dangling into the small pool. The smile returned, a flash of tempered pleasure. Her elder siblings would have been scandalized, surely.

She thought of asking how Maegor had been received here, but, with the man’s second wife’s kin present surely there was only one manner of answering it. “I am afraid I did not learn much of the Free Cities." She had been taught little of anything beyond embroidery, hymns, and prayers. Sharra’s lips pressed together, this wasn’t how she had rehearsed it in her head but it seemed almost natural now to propose it. “It would be shameful if I left still knowing so little. I would so love to see more of your city." Her eyes wished to seek out Aster, but it was Lord Darkin and Lady Lyra she tried to address it to - for propriety.

The man smirked at Calytrix as he let her study him. To do anything else would be in error among this particular gathering. "A son." There was no denying Alton, the boy was as robust and healthy a young lad as any. The only regret he had was that his father kept the boy close to him. Damon was under no illusions, his son would never be allowed to follow his path. Alton would be taught the ways of the knight. To become another of the swords that guarded House Harroway and Harrenhal. He had commented once to his father a out the lad coming with him to Essos to study but that thought had been cut down. Salted with more comments as to why Damon had not sired more children. A private army of cousins to fight for Jon's heirs.

Jon's heirs… Lucas would die of shock if he knew. The thought leant a smile to Damon's lips. "I would have brought him here to study when he was older, had I the option." And the lad would prove a useful tool. A seed for the family to have some status here.

Raising an eyebrow, Calytrix asked. "And you do not have that option why? Is his mother not dead? Since you have no wife, for surely your Seven would object to more than one. After all that is what got Maegor in the bind he is in. The man's a fool to think he's Aegon's equal. Just because he has his father’s dragon does not mean he will follow in his father’s footsteps."

Darkin watched and listened to Sharra with a smile. He could tell she was addressing himself and Lyra because she felt it was more proper. "But of course, though Lyra and I find ourselves busy with day to day tasks, we have contacted our son in Braavos on your behalf. Cephaeys is willing to take you and your brother to Pentos as well as up to Braavos to round out your tour if you like."

Lyra watched irritation flicker in Aster’s eyes for a brief instant before he blinked. Oh he's got it bad. Good. About time. And I like the little falcon girl. Sipping wine she turned her attention to her sister's shenanigans. I doubt I've ever seen a woman so forward in conversation as Calytrix. Come to think of it, I don't think Maegor was fond of her forwardness. Then again she wasn't fond of his history. She loathed Alys. Not that I blame her. I could rub two rocks together and find more use. And the lack of thought for anyone but himself is rather apparent especially considering the situation across the channel.

Turning her attention back to her eldest and their younger guest Lyra smiled. "Aster is very well educated and was planning a trip up the coast. He will not admit it but your arrival set his plans on their ear."

She smirks?! Why?! Aster swore that he felt his eye twitch. "Muñnykeā ao jāhor sagon se morghon hen issa₂. My mother speaks truly. However it was not something that could not wait. Rescuing such a fair lady was the one time I could feel like a hero of old. If it meant I could stay longer in your presence I would be happy to accompany you on your journey, gevie mēre." He knelt next to Sharra as he reached out and caught Sharra’s hand then slowly raised it to his lips. He softly kissed her knuckles and sent a smoldering look to her.

The sea wise son of Lucas gave a dark chuckle. “My Lady, your forget that I am from Westeros. A son so young could not leave his mother and the mother had no wish to take to the sea, especially with a child. Let alone that I would had refused if she had offered." He assured the woman, for all Damon care little for his wife. Their child? He was innocent of the flaws that his mother had. “My father has dictated at what will be, and I have no choice to go along with his plans for now. In the future, it will depend greatly on how the fates fall." Though his gaze sharpened slightly. So this Calytrix did not care for Maegor? That was interesting and useful to know.

“My father is proud in support of the dragons, my brother prefers the Faith. I? Let the powers clash. A Lord has always had to balance both of them. To interfere would risk one’s House. There is wisdom in waiting. The dragons are not many, yet powerful while the Faith is many and lacking the, pardon the words, fire-power. I for one? The Faith will not yield and is deep seated through the middle of Westeros and there is no love of dragons in Dorne. It will be a game to see if the stalemate shifts."

The news that aid had been secured to see them to Pentos caused a brief flicker in her expression. But what followed was enough to send a rush of blood to her cheeks anew. The words slid around her, the touch of his hand to hers, his lips to her fingers and Sharra responded with a thoroughly embarrassed, choking, giggle. It did little but to deepen her blush. She couldn’t dare meet his eyes and rather frantically looked about for anything else to notice. “It…I…We..." She stumbled for words to respond to her hosts or to Aster. Her hand pulled away softly, folded into her other hand on her lap. “Gevie mere," she repeated, the words sounded wrong to her from her lips compared to all the times he had spoken them, “what does it mean?" Thoughts of kings and dragons and whatever else the Harroway man spoke of dwindled away.

Both Darkin and Lyra smiled looking at Aster. Who looked a little disappointed that Sharra had pulled away, but he had let her retreat. Someday she wouldn't find his attendance as shocking as she currently did. "You will get used to that soon." Aster whispered and grinned.

"You hold her in suspense, my son. The torture must be something you learned from your father." Lyra teased both her son and husband, smirking at the latter.

"Hen rhinka ziry gūrēntan hen zȳhon kepa, yn ziry iksos īlva tresy. Ziry gūrēntan hen zȳhon muñnykeā hae sȳrī₃." Darkin laughed as Lyra playfully smacked him.

Smiling at his parent's antics Aster looked back over at Sharra. "It is how I see you. How you have always appeared to me. Beautiful one. Gevie mere means beautiful one. May I continue to call you beautiful? Though the word pales in comparison to the mere curve of your cheek." He reached out and as lightly as a butterfly caressed her cheek with his fingertips.

A moment that felt like a thousand moments, and Sharra’s response was an unmeasured smile. A surprise, even to herself. Here, for the first time, she was not the Maiden of the Vale. It was unnatural to suddenly have such attention on her, earnest and honest? The smile was matched only by a return and strengthening of a deep blush. “How could I say no to your request?" She replied quietly, reminded that there were so many others present.

A noise disturbed the quiet dances that played out between man and wife, between woman and man intended, between what could blossom into something more. Boots, still dirty from the city, and loud against the pristine stones. The smell of liquor and spice and sweat surrounded the swaggering young man accompanied by clearly disgruntled Rahl men.

“My dearest and favorite aunt." The words came out in soft slurs as if the rough common tongue had found the Volantene accent. He stopped, realizing the audience was far greater than he had initially thought. “And…well, everyone else. Lord and Lady Rahl your hospitality has been so..." The heir to the Vale found himself tongue-tied. He was barely disheveled, but considering how much of the day remained, it was a shocking sight to Sharra, who glanced nervously at Aster and then to his parents.

“What I mean to say is, we may have washed up at your door but your city I dare say…I dare say we should have intended to come here and not Pentos in the first place. You’ll all be the first -” He rubbed a hand over his chin. “Well, second I suppose, to hear the good news. Aunt, I’ve found you a husband at last and a good trade deal to match it."

Artys did not notice, or if he did, paid no mind to, Sharra’s face losing all color to a ghostly white. He did not stop to notice the way her mouth worked at finding any words fitting the occasion. Why would he? Women were to be wedded, bedded, and give a son or two - or six in his mother’s case - just as he would some day find in a woman. “I believe you know them Lord Rahl, such happenstance to meet them at a pleasing little venue. Maegyr and Arryn, what better match for a bird of prey than to a cat of war! Hah! Yes I’ve learned much about these tiger and elephant politics."

He slumped into a chair, his news delivered, and smiled to himself. Absent-mindedly and to no servant in particular he stuck out a hand. “Come, a drink to celebrate, no?"

Damon watched the family’s banter and smiled. This was something he was not exactly used to seeing. Lord Lucas humored such among his sons, brothers and the children of those brothers yet the Lord of Harrenhal rarely engaged with it. It had once been commented by a relative that all the joy in Lucas’s life died with his first wife. Perhaps that was so. Raising the goblet accepted from a servant to his lips, he paused as the younger Arryn walked in. All in good timing, for there was going to be an alliance here and one that Damon thought would work to his advantage especially if one of his sisters could be wed off to an Arryn. A three-way in alliances would only further strengthen the ties. Yet upon hearing the words that Artys spoke, the former pirate raised a brow.

Perhaps he could divert this, it would certainly put the new found lovers in his debt. “A joyous thing marriage. All the better when it is a union of the heart as well the strength of kin." He mused as he studied the young Arryn over the wine cup. “Ser Artys, I have three young sisters who can marry. My married sister is wife to Maegor. Perhaps with a marriage between our families and the Arryns and Harroway to the House of Rahl who are indeed wise in the ways of Volantis and looked upon with favor by the dragon lords in this area?" He was unsure of the last, but he wanted to tempt the man into this power play.

“I remember your sisters." A goblet had been placed in his hand but his eyes remained only half open as he raised it to his lips. “But we’re a family of many men and so few women." An inappropriate giggle sent ripples across the wine. He took a gulp. “I have neither sisters nor other aunts to spare for such deals. Qavo Maegyr manages the family’s port business and what better pairing could there be when my own brother is being groomed to expand our port in Gulltown." Artys brought the goblet back to his lips, tipped his head back and swallowed deeply til it was empty. “Fine wine, thank you."

Sharra could not handle it any longer. She swung her legs over the chaise, both feet planted in the shallow waters. She had not gathered the skirts of her dress and the hems were wet, wicking the water up the delicate fabric. Her eyes focused only on Artys. “I am the Maiden of the Vale and I will remain that." Without thought, she gripped Aster’s arm to raise herself without falling, she could feel her limbs trembling with unusual anger. “Excuse me, please." It was not a request, but at the moment she did not care how her generous hosts received it. Her nephew didn’t seem to notice either statement as she walked past him and his dirty boot prints, out of the room.

Damon gave the Arryn boy a pitying look. The boy was a dolt to not be able to read what he said, there was no other answer. “Lad, perhaps this is a topic I had best take up with the Lord of the Vale and not his heir." Since he seemed incompetent, if his mother managed to marry one of his sisters to this boy? Harroway would grip the Vale by the proverbial balls. “And perhaps it is something best look to him for the final say."

An eyebrow that was dark and arched rose toward a hairline that would make kings jealous. Aster turned flinty slate blue eyes from Sharra’s retreating form to her kinsman. “I find it very interesting that Qavo’s father and three older brothers died this morning and he was able to take over the piddling business. That was not a rumor that I had heard. Pray tell how much gold did you pour down his throat in the form of watered ale to pry that confession from him āeksio mittys₄? The hells he frequents typically water the ale to make it go farther. Hopefully you did not decide to dally with the help. If you did, you should see a healer quickly. Perhaps what makes you a man will not fall off if you get it looked at before you begin to itch. They call her Scratch not because she does but because you will."

Standing Aster plucked up a goblet and a carafe of juice and inclined his head to those present. He then proceeded to follow Sharra leisurely and slowly letting her work off her temper. From that observation of temper she was in a high dudgeon, and while not his fault he might take the brunt of it. She flashed like a fire in the desert at high noon and she was glorious in her passion. Perhaps if she struck him with her vitriol he could play the wounded party and see how sweet she apologized. Maybe she had talons, this little bird. Grinning Aster strolled the hall knowing that she did not know the property like he did. Smoothing his expression to careful neutrality he continued on his way keeping a keen eye out for Sharra.

Soft laughter from Calytrix rose as her nephew walked out, laughter escalating in volume. She wiped her eyes, still chuckling after a full minute. Long enough that everyone could tell that she was laughing at the Arryn boy. “The bird believes the words of a tiger! This is the most amusement I have had since Cassie brought home that filthy flea infested monkey and tried to wash it."

At the sound of Calytrix’s laughter both Darkin and Lyra looked at each other and sighed. “Perhaps, sister, we should inform the lad of how he’s been duped rather than snicker about it?" Darkin stressed with a growl. “Keligon verdagon kirimves hen mittys.₅"

His fingers tightened around the empty goblet as he waved away a feeble offer to refill it by a silent servant. The other Westerosi man was bothersome with his arrogance. Harroway may have wed - against god and man - to their dragon overlords but they were not Lords Paramount. “My father does not need to be involved in this. He wanted his sister married and she will be.” He hiccoughed, a gurgly unpleasant noise. He thought at least, his father wouldn’t be displeased by finally marrying off the woman.

But it was his hosts’ mockery, lightly toned and mixed with words he didn’t recognize, that sounded almost like the Valyrian he had been forbidden from learning, that set him off. He stumbled to his feet, the goblet dropped to the floor, glass splintered. The little lordling waited until Aster had departed, though he couldn’t stop himself from scratching at his groin at the mere suggestion. It had been a long night and a long morning, he’d not been picky about where or how he had sated himself.

“If it is a lie then I will see them held accountable.” His fist flexed, but the slur remained in his words and he was noticeably unsteady on his feet. His face flushed, from drink and anger. “I am not some pissant lord from lands still ravaged.” He tried to glare at Damon Harroway, but his blue eyes were glossy and red and couldn’t focus for long. Seven, he hoped he hadn’t fucked this completely. The pride crumbled into self-questioning and he felt again like a boy being scolded by his father for some impropriety or another. He hated it.

"At least this 'pissant lord' was raised to converse with those of station and not the whelp raised to converse in the manners befitting goat herds while as drunk as a swine herd." Damon said coldly, raising from his seat. "My Lord and Ladies Rahl. Forgive the boy, I shall see to it he gets back to his stables- I mean, rooms, by your leave." The lad was making a fool of himself and while a scathing comment was well earned? He did not want the House of Arryn to fail because of one brainless bird. Gripping the boy's arm, he jerked making Artys's hand leave his crotch even as he bowed to their hosts.

Collab with @Ruby

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In the immediate moments it became rather clear to Davos why none of the most romantic moments of the old tales had taken place in the heat of martial combat, where maidens were swept off their feet by conquering heroes. He was not a weak man, but as Vittoria became an increasingly dead weight in his arms, the pace of their movement slowed to an intolerable level considering his fear for her. It was hardly the moment as he had envisioned it, but with a frustrated and angry growl, he lifted her fully, holding herself across his body as they moved. He was able to carry her faster than he could drag her, even if it was still a pace that felt like a crawl compared to what he wished.

He made a mental note to inform the next poet he met of the ludicrous nature of a slender woman disguised as a knight being able to do this.

Davos paused for a moment, turned to regard the maelstrom of violence that was the vengeful actions of Vittoria’s deadliest sworn knights. The call of the storm was in his blood, as his mother would have said, and his whole form seemed to ache with the desire to join them in their bloody vengeance. His blood might have been of the storm, but the heart is beat through was for her, and with only a moment passed he resumed his following of the Redwyne blade.

She stirred, still in his arms, and still trying to countermand the chaotic devestation that was being wrought around her. He hushed her with a noise that was more dismissive than any he had ever replied to her with, instead calling to the knight infront of him.

“She needs a Maester, quickly, there may be poison.” It seemed an obvious thing to say, but what he meant in full was that there was no point in rushing her as far as possible if she was only to die of the foulness in her blood, if his fears were correct. They would have to risk something closer, and pray the attack had been blunted in blood before they could be found. So they diverged, away from the most direct route of escape towards where she might be saved, should the worst be true.

Ryam Redwyne didn’t stop swinging until there was nothing left in front of him. His body pulsated; his mind raw as his eyes blinked at the sudden absence of targets. Even those that had remained before them were running off, scurrying. There was not but confusion in his eyes until his ears found the missing piece in the screams from the street they had left behind:

Dragonfire.

But even that left him with nothing but confusion until Dennet spat, and came up from their rear guard to help Davos with the weight of the High Marshall, “Vaera’s bloody dragon.” Only after Dennet helped Davos steady Vittoria to a shared weight between the two men did his lift her face, and look at her eyes, “…hells, you might be right about that poison.”

Her eyes were empty vessels, with precious little recognition left in them, despite the fact that the blood came from her shoulder, not her chest, or neck. “Thank the Father whoever shot her missed anything important. What about the tavern?”

It was in front of them, but Ryam turned and shook his head, “Too close to the dragonfire if it starts to spread.”

“Wise, Ser,” the calm voice said, but Redwyne’s response to it was to lift his shield and blade again. The tall, thin, figure in grey sighed audibly and lifted the chain from under the robe, “I’m a Maester. We came for her.”

The gray hood was lowered, and it was only then that the older age of the thin man became apparent. Two other robed figures appeared from behind him, shorter but wider bodied, one of them getting very close to Vittoria immediately, enough for Dennet and Davos to hold out hands.

“We’re friends,” the robed figure explained, instead turning his attention to the face of the woman, “Vittoria? It’s Theyin. Where are they, Vittoria?”
The older man gave another supple sigh, and waved his hand, head darting this way and that, acutely aware of the danger they were still in, “Admirable, Theyin, but we do not have time…and she does not seem aware enough for an answer. Lords, follow us.”

The older man brought his hood back over his head and began to lead the way, as the other two Maesters walked behind the three Lords and the Lady. They went through one alley and to another, then another, and up ancient stone steps before through a seemingly empty building, turning left, walking into another alley, then finally up wooden stairs leading to the second floor of another wooden building, where a brown-haired young woman with green eyes and simply made dress awaited, holding the door open, eyes scanning the area around.

Inside was a perfumed and candle lit bedchamber with steel tub behind a screen off in the far corner. “Put here on the bed,” commanded the older Maester. Even though Davos and Dennet did as he bid, Dennet wasn’t done. Instead, the large man splattered in blood squared up to the older man and unleashed a tone that growled its way from his throat.

“What do you want with her?”

The tall man still wasn’t as tall as Dennet, his slender shoulders drooping, as if irritated with something he had no time for. “My name is Millin. At the moment, I am the best person in the Realm to see to Lady Vittoria.”

“He’s the Archmaester of Healing,” the other one who’d spoken directly to Vittoria, Theyin, interjected. In response, Ryam Redwyne, all but covered in blood, stepped uncomfortably close to him, with a quiet tone that sounded sharper than steel.

“Where is what?”

Theyin scoffed, “If she did not tell you, I cann—”

The dagger from his belt came out, and the woman who had held open the door for them all closed it, gently, before pleading, “Not here, please.”
“You will,” somehow, Ryam’s voice was quieter than before, yet stronger still, “or your Archmaester will need to tend to you, next.”
The third of the hooded Maesters kept by the door, in case he needed to make an immediate escape.

“Don’t start killing them before they have a chance to save her.” Davos spoke to Ryam, but his apologetic eyes were on woman as the door was closed, eyes that turned many a degree colder by the time they settled back on the room, the intensity of his gaze set on the maesters rather than the knight he had just chastised.
"I would answer his question though, I have no authority here." It was the cool tones of someone who knew very much that there were few places across the realm where this was actually true, an ease of command from those born into it, but in this case he had little hope or desire to control the knight in his duty. The only thing that mattered was that their fragile temporary alliance did not fall apart before Vittoria had been saved.

Millin sighed so deep, it appeared as if the man might collapse where he stood, until his head gave a bitter shake, “Scrolls. Vittoria Tyrell has scrolls from the Valyrian Freehold that should not exist. Presumably taken from the Pirate King she defeated in campaign. Scrolls of ancient, dark, magic that could well end the world of reason and man. That is why the Citadel has had her watched. That is why we cannot allow her to die. If you know where they are, you NEED to tell us.”

Ryam’s body relaxed, confusion as his blue eyes looked at Dennet. Dennet’s dark brown eyes looked as stunned as they could ever look, it was Dennet’s low rumble of a voice that answered for them all, “She hasn’t told us. We haven’t seen anything. Knowing her, they’re in some vault of Highgarden. If you want an answer, it’ll have to be from her.”

Millin nodded, “As expected. Vittoria is no fool, she was always unlikely to leave them with the likes of any of you. Now go, we will do what we can. Theyin, I will send you to the Citadel for various substances.”

“I’ll stay right here.” Ryam Redwyne was her sworn shield, an oath to his cousin he would not break.

Dennet looked to Davos, “Let us see to the men that followed us. We need to find a way out of this city, and I may well need your Baratheon name to secure it.”

Davos nodded, the desperate cries of Vittoria even as she faded crashing back to his memory. Even if he wasn't inclined to act on his own accord, he wouldn't allow her to wake thinking he had done nothing to help prevent further chaos and bloodshed. At least towards those not directly responsible for putting her in this state.

He took a further look around the room, at those assembled. He had faith that they could treat her, but it still seemed a cruel jest of fate that this should happen so soon to the possibility of his happiness. He moved to where they had her, lying across and all but dead to the world. He did not fear the potential of any poison as he lent to kiss her, gently pressing his own lips to her's. Memories that were yet to be flooded his mind, of many more kisses and the potential of their years together. If the gods were not kind and they were not to be, he held the moment dearly, the potential last touch of their lips together, committing the feel of her to the very core of his being, never to be forgotten. He hoped there was still enough of her not wracked by the ravaging course of her injury that she might be aware of him, that they could at least share that.

"Farewell but not forever." He whispered to her, before standing tall again, determination set across his features as he strode from the room.

Collab with @Ruby

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Tapestries hung from the walls softening the rooms given to House Harroway, they were frippery. Unneeded finery that was foolish, but paying for them kept the women of Lucas’s House happy, unlike his study, this room was theirs in that right. Had he done anything else, their mother Catelyn would have been beside herself. Hanna was under no illusion that her parents had a pleasurable marriage. It was simply a fact that a lord of the Realm must wed a woman and she would bear him children for his heir and spare. Past that? Generally, the more children the better and Hanna could recall stories of some lords who had pressed too hard for too many children and caused their wives’ deaths. It was perhaps cynical of her, but Hanna could image a few of the lords in the Riverlands who fit the particular bill. So it was to her benefit that her father sought to marry her out of the Riverlands and to a House that stood high in the realm.

It only made sense, she was sister to the Queen now. Men would want that access to King Maegor. She was rather stunned they weren’t already at the door bidding for her and her sister’s attention. Urging their father for fast and fruitful marriages.

Her needle flashed silver as she darted it through the cloth of her embroidery as she sat in a gown of light blue. Her hair left to fall in soft curls down her back, held back by a crest of her house’s sigil. The towers of Harrenhal, she would say with pride. Not even a lie, her father had taken the sigil upon receiving Harrenhal for his own before her birth. Her delicate lips thinned as she considered the lack of the indolent younger brother in their rooms. Usually, about now he was complaining, wanting to avoid the scheming of the courtly function to go and drink and practice his sword play.

Usually.

Not now, her brother was gone. Exiled from their rooms as he had declared for Maegor. Their father had said the lad had taken up a man’s arms and thus should stay the night where there could be no distractions. In truth, Hanna thought it was because Lucas could not bear to look at his son. Which was reasonable! Horas had been an utter fool to present his sword so! There were knights, full knights and not overgrown squires, aplenty! A flicker of fear entered her eyes as she recalled her Lord Father’s rage when they had reached their private quarters. It was the one time all the women of Harroway had fled and stayed in their shared room without complaint as Lucas dressed down his youngest son in the other room and proceeded to fume for the better part of the night.’

She yanked a particularly stubborn thread, dismissing that horrible thought that her father could so easily dismiss her. He would never, could never, as she was a useful bargaining chip. A future marriage alliance could be bought if she was offered thus securing their House in the Great Game that was their life. As if to secure herself in this thought she looked over the delicate chairs and the ornate tables and shelves that held books, and odds and ends for their pleasure. A thick rug before the hearth, which now laid empty and clean of soot that could stain a lady’s hand. Her sister, Jeyne, in another chair ‘reading’. The woman was doing nothing of the sword as she twisted and broke thread as she attempted to spin it into a thicker cord with the drop spindle. Perhaps it was fury, perhaps worry, Hanna supposed as she studied the sister decked in the dark green gown that was fitted more like her own than the sort that Jeyne preferred. It was an Occasion and as such, they must be presentable. Able to prance about like fine mares and show their lines had bred true.

Not that she had that problem. Hanna was beautiful and she knew it. It only irked the woman that she must share that designation of beauty with a bastard. Elayne for her part was dressed in an old gown of Alys’s. Out of date, it had to be from before her eldest sister married the Prince, now King. The color had faded from a deeper green to something softer. Yet for all that, it was not overly worn from age or cut badly on Elayne. It was one of those dressed when the entire household was to see an event. Even the servants Hanna supposed. In the room just off their solar, her father was muttering and shuffling in his private quarters, the noises leaving the place feeling slightly chilled despite the fact the sun still shone. That everything would be well.

It would be well, all would go well.

Elayne was all too aware of the trouble the Harroways faced, her number among them for this count. Horas had brashly charged into the Trial of Seven when knights had paused. Lord Lucas himself had looked hesitant at stepping forward to defend the honor of his son by marriage through Alys. That a squire should shame them all? It would be a miracle if he survived and a cruel, yet expected, twist of fate if he died. For with his death, House Harroway would lose two members in a single year. Both candidates to increase their standing. Elmo going to the Maesters had been a hard blow and one that had been turned to the benefit of the house, but Lucas losing his third and youngest son? With only two grandsons and his brothers having sons of their own, his line would be less secure.

Her needle neatly slipped in and out of the embroidered hem she was fixing to a gown’s cuff. Her thoughts far and away from the present. There was nothing she could do but maintain the silence for to break it would attract the ire of the Lord of Harrenhal. Once that title had belonged to the man who had sired her, now to the one who had seen to her rearing. A small fact, but one she desperately despised that they were not one and the same man for her own sake. Had she been a trueborn daughter to Lucas? She would be in a slightly better position. Who knew of Gargon, the Qoherys lord had died before her time. An act of providence perhaps? Either way, she waited and one eye was kept on the Jeyne. The girl was planning something though Elayne knew naught exactly what that something was.

Vhandyr’s arrival was late enough that there was talk of a Trial of the Seven already within the corridors and vaults of the Red Keep. Red Keep, they called it, because of the red stone, some under steward had explained…as if it needed explaining. Vhandyr smiled, remained silent, and just let the older servant talk. And talk. He asked some questions about Terrax, to which Vhandyr finally gave some audible answer.
“He is, like Balerion, from before the Doom.”

”Oh.” The man seemed surprised by it, and no doubt, he was. Vhandyr was known as the Lord of Volantis, and in that capacity he was well enough known. Outside of that House Balaerys was little enough known outside some of the higher nobles and the Maesters of the Citadel. They were just Valyrian blooded, like so many Volantene, to those that didn’t know better…such as this under steward.

The chambers awarded him were large, and still smelled of fresh paint. He was, the servant explained to him, the first to stay in the quarters since its construction and furnishing. Vhandyr thanked the man with gold, and off he went. He bathed, he brushed out his hair, and spent the next few hours reading one of the tomes he had requested: the most current book on noble lineages of Westeros they had.

Surprisingly, very up to date. Surprisingly only because he had heard that despite the Citadel in Oldtown, too many in Westeros neglected knowledge and information. That included the Targaryen dynasty, and Maegor hadn’t exactly been bookish during their time together. He considered riding out, demanding a place at this Trial of Seven…but Maegor would know he had arrived. Terrax was hard to miss, even if the old dragon did immediately take off again after their arrival—Terrax never liked cities too much or staying in one place for too long. The oversized lizard was made for flying, and Vhandyr would never begrudge him that freedom. Terrax, like Saeryx, had a way of knowing when to come back.

The sun was just starting to begin its tumble towards the horizon, still hours from sundown, when Vhandyr finally stirred, checking the journal and notes in the bag he’d taken with him. It was Vaera’s last note that perked him:
Valyrian girl, Elayne, House Harroway. They’re treating her badly, see to her once in KL.

It was typical Vaera. Was this girl Valyrian? Possibly. Was she being mistreated? Also possible, but he knew full well just how much Vaera could exaggerate a tale, or twist the truth of something into her convenience. A message arrived by way of a runner, but it wasn’t from Maegor. It was from the Master of Coin upon the Small Council. Vhandyr only chuckled at it because it didn’t surprise him…if Volantis was known for one thing, it was wealth. And trade with Volantis was always something people were keen to talk about, wherever he went…even when he was still in Volantis.

He gave no response to the runner, only dismissed the young lad with a friendly nod and silver. The Master of Coin would try again, and in the meantime, Vhandyr was in no mood for trade talk. He dressed in black and bluish green of Balaerys, the color of Terrax, and was certain he looked the part of the Lord of Volantis. A silver dragon pin held a half cloak hanging from his massive shoulders as he left the room and asked the first people he saw about the Harroways. Directions were given, and he thanked the servants with words and silver. The directions were clear, concise, and easily followed…a rarity within castles, especially new castles, in his experience. He nodded to guards outside the door, and they confirmed he was in the right place.

“I am here to see Lady Elayne.”

“Aye, m’Lord, we’ll get Lord Lu…what?”

“Lady Elayne,” he repeated, almost smiling.

The two guards exchanged a look. “Yes, uh, of course.”

Three heads turned at the sound of a door opening. One quickly with a whipped braid, the other with slow disapproval, and the third with a subtle interest. They had expected the door to Lucas's study, not the door that led to the rest of the Red Keep. A guard stepped through, and his eyes were nervous. A good thing when intruding upon one's lord when his mood was sour. It was the glimpse they caught of the man behind them that perked interest. Tall, silver-haired and certainly not Maegor. Elayne would expect that man to just walk into whatever room he chose and any who hampered him would turn the stone all the more Red.

It was the guard though, a man who was nervous and seemed debating upon what he was to do. By rights, he should alert his Lord, and yet this Lord of Volantis, for there was no other Targaryen man aside from the newly crowned king, had asked for Lady Elayne. Clearing his throat he spoke perhaps more loudly than necessary. Not daring to intrude on Lord Lucas and not wanting to leave the man unaware of what was happening. He had served under the Lord since the time of his first wife. While Lucas had only been a man with means and a knighthood, the guard had stayed with him as the coin was good and his honor was better than what a man could find when Gargon Qoherys ruled from Harrenhal. “Lord-” What was the name of those Volanteen dragon riders? This was one of them. The appearance of something that could match Balerion had been evident and someone had to be riding it! “Balerys?” The name came as a question before he hurried on. “To see the Lady Elayne?” That was even more of a question but it was a reasonable question.

Elayne herself was not among those who took this change in stride. Jeyne was gaping and looking startled while Hanna merely scanned the entrance to their rooms with a calculating expression. The girl was plotting a match, always looking for a better opportunity. The richer, more powerful husband. It was an easy thing to understand when you took into account they were raised at Caitlyn’s knee. Already Elayne had moved to stand, setting aside her work into its basket as she hesitated. A second of delay allowed the Lord of Harrenhal to step forth from his quarters. His clothing looked orderly, but there was an unkempt look to his hair as if he had been running constant fingers through it. Striding to the door he stiffened upon seeing who the visitor was. A man known to him through the odd letter he received from Alys. Vhandyr Baelrys. “Lord Vhandyr. A pleasure to see you on this side of the Narrow Sea. Though I must wonder what brings you to my door?” And with an interest to see her? Elayne could only imagine that this was some ploy of Damon’s. Had he finally done as he had threatened? She moved to be just out of reach of the Lord of Harrenhal but there should she be summoned and near enough to the women’s quarters if she was told to go.

Vhandyr’s cool lavender eyes gave the Lord a purposeful gaze, his voice as firm and even as the foundation of the Red Keep itself, “My sister, Vaera Balaerys, met these ladies.” Then, in that moment, Vhandyr did something he rarely did so openly…he smiled. Wide and warm, as his mind worked the room and the various circumstances dancing within it. “She bid me to come and meet Lady Elayne. Lord Lucas, is it? Lord of the great fortress Harrenhal? I’ve read your seat is nearly the equal of anything the Freehold created, you must have done quite well. Permit me a walk with Lady Elayne? Even I don’t tell Vaera Balaerys that I ignored her direction, though I wonder what her mind was when she made this request to me…”

His voice trailed, his eyes finally finding who had to be Elayne.

The Lord of Harrenhal had not expected that answer, nor did Elayne. That Lady Vaera had a hand in this arrangement was as good as a shouted command from the Iron Throne. The woman was implacable from the little Elayne who had known or interacted with her. Lord Lucas stepped away from the door, allowing the smaller woman to be seen. Dipping a curtsy, perhaps a bit too low from the frown her ‘father’ produced, the silver-haired woman straightened slowly. Would he dare to insist upon a guardian to escort her? It would be proper, but it could also be perceived as a slight on Vhandyr’s honor.

“You compliment me overly much, My Lord. The Keep of Harrenhal stands still, but its completion was marked by dragon fire.” Melted stone like half-used candles. The keep was not so grand as the tall lord seemed to make it. “Elayne will most pleased to walk with you, though I would like an answer as to your sister’s interest in- the girl.” Not his daughter, even now, he could not claim her as such when her mother’s dishonor at the hands of Qoherys stuck in his throat.

Elayne said nothing but she moved with the Lord’s gesture to take a step between them and towards the Essosi lord. “It would be a pleasure. It would not do to go against Lady Vaera.” She whispered, her voice as soft and willowy as the rest of her. Her silver hair fell about her shoulders as she glanced up at the man. Tall, and looking like a storm. A handsome one. She returned his smile with a small uncertain one worried that she was perhaps too forward with the reaction. “My Lords?” The question in her words lead her to wonder if they would head out now or if the two meant to talk. Elayne for her part was hoping the comment about the Lady Vaera was not too forward, but then the woman was forward enough to run over a herd of oxen and leave them stunned. She also did not wish for the Lord of Harrenhal to anger another dragon. The castle did not have much left to burn.

Vhandyr just stared at the man. “Does it not enrich your family? Does it not provide? Is it not the reason we are here, together, in this very room? Are the walls any less thick than they were when it was completed?” His eyes glittered across the room to Elayne, as he began to feel the burden upon the girl in which Vaera had warned him about. This was Vaera’s way: do good in the world, but do it randomly, usually aiming such good intentions towards someone Vaera thought worthy but overlooked.
His shoulders rose and fell in a self-defeating motion that might have matched too perfectly the tone of the Lord of Harrenhal. “True enough, I am young, and true, too, I am not as wise as some…but it seems more blessing than curse. I suppose I could be overthinking it…oh. My sister? You speak about the woman who has seen more of creation than any other living soul. She borders madness and brilliance, straddling the two as deftly as she does her dragon. I, personally, would not speak to her designs. I could never make scripture from chaos as she does. I would never pretend to.”

When Elayne spoke up about it would not do to go against Vaera, Vhandyr truly blinked at her. Smart girl. Reads people quickly. Moves to subtly manage a room. It was perhaps the worst part of it all…that Vaera was rarely wrong in such matters.

“Shall we, Lady Elayne?”

“It’s history enriches us and provides.” The reply was formal, the words not subtracting from the prior statements. The castle that Harren the Black had built was indeed a noteworthy seat, though one that Lucas could not feel at ease claiming for his own. There was a taint over those half ruined towers. It would be his success of his doom if he played the great game that ruled Westeros correctly or not. “A wise and clever lady.” The woman was trouble as far as the Lord of Harrenhal was concerned, yet to say as much before Vhandyr was asking for trouble he did not want.

One did not need to bait a dragon when it was at your doorstep after all.

There was a mental bit of relief from the Lord as Vhandyr seemed intent on walking with the bastard child of his wife and the former Lord of his land. In truth? He would have rathered the man seen fit to take Jeyne. It would have solved more problems than not. This was not in his power to request and if the Baelyrs man, a noble of Volantis, wished for the wench? So be it, it would take another headache from him, though he could hear the nagging from his wife that Hanna had not been chosen. Stepping back, he let the pale girl pased. He wanted to warn her to do nothing to put his House at risk, but did he really dare with the dragon rider so near?

The pale woman curtsied to the Lord of Volantis her gaze having dropped significantly as she followed his lead. “If you wish, My Lord.” What was it this man wished with her? If he was acting only on the information of his sister… Well that led to more questions that the woman only dreaded. The Lady Vaera had some very strict notions on what was, should be and should not be. It seemed you were either on one side of the stone or the other and if she didn’t like where you were, why then she would see you moved. If the stone between the destination and beginning proved a problem? That stone would be cleaved in two, or tossed into the Blackwater Bay and be done with. Elayne’s pale cheeks flushed slightly at the memory of Osric’s flight. The man she was still avoiding while Vaera had since flown off. She didn’t condemn the woman for leaving her to deal with the Arryn, but it would have been nice to know that Osric had another potential woman to snap at other than her. Damon had long instilled in her that men would often blame women and usually the closest one at hand.

The thoughts went in a circle and led her back the problem. Which was that she could not tell what this Lord Vhandyr Baelrys wanted with her! To walk, he had said. Something that often pertained to talking and usually about a potential marriage or political alliance, neither of which was something a man of his standing would want with her! Then there was the simple answer that he was acting on Vaera’s behalf, which made Elayne wonder what the woman wanted, a she-dragon if ever she had thought to see one, and the poor lass had not a clue as to what Vaera wished! The woman was a meddlesome storm and she apparently was the storm’s latest project!

It was only outside of the chambers and far enough down the vaults of the Red Keep that Vhandyr stopped, took in a deep breath, and looked sidelong to the girl next to him. “Well…that was horribly depressing. I can see why my sister told me to check in on you. The man despises you, you know?”

Of all the things Elayne expected, that was certainly not it. The woman’s sea gaze flicked to Vhandyr in utter shock. He noticed? Well it was hardly like any of the Harroways tried to hide their scorn for a bastard that had been foisted upon them. Her lips thinned as that open gaze dropped again from the handsome face of the man beside her to the stones beneath her slippers. “I do.” Her voice was soft, though her fingers twisted in the cloth of her gown. “He has every right to. I was not… What should have been.” What should have been was her born with dark hair and eyes, even if she had not been his trueborn child, there could always be that doubt. A bit of a whisper that could be played upon for the benefit of the family, rather than Lord Lucas being slapped with his inability to stand up against the ancient laws of the land each day. “I hope you have not been inconvenienced? I told your sister all was well.” That had been and was a lie, but Elayne didn’t want to cause more trouble.

Vhandyr Balaerys chuckled, sadly, “None of us are what we should have been, Elayne.” At her insistence upon what she told Vaera, Vhandyr only regarded the girl as if she seemed to twist uneasily before him. Slowly, gently, he finally nodded. “If you told Vaera that, I highly doubt she believed you.”

Elayne, no longer a lady. It was something of a relief. He no longer was paying her pretense. Though she felt a flush rise across her cheeks and over the delicate bridge of her nose, a trait inherited from her mother, as he commented that Lady Vaera most likely did not believe her. Or was it his laugh that caused her to do so. Did he not as well? Apparently so. Her fingers smoothed at the gown she wore, her eyes stealing glances of him. How could she not? It was rare she got the chance to look upon a man as handsome as he. It was interesting, Elayne thought absently, how she despised her own silver locks and yet could appreciate them on another. “She did not, My Lord.” Her voice was regretful, hesitating slightly before continuing. “The lady believes I do myself a disservice, yet…” She fell silent. How could she point out that given who she was her lot in life was to be expected? It was not as if she could simply walk away. Damon had made her well aware what the life of a whore or a commoner’s wife was like. For all she was used to being a servant for her sisters, she did not wish for such a life if she could avoid it. “There are worse fates. Such as married to Ser Osric Arryn.” She whispered with a flash of uncharacteristic anger in her eyes. Vaera, for all her intended aid, had left Elayne with that very possible fate if the Ser would resign himself, as Lord Lucas saw it, to content himself with such a wife as she. Her blush grew as she stiffened slightly, her anger replacing with startled alarm as her gaze shifted nervously to Vhandyr. A powerful lord and here she was snipping at a worry like the nattering nursemaid that Caitlyn employed. “My Lord, forgive me. I spoke without thinking. I meant no disrespect by it.”

For a moment, he just looked confused by her, “Is there another way to be plainly, honestly, spoken? I hadn’t thought so.” There was no window that opened for her to be able to respond. He simply moved on, shaking the confusion from his eyes, “You do, Elayne, do yourself a disservice—I admit, I do myself some disservices, as well. Sometimes it can’t be helped, sometimes it can be helped…if you see it. I don’t always see it. Perhaps my sister simply wanted you to see it. Men and women react differently to us, my sister and I. Women react much better to me, for…reasons,” he said, flatly, plainly, “Men react much better to her. I think this is why she sent me: to tell you that you do yourself a disservice. Whyever you have the blood you have, the way my sister sees it, it is a thing to be proud of. There's no reason to be a hostage. My nature is good, my nature is to be helpful, so when she asked me to come and see. I see shame, I see dread, and mayhaps self-loathing?”

For a reason only he knew, he chuckled, though he was kind enough to share, “I have no shame in my blood. I have dread, a dread of what comes next for creation, a dread of what could happen because of the blood we share. I cannot admit I hold any self-loathing…no, I suspect the Valyrians got what was coming to them. From what I’ve read, from what I’ve seen, from tales I’ve been told by those who heard it directly from those who lived in the Freehold…they got greedy, they overreached, and in their desperation to maintain, the fire they thought couldn’t burn them anymore, burned down their homes and sent it all crashing down on their heads. But shame? I don’t abuse the blood. I don’t wish to exploit it for power. I just hope to remember the faint echoes of fire and magic, enough that one echo might reach another, which might reach another, so that one day people might hear Valyrian music again, the way I do.”
His eyes had drifted from her, to nothing, to his own thoughts. Upon their return to her, he smiled, small and genuine, almost sheepish. “You have no control over the acts of a Valyrian blooded, dishonorable, Westeros Lord. You have no control over your mother’s fate. You have no control over how your House treats you…you DO control how you see yourself, how you see your silvery hair, and your magic-touched eyes. Go easy on yourself, your past, and determine what you want and how to get it. In the meantime, would you attend this melee with me? I must go to support my friend, and to ensure he is treated fairly.”

For her part Elayne listen. Her gaze fixed on him through lowered lashes. He spoke of many thing and far too many of them hit too close to her heart for the young woman to deny the blush that rose across her pale cheeks. It was no pale rose but crimson as she gave the Balerys lord a considering look. Who was he to speak so openly? A lord and one of high rank. A rider of a dragon for she had seen the great beast wing over this keep of red stone.

“You speak wisely,” She answered softly. “And kindly. Though I fear that while I wish to find your words to be truth, that circumstance holds me to remain as I am. There are few places a woman can go with no family or husband.” She admitted, it was that more than anything that had held her prisoner in the fortress of Harrenhal. For Damon had explained those perils, and taunted her with the Nightmares they conjured. “If you wish, Lord Vhandyr, I would be pleased and delighted to join you.” The silent ‘though I am only a minor woman’ in her mouth unspoken.

Old gods or new gods - Rhaena didn't know who to curse or thank for what had unfolded. A widow of barely weeks and she had agreed to wed again. The marriage agreement was a small price to pay…if she ever had to pay it. Meraxes save her, did she even want to return from Oldtown?

The thought sank like a stone, down to her gut. Her ladies had grown distant, even when they joined her in the evening and held her as she sobbed in her sleep. She did not shed tears while awake but at night, in deep unconsciousness, the princess was inconsolable. Come the morning, they scattered to corners of Casterly Rock to prepare and plan for her wedding.

Loreon would announce it at his Triumph, where Rhaena would already be on display. They had scoured her surviving trunks and seamstresses had worked day and night to have a dress for her fitting the occasion. The princess had wanted to wear her ceremonial armor but had, finally, been convinced otherwise.

She stared at herself in the full length looking glass. The gown was beyond compare, though Rhaena could not find joy in it. It was deep crimson silk edged with black lace along the sleeves and neck. The top of it was rigid against her chest and abdomen, made to look like armor but with none of the protection. A farce, a lie, but effective nonetheless. A deep golden cloak was clasped on one shoulder with a golden lion and the other an ebony dragon. She'd had a metal worker fashion a slim crown of dark steel and had it set with a trio of rubies. It was a delicate balance between supporting her uncle’s claim to the throne and reminding the Lords that she was the former king’s eldest child. It was a game she hated being thrust into but she was no child who thought she could win by not playing. She'd bide her time, play this role, and destroy those who had gutted her heart and left her broken.

Or die trying.

It was time to take her place at Loreon’s side in the procession. She wasn't sure what had swayed him to this, nor did she mind that his companion, Kinvara, joined them. Let the woman see to his needs and leave her be. Rhaena did not trust her though, there was a keenness to her eyes that the princess found unsettling. The crowds they passed through were boisterous in the celebration though it was immediately clear not all celebrated. Rhaena could not help but be reminded of the angry eyes and whispers she had suffered with Aegon. It was here too, just below the surface no matter the food and wine and coin that flowed the streets and uplifted lords and smallfolk alike.

The mood turned, Rhaena thought, surely from more of the traitorous Poor Fellows who must have infiltrated the crowds and urged them to violence. When the dam broke, it broke in a fury. Darkrobin whisked her away with no mind to how the Lord Paramount would escape. It was not the kingsguard’s concern. The escape was a blur, he had grabbed her, hard, around the waist, when a man in the crowd below their dais had thrown mud - she told herself it was mud no matter the smell - though it had missed and instead splattered against her slippers and Loreon’s boots. There had been only time enough for her eyes to connect with Loreon’s before she felt herself pulled away. An apathetic fear took hold and Ser Darklyn needed to handle her roughly for her feet to move before he gave up and picked her up. She thought she had heard him apologize. When they were at last safely behind Casterly’s walls she was astonished to see her skirts in shreds. Her slippers were gone, her stockings filthy.

The Mercenaries had arrived at Casterly hours ago, encamping but on alert the Company of the Rose were known to have fought for Dorne, Targaryens, and more over the years. With men and women of all faith in creeds serving side by side in the company they were rarely greeted with open arms in the Kingdoms. With the tension in the air they had set sentries and kept the men on alert, peasants across the countryside had been moving about with Septons preaching to their flocks. Branwyn and Alyswyn were wearing their full regalia as Northern nobles of house Stark here to give condolences. The pair of the oldest Stark children towered above most of the soldiers in full armor with house sigil on their cloaks and the symbol of the Company of the Rose on their tabards Branwyn a few inches taller than his sister but both cut an imposing figure, Alyswyn with her bastard sword at her side and shield on her arm. Branwyn with Ice upon his back as they watched the arriving nobles.

Their arrival had of course foretold but with the events of the day and preparations little notice had been paid to the coming of the mercenaries who had come to pay respects to Rhaena loss while searching for work. While Branwyn had not known them personally it would save his father the trip and of course perhaps help him learn about the coming rulers if he was to one day rule the North. However, upon the sight of Rhaena’s arrival he could frown at how the people here had treated her, leaning towards his sister he spoke softly. “Seems the town is worse than we thought... Throwing shit at Princess... They say we’re barbarians, at least we don’t bother throwing our shit at people, we just hit them.”

Alyswyn turned her head and covered her face a bit at her brother’s joke, flushing herself shaking her head before knocking him in the shoulder. “Don’t be an ass...” She spoke with a soft smile at her brother. “Now let’s get ready to make introductions.” They spoke as they started to move towards the recently arrived Princess, a handful of their officers behind them. Barthor and Artyn had been sent out into the city to learn of the goings on and find them information, spies and scouts were good for that sort of thing not to mention they knew how to play the part of whoever they needed to be to get the information they sought. So long as you reminded them the whoring and drinking came after the fighting.

The Kingsguard had been calling for ladies to see to Rhaena’s health and needs when he saw two figures approaching. He'd known that noble mercenaries had arrived. The Princess would have needed to meet with them had all of this not happened. Now though? While his charge had been spirited back to safety? He trusted no one. Seven, he hated this realm.

“No closer.” He barked out with a mailed hand held up to stop them. No matter their house, no matter who they were, in this situation he'd draw his sword if pressed.

Alyswyn couldn’t help herself. “We are of House Stark,” she gestured at the cloak with the direwolf sigil as if he were blind. “Perhaps you have heard of us? Pray to old gods, beat Southern armies at the neck, smart enough to not fight dragons?” She took another step just to prove she could as she gave a wink at the Kingsguard. “We came to give condolences... Though it seems like you might need our sword arms instead.” Her teasing unending it seemed, she enjoyed riling up knights and nobles few knew how to take a lady in armor seriously.

Branwyn shook his head and pulled his sister back a step, praying they weren’t about to get into more trouble. “Branwyn, heir to Winterfell and that loud mouth is Alyswyn Stark, Ser knight. My sister is correct though I have come offering condolences and if you request it... The services of ten thousand men and women, for the right coin of course.”

He took two steps forward in response, a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Respectfully, my lord and lady, I don't care who you are right now.” He blocked the path towards the Princess and scanned around him for any of the Lannister castle guards. Men had poured out past them in raising a response against the rioters.

Ladies had come running to attend to Rhaena, but she pushed them and their ministrations away. She was alive, still…yet. “See Darklyn, that's enough.” Her voice was hardened but she softly touched his elbow in her approach behind him and peered around him towards the Starks.

What a mess she was, her locks that had been pulled and tousled to nest the crown were wild now. She felt the slim thing slip around and pulled it out, her fingers gripped it at her side. “You and your men are well rested I take it? Here.” She tossed the crown at their feet, it thudded lightly against the ground. “A down payment for your services. Ensure my betrothed is escorted back to safety, quiet the smallfolk, and find me the instigators. They are, undoubtedly, men of the Poor Fellows or septons who encouraged this violence.” She frowned deeply. “I don't think House Lannister men will be much help with finding those men of faith.”

Alyswyn before could finish scooped up the crown and stepped close to her. “We don’t take payment till the work is done. Second, it looks better on you than on the ground.” She stepped enough to place the circlet back in her hand. As Branwyn sighed, turned towards the gate, then his men who had come with him.

“Right you layabouts! Find the Lion Lord and get him home safe. Corwain and Gwain, get your arses back to the camp and get the men together. Show these overdressed and over paid boys in red what professional soldiers can do!” Shouts came up, as the officers and the warriors of Alyswyn’s wolfpack moved to mount their horses.

The lady warrior who had a moments ago handed back the princess her crown gave a whistle a great black charger pulling alongside her even in armor she gripped its neck and threw herself up onto it in a single motion. “You can sort out the Lannisters to pay for this while we get it all under control... It’s why you keep him around right? Reason us ladies with brains and spirits keep these lads around right, do what we want and pay for what we want.” Branwyn tossed her a helmet and pulled on his own.

“Get the damn gates open, Wolfpack to the front!” Branwyn commanded as they watched Branwyn unsheath Ice, a massive hunk of Valyrian steel in the shape of a sword as the mounted mercenaries with Alyswyn at the head took up shields and arms. “We will be back before sundown with the heads to show for it.” He spoke, normally he would bargain but Lannisters were always good for gold and Targaryen’s tended to expect things done when they asked for them.

—
—

As evening turned to night and then to dawn, Rhaena received word at last that Loreon had returned safely as well as his lover and his kin. She did not rush to meet him. The riot had been quelled but streets and alleys had run with fire and blood before it was put down. The Princess had not slept, but spent the night pacing her rooms. If only she'd had Dreamfyre. With this much unrest, she grew concerned that the men she had been promised would be pulled back or that she'd be told to wait. There was no time, she needed to act.

She'd argued with Ser Darklyn about the Stark company. He didn't like that she'd paid them to act on the riot, didn't like the idea for her to hire them to go to the Reach. He didn't say it so directly, but his attempts to divert her attention from it or to caution patience told her how he really felt.

It didn't matter, she'd made up her mind. As the morning wore on she sent word to have Branwyn and Alyswyn Stark brought to her in a large study she'd been offered to use for any official capacity. Her eyes were dark from lack of sleep but she'd changed into a simple but fine black gown and had her hair simply plaited with the crown Alyswyn had returned to her. It was not so odd to see a woman geared to war. Not to Rhaena at least, who grew up on the stories of her grandmother and great aunt’s exploits. But it seemed odd to see any other house be so at ease with it. Perhaps the north really were a different sort of people.

She waited for them to arrive, the Darkrobin stationed behind her and just as sleep deprived. More pointedly, she had not notified Loreon, perhaps it would be a first sign of how their marriage would be, but she cared little for that. She should have sent word back to Dragonstone or King’s Landing, but that could wait as well. She played with fire and knew it.

The pair entered in armor still, an evening of violence and a night of hunting had given the company plenty of trouble yet they stood here uninjured though she could tell they had not yet slept. Alyswyn folded her arms as she leaned on the wall, as Branwyn entered and gave a bow. “We have cleared the Poor Fellows out from the mob. Skillfully avoiding a massacre if I do say so, they seemed to form the backbone of the riot. While the Septons were preaching we had to detain and haul them away... They gave little resistance after we smashed their soldiers.Turned them over to the guards to hold in the dungeons... We thought you’d prefer to deal with them yourself.” Branwyn stood upright now coming up from his bow as he looked at the Princess.

“After we cleared the streets and sent most of them home we let the Lannister men take over. Seems they may be good for more than decoration after all.” Alyswyn added as moved to stand beside her brother. “At least fifty dead soldiers of the faith and a couple dozen Septons locked away.” She smirked, clapping her brother on the back.

“And in a moment we will discuss the matter of the bill... And whether this is going to be a continuing contract. We can have it formally written later but for now... I have brought you something. Not as a mercenary... But as someone who knows the weight of the loss of family, and whose family is loyal to your house and name.” He turned and opened the door, two young men entered carrying a vase with blue roses, winter roses had only ever grown in the north. “Barthor and Artyn, my brothers were sent north to fetch these and meet us here when it was done. They are a gift from House Stark... One rose from each member of the family. I wanted to present this first as the reason we came was first and foremost to grieve and pay our respects.” He spoke as the two men, clearly his brothers and even Alyswyn moved forward all four taking a knee before her.

“House Stark, the men and women of the North who Aegon spared when two men showed great wisdom instead of great violence. We all offer our sincere condolences for the death of a good man who ought to have lived.” He spoke slowly and carefully, though she could feel the pain in his voice. “We... We have all known the pain of losing siblings too soon, ones we cherished and loved.” He added before all four rose, she would note tears welled in each sibling's eyes yet they did not shed swallowing it back down.

Rhaena winced at the gesture but quickly regained a more stony expression. It erupted in her mind though, unbidden and unwelcome memories of the attack and of his dying breaths. Aegon, her heart ached, her stomach turned. “You have done well.” She managed at last, her voice squeaking through it to avoid the hitch of emotion. “And I thank you for this gesture.” The princess paused, her youth briefly on display as her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her fingers delicately ran over the flowers, tenderly, a moment longer in thought of what her father would have done and the frown returned.

“Stand.” It was a soft command. “House Stark were loyal and true supporters of my family and I am glad to see that is true still, no matter that you are for hire. You must have heard that my uncle has taken the throne.” She paused, eyes intensely on the four wolves before her, though she lingered over Alyswyn. Brash and bold, perhaps it was necessary for any woman who chose to don armor. “The Faith seeks to destroy us and everything we have built. In the North, you must feel this as well. Their…disdain for your old ways and beliefs. We,” she paused again, as if to second guess speaking for her uncle, her king, but pushed on, “we have need of your services still. Lord Loreon will need his men and some of yours to maintain the peace here a while longer. I will need you and your men for my journey to Oldtown.”

Alyswyn nodded first as she looked at Rhaena a moment before looking at her brother. “I’ll go to Old Town with you. I am a good commander but better fighter, never met a man I couldn’t leave in the dirt bleeding. Branwyn is who you want for thinking and planning things, never had the head for it.” She offered to step closer to Rhaena as she smiled, the girl reminded her of her younger sisters trying to keep it together even when they had not the years to know what all they should do.

Branwyn sighed and nodded. “I can work with Lord Loreon here if that is what you need... However...” He noted the young woman’s exhaustion and he’d caught the pain in face and couldn’t help sighed. “I won’t take advantage of your youth, your exhaustion or your grief by negotiating prices while I have such an advantage. The lowest I can do is thirty-thousand golden dragons enough to resupply my soldiers and pay them enough for what has to be done. As long as you’ll pay that much we can hold these talks when you are rested. For now, our band is yours here in the Westerlands and to travel to the Reach.” Barthor and Artyn stood and grabbed at the brother, thinking it madness but he silenced them with a wave of his hand before they could protest aloud.

“So please, rest well and when you are ready we will discuss terms with both you and Lord Lannister for full payment, terms, length of service, and more.” He paused for a moment and then added. “Should you need more than we could offer, I can reach out to Winterfell, though I would caution it may take time to organize the troops you need.” He explained as he gestured for the others to leave.

As they began to file out, Alyswyn who had been watching Rhaena closely slowly stepped forward to the desk and opened a pouch on her belt drawing out a vial. “Here, Dornish sleeping tincture, used to take a lot of these. The heat was murder trying to sleep in.” She spoke, setting it on the table as she turned to start towards the door. “Call on us any time after... We're paid for now.” She spoke, of course mentally she knew it wasn’t about the heat that she’d need the medicine for... It was to stop the nightmares, over ten years of fighting and traveling she had seen things she might never forget, sometimes that tonic was the only thing that kept her from awakening dagger in hand.

---

---

There was one benefit, meager as it was, to the heat. The water that caused her dress to both drag against the floor and twist about her legs was quickly dry as she wandered down corridors and through rooms that she didn’t recognize. Her mind was a blur of anger, of disappointment, of fear, and, most worrying, of regret.

She stopped at last, her feet nearly coming up short beneath her and she rocked on the balls of her feet. Sharra knew she had not been alone in her journey, not just the servants who had tried to delicately catch glimpses or whispered softly to one another. How could her nephew do this to her? Sell her to some unknown family on the opposite end of the world from…from a family she barely felt a part of.

The defiant bird turned to wait for her pursuer to approach, a sign she knew he was there, she hoped he was there and it was not all imagined. She scrubbed her hand quickly across her face, brushing away a few errant tears that fell down her cheeks. Her eyes were reddened, glossy with the tears she blinked back.

“I am sorry for the trouble my nephew and I have now caused for you." She spoke only when he was close enough to hear her soft voice, but still, she took a step back as he approached. “But I will not do it, I will not agree to this match, surely I cannot be forced, it would be…indecent, yes?" She pleaded, her voice pitched upward over the roughness of choked back anger. Her hands fell to her sides and twisted in her dress, the fabric at her thighs twirled through her fingers. She would find passage on her own if she needed to, steal away in the rancid heat of the night aboard a galley. No matter the pirates or storms or…her mind raced through the calamities she’d rather endure.

Softly strolling behind Sharra watching the sway of her hips Aster found himself hypnotized by her fluid movements; like those of the small falcon, Tethris, that Cassie begged their father for when she saw him. Tethris was small but graceful and swift. Sharra reminded Aster of the falcon. Tipping his head with a calm expression on his face he let her retreat and plead her case.

What she didn’t realize was that she wouldn’t have to be forced into the match that her idiot nephew procured like she was some toothless old hag. Aster had been compelled by her beauty at first but that paled in comparison to her mind. She was truly wasted in Westeros. “I, and my family, are in agreement with you. But remember we are Valyarian, Volantine, and Essosi. We do not think like Westeros." He advanced on her, backing her up to the wall and crowding her. His slate blue eyes like the waters farther out deep and intense. He didn’t touch her but leaned over so that his words were spoken directly to her ear. “But my motives are less than heroic. I would prefer that you would want to stay with me. I have become quite attached to the way you defend your point. That fire that sparks in your eyes…”

Leaning back before he did something that really scared his falcon Aster smiled at Sharra. “I would have it be your choice though. As much as it would pain me to watch you sail away I would let you. This I promise you… for a little while at least. I think I would have to come after you. Sad is it not?"

Her heart climbed her throat and threatened to burst out. Each breath worked to steady herself and keep her upright, her hands clenched and twisted the fabric of her dress further. What madness was this? She couldn’t think, the heat enveloped her and suffocated her until she could see only Aster hovered over her. His words echoed, slow and delayed from when his mouth moved to form them. A moment of joy followed by new terror, what was he suggesting to her?

Sharra sighed as he stepped back, relief and regret at once to have space between them. Her heart thudded still in her ears but her vision expanded again. “I…I…” The maiden stuttered, her thoughts incomplete and dueling. A cruel thought took the fore and she frowned. The stories her septa had told her, the warnings from her mother, of the dangers of men - particularly foreign men. “You do not think like Westeros. What happens when you grow tired of me as your plaything, is marriage so easily set aside as marriage alliances here?"

“Marriage alliances here? Plaything? My Lady do you think so dishonorably of me that I would set you aside were I married to you? Rahl marriages are for life." Aster sighed and stepped back farther, dropping his hands smiling sadly. “Where do you get the idea that we set aside women? Is that not what Maegor has done? Seems more a Westrosi tradition than an Essosi tradition." Aster shook his head. “I know not what I said that offended you, I offered you a choice. I will always offer you a choice. That is how I was raised. I can call you a guide back to your rooms if you wish."

The words hadn’t fully fled her mouth for the regret to set in at giving in to the fear. He had been nothing but kind to her. Sharra’s hands released her dress at last and covered her mouth as if to prevent herself from saying any other foolish thing. She shook her head, and croaked out a soft no, muffled behind her fingers. What did she want, a choice in the matter? A choice other than to hide away, a choice other than to remain the Maiden of the Vale?

She didn’t know the answer to her questions or his. “Nothing you’ve said nor done since rescuing us from the docks has been offensive but…” Her words trailed, her hands dropped to her sides, blue eyes searched for anything but his face to focus on, her hands looking for anything to occupy themselves other than to twist again into the fabric of her dress.

Sharra eyes met his, a mistake for the flutter it set off in her stomach. “Don’t send me away, please." She spoke of it in response to his offer of a guide - and in the complex of his home, she was lost - but a deeper meaning lurked under the surface of her words.

“I would sooner send my baby brother to Asshai than send you away if you do not wish it. Perhaps this is all too much right now? Perhaps the friend you've made these weeks merely wishes to let you know he respects you. That he can understand that the road looks rough but he would gladly walk it with you. But ultimately he respects your wishes and needs if you let him know." Aster's voice was soft and husky with emotion. His slate blue eyes intense. “Your friend would do much for you just to see you smile."

Her mind rushed with thoughts, some of which she chided herself for in the moment they flickered into existence. “I have never met anyone like you." She whispered, a soft quiver to her voice, a throatiness she has never heard from herself before. Sharra took a step to close the distance he had given her, and boldly in her own way, searched for his hand with hers. Skin met skin and her fingers pressed between his. Warm and comforting, her lips parted in a bashful smile. “Walk with me now, if it pleases you to see me smile a little longer?"

As she linked their fingers together Aster smiled tenderly. His eyes caressed her face slowly then rested on her own and looked deep into her and replied. “As you wish."

---

---

Spring in the Riverlands meant mud, and this spring had yet to disappoint. The morning held a chill, and the slop of brown mud had made for a less than pleasant journey out, but the mood was still high regardless. Their father and Lord Paramount had ridden out days ago to visit Seagard and had intended to see Stone Hedge as well. That likely meant several more days to not slight their kin at Raventree Hall. Kin still, no matter that their cousin’s mother had died.

They rode south and east, preferring the flat lands off the Red Fork rather than the forests north of Riverrun. They rode for sport and to hunt, but it was not a serious day of it. It was a day, in the midst of too much tension, for the eldest offspring of House Tully to take advantage of the promise of spring.

They passed by an old farming village, one that looked too old to have been deserted from Harren the Red’s rebellion, perhaps it had been emptied during the conquest. Nature had reclaimed much of the wooden structures, but stonework stood true.

“As good as any place to rest the horses and have a bite to eat, don’t you think, m’lord..." Raulf halted his mare, and spoke with warm ribbing to his brother. Their father’s departure had been a tension relieved, but the second son knew that feeling would not last long. Yet another attempt to find him a wife. Still, that left Prentys to act in their father’s interests, and gave Raulf reason enough to try and keep him humble. He shifted in his saddle to catch Abigael’s attention with a dramatic wink. “Or perhaps m’lady thinks it better to push on for our prey..." He laughed easily, though it was not entirely genuine. There was still a tension to him, not just the reason for Rhobyn’s absence, but the news and rumors of the realm had set him on edge even more. “But I think Bensen will agree with me, right lad..." Their cousin, enough time spent with them that Raulf considered him his eldest younger brother.

The lady in question’s attention was drawn to her brother and with a singular raised russet eyebrow the expressive face of Abigael Tully seemed directly related to the question that she then asked. “And deprive us of this exquisite spring romp? I think not..." She niffed delicately as she pulled the massive blood bay stallion to a stop. He flicked his ears in annoyance. “There is naught back at the castle that needs my attention..." She motioned for one of her brothers; she considered Bensen a little brother rather than a cousin, to help her down. “If we are stopping you will not leave me on Balerion. You know I won’t be able to get down and it is rude! The ground is so very far away and my dress would tangle....."[/color] She tapered off pouting. She was a little thing and the stallion Balerion made her look even smaller. She looked down at the ground then at her brothers still pouting.

Truly if I wanted to I could get down on my own. I just don’t want to. Father probably went North to find Raulf another girl to humiliate. Eventually he will have to marry as will I. If Father harps after another Harroway boy after Elmo had that accident I will make life here hell. The Highgarden Heir is a good match and he’s handsome. Abigael’s attention came back to the present.

Bensen ran a hand through his shoulder-length locks, a deep exhale accompanying it all. She was right, he thought, there wasn’t anything back at the castle that really needed any of their attentions. At least, that’s as he saw it. For that matter, they all seemed to agree about stopping. The youngest of the bunch sighed melodramatically, playing far into it as he clambered down from his pony. “I suppose we ought to..." Of course, the ground did not help him as he landed, feet slipping from under him in the churned mud. The sound he made in falling was most unmanly.

“And here I liked this cloak..." he breathed out, cheeks red-hot in embarrassment as he laid for a moment before getting back up. Wiping the mud from his hands off on the outer ends of the cloak, Bensen looked up to the still-mounted lady. He flashed a rueful smile, still embarrassed over his fall. “Jump down, Abi. I’m sure my imprint has made the ground firmer for it..."

A gaggle of children were they, Prentys gave Raulf a stern raise of a reddish brow. “It will do as well as anywhere and were I the Lord, brother, you would find yourself married off quick as could be. Even if to a Frey..." For all the talk of marriage alliances was a serious matter and the Tully's were lacking in the next link of the Lordship after himself, the Heir to Riverrun had a tone of amusement. Humored by his brother's refusal to marry rather than their exasperated father.

Swinging out of the saddle, his blood bay tossing a head in relaxation, the man strode across the mud and soggy grass to pluck Abigael from the saddle. A tall man and built with the training of a knight, Prentys had thought it a shame he had not been sent to the Starks of Winterfell. So soon after the Conquest, it would have been impossible. The Lords needed to gain favor within their own realms, alliances were a thing for daughters when one had an excess. Not that Abigael was an excess, He thought wryly. She was his own sister and a jewel within herself. “There you go, Princess..." He teased her.

Raulf lowered himself smoothly, the splatter of mud completely missing his leggings. He rolled his eyes at the rest of them. “No one told you to bring a war steed to a picnic, Abi..." The criticism was delivered with forced harshness through his easy smile. Had Prentys not moved to her rescue so quickly, he would have been there to free her from her self-inflicted distress. Why their father had let her claim that beast as her own…well, it wasn’t anything for Raulf to complain about.

He groaned inwardly at his eldest brother’s jest. His reluctance to marry or agree on a match was not well hidden within the family, no matter the excuses offered externally. “Not all of us can be blessed with a wife like Lucinda..." He didn’t necessarily dislike his sister by law, but she was far too pious for his tastes. “Have a son and this talk of marriage can be put to rest at last..."

The talk of marriage was too much to continue engaging, instead, he went to Bensen and looked him over. “A good thing we didn’t bring any other ladies to see your dismount..." He chuckled, “or hear whatever sound that was. Sevens, cus, do you scream that way with the practice swords and I’ve just never noticed..." Raulf wasn’t one to talk, he’d barely gotten more praise than well that wasn’t the worst you’ve done, boy.

The smile that Abigael gave her big brother Prentys was like sunshine from behind clouds. Her expression was one of joy as she was called Princess. “My husband shall have a lot to live up to since my brothers spoil me..." She giggled and hugged her brother for a moment. Letting go she caught Balerion’s bridle and secured it so he didn’t wander. The dress she had chosen was cut in a square neckline and had fitted sleeves. It was a river blue with shots of crimson embroidery trailing throughout it like thin veins. It was fitted to Abigael’s small hourglass shape and the skirts just brushed the ground as she took care to lift them out of the mud. Dew transfer to the dress was acceptable but cold slimy mud was not.

Positioning herself on the grass Abigael looked over at Raulf. “Raulf don't squabble, you know Balerion would get out and cause problems if I left him. It's not his fault he thinks I'm his lady. Speaking of ladies, Lucinda didn't want to join us today, Prentys? Is she alright? Bensen darling you missed a spot just here..." She pointed to the gloves she had on and to the palm near the outside of her thumb.

Bensen looked just a tad crestfallen at the mention of ladies or, indeed, him making such sounds at practice. The idea of them hearing such a noise was embarrassing, but the idea of such a noise reaching into the ears of every Riverlands lady was unbearable. Of course they hadn’t heard him make such noises when practicing swords; the reason was embarrassing too, as he frankly barely had ever done so after father had…gone. Things to fix, things to fix. Things for now to forget to be more precise. He cast a look at Raulf, smiling slightly. "Small wonders that we didn't consider bringing any. I didn’t know there were any in mind..."

Missed a spot? He didn't even bother to check, just wiping his hands even more vigorously on the poor cloak.

Prentys shook his head, his mane of red hair swaying about a weathered face. The eldest of the lot and as such there was the position as the Lord's heir to uphold. Which Abigael, well intending as she was, made difficult with matters he wished to leave in his chambers. “I fear I offended My Lady, when I did not denounce Maegor for his attempt to be king..." There was steel in his gaze as he looked over his brother, sister and cousin in turn. Too soon they would go out into the world and he did not want some ill fate to befall them. “These words will not bear repeating. Well you know I heed the teachings of the Seven and of the piousness of my wife. Yet, there is a time and a place. Speaking too openly or with fervor on matters so great that concern the Targaryens? Abi, do you remember seeing Harrenhal, and that castle is newly built when all is said..." He gave a very pointed look to his sister and brother.

“Lucinda would have me denounce the marriage of brother and siblings and the upstart of marrying more than one wife. With my sword and the Faith as my shield..."

Prentys was one to bring things back to depressing reality. Still, Raulf gently ribbed Bensen with his elbow and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s always ladies, or so I hear. Just don’t let his wife find out..." He nodded back to the eldest with a final wink. Another thing that he wouldn’t be one to talk about. He put on a good enough display of things, but he hadn’t chased after a skirt since he was younger than Bensen was now.

“Do we have to ruin this glorious, muddy, spring day with talk of this again brother..." The look he gave was harder than his tone. No one could actually ignore what went on, nor could they hide from how it might affect them. “Lucky for you all, I planned ahead, or planned for the worst if we didn’t catch sight of anything worth hunting..." He stomped back to his horse and the packs he had filled before the sun had risen at all that day. Skins of wine too good for their expedition, hard cheeses, cured meat, dried fruits. He grabbed a wine skin and held it out for them to see. “A drink first, that whatever madness is elsewhere in the realm, we are left alone to our mud..."

"He is obliged to talk of the Faith on any day. Lucinda would be displeased any other way..." Bensen frowned as he spoke not so loud, still wiping away at the mud on his hands crouched over. He had barely seen the glare given by Raulf, straightening up with a sigh as he'd finally been satisfied that the mud was off his hands. The cloak, rough as it was, just needed to be let dry before he'd wipe it away. It was thick wool, durable enough the young Tully was sure.

Eying the goods that Raulf had brought, Bensen smiled again. He truly had looked ahead, best or worst, and the gradual hole in his stomach made itself even more known than before. The hard cheese, especially, was enticing. Sucking at his tooth appreciatively, he nodded even as he was unsure exactly on what Bensen should say for it. After all, the eldest did not seem in too jovial a mood.

Looking up at her eldest brother Abigael scrunched her nose adorably. “Really Pren? Must you bring up that cursed place and be so serious? We are allowed to have some fun aren’t we? I don’t want to talk about who’s doing what and make it a lesson. I want to have fun and not think about what lies beyond the moment. I do enough of that..." She smirked and picked her way over to Raulf and snatched the wineskin from him. “I’d much rather extol the virtues of the fictitious man I wish to marry. Raulf and Benji can join me. They can tell us what virtues their wives should have and then we can take the qualifications to Father. Up for the challenge boys..."

Shrugging off the hard look from Raulf, the eldest of the Tullys gave his younger brother a rueful shrug. Realities were realities and he, unlike they, shouldered a burden of being the heir. He could never just forget where he stood or what he was. “Yes, I must. Else if I do not bring up the Faith at least one per outing my wife will hear tell of it and I shall find Riverrun a cold place..." It was half a jest as he collected some of the dried fruits from his brother. “But I already know what virtues Raulf desires. A beautiful woman. One who is not so serious..." He teased his brother with a slight smile. “For you Abi? A knight well placed to be a Lord and a kind hearted..."

“Kind hearted isn’t such a surprising thing..." Bensen ventured, his nervousness in the statements gradually bleeding away as the young Tully continued. “If anyone wanted something else, they’d be odd. She’d want someone who would listen, take heed, someone who…you know? Talked. Had actual conversations. Those seem rare enough for her..." He would choose a piece of cured meat instead, gnawing on it for just a moment as though in contemplation. It was quite good, all things considered, and Bensen tried asking the question to himself. What did he want? It wasn’t something he had ventured much before, not as far as putting down the thoughts in a list as though ordering goods from a quartermaster, though the Tully found that he could probably imagine such a lady. The only ones who truly struck him so were the Reeds, maybe, or even some of the Northern women. He couldn’t say that he knew any Riverlanders or Reachmen who would hunt or fish or walk by his side. He chewed some more. It wasn’t something he could quite say aloud, at least not in front of Prentys. He’d criticize just as much as his wife would.

“The Dornish would fit that bill quite well, for Raulf. Beautiful, who aren’t serious..." He chuckled at the imaginary sight of him bringing such a lady into court, the faces of those others who would be aghast by it.

His brow arched upwards at the astuteness his cousin displayed, at least as far as Abi was concerned. If he’d had any interest in marriage, perhaps the Dornish would be his best bet, he thought and a rueful smile unintentionally flickered across his lips. The fame - infamy, depending on who you asked - of a Dornish woman was well known enough. Perhaps if he wanted to really annoy his father he’d raise the suggestion when presented with another poor woman to be intended.

Raulf frowned at the wine no longer being in his hand and held it outstretched to his sister. “Abi apparently needs a husband who will let her do as she wishes, when she wishes, how she wishes, hm..." Seeing the skin not returned quickly enough he tried to give her a sad, pitiful look. “And she hopefully won’t let him die for lack of drink..." He curled his fingers more insistently that it be returned to him.

“Beautiful women can be found in paintings and stories, why settle down and never have a moment’s peace again..." He knew there were rumors about him, but he had never been foolish enough to give those rumors teeth. “It will be better for me to be clear-headed as I advise you into our elderly years, Prentys. What would you do without me..."

He sauntered over and threw an arm around their eldest brother’s shoulder and leaned in with a loud whisper. “Now can you make our favorite sister give me back the wine..."

Pulling on the wineskin again Abigael took a long draw making a satisfied lip smacking sound afterwards. She made it annoyingly loud to gain attention. “I am everyone's favorite sister. And I am helping you practice being clear headed. As for my husband, an entirely biddable husband is a boring husband..." She smirked and gave the wine to Bensen. “I, dear brothers, I want passion. I want romance… and I want him to be pleasing to the eye as well as the heart. He doesn't have to let me win all the time, just the important times..."

A little belch crept out and Abigael covered it with the back of her hand, her eyes twinkling. “And I want out of the Riverlands. Highgarden is nice this time of year..." She hinted her preference then thought she had better be a little more obvious. “As in the Tyrell heir. I mean we are the Paramount seat in the Riverlands, why not align with the Paramount seat of the Reach..." She reached for a piece of fruit and nibbled as she watched her brothers’ reactions.

“Highgarden..." Raulf chuckled even if hearing his sister speak about passion made him wonder what sort of terrible poetry or stories she’d found a bard to tell her lately. “What was wrong with the Arryn boy who came through here a few years ago, too young for your tastes? Or are you afraid of heights maybe..." It wouldn’t have been the worst of political arrangements. He had softly suggested it to their father, why else was the lad touring the realm if not to shore up the fledgling line of an ancient family? A shame the boy hadn’t been adept at matters. Pleasant, and perhaps pleasing to the eyes, though it seemed he and his sister did not share taste in men.

Taking the wineskin, Bensen delivered a long look at the sister, eyes just a bit humored at the image. It was funny, yeah, though seeing her off to the Reach would be a strange loss he thought. Taking a quick swig before proffering the thing to Raulf, the young Tully exclaimed, "If Prentys can't talk of the Faith, we oughtn't talk of politics lest Father decide the Starks are a good fit to you, Abi. Off to Winterfell you'd go, and never another summer you'd see. As for the Arryn, I'm sure there are too many rocky hills for your tastes there..."

Arching an eyebrow at the mention of the Arryns. Abigael paused and then it came to her. “Oh the delicate blonde man with the repressed attitude about women..." She snagged her gloves off her hands and tapped them on her thigh. “A bird may love a fish, but where would they live? Besides that he lacked the manners the Seven or the Old Gods gave a goose. That is a lot of work dear brother for a pretty husband..."

Leaning against a tree, Prentys shook his head. “A good thing then that your first betrothal fell through with the Harroways if you want out of the Riverlands..." He commented, a hand reaching for the wine skin with a raised brow towards Raulf. “That lad… Elmo? Hardly talked and as dusty as a book..." Considering Raulf he nodded more to himself. “And a Dornish woman for you would do well..."

Putting a hand on her hip Abigael slapped her thigh lightly with her gloves. “Elmo. Yes. Well at least father listened to me about not keeping that betrothal after the accident..." She sighed and shook her head. “Truly sad what happened, but the place is cursed. I was not going to get passed to his younger brother. Arryn would have been a better choice than a boy still clutching apron strings..." She was still affronted that they had offered to substitute another for her to have someone ‘whole’. She had thought Elmo was a good person and a nice friend but no more than that. Elmo was not passionate nor romantic, rather Elmo was very cool and polite. She was almost sure that he had no romantic feelings for her than he had for his sister. If she was wrong she’d never seen evidence to change her opinion.

“I think we should be touring the lands. Checking out alliances that could be made. Father needs to let us swim a little..." Abigael pushed her long curly hair out of her face and sighed heavily. She chafed under the confines of her father’s love. It was like a warm soothing blanket that was weighted down with responsibilities that she wanted to cast aside.

Raulf thought on it for a moment, his sister was not wrong and he cast a look at Prentys. Perhaps their father had kept Abi too close to Riverrun, too safely tucked away. He brushed aside the comments about how fitting anyone would be for him. “No matter your thoughts on the Arryn boy or that poor Harroway, you’re not wrong about touring the lands, don’t you think, Pren? Maybe even get our cousin properly introduced..." Please, he thought, a few months away to escort them around would be good for him, a focus on those two was less on him.

The heir to the Riverlands considered the idea of his sister and brother. A touring of the lands would be no bad thing. Letting the lords see and know him, find spouses and alliances for his siblings. Perhaps give Lucinda time to consider his way of thinking. They had been together for well over ten years, rarely apart during that time. “No, it is a good idea and one I would be more than interested in joining in. Letting the Lords see my face and know of me before I replace father would be no bad thing..." Prentys agreed.

The horse was given a mix of what he could find; carrots, mostly, with an apple to finish. He, himself, had feasted on duck he had hunted down at the small creek, not far from the memory of what used to be a village in the Riverlands. Before he succumbed to sleep, he ensured the fire was out, and covered with dirt. The horse he left inside the remains of a home, wooden timber, with half the roof missing, but the horse was unlikely to mind that.

He, himself, took the crawl space of the home. A bedroll and his dark coat rolled up to his head were more than he needed to fall asleep. The next morning, he was quick to pack and prepare to be off, but breaking his fast was the priority. There was some duck left, but an assortment of berries and nuts were his prize for the early part of the day.

He waited to leave, and partly out of necessity; his mind ran, and ran, and ran. It was a matter of wheels within wheels; opening a door just to find another door, surrounded by maze and mystery—where was she? Was she safe? What was she? Was she some witch? Was she some manifestation of divine will? Did such a thing exist?

He believed she saw what she saw. Was she simply mad? Was there more to it? Some questions, dark and dangerous as it felt, he knew the answers to…even if he still asked them as part of him pretended, he did not. Other questions, he just asked himself, again and again. By the time he finally readied the horse, he heard noises. The remains of the village allowed him caution and plenty of options for a careful, hidden, approach.

He had a good look, and he liked not at all what he saw: high born, obviously, without any visible guard. Speaking of madness… It took him a few moments to retreat, silently, from the remains of a granary, to come around the building to its front, to within sight. His blade was obvious upon his hip, his voice lower than normal, as if he hadn’t spoken to a soul in days.

“Do you think it wise to linger in abandoned places without guard..."

Turning pleading eyes to her oldest brother Abigael fluttered her eyelashes to get him to laugh. The boys all laughed when she hammed it up and she found that laughter was the best equalizer. Laughter would get you into and out of more places than trying force. Besides that she was a tiny little thing and force didn’t really work. The attempt to lighten the mood was torn apart as she heard a soft gruff voice and froze for a moment. Indeed they had not come with a guard. She trusted her brothers to protect her. Perhaps that was a foolish mistake.

Stepping behind her brothers, Abigael clicked softly to bring Balerion closer. Looking around as if the sudden idyllic countryside that was so pleasant moments ago hid villains behind every tree, bush and burn. Abigael pressed back into Balerion, her eyes flicking back and forth. The horse shivered as his mistress’ disquiet bled into him from her diminutive hand upon his neck and to his withers. Balerion’s ears flicked and his nostrils flared taking in a deep breath.

Abigael rationalized that if this man was indeed not alone, as he seemed, then it would not be smart for them to not harm her. It was a gamble but she took it as she tapped Balerion’s shoulder, her signal for him to bow so she could climb on. Balerion blew out the deep breath he had taken then dipped and with a swift movement Abigael climbed into the side saddle. Balerion felt her full weight and straightened as she settled. Ears flicking Balerion snorted and danced with the extra energy of the tension that you could cut with a knife.

“Steady..." Abigael’s voice was soft, melodious, rich and contrary to her slight frame. The level calm belied the apprehensiveness that kept Balerion twitching. She knew that she would need to compose herself to soothe Balerion even the slightest. In testament to the sheer amount of willpower she had Abigael stuffed most of the fear into a box.

“A little fear keeps you sharp. But not so much that it cripples you girl..." Abigael recalled her Uncle saying when they had gone on her first hunt.

Balerion danced as Abigael calmed and his large hooves sucked and spattered the mud as she brought him under control then relaxed. The ingénue and beast both relax as they eye the newcomer with interest. Curiosity winning out over fear Balerion shifts closer to the man as Abigael tips her head letting Balerion have his head the reigns loose. Ears forward Balerion stretches his neck out then takes a small step.

Her study of the man roamed his person intensely and with a curiosity that was immeasurable, such was the largest flaw in Abigael, her curiosity. His clothing was well made and dark; the sword at his hip had a lion on the hilt. He was road weary and it showed in his tousled shoulder length sable hair. Echoed by the stubble that graced his cheeks and the husky tone of his voice. “Bennie hand the wineskin to the man from Casterly Rock. He sounds like he needs it to clear the road from his throat. Raulf, is there salt in there? We should welcome him with hospitality..." She relaxed more as she blinked at Balerion nudging the stranger’s shoulder. “He normally doesn’t take that quickly to people..."

“A man from the West..." Prentys's brows were drawn together for three had been little but bad news from Casterly Rock. The death of Aegon chief among them. The laughter and smiles from moments ago cast aside as he considered this stranger. That the war horse took to him was noted as he gave a nod to Raulf in agreement with their sister. “You are a long way from Casterly Rock, stranger. Come drink and feast with us and tell us what has you looking so haggard on the road?. I've heard many a tale come about the Lannisters from out if the west..."

Raulf undid the ties that held the bag to his horse. It had been an error to stop and chat without even a moment to determine that they were alone. It wasn’t the first time they had all gone off on their own, not something they made many aware of, but they’d never run across more than a scattering of smallfolk. Not someone like this man. Abi - maybe Balerion moreso - had a good read on people. He was not fully relaxed, but his body was loose and he quickly returned the easy-going smile he saved for those he hoped to charm.

“I cannot promise a feast but salted meat, a hunk of bread, and a long drink from that wineskin will do you good..." He offered the bag, open, towards the older man. He did not look like a Lannister of any kind, perhaps a guard? With the news out of the Westerlands, Raulf wouldn’t be surprised if a man had had enough and looked to make his own way.

“I’m good with animals..." was his only response to the comment about her horse, detached and gentle, as he gave the beast a casual scratch and friendly few pats before turning his attention to the others. All Keano heard was further madness and a desperation for news. At least he could understand the latter, while the former just left him staring at them in partial disbelief.

Had the past fortnight not been strange, he might have had a hard time believing the group before him now. “The blade was a gift from my former employer, Lorelai of House Lannister. Her eldest brother, Loreon, returned from adventuring in Essos. He brought Essosi gods with him, Aegon died at the hands of smallfolk....."

He trailed, thinking he saw on their faces an untrustable hope, but his mind played on with the fringe Westerosi empty village, and he became convinced there had to be a simpler explanation. On their clothes he found creases indicating folds, the kind of thing that drew him in like a backwards attraction, like a chatter of endless secrets and pretentious quips. It seemed as useful to him as throwing stones at the sky. Suddenly he saw it all again; wild eyes, streaking colors, blurred by the blood, and a half-moon over the bay that threatened with pale light—within the blink of his eyes, it all changed: back to the nobility around him, back to the village, back to the present.

“Lord Tytos, uncle of the old King’s children, sent an assassin to kill his niece, Lady Lorelai. By the time the morning star found the Rock, Tytos was dead, Lorelai believed dead....." His eyes found the horses, as the tips of his ungloved fingers traced the lines of the war horse’s lower jaw, lost in it, “I told her to run. I told her to run and never look back. The Three-Eyed Raven would find her, I hoped…I hope, still..."

By the time he quit speaking, the words were nothing more than haunted whispers. Without questioning why, he spoke again, clearer, harder, “The city was rioting when I left. My oath was to her, not her family. The Reach talks of two great hosts; one for the King, one for the Faith, marching to King’s Landing. The High Marshall of the Reach is either dead, or lost, whichever tale you’d want to believe. Vaera Balaerys stalks the mountains of the Westerlands with her dragon, like she’s searching for a homeland, guiding another lost dragon like some secret Valyrian flying host on the march to Casterly Rock, where her old adventuring companion resides as Lord of the Rock..."

He paused, before looking up at the girl before, and shrugging, speaking past her, “No feast. No food. Get out of here. The shadows have cracked, and they’ve started to creep across this entire land. War. Others. The ice is getting thinner…you’re not safe..." he said, staring into the eyes of the woman on the horse, but his mind far away, “and I can’t protect you anymore....." He took a single step back, blinked, and turned away. It was time to go.

Thoughts churned in Abigael’s mind. Lorelai? Assassination attempt? By her Uncle who is now dead? Essosi gods? Aegon dead? Three-Eyed Raven? Questions round and round spun like an ash seed in the autumn winds.

Almost disoriented, a chill ran a painfully slow trail down Abigael’s spine at the fall of words in raspy haunting whispers. The air seemed to still and the forest held its breath to better hear what this man had to say. Riots. Armies marching to King’s Landing. Dragons in the Westerlands. But when her river blue eyes met his warm hazelnut brown ones, and he spoke to her and beyond her. Her eyes widened as he warned them, no her, that she wasn't safe and that he couldn't protect her anymore. That familiar chill crept over her from head to toe.

Balerion knickered as the man turned as if to call him back and say he wasn't done getting petted. “Shush you needy thing. You act like I don't love you enough..." Abigael leaned forward in the saddle as the man turned to go. “Wait. Surely you at least need supplies before you go wherever you're going? Would you deny me at least that courtesy since you have declined my hospitality? Or you can consider it a payment for information shared..."

He shook his head in disbelief, followed by fear, and then anger. Raulf preferred to settle things with a smile, well placed suggestions, or brute charm. But whatever nonsense spilled out of this man’s mouth was simply that and nothing to be entertained. Particularly not to be entertained by his sister. What had they been thinking - at least the man was right on that much. “Abigael..." He spoke her name, a warning, a plea. He closed the bag and tucked it under his arm, backing away slowly, and not just to ensure he did not trip himself in the mud. “Bensen, on your horse too..." He wouldn’t order Prentys around, but he caught his brother’s eyes and gave a firm nod.

He turned the words over in mind, to not lose them, to be able to recall them later and parse what was real and what was the ramblings of a clearly mad man. “It’s time we returned home, the mud is too much for a hunt today..."

Shooting her brother a frown at his tone Abigael opened her mouth to retort only to growl softly as Raulf started to order them around. “Bensen belay that..." Her tone was tart and not quiet. She turned back to Raulf, eyes narrowed and the leash she had on her temper starting to rend. She upbraided her brother stridently. “Raulf I said as much when we set out this morn but you talked me into it. How is it now that we have something..." She paused searching for the word. “Riveting, that you want to turn and head for home? Do the deer, or whatever it was we are after care that it is muddy..." Her acerbic tone was one that she used when she thought someone was being particularly oafish.

Nudging Balerion with her knees Abigael and the warhorse danced around her brothers closer to the man from the Westerlands. The verisimilitude of the traveler made her want to know if it was from visions or reality. Visions could be interpreted just like in tales of old. Why else had three Valyrian families moved from such a rich enchanting place to the cold shores of Westeros? Besides that Abigael was burning to know what had happened to Aegon, Rhaena, and Lorelai. It was as if the story wasn’t even half told and Father was telling her that she had to go to sleep and hear the rest tomorrow.

Bensen stared, stock-still for the most part, and the events laid themselves out before his very eyes. His hand had drifted close to his belt, the dirk there fairly comforting compared even to the blade that the stranger wore. There were many things fairly disconcerting about the man and what he was saying, the whole of it, not to mention the way he was saying it. He wasn't well, that was sure enough, he wasn't well and what he was saying wasn't well. Three Eyed Ravens…Bensen could vaguely grasp at what precisely that was, but only just. He stared still.

Raulf's words broke his frozen form, taking a few steps backwards before Abigael countermanded such. She talked about deer and not caring, the words seeming to just pass over here. "We…we ought to tell people, though, oughtn't we? To send ravens and confirm what was just said. The deaths and…and the Reach..."

“No..." The words were hard from Prentys as he moved to his horse and mounted, giving Bensen a hard look. “If we tell the people it can and will start a panic. A panic right now with enough upheaval, cousin, will cause trouble for all. A monarch and his heir dead, a succession cast between uncle and nephew..." The man shook his head. “I shall inquire and quietly..." He assured the man, resting a steadying hand on the lad. “And get word to Father..."

Despite himself, Keano had stopped when the girl spoke up. Then he turned to look at the one who’d been quiet, but suddenly spoke to question what they ought to do. When the one who spoke with the arrogance of authority spoke up, he actually felt himself smile, even as his mind drifted down the dirt road that led into the broken, forgotten, memory of a village. With his eyes in quick pursuit of his mind, he saw it, first, and audibly sighed. “Think you missed your chance for quiet. Good luck..."

Keano walked back between buildings, with a quickness that wasn’t there before, as the golden rose of Highgarden, on a green grass field, appeared dancing at a distance in the spring sky—a distance that was closing fast with the cloud of dust and dirt behind it. When the cloud got closer, still, it appeared in truer form: two ranks of horse, with a single horse at the fore, black and big and strong, with a rider upon it that was tall, slender, dark haired, and big brown eyed. A handsome man wrapped in the leathers and cloaks and fastenings of the highest level of nobility.

As they entered the remains of the village, the two ranks spread out, fast and hard they rode, as if daring anyone a horse to turn rein and make a run, encircling them immediately if they didn’t, spears out. Each in the green leather and chainmail, with the golden cloaks pinned by golden roses about their collarbones. Knights of the Reach.

The slender lord upon the black courser slowly trotted towards to complete the encirclement, his eyes not on the group, but the one: the one with the red hair, and the blue and crimson wrapped upon her form. His courser drew closer, and then when it would be appropriate to stop, the lord drew it closer still. Closer they came, the deeper the depths his eyes seemed to find in her own, until before either of them knew it…he was close enough to reach out, and offer his hand, palm up.

It was as if the others didn’t exist, for that fleeting, fading, moment in time. “Lord Bertrand of House Tyrell…which Lady Tully are you, I wonder..." He said it smiling, his voice as steady and stern as it was ready to lower its defenses, and show warmth.

Gritting her teeth Abigael knew to have all of them against her was not to get her way. She hated not getting her way, always had. True that age tempered such things, as well as the brothers learning that they could tell her no. That had always rankled as each one when they got older stood up to her. Until she turned on the water works. Tears worked but Abigael found them hard to work with unless she was truly frustrated, deeply angry or hurt. She opened her mouth to again follow up Bensen’s comment only to snap it shut because Prentys just had to pipe up as well.

Rolling her eyes up to the heavens and caught a bright flutter in the distance. Focused on the object she saw the standard of Highgarden and blinked. Was this a daydream? Was she wool gathering and really still in her solar working on her needle point?

As they were encircled by Knights of the Reach, Highgarden to be exact, Abigael had only eyes for the man statuesque, lean, dark of hair and eye. Her breath held as he rode closer lost in his eyes as he came closer than appropriate. So close that she could tell his eyes were thickly lashed and deep pools of warm shadow. She blushed prettily as she put her hand in his. His voice was rich like mulled wine on a cold winter day.

Tongue darting out to wet her lips in a nervous gesture Abigael answered the man she had not only been just talking about but had been imagining meeting. Reality was trumping anything she could have imagined. “Then wonder no longer Lord Bertrand. I am Abigael Tully, first born daughter of Lord Rhobyn and Lady Gewlia Tully. Welcome to Riverrun or almost Riverrun. I am appalled that I was unaware of your visit..." She smiled with delight, making her river blue eyes sparkle.

“As were we all..." The cool voice of Prentys was glacier water over rocks. “We had no raven that you or your men were passing through Lord Bertrand..." A man from a house of stewards, for all that Aegon the Conqueror had raised them to the position of Lord Paramonts. At least the Tullys had been Lords among the Riverlands. “Ser Prentys Tully, Heir the Riverrun. My brother, Ser Raulf Tully. Our cousin, Bensen Tully..." His horse shifted under his directive, to politely draw close to his sister and this uppity young Lord. Mannerless cur. “Tell me, why do the Highgarden pass through with a group of Reach men and no word to the Lord nor his heir? I would think the raven perhaps went astray..." Kneeing his mount closer to Balerion, he neatly inserted himself between the two, a stern frown upon a proud face.

Bensen sighed internally as the situation grew even more odd, Reach men-at-arms suddenly left and right, the rose on their banners, and the man before them was named. Abi, being as she was, seemed to instantly be infatuated, Bensen bowed his head and shifted his hand from his belt when introduced, and Prentys per usual was exceptionally severe. He breathed out audibly too, trying to just exhale out all the stress and things and sheer stuff that seemed to be thrown his way. There was, as far as Bensen could tell, simply too much. He didn't say much, though, simply mounting his own pony as Prentys seemed to ask pertinent questions.

He blinked, as if he must be lost. His bright, brown, eyes darted this way, then that, up upon the eastern sky, then the western. Finally, his jaw set, and his head gave a quick, hard, shake, as the edge of a jape hid just beyond the ridge of his tone, “I don’t…SEE castle walls…have I come asking for guest rights..."

Then, suddenly, he turned his attention back to the lordling and smiled the smile of a young man that was wont to give into his impulses, with every means available within the Seven Kingdoms in which to indulge them. It was easy, casual, and full of a life it seemed the Tully lord before him would never see dawn upon the horizon of his own life.

Bertie felt sadness for the man. “We travel on business of my own, passing through your fine lands of rivers and fine villages….my sister would like you, I think..." he said, gratified, amused, and turning his attention to the Lady once more, “…I do apologize for the interruption. We thought you all might be in danger..."

“You all, and the spy that left your presence as we approached..." the voice that spoke was hard, booming, like a thunderclap in a narrow canyon. He was the largest man of them all, including the Tully, with the hard look of a warrior.

Without looking away form her, Bertrand raised an arm in the direction of the large man that spoke, “Lord and Knight, Ser Dennet Tarly of Horn Hill. Not his first time to the Riverlands, though, is that correct Dennet..."

“I was with the High Marshall of the Reach, Lady Vittoria, as we cleansed the Riverlands of Harren the Red..."

As if he was sharing a deep secret, Bertrand leaned towards the Lady Tully and whispered, “I’ve learned to be proud of my little sister. BUT..." he pivoted, voice loud enough in a snap for all to hear, as he addressed them all now, looking between the Riverlads, “King’s Landing was a little warm, with the new King Maegar and the Faith Militant about to light the city AFLAME, I tell you, as they battle each other for…….I don’t know what, actually, I stopped paying attention when it became clear violence was in the air..."

Then, once more, Bertrand smiled a near grin at the Lady Tully, “Shall my Knights and I escort you home, M’Lady? Never know what dangers lurk....."

The faux pas that Abigael made about assuming he was there to possibly see her made her blush hotly. At least she hadn’t come right out and assumed he was there to see her. She didn’t know what to make about the comment of his sister would like her brother. Prentys was so serious… but that might appeal to some. She loved her brother but she wasn’t sure she understood him.

Abigael blinked as Bertrand said that he thought she might have been in danger. She swallowed and slowly opened her full mouth about to answer him as the booming voice of Ser Dennet Tarly rang out like the peel of thunder and she jumped slightly. Balerion tossed his head and flattened his ears back toward her. “Steady Balerion..." She murmured as she barely looked at her beloved warhorse and even the booming voice couldn’t pull her eyes from the deep pools of shadow that held her enthralled. When he pointed she nodded, a meer dip of her chin. As he leaned in she gravitated toward him and smiled as he admitted his pride in his sister.

As he pivoted Abigael let her eyes move over his thick sable hair and caressed his shoulders. She barely resisted the urge to touch him. When he smiled at her asking if he could escort her home she didn’t hesitate. “I would be honored to have such an escort, M'Lord..."

“Abigael..." Prentys gave his sister a disapproving look, before directing a far more polite nod of his head to Dennet Tarly rather than the introduction he gave to Bertrand. “Lord Bertrand, we would gladly see you to the castle proper, as opposed to the lands on which. You, Highgardeners, should be well aware the lands of a castle extends beyond it’s wall.Your sister does a fine job as a commander, a credit to… your family..." His words not even honor Bertrand with the notion that his family was a House within themselves. Turning his mount, he placed a large hand behind Abigael’s back. Urging her to come as well. “Come along, sister..."

The buzz of her brother’s words rang like a fly round her head. Annoying. His snarky attitude made her shameful and angry that he behaved that way. “I apologize for my brother’s unconscionable snobbish behavior. I can only attribute it to the fact that I'm his darling little sister. Though I don't normally get as much attention. You must be weary from your journey. Please take a moment with us to relax..." She smiled brightly with a hint of chagrin.

Seven, so much for a day of fun. And Prentys, no matter his strongsuits, was now displaying his flaws. Raulf groaned inwardly, he wouldn’t be able to leave his brother alone for a single minute where diplomacy was needed. So much for that flight of fancy of taking Abigael and Bensen on a tour of the houses. Then again, if there truly was that much unrest afoot, it was a terrible idea regardless. Trapped in the Riverlands, a true enough story for any other time in their family history. “Well, I would also be appreciative of an escort back..." He spoke at last, having mounted his horse. He avoided trying to give Prentys a disapproving look; it would be wasted. Abigael needed one as well, but she would take it as a challenge no doubt. Their cousin was the only other one with a head on his shoulders at the moment it seemed.

“Good timing for us to make such an error as to travel alone. Our father..." and surely Abigael too, though he wouldn’t be so brash as to say it aloud, “would have never forgiven us if we had let the heir to Highgarden avoid a visit. Though, I can understand not wanting to be waylaid in the Riverlands…again..." He nodded in recognition of the sacrifices made in clearing their lands of that rebellion. “Still, Lord Tully is unlikely to return in time to meet you himself, so please, at least stay for a night of food and rest before you return to whatever duty calls you..."

“Don’t you look at me, you shit..." The anger came cold from Lord Tarly, voice as far from rising as it was close to dangerous, but it came all the same to the Tully Lord, “you look at him..." he said, pointing to Bertrand, “he’s your kind. Not me. I’m the kind who lost brothers fighting a fight your family couldn’t. They’re buried down that road, a road I’ll travel any fucking time I want..."

A beat of silence, a few beats of hearts, and Dennet nodded to Abigael. “My apologies you had to hear that, Lady Abigael..."

Bertrand’s face steeled. “Go on, take half, finish the job. Circle back and we’ll meet up..."

Dennet’s eyes weren’t hot flicks of blackened brown, but near empty vessels drained of the fire from before. That was the power of the Heir to Highgarden, and Bertrand knew it was the only thing that kept Lord Tarly from darker words, or actions, still. When half of the Knights begun to trot out, Tarly included, Bertrand gave a belated sigh, and looked back to the Tully Lady, though his words were meant for the rest of them, “I don’t think insults were the greater part of wisdom there, but let’s move on, Lords and Lady. I’ve heard great things about Riverrun, and would be honored to escort you all home and partake in your generous offer..."
His smile was real, but that, as his father had said before, was the thing about Bertrand…his smiles were always real, it’s just no one could ever seem to figure out what they meant. To Abigael his gaze softened, and his voice lowered to a private volume. “Would you please ride with me along the way? I’d like to get to know you, and tomorrow is never promised..."

Mortified! If only the earth would swallow me whole! I will make Prentys regret every letter of every word he just said! Our grandfather and father are no better than the Tyrell House! Abigael’s thoughts raced as Ser Dennet Tarly snapped her brother’s words off and fed them back to him cold and angry. Abigael glowered at Prentys, her eyes promising swift unrelenting retribution to be delivered with an alacrity that would make the dragons on Dragonstone jealous. Abigael moved away from Prentys’ hand on her back closer to Bertrand.

Acknowledging Ser Dennet with a deep look of contrition hoping she got her point across as she smoothly attempted to soothe tempers. Abigael made sure that she made eye contact with all the Knights, earnest apology in her eyes. Hearing Bertrand address Ser Dennet about a job to finish she tucked that information away. Balerion shifted stamping, impatient to get moving back to home. “If you bolt and make this humiliation complete, no carrots or apples for a week..." Balerion snorted and settled with a heavy sigh as if to say, “Fine. But I don't like it..."

Nodding Abigael fell in closer to Bertrand shooting Prentys another glower telling him to back off so she could start to fix his cock up. Finally they got moving Abigael fastened to Bertrand’s side like a proper Lady attending a visiting Lord who was courting her. As they advanced at a walk Abigael smiled at Bertrand. “Indeed tomorrow is not promised. My Lord is wise to recognize it. Tomorrow is a mystery. Yesterday come and gone. Today is a gift and why it is called the present..."

Eyes sparkling, Abigael teased Bertrand. “Balerion will be upset that I decided to be more ladylike and reserved today. I didn't let him have his head and charge around. I did see a few horses that looked quite fine, yours included..."

---

---

In the aftermath of a riot, Rhaena did not believe the rumors at first. It surely was just imagination run wild to say that not just one, but two, dragons were seen approaching the Rock with speed and urgency. Was it Balerion, she had asked quietly, a sudden fear and anxiety that her uncle had come to…to what? Or perhaps it was Vhagar? Her great aunt Visenya come to bring her back to Dragonstone or King’s Landing to be tucked away? No, they would only fly to the Westerlands for something grave, and her brother’s death had not been enough for that, so what could bring them here now? The answer to that only worried her, if the rumors proved true. And they proved true very quickly when she spied them herself from her rooms.

Even at a distance she was certain it was neither Balerion nor Vhagar, she had seen them in flight too many times to mistake them for younger, lesser dragons. Her heart leapt to her throat at the thought that it was Melyssanthi and perhaps Viserys; surely he could have bonded a dragon in her absence

Her feet moved faster than her mind, the decision to leave done without thought or knowing. The disbelief that had grown to fear had instead morphed to reckless, unbridled hope. Behind her she barely registered the disgruntled Ser Darklyn taking long strides to catch up. He yelled out orders to Lannister men as they passed, to assemble a guard. He had seen them too, he knew where the princess ran, he knew there would be no stopping her, only an attempt to protect her.

Had she had time to prepare, she would have worn riding leathers and a tunic rather than the embroidered dress she had donned when the day was intended to be nothing more than endless planning. All forgotten now as she pulled up her skirts upon reaching the stables and finding a horse prepared for…somebody…and pulled herself astride it, no time for propriety. The beast was urged on, through the rocky hall that broke free to sunlight and dust and the roar of dragons. They were still in the distance but her heart beat faster, her legs kicked into the sides of the horse. Faster still, she needed more from the mount. Behind her again, men assembled and gave pursuit, with no small amount of confusion with what to expect or what to do when the princes finally stopped.

At once, it was a shadow over her, a familiar heat and rush of wind of a dragon in flight above her. The horse stopped short, fear quivering in its muscles. Rhaena’s leg swung over and she stumbled the ground, knowing the horse would go no further. It couldn’t be. But it was, there could be no denying that it was her Dreamfyre.

She ran forward, up the rocky path to where the blue scaled beast circled and then landed, her head shaking as if in shared disbelief. Rhaena flung herself against the creature’s snout, tears in her eyes and for the first time in weeks, tears of joy and not of pain. Dreamfyre returned the embrace, as best as she could, head tilted into the tiny princess’s frame, a soft snort of hot air, a quiet growl as if to say, finally.

It was only then, when Rhaena finally let go and opened her eyes again, that she remembered the second dragon she had seen. “Did you bring a friend with you?” She asked quietly. “Who is it, hm?”

Vaera stared, blankly, at the young lady. It was the look of them that shocked her, or, rather, the disparity between them: the Targaryen looked like she rode a dragon, while Vaera, herself, looked like a dragonrider. All leather and chain armor, Valyrian horn, Valyrian steel, and the attitude of those who conquered creation. The Targaryen was all embroidery, finery, with undersilks, and vulnerability.
Vaera had never seen anything more gorgeous in all her life.

“Fuck,” was the only thing that escaped her, a whimper of a whisper caused by blaze inside of her body that threatened to leave every sentinel and landscape of her soul charred. Eyes the shade of purple found in sunsets darted off the south, instead of the westward direction the Targaryen had come from. A single sigh, and the Valyrian atop her dragon turned her back.
The Targaryen was still there.

Vaera still felt she might faint. Fuck. “We became acquainted over the western mountains on the way…” It wasn’t her, the tone she heard. It was sad, wistful, the sound of the last sigh before drifting off to dream about lost days and summer nights spent in courtyards chasing fire flies and temporary flings. It was up to Saeryx to roll its shoulders and roll Vaera’s body, the secret language between dragon and rider unmistakable in its meaning:

Go. Stop hiding.

The dragonrider didn’t bother with another sound while mounted, sliding off the dragon with the casual ease in which most people let their hair down. There was an entire city behind the woman. There was a Knight that she both saw and couldn’t, if she tried, recall a single detail about even as she looked. Before she realized she wasn’t floating, that she’d been walking, Vaera stopped just feet from the scene of the woman and her dragon reunited.

“She looked lost. She looked in need.” Does she realize I’m talking about her and the dragon? Again, Vaera looked away, this time with the longest blink in her life—an excuse to close her eyes and feel, for a moment, something she had no experience with. Vaera stepped forward without even thinking about it first as she looked ahead once more.

“I was compelled to help, I was compelled to…” Her eyes dipped to the ground, her armored arms slowly crossed, in self-defense, her head slowly shaking. “Anyway. Enjoy your dragon, Princess.”

Walk away. Walk away now.

Saerys tilted its head as Vaera Balaerys just began to walk off, alone, towards the city, head spinning and mind stunned.
Rhaena let go of Dreamfyre, looked beyond her, and felt hope die. It was not Melyssanthi. It was not home, it was not anyone who could share her grief. And yet, her mind raced to find any semblance of reason for how or why another dragonrider not of her kin was here and why Dreamfyre had arrived with them. In need?

Her lip trembled, not in anger or even in grief, but in annoyance at trying and failing to parse together the situation that unfolded now. “Where do you think you are going?” The woman made as if to walk by her, nothing to indicate why she had even been flying here in the first place - or - why she was even in Westeros. She bristled, but a nudge from the creature next to her recentered her thoughts.

She is returned to me.

No matter if the woman stopped to answer her original demand, Rhaena stumbled after her and caught her hand, her arm, without thinking, to turn her. To make her answer her question and a thousand more of what else she had seen and heard and knew that hadn’t been filtered through spymasters or censored. But what rose to the top, even without hope, was gratitude, pure and overflowing. Violet eyes betrayed her again, rimmed in red for the threat of fresh tears.

It wasn’t a conscious thought to throw her arms around the woman, little had been a conscious thought since she first caught sight of the dragons in flight. “Thank you.” Her voice croaked against the dragon rider’s wind roughened cheek. She tried to speak more, to explain how much it meant, but the words could not be freed from thoughts, just the warmth of another who she could only hope would understand.

The very sound of the woman made her wince. There was no debate, just her thoughts running their course as instinct resolved her to escape. The casualties of extremes filled her mind and made her body buzz and burn. Purple eyes peeked up, into the sky, upon the horizon, as if some great host of gods may hazard that horizon to save her from herself.

It was some mix of dread and jealousy that filled Vaera’s eyes when she walked by the knight and met his eyes. She had such incredible envy for the man she passed. There wasn’t a word from her pale lips, just escape. But it was there, in the mundane shade of his eyes that she saw it, like the escape of pre-dawn light over a high hill.

She was coming.

Vaera felt like a storm at sea was capsizing her mind, the mast cracking and leaving her stranded. When the hand hit her every part of Vaera froze solid as the Shivering Sea. Nothing scared her. She hadn’t known fear since the day her parents died…and that was coming to a swift, chaotic, change. Vaera had never been more afraid in her life then when the woman turned her, and forced Vaera to face her.

The blow was struck immediately, an unseen part of the plan, the properties of her defenses lowered, with the woman striking at will. The warmth of her, the softness of the way she felt, the smell of her…the very feeling of Vaera getting to hold the creature so dearly, so suddenly and abruptly tightly, desperately and dangerously close. The gentle weight of her head on Vaera’s shoulder…

The taller Balaerys stirred; to shed her gloves behind the beautiful woman’s back and tucked them away, her left anchored upon the woman’s right hip, the hardest moment of her life just leaning back enough to allow her bare right hand rise to the girl’s jaw. To trace her jawline for a fraction of a heartbeat before curling her index finger, and tilting it up just enough to tilt the woman’s face upward so that Vaera might see it. So that she might smile at her, and with her thumb wipe a trail of tear from her cheek.

The sun rose in Vaera’s eyes, light and warmth, radiant and glorious. “You’re not alone anymore. I’ve got you.”

The smile grew, wider, fearless, as Vaera took a step back until her left hand was back to her side, and the right slid like a sigh from the woman’s face, held out for her to take. “C’mon,” was the only word she spoke, even if it felt like Vaera had just said infinitely more.
Rhaena blinked slowly in response, a softest of touches that broke her embrace and a look on the woman’s face that she finally saw who she was speaking to, who Dreeamfyre had found, a name she knew but had never thought twice about. The feeling of being crushed beneath a giant boulder, a feeling that had oppressed her for weeks, felt lifted, just a little at the confident statement. To not be alone, the princess didn’t know why she believed it, but it felt good to believe it, so she did.

She took the offered hand with a small smile of her own. Behind her she heard her dragon grumble, hungry likely, and silently wished her a good hunt. Soon enough, she’d be calling on Dreamfyre for more. It changed everything, and already her mind turned it over, of flying to Oldtown, of the look of the High Septon’s face when she would land and watch him burn…But the hand that encompassed her own, warm and rough and pulling. She was brought back to the present, to reality, and to Ser Darklyn staring at them.

“Princess, it’s not my place to admonish, but -” He had ventured closer than the Lannister men who stood about unsure of what had taken place.

“It’s not. Have someone tell Lord Loreon he has a guest, have rooms readied for her.” She paused, knowing how reclusive the Lannister had been, no matter how well she understood that desire. “And if he does not answer or seem moved, tell Mistress Kinvara. Maybe she will convince him.” Rhaena resisted trusting the woman, but for reasons beyond just dislike of a paramour.

“The riots have only just been completely quelled, it was not safe for you to do this.” Darkrobin looked reticent at saying it in the presence of the visitor, but worry creased his face.

Perhaps it was too many things gone wrong in a short amount of time, but outside of the immediate fear in fleeing the riots, it seemed minor compared to everything else. But how must this sound to Vaera? She glanced to her side, “I’m afraid you are seeing already the distressing times here in Casterly Rock.” Would she turn and run immediately? Rhaena would, she thought, if their roles were reversed. “Lord Lannister’s sister and uncle were murdered. Riots erupted when he announced his…our…engagement.” She swallowed hard at that, a lump in her throat, and her hand squeezed Vaera’s. “It was the Faith -”

“Princess.” Darkrobin spoke again as if to interject and thought better of it halfway through. “Perhaps let us return to safety first?”

Vaera chuckled, behind a dirty grin, “Mistress Kinvara? Hells, I remember when it was just Kinvara.” When she spoke of Loreon, Vaera listened with intent, happy for every word. Until the word became ‘marriage.’ It stopped her where she stood, the wound at her side rearing hot and angry all over again, “Gods…dammit.”

It was the pain of the wound, Vaera told herself, as a sigh the sound of grief emptied from her mouth and nostrils, her body forcing itself to start moving with the Princess once again, processing everything. Murder and riot, marriage. Well, mostly marriage. The sound of it was strange, queer—Vaera rolled it over her tongue once, twice, before speaking it aloud with no lack of amusement. Or bemusement. “’Lord’ Lannister…yes, Loreon and I know each other.”

The woman stopped, and blinked, so Vaera stopped…shifting uncomfortable weight from one foot to the other, looking off to the Knight, her tone loud and irritated, like a waking dragon, “Yes, we heard you, Ser. She’s safer with me than she is with you, anyway…”
The last part she stopped speaking loud enough for him to hear, half-way through it, anyway. But the point seemed to be taken, as he showed them his back, and walked towards the big walls, even if just the wait. Everything irritated her. Everything was sore. The shift was visible…but when her eyes went back to the woman’s eyes, her lips refused to do anything but smile.

“I’ve traveled more of Creation than anyone you’ve ever met. Seen more of Sothoryos than the damned Summer Islanders,” she said, with a snicker, as if she knew how much it would annoy the Summer Islanders, “Bone Mountains, Jade Gates, Shadowlands…Loreon and I adventured together. I’ve saved his life. He’s saved mine. That’s why I came this way…marriage?”

She asked, squinting, for a moment, before she tried to laugh, and instead just squeezed the woman’s hand and, finally, continued walking, announcing to the steel shadow, “WE’RE MOVING TOWARD YOU AGAIN.”

Just to be friendly.

Back at volume only she would hear, Vaera continued, “I’ll look into the deaths. It’s what we adventurers do. I think Dreamfyre and Saeryx will calm the rest of the city down. As for the Faith…I come from Oldtown. I met Lord Tyrell, and his High Marshall, Lady Vittoria. I was going to say goodbye when the Faith ambushed Vitt and some of her Knights in the city,” she said, just ‘Vitt’, a clear indication she knew the Lady, “they shot her with a bolt, close enough range. I was too busy trying to kill the shit that shot her to see if they got her away alive but knowing her like I do…” Vaera just grinned and looked at the walled city that stretched like a man-made horizon in the distance.
Even for an adventurer and dragonrider, Vittoria Tyrell was something to see, “That’s just going to make her stay alive to spite them until she can run them down on the field of battle. Saeryx and I got out just in time. I saw the two hosts when we left the Reach…one of the Faith, one of the Reachmen. Heading east. Nothing east worth a march but King’s Landing.”

There was a pause, as Vaera walked, and tried to imagine just how what came next might sound, “It’s…madness, but I met a man in the mountains. Dark hair, real…cold bastard. Dangerous man. Said Loreon’s sister was his boss. Said the uncle sent someone to kill her. Said the sister sent him to kill the uncle right back. Any of that sound possible?”

She could barely keep up and though there was an annoyance with that, there was something else. An overwhelming familiarity, a warmth, a closeness. It buoyed her above the shit, a chance to breath, to see the sun. It was enough, apparently, to make Rhaena giddy. She resisted it at first, the laughter within that tugged at her lips, begged them to flick upwards. It grew within her until she could contain it no more as this visitor ordered her kingsguard around. Poor Ser Darklyn, she thought, but it did not stop the sound from bursting forth. A giggle, a sweet sound but unladylike and near childish in her glee. She was reminded of being a little girl trying to order about her father’s guard.

“I want, I need, to hear these stories.” A pang of jealousy flared, not of this woman having spent time with her intended, but at the freedom that must have been. “I’d barely seen anything except Dragonstone or King’s Landing before…” As well informed as Vaera was, Rhaena assumed she knew of the rest. She didn’t want to speak it and invite back in the sorrow and pain. “Marriage yes, an army for me and House Lannister can one day claim Valyrian blood into their line.” She couldn’t help the frown. Whatever the long term implications of such a match, it was something far more personal that spurred her hesitance, her fear, her disgust. She hoped not all of that was so easy to read on her face.

“The Faith marches on King’s Landing?” She stopped abruptly, felt her arm pull forward, but would not will herself to move. But beyond that, the allegations that it was Loreon’s uncle? Her frown deepened. “No. No that’s impossible.” She was certain of it to her bones, to her core. “It sounds like you met Lady Lorelai’s guard, Keano. I met him…” What felt like ages ago with how much had happened. “But that can’t be it. The Faith killed Loreon’s wife and uncle as revenge for justice on them for killing my brother.” She was certain of it and her tone said she’d heard enough on the matter. “You’ll investigate, and you’ll take me with you for it. You’ll see I’m right, after what you saw in the Reach, you must see that these men of faith,” the words curdled off her tongue, “are nothing but dogs.” She’d never met Vittoria Tyrell, but she’d heard stories of the woman all the same. If the Faith could turn against the Tyrells, well, surely that would make people see who the real enemy was.

“I need to stop them, I have to stop them. I was going to sail to Oldtown but now…” She glanced behind her towards where Dreamfyre and Saeryx stayed, still watching their riders. “Well, now I have something nearly better than an army.”

She unrooted herself from the ground, eager again to return to the castle. Something devious pricked at her and she gave a sly glance towards Vaera. “I may be in this ridiculous dress.” She pulled at the crimson velvet skirts for effect. “But if we’re quick about it, we’ll be back in Casterly before my white shadow can catch up.” A silver eyebrow shot up with a look of the challenge offered. “Race you?”

Rhaena wouldn’t give Vaera a full chance to reply, she dropped her hand and balled up some fabric of her skirts in her hands to clear them of the ground, and took off, with a wild yell down the dusty, rocky path, to small entry she knew was not made for men on horseback.

“Lady…Lannister?”

The thin, small, man with squinty eyes and too much hair upon the sides of his face clutched the parchment board as he examined her, his tone closing in on disbelief. The captain of the trading galley laughed, and loudly, “Aye, we have so many of them in Lannisport.”

“Lady Lannister of the Lannisport Lannisters?”

Lorelai didn’t say a thing as she waited near the bow of the vessel, it’s sailors still going through the motions of tying the vessel off to the docks of Bear Island, she herself remaining a silent sentinel near the railing, a green simple wool dress, complimentary but plain; the kind of thing a merchant’s wife might wear.

The little man eyed her again, a look that lingered longer than it should have, before nodding. “I will notify the masters of the island of her arrival. I will begin the inspection, now.”

The large, burly, captain smiled big and broad, nodding at the declaration of the customs officer, “Follow me.” As they boarded the vessel, the captain gave her a little wink. Despite everything, it made her lips press into a small smile. She did like the man, Gareth, a long-time sailor with a hot temper in his youth. He’d struck a captain and had been denied any possible opportunity for his own vessel even after a decade.

But he would work for a young Lady of the Rock, so she took a chance on him. Since that day, he’d become one of the most trusted captains of the trade fleet of Her’s. After the two disappeared below deck, Lorelai made her way off the vessel, the heavy green wool cloak tied tightly about her shoulders, as Bear Island had no concept of Spring, from the looks of it. There was still ice about, and every hill about the rocky island seemed to be snow-set and hazy with winter still. She wanted a proper look and had the boots on for it.

The thought of bear should have spooked her, but it didn’t. The only thing she wanted was to walk into the gnarled oaks and tall pines and get lost. The captain would wait for her return before he left, and if not, her chests would be with the other cargo in the same small storehouse the customs man had appeared from.

The smallfolk of the fishing village were kind, if a little too kind. Every attempt at conversation was pierced in the heart by her reserved smile and indefensible courtly courtesies and manners. It took little time at all to pass through the threshold between the fishing village and the wild on Bear Island. She passed little girls with pigtails running, laughing towards the village. Lorelai caught herself wondering if she’d ever been that young, truly?

Such a childlike pose she doubted she could ever hold, with such a smile? Not after Loreon left, not when the weight of Casterly Rock descended upon her once slender child shoulders. She walked past a croft crammed into the one sliver of tiny valley between crag and dense tree line stuffed with thorny underbrush, sticking to the trail that had seen wagon wheels. She walked past a swift creek that ran on a severe slope from the top of Bear Island to the Sunset Sea below.

She walked until she stopped, smoothed the dress below her, and sat upon a mossy flat-faced rock. Julian’s face flashed through her mind, her eyes closed, her upper body lowered with a deep-seated sigh until the back of her head lay on the rock, as well. Lorelai had cut her losses on both ends and aimed herself away from anyone and everything she had ever known: and it felt better than she thought it could have. Haunted as she would always be by the complications of excuses for people to get into the game. She imagined the looks on the faces that she left behind, even his.

She was half-curled, laying on her side, when she felt herself return to wakefulness. Like jumping into cold water and emerging feeling like a new soul in a new body, she felt warm, her head swimmy, her hard-hearted weariness settled so deep inside her that there was just numbness and comfort, not pain. The sun above was darker, lower in the sky, and in the air was a level of chill that she hadn’t prepared for.

A low, slow, emptying breath fled from her lips and turned to plumes of steam before her among the stone and moss. The trees around her filtered light and sound and sky, but even that wasn’t enough for escape. She just wanted to be alone with ghosts, now. She wanted to hide from the bird. She wanted to hide from death. From intrigue. From higher mysteries that left her dizzy and looking for ground to land on.

She thought of the blue-eyed man, a shade of blue that seemed as unnatural as his grief. She thought of Jules, again. She thought of Loreon. She thought of her father, her mother…and then she tucked her head into her arms, and Lorelai Lannister sobbed. She wondered, if she screamed, would anyone hear except the trees? And if she did, would the trees lean down to comfort her?

“Trees used to be trees…”

She was tired of feeling lonely, lying down upon the rock in Bear Island, under the Northern sky. “Is he trying to talk to me when I see him in my dreams?” Lorelai asked, feeling the presence, feeling suddenly strong, “Did they take him too soon?”

The sound of little perching feet of the bird scratched against the far side of the stone under the moss as it moved closer to her body, turned away from it, a voice coming to her not from its beak, but somewhere else. Somewhere all around, and nowhere, all at once. ”Love is never gone. The dead die when they will. The living live. He sees the tear drops from your eyes. Do you think he wants to?”

She sniffled, the back of her hand rubbing her eyes as she curled closer into herself, curled as tightly and protectively as she ever had. She saw them, then, like she never had before. From the eyes above the trees, circling, she saw the two men and the woman. Well made clothing, looking down at the golden-haired girl curled and asleep on the mossy rock. Near enough her age, all of them.

“Lannister from Lannisport, he said?” Asked the thicker of the two men, with thick brown beard.

The woman, brown haired, curved like few Ladies in the West, strength, and pride on her facial features. “That’s what he said.”

The tall, leaner, of the three had black hair, and dark eyes that stared down at her longer, more intense, than the other two. There was a fascination in his eyes that the other two didn’t seem capable of, even his voice came softer in the chilled air, “I can’t tell if it’s mad or amazing that she wandered into the woods of this island and fell asleep.”

The bearded man chuckled, “With the bears as active as they are in Spring? As hungry as they can be? Madness, for sure.”

The black-haired man looked up, and saw the crown of ravens above, perched in the boughs of the pines surrounding them, staring down, all but silent and unmoving. “…you sure about that, Gwayn?”

The other two followed the gaze of the black-haired one and blinked. Lorelai might have blinked back, it felt as if they stared right into her and she into them…until it wasn’t like that, at all, until her eyes were her own again, fluttering open, body stirring. When she rolled onto her back and looked, she found the three staring down at her. The bearded one had a crooked smile, the woman looked mildly amused like you might regard a fool, and the black-haired man just…stared.

“Lannister?”

Lorelai sniffled, involuntarily, as her feet drew closer to her body and her hands flattened against the moss below her, her head lifting as she regarded the area around them. The sound of wings filled their ears as two-score ravens departed into the sky, causing two of the three to snap their heads up and look. The bearded man seemed to chuckle at it, the woman gave a frown of some concern, and the man with the black hair and impossibly dark eyes just stared into her eyes as she locked onto his.

He knows.

“…yes, of Lannisport, not the, uh…”

“…Rock?” The one staring into her eyes finished for her, his lips creasing just at the corners of his mouth, like he had some secret smile that played with amusement of a secret known to him, and him alone.
“…the Rock, right…pardon my state, thank you for seeing to my safety, I don’t know where I, um, where I ended up?”

“The ship you came on brought more goods than normal,” the woman stated, bluntly, in a tone that sounded resigned, “a lot of wine we didn’t pay for. A lot of beef, mutton, fruits, spices, ales…did your captain think he was headed south?”

“No,” she said, with another sniff, as her eyes dropped to supervise her body climbing to an upright sit, her legging swinging off the edge of the rock to allow her soft leather booted feet to touch ground. “It’s a gift.”

The woman didn’t seem to like it. The dark-haired man just stared, deeper than ever, and the bearded man held his happy expression as he spoke first, “Well, we must take advantage of such gifts, Lady…?”

“Lorelai,” she heard herself say, before she could think to lie.

The bearded man nodded, firm, and motioned to himself, “I am Lord Gwayn, heir to Bear Island. This is my sister,” he said, motioning to the woman with them, “Lady Margery, and this is one of the many Lord Starks. Won’t you accompany us to our keep? We can send for the gifts and anything else you might need?”

Lorelai smiled, polite, proper, “Thank you, Lord Gwayn. You are kind.”

“…unless you prefer the birds and the trees?” The Stark asked, even as he held his hand out to help her off the rock and to a stand. His dark eyes now playing the same secret amusements the corners of his lips had moments before.

He knows.

---

---

Chaos. The storm helped as things went in and out of the light. But it hindered the women as well. Pheynix was glad that she had sent Cassie with Cass and Pyxis out to the ship to go on to Duskendale. Her oiled leathers were drenched but thankfully waterproof or mostly. She was damp in places she’d rather not think about. However she could tell that Melys did not have that luxury. She did not look like a Princess but rather something that looked like it was dragged in from the sea. They went out the door and the Princess wiped her face as she watched the chaos.

Nix watched the Princess as the Princess watched the chaos. “We are done gawking Cousin. Let us do what you came out here to do.” Nix grabber Melys’ arm. A flash of lightning pierced the night as Nix looked around quickly and noticed the man in white the same time he saw her. “Qrugh! Kostagon se jelmāzma mirre syt īlva nykeā īlon issi ojūdan₁.” Nix yelled in Valyrian as the thunder rolled around them. She spoke harshly in the Princess’ ear. “Ilon jāhor daor mazverdagon se lōgor. Skore ñuhoso naejot aōha zaldrīzes₂?” She remembered that even if it was accented that the Targaryen cousins knew Valyrian and it was possible that no one else would know the mother tongue.

Melys watched as Nix tore off her black oiled cloak and motioned for Melys to put it on. Putting it on in a hurry Melys realized that her hair likely would draw attention like a blaze of moonlight. Fyresong was in the cavern where they slumbered when on Dragonstone that cavern was at least a quarter hour walk from the castle. “Bona iksos nykeā deks hen elēnar gone rȳ nykeā geron hen se sombāzmion₃!” Melys pulled Nix in the direction of the cavern where the dragons normally went. “Bona iksos lo ziry iksos konīr! Ziry could sagon mirre skoriot₄!”

“Pār īlon jorepagon naejot se ānogar hen uēpa valyrio isse se muñnykeā ēngos bona ziry iksos konīr₅.” Nix and Melys pushed hard, the Princess starting to flag as Nix was rushing her to run. The third time Melys stumbled Nix heard the unmistakable curse and shuffle of a large body slipping in the mud. The scrape and clack of armor that was not made for moving silently. Nix grabbed Melys and ducked behind a large rock. Nix motioned for Melys to be quiet as they crouched in the rain, the storm still fierce. She pushed Melys closer to the side of the boulder and deeper into the shadows.

“They’re around here somewhere. We just saw them on the path.” The pathetic whine was high and nasal. He sounded utterly inconvenienced and a step away from turning around and going back.

Nix could kiss the whiner; perhaps his companion, or goddess blessed, hopefully a singular companion would listen to him. Kostilus, kostilus, kostilus ondoso ry uēpa valyrio ivestragī konīr sagon mērī lanta₆… She prayed in the mother tongue practically pouring herself into the rock as she leaned around the rock in a flash. The sight that greeted her made her stomach twist and her mouth thinned under the veil she wore. Kostagon nyke gīmigon skore mēre hen ao nyke ȳzaldrīzes naejot syt bisa? Bȳre hen zirȳ se mēre bona timpa mittys₇?! She reasoned to the Old Gods.

Slowly leaning down, Nix felt around for a stone. And apparently at least one of the Old Gods found that an acceptable request for she found one of decent size. Pivoting silently Nix waited till they all had their backs to her as she tossed the rock so that it clattered to the left of the path. It distracted the men who all but two of the six went to investigate.

“Stay there in case it is a trick. We have to find the Princess.”

The gruff comment was from the Kingsguard Griffith Goode. Nix remembered him. He and his brother had not hesitated in switching sides as if they had known what was going on. Come to find out that Visenya had hand picked the brothers. Nix nodded internally; it seemed like Visenya played the long game as well as the Rahl family.

“Yes Ser.” Both the men replied simultaneously as the other four wandered off in the direction that Nix had tossed the stone.

The window of the storm working in the women’s favor was getting smaller. The lightning and thunder lessened but at least the rain was steady. Nix wiped the rain out of her eyes and drew her sword slowly and silently. She had to make this fast and silent. She desperately wished she’d brought her brother Castor with her.

Looking up at Nix from where she had been practically put; as if she were seven and had no idea how to be quiet and still; Melys’ glare should have conjured dragon fire. She watched the darker shadow that was Nix next to her shift and picked up the rock only to fling it away. As she watched four guards, one in white; a Kingsguard, and three others went to investigate the noise the rock made. Suddenly as lightning flashed in the distance illuminating the landscape briefly as well as the sword that Nix now held. Melys’ eyes widened at the blade. Surely not?!

Apparently luck had run out and the guards on the path walked around the boulder the ladies had been hiding behind. Also as luck would have it the whiner was a screamer; who let forth a high pitched squealing that would have made a sow proud. Immediately Nix leapt into action knowing there was no way the other four had not heard pig boy. She grimaced as the current two drew swords. More blood on my hands. Perfect. Just how I wanted my tour of Westeros to go. Funeral then fighting and killing… oh and dragon flying. The sarcasm of the running inner monologue made a smarmy grin pull at her veiled mouth.

Whirling Nix beat back one of the two guards with a flourish then moved to reposition the other like a chess piece on a board away from Melys. The exchange allowed Nix to reposition the guards but it was far from quiet. Swords clashed and rang loudly not to mention the squealing whiner did not stop announcing their presence. “The Princess is here! Got a girl here who's got a sword an’ thinks she knows how to use it.”

Nix gritted her teeth as she heard a response from the direction of the other four. She really wished that Cass were with her right now. They would make quick work of the guards; the only problem would have been the Kingsguard. Now she was looking at six men at once against just her. Her odds were not in her favor. “Sir dakogon naejot aōha zaldrīzes₈!!”

From behind the guards chasing Nix and Melys a voice would ring out, sturdy and sure of itself. “Are you women or cowards to chase after two girls barely of age? If this is what chivalry and knighthood in Westeros has become then perhaps I don’t dream of becoming such any longer.” The guards whirled and the one in the far back would suddenly have Valyrian steel kissing his neck. In a practiced deftness, Castor Rahl would twist the blade to slice down, pressing harder as he did to easily cut the throat of the man who would splutter and gargle as he fell to his knees and then the ground, twitching as his lifeblood blood ran freely. Castor took a step up, letting the dying man form a sort of barrier, and pointed the now bloody blade towards the rest. “I suggest you leave my sister alone and return to the Castle.” Castor wasn’t wearing his heavier armor, instead, he was dressed in simple gear. A leather coat of plates over a cloth gambeson and chainmail. He had been lucky Pyxis was willing to help him fasten the shin guards and forearm bracers.

The other guards began making their way up, menacing the Rahl with their spears. Knowing they had the reach advantage, Castor sheathed his blade and as the spear was shoved forward, smashed it against the rock, grabbed hold, and then with a roar ripped it up and out of the Guards hands. He then would charge down, and using his shoulder would smash into the lead guard with the full weight of his body which caused the guard to lose his balance and fall back into his friends. Castor, unfortunately also lost his grip as he had no control of the momentum of his attack and he fell down the small dip and landed hard on the ground below. Wincing, he didn’t have time to feel the pain and was instantly on his feet again, moving to kill a few of the guards as they tried to extricate themselves from the pile. With only two guards left, the Kingsguard Knight ripped his sword from his scabbard and ordered the guards to get the girls and that he would deal with the newcomer.

Grinning behind her veil at the sound of her brother Castor's voice, the light to her dark, her twin soul. Pheynix had always thought that they should have been twins like Hespaerys and Lunaerys; that the siblings were not seemed such a waste. But such is the way of the old gods. The fervor that rose in her rushed through her veins and she swore that she heard the cry of a night bird of prey. The sound echoed through her over the storm that was easing up.

The unearthly keening seemed to pull from the very depths of her as she moved around the rocks to face the remaining guards. The keening started as a high pitched haunting wail that then dipped down to an eerie almost two tone cry of some ancient unknown beast. It spilled past her lips in words that frightened even the most stout hearted. “Morghon māzigon adhirikydho₉!!”

Lightning illuminated Pheynix as she danced swiftly and gracefully to engage the guards. Both of whom looked horrified for long enough to give her an advantage. Blade flashing in the sporadic lightning and singing a death knell as it split the air as easily as the throat of the first guard. “Melyssanthi maghagon aōha zaldrīzes₁₀!!”

Melyssanthi had heard the preternatural cry that split the night come from Pheynix and heard it echo back. Flashes of Pheynix covered in blood from a wound on her side, cradled by an odd looking bird with feathers of fire. She watched as the odd bird was joined by a wolf and a falcon. Blinking, she watched Pheynix dispatch the guard with such obviously deadly grace that she moved like water flows. This was a water dancer. She was jolted out of staring by Pheynix turning that odd voice on her.

Nodding but not knowing if Fyresong could hear her, Melyssanthi called out to him. Anything to make Pheynix stop using that spine tingling voice.

But Melyssanthi would make a crucial mistake. A mistake she would not have made if she had not been so rattled about everything going on.

Melyssanthi called out to Fyresong by imitating his cries when he was younger. Melyssanthi sounded like a baby dragon. A very loud, very distressed baby dragon. There was an answering melodic trumpet as well as a harsh bellowing that was deeper and more menacing.

Eyes wide, Melyssanthi realized her mistake too late. She was successful in catching Fyresong’s attention but she had caught Cannibal’s attention as well. “Sōvegon naejot issa va adere jelmior! Naejot issa! Naejot issa sir!₁₁” Screaming, she begged and prayed that Fyresong would get there first.

As Melyssanthi called her dragon the guard and Pheynix circled each other trading blows gaining no ground. This guard was older than the first and wiser by far. The note of begging distracted Pheynix enough that the guard got her. She grunted as the sword gave her a glancing blow to the side. Glancing only because she was able to redirect the blade at the last second. For that she moved into his guard and drove her sword into his arm pit.

Shoving the guard away from her Pheynix grimaced as the movement pulled the wound. Wing beats and a menacingly deep and crackling roar echoed as dragon fire lit up the night in bright rose gold. The deep black dragon known as Cannibal for his choice of prey was illuminated and he moved like swift oil in the night reflecting a terrible poetry of a dark rainbow. A dark rainbow that was headed straight for them. “Oh shit.”

While his sister faced off with the surviving guards, Castor was slowly circling a fully armed Kingsguard Knight. Castor was giving deep breaths, to remain calm and prevent any emotions from taking over and giving the Knight an opening. He held his sword in a high ready stance, not quite the highest guard but enough to be the more defensive fighter. The Kingsguard was in plate and Castor was going to have to go for the kill with his knife or get a good stab through one of the unprotected areas. The man before him was larger as well and Castor would not be able to overpower him, this was going to be a battle of finesse and swordplay.

With a final circle of the fighting area the dance of blades began. Shadowfang was light in his hands and Castor felt the vibrations of the two swords clashing in his gloved fingers as castle forged professional steel met with the legendary Valyrian steel. The sound rang all around and mixed with the roar of a dragon. Both fighters, their blades met together, looked up and then at each other. The timetable of their fight moved quickly. Castor seemingly recovered first and struck a quick glancing blow to the Kingsguards helmet which started a hack and slash back and forth between the fighters that, despite their weapons, Castor made look like a true dance. His movements were crisp and true and he appeared to almost be floating. He was so quick. But three things happened in rapid succession. The first, was Castor losing his balance after parrying a savage blow fueled with fear and adrenaline from the Kinsguard. Castor was thrown back and his foot hit an uneven rock and twisted it badly causing him to fall and yell out in pain. The second thing that happened was that as Castor was flailing and falling his sword, as sharp as it was managed to slice and cut his opponent in the upper thigh, the Valyrian steel blade slicing through the unprotected clothing and the skin below like paper. And the third thing, was the great pools of blood from the slaughter had reached the edge of the rocks and began dripping down.

Screaming frantically at Fyresong to keep clear of Cannibal, the words practically unintelligible, Melyssanthi watched as Pheynix dropped to the ground and rolled away as dragon fire pierced the blackness of the night. The guard that was staggering on his feet went up in flames and was promptly eaten by Cannibal. The guards’ screams were swiftly silenced by a deeply disturbing crunch followed by a satisfied gurgle and terrifying growl that bordered on a chuckle as the black known as Cannibal landed. He turned his eye in the direction of where the clanging of swords and a sharp cry of pain came from.

Watching in horror time seemed too slow for Melyssanthi and though it was only seconds it felt like an eternity as the dragon let out a roar so loud she had to cover her ears. Then a gout of flame again shot forth this time she heard the pop and sizzle of metal, the smell of roasting meat making her gag. This time Cannibal was playing with his food since it was wearing armor.

“CASTOR!” All Pheynix saw, heard, smelt was the possibility that the beast was playing with her brother. Her world narrowed to the beast and the self satisfied gurgle almost like when a cat plays with a mouse as the dragon shook its head gently while bones popped, crunched and ground together. Climbing to her feet unsteadily Pheynix grasped the hilt of her sword in both hands groaning softly as it pulled at the wound in her side. She forced herself to breathe through the pain and to raise the sword higher as she felt Melyssanthi jerk her arm causing her to stumble then catch herself.

Rose gold flames split the night and traced alongside Cannibal as Fyresong caught the attention of the other dragon. Cannibal roared, half of the Kingsguard hanging out of his maw, the melted plate catching the light. Pheynix covered her eyes as Cannibal whipped the rain, that had trailed off to a misting, into stinging hard pins as he went after Fyresong.

“Don't worry Fyresong is swifter than even the Black Dread and since he is smaller he's more agile. He will lose Cannibal and come back for us. Thankfully we will have harnesses by then, but we must be quick.” Melyssanthi and Pheynix both went over to where Cannibal had been playing with his food only to see Castor on the ground.

It was always hard for a swordsman to admit defeat. It was easy for them to make excuses but Castor just stared up at the Kingsguard and even if things would've gone differently had he not twisted his ankle the result was that Castor's own wound wasn't instantly fatal in a battlefield scenario. A Knight on his back and unable to move was a dead Knight. But then, flames engulfed the Kingsguard and Castor's eyes widened even as he scrunched himself into a tight ball, as tight as possible in his outfit, and covered his face with his arms. He could hear his boiled leather… Boiling, and popping from the proximity and even from behind his arms, Castor felt his skin warming.

Any other would've undoubtedly been torched just from the proximity of the torrent of flames blowing over them but Castor's Valyrian lineage proved itself once again as his skin only warmed and turned slightly red. Which meant as his sister and the Targaryen came to check on him, Castor was unfurling and slowly getting to his feet, wincing as he put weight on his twisted and already swollen foot.

Reaching out to clasp her brother’s hand Pheynix had dropped her sword with a clatter. As she twinned their fingers together with one hand as she embraced him fully she leaned her forehead on his shoulder. “Lēkia. Issa prūmia bē morghūltan₁₂.” It was quite clear that the sword was secondary and the love the siblings shared ran deep. Tears leaked from Pheynix and she started to cry in earnest at the stress of the situation.

“I understand the gravity of the situation but we have to go. We're only halfway to the cavern. We still need to be harassed and to get all three of us into them. We have to go. Now.” Melyssanthi felt for the siblings but seeing them be able to embrace only made the fact that Aegon was gone worse for her. She had no comfort and it made the rage that lingered like a festering wound throb in time with her heartbeat.

She was not angry at them. No. Melyssanthi knew she was angry at those who had killed her brother and had taken advantage of her father’s love and death. Maegor. Visenya. Alys. Tyanna. The rage within her grew twisting around those names. Planning to strike with fire and blood.

So as Melyssanthi turned to start on the path to the cavern the rain finally cleared and the moon shone on a drenched woman where a half grown girl had stood. The childlike innocence had been burnt out by her rage and the events that brought her thus far. She let the siblings have their moment. She was not needlessly cruel and she knew they needed it. Both Pheynix and Castor had killed to keep her safe. No small requirement.

Pheynix sniffled as she gathered herself together. “Are you hurt?” She asked Castor her voice warbling, breaking softly as she did so. She needed to know that he was alright. She did not mention her wound, in fact hid the fact that she could feel the trickle of blood. If she was not already soaked and wearing black her whole shirt would be red and wet with it, at least her left side would be.

Castor let out a choked sob as he saw his sister and let her fuss over him a bit. He held her tightly and nodded as the Targaryen spoke. He knew they had to go but he had to take a moment. He smiled as Pheynix placed her head on his shoulder and shrugged his shoulders at her question. “I'll be fine, unless that Dragon comes back. We do have to move.” He tilted her chin up to him and smiled down at her. “Stay strong. Move fast. Fight together.” It was a mantra that had been taught to all the Rahl children by their father and was why no Rahl family member went anywhere alone. There were always two.

He then would begin moving as fast as his ankle would let him, his face determined and uncaring about the pain. His only objective was to keep moving and get to the cavern. To get Pheynix safe.

They moved swiftly despite their injuries since the uninjured Princess was leading the way and Pheynix was not going to offer up that they needed to slow due to her injury. She assisted her brother by taking his weight off his injured ankle. It pulled at her wound but she hid the pain behind humor. “Cass you're getting fat. I swear you've gained weight since Volantis. The captain might have to refigure the course back home.”

Castor was used to fighting through pain. None of his many instructors ever allowed injuries to stop their practice. Cass had simply been expected to get over it and fight through it. Survival didn't care about your pain, and survival was everything. He rarely used his sister, only occasionally giving some of his weight if they passed a particularly rocky area as he didn't want to fall and waste time. But all in all Cass felt they made good time at the cavern and he just rolled his eyes to Nix. “Pyx said the same thing as he was helping me get ready to save you. You two must become more original.”

“Just reinforces my statement. Pyx is smarter than most of us. So I will take the compliment.” Pheynix brushed over the saving part. He could not have known that it would go this way.

They had made it to the cavern. Melyssanthi ran in and gathered up three harnesses and passed two of them to the siblings. “It's pretty basic. Step in and pull up then pull up and over like a pack. The extra goes around the dragon and loops over itself. It secures but if you need to get off quick the ropes release easily. You can sleep in the harness and not fall off.” She took off Pheynix's cloak and stepped into her harness showing them how to tie them up.

Wing beats heralded Fyresong’s presence as he landed and burbled to Melyssanthi. “Yes you're a good boy and made sure that nasty dragon left us alone. Now we're going to go see Rhaena. But first this is Pheynix and Castor. We like them. No funny business tonight we have to leave.” A series of clicks and burbles along with a warbling sort of growl accompanied Melyssanthi's speech as if he were responding and possibly back talking to her. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hear you. We can all hear you. Anyways, be nice and lean down here so they can get on.”

Grabbing the long ends of Pheynix's harness she looped them over and around Fyresong. “You're going in the middle, Nix. And Castor you're just behind her. I will be a little farther up.” She said as she quickly fastened the harnesses onto the dragon. She'd done it multiple times before so it was nothing new. “Climb on up.”

Pheynix watched in awe as Fyresong landed and smiled at the conversation Melyssanthi had with him. He had looked over her and her brother with a critical sapphire eye. Accepting them he allowed Melyssanthi to harness them to him. Pheynix climbed on and knew that Cassie was going to be jealous. “Cassie will kill us if we do not tell her everything. Down to what he smells like.” Melyssanthi showed her how to tighten and loosen the ties on the harness. As she turned to Castor and did the same Pheynix's vision narrowed.

Fighting to stay conscious and look like she wasn't going to pass out took everything Pheynix had. She'd lost more blood than she thought. She felt Castor climb on then Melyssanthi. As Fyresong lifted into the air Pheynix got dizzy but managed to fight back the blackness that threatened to engulf her.

---

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The arena was one of the older stone buildings within King’s Landing, hardly a prestigious title, but still an example of how important both the martial arts of knighthood and the entertainment of the masses had been to the first dragon’s reign.

The stands surrounding the dust and dirt of the space were no less packed than they would be at the glorious heights of a tournament, but there was more of a somber note that held sway over the crowd. From rich to poor, landed or traveler, each knew that the history of the realm was about to be decided, and that blood was doubtlessly in that future.

It was almost a parody of a tourney, the two camps set up close by to allow the combatants to prepare, but there was none of the obvious jubilation from either side. Sanctimony against grim duty, before the great and terrible deeds were done.

Rhoelle found, for the first time in a while, she truly missed her brother. Rogar would know what to say to steady her nerves. No doubt some joke at her expense involving the suitor she had accidentally collected. Instead, her thoughts were all for her father. He was a bold warrior and still well within health, if not quite prime, but he was fighting alongside the most brutal warrior in all of Westeros, against the greatest blades in the faith. She settled among the comfortable seating of the greater members of court, one hand on the fluttering nerves of her stomach as she beheld the currently empty field of battle.

She tried to manage a prayer for victory, but instead all that passed her lips quietly were the words, “Seven save my father,” Over and over, nothing else mattered. She cared not for any great cause, just that it wouldn’t claim another Baratheon so soon after her grandfather and grandmother had left them. What would even be left?

What would be left if her husband fell? Alys stared across the sea of packed earth and bodies that would be her subjects if her husband and lord won thus day. He would, she thought with a desperate demand of the Seven she once spurned. Maegor could not lose. He was the sword while his brother had been the ineffectual hand of peace and prosperity. This land was still young under the Targaryen rule. It would need time to come to heed the bit of dragon fire.

Her son would see to that, a hand strayed to her womb. Had she caught Maegor’s babe within her? By the grace of the Mother she prayed it was so. A child soon after thus victory would be the favor the realm needed to see. The hand on the arm of the chair turned into a fist as she refused to look away from the dueling grounds. "He will be victorious, no warrior alive could match him. No, alive or dead there is no match for my husband." If he fell… her seat, her life, might well be claimed by the swirling tide of people below. Her lips thinned. "If I do not produce a child soon…" Yes, if not soon then she would give Maegor the witch for his dragon to feast upon. A child and a crown. It was all she needed.

"Bah," came the hewn chuckle of the one outlying warrior. Harlan had a sort of swagger to his step as he strode up, mail clashing against mail with every step as he drew a coif about his head. A smile grew across his face though, as he walked forth over to the King’s camp. Leaning back to one of his sailors who had accompanied him, a tall man from across the Narrow Sea with a hawk's nose and a bowman's limbs, he laughed as he spoke. "Misers, all these dead-faced misers. You'd think they were at a funeral. Whenever did men fight better with such grave natures."

Settling down among that side, or as among them as he could manage, soon enough the Ironborn son set about armoring and arming himself. A sallet soon covered his features, as well as gloves over his hands to match his white haubergeon, before taking up his round shield. The handful of axes stuck in his belt set him apart from the many knights, though his longsword did not. He soon found himself leaning about, waiting for the combat to begin, a glare fixed to the other camp.

The pious on the opposite side of the arena each bowed their heads as the priest intoned a prayer swinging the thurible slowly as the incense inside smoked gently drifting on the breeze. Dickon held his breath glad that the wind picked up. He’d never liked the smell of the stuff that the priests put in, what he considered, to be a waste of good chain and metal. He smirked as he thought of a mace with the stuff in it. Smoking while he swung it at the Ironborn. He might have imagined a few chunks falling into the hair of his opponent and the panic that would incite.

The priests finished with their prayer and seven men rose from kneeling. Seven men chosen for their faith in the belief that the unholy ways of the Targaryens died with Maegor. The thoughts of the pious might not have reflected this sentiment word for word but the gist of that belief was definitely echoed in the thoughts of the Warrior Sons and Faith Militant. They knew this may not have been the first breath that the movement took but they did recognise that win or lose, living or dead, that they made an impression today. Damon clapped Dickon on the back and nodded in camaraderie to the younger man. “Warrior favor your sword brother.”

They watched as Dickon rolled his neck and shoulders and drew his sword and shield. Being a bastard but a highborn one Dickon was lucky that he had found a place with the Warrior Sons. They had not asked much, just his faith in the belief that what was going on was unholy. He couldn’t agree more. Maegor should not be allowed to run through all the noble women to find one that he would be satisfied with. Aegon had already died righteously for marrying his sister as had the late King Aneys for marrying his son and daughter. It was unnatural. Feelings of attraction and wanting to breed a woman should not ever be something you kept in the family that closely.

The clamoring of the crowds and the chanting of the priests came to an end. The knights of the Seven may have knelt in prayer but the King's men had no such obvious uniformity. For many it was a chance for glory, for others a solemn duty, but already as matters approached the tone of commencement the royal party fanned out. Among their number stalked some of the most capable warriors in Westeros, spreading out around the arena. Predators in the water.

As the bells of the Septs tolled, the fighting began. It was not ritualized, but it was not the melee of battle either, not yet. The great and the good of Westeros traded blows in a manner that might have been mistaken for respect, were the stakes not so intolerably high. For all the clamor of piety, however, the faithful were the first to break from knightly tradition, two knights heading for the King, seeking to best the head of the snake swiftly, the decorum of knightly combat be damned. There were few warriors like Maegor, however, and what his assailants may have had in chivalric skill, he matched with pure brutality and athleticism, even as he was pushed back by the flurry of blows his own would turn their strikes aside with great force, each blow buying him half a second to react to the other.

It was the first banner bearer of House Targaryen which came first to the King's aid. The Stag surged to the side of the Dragon, and suddenly the momentum was turned. It was not pretty, but then, Orys had not taught his son to fight pretty. A shield bearing the proud rampant stag crashed into the side of a knight even as he looked to plunge a blow under the King's guard, dismissing the challenge before it could be completed. A grunt of acknowledgement was all that was shared between the two great Lords, before they parted, using the lull in the conflict to pull away from their faithful competitors.

The case of the King resolved, Durran turned to see where next he was needed. He turned the blade of his longsword over and over as he scanned around the dust covered ground on which the trial was occurring.

Osric was close to being down, that much was clear, one of the better blades of the Knights of the Seven seeking an early victory to reduce the numbers stacked against them. Before one of the foes could harry Durran and prevent his aid, he was moving. Surprisingly fast for a bulky man, made bulkier by the design of his armor, he was across the field in a blur of silver, black and yellow. He let out a roar of challenge as he did so, forsaking a split second of surprise in favor of giving his opponent the chivalric opportunity to respond. In the moment that it took, the Knight of the Seven had forced Osric to the ground, but had not yet had a chance to offer the knight to surrender, at least that is what Durran suspected. His eyes widened in shock beneath his helm, however, as the blade of the knight began to swing down towards the stricken figure.

Said blade didn't strike home, for a Baratheon blade interrupted it's path. The knight, so intent on capitalizing on his early victory, was stunned by the intervention, even more so by the slamming force of a shield rim which took him in the side of the helm, and cast him across the floor.

“Try to stay on your feet, our King still has need of us.” Durran spoke in a half teasing tone to Osric as he held a hand down to lift the man from the dirt. “But do not be too ashamed, they are fine blade and honorable m-”

The words the Lord of Storm's End was set to speak were never completed, interrupted by a ghastly sound of steel puncturing flesh, a blade pushed up through the arm pit of his now exposed arm stretched down. The great figure of the man seemed stunned, a shock which passed from the sands to the stands, perhaps even through the opposing Knights of the Seven as well.

The moment hung in the air, before Durran stumbled, his powerful frame fighting to keep itself aloft, before another moment passed, and he fell to the side, the silence broken both by the crashing of his armor and a singular howl of terror and grief from the stands watching the fighting.

The immediate silence seemed to stretch on, dread and shock suffusing the air, broken only by a shout of rage from the King.

“Treason! Kill them all!”

Then chaos broke, and the howling sob from one voice became a roar of noise from all around.

Regret grew around the edges of thoughts, insidious and dangerous as the melee began. His body hurt, every time the faith battered against his shield, every time his sword arm sought contact with an opponent, each time with a more frantic need to gain an advantage. Regret and doubt were killers, this was not Osric’s first melee but it quickly began to feel more like the feverish skirmishes fought against the hill tribes.

He found himself pushed back, pushed down. In that brief moment where suddenly everything around him moved as if through water, he saw Ser Lyle Bracken’s eyes. The knight of the Vale’s mouth grimaced against the assault, his eyes squeezed shut against all training, and he saw his death not submission, until suddenly the force was gone and Lord Baratheon held his hand out. Perhaps he had misjudged the intent, he looked at the Stormlander lord and his lips parted in a smile of relief, of gratitude.

Blood sprayed and it took too many seconds for Osric to understand what had happened. His reflexes betrayed him, his sword arm swung out with a guttural scream before he knew why or what had happened. Durran Baratheon dead before him and Lyle Bracken again pushing forward against Osric, his intent no longer a question. The king’s call to kill them all stirred the Arryn knight, broke him of his confusion.

He ignored the pain now, as if it was a distant memory. Flooded with adrenaline and rage he lunged at the Bracken man. His sword was deflected but his opponent was put off balance and stumbled back. His shield connected and dropped the Seven’s knight to his ass, his knees brought up to try and scramble backwards, now in retreat. It was too late, Osric was on him, slamming the shield blindly into metal and flesh. Blood sprayed again but this time it was a traitor’s.

He breathed heavily, the haze of rage receded and he looked around him at the outright chaos the melee had succumbed to. Osric heard a scream and swung his head around looking for the cause and saw the young, cocky, Harroway boy being pushed to a breaking point. The knight pushed himself off the mangled Bracken and stormed towards the knight intent on killing Horas.

The young Harroway had started strong, vigor and youth. The righteous fury for Lord and land fueled the young squire. Yet now that blood hazed the air, and the clang of the sword felt heavy in his hand the lad found himself distracted by the sudden pause. The hush that clung to the arena. Turning his dark brown hair, sweat beading across his brow, Horas saw the horror that lay across the packed dirt. The great Lord Baratheon was stabbed, a wound that did not look quite right to his young eyes. Yet even as a scream split the air, the King’s words called out in a ringing command.

Kill them. Yes, he could do that. He would do that. Swinging his sword at his opponent, he tried to take the offensive, but the man was far stronger and he found himself hammered back by a knight twice his size. For all his zeal, Horas was only a boy of fourteen years. Eager to prove himself. Blocking again with his shield he did not spy the Ser Osric coming up. So when he thrust his shield to the side, and tried an overhanded blow at the knight. He was unaware of whose path that enemy’s sword went into.

Osric was caught off guard, a tragic error in his approach. His armor took some of the blow but he felt it give way, a searing pain that shook him. He stared, wide-eyed, into the eyes of a boy. That stupid, fucking, boy. His head shook, in confusion or disbelief, he refused to look down to see how bad it was. But he didn’t need to, and as if to spare them the dishonor of falling to their own, Aegon Ambrose had regained his footing and advanced again.

The Arryn knight tried to raise his shield but his arm would not obey. He stumbled away from Horas, into Aegon’s approach. Breathing hurt, moving hurt. He had dropped his sword, too heavy and too slick with blood to grip. He was supposed to be the Warrior, that’s what his brother had always said. His head tilted up, an incoherent prayer on his lips. The Warrior’s son laughed and spit on him as he drove his sword through the gap at his neck and finished what Horas Harroway had begun.

The youth stared in shock as Osric stumbled by him, intent on an enemy still as blood poured from a wound across his chest that let out what should be kept in. Slack jawed in horror and shock, unused to such terrible wounds. The lad barely got his sword up in time through the shock to block The Warrior’s Son’s blow. The metal slammed back into his face. Shrieking in agony, he felt another piercing of steel, then he knew nothing. His body fell to the ground as his head rolled away.

From the stands, no scream came. Sharp cries from Horas’s two sisters. Hanna’s hands clapped over her mouth and Jeyne’s fisted in her gown, her gaze wide in shock as tears began to roll from Hanna’s. Their brother beheaded. Dead. Behind them. Behind them their father stared out into the dusty field, his own thoughts behind a mask of steel. Even as he felt anger against this king who had allowed his son to fight grip his heart.

Dickon shook it off and faced the Ironborn. “What did he promise you that you could fuck all the fish you caught?” He taunted his opponent.

The man laughed his response away, cackling brief before shaking his head nice and slow. This one seemed younger, stupider in a want to taunt so simply, so quickly, yet that was the way of those damnable fools. They taunted without thinking of what would come next. His axe called to him in an easy enough way, to bury it in the Warrior Sons' skull and watch his brains bleed out and away. It would happen, he thought, and it would happen soon enough. "You are funny for a snake. I was promised what was given to me, what is here. Snakes to kill. Do you wish to be first to die by me, boy?"

Dickon stepped up determined to make a stand. “This snake strikes hard with truth to cut out the unholy.” A few feints back and forth to feel out the opposition. As they came together Dickon snarled. “I am not surprised that an Ironborn would back Maegor. You do not have to worry about him running through your women since you have none.”

Harlan stared down at the shorter man, cocking his head slow. Chainmail clashed gently against itself, his shield brought up just a fraction from the mud. When he spoke, the Ironborn twang lacked any of the grand humor which had before marked it, hard and simple as flint, and he spoke an honest statement. “You will be the first, then.”

Tired of all talk and no action, the lack of a witty comeback, among other things. Dickon decided to instead lash out with his sword, a battle cry resounding from him as he swung. It was a steady crescent that was caught by the Ironborn’s shield as they traded blows. It was really only seconds but time seemed to slow for the combatants as it seemed like hours later when Dickon got through the Ironborn’s defense, and in a move born of frustration Dickon lunged.

Success!

Reveling in the feel of the sword glancing off the bone Dickon let his shield drop far enough that he was open to an attack. “Stranger take-!!” There was a gurgle at the end of the yell.

Harlan felt his sword sink into the Seven-worshiper’s jerkin and flesh, his blade thrust into the shallow space under his arm, between the breastplate. A harsh hiss from his lips at the exertion, the Iron Islander’s form compacted like a spring in that action, he suddenly felt supremely dissatisfied at it, at the whole of it. He shouldn’t have been taken by surprise by a damnable mainlander of all things, by a Seven-worshiper of all things, and shouldn’t have let him so close. Fool was he to expect something else, fool, fool, fool.

He looked down at the choked knight through his slit-eye helm, almost considering how to best dispatch him as the man drew his bathed blade out. Jerking his head back with the rim of his shield, exposing the worshiper’s neck, a brutal swing came and went to nearly decapitate the man, his head held on by spine only. A deep breath out at it, Harlan took a step back, sheathing his sword in exchange for an axe. A taunting motion to the next; he would be ready this time.

“Dogs! Come here, dogs! Meet your gods!”

A stocky man trundled forward with a battle ax in hand as well. Harys Horpe, or Death’s Head Harry, looked the Ironborn in the eye since they were of a size. Horpe was not much shorter than the Ironborn. He was barrel chested and held the battle ax like he knew what to do with it. While Dickon was overeager like a pup this man had seen battle before and was silent in the face of conflict. He planted his feet in a stance that allowed him to pivot and move quickly if needed.

Black brows thick and furrowed pulled together over eyes that were the deepest gray of the clouds over the Stormlands. Horpe’s beard was full and trimmed neatly and defined his jawline. He watched the blood run down the Ironborn’s arm showing no emotion besides cold fury as the pair waited. They waited while people pulled away Dickon’s corpse. Horpe rolled his neck as the smear of blood was sprinkled with a mix of sand and wood shavings to soak up the puddle then brushed away with a stiff broom.

Circling Harry sized up the Ironborn and decided to bash with the shield and swing the ax to lop off the arm that Dickon had already injured. It looked like Dickon had hit well since it was steadily, if slowly dripping blood. The shields met with the force of a thunderclap. The fury poured off Harry in waves like a living thing; his emotions seemed to batter his opponent as much as his weapons.

Shifting slightly Harry struck with the ax the same arm that Dickon had injured already. He didn’t have the leverage he wanted to take the arm off in one swing so he hacked at it. The first swing took him just below the original injury and only half way through as he felt the bone splinter under the swing. The second swing landed above the original injury and again Harry didn’t have the leverage to fully take the arm with that swing. However the third time he connected with the injury that Dickon left and the only thing keeping the arm on was a small piece of muscle.

Harlan hissed like steam as he felt his arm go. Hot pain and blood, that’s all there was there, as he pushed back again with his shield to stagger the foe just enough. Letting go of that center hold, his hand found his belt as quick as lightning, drawing out a throwing axe. Wrong hand, that was true enough, but he didn’t have much of a choice. His foe was right there, right there, and he threw the axe with all his body. It was a lank throw, no care on the proper form for it, though his foe was close enough that it didn’t matter anymore. It found his face, right there to cut into, though…he’d seen men walk away from that before. No. No.. His hand found that sheathed longsword, drew it as one draws a dirk with the blade to the earth.

A staggered step forward, then another, as Harry drew out the axe from his face with a free hand, blood pouring out to cover his face before Harlan drunkenly stabbed down into the man, down at his collarbone and just above the breastplate. He heaved it in with all his weight, almost falling into the other, letting go to stagger away. His breath came in a struggle, wheezing under his sallet, wheezing in and out hot against the metal.

The sailor who had accompanied him, the hawk’s nose bowman, surged forward to catch him, letting him lean against as the pair walked off the battlefield.

Dick Bean dropped to his knee with a grunt. No knight, no squire, he’d been nothing. He was alive though, cut and bruised, but alive. In the beginning he’d watched as the Faith’s men had converged on his king and the high-born fighters. Now though, he wasn’t sure who all had died but there were two knights against him and all that had kept him alive so far was backing away again and again until they were distracted by that Ironborn man quitting the field. Dick was beyond angry at the sight of it, but it gave him a moment’s reprieve as both of the knights who’d caught him in their sights paused as if deciding whether or not to pursue the injured man.

He was too far in the distance it seemed, and they were back to him before he could right himself and ready another defense. Suddenly to his right the Lothston knight appeared. He’d lost his helmet and sword, blood stained his chest plate and arms, but he was there. Dick pushed himself to his feet. Beyond him he could see his king, hear his king. Maybe this was nearly decided.

The two men pushed forward together against Aegon Ambrose. Ser Garibald had broken away from his approach, eager to aid the two who had yet to corner Maegor. Ser Ambrose faltered in his first attack, sword meeting nothing but air then the dirt of the ground. It was enough room for Dick Bean to lunge and completely throw him off balance. Aegon brought up his shield and caught Bean against the face. Dick fell back again, profusely bleeding across his face. His hand instinctively groped at it and to his horror he found his cheek pulled away from bone. He screamed even as Ser Guy took the advantage and plunged his sword into the knight. Aegon dropped, a gurgling noise and bubbles of blood from his mouth. Dick stared at him, both men surprised and confused at their circumstance, but it was Aegon who slumped forward, face first to the ground.

It was enough to stop Ser Garibald and send him back towards Maegor’s last two men. Ser Lothston put himself between the injured Dick Bean and the approaching sword. He was no match for the man he came at him with every bit of his strength. Guy deflected the first attack with his sword only to lose the weapon, sent flying from his hand to the dirt some feet away. Garibald smiled an ugly, bloody grin, and brought his sword down to split the knight’s head.

The sword would not give way, no matter how Garibald pulled or twisted. Dick Bean found his last reserve of strength and will to scurry around and attack from the side. He swung wildly, blinded by pain and fatigue but the Seven must surely have been on his side as Garibald screamed with new agony. Dick Bean had found a fleshy gap, a loosened strap on the knight’s breastplate and his sword was there still, plunged into the man’s body. Unthinking, he pulled back, his hands wet with sweat and his own blood.

He crumpled to the ground, his face fire, but with sickening joy attempted a smile at seeing the Warrior’s Son froth bloody at the mouth. He took solace in the crackling, gurgling noise as the man dropped beside him. He closed his eyes never to open again.

Battle and blood, it was not for her though the world demanded it. It fed off the blood that watered crops. Tucking her slim fingers through the folds of her gown Elayne stared at the headless body as she shrank in the shadow of the Lord Balaerys. Horas was dead. Kin to her, and a sickening feeling spread through her belly. Terror. The Lord of Harrenhal would be in a fury. As it was, she could spy the stony look on Alys's face. It was a good thing she had been asked to join Lord Vhandyr Balaerys. Asked, the man was as tall, ferocious and just as set as any Targaryen. Perhaps it was something in the Valyrian blood. Stubbornness that let them ride their dragon. Though he was a kind man, who had spoken to her with words that still touched her though they were most likely naught but passing pleasantries. Still the blood flowed and she felt ill at the thought of returning to their rooms. “Horas….” A fool, but one whose death would bring wrath upon them all.

The scope had narrowed. Now there was just the King and two blades drawn against him. Ser Damon and Ser Willam may have began to the trial as the beacons of piety they were championed to be, but now all three remaining fighters bore the blood and dirt of the quagmire around them. The King had lost his shield, and more pressingly, his helm, ripped free after a glancing blow from a mace had caved in the face plate and rendered him blind had he kept it on. Valyrian blood ran freely from the centre of his face, although not broken, something had certainly burst from the impact within his nose.

The two knights circled him now, prepared to take stock, take their time, wait for the opportunity to strike and kill. The King was a larger man though, with a finer blade, and they were weary of his reach. Maegor’s rage was next to legendary, but for now he did not snarl or yell, he did not lash out. His fury at seeing his loyal swords cut down had simmered into cold fury. Outnumbered, his window to act was shrinking, he didn’t have time for rage.

Perhaps the greatest lie of the great tales and stories was that strength and bulk came at the cost of speed and agility, for when the King struck it was to see a mountain in motion. He had determined that Willam was the more injured of the two, favouring his off-side to step. Before the pair of knights could complete their surrounding of him, Maegor rushed to the Knight’s weak side, hearing the sharp exhalation of pain as he tried to plant on the off-foot to react. He was more than a competent blade, but fractional hesitation was all Maegor needed.

The King collided with Willam’s shield, only half planted on one foot; he didn't have the balance to swing, stab, or even remain standing. Cast to the ground, Willam contacted the bloodied sand with a crash of metal. He barely had the time to recall where he was before Blackfyre plunged through his face plate, traditional steel holding nothing against the Valyrian counterpart. Maegor wrenched the blade forwards, splitting the knight’s skull rather than attempting to wrench it free. It was necessary, for only had he just whirled around and brought Blackfyre up in a crossguard that Damon was upon him, rushing a fraction too late to the aid of his stricken brother.

The ensuring crash of swords was fluid and fierce. If Damon was weakened in a way similar to Willam he was a better warrior for not showing it. Damon, in fact, was likely the best sword to have walked afield this morning. Maegor may have had size, but not by much, and Damon did not have the distractions of Kingdom to contend with. He was a Knight, and this was how a knight fought, unceasing training across decades.

For the first time in the course of the trial, it seemed that Maegor was being pushed back, brutality met martial prowess and began to weaken, to tire. Maegor had barreled, struck and battered his way through all competition but that approach was a tiring one, the King was clearly slowing faster than this opponent. It was fractional, but that’s all it had to be.

Then came the feint, a strike for Maegor’s torso redirected at the last moment, instead bringing the blade into contact with the King’s right gauntlet. Finally, the howl of pain and rage was unleashed as the action threw Maegor’s grip open, and Blackfyre struck the ground. It was all the exhausted King could do to throw himself backwards as it did so, narrowly avoiding the killing strike.

Damon had timed his final sally well. The fighters had pulled clear of where the other stricken fighters lay, no easy weapon or shield to claim from the dirtied sand. The Knight paused his advance, keeping space between himself and the King, blade artfully turning over and over in his hand as he watched Maegor, unwilling to hand the element of surprise back to him even without blade. Shock was once again rippling through the crowd, early signs of jubilation from some, pensive horror in others. This seemed to buoy Damon somewhat, sure enough of victory.

“Surrender, Abomination, and perhaps the Seven will weigh this against your misdeeds when I send you to the Stranger.” One did not have to see the Knight’s helm-covered features to hear the pious arrogance. When the King didn’t reply, enraged eyes simply gazing back, as if they might bore through the helm itself, that is when Damon moved in for the kill.

It was a simple strike, well aimed. It did not have to be anything fancy, the King was unarmed.

Valyrian steel was rare, blades of its make might number in the dozens across Westeros, more exotic weapons even less still. Valyrian Steel armour was all but unknown across Westeros, the manner of its making, even reforging, largely lost to time.

Maegor had fought for Volantis, earned a King’s ransom in tribute from the city that would otherwise have felt the wrath of a Khalasar. He had taken no gold, or slaves. He had taken something priceless. Maegor’s left gauntlet was Valyrian steel.

Had the disarming of the King rippled shock through those watching, the reaction was more audible as the King caught the blade, the ring of steel on steel sounding even louder than the initial clash of force as palm reached up to clasp around the blade. The armour prevented the cutting edge, but the force still almost burst the hand within the gauntlet, but Maegor did not cry out or roar this time, this was no Dothraki wretch seeking a last grasp at glory, this was a foe he had to kill now or die himself.

Damon staggered back, unable to quite comprehend the situation he had found himself in, but the King and Knight were now bound by the shared grip on the blade. Then Maegor acted, wrenching the sword free and casting it aside, even as he was doing so, he arched low, a half crouch before spearing upwards, casting both fighters down on the sand.

The knight recovered some sense, flailing strikes to the King atop him, but one hand was still bound in his shield, and the King’s were both free. One mailed fist cusped under the edge of Damon’s helmet, ripping it free, even as the other struck the knight's punches away.

“Tell your Stranger, if he wants to kill me, to send better men to try.” Maegor spat on the desperate features of Damon as they appeared from behind their metal shell. If the Knight had anything further to say, they were silenced as the same Valyrian steel gauntlet that had doomed the knight plunged into his open mouth, teeth shattering on impact. Muffled noises became obscured screams, as the King pulled. Jaw, bone and tongue came away in the King’s grip, taloned fingers ripping and rending, leaving the gaping pit of what had been Ser Damon’s face behind to choke on the remains of what had been him.

With a heave of effort, Maegor stood. Savagery was written across his features, blood still torrenting from his nose, he staggered away from the convulsing soon-to-be corpse of Damon. Finally, the tide of anger, pain and victory collapsed across the dam of his resolution, and the King let out a roar, a great cry which put all of that and more simply into noise. With the last of his strength, the King heaved the trophy of the traitor’s tongue into the crowd.

What cheers or cries of horror, the King did not notice, for then his strength began to finally fail. Maegor pitched forwards onto his knees, the world swimming around him. He muttered, to no one in particular, as he was sure the talons of death reached up to claim him, his voice barely a whisper.

“Rha…Rhae….Burn them a-” And then King Maegor, First of his name, and winner of his own trial, collapsed into the sand and pain gave away to annihilation.

_{collab with Ruby & @Ezekiel and @Arnorian}

The world was pain, it was darkness, and it was noises she could not place. Consciousness was something that hemmed and hawed, an elusive thing that every time she tried to chase, just seemed to get further and further away. As if it had no use for her, as if her time was past. As if she was dying, now.

Vittoria Tyrell would not surrender.

In time, she learned what the strange noises were: shouting. Voices she recognized, voices she didn’t. Some she didn’t want to. It lasted days. There was the point where she saw Dennet talk to Davos. Then Dennet didn’t show up again. She had two shadows: Davos, and Ryam. Two shadows with more problems by the day.

Whether a fever dream or real, she swore she saw Maesters yelling, then Davos and Ryam yelling. They didn’t want to hide her in the Citadel. Then they didn’t want to allow for Davos and Ryam to follow her. She made a note to ask, just how, exactly, Davos avoided Ryam bloodying his sword with the innards of Maesters.

Then it was Davos, with Ryam stepping in-between, as the Archmaesters and Davos fought over and over again, all of it focused on a single word she had dreaded: scrolls. Another note, then, to ask Ryam how he avoided all out violence between House Baratheon and the Citadel. And another note, to remind the Citadel to send a note of thanks to Ryam for saving them the indignity of facing the Storm.

Towards the end, she saw more and more of Theylin, and the Millin. The latter was smaller than she remembered him being. Maybe she was just a child, or maybe he had reached the age of shrinking. A final note to not ask Millin to his face. She recalled the Archmaester had something of a delicate temperament in that way.

Long white beard, shaved head, more silver on his chain than any man in a century. He sat, his now thin limbs hidden behind a puff of Maester robes, but het sat: his ever beady blue eyes staring intently at the only thing that ever mattered to him…whoever the current soul was he was caring for.

“…thank you.”

He grunted as he took in the hoarse, whispery, voice of Vittoria Tyrell. “I did what I could about the scar. It’s small, I recall your vanity.”

She would have laughed, had everything not hurt so bad, “I don’t have the scrolls.”

“I know. But you did, and they know it.”

Somehow, Vittoria Tyrell grinned—even if it was the last thing she did for some time, as darkness swallowed her whole once more. It felt like a long nap, but there had been sun, darkness, sun, darkness. The second time she woke up, it was Ryam and Theylin speaking, about preserving her honor.

“Ryam, he’s already seen me naked.”

Theylin was nearly as red as a bold Arbor Red. “I never told anyone, my Lady.”

Even with her eyes closed, Vittoria could see the blush, “…you never told anyone about anything, Theylin, it’s why we became friends. Get me up before he comes back.”

“Millin?” The Maester wondered, aloud.

It was Ryam who answered him, “No. Davos.”

She could hear Orys Baratheon: Hells girl, there’s nothing wrong with you other than the fact you won’t get up.

She was letting Theylin help her put on boots when the door opened, and Davos appeared in the doorway. She looked into his eyes, and spoke, “We need to go. Where’s the host?”

Davos Baratheon excused the Maester and the Sworn Shield. When the door closed and it was just the two of them, he smiled, sweetly, “Before we get into palace intrigue, how are you?”

“Davos, they could be days away. We need to get going. We need to—”

His smile never faded as he walked towards her, and knelt to meet her eye-to-eye as she sat on the bed in the small, stone, chamber in the healing wing of the great Citadel of Westeros knowledge. “How. Are. You?”

Her tongue ran over her lips; dried, chapped, they didn’t even feel like her lips at all. “I’m alive.”

“Angry?”

If she could, she would have laughed, “Sorry to drag you into this.”

“…not going to make this easy, are you?”

At least she could still grin. As if he’d never met her before. “Why, greetings, I’m Vittoria.”

She offered him the hand to shake, as if he’d never met her before. He ignored it as he kissed her, and kissed her…until she was wincing, and he was laughing as he apologized. It was only the quiet moment after that it finally came up. “Vitt, the Archmaesters—”

“I don’t have them. I made sure of it. And they’re not together. I’m trusting someone no one would ever expect with one of them, and a few…old friends with the others.”

To the eternal credit of Davos Baratheon, he gave her the only answer he could: “Okay, Vitt. Shall I help you up?”

“Gods, finally, we have a host to catch.”

Though he was gentle and cautious as he steadied her when she rose, his words were brutal enough to be honest, “They’re days ahead. They’ve been hiding you here, but the Faith knows it, too. Alaric controls much of Oldtown, outside the actual tower. The new Lord Hightower stays, and organizes what he can to rid themselves of the problem, but…he’s not his father. The Maesters can get us out, I’ve managed to get word to Garin, but we have to go carefully. If they catch you, Vittoria…if Alaric gets his hands on you. If we go east or west, it will be hard, and there don’t seem to be a lot of friends left.”

“He won’t,” she gave him a promise she couldn’t keep, but he smiled just the same, “and I still have a few friends. We’ll go South.”

Davos tilted his head at her, with pretty eyes that begged an explanation.

So she kissed him, and then she kissed him again, “Go. Get Ryam. Get ready.”

The result was pathetic, but Vittoria tried to push him towards the door, just so. When he left, she saw who was waiting. The look shared between Davos and the old men outside told Vittoria what was about to happen. Millin came in, first, followed by four other Archmaesters behind him. Vittoria knew them all; Esrus, Timmott, Larisen, and Albin.

They made their final plea. They made their case. In the end, Vittoria was too tired to care.

“…you all think your way of thinking is new, different. Valyrian sorcerers thought the same thing, and the Rhoynar before them. Valyrian showed the Rhoynar. You’re going to show the Valyrians? What makes you think you’re better? What reason, what logic? Do you even have an answer that doesn’t sound rehearsed?...you’re just Andals, instead of land you come for…”

Finally, she sighed, and let her eyes bounce off each one, “I don’t have them, anymore. They’re not together. Scattered like the wind. You’ll hunt them…if you’re supposed to have them, I’m sure the Seven will grant them.”

To their credit, the only thing that was spoken was by Millin; and that was nothing but instructions for her regarding how long it would take for full use of her shoulder, and what she ought to avoid.

They left the Citadel by small boat, along the Mander, hidden in plain sight with a dozen other small boats. Near the mouth of the Mander she saw, along the banks, a woman strung up, screaming, whipped by Faith Militant. It was Ryam who moved uneasy, but Davos put his hand on her shoulder, “He wants you to lose faith so that you’ll act rashly.”

Vittoria made a note of it, and added it to the pile: Show Alaric the full retribution of the Seven. It was godless, it was vile, it enraged every part of her mind and body…and Alaric knew it would. They was another woman every hundred feet. All of them hanging with signs that read: FORSAKEN.

In the harbor a galley picked them up. Ryam spoke to the captain, as the flag of the Arbor flew upon the vessel. Her cousin asked her only where they needed to go, and she told him: Blackcrown.

“…fuck,” was the reaction from her Sworn Shield.

When Davos looked to her for explanation, she told him goodnight, and retreated to the small cabin the captain provided her. It wouldn’t take long for Davos to get his answer from someone: it wasn’t Blackcrown, it was House Bulwer. The Reach had no shortage of Knights, but House Bulwers weren’t just Knights, they were older than that. They worked their lands, their saw to their herds, and they had been doing it since before the Andals. Directly descended from Garth Greenhand, yet the only one who preferred House Tyrell in Highgarden as opposed to themselves: they didn’t have the time or patience for, in their words, that shit. Even the Children had left the southern flats of Blackcrown alone, anything was better than dealing with the stubborn, mean, members of House Bulwer. Masters of the horse, and rope, and the brand.

The last time they stirred from their lands as a whole House was the Conquest.

One Bulwer had been with Vittoria in the Riverlands and the Basilisk Isles, Kit, the Spare. The Lord of the House, Jon, hadn’t been seen off the lands of House Bulwer since the Conquest. Lord Hightower learned to stop asking, and Lord Tyrell just never bothered. Bulwers were honorable; they weren’t going to upset the order of things, especially if you just left them alone.

The next morning, before the vessel even embarked them on the docks of the fishing village closest to Blackcrown, itself, there were riders in leather armor on the horizon. The rider that approached as they disembarked was big as a bull, dark haired, dark curly beard, and as absolutely sure about himself as the Seven themselves.

“Hello, Kit,” Vittoria offered, sounding tired.

The man just stared for a moment, before slowly nodding, “You look like shit, Vittoria. Bringing your brand of trouble to our land woman? Ryam, you ever get any good at riding a damn horse?”

“I’ll hold my own.,” the Knight answered, stiff lipped.

Kit chuckled at it, “We’ll see. Who the fuck are you?” He asked, staring at Davos. Vittoria might have answered, if they were anywhere else but in Bulwer territory. Here, if she answered for him, she’d be damning Davos to a loss of respect. And, here, that was no more damning of a thing.

“Davos.” The Baratheon spoke without pomp or title to begin with, a blunt introduction for a blunt man, pausing nearby to Vittoria if only for a moment to ensure she didn’t need support through the final stage of disembarking. Slighter things than a tumble into the tide had spelt the end of vulnerable people before. He was close, but he didn’t hurry her, nor provide aid unasked. He was under the impression that sort of thing wouldn’t help any judgement he was sure to feel from the Bulwar.

“Baratheon, you might have heard of us.” He finally concluded, offer a hand out towards the man in greeting. He might have gone easy on the courtly decorum, but he wouldn’t have it said he was impolite to a host, even if it didn’t end up being reciprocated. Without any of his own people with him, there was little to claim it so other than the distinctly Durrandon features he possessed, a somewhat untamed look that by coincidence had much in common with the features of the man opposite him, even if Davos had a little too much of the lithe Valyrian build to be the perfect match.

Kit appeared absolutely tickled, half grin, half laugh, at the offered hand, “I’m on a horse.” It was the height of manners that Kit did not add onto his response, ‘dipshit.’

“Going soft in your old age.”

The half grin became a wicked thing at the audacity of the words, “Gods damn it’s good to see you again. Alright, well…come on. We got horses for you.”

“Blackcrown?”

His head shook, “No, we’re at camp. Father got tired of the Maester and his fucking ravens demanding this, or that, of us.”

Vittoria had been afraid of that, “From my father?”

“Your daddy’s not dumb enough, I’ll give his soft ass that. Lord Hightower warned us what was coming.”

“Martyn?”

Another head shake, “Martyn hasn’t earned ‘Lord Hightower’ from us, yet. He knows what he needs to do. Seven guide Lord Hightower’s soul.” There was a pause, an awkwardly long one, during which Kit looked up to the ridge above the fishing village, and back to Vittoria, “How is she, Vitt?”

Vittoria felt her heart hurt. The dumbest thing Ceryse had ever done was show no interest in Kit Bulwer. If there was one man, in all the Seven Kingdoms, she thought could out fight Maegor Targaryen…it was him. No blades, no armor, just men and fists. How Vittoria would have liked to have seen that. “She’s alright, Kit.”

“…let’s go.”

They waited for horses as Bulwer men in riding leathers brought them down from the ridge. When Davos seemed to be too close to her, Vittoria took the chance to explain it, “Everything has to be earned to these men. Everything. You help me on that horse, and I’m no longer the High Marshall to them.”

To his credit, Davos just smiled, and backed away. Ryam looked even less pleased. Getting on the mare they brought for her was pure agony, and she only barely bit her tongue hard enough to swallow most of the sounds from that agony escaping her, even if it cost her the taste of blood in her mouth. She looked pale, she looked dizzy…but she was on the horse.

On their way up the ridge, Vittoria remembered to ask, “See any mercenaries on horses lately?”

“Seen ‘em? Hells, we had ‘em doing fence work all damned day. Give your man Garin credit, though…never said a word. Just picked up a hammer and fence post and went right to it. They should be back about dark, when we get to camp.”

The man didn't need much recovery from the slight, Davos was used to men such as these taking the worst of anything offered to them. It made them few friends in courtly peace, but such men were always useful when said courtly peace shattered, or simply when there was hard work to be done.

Watching Vittoria almost struggle herself into unconsciousness, or worse, was more difficult. It did far more to sour his feelings to their hosts than a little slight to his person. There was nothing proven out of neglecting the right to heal, it was the same customs which had lead to such things as the Lord's Right.

He took his own steed with ease, the powerful flanks beneath the side of his boots in a moment. He was close enough to Vittoria without hovering as they rode, enough that he might have a chance to intervene should she fall. He did not ask about the camp they were heading to, instead seeing fit to regard the world around them, the terrain and the path they were heading.

“Now I’m free,” Vittoria said to Davos, before she dared to smile, and gave the horse a bit of heel and let the wind catch her hair as she followed the Bulwer man who’d never died for her years before.

The camp was a ride, but it wasn’t as long as she had feared. The land rolled, with pockets of wooded area scattered, the dying orange and blue and pink and purples reflected in the many streams that cut through the plains, the Mander reaching it’s fingers out in every direction. Good for growing, good for animals.

Between two creeks they found the flat clearing, stars above and a half-moon above, the glow of cook and camp fires among a dozen plain canvas tents. Horselines were set, and the song of the night were chatter of men, and in the near-distance, the stir and sounds of the largest herd of cattle Vittoria had ever seen. They followed Kit to the horseline, and Vittoria thought she might lose vision when her feet hit the ground, her pain-riddled eyes looking straight to Davos, begging him to do nothing. To just let her stand there, for a minute, and hurt. Her cousin knew what the Bulwers were, but Davos didn’t…she wasn’t worried. Any son of Orys Baratheon knew what to expect.

They were welcomed to camp bread, roast onions and sausage drowning in gravy in crude, old, pewter plates that she preferred to any trencher. Kit told them to follow as he navigated the camp. Every tent and fire they passed, every group of men—there wasn’t an eye that wasn’t on them in an instant.

She expected nothing less than what they arrived at: Jon Bulwer, broader than tall, just head and giant shoulders, little neck to speak of, dressed in leathers same as everyone else around. He stood next to a fire, cup in hand, as they approached. Seated around the fire were men a generation younger than Jon, one older than Kit, one younger, both of them variations of Jon and Kit, the younger one with a pretty face hidden in road and stubble and slender build, the other taller than Kit, little older, just a shade less strongly built.

The younger one got up first, smiled as he hugged her, while the older waited, grinning, offering a hand to shake that he retracted when she got close, and dipped in to steal his hug. She groaned, she winced, and they laughed. Both men took their turns greeting Ryam, commenting on his height, on his ascent to manhood with a mix of humor and sentiment.

“This is Lord Davos of House Baratheon, with them,” Kit explained, as he went towards the pot near the fire for food.

“Jace,” the younger and more slender of the two offered as he offered his hand to Davos, reserved, but affable. The eldest of the Bulwers was the same, plain, not a man of many words, but the kindness came off him as easily as warmth did from the fire as he offered his hand next.

“Cole, well met, Davos.”

The voice that came was rough, grizzled, but evenly balanced with a good nature, “Ryam, good to see you, boy. Lord Davos… congratulations.”

The Bulwers turned to their father, before looking back to Davos. Then to Vittoria, then to Davos. “I’ll be buggered alive…” Kit said, stopping his assault on a sausage to voice his amazement. Jace and Cole laughed, Jon took a long sip form his simple pewter cup, and chuckled.

“You’re a lucky one, Davos. She’s a good one. Better fencer than some of her men, though.”

Even Vittoria laughed with them, there, “Did you boys break Garin and my mounted archers?”

“That’s Dothraki, right? They’re Dothraki?”

Cole sounded genuinely confused when he asked, but Jace shook his head, “No, think I saw a Dothraki with them, though. What you need mounted archers for, Vitt?”

“They don’t expect them coming on a Westeros battlefield, son.” Jon explained it for her. “Fools brace for the charge of light or heavy cavalry, instead they just circle you, killing you with each pass, pinning you down so the heavy cavalry can come behind you.”

Vittoria’s head dipped to the left, to the right, as she judged the explanation, and smiled, “Close enough, yes.”

“I’m no High Marshall, just what I’ve seen, my Lady…no we didn’t break ‘em. They’ve got their own camp, other side of the herd. Garin wanted them to be aware, doing it their own way, like they’re at war.”

“We are, Lord Jon.”

Jon took an even longer sip as his mind weighed his words, “Manfred die fairly?”

“Naturally,” Vittoria explained.

Jon Bulwer nodded, “He earned that, good for him. I got the ravens. Hells, Blackcrown Septon was red-faced when I told him we had a herd to look after.” Jon laughed, his sons laughed with him, and Vittoria just kept her smile about her. “You angry, girl?”

The smile became a grin on her face, and Jon Bulwer got his answer. “Shit, I would be too.” A few chuckles surfaced around the fire. “Faith took the city?”

“Man named Alaric seems to slithered his way into some manner of control. I don’t know if he’s still, or with Oakheart and Rowan.”

Jon listened, exchanging a look with Kit, before returning his dark eyes back to her. “Well, Oakheart and Rowan deserve what’s coming to them.”

“What’s coming their way, Jon?”

This time, it was Jon that grinned through a stifled chuckle, “You, girl. Three of you eat. Talk to your mercenaries. Ryam, we cleared out a tent for you. Davos, sorry son, but you’re not married to her yet, I can’t let you two share a tent. There’s room with Ryam, nice tent.”

“Attest to that,” Kit said, nodding along as he took another bite, staring at the fire.

“...that’s because it’s your tent,” Jace said, laughing with Cole, and maybe a little laughter from Vittoria.

“I managed to last this long, I'm sure I can survive a few more nights of separation.” Davos chuckled with no sign of annoyance, his eyes drifting to Vittoria with a longing that in this case was all concern, an ache to watch over her after a day of having to let her fight her pains alone. “I'll just have to make up for it once she's finally in a cloak of yellow and black.”

---

She rose before the sun. The only one that stirred before her was Kit Bulwer, his brothers weren’t far behind, and their Lord Father not long after that. The mare she’d been given to ride was saddled. Vittoria, herself, was dressed in riding leathers. Brown, unadorned, plain but well made. She’d always been good with horses. Better than her brothers. Better than her father. Better than anyone else in her family. Her heart wanted to stop in, wake Davos, tell him she’d be back later.

When the sun rose, Vittoria would once again be the High Marshall. She could see the battle in her dreams. All night it played, and when she awoke, it just kept going and going. Reins in hand she tugged and let her heels convey the need to move. Garin’s camp wasn’t far, but it was around nearly two thousand cattle in a field that seemed to stretch from one horizon to the next, with spots of tree line here and there.

When she was challenged, her voice sounded different than it had since before she’d gone into Oldtown, before she’d become betrothed; the power of the Gods and the absolutism of a Lord Commander was back. Truly, Vittoria Tyrell had returned.

“Who goes there?” They shouted.

“The High Marshall. Wake everyone up, get everyone packing, do it now,” she commanded as she passed the sentry, “and point me in the direction of Garin.”

First, they pointed, then, they ran off to do as she bid. Vittoria knew she liked these mercenaries for a reason. He was already outside his tent when she approached, staring into his eyes with her own as she slowed the horse, and dismounted, “We’re moving out, today. Your company, and some Bulwer men led by one of Lord Bulwer’s sons.”

For his part, Garin Sands looked exhausted, but then so did every fighting man in the camp. The last few days had flown past in a blur. He’d received word of the High Marshal’s injuries and though he’d wished to send his men into the city, his good sense prevailed. Cavalry, especially a force as small as his own would simply get swallowed up in a city as massive as Oldtown. That and he had seen what Maegor Targaryen had done in Essos, he had no desire to be anywhere near a dragon.

He’d nodded, roused his family and began give orders while his squire hurriedly strapped his armor into place. From there, the Tyrell soldiers had broken camp, taking only what they needed and riding out into the darkness.

Here and there, they’d encountered a few patrols and a couple of men had taken wounds in the handful of skirmishes that broken out between small parties of scouts. Now, all was oddly quiet, his scouts patrolled the lands and the wide expanses of grassy fields made ideal conditions for cavalry warfare.

Garin nodded politely and signaled his squire, the boy bowed and ran to pass on the word. He’d served enough great lords to know when to ask questions and when to wait. Though a part of him had to admit that this daughter of House Tyrell was . . . well, she was still a noble from a great house. But he’d taken coin from far, far worse.

It made a difference, that was all he knew.

“We leave your family at Highgarden. I want them protected, Garin. Still alright with you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that leaves you in a strong position, High Marshal . . . should I try and defy you or switch sides, if things begin to go poorly for me.”

Garin wondered if perhaps he had gone too far, scions of great houses were notoriously prideful. Then again, he would have done something similar if he were in a similar position, if only for very different reasons.

But from what he had seen, Lady Vittoria could be trusted . . . he hoped. Why was he thinking like this? Perhaps because this was Westeros and for all that talk of knightly virtue and oaths, there was no shortage of men . . . and women who would happily murder a man’s family.

The High Marshall of the Reach…almost smiled.

“Look at my eyes, Garin, and you look deep,” she said without hesitation, Vittoria’s brown eyes still unblinking, still staring straight into his, with the voice of a commander sent by the very Gods above, “I am faithful to my Gods, I am just, I am good. I didn’t look your wife and children in the eyes just to betray them. Trust me, and you’ll be a Landed Knight by the time we’re through. Trust me, and we make history.”

Garin almost felt inspired, almost. He’d heard his father say things like before to his household knights before they went out to hunt bandits. No doubt, she actually meant what she said. Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d taken coin from a true believer. Coin spent all the same and the prospect of being a landed knight? Well, that would open a number of doors for his children. Things that had been lost to him for a number of years.

Besides, his family and some trusted men would be far safer behind the walls of Highgarden than with him on the campaign. He’d seen what men did to an enemy camp or town in the aftermath of a battle and it was . . . well, bestial at the best of times.

“As you say, High Marshal, I thank you. You have done me a great honor.” He said with a slight bow.

Now, finally, Vittoria Tyrell let that smile show, “First comes the burden, then the honor, Captain…as well you know, I think. When you’re ready, meet us at Blackcrown. We’ll all set out from there.”

Within moments of Garin’s command, his soldiers had risen, grabbed their arms and readied their horse. Now, as Garin swung into the saddle, some six hundred horse archers and a score of knights waited for their Captain to ride to the head of the column.

Garin leaned from the saddle and kissed Martella from the saddle. Though he was far from the only one. Army camps and mercenary companies always had their share of hangers on, camp followers, whores and bastard offspring. And there were exceptions like himself.

Soldiers laughed, caressed faces or hauled their lovers up into the saddle with playful laughs before setting them back to earth.

Martella squeezed his gauntleted hand and gave him that secretive smile of hers, the one where her chin dimpled ever so slightly and once again, he was reminded that there was no world and no time where he would have ever chosen anything but her.

Rylla had that look she thought was so stolid but she only did when she was trying not to cry. Garin smiled gently and held her hand for a moment.

“I know what you’re thinking and I’ve told my men to keep a lookout for any lone riders who keep their face veiled.” He said.

“I wasn’t-” She began.

“It’s alright, I’m not angry, I’m proud of you. But I need the warrior you will be one day to keep an eye out for the rest of my family, yes?”

“I-”

“Yes?” His smile was still gentle but there was iron in it too.

Rylla nodded and raised a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear and if dashed away any tears, no one would have seen.

Myrna for her part set that cursed cat of hers down, gazed up with solemn eyes and raised her arms up. Garin leaned from the saddle and lifted her up with great care, he was clad in armor after all. She tucked her head against his surcoat.

“I made you something.” Garin said.

He took a small carving of a wooden knight on a horse from his belt and his youngest took with the same gentleness with which one might hold a baby bird.

“Can I come with you?” She said, her voice muffled against his armored shoulder.

If Garin fought back tears, no one could have said for certain.

“No, little one, not today. You’re going with momma and your sister. It’ll be great fun, I promise.”

“Will you come back?”

He ruffled her hair and handed back to her mother.

“Of course I will.” Garin smiled and turned away.

At his signal, the column of riders moved out and were gone into the darkness. Before the sun’s first pale light had begun to ascend over the horizon, the horse archers had spread out into thin lines, riding first north and then east.

A drunkard and a fool. That was how the former pirate thought of Artys Arryn. He had deposited the despot into his rooms, thankfully not the gutter as he deserved. For all that his own manner was rather roguish, he had the wherewithal not to act like some common born plebian in front of those who could offer him some alliance to a great House. The Arryns could still have something great, if only he could get this brainless boy to see it. The lad, Aster, had taken to the maid and she to him. A better match would be hard put to find. That this fool had instead of looking within had found a marriage without. This could be fixed however, it had to be. For his advantage as well as the Arryn’s and Rahl’s.

His black boots clicked across the tiled floor, his clothing light and airy if still in the Westrosi style. A handsome look even if he thought it himself. The sidelong looks from the woman confirmed it. Reaching the tightly closed door, he adjusted the pitcher of water to his other hand and burst through them without care as to how he caught the lad. The heavy door closing behind him as he studied the room and leaned against the barricade to the world outside. His dark eyes considering if he needed to drench the lad to get his attention. If the man was still asleep, he would be awakened to the sudden fall of a great deal of water across him and his bedding. “You have had enough time to draw your head from the wine and pull it from your arse. That being said, I did bring something to help if you have not reached that point quite yet. Or do you wish to make yourself more of a fool to such a powerful and well-connected family as those of your hosts?” It seemed this boy was dense, so Damon took a while to underline the extent of this young idiot’s foolishness.

Time was difficult to gauge or understand. One moment it was songs in a language he didn’t recognize, and then cool marble floors and angry faces, and now some man in his face making his head pound and ache. “I don’t feel good.”

He tried to focus but the room shifted. When had the drink overcome him? Damn the Seven, that cursed cup of wine they’d given him in the room with the water. Why wouldn’t everything just stop moving?

He leaned forward, put his head in his hands and took several deep breaths. Damon, Damon Harroway, thought he could berate him? His fingers dug into his skull, or he wished they did. Artys groaned, in annoyance, in anger, in agony. “Water, please.” The thought both seemed his salvation and completely revolted him.

Fuck this city. He’d do anything to end this agony, they weren’t even supposed to be here. “Fuck, give me whatever you have.”

Damon glared at the man and considered, before pouring some of the water from a pitcher, that he hadn’t thrown over the man, into a goblet and thrusting it into Artys’s hands. “Good, then I’ll give you a piece of my mind then.” His voice was not a roar but a icy chill. “Starting with how you insulted your hosts and infected yourself with the Scratch, to potentially tossing the best damn marriage alliance which would give you access to a House that has good ties with the Baelrys and a happy bride.” He resumed leaning against the pillar of the bed and glared at the man. “Which would you like to start with? Yourself, your aunt, your hosts or your gems- or potential lack thereof?”

He gulped the water, so quickly and so deeply that it took a few seconds to realize the water was gone and he was only gulping air. It had done nothing to end the agony. Instead, it had indeed worsened. Why did he have to yell? Artys had only been trying to finally get something, anything, done on this stupid thing his father had demanded of him. But…his face blanched and his hand unconsciously traveled from kneading at his head to his crotch. “No, I can’t, that’s…” So what if he had five brothers, and at least one uncle who’d probably be married soon enough. The Arryn line was secure but…”I can’t lose my fuckin’ bits!”

He bit his tongue in the exclamation and cursed more under his breath. The rest of what Damon said jostled him even as he despaired that he’d be nineteen and had the last fuck of his life. His family’s piety seemed to laugh at him and his situation. “How was I supposed to know? How?” He managed to stand, unsteadily, and poured himself another cup of water from the pitcher. He was sloppy but at least managed to fill the cup even if the same amount was cast to the floor.Artys gulped it down just as greedily. It vaguely cleared his head. “I need to fix this.” Yes, he did not need anyone back in the Vale learning of anything but of how successful he had been.

“Luckily if it’s just the bugs? You won’t lose them, just the respect of any woman you sleep with and no wife will share your bed willingly. You’ll be a laughing stock. That you scratched your… in front of Lady Rahl?” Damon smiled cruelly. “Though in answer as to how? You should have used your head and not the one you’re too fond of. If you had taken one look you could have seen the two dote upon one another, but you were too busy getting drunk and diseased. Your father will sneer forever more about that fact. Plus, you’ve insulted your hosts by selling your aunt to their rivals. Talk about starting a war in Volantis.” He wondered absently, deciding to beat it into Artys’s head that he was a useless fool.

This time, when he went to fill the cup again, the frustration instead erupted and he threw it - drunkenly ill-aimed - towards Damon. His voice rose, but worse, it cracked as he screamed back. “You’ve been perfectly clear that you think I’m a fucking idiot. Be. Useful. If you’re so sevens’ damned brilliant.”

The cup missed, no where near Damon or where Artys had aimed. But the young man trembled, his fist clenched and unclenched, and the outburst was quickly swallowed up by regret. “Help me.” No matter that he tried to phrase it as a demand, as a future lord paramount ordering about a lesser lord, it could only be heard for what it was. A plea, a cry for aid, at any cost.

Damon sneered and scoffed at the little fool. Thought him a idiot? That was being polite. “First, break the betroval you made with that other house and have your aunt wed to Aster Rahl. Apologize to your hosts and your aunt for it.” Pausing he amended his words. “First? Go see a healer for the Scratch. Then get that taken care of. Your sheets and bed will probably be burned.” He remarked. “After that… Well, you will owe me lest your father learn of how disasteredly you nearly screwed your fortunes.” He wanted to strangle the lad to make his point, but to touch him… Well, Damon did not want the Scratch himself. “Throw another thing at me, Arryn, and you’ll be seeing how nice it is to fly.”

Artys took a few pacing steps in a circle before sinking back into the chair Damon had originally dropped him in. Why was everything so difficult? “Help me end the match peacefully and get the Rahls’…forgiveness.” He stuttered over the word. Why had none of this been his own idea? “And I will owe you whatever you want.” He groaned again, a new wave of nausea upon him. “Go, I'll burn the bed tomorrow.” He wanted to retch and then pass out and maybe when he woke up this would all have been a dream.

“Today, and if you man up enough to end the match and beg forgiveness? I'll make sure no one sticks a knife in your back and your gems stay…. Attatched.” Damon ordered ruthlessly. “Time to learn you are not a Lord Paramount's heir here and I hold far more sway.”

Bear Island, Mormont Keep

Cley Stark had come at Karlen's summons, finding his cousin yet again set in his books this time with something to show for it he hoped, over six months here they had little to show. Karlen had learned all his father a master of the knowledge of the old gods could or would teach him. Though he had little understanding of it all he knew enough, Cley however believed he might learn these gifts. Stories of old kings using magic and gifts to perceive the world he wondered if he might get the chance to use those gifts himself if Karlen was to be believed they grew rarer every year. Yet stories states it was in their blood, that Brandon Snow his uncle had claimed he might smite a dragon with naught but weirwood and Old Gods might, ever intrigued the two young men the power of the old gods might have that might protect their homeland from Dragons should they go from benevolent to tyrannical.

Cley entered the room, standing a good head taller than his cousin his frame blocking most of the light as flames cast a shadow of the mamps. His mother had been Mormont, the second wife of King Torrhen, so visiting his cousins had been an easy way to bring Karlen back North without his father knowing. Karlen kicked a chair back for him, the younger of the two place a mug of warm all down for him. "We have things to discuss cousin, first of all. Where we might find the knowledge you seek... Many things were lost to the first men in the upheaval of ancestors from the South."

Karlen's dark brown hair was shaggy and uncombed, his eyes fierce but focused moving along the old maps as his cousin pointed out spots, old keeps and ancient sites that might hold clues to secrets once lost. Cley felt his eyes lose focus a ringing voice filled his ears as Karlen's voice slipped into the fade the whisper of it came through clear. Follow the ravens cries, the voice gave in soft tones as if it something whispered by a figure beside him. Karlen spun, looking to his right... Sending his mug clattering to the floor and ale across the wooden floors of the library.

Karlen stopped his rambling, his hand fell on his cousins shoulder, Cley breathed only then that realized it had seized in his lungs. "You heard it again... Didn't you?" Asked the Mystic, the voice had been loudest at Winterfell... It had given him dreams of death and destruction for his family, siblings, and others... Even shown him glimpses of his father's first wife and her traitorous children she bore. He had left Winterfell to train with the Karstarks... Then again to house Dustin... Then House Manderly before coming here to Bear Island... Running from the voice and all the doom it would whisper yet... Could he do anything with it? Was it madness? Prophecy? Or just the wishes of son so far from the throne he might never see. Since he'd met Karlen he'd been able to brew teas and set up little wards of weirwood that calmed his mind.

Cley was about to speak when a knock at the door came, a servant spoke interrupting the pair. "Your cousin is planning to ride to the coast, a ship from Lannisport has come." She spoke before seeing the beer spilled along the floor, rolling her eyes she turned to get a rag and a bucket. Karlen looked over his maps a moment, then back at his books. "Go... Getting out of here for awhile will do you some good. I'll work on all this... And brew you a fresh pot of tea, it tastes like a hags hair but seems you'll need more of it."

---

After meeting Lorelai...

---

Cley Stark slowly helped her down, Gwayn having made the introductions he decided to clarify. "Cley Stark... Eighth Son of Lord Paramount Torrhen." He was as Northmen were described tall and full muscle, yet there was a kind if tired grace to him. His eyes met hers only a moment before turning away not of dislike but with nervousness whether from the ravens he'd seen watching him or from the beauty of south that currently held his hand he gently released her once she was firmly on her own two feet. The Wanderer as he was known being hosted and raised in Northern Keeps across the nation.

"I thank you from my family as well Lady Lannister of Lannisport." He spoke eyes moving up and down her as walked back towards the horses they had arrived on, the future lord of Bear Island might catch his cousin blushing after he took a stolen glance at the blonde. "You are lucky the bears did not find you... In Spring they eat and hunt all they want. The number of them nearly triples as well, though I suppose all things grow better in fine weather... And the snows here are not as heavy." He added before looking over towards Gwayn and Margery with a pause. "We brought three horses, she'll have to ride with someone else." The grin from Gwayn as pressed an elbow in Cley made him groan.

"Fine... Bloody Bear. Lady Lannister you may have my horse. I'll walk." Answered Cley, clearly to embarrassed by the idea to have her ride clinging to his back. Gwayn giving a groan and roll of his eyes at the noble and honorable son the lord Paramount to nervous to come onto a woman after having finally found one he fancied.

"Our Sun Shines Brightest." The dashing man in red remarked, his head tilted as if amused by the knowledge or context of his words. He had a way of smiling as if he knew a secret privvy to none other. "Is that not the aphorism? Or would it be maxim?"

The Faith Militant shared a look, unsure of what to do with this strange, foreign priest. Kian felt similarly perplexed, though he did hide it extremely well. He had been sent here by his faith to proselytize to his 'original' people, but Westeros was far different than any of the varied city states of Essos. So many strange peoples and customs. Not least of which were their 'house sayings.' He could only surmise they were a sort of boasting coinciding with a delectably funny moniker. He had figured a township where they revered the sun in their motto might be more inclined to be receptive to his faith, but so far he had been met with naught but strange looks by the men, and a frightened curiosity by the womenfolk.

It was minutes ago that Kian had been accosted by a roaming band of ruffians in simple garments. He had left Ashford after receiving no purchase in his preachings. In fact he had nearly been bludgeoned by a jealous husband. Kian had not even made advances to the fellow's wife. She had just tittered and gave him a look her husband clearly did not like. Still, it wasn't him that had these men go after him, he was quite certain of that. It was likely the dogmatic elder who yelled at him, or the crone that spat at his feet. Either way, the Lord of Light saw fit to test him with these unwashed apostates.

"I'll say again, cur. What is your name?" The leader asked.

He was younger than Kian might have expected, at middling age and lean as a grey hound. He had a mane of brown hair and a short beard that matched, albeit barely. He carried a cut and thrust sword, double edged and broad of blade. He waved it around the way a child might shake a toy, though he had a wild look in his eye that betrayed a madness within. Kian no doubt suspected he would be fierce in a fight, despite his lack of training. The ones behind him seemed much the same. Their hands and faces were dirty, but their weapons looked new. They looked to be useful thugs, but poor priests.

"I would tell you, but I don't fancy hearing it tumbling off your clumsy tongue." Kian remarked glibly. He gave a smile that showed his teeth, fully aware that no matter what he said, the man would find fault with his words. Kian was slim and handsome, of good height and keen intellect. He annoyed many men by simply being his devil-may-care self. Still, he did have to add a diplomatic addition at the end: "However, I can tell you I hail from across the narrow sea, and I mean you nor any citizen of the seven kingdoms harm."

"Oh, is that so?" The zealot bristled, barely containing his rage at the impudence. "And what of the damage you provide to the souls of these kind people?"

"I merely seek to enlighten the people, to grant them what their souls truly need." The red priest responded, gesticulating with his simple staff. "In fact, I believe we could help one another. With your fervor and my wit, I am sure the people would be delighted to-"

"Enough, you fucker!" The Faith Militant raised their weapons, their eyes dead with certainty at a coming violence. Kian sighed, lamenting his luck. He supposed there was less religious tolerance in the seven kingdoms. He would like as not have to run, but even if he escaped, he had little doubt they would find horses and pursue him. The Lord of Light did not simply bring him out here to die in a cruel irony, had he?

That would be a dick move, he decided.