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Hello reader,

If you're reading this, you're probably visiting this subreddit to read up on older posts or just checking for new activity since we all collectively decided to shut it down due to a lack of time, interest, and activity. I disappeared very soon after that (once the idea of a new subreddit was shot down after weeks of discussion) but I've recently had a surge in inspiration to write once again in an ASOIAF setting. If you're in the same boat as I am and are willing to reinvent and revive this subreddit, just comment below. I'm sure, with enough interest, we can recreate a platform for creative writing and storytelling in the world of GRRM.

Daemon

The North had been left without its wolves, the West had been left without its lions, and in the middle of it all they had joined. Not in harmonious peace, but peace nonetheless.

Perra had never been one for peace.

As the ironborn sailed towards the port of Seagard after taking their riches back to their islands, she picked something out of her teeth. It was some kind of meat, though she couldn't remember if it was a deer, a wolf, or some breed of bird. She and her crew had gained an interesting appetite over the past few days, but she was sure that it would soon be sated.

Tapping the sharp edge of her sword against the rim of the Salt Wraith, Perra sniffled and snorted beside Hali, who merely looked at her curiously.

"Caught a cold?" she asked as Perra shrugged.

"Fuck if I know. Don't feel sick, if that's what you're asking. You'd surely've caught it from me if I had one, eh?"

Hali turned her eyes elsewhere, unamused by the jab. "I'm nervous," she admitted, the rolling fog of the sea preventing them a clear view of the shore.

"You're not nervous, you're scared," Perra corrected her. "We all are. It's what reaving breeds. A man with no fear makes for a shit reaver. Use that fear like a weapon, it's already a perfectly honed edge."

Nodding, Hali shivered despite the mild weather. "There are going to be a lot of fighters waiting for us there," she said. "The best Westeros has to offer."

"You're already wrong," Perra claimed. "Couldn't be more wrong, in fact. They've got the best the Iron Throne's got to offer, but the best of Westeros has yet to arrive. We strike hard, we strike fast, and we don't let the best fighters get a lick in. If you see a Blackfyre, make sure an arrow lands in their skull, eh? We want as much chaos as we can get outta this. They declare war on us, they'll have to catch us. They do nothing, we watch and laugh as they crumble. Everyone in this fleet knows why we strike, but only the tightest among my crew know what comes after it all. That includes you, Hali. I trust you enough with my cunt, I'd best trust you with my plans."

"Of course, Queen Perra," Hali said, a gentle smirk arising from the side of her lips. "You want what I want; for there to be a queen of the Iron Islands instead of whatever it is we have now. We're no good divided."

"Aye," Perra agreed, wrapping an arm around Hali's waist and pulling her closer. "And Hali..." she muttered more quietly as the shores near Seagard came into view. "I've always believed that having regrets when heading into a battle was a fine way of getting yourself killed."

Hali gazed warily at her. "Alright..." she responded.

"Which is why..." Perra went on, sighing into the fog. "I watched a father and his daughter slaughtered before my eyes, Hali. The little girl tried fighting me off. I didn't have the heart to kill her father in front of her. But I did have the heart to use someone in my own crew..."

"Perra, I promise you have nothing to worry about," Hali said. "I said it was fine."

Perra shook her head. "It's not fine. I may not be the same person after I've come back later tonight with the thrill of reaving in my heart, so I wanted to tell you now... Fuck the reaver's way. I'll change that way. I'll change it all. We raid, we reave, we kill, but we leave the innocent out of it. The young, the ones who have nothing to do with us or them. Perhaps it's because I'm a woman and therefore "weak," but I can't pretend to be a man any longer, not if I'm needed to be cruel simply for cruelty's sake. Not if it means feeling nothing."

Hali said nothing, but Perra was reassured when her affection was reciprocated. She felt Hali's head lean against her shoulder, and for a moment Perra was held her eyes shut to appreciate it. There wasn't as much there between her and Hali as there was between her and Titus, but she cared for her all the same. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe because she was beautiful. Either way, she couldn't let harm come to her either way.

"And Hali..." she whispered, making sure they were close enough to the shore.

"Yes, Perra?" she replied.

Perra leaned in as close as she could get, whispering, "You're not ready for this just yet."

With that, she heaved Hali's light body over the bow of the ship and into the waters below.

"You'll thank me one day!" Perra shouted with a laugh when she saw Hali's head come back above water.

"MEN!" she yelled, getting the attention of her crew behind her. "Today will set the standard for the rest of your queen's rule! Today will show the world to be afraid of the Iron Islands! And most importantly, today will make us fucking legends!"

Her crew shouted their approval, prompting other crews on other ships to join in, their voices drowning out anything Perra could have said afterwards as she gazed around at the hundreds of ships at her disposal. She wasn't going to fix the Iron Islands on that day, and there would be many salt wives taken and many more innocents slain for no purpose, but this provided an even greater benefit unbeknownst to anyone but her, and that was to thin her own herd.

This would be one of the most heavily guarded places in the entire world, and among the ironborn were some of the most foolhardy reavers that had ever walked the Iron Islands who had been given the freedom to do as they please. It would pain her to watch so many of her own fall during this battle, but if many of them were similar in nature to Howling Jurne, then it wouldn't weigh too heavily on her.

She needed this more than anyone knew. She wasn't a queen, not yet. For that, she would need to reshape the ironborn, and the only way to shape iron was through fire and steel.

As flaming arrows soared through the night sky, boots hit the ground and thousands of men poured into the tourney grounds from every angle. In nearly a hundred years, the mainland hadn't seen a raid of this size. Her ancestors would be proud, if not for her reasons. Crow's Eye would be proud regardless.

^with ^Baelon

He remembered vaguely the pungent sharpness of the smelling salts. The ungentle hands of Mallister men as they pulled him from the muck. The screeching pain, and the return of the haze when a maester pulled what had been a breastplate from his chest.

And then he was simply elsewhere.

A man with blonde hair like his own–gold flecked with red–in mail beneath smoke and orange tossed a torch into a pile of kindling around a tree of pale as snow. The tree stood in a pool of water as red as blood, as red as its leaves, and as the kindling about its base went up in flames that licked and danced… Lann saw that the fire did not spread to the tree. The man was on his knees now, hands out, lips moving, as the blood rose. At first, Lann thought the screams that pierced the night sky was his. But no, it came from the kindling–and Lann realized with a start as more voices screamed, that he was screaming too.

Then Lann was sitting a charger at his father’s side, proud Lord Lucion, the two of them, riding through Ashemark’s fields green with plenty as crofters tipped hats and knuckled brows. He was twelve, back from Casterly Rock for a harvest feast, bragging to all who would listen about some prank or some inane thing. His father had taken him for a ride, a rare moment. It hadn’t been the first time he’d returned here.

“Perhaps you’re a bad lord, perhaps as bad as that mad Targaryen. Perhaps your smallfolk rise against you, and all your bannermen too. And perhaps you’re outnumbered, facing twenty times your number. What do you do?”

And Lann had had some clever reply, but the man they had once called “Laughing Lucion” had cut him off two words in.

“You don’t end up there in the first place. Stupid boy.”

And then he was back on that tourney field, watching himself call for Lucas Brax… the Royces coming in from both flanks–the shield-bash and Lord Royce’s mace-blow, then Lucas Brax with those eyes so full of fury and conviction.

And even as he woke, he could hear his father’s voice, as clear as if he’d been standing at his bedside.

You don’t end up there in the first place. Stupid boy.

The hours as he woke passed quickly, in a haze. Alysanne telling him, matter-of-factly, as if he’d merely drifted off for a nap, that a column of infantry from Ashemark had arrived with a letter from his lord father for him, and that a courier in black and red had looked in on him while he slept. Jaime coming in to slur a few words, and snatch the Maester’s medicinal brandy on the way out. Malora Hightower lingering with her ladies outside the tent-mouth for the space of five, never looking inside, but pretending to have found something fascinating outside. But now a man in the livery of the Blackfyres walked in briskly, came to attention, and bowed.

“Ser, his Grace, the King.”

Heya everyone! Happy New Year! While things slowed down over the holidays and with everyone busy with finals, we did have some great content put forward, so let's have your votes for your favorite posts of the month, as well as which character deserves to have their wiki page featured on the sidebar!

Voting should go as follows:

1. Your favorite post of the month.

2. Who you think deserves to be featured on the sidebar.

3. What you're most looking forward to next.

Let the voting commence!

The Free Port of Elyria was alive with sound and smell, as it always was when Daeron patrolled. He was the only bastard of King Aerion II, and although he didn’t know who his mother was, still held a noted loyalty to his family. He was known as ‘The Black Prince’, privately due to his bastardy, but more often than not simply due to his black hair, markedly different than his siblings silvery locks. Rather than taking it as an insult, Daeron had embraced the moniker, adopting the black seahorse as a personal sigil.

He let out a soft sigh as he and two other knights slowly continued their patrol. Free Port was the place where many foreigners resided, frequenting the brothels and taverns (before praying for forgiveness at the small temples that also called Free Port their home). This often resulted in brawls breaking out, likely caused by some foreigner or other fighting some other foreigner over some random issue or other. Frankly, the reasons didn’t bother Daeon much. He was a Knight of the Blue Steed, loyal to the King and his duty. He’d keep the peace, regardless of who was causing the trouble.

Thankfully, as he approached a familiar, silvery haired woman that was watching ships come in (guarded by a single Knight), his sister was not one of them. Rhaenys was the most intelligent of his siblings. Laenor was distant, moreso after the death of his wife. He was disinterested in power, wealth, everything but duty. Elaena was….different, with her concerning level of affection she had for Rhaenys. The only child of Aerion II that had turned out remotely normal was his eldest daughter (even if she did enjoy teasing her siblings to the heavens and back). Nonetheless, he kept a small grin on his face as she saw him approach.

“Pleasant greetings, brother.” Rhaenys smiled as she offered her younger sibling a curtsy. “How fares our city?”

“It is well, Highness.” Daeron offered a half bow. “Elyria remains at peace, although that is like to change this evening, as always.”

The eldest Princess of Elyria let out a laugh. “Oh Daeron. Always with your formalities. I’m your sister, not your Princess.”

“You are both, Rhae.” He pointed out with a good natured grin, before turning to face his fellow Knights. “Continue to patrol, brothers. I will escort my sister.”

Acknowledging their nods of acceptance as they marched off, he offered his sister an arm, and after she accepted, the siblings were striding down the docks.

“How is Corlys taking the news of his marriage?” Daeron asked, his gaze caught by a purple hulled vessel from Braavos that was now off loading its cargo. It would likely be bringing dyes, iron and even goods from Westeros to Elyrian shores. “Not well, I’d wager.”

“You would be correct.” The Princess sighed. “The prospect of a highborn Meereenese bride doesn’t interest him at all. He’d prefer to stay with his whores and keep siring more and more bastards.”

An odd look crossed her face, and she soon shot him an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean to imply that bastards are-”

Daeron chuckled quietly. “It’s fine, Rhae. Don’t fret about it. I am a bastard. My mother was some nameless woman I doubt I’ll ever meet. Does my being a bastard stop me from being a good Knight? A decent man? Just look at our ancestor Aurane. He was born a bastard, but died a King. Who knows? Maybe our nieces and nephews will extend our kingdom further than the five kings we’ve had? Or perhaps they’ll become the first lords of Laenor’s conquests.”

“It was wrong of me to speak that way, regardless.” Rhaenys sighed. “My apologies, little brother.”

“Think nothing of it sister.” Daeron smiled. “Back to Tidestone then? Save our dear brother from our sister?”

“That is probably a wise idea. It would be nice to have you with us for a meal.” Rhaenys admitted. “I understand and respect your devotion to duty, but family is important.”

The Black Prince sighed softly. “I might be late. But I will do my utmost.”

“That is all I can ask.”

382 AC

This far to the north the Selhoru was little more than reed-covered marshland, its bogs reeking of mud and shit. The shit, however, wasn’t part of the natural habitat. It was the product of the several hundred Dothraki that the Long Lances were trailing. A trail that Arianne Baratheon found herself scouting.

It had been nearly a week since they’d departed from Selhorys, their contract bringing them out this far in search of a small Dothraki band that had been harassing the little villages along the Rhoyne’s shy daughter. Arianne found herself in full armor, heavy plate weighing down on her as the padded surcoat and mail hugged her body tightly. She made her way further upstream from where the rest of her scouting unit bathed, hoping to find some privacy for herself. Not that she particularly cared if they saw her. No, Arianne desired the peace and quiet that the Selhoru provided, quiet that she could not find amongst Essosi sellswords.

The decision to leave Storm’s End had not been an easy one, and even now, she often found herself questioning whether she’d made the right choice. Whether it might be better to have bowed to her father’s demands and married one of the bachelor lords of the Stormlands. And yet, as she now looked upon the calm waters of the shy daughter, Arianne found herself more assured than ever in her decision. The beauty of the Rhoyne was unparalleled, even only its tributaries. There were no rivers back home of a kind, at least not in the Stormlands.

She found a small clearing near the river, its banks muddy, yet welcoming in their hidden nature. Tall reeds shot up from the earth above her head, and she set her helmet and sheathed greatsword aside as a gentle breeze picked up and shook out her hair. She kept it short, angled along her jawline to leave little room for it to be grabbed should she lose her helmet in combat, and as the ends brushed against her cheek, she recalled a time before she had it cut so short. She recalled her mother. Tyene Dondarrion, a woman whose Dornish roots were visible in her eyes and her cheekbones more than any Andal heritage.

“Your father will raise you to be a warrior,” she’d said one night as she braided Arianne’s long obsidian hair, hair which at that age grew down to her waist. “He’ll raise you to be his heir. Do you know what that means?”

“I’ll be the Lady of Storm’s End. Like you, mama.”

“No, not like me.” Her hands never stopped, thin tendril working their way through her silky locks, twisting and tying them together. “I am only lady because I married your father. I hold no power over the lands he rules. You will rule his lands, Arianne. And a ruler must know how to fight.”

“But I’m a girl,” she replied, her child’s mind not yet understanding the concept of a woman doing things a man could do. “Girls don’t fight, mama.”

She could feel vibrations as her mother laughed, though her fingers never quit their task. “In Dorne, my little doe, women fight all the time. The Dornish were born of the Rhoynar, a brave people from Essos.”

“Like Nymeria?”

“Yes, Arianne, like Nymeria. She was a powerful princess, ruling from her palace in Ny Sar, but the Rhoynar were a people who found it hard to work together. And when the Valyrians came, with their dragons, their disunity was their downfall. But Nymeria was stronger than the squabbling princes. She knew that the Valyrians couldn’t be beaten, not with their dragons.”

“Have you seen a dragon, mama?” Arianne asked, her eyes lighting up in wonder at the thought of them.

She could feel her mother laughing again behind her. “I have, my little doe. When I was a girl, one flew high over the Marches, and out across the sea. They’re great and powerful beasts, and the Rhoynar couldn’t fight them. So Nymeria gathered her people into ten thousand ships and sailed them away from the dragonlords until they arrived in Dorne. It’s from Nymeria and the Rhoynar that the Dornish get their customs.”

“And you’re from Dorne!”

Arianne felt her mother’s hands tuck under her arms, taking a hold of her and lifting her into the air with a childish giggle before turning her around, seated on her knee. “I’m from Blackhaven. My mother is from Dorne. But you carry Dornish blood in you, Arianne. That means you carry the blood of the Rhoynar in you. You will be a warrior like the women of the Rhoyne, and of Dorne.” She dragged Arianne’s newly finished braid over a shoulder, running her fingers along its length. “And as much as I love your hair, little doe, long hair will get in the way.”

The very next day Arianne had taken scissors to her hair.

She knelt down now, undoing the laces of her britches underneath the armored skirts she wore, pulling them down to relieve herself. A smile found its way onto her face when she recalled her father’s reaction, the horrified expression on his face, and the nervous grin on her mother’s. She was no expert with hair, and had in truth made a mess of it all. It was weeks before it grew back to a length that her mother could work with, fixing it into a short cut much like the one she wore now.

With her bladder emptied she covered herself again, re-lacing the cloth and adjusting the plates that hung in front and behind. She was glad she finished when she did, as the whinnying of a horse drew her attention away from the river that her mother and grandmother drew their descent from.

The hoofbeats came next, and that was when she realized her enemy was far closer than she’d known.

Within seconds she heard the cries, the war screams of a Dothraki warrior, charging directly at her. Even with the heavy plate, however, she was quick to grasp for her greatsword, still in its sheath. She ducked out of the way of a swipe of his arakh, drawing her weapon out. The Qohorik steel glinted in the sunlight as she watched him wheel around, kicking up mud into the tall grass as he whipped his arakh around, charging her way again.

Arianne was ready this time. Her attacker, however, was just a boy. He didn’t know the nuances of fighting an unmounted enemy while on horseback and left himself open as he rode to her left, swinging wildly and missing. Arianne backswung as he passed, catching the chestnut mare on its haunches, slicing it open and forcing the beast to rear up as its rider slid off her back. He landed with a squish in the mud, sending droplets flying, as Arianne trudged his way. She readied her sword for a killing blow, but then she looked into his eyes.

They were green. And his hair black. And his skin fair, especially for a Dothraki.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw somebody else in the boy. She saw him.

With her off-hand clasping around the blade of her weapon, she drove it into the boy, screaming as she felt it rend his flesh before her. She planted her foot on his bloodied chest as she withdrew, raising it up and bringing it back down in a heavy swipe, cleaving through his arm that fell flaccid into the mud and burying itself deep in his chest. As his life squirted from his body Arianne breathed heavily, pulling back out to stab again.

She looked into his eyes, now lifeless as his blood mixed with the mud and waters of the Selhoru. It was only then that she felt a pang of guilt. Regret. She didn’t kill a Dothraki boy, at least not in her mind. In her mind, it was the boy that her father’s new wife had delivered.

In her mind it was Domeric.

The sound of Dothraki cries and hoofbeats in the distance snapped her back to her present reality, and Arianne collected the sheath of her blade, as well as her helm, and began to trudge back to the rest of her company after putting it back on.

“I see you began without us,” a voice came from behind her, causing Arianne to whip around, flinging the sheath aside and crouching into a ready stance. She lowered her weapon when the voice’s connected face came into view, an olive-skinned Volantene warrior by the name of Myloros. He was flanked on either side by a total of eight men, all lightly armored. “They sent a single boy as a rear scout. Fools.”

“He wasn’t much,” Arianne replied in the man’s native Valyrian, crossing through the mud to where she’d thrown her sheath. Her eyes caught sight of the corpse again, the sight of her father’s new wife on a bloody bed coming into her mind as she tried to avert her eyes, a squalling lump of flesh writing in the maester’s hands. “Where is the main force?”

“Not far from here. You can hear them now, yes?”

She nodded. “And our men?”

“The captains have ordered us to make camp half a mile downriver. It seems the Dothraki have yet to spot us, they’re moving further north.” He took off his helmet as he walked towards the water, kneeling at its side and scooping some up with a bare hand to wet his face. “This leader of theirs is either a young, arrogant fool or a feeble-minded old man to not have more rear scouts. If we were any faster we’d have run right into them.”

“Wouldn’t that have been better?”

Arianne could feel herself grinning, the skirmish having gotten her blood rushing despite the sight of the corpse bringing up thoughts she’d hoped to leave in the past when she fled Westeros. She wondered if her father had men looking for her despite her intentions being very clear in the letter she’d left for him. She wondered if Cassana had cried, or if young Delena could even understand why her eldest sister was gone.

Myloros’ laughter brought her thoughts back from the sisters she’d left behind without even a farewell.

“Come, Baratheon, let’s get back. The captains will want to know what we’ve found.”

With a nod she followed her commander and the others, giving one last glance back at the flesh that would soon decay and be returned to the Selhoru. A part of her wished that instead of some Dothraki boy, instead of an enemy, it had been her brother.

with Tarly and Rowan

Alyx found himself pacing the floor before his desk, with his hands behind his back, and his fingers twiddling anxiously. His brother, Renly Rivers, sat straight-backed in a chair around the oak table in the center of the room. He seemed deep in contemplation himself, both brothers were unsure what to make of the news of trespassers in the woods, and both were weary of how to handle it, being two of noble birth.

The captain of the guard, who had found Alyx earlier to alert him of the Tarly and Rowan, stood properly next to the doorway to the solar, having sent his two fellow guardsmen to fetch the Reach lords as their children soon arrived.

“Lady Jocelyn Tarly you said?” Renly asked the guard once more, still wrapping his head around it all. “You’re sure she was the one you found with the Rowan?”

With a few nods of his head the guard stationed in place spoke, “Aye, m’lord. I recognized her from the Archery event a few days ago, she even carried her bow.”

“Hmph,” Renly grunted, “And when you caught them, did they come out of the woods with any game?”

This time, the guard’s response was coupled with a shake of his head. “No, m’lord. In fact, they seemed to be nearly running from the tree line when we caught them.”

Alyx halted his pacing then. Turning his attention to the conversation, a mixture of concern and interest washed over his face. “Running? Did you send men in to see what they were running from?”

“Aye, but with the few I sent to fetch you and your brother, those leading the children here now, and those sent to get the other lords, I hardly had more than a dozen to scan the area… They found nothing Lord Mallister, only a few more scorched shrubs and broken limbs of trees, no beast yet.”

A solemn nod of his head was all the answer Alyx had time to give, for right on cue, a knock upon the door interrupted the three. Renly, pushing out his chair, stood and moved to flank his brother’s left shoulder. Alyx kept his position in front of the lord’s desk, clearing his throat before responding the knock.

“You may enter,” his deep yet more concerned than angry tone answered.

Daeron was abruptly woken up by the wandering crow shouting ‘Raise the gate, you pillock! We got wights coming!’ There was a clamour up on the wall and the wagon train entered the gates. He saw rangers standing on top of the walls, ready for the wights to come. Daeron looked at the castle ahead, made of black stone. Huh. They weren’t lying about it being Castle Black.

Daeron saw an old gruff man in all black on the balcony. He heard the rangers fire their flaming arrows at the wights and the blood-curdling screams of them dying. ‘What the fuck is that noise!’ Duram screams, tucking his head between his legs to block out the noise.

‘It the sound of a wight dying boy. Get used to it.’ the old man on the balcony shouted. ‘Get them off the wagons Brother Aeron.’ he told him. The wandering crow got off his wagon and started barking commands at other crows who started dragging men off the wagons. Finally, Aeron got to his wagon.

‘We are going to take your shackles off. Try to run or attack one of us and you will die. Now move it!’ he barked at them. Daeron was one of the first to get off and have his shackles removed. ‘Go over to the area by the balcony with the rest. The Lord Commander is welcoming you to the Night’s Watch.’ the crow says to him.

Daeron walks over to the area by the balcony. The last of the recruits get to the area and the Lord Commander began his speech.

‘I am Lord Commander Erren Flowers. Now, I don’t care how you got here or what you did to get here. You are now here. You are Brothers of the Night’s Watch now. You may not like it. Gods know you won’t, not for a long time. But when you do, you will be a true brother. And when that happens, you will be grateful that you ended up here and not missing fingers. Now, you had best get training. Your recruit phase will be the worst part of your journey from boys to men. Edric, could you please take the recruits to get their new gear?’

‘Aye, ser.’ The Lord Steward said. ‘Follow me recruits!’ Daeron found it hard not to start at him. His entire nose was missing. ‘What the fuck happened to you!’ one of the recruits shouts at him. ‘Frostbite.’ he says quickly. They eventually get to the armoury and they see the cloaks and clothes and swords lining the walls. ‘Take one that looks your size, then get out!’ He shouts.

Daeron grabs small garb and a cloak and puts them on before leaving.

This is going to be a bumpy ride.

Sunspear was far more compact than he recalled, Aerys assumed it was due to the fact that he’d never been in the city below the mighty castle.

The narrow and dusty streets of the city seemed neverending as did the flood of people moving through the city. Bazaars, homes, inns and pillow houses lined the street which of course made it easier for Aerys to travel about and find what he needed.

Aerys sat in an inn somewhere along the second wall, plotting how he’d make his way up to the Tower of the Sun without necessarily outing himself as a Targaryen, at least not until Calon Martell or any Martell stood before him.

He couldn’t just walk up to the guards and inform them, only a fool would believe him if he claimed to be a Targaryen. Nor did he want to have it openly known that he was in Dorne, he preferred the world to think that Aerys fell amongst the rivers of blood nearly a decade ago.

Now, he laid in a bed inside some inn, within the lands that help fuel his families drive for war. Promised them so much, only to be stopped by their own. Aerys could recall the day he was informed that the Yronwoods rebelled against their Dornish masters.

It scared him, but not his uncle or father. They were sure the Dornish could quickly quell the rebellion and move forward with the war, instead, the Martells failed them. That was the key failure that led to their loss.

Had the Martells made it, maybe they could have won. Tully’s as well, they fell to the puny Eagles and the pretty little Lions. Aerys’ had learned so much from his first war, and all his years as a Sellsword.

When his time to take the Throne came, he’d show no mercy. The Blackfyres showed none of his kin, so he had no reason to do so to any of them….or the rest of the realm.

Stop, before you see him again He said to himself, rising off his bed grabbing his sword and scabbard.

Aerys still had no idea why he’d seen himself, he’d dreamed about what happened all those years ago but something like that never happened. He felt as if it was Westeros taking a toll on his mind.

The rage these lands bestowed upon him was draining, as it must have been on Daenerys all those years ago. Until she met the White Wolf, love must have made her content with only living on Dragonstone.

Well, her descendants weren’t. Aerys had the blood of a Dragon and the Wolf, it was near as if he was made for war. He had the will to kill and the drive to ensure he got what he wanted.

Like that time in Qohor He thought to himself smirking, while making his way out the inn, ignoring all those around him.

A lifetime at war often did that, it had given him something his family never had. Rhaelle was smart and cunning, she’d used her marriage to get her family a powerful ally. His father and uncle were both skilled at fighting, they seemingly were made for war.

But unlike Aerys, they all chose their lives. Aerys never had a choice, the gods decided it all for him. The new, the old, the fire gods, whichever one truly existed picked this life for him.

He simply took what was given to him and succeeded. Some would even say he thrived, but Aerys wouldn’t dare to think so.

How can a man whose family was wiped out by a house named after a blade they bestowed upon them thrive? No, Aerys wouldn’t dare consider himself anything but a reluctant survivor.

Had it not been for the blood that flowed through him, the blood the ferocious Wolf and the mighty Dragon.

Aerys would have died, just like his sister and all those he loved. Unfortunately, the Gods must have had a plan for him, even if he cursed them the whole way through it.

Soon they’ll know, the true meaning of Fire and Blood He thought as he stood in the bustling streets of Sunspear.

^with ^Tarth

It was late morning when he found the most boorish of his goodsons.

He hadn’t heard many good things about Alester Tarth, even before he’d pledged him his daughter’s hand. But the Tarths of Evenfall Hall were an ancient line the Carons had mingled blood with in the past, and the chance to put a grandson in that prancing idiot Edmure’s seat had been too good to pass up. But now… more than a decade since Bryce had walked his daughter into the sept, with no grandchildren–not even a girl–to show for it… He shook his head. Not even a landed knight would look at a woman of her age, late of one marriage. Not even if he got the High Septon to swear she still had her maidenhead.

He sighed, just thinking about it. What a waste of a perfectly good daughter.

But today, it was the Evenstar’s swords and ships he needed, not his loins. So he’d dispatched five of his men to trawl the brothels and taverns near Seagard for the drunkard. One had returned to whisper in his ear just as he’d made up his mind to quit the stands–the melee had been a horrible disappointment.

So now, he found the Lord of Tarth, deep in his cups at the seediest of the town's taverns… Alester Tarth could have been a handsome man, but too much ale had turned any good looks the Gods had blessed him with into a fleshy sourness. The iron hand he wore in place of his swordhand was hidden in his lap, and the left shook as it raised the cup of strongwine to his lips.

Lord Caron sighed, and turned to his men–household knights of certain loyalty. “Morghil, Lorimer, Boros…help my goodson to his feet.” The three moved to obey. He waved a hand, and the knight bearing his purse handed the tavernkeeper a gold dragon.

"The rest of you, clear the filth from this place." He spat on the ground as the rest of his bodyguard filled the room with yellow and black, putting the points of daggers to the more stubborn guests. "My lord and I will enjoy some privacy with our family time."

With Gerion

Obara sighed softly as she made her way to the Lannister tents. After ensuring that her ever loyal Garin was still in one piece, the Lady of Yronwood had started to head over to the red and gold tents, escorted only by Archie.

The youngest Yronwood wasn’t exactly happy about being dragged to a meeting with the House of Lions. They weren’t well loved in Dorne, and with House Yronwood still needing to to prove its loyalty to a united Dorne once more, meetings like this would need to be conducted with no small amount of care.

“You are entirely certain that this is a good idea?” He asked as the pair reached their destination. “Dorne doesn’t exactly have the greatest history with the Westerlands.”

The dark haired woman simply smiled. “It will be fine cousin.”

“...He was hit pretty hard.” Archibald reminded her. “He might not be in any fit state for you to visit.”

“It will be fine cousin.”

Sighing, Archie fell silent, and simply continued to follow Obara. Eventually, the pair reached their destination. She halted at the pair of red clad guards stood outside the tent.

One of the guards puts his hand out with the other one tightening his grip on his spear. “Lady Yronwood, Ser Tyrion has said you may enter, but your friends must wait outside.”

The Lady of Yronwood sighed, and turned to apologise to her cousin, only to be met by a grin as Archie spoke. “Go on. Try not to start a war please.”

“...You’re no fun.” Obara smiled. “But fine, I’ll do my best.”

Tyrion heard Obara outside and sat up in his bed, revealing his massive bruising. “Obara, that you out there?”

Obara smiled happily. “..It is, Tyrion...may I enter?”

Tyrion gave a little grin. “You may, Obara.”

The Lady of Yronwood kept her smile, and turned to Archibald before she headed into the tent. “I’ll be fine, Archie. Go and have fun.”

Archibald Yronwood shrugged, and headed off. “If you’re wrong, I shall avenge you.”

Obara shook her head, and strode into the tent. Her icy blue eyes falling upon the Lannister. “.....You are in one piece, I trust?”

Tyrion gave a little laugh. ‘Barely Obara.’ He points to his collarbone. “These bandages are holding me together for now. How’s your man holding up?”

“Garin is well.” Obara’s eyes glance over Tyrion, maintaining her smile. “A little bruised, but otherwise well.”

“That's good. I didn't think that I hurt him too badly.” Tyrion says with a winning smile.

Obara’s smile grew. “He can take a lot of punishment, he regularly drills our men..But you seem...in good spirits, at least.”

“Hah! Milk of the Poppy is known to have that effect.” Tyrion says with a wide grin.

The Lady of Yronwood shrugged as she sat at the side of his bed. “Frankly I found it...unpleasant, when I had it last.”

Tyrion takes her hand in his. “I would rather have it than the pain I was in, even if it is unpleasant.”

“True enough.” Obara acknowledged with a nod. “Can’t say I was exactly in my right state of mind when I last took it, though.”

“When did you last take the milk then?”

The woman sighed. “Shortly after my family’s..Succession Struggle. Not exactly a pleasant time in my life.”

“I can see you don’t want to talk about it, perhaps we should change the subject?”

“If you can think of something else to talk of, Tyrion, Then I’d be happy to.” Obara smiled. And thankful, too.

Tyrion leaned in on Obara. ‘Perhaps we should talk about the kiss you owe me.’

The Dornishwoman broke into a grin. “Mayhaps, my dear Tyrion, you’d prefer to claim your…’prize’? If you are strong enough to do so.”

Tyrion put one arm around her waist and his hand on her face and pulled her in. “I think I can manage to do that.” He whispered to her.

Icy blue eyes met green, as the Lady of Yronwood waited in expectation. For once, she wasn’t thinking about her House, but her own personal wants and desires, which wasn’t something she was used to doing.

Tyrion pulled her closer in so their bodies were touching and slowly leaned forward into her lips. Obara let out a soft sigh as they met, her eyes fluttering closed as she felt the sensation of Tyrion’s lips against her own. After a few moments, she broke away.

‘Was it good for you too?’ Tyrion asked, gasping slightly.

Obara nodded, and fell into silence as she pulled away.

Tyrion was in a similar silence and just held Obara close to him. ‘We can stay like this as long as you want.’ Tyrion rubbed his hand along her back and began to kiss her neck. The Lady of Yronwood sighed softly, and settled herself against the Lannister. She’d deal with the political shit later. For now, she was comfortable.

Outside, Archibald Yronwood let out a loud, exasperated sigh. This was, at least in his opinion, a terrible, terrible idea. It wasn’t that Tyrion was a bad man, far from it, he seemed genuinely pleasant, but a Lannister and Yronwood? That was a match made to piss off House Martell if ever there was one. After telling the guards to pass on the fact he was going back to the Yronwood tent, Archie departed. For the first time in his short life, he had a thought that many others had had in the past.

I need a damn drink.

The Myr boy scrubbed the dull wood floor with a vigor only the youth possessed, a dedication derived from his chosen divine purpose. The hour-- Revilo had lost track, somewhere between too early to raise and too late to bed. Certainty wasn’t necessary, the boy rarely ever truly desired rest. He was very happy here, even with the spiders. He was given a place to sleep, food and even his first copper coin. Pride came from his work knowing it all served a greater means. He made an impression on his fellow scullions, whom’s work loads had become a bit lighter as the boy stayed later and started sooner. At first they had been apprehensive, his cracked discolored scars always airing people on the side of caution. He was saved though and he told them the story of his rebirth the first night he came, lest be forgotten a detail or two.  

Now, only the spiders bothered him. When he slept, he sometimes felt them crawl across his skin, making it itch. Revilo thought there could be some trapped within his mattress, a nest barriered deep in the straw. Maybe there were thousands trapped inside, but only a few could escape at once. He wondered how many could be hidden, if he should try to remove the nest or burn the entire thing to ash. Restless puzzling while swatting spider’s with poison bites--did no good for his lord. So, he would scrub the floors first, then begin meal preparation duties--boil the water, pluck the fowl, and peel the vegetables.  

The halls were completely devoid of any sound at this hour, even the dead seemed to rest. He felt an odd bliss within the silence, appreciating this solitary span. When he was satisfied with his first task being completed, he packed his things and rush back towards the kitchen to start his next divine duty. He shuffled back through the kitchen doorway, the only light emulated from the hearth in the form of a dull warm glow. The light was minimal and the shadows abundant, but the boy’s eyes had adjusted as he navigated his way.  

He moved with close to ease in the near darkness, only his bucket bumping into a solid signaling something was out of place. It was the pantry door, ajar enough not to draw visual attention, but enough to disturb Revilo’s path. He knew the door wasn’t opened when he first came in, and setting the bucket down he peered inside before he closed it. Nearly the same time, the door leading to the back street opened and in came a small petite figure.  

Revilo stood in rigid silence, recognizing the figure as the yellow light of her candle flickered across her soft features. She was another servant from the kitchen, a beautiful girl a couple years his elder. She was very...mature looking, Revilo thought, her smile able to make his stomach flip and his cheeks stain. She had not noticed him yet, but Revilo had noticed all of her. She had a basket with her, empty it seemed, the pieces connecting for the boy.  

“Deft.” He accused, his voice a whisper at first utterance but growing stronger with his indignation. “Deft!”  

The girl jumped when he spoke, her eyes casting up at him with wide surprise before a humorous smile curls her lips.  

“Oh, 'tis only you. What is it you are trying to say?” She asked in a mocking tone, her paused actions resumed as the door is closed and the candle brought to the counter.  

“You stole.” His voice faulted with a tremble as she continued her calm demeanor. Theft. || Something is wrong. “Y-you stole from my lorrd, the penalty…” Death. The penalty is death. || That’s not your place. || Beat her. || No. || Burn her… || Run, something is not wrong! “...it’s severre.”  

The girl isn’t intimidated as she turns her head towards him and flashes a mischievous smile. “Let it be our secret. It was only scraps.” She tells him, moving to place the basket against the wall, eyes capturing his as she moved. “It could be the first of many.” She teased, an allure in her voice potent to the emerging young man, her steps inching forward to close the distance between.  

She’s going to hurt you. She’s going to trick you. || Run. || No, stay. || Idiot. || Don’t let her touch you! || She is a theft. Revilo’s heart thundered against his ribs as a chorus from the grave roared to life in his sense. Punish her. one said. Have mercy. another. You will be blamed, you will be punished. This one sent a wave of icy dread down Revilo’s spine, his steps starting backward in retreat of her approach.  

“You’re getting pale, are you afraid?” She asked, an amused twinkle in her eyes. “You’ve never kept a secret with a woman...have you? It’s never to early to start.”  

Her advance continued, backing Revilo into the corner against the fireplace and wall. His throat felt tight and his ears rang from the frantic pitch around him. Is she hiding a blade? || Yes. || You will die here. || Run. || No, you have to fight back! || She will cut your throat. || You deserve this. She stopped inches from his face, her own leaned down towards his as her hand rested atop his clammy cheek. The action sent the boy into a frenzy, his body and head shook in frantic furor as he tried to push her away. His strength was limited though and she persisted, leaning her weight on his--she hushed him over his attempts to beg.  

“Please, don’t-” He tried but is silenced when her hand roughly locked atop his lips.  

“Shhh. Lower your voice or we’ll be found.” She scolded him in whispered tones, pausing to listen for any further noise.  

He bit her in protest of orders, but released when she recoiled the vise. Her expression fell between disbelief and exasperation before she brought her hand up and struck the boy across the face. The strike sends him into a fevered hysteria, a short but frantic search for a weapon-- resulted in the iron fire poker that waited unused by the hearth. He dove down and grabbed the piece before swinging at his attacker on impulse, colliding his force to the cheek and temple.  

She collapsed in a heap, the silence deafened as she lied still. He dropped the poker in stunned denial, a wave of nausea twisted his stomach into knots as he approached and peered down. Murderer. || You will be punished now. He shook his head in defiance, his hands pressed against his temples as they throbbed. This is what you wanted. A pathetic sound escaped him as he knelt down beside the girl, the guilt coated thick within his throat making it impossible to swallow. There was no blood that he could see, only a swollen and bruised mark that traced his crime. 

If he had stayed to observe longer, he would have noticed the more subtle signs of life. The shallow breath, a movement behind the eyelids as the girl stirred. Patience was no match for his impulse however and in the instant before--he needed to hide. He knew of a room that was currently unused, it contained a wardrobe big enough for him to fit.

“You backstabbing bastard!” Corlys Velaryon roared at Laenor in the royal dining chamber. He was the only son of Laenor’s Uncle Addam. He was a little overweight, and had fathered a number of bastards, and now he was redfaced with anger. Laenor himself was lounging in his chair, goblet of wine in his hand “I never asked to marry that Ghiscari whore! Marry her yourself you fu-”

“You address the King, Ser” The knight at Laenor’s side spoke in a harsh tone. Lord Commander Luwin of the Blue Steed had served as such for eight years, and at five-and-forty still remained one of the best warriors of the island nation. A fact that hadn’t gone forgotten by Corlys. “You would do well to speak to him with more respect.”

Corlys sighed. “Apologies, your Grace. I am merely…unhappy with being married off without being consulted first.”

The King of Elyria sighed as he set his goblet down. “Sit, cousin.” It wasn’t an offer, but an order. Corlys sighed, and settled himself into one of the empty chairs. His eyes narrowed a little, and reached for a goblet and a jug of apricot wine. After pouring himself out a large helping, he took a calming gulp of wine.

Laenor placed his goblet down on the table, and focused his gaze on his cousin. The King of Elyria sighed. “I made the match between you and her to avoid war, Corlys.”

“How does that work?!” Corlys roared, only to be silenced by Luwin’s glare. “…Explain.”

“She wants Meereen’s throne.” Laenor said with a small smile.

“And we lack the men for such a venture. Our business with Meereen, Yunkai and Astapor has been good over the years, I do not wish to ruin that with threats on conquest. Not when I have a conquest of my own to plan.”

This gave the other Velaryon pause. “….Meaning?”

“We’re going to take Mantarys and Tolos. Elyria is too small for the people that wish to live here, and the lands ruled by both the Tolosi and Mantaryan’s could be most useful. Your marriage would allow us to act without having to worry about the Meereenese, and as long as the Volantene’s get a sizable cut of the profits, they too will not act against us.”

Corlys chuckled quietly. “You’ve actually done some planning about this…..Fine. I’ll marry the Zo Loraq bitch. But I’m keeping Shiera.” “Fine.” Laenor conceded. “But do us all a favour, ease off on the lovers. Seven bastards are likely enough for you.”

“….Fine”

The Council of Three had been instituted by King Jacaerys as a way of making peace with the three major religions of Elyria. There was a Green Grace, representing the Harpy, a Red Priest representing R’hllor and a ‘Lord Septon’ representing the Faith of the Seven. The Lord Septon was introduced show that the island nation need not follow a man halfway around the world. Each Monarch was also crowned by each religious head. Publicly, the reigning Monarch was not permitted to favour one faith, over another. Whilst privately, they followed whichever faith they wished. Other temples and shrines to smaller faiths could be found in ‘Free Port’.

Laenor, personally, couldn’t stand any of them. Where had R’hllor been when his grandfather was choking on his own blood? Where had the Harpy been when his people had fought the Mantaryan abominations, and died in their droves? Where had the Seven been as his wife lay dying?. The Gods had ignored the Elyrian people, so the Elyrian people would act without them and their….influences, good or ill.

He watched them now, muttering to their cohorts in the throne room. There was a long standing agreement that no one faith would try to plot against another, but that didn’t mean they had to get along with one another.

He let out a sigh, and rose from his throne. He strode to the centre of the room, silence falling all around him.

“My friends!” He proclaimed. “The business of the court is done for the day. Thank you for your work, go home to your families. We will resume tomorrow. Unless anyone has any…demanding enquiries…?”

When there was no answer, Laenor inclined his head. “Very well then. The Blessings of the Gods be with you all.”

“And with you..” They all murmured behind him as he left via the doors to the left of the Marble Throne.

*Gods, he needed a drink.”

Strolling across an arched bridge to one of the many islands littering the Honeywine within Oldtown, Luke passed sights he’d grown used to in his six long years in the oldest city in Westeros.

The Tyroshi dye stalls near the alley on the left, Sybel’s Sweets to the right with the colorful sign hanging above the door, and even the unfamiliar red priests worshiping their fires outside R'hllor’s shrine had become a part of his norm since his near-exile and stripping of his family name.

The sun had fallen past the horizon of rooftops and guild halls across the river along the western bank, yet the streets still seemed to be filled with life and light as Luke continued on. As he did, he found himself relishing in the satisfying memories created tonight. A particular employee of a raunchy yet more secluded tavern called the Honeydipper was ingrained into Luke’s head.

Seeming to be up to something along the same lines as Luke’s past indiscretions this evening, a group stumbled out of the doorway to a rather popular establishment among the Citadel’s students. The Quill & Tankard often served acolytes and novices alike, as it had for hundreds of years; the three in Luke’s sights now were no exception. The lad in wine-soaked grey fabrics to the left had a crop of fire-red hair, the one with marks from a whore covering his neck stood to the right, and the one with arms swung around the shoulders of his companions and seemingly unconscious wore the most chains of them all.

A slight grin crept up the side of Luke’s mouth, his right dimple showing prominently as he came to recognize the young men. “How fares the eve, Castro?” Lucerys strolled closer to their direction, calling out to the tallest acolyte who bestowed his bruises proudly for Oldtown to see.

Glancing from the others, the lanky yet still oddly comely boy of some Free City merchant popped up and smiled broadly at his silver-haired friend.

“Luke,” he announced boisterously, raising his hands out welcomingly and rushing the distance between them.

The drunk acolyte clinging to his shoulder was on the ground before Castro even made it to Luke, collapsing and hitting the cobblestone with a hefty plop thanks to the other’s lacking assistance in standing. The wine soaked boy stumbled to help his friend rise once more as Luke and Castro spoke.

“Where’ve you been all night? You missed a fucking fight! That moonsinger that's been in the last few weeks finally had at it with the brother from Lord’s Sept.”

Laughing at his own tale, Castro took a moment before continuing. Lucerys awaited patiently.

“Well, let's just say that brother might turn out to be a sister after the hit he took from that Braavosi shit.”

Pursing his lips as his brows arched, Lucerys conceded, “That sounds like quite the evening, I do hope Brother Martin made it back to the bank alright.”

“Poor sot probably fell into the river!” Castro gave another hearty laugh. His arm wrapped around Lucerys’ shoulder and he waved back to his companions then, “I’ll see you drunks back at the Citadel.”

“So Luke, where the bloody hell were you?” His question came as they began their trek back in the direction Lucerys originally had been headed. The two other students were left behind, most likely still stumbling over their robes.

“Honeydipper,” he offered in response, “I was rather… tied up.” A smirk crossed his lips and Castro shot him a weary yet intrigued glance.

Their eyes met and Lucerys’ brow arched. Castro let out a chuckle, he seemed to be full of laughter tonight. “Of course you were… Probably with that blonde again, am I right?”

Shrugging nonchalantly, he said with ease, “You know me, Castro. I’m a relatively simple man. I like what I know.”

A snort came from the essosi-born. “Simple? You’re about as simple as a glass candle, Lucerys Velaryon.” Castro spoke Luke’s given name in an exaggerated tone.

The pair passed over a second arched bridge, similar to the first Luke crossed before finding Castro and the others. Beyond, they could see the Citadel in all its might come into view along the shore.

Stealing a glance in Castro’s direction, Luke’s gaze trailed down the lad’s long frame. He had to of been from somewhere with water, for his physique reminded Luke of those found on swimmers back on Driftmark. The bruises on his neck caught his eye last, they seemed fresh and most likely still tender. He couldn’t help but be curious who caused such marks on his friend.

“It would seem I’m not the only one who enjoyed a night with another,” Luke spoke slyly. “Who was the lucky lady?”

The tall acolyte seemed to grow even closer to the sky as his shoulders broadened and his back straighten. A devilish grin made its way across his intoxicated demeanor. “The Lysini,” he said proudly. “You know the one; with the green eyes and silver braids?”

“Aye, I know the one,” Luke nodded as he listened.

“Only cost me three stags! I thought myself lucky in finding such a beauty for the price… Well, I bet you didn’t know that that beauty has a wart on her arse the size of the Hightower!” His hearty laugh arose once more and Luke couldn’t help but chuckle himself. “The rest of her was exactly what you expect though, if not more... And her energy… I mean, for fuck’s sake, look at my neck, the girl was wild!”

“Lys does produce some of the most skilled in the art of love, or so they say at least.” Lucerys’ smirk still remained on his lips as he spoke. Shrugging slightly, he continued, “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Castro, it's just that… I can’t help but wonder if the true reason so many attempt to bed their kind is their old blood.” He chuckled, “It's just good marketing.”

“Oh what do you know, you don’t even have a gold link!” Castro held his own chain up, pointing at the piece of yellow gold among the few others metals.

The two were in sight of the massive entrance to the Citadel, with the pair of sphinxes protecting the gate when Luke slowed his pace. They stood in a quieter area of the square, near the male version of the matching sphinxes.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said in a more intimate tone so only his friend could hear. “But tell me, is it not at least partially true? That woman... Her hair, her eyes, the marble complexion; those things were not what drew you to her?” As Luke inquired, he closed the small distance between them and never broke the deep contact with the other man’s gaze.

“Aye,” he said in an equally soft tone. “I suppose those were a part of it…”

“And tell me true, Castro, was she actually the best you’d ever had? Can you think of none better?”

He stood pondering a moment or two, seemingly trying to search his memories. “Well, I suppose there was that girl from the Arbor. She was… creative.” His grin returned as he thought back on the memory.

“Exactly,” Lucerys’ said as his arm reached out and clasped Castro’s shoulder. He began to walk once more, leading his friend closer to the massive statue of the beast.

“But they still are fucking gorgeous!” Castro insisted as the two settled against the side of the sphinx. “Prettiest in the world.”

Luke’s smirk grew as he shot darting eyes to Castro. The young man leaned his weight against the statue with his arms crossed. His muscles and true figure were hidden beneath his grey robes, but that did not stop Luke from imagining. He felt a stirring, knowing his urges he thought quenched may not have been so.

Speaking coyly, “You know what Lyseni are, Castro? They’re the icing on a cake.”

The other man turned to face Lucerys then, looking completely clueless to his meaning.

Luke chuckled at his friend before continuing, “You can lick the icing off, and it’s sweet and delicious. And you think, ‘This is the best taste in the world,’ but…" Luke paused, breaking his eye contact with Castro to once more gaze upon his frame with his violet irises before returning to the man’s stare.

“But what?” Castro spoke in a hushed voice, completely attentive to Lucerys’ words and seemingly not bothered by Luke's curious eyes.

“But then, you take a bite of the cake and realize just how small of a piece the icing truly is.” Reaching out with his hand, he seized Castro’s arm and moved to be face to face with the acolyte.

Mere inches separated the two yet Castro made no move to escape. Instead, he asked hesitantly, “And where do I find a slice?”

The devilish look Lucerys’ wore increased tenfold then. Pushing his weight against the taller man, Lucerys’ lips invaded Castro’s before he knew what was occurring. Castro's crossed arms released and hung awkwardly in the beginning, yet after a moment, he found them moving to Luke’s hips. It was then that the former Velaryon felt the other man’s tongue enter his mouth.

Lucerys’ free arm grasped a handful of Castro’s robes, pulling him backward, into the dark shadows of the sphinx. He halted when the stone wall of the Citadel touched his back, knowing they were out of sight. Moving his hands up Castor’s back, Luke let out a sigh of pleasure as his friend attacked his neck like the lyseni whore had done to him only hours earlier.

Grabbing the other man’s head, he pulled him off his throat and back to his face. Kissing him hard and passionately for a long moment, Luke readied himself for what he wanted to do next. Pulling apart, he spoke for only Castro to hear, “Let me show you what a true Valyrian can do.”

Nodding furiously in response, Castro leaned in once more to bite at Luke’s ear. He wasn’t sure if the passion or drink drove Castro’s behavior, but the enjoyment of the moment washed away any such cares for Luke.

After allowing his friend to continue for a minute, he once more pulled away This time, however, he turned to face the wall, pulling his robes higher as he did. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the other acolyte gaze upon his exposed flesh, seeming to enjoy the view.

Lucerys' chuckled, “Are you coming or what?”

Castro bit his lip, his eyes slowly leaving their view of Luke’s body to meet his gaze. “I will be,” he managed, before pouncing upon the Velaryon.

The only daughter of Aemon Tarly scowled faintly as the eldest of her brothers cheerfully led her through the tents of her fellow Reachmen. One of her hounds, her much loved ‘Rabbit’ padded alongside her. She had offered to bring Renly along on a hunt, but he had declined.

“I’ll be busy with…stuff.” Renly had said with false sadness, which Jocelyn took to mean he’d be spending time with Meredyth. “But good news! I found someone else for you to hunt with!”

“I won’t hunt with any idiots.” Jocelyn hissed. “You know that.”

“That depends on your definition of idiot.” Renly murmured quietly, hiding it behind a grin. “I promise you, Josie. He’s no idiot. He’s a competent hunter.”

The Tarly Huntress sighed. Whilst her brother was known for his laid back approach to life and all its wonders, he could at least be counted on to be truthful. So she followed in annoyed silence until they eventually reached….

“This is House Rowan’s tent.” Jocelyn stated, unable to dampen the obvious giddiness in her voice.

“Yes it is.” Renly’s grin grew. “Which means you likely know who you’ll be hunting with today, hm?”

“…You haven’t told him about-“

“No, of course not!” Renly reassured her, finding the near nervous look on his sister’s face to be almost adorable. “Not yet anyways……OLY! Get your ass out here! You have a visitor!"

Even with the King and his trueborn children away at the tourney, the city of King’s Landing did yet buzz with life below the walls of the Red Keep. Daegon Darkmourn watched to the south from a high crenel in one of the seven great drum towers, one built into the inner wall that surrounded Maegor’s Holdfast, eyes tracking the hundreds of ships that came in and out of the harbor. Business, it seemed, could not be truly harmed by events elsewhere in the kingdom.

From there he could see White Sword Tower, its circular walls and whitewashed stones emptied of the Kingsguard that would normally inhabit the structure. After all, there was little need for them in the capital as the Royal Family yet laid their heads in Seagard. An odd notion, one he thought of less and less, that he not be considered a member of that family, yet he was created from King Baelon’s loins the same as the others. As a boy, he’d often dreamt of being given a true name, the Blackfyre name, but with age and experience, such notions found themselves fleeting.

After all, bastard or not, he yet enjoyed title and glory. He kept his own arms, though not in the typical fashion of Westerosi bastards. As he strode from his place at the top of the tower, down into a stairwell to make his way to the barracks of his men to hear of the morning’s patrols, he adjusted the tabard he wore over mail and cuirass, the cloth bearing his personal sigil. A woman of slender frame, positioned in such a way as to entice the eyes of men, the same woman borne on the coinage of Lys where his mother originated. Stitched in red and on a black field, the reversed colors of his father’s house, Daegon often found humor that the reversed colors of the King’s house were the colors of his greatest enemy, as the Blackfyres themselves had once been bastards of House Targaryen. Though the bastards had outgrown the fathers now, it seemed.

On his way through the halls of the castle, he passed the Maidenvault, where Baelor the Blessed once kept his sisters locked away to prevent carnal thoughts. Daegon laughed at the idea. He’d known chaste men and lustful men, though as far as chastity went, it was often those who claimed the holiest dispositions that found themselves overcome with lust in their private hours. It was, after all, his duty to know the things that went on in the castle. To keep the family safe it was required of him to know the deeds and desires of those that filled the halls they walked daily. Especially as the King grew old.

“Afternoon, Commander,” said a courtier as Daegon passed through a long colonnade, a younger son of some lesser Crownlands noble. He was a handsome boy, even Daegon could see this, one whose place in the castle he found odd as the majority had gone to Seagard with the King’s party.

“Good afternoon, Lord Robar,” he replied brusquely, though he held the courtier’s gaze long enough to suggest conversation should he be willing. Though Daegon himself was not, he knew his duties, and he knew his place.

Commission or not, regardless of his father, a bastard showed respect to his superiors. Even a sixth or seventh son.

With a grin, the sure sign of agreed conversation, Robar folded his arms against the low balustrade, leaning forward so his face stretched out into the high sun of the summer day. “I suspected you’d have gone with the others to the tournament, Commander. Isn’t that where men go to prove valor and earn glory?”

“I earned my glory years ago,” he replied, refusing to meet the young nobleman’s gaze that he could feel burning against him. “In battle against the Hightower army. Alongside Ser Laenor Celtigar and Maelys Blackfyre, gods rest his soul. Not in a muddy pen playing at war with fools from across the kingdoms.”

The nobleman laughed, finally peeling his gaze away from the bastard knight. “My brother is there. Several of them, in fact, the elder ones.”

Daegon felt a lump gather in his throat. “I meant no offense, my Lord.”

“And you caused none!” He moved his arms back away from the balustrade, placing instead his hands against the warm stone. “My brothers are fools. All of them.”

He laughed, drawing little more than a chuckle from Daegon. He knew the boy’s family well, the lot of them. Each had come through the Red Keep on occasion with their father, and their own holdfast wasn’t far from the capital. People liked to talk. Especially about the nobility, and especially within the walls of the Red Keep. Still, he rarely showed humor while on duty. Even if he agreed with the boy’s assessment.

“Hopefully they’ll return soon, unharmed, my Lord.” He eased back off from the colonnade, giving Robar a nod. “If you’ll excuse me, I have rounds to attend to.”

“Of course, Commander, I apologize if I’ve held you up.”

There were dozens more like him in the castle on any regular day, though as he bid Robar goodbye, he took solace in the abnormal emptiness of the halls. He was one of only a small handful that Daegon had spotted today, though he was otherwise a regular visitor to the castle. Daegon’s men often reported his entrance and even more often reported his visits to the chambers of a certain kitchen girl.

Up ahead Daegon spotted one of his lieutenants, Gyles, a massive beast of a man with wide arms and a beard that threatened to grow just as wide. They gave each other a nod before Gyles fell into step at his side.

“Robar’s back, Ser.”

“I know,” he replied as a pair of guards ahead opened a door for them to exit the Maidenvault, passing into a section of the castle that led to the Royal Sept, and further down the throne room. “I just spoke with him.”

“It’s the third time this week.”

“I know, Gyles.” He glanced over at his companion, noting a grin on the older man’s face. “I listen to the reports my men give. And I’ve seen him sneaking into Falia’s chambers a time or two with my own eyes.”

“Hmph,” grumbled the aging guardsman, half-helm tucked under his right arm as his left hand rested on the pommel of his sword. “How that girl stands him I’ll never know.”

“He’s not a bad looking lad. And more importantly, he has a name. It’s likely she’s after a bastard of her own, to get some sort of payment from him. Denys and Lancel are on that wing today, I’ll have them and Karl see what they can find out on their shift.”

Gyles nodded as they turned down another hall, bright tapestries bearing intricate weavings decorating the walls, battles depicted in great detail along them. One showed the crucial moment of Robert’s Rebellion, when the Baratheon king slew Rhaegar Targaryen, the crown prince, amidst the waters of the Trident.

“Do you think one of these exists of Matarys Targaryen’s death in battle?” he asked, eyes wandering away as he passed.

The aging guardsman shook his head. “What we need is one of Ser Laenor’s victory over Leyton Hightower. I’ve heard stories, but what I wouldn’t give to see it.”

Daegon let out a grunt. “I saw it with my own two eyes. Believe me, Gyles, you wouldn’t have wanted to.”

“Bah!” He swatted Daegon’s back with a heavy hand, his jovial manner one that the bastard knight had been long accustomed to. “That was a real war, Ser. None of this pissing and moaning with blunted swords and lances made to shatter. Ser Laenor did his duty., and killed a traitor. But all I’ve heard are stories from men who say they heard it from someone who saw it. You saw it.”

“And I wish I hadn’t.” They passed into the small hall that held their meeting area, all the captains under him already gathered. “He did his duty, and killing Ser Leyton was honorable, but that doesn’t change how grisly the manner of his death was.”

Daegon’s attention fell away from Gyles as the larger man wandered off to take his place. With Gyles’ arrival, all eight captains were now present. Frenken Stokeworth, Lothar the Lewd, Jubilant Jacks, Theodan Massey, Walton Sunglass, Bryen Rivers, and Ardent Aemon Waters. Bastards, lowborn, and lesser sons of lesser siblings and cousins. Men who shared similar status with him, to an extent. Even those highborn in his ranks were merely nobility by the name they bore, holding no lands or titles and little wealth to speak of but that which they had earned with their own hands. Men whom Daegon and his predecessor Allliser of Eel Alley had given a place in the world.

The meeting was a quick one, given the bare nature of the Red Keep in the weeks since the Royal Family had left the capital. Few had come and many had gone, leaving mainly staff and members of the council. The King had even taken half of Daegon’s men with him, several hundred men, a small army in its own right. More than enough to act as royal escort had he not also taken much of the nobility of the Crownlands with him, their own servants and men bolstering the Royal ranks.

With their reports in and orders updated yet unchanged, Daegon dismissed his men. He watched as they filed out one by one. As the last exited the room, however, a new face entered. He didn’t wear the mail and tabard of the Blackfyre guard, nor breastplate as many of Daegon’s men wore. Instead, he wore a simple black doublet, or at least what appeared to be one to the common layperson. Daegon knew of the steel held within unassuming cloth, rivets blackened to hide in plain sight, the brigandine worn over a long dark tunic that stretched to his knees. Dirty boots and trousers completed his ensemble, leaving him to appear less than nobility, but somewhere above even common folk.

“Find anything for me, Loboda?”

The slender entrant nodded, wavy dark hair hanging in unkempt masses. “I did. Lucion Gaunt will be stepping down as Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks.”

Daegon grunted. He figured it would be happening. He’d spoken of inheriting a plot of land outside of the city, and would likely be leaving the guard. This solidified it.

“We’ll have to get him a gift, then.”

“I’ll leave gifts to you. Who do you think is likely to succeed him?”

“I’d think Erryk Waters,” he replied, closing the distance between them. “The man’s been in the Watch since before even my birth. He’s earned it. Of course, Patrek of Pebbleton is a good man as well.”

“Patrek of Pebbleton is Ironborn,” Loboda replied as he reached up to scratch at his trimmed beard, a distinct thing that became even more noticeable beside Daegon’s clean-shaven face. “He’s got a good eye but the men won’t follow someone of a foreign religion.”

Daegon shook his head. “Not all Ironborn worship the drowned god. Besides, I doubt the man would settle into the Gold Cloaks if he still held desire to reave and rape as the Ironborn do. I’d think a man of a foreign religion such as yourself would understand that one group of people can’t be truly be judged by the worst among them.”

“The old gods aren’t foreign.” Loboda’s dark eyes locked on Daegon’s, the hint of a grin on his lips. “They were the gods of this land long before your ancestors came with their dragons.”

“And your ancestors, when did they come here?” Daegon narrowed his gaze at the man who stood before him. “You claim Northern heritage, but you’ve never told me of what family, or which town, even.”

Loboda shrugged, one so subtle Daegon might not have noticed it had he not already been aware that subtlety was Loboda’s profession. “No place you’d have heard of. Not worth mentioning to a man who’d have no idea where even if I said it.”

Daegon’s lips pulled into a smirk. “Is that disrespect I hear in your tone, Loboda?”

With a shake of the head, his companion replied, “You asked for honesty in each of my words when you first took me into service. Honesty is what you’ll get. If I meant disrespect that’s what I’d give you. Northmen don’t play these games of hidden words like you southrons seem to enjoy.”

The commander broke into laughter, restrained and quiet, yet his shoulders still bounced at each sound that escaped his throat. “I’m only teasing, Loboda, be calm.” He put a hand on the shoulder of the slender Northman, beckoning him to follow back through the door from which he entered. “Come, there’s work to be done. People to follow, conversations to listen to…”

“Voices to silence?”

Daegon let out a final chuckle at his last. “Indeed, voices to silence. Let’s go find them, shall we?”

Alicent PoV

“Lady Alicent, are you certain?” Myranda’s voice was hushed, her eyes were as round as an owls’ and just as wide.

Alicent sighed, was she right to tell her friend? She had always told Myranda everything, but this was different. She had never crossed her brother like this. “Theo will never let us be together. He’s made that abundantly clear. Arthur has family in Dorne, we’ll be safe there and once Theo’s wrath has cooled we can return. It’s the only way.”

“My Lady this is so unlike you…” Myranda paused and bit her lip, “But if this is what you think best…”

Alicent smiled and took her friend’s hand. She knew she could trust her.

“When will you leave?” Myranda asked, her tone changing to that of a child enthralled with a tale.

Alicent giggled, “Arthur hasn’t told me, but it will be soon. Most likely after the tourney.” She released her friend's hand and crossed to her jewelry box atop her dresser. She searched through her collection of necklaces and lockets before grasping a pendent in her hand. She returned to her friend and took her hand once more, this time placing the the pendent in her palm.

“My Lady?” Myranda said shocked.

“I want you to have this, as a gift for your everlasting friendship. Thank you Myranda.” Alicent said with a smile. She embraced her friend in a tight hug before letting her go and standing, “We should return to the faireground before we’re missed.”

Setting- Takes place the day before the melee event.

The skies had transformed from their cheerful blues and welcoming clouds which were present earlier in the week to a dim, dull overcast which signified rains would soon arrive. The temperature had dropped despite it still being a summer day, with the gust from the bay mixing with the sunless air.

Alyx chose to wear his heavier cloak as a result of the change in climate. It brushed the stone steps of the main holdfast as he descended into the courtyard, passing a hedge that created seclusion for the godswood, a small ring with young men-at-arms practicing for the melee event on the morrow, and his castle’s maester taking some sort of measurements under the shade of an elm tree. Alyx strolled past it all, making his way to a tower on the opposite end of the yard where he was told Renly had need of him.

The Bastard of Seagard was the only man Alyx could imagine having the courage to summon their lord as opposed to coming to him, yet he was sure there were others. A small, near-undetectable smile crossed his lips as he thought of his elder natural born brother.

Entering the oak and iron hinged door and then heading up a narrow stairway, Alyx made his way to the chambers Renly used whilst his home was inhabited by Arryns. Choosing to be polite, he knocked on the door of his own keep. It felt like the right thing to do for Alyx; it was strange but despite being raised at Seagard and being its lord, the last nine years away had made it feel as it no longer belonged to him.

“Come in,” the dreary tone of his brother spoke from the other side of the door.

As Alyx entered, Renly was not alone to his surprise. Two men Alyx did not recognize personally yet wore Mallister colors no less stood together near Renly. The expressions they wore resembled that of a ghost- white and lifeless as if they were wights lacking blue eyes.

Any light-heartedness Alyx had felt this morning was washed out of him as he prepared for news he was sure to dread. Glancing away for the two lads, the Lord's gaze found that of Renly, his brother and councilor.

“What’s happened?” He asked, choosing to get straight to it as he knew Renly would prefer.

The two men-at-arms led the lord and his brother through the wooded hills northwest of the tourney ground's limit, stumbling over roots and rocks as if they’d forgotten how to walk.

These boys are terrified…

They had seemed unable to speak back at Seagard, insisting that their lord come see it for himself. Alyx and Renly had not even been able to get names out of the two, however, after some digging, his brother was able to discover they’d been a part of the men patrolling the forests this morning.

Pushing past the sappy branch of a pine, the two leading halted in their tracks. Turning around to face the brothers, the stout one spoke up.

“I-It’s just d-down there m’lord.”

His voice trembled to a point he was near unintelligible, but his hand pointed down into a small valley beneath the hill they stood atop. Massive trunks of various trees and brush of all kind littered the view, making it impossible to see what lie waiting.

Alyx took a few steps forward, but Renly quickly grabbed his shoulder. “Alyx, it’s not safe.”

Turning to face his brother, Alyx’s expression was one of a lord, not a man or brother. It was a demeanor he bestowed when he had to, but he always hated when it was required.

“I will know what is happening in my own lands.” His voice was authoritative and had a slight rasping tone.

Renly arched a brow towards Alyx, but released his grasp and gave a weary nod. The two descended the hill with the other men now following behind, as if they wanted protection from what lied waiting.

As the land began to even out and they came to the valley, Alyx pushed past a bush of wild violet flowers, finding himself in a newly formed field. Several trees as tall taverns lie fallen and broken like the sticks that snapped beneath Alyx’s boot. A portion of the earth seemed charred and dead, more ash than soil with what seemed to be the carcass of a wolf nearby; it was impossible to tell for certain though, only half-remaining and little more than blackened meat and bone.

Alyx’s eyes trailed over the seen, his hand beginning to tremble as he came to realize the only possible source of such a sight. Renly came into the clearing next, brushing past the bush and Alyx before halting himself.

“Gods,” he uttered softly.

The dragon hadn’t left. it was closer now than it had been before the fishermen brought their tales, and not only was it closer, it was hunting.

The missing game had clearly been caused by the beast, and tomorrow, all the lords of Westeros would be wandering the same grounds as those animals and just as exposed. The hunters would become the hunted if the dragon found itself ready for another meal.

His mind rushing and his body frozen, Alyx rapidly ran through any ideas of what they could or should do. It wasn’t until Renly once more clasped Alyx’s shoulder, shaking it and saying, “Alyx!” that he came back to reality.

Meeting his brother’s concerned stare, Alyx’s demeanor was one of stone. “The hunt is canceled. Until further notice, nobody is to enter these woods, regardless of status.”

“Aye brother, but we need to handle this. You must tell the king.”

He was right, Seagard was in danger and Alyx would need assistance, but creating a panic among the thousands of nobles and knights would not help anything. Taking on the expression of the lord once more, he made a decision.

“We need to get through the next two days. The tourney is nearly complete, and once it is, we can inform his Grace of the dragon’s activity.”

“But Al-”

“Two days,” Alyx cut Renly off. “I will tell him after the feast. The king can’t afford for this tourney to sour, we must do our best to prevent that.” Pausing a moment and glancing at the greenboys who were supposed to be warriors, Alyx breathed heavily as he made a difficult choice. “We will need to double patrols throughout the Cape as well... We need to find the beast before it finds us.”

Renly nodded slowly, a grim look covering his face, “Yes, My Lord.” The two boys in Mallister armor cowered as they stood in the burned and broken field.

"Just can't stay away from her, can ya?"

The voice was familiar, but as Jayne peered around her, she saw only the many tents of the Stormlands.

It was the morning after her night with Arianne, a night she had a difficult time with, to say the least. She never wanted to let go of her, and her hands had very much agreed with her mind even after Arianne had to leave for the melee. Jayne left later so as not to bring up too much suspicion, although it apparently wasn't enough for Brenett, who showed himself moments later.

"Are you stalking me now?" Jayne asked him, heaving a sigh as she watched Brenett sway with each step. "You're drunk this early?"

Brenett rolled his eyes. "This is where I stay, Princess. I'm from the Stormlands, remember? Why do you think I've been trying to warn you about the Baratheons?"

"Tell me, Brenett," Jayne said, crossing her arms. "Why should I avoid them? Why should I avoid Arianne, specifically? I've done well not to heed your warnings thus far."

"Arianne's a Baratheon," Brenett shrugged. "Baratheons are heartless. All of 'em. Care only about themselves."

"And you would know?" Jayne asked.

Brenett smiled at her, chuckling for a bit. "I would. I share their blood, after all." He seemed to revel in Jayne's deteriorating expression, from smug to blank. "Ah, you weren't expecting that, were ya?" His grin remained as his eyes grew wider in his drunkenness, tilting his head to one side as he said, "I'm a Baratheon!" He then feigned his own shock, widening his grin before returning to chuckling. "Not a real Baratheon, no, just a bastard of a bastard of a fuckin' idiot. Oh, I've done everything. Thought I might try and get accepted back in the day. Thought they'd spare some pity for one of their mistakes. That made me the fuckin' idiot."

"So you still wouldn't know enough about Arianne," Jayne concluded. "You've had bad experiences with some of the Baratheons. That doesn't mean all of them are bad. Arianne certainly isn't."

"Oh yeah?" Brenett laughed. "Didn't even taste bad?"

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

"And I'm going to pretend you did all the things I imagine you would with her... A falcon and a stag, that certainly is an interesting match."

Jayne groaned with a hand on her forehead, asking, "What do you want, Brenett?"

"I dunno..." he said, walking closer as he examined her form intently. "You're pretty. You like Stormlanders. You like women... Not too many of you in high places. Not as high as the Eyrie, anyway. Why do you think I'm dressed like this? Helps with getting into tourneys, sure, but... I look damn good as a man. Even when other men say I look like a child, women don't see it that way. They've often never met a man so dashing. A man who knows them... knows what they like... A man who doesn't want to buck his hips into their arse for five minutes and walk away."

"So you are a woman," Jayne said. "Not enough pride in who you are to attend a joust as one, though."

"Pride isn't for bastards," she retorted. "And no congratulations for being the only woman left in the joust? I'm wounded. You wound me, Princess Falcon."

"I wouldn't betray my brother by praising another competitor."

Brenett walked even closer, her face only a foot's distance from her own. "You've already betrayed your family," she said, her tone softer and smoother, no longer deepened for the sake of her identity. "Sleeping with a Baratheon woman... calling a Connington precisely what she was... consorting with a bastard pretending to be a boy... You're terrible, Jayne." Her face grew even closer, the side of her lips barely curled into a smile. "If only I'd known how terribly they raised their daughters in the Vale before I kissed one..."

Jayne hadn't moved until she felt Brenett's hand slowly make its way behind her shoulder and up her neck, holding onto the back of her head moments before their lips would have met. When she did move, she saw the disappointment in Brenett's eyes, smile still barely remaining.

"I can't..." Jayne said, shaking her head. "I can't..."

"Tourney rules, Princess..." Brenett said to her after distance had been gained. "It only lasts for the tourney..."

"No," Jayne said immediately. "It can last longer. It can be special."

"She doesn't love you," Brenett went on. "You're her tourney girl. I'm sorry, Jayne, but you're dealing with a veteran. Do you think this is the first time she's done this?"

"I don't know what I'm doing!" Jayne exclaimed, helpless confusion taking over the majority of her face. "But... I love her. I don't want to leave her..."

"I did warn you..." Brenett said under her breath.

"As if you didn't have the same intentions?"

"Yes, but I'm not nearly as lovable."

Jayne closed her eyes and shook her head, hanging it down as she held a held a hand to it. "Have fun in the joust, Brenett..." she breathed.

Before she could turn around, Brenett raised a hand, saying, "My name is Brea, by the way. Brea Storm. I've no real home to go back to after the tourney ends, so I'll be staying longer than most. I'll only be drunk again if I lose the joust. Or if I win the joust. Or if there is no joust. As long as it's after the joust..."

"That's good to know, Brea," Jayne said. "It was nice meeting you."

Intentionally loud breaths filled the tent from Aliandra's bed, which hadn't once been empty since it was placed there. A canopy of pink hung over the top of it, while sheets of blue had encompassed the mattress itself. There were tables and chairs set up all around the bed, which had been set in the very center of the tent with room left open to walk a circle around it.

Beneath Aliandra was a Summer Islander girl, one of a few she had taken with her to the tourney. Jassayha was her name, a Summer Islander and student of the many arts Aliandra and the others at Sandstone taught. While she would normally have a quill in hand or a tune on her tongue, passions had led them both to the brief retreat of Aliandra's bed. Jassayha's ear was tucked pleasantly between Aliandra's teeth as her hands ran further down her back. They were both still clothed, Aliandra in her typical orange and Jassayha still wearing the gown of green she had arrived in.

Walking in with her full set of iron and leather armor, lined with fur to shield against the cold of the northern kingdoms, was Xanay, taking a deep breath at the sight of the tent's interior. She had set up her own smaller tent nearby, and then there was Nymos's tent, which was frequented by their two knights, Vorian and Ulwyck.

"Is this where you've been?" Xanay asked, drawing the attention of both girls on the bed. "You've been missing the melee."

"There is too much violence," Aliandra replied honestly. She had never been one for fighting, not like that. If it wasn't in the graceful form of a dance or distilled into a form of art, she had no intentions of watching it. "I came to enjoy the people of Westeros, not watch them throw steel at one another."

"Even though it's a tradition in these parts? Don't you want to learn more about them?"

Aliandra moved closer to Jassayha, gesturing with her hand for Xanay to sit there with them. Reluctantly, she obliged, making sure to stay a safe distance away from the two.

"I love and respect the traditions of Westeros, sister," Aliandra began to explain. "But it remains that I can seek more enjoyment here in my bed with a lovely lady... or two. If the ring they use to fight within was used instead to make love within... if the dirt beneath their feet was instead cushions and covers... if their weapons of steel were instead brushes and their shields were instead palettes..."

"Wars have never been won with a painted canvas..." Xanay said in her naivete. "They were fought. What they do in the ring and on the field is honoring those battles that were won and showing the strength of each competitor."

Aliandra shrugged gently, turning to Jassayha to give the girl a turn to speak. She smiled back at her knowingly.

"We do not honor those traditions in the Summer Isles," she said, resting her head on Aliandra's shoulder. "War is an awful thing. It once ravaged our islands and turned brother against sister for generations. Innocents were slain and raped, entire villages were torn to the ground, we were left weak and incapable of defending ourselves, for we could not even defend our own neighbor who may have wanted to slit our throats.

"Those stories were not passed down to scare us, but to warn us. We will not fall victim to the ways of the world again."

"And when the world brings its ways to you?" Xanay asked, a look of genuine curiosity betraying a tone of harsh judgment.

"We will fight them in our way," Jassayha answered. "With a row of bows along the sides of our ships and coasts. Spears to their hearts, swords to their necks. Nobody would be foolish enough to sail for the Summer Isles with conquest in their hearts. We know this. And so we welcome those brave enough to come and shelter those who would need it. Is peace not preferable to war?"

Xanay grimaced, looking off to one side. "This isn't the Summer Isles. This is the Riverlands, and our home is in Dorne. We fight for Prince Calon and King Baelon. I'm only saying that we should remember that."

Giving her a warm smirk, Aliandra moved closer to her sister, taking one of her hands in hers. "Good change never comes without good," she said. "I want to be that good in this world. In hundreds of years, thousands of years, the world may finally have that good change. I know you have been in the Stormlands and I know you have been in the Reach, but I only hope that you do not give up on peace."

She saw Xanay's face twist into an uncomfortable mess until she took a deep breath, answering, "No, I haven't given up on peace. But I'm not so naive to think that peace can come without any violence."

Aliandra raised her sister's hand to her lips and planted a soft kiss on the back of it. "We must give faith that violence is not the answer to solve our problems. Only when that faith is exhausted can we resort to such atrocities."

Xanay nodded, but her answer was no less worrying. "I'm merely preparing for when that faith is exhausted. Let's hope I'll be ready for nothing."

With a sigh, Aliandra replied, "Let us hope."

Viserra cried out in pain as the place where her left eye used to be was exposed and underneath Penny's medicine. She could practically smell the pain, her nose having long forgotten the scent of the herbs Penny was using despite them being on her face.

"I hate you!" Viserra cried out, her arms and legs held firmly against her bed.

"It'll fester if I don't do anything," Penny replied, removing a bit of Viserra's skin around the socket. "I know you don't want your head to rot."

"I want you to rot in all seven hells!"

Dorea chuckled as she stood at the other end of the bed, keeping her feet held firmly down. "Careful now, you might make me want to join your crew."

Nymeria sat beside Viserra on the bed, a soothing hand running along her arm as if it made anything better. When a wet cloth was pressed against her empty eye, Viserra screamed as loud as she could from the unimaginable stinging pain that traveled through her entire head.

And then, she felt numb. The pain was vanishing quickly, as was her mind.

With a hand gently caressing her side, Viserra awoke. She must have had a dream, but she couldn't remember anything save for being alone in an ocean. However peaceful it may have been, it was just as disheartening.

Her eye had been bandaged once more, and little pain could be felt from it. Nymeria was half asleep beside her, her head tucked against her arm.

When she tried to sit up, Nymeria's arm stiffened around her ever so slightly. "Don't get up too quickly," she murmured. "You still need rest."

Viserra opened her mouth to talk, but no sound could travel from her throat. She couldn't be sure if she simply couldn't manage the effort or if her screams had ruined her voice.

"Awfully funny," Dorea muttered as Meg glanced at her. "Nymeria coddling the girl like she was her mother. I'd say you'd be better off as lovers since she doesn't like the ladies..."

"Dorea, stop," Nymeria said in a tone Viserra had yet to hear. It was that of a serious nature, a personal one.

"What are you going on about?" Meg asked, sitting in her usual chair as Dorea was leaned against the wall across the room. "Nymeria is a lady."

Dorea's smile only grew. "Strip her naked and tell me that again."

"Dorea!" Nymeria spat, her face turning just slightly redder. "I said stop."

"If this is between the two of you, take it elsewhere," said Meg. "Viserra doesn't need to listen to you bicker like lords and ladies."

"Only one lord here," Dorea grumbled as Nymeria shot her a wicked glare. "How long are we waiting for, anyway? Feels like our dragon captain isn't getting any better."

"You try taking a knife in the eye sometime," Meg replied. "See if you can recover in two week's time."

Dorea sighed loudly, slumping down to the floor with her back still against the wall. "I was going to start my own Sun Serpent once. Maybe I would've called it Moon Camel or Fuck Leo. I never got around to it, but I had a hell of a time trying."

"What was wrong with this one?" Meg asked, to which Nymeria sighed, seemingly knowing the answer already.

Dorea shrugged. "You know I love you, Nymeria, but this was meant to be for women." With that, she made her way out the door, closing it behind her to a quiet room of three.

Viserra turned her head to face Nymeria, even though she still felt as though the world around her was only there by her own imagining. She could have come to her senses at any moment and realize that none of this had happened and she wouldn't bat an eyelash.

She took Nymeria's hand in her own, squeezing with what little strength she had.

"Were you two lovers once?" Meg asked, ending the silence abruptly. "You and Dorea, I mean."

"We weren't," Nymeria answered. "She was here when I first arrived. Leo accepted me as a woman and promised that I would be taken care of the same as any of her other women. Many here didn't like that. Some left because of me. One woman beat me... humiliated me in front of everyone... Leo snapped her jaw in the act and nobody has laid a finger on me since."

"I don't think I understand..." Meg admitted. "Why wouldn't you be treated as any other woman?" She chuckled to herself a bit. "Are you hiding a cock under there?"

When Nymeria didn't respond, instead looking away hesitantly, Meg's smile from laughter quickly faded into that of a grave stare.

"Oh..." she uttered, returning to her silence.

Still unsure if anything was real or not, Viserra decided not to think about it. The hand she held was a gentle one, its fingers sliding between her own. It was relaxing, helping to take her mind off of things.

Her head began to tilt to one side of her pillow as she welcomed the silence, finding herself once again giving into slumber.

When her eyes next opened, it wasn't to that of Nymeria or Meg. The face she saw standing over her belonged to none other than Leo herself. Her arms were crossed, her green eyes gazing with an intensity of a scorned mother. She had never known any man to be as tall as this woman, nor as large. She towered high above Viserra, even if she had been standing, and her arms were as thick as three or more of her own. Viserra had been told stories from long ago about the giants that once inhabited Westeros, but she never expected to meet anyone close to that description. It made her wonder if Leo mounted a mammoth instead of a horse.

"Hello, Princess," she said to her. "You should know that you speak more freely in your sleep than you do in your wake. Nymeria tells me many things about you. Many interesting things. You were living in Sunspear for half of your life?"

Viserra felt her heart speed up right away at hearing the confirmation of what Leo knew. She shuddered to think of what else Nymeria had gotten out of her. How could she even have mentioned that in her sleep?

"You have been alone," Leo continued. "Fighting. Whoring. Holding onto gold like it was your life."

"Is there something you want to tell me?" she asked, relieved at least to learn that it wasn't as much of an effort to speak up.

"Was your child born of a paying man or a loving man?"

Gritting her teeth, she stared ahead of her to the white canopy of her bed. "I don't have a child," she lied.

"That is a shame," Leo responded. "A shame that you would lie to your owner. It was not Nymeria who heard you say this, after all. It was the one we call the Stray. You have met her more than once. Long before you spoke to her at the tavern known as the Severed Bone. She has been watching you, Dragonfly. She has been watching Sunspear. You have a child, I know this. What I did not know is that you wanted her back. Women like you... Women who are afraid to tell me what they want. That is why I have women like Nymeria. The true desire of a woman, beyond what one decides to tell you... That is why the Sun Serpent exists. You say you want gold, but gold cannot love. What you desire is family. Your own flesh and blood."

She leaned down slightly, placing a massive hand over her chest, unwavering even at the sight of Viserra's horrified interest. "I will help return your flesh and blood to you. This I can promise. The world is not safe for little ones. Not out there. A girl needs her mother. But her mother must be of the Sun Serpent. She must be mine."

Little Asha...

She missed her so much. More than Leo could ever know. Her dreams of that lost little girl with no mother...

"I nearly died," Viserra said, averting her eyes from Leo's. "On the Firedancer... If Lysandro had driven the dagger any deeper, I wouldn't be talking to you now. I wouldn't have the chance to see Asha again. She's in the care of her father, Calon Martell, the man I once loved. I thought she would be safest there, but I couldn't stay. Not there. I always intended on coming back to her someday, once I was rich beyond imagination, but I didn't consider my own mortality. She was all I could think of while I was laying in that bed, waiting to reach Dorne, nearly dead."

A surprise even to her, she began crying. Hardly at all, but enough for a tear to roll down her cheek and for her lips begin to quiver. "I bet she's so beautiful now... I wanted to be beautiful for her when I returned. Instead..." Instead, she had become practically monstrous. An eyepatch was no look for a princess, nor was it a look for a golden Targaryen.

"Fine," Viserra finally spat out. "You want to own me? So be it. But if you ever ask that of my daughter, it will be the end of you." She still knew that Leo would never truly own her, of course. Once she had Asha, she could sail away on the Firedancer to somewhere better. Lys, perhaps. Anywhere her daughter dreamed of.

Leo placed her hand on top of Viserra's head, nearly encompassing it entirely. "Welcome to the Sun Serpent, Dragonfly. I would add that your Targaryen house has just gained a powerful new ally, but I think there is no such thing anymore. Maybe we will have to form a new one. House Dragonfly. Its castle is its ship, its lady is its captain."

Despite her disdain for the woman, Viserra found herself smiling at the thought of it. "House Dragonfly," she mused. "No... If I were to name a house, it would be Goldfyre. Anything to slap the face of the fake ruling house."

Laughing, Leo moved her hand from her head down to her shoulder, giving her a quick pat before saying, "This is what I had hoped from a golden dragonfly! We will work well together- this, I promise you.

Viserra had already had enough of promises. Her own were just as empty as everyone else's, and to think otherwise was to be played out of everything she had. She could use this woman, but working with someone who would wish to own her was not something she had in mind.

394 AC

It had been only weeks since her Lady Mother had died and the household of House Grafton had been without a chief lady to command the court. It had been weeks since the death of her mother Lady Aemma had taken Gulltown by storm, and the men and women of their stout city cried out, and the bells tolled for a legendary woman who would never walk this good earth again.

Every day, Meredyth went down to the Sept. It was a small, scrawny thing on the southern end of Gulltown, on a small hill overlooked by the mountains that surrounded the small bay they were fastened in – small mountains, but shrouding all the same. Only one hour of the day did the Sept truly shine.

That was when she went, for that was when the Septon – blessed be the man who took the name Archibald - spoke that the Seven truly shined on them, and listened to their prayers. It was there that she demanded to be alone, allowed to pray where the common rabble would have to pay their respects another time, or better yet, wait their turn.

Every day was like this, after her mother’s death. Every day, a constant repeat of the day before. For who would know more about repetitiveness than Lady Meredyth herself, quiet Meredyth, who was so content to live behind the walls of her castle while her mother wasted away from an illness that had taken her by storm?

She prayed to all the Seven for forgiveness. Her mother was a remarkable woman, and she hoped, through regret and pain, that she would be as good a woman as her, and live through her example – though she knew this was clearly not the case.

Meredyth had given birth to four boys, and only one had lived. Four lordly boys, and a girl who had died just moments after birth. Compared to her mother it was a terrible record, her mother who lived through two marriages and birthed no more than six children each of which seemed terribly strong and large. All of my children are small and weak, she reflected. And I have but one.

Her Terrence.

He was only four years old, but Gods was he growing. Whenever her husband ordained to speak to her, he spoke much of his son’s triumphs – he was remarkably learned for a four year old, and he was growing by the day. His speech was no longer slurred, and he spoke in full, clear sentences, as a lord should.

Her boy would accompany her sometimes, and so would her husband, though rarely. He worshipped the queer Goddess of Lys, a woman who was more a queen for whores than any paragon of virtue. Sometimes at night he would whisper that much in her ear: That she would be blessed by the Goddess of Lys herself.

But she was not blessed. She would never be blessed.

The day would go on as it always did, and when she was done, she would think to herself -- This has done much, but I know that they will never listen to me. They never did. Regardless, with the time for brooding over, it was time to go see her son.

He was where she always found him, playing at swords with the Master-at-Arms or knights with his cousin three years his younger. Whether in the court or the yard, or the gardens or in his chambers, he was always doing one of those two things.

Her husband preferred to stay away from the manse of Gulltown but she found him here too today, speaking with her brother. She was on her way to her son when she chanced upon them in the halls. Her brother, Gyles, who always managed to look so happy was for once looking less than pleased. “Sister, we’ve been looking for you.” His tone was grave, his face shrouded by shadows.

“What is it?” She could feel a sudden pang take hold of her. “Is it Terrence?”

“No. Something terrible has happened.”

She wondered for a moment what they could possibly mean. There had been a time where she hadn’t thought the world a terrible place, but that was before she had wedded, and before her mother died.

“My sister has died,” her husband said sadly. “She too, it seems, has been taken by the sickness of recent.” His accent was so thick of Lyseni that she ignored all thoughts of his sister for a moment and thought of her distaste for him; a man whom she’d once loved, promised to her in secret.

“Oh no,” Meredyth said. “Oh, Gods, no. When?” She tried to hide the contempt from her voice. She had never truly liked her sister-in-law by her husband, and she had always been a sickly woman, prone to all the illness that wormed its way up from the sewers. Sometimes, Meredyth even chanced to forget her name.

“Last evening. They did not find her, and could not come, until just an hour ago.”

Meredyth let her eyes flutter shut. “My dear husband,” she said, saddened. His sister had come here for a visit, not to die. “I am so very sorry.” And when she closed the distance between them, her hand reached out to his, and she kissed each of his knuckles one by one. “What can this mean? Will she be buried here?”

Gyles was frowning. Her brother was a square, pudgy man, with a big bronze beard that went half way down his chest. He looked stocky in his tunic and breeches, while her husband, slender, with tanned skin and no facial hair to speak of, was slightly handsome with a rogueish physique.

“She will be buried in the Sept, honored by the Goddess of Lys, and the Seven,” her husband proclaimed.

“As it was meant to be,” Gyles said loudly. “She shall have the funeral of a noblewoman, I promise you, and I shall call that the smallfolk honor her blessed name.”

As they did mother, she thought. This woman was not worthy of my mother, and she is not worthy of the prayers you decree she shall have.

Were she a ruler, things would be much different around here, and for a moment, she thought of what that would be like – deciding only after a moment that she’d dislike it fervently, and only a disaster would truly force her to the head of her family. Gyles was young, and his wife, the Lady Rohanne, had proven her fertility time and time again.

Terrors seem to be striking more now than ever. There were old folktales she could recall of dead roaming the woods beyond Gulltown, but those lands had been scoured for some time, and the roads were more than safe. Still, she thought. I would not be surprised if a whole army showed just beyond Gulltown on the morrow.

Gods, she thought once again. What has become of me?

“Will you accompany me, sweet wife?” Her husband asked her. Myrio, she remembered. His name is Myrio. A decidedly Essosi name. “I would have you by my side, if you would but consent.”

She turned a thoughtful glance to her brother. Like many, he knew of the divide between her and Myrio. He was looking away, to some of the tapestries on the walls.

“Certainly,” Meredyth said after a moment. “I would be honored.”

They carried down the halls for a short time before Meredyth spoke. “Has Terrence been informed?”

“He knows already,” Gyles said. “He seems saddened, but who knows the mind of a boy, and at his age, nonetheless? He is a child, and doesn’t know the workings of the world.”

“… And the terrors that lie without,” she murmured, and when her husband turned to her to ask what it was she said, she shook her head with a grimace. “Oh, nothing, nothing.”

By the time they reached the end of the hall, Meredyth thought the day could not get any worse. “I fear we need a respite from this all,” Gyles suggested, turning to her. His eyes were a big bright blue. “Will you hawk with me tonight, sweet sister? And you, brother?”

She just wanted to be alone. Was that too much to ask?

“Alas,” her husband drawled in his thick accent. “I fear I must help make arrangements for my sister’s funeral. No doubt her attendants will be looking for new spots in this strange land. I had hoped that they would become my wife’s ladies.”

That thought enticed her, and made her perk up. “Are they well trained?” Was the first thought that came to mind, and the oddest. She had been lacking a household for some time, after her mother had departed. Perhaps she could create a new one, here, now, with the money her brother loaned her?

“Oh, certainly,” Myrio said. “My sister always demanded the best of her servants, and her ladies are certain to be very beautiful and talented.”

She swallowed. “I will accompany you, brother,” she said, “but only after I meet these women.”

===

She was itching with excitement as her husband led her down the steps towards the roads of Gulltown, her guard taking part behind her. It was clear that she was to be leading, and them to follow – four stout men sworn to her service before her brother, who oversee her personal protection while within the city. Though nobility was hardly touched, it was not unknown the resentment between commoner and noblewoman, and she knew she was not beloved, what with the happenings earlier in the day.

Regardless, the streets were quiet. A misty haze had taken hold of Gulltown, with the skies a dull grey, and everyone was taken to their homes, eager to be off the cobbled streets. She didn’t blame them. There was always something eerie about this mist, but the maester had assured her for certain that this was a natural event, and not something brought out of superstition.

Her husband made no comment on it. He had explained to her countless times over her marriage that these were common things in Lys and Essos, and that the Rhoynar had once lived in a civilization dependent upon the mist. Susperstition, she thought. But what was this? More superstition, based in reality?

Myrio had a residence in Gulltown of his own. Too had he explained that he could not spend every night with her, and not every night at the castle proper either. His home was something grand, bordering on a manse, with half the grandeur of a proper Westerosi house, and tenfold the queer designs. It stood twice as tall as the houses bordering it – he had purchased this lot cheap, and erected it as a testament to his family’s wealth and power far away from here.

He had come to learn that he did not have that much leverage in Westeros. But he had wedded a Westerosi woman, and of noble birth too, so she supposed he didn’t have it so bad, did he? Her marriage to him had secured a viable and strong trading partner in the east, and she had been the subject of that.

She looked to her husband, thinking of him. He had come to her a charmer, full of wit, but after years, she had come to know his real person. He was as terrible as the stories were, and his touch was so, so cold.

That did not mean they could not act cordial with one another, though, and perhaps even flirtatious. They had many years of marriage left.

Once they came to the gates of Myrio’s manse, they were opened by two seemingly paid thugs, each of whom garbed in black. He had only two guards, but a dozen attendants, and when the doors opened to herald him, he spoke – “Where is my sister?”

“In the Sept, my lord,” once of the servants said, bowing low. “Where you asked the Silent Sisters to take her.”

He looked perplexed for a moment before nodding on. “And her ladies? Are they well? Where have they taken to?”

“They are in her presence chamber,” says another. “They have taken to prayer.”

Quietly her husband led her up a flight of stairs and into his sister’s presence chamber, a decidedly small thing, with a table and a few tapestries, a few sofas and a window overlooking the yard. Light glimmered on the forlorn walls, the color of black against polished stone. Her ladies were waiting in there, women of older age and women of youth. Some of them, she knew, had tried to seduce her husband, and more than one was hoping. They were beauties, each and every one of them.

And if she owned them…

“My ladies,” Myrio said, watching as they rose. They each had different features, she realized. One by one they bowed to her or her husband, muttering words she could barely hear, condolences and some others. “You have served my sister well,” he said after a time. “And it’s better now that I put you in service of someone else I trust. For the time, you will become the first of my wife’s ladies.”

There was a startled murmur, begrudging acceptance, and some nods. She looked over them all, wondering which names were going to be harder to pronounce.

“I promise I will be a good lady to you all,” Meredyth said. “And that you shall always have a warm bed.” It was natural procedure, and when she bowed her head to them, she turned to her husband, who smiled softly. “Will you direct them, or should I?”

“Better you, I’d think.”

“Will you come with me tonight? You are certain you can’t come with us?”

“I am certain,” Myrio says, sighing regrettably. “You must enjoy your night. I fear that you have not had many of recent. Perhaps your ladies should accompany you?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “I think I should like that.”

===

The ladies did, in fact, accompany her. As her brother was getting ready to do some hawking, his personal companions Ser Lewys and Ser Alyn dressed for the occasion, readying their horses, she too readied herself. Her ladies knew little of hawking, so she’d take the lead today, atop her horse Aldeib, a silent white mare, the calmest horse she’d ever known.

They got the lame pick of the stables. Older horses, but steady and true. “Soon, you will get to pick your own,” she assured them. “I have raised Aldeib since I was but a child, and she is faithful and true.”

Finally, when they were all mounted on their horses, and their hawks cages had been brought to them, Gyles assembled his retinue of twenty men and led them out the gates of the castle and into the streets, out of Gulltown, and into the country beyond.

Though Gulltown was surrounded by cliffs and mountains from all sides, beyond those mountains lingered great valleys and beautiful orchards and farms. Narrow paths led a million ways outwards – towards the Eyrie, or towards the coast, or towards Runestone. They took the path that led towards one of the higher perches, riding for an hour here and there, until the sun had cleared and come out in the sky.

The sky shone a beautiful rich blue color, and she felt it’s heat on her skin, smiling at it.

Her hawks gave a cry as if to herald the coming of the sun. Her ladies turned their heads from it, but Meredyth kept her head straight, eyes following her brother as she rode up beside him. “Where are you taking us?” She wondered aloud. “We’ve gone further than we always do.”

“I wanted to show you some sights,” he said. “I thought it might brighten your mood.”

“My mood?” She asked, raising a brow.

“Indeed,” he said, shrugging. “Seems to me you’ve been sorrowful as of late, dear sister, and what with all that is going on I thought I might wish to make you happy again, after so many days of sadness.”

No one can make me happy again, she thought. But it was worth a try.

“Very well,” she said. “But it feels like we’re already half way to Runestone. Have you sent for Lord Royce, telling him that we’re on our way?”

He chuckled. “We’re almost there, sister. Almost there.”

And when they arrived, just shy of an hour later, she was granted the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. They were perched atop a hill, with the view of the valley floor just beyond. It extended for miles, clear trees inviting farmsteads and scattered villages all around. It wasn’t just pretty – it was more than that.

It was the perfect field for hawking.

And hawk they did. She showed her ladies how best to do it, promising that in time, should they serve her well, they will each have a hawk of their own, and would join her. Perhaps one of them would end up teaching her son one day, or maybe even one of their sons, should they wed.

It went on for ages, but those ages passed in a minute. It was but sundown before they were packing up and ready to leave, Meredyth feeling more alive than she had in the three weeks since her mother died. They packed up, and were on their way back, Meredyth beside her brother when a great chill took over her.

There was a narrow pass ahead that they had traversed easily coming here, but would have difficulty with returning. It was a risk her brother had taken, and with the chill in the air, worsening it all, she thought, please let us be safe, for I can take no more heartbreak.

She thought of her death, and what it might mean. Why did this seem so dangerous, all of a sudden? Was it the steep slope, the trees nearby, or the cold?

She clutched her reins tight, and asked her brother, “May I take the lead?”

“Lead away, sister. You know this place best, I think.”

The truth was that she’d never been here, but she had studied it as carefully as she could on their ascent. It would bring them dangerously low to a cliff, and… Don’t think of it. And yet she did, and when she did, she grew so much in fear that her legs stiffened. One horse tumbles, and…

She looked back. She always trusted her Aldeib, and she knew she had nothing to fear.

Except she did. That cool, that chill; that growing chill, so strong it seemed to take hold of her and strangle her. “Sister,” Gyles suddenly called, loudly. “Watch! Aldeib!”

She turned her head, and –

Something happened. It happened so fast, all of it. Shouting, screaming. She’d fallen from her horse, and her leg was on fire. It was in so much pain, so, so much pain, it must assuredly be broken; what else was happening? Her head hurt, and she was dizzy. So much was happening, and those screams…

Oh… those screams.

When darkness consumed her, she fell into a dreamless sleep, and when she woke, she woke to pain. Pain in her sides, and mostly, in her knees. She was in a bed of some sorts, in a room of dim light, and she heard voices that made her ears ring as soon as she’d woken. “She’s awake!” They called, their voices uniquely feminine. “She’s awake!”

It was Myrio who came in to see her, concern etched across his face. He looked down at her, eyes wide. “My wife! My sweet wife!” He kneeled beside the bed, took his hands and placed them on her cheeks, kissing her forehead. “Oh, thank all the Gods you are well. We thought we lost you too.”

“Too?”

The word rushed suddenly from her lips. “Too?” She repeated again, and her husband’s face turned grave. “Too?”

“Dear…” His voice was warm and quiet. “My poor, sweet wife. I am very sorry.”

Oh, no, she thought. Oh, Gods, not…

“Your brother died last night, of his injuries. His passing was as peaceful as we could make it.”

The words pierced through Meredyth’s heart like an arrow, and sucked the soul from her. Of course, she thought lazily. Of course. And she thought back to what had happened – her ladies would have answers as to what happened. What of Aldeib? She could feel tears in her eyes, and Myrio brushed them away silently, head bowed.

And here I lay, feeling like my life, as if the pain I’m feeling could ever translate into this heartache, has shattered into a million pieces.

(Before Melee)

Christor was venturing around Seagard, it was a beautiful place. His squire Aedan and his sister Tali were accompanying him. The scent of bread was on the air, and nearby was a bakery. They approached it, "My lord" Aedan said as they passed "My Stomachs a' rumbling, whats stopping us from getting from getting us some food?" hey continued. "Yeah!" Tali chimed in, "It won't take to long, I promise I wont threaten anybody who looks at me the wrong way for 2 days! Please Brother?". Christor was in a good mood, he relented and said "Your paying the next time we stop, Tali. Ok?" "Fine, there are plenty of rich people I can steal from." she replied. they stopped and got some bread. half an hour passed and they were ready to explore again, Aedan asked "Where to next?" but was met with a "I Have no Fuckin' idea where we are right now." by Christor.

It certainly was true that the men of House Mertyns were trained to be warriors, but that did not mean that they concerned themselves much with tournaments. Instead, true to their words, they would wait until their watch was truly called, and use their prowess on the battlefield in fulfilment of their duties. Nonetheless, Lord Lomas, along with his own offspring and his sister Shireen, had made his way to the tournament, rather in his function as Master of Coin, and thus retainer of King Baelon I Blackfyre, and not in that as an anointed knight.

Lord Lomas’ skill, like for many knights of Mistwood, who had historically kept to themselves, their mark of distinction rather being their inclination for learning, was not widely known, and during the tournament, little of that state changed. He had desisted from any participation in the contests, save for the Archery, in which others had been better prepared, and more successful, though, first of all Lord Bolton, who had won the prize. As for the Melee and the Joust, he instead opted to merely view the competition from the stands, his kin lined up beside him.

As much as it had shown that Lord Lomas had not focussed all that much on his martial skill in preparation of the tournament, the other half of any Mertyns scion’s education certainly was not neglected - often, Lomas would withdraw to his chambers within the castle of Seagard, where he had been housed as a member of the Small Council, whereas other men of his rank would have to fall back on rooms in inns - with a busy trading port such as Seagard nearby, likely just as comfortable ones, for those who were wont to spend their coin on such benefits - or pavilions surrounding the tourney grounds, like the ones where House Mertyns’ retainers dwelt, household knights that had come in the expectation of some glory, or simply in service to their lord, but had not accomplished to proceed to the upcoming round of the Joust.

There, in his chambers, Lomas stored some of the books he had brought from King’s Landing, some hailing from Mistwood, with which he had achieved the very first of his administrational skills, mainly as books of reference during his work, since knowledge always encompassed those fields, as well, of which one merely knew where they were codified and could be looked up, some procured in King’s Landing, where a greater supply existed, on all areas of his duties, stretching from legal works, over ones on accounting, to those that informed of the economies of the various areas of the Realm.

Tomes were stacked on Lomas’ desk, as were scrolls, and parchments holding documents that he had not wanted to trust in the hands of his assistants back in the capital, as well as sheets of fresh paper for writing letters, should the necessity arise - and that was certainly a possibility. After all, many visitors from all over the Realm had come to Seagard, among them those that would likely not have come to the Capital, and therefore, they might use the opportunity inbetween the contests to attend the members of the Small Council that had come, as well, to bring before them their cases - and as Lomas did not shun additional work in a time in which much of his daily business in the Capital was performed by his assistants, anyway, he had instructed the guards to let through visitors who had business to discuss with them, of course once they had assured they were unarmed.

Shireen had watched the contests that had occurred, so far, in their entirety, for little else would have been to do for her as a maiden, when most of the eligible men were competing, and most of her fellow maidens were watching them, as well. She could not recall whether there had been some point in her life at that she had been as excited over the competitors as young maidens were wont to be, wishing to be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty, and, if there was too much competition for her in that regard, at least admiring the knights that came second and third, and even if she once had been, those days were past for her. Shireen did watch the Archery, the Melee, the beginning of the Joust, with some interest, but there was no enthusiasm, or impression made on her by martial prowess.

How Shireen could be impressed, she was not certain herself, but she did know that her requirements to be met were rather high ones, comparatively. When she did not remain in her chambers, reading in her books, or pondering on abstract questions, oftentimes for longer than her brother usually did, she made her way to the public parts of the castle of Seagard, where the feasts would take place, and the knights would mayhaps pass by, as far as they were able after the straining competition. Mayhaps some of the competitors would find interest in a lady that did not blush at every look, and did not exclaim excitedly at everything remotely interesting happening on the tourney grounds; with an even greater ‘mayhaps’, Shireen would reciprocate that interest; or mayhaps simply one of the fellow ladies would provide her with some conversation that did not consist of hearing aloud with her inner voice what she read in her scrolls.

Welcome to month four of the ADOIAF voting thread! This is where anyone can vote in the comments below for their favorite posts of the past month, and also which character deserves to have their wiki profile featured on the sidebar!

Voting should go as followed:

1. Your favorite post of the month.
2. Who you think deserves to be featured on the sidebar.
3. What you're most looking forward to. (Optional)

Let the voting commence!

This was already posted in the State of the Realm post, but we've made adjustments and turned it into its own post for visibility (and stickied it).

The Blackfyres are available to be claimed! That is, in the following manner:

While apps for non-royal members of the family will be open in our typical app fashion, the princes and princess (Baela, Daeron, Haegon) will have a separate application process. These characters are open to everyone regardless of post count (though, keep in mind that players who control LPs already will not be eligible) and may be applied for by filling out and submitting this application form.

We will be very selective with how our Royal Family is distributed, so know that just because you’re the first to apply for them does not mean that you’ll get them. Applications for the royal family will be open until we receive enough viable applications to begin accepting, so if you're looking to play a member of the royal family, hurry up!

Also, keep in mind that any of these three characters are subject to change depending on what the writer wants to do with them in the future. They will be your character, not ours, so feel free to make them your own!

Now for a little about the Royal Family:

Daeron is the youngest Blackfyre claimant, the son of the previous heir, Maelys Blackfyre, and Baelon’s eldest grandchild. With the typical Valyrian traits, this young man is thought by many to be the true heir to the Iron Throne, though others may disagree. He is currently six-and-ten years old in 400AC.

Haegon is the younger and last remaining son of Baelon and one of the claimants to the Iron Throne. He has violet eyes and his hair is vastly golden as opposed to the silver of the other Blackfyres, however, he does have a single platinum-silver streak running through it. He is known to be less serious than his older sister, Baela, but is likely no less of a threat to take the Iron Throne than either of the other two claimants. He is currently six-and-ten years old in 400AC.

Baela is the oldest living child of Baelon, and although she’s not in the direct line of succession to the throne, it doesn’t mean that she has no claim. She has almost pure silver hair that’s as straight as can be, violet eyes, and very pale skin. She has a strong distaste for her younger brother Haegon and an all-too patient approach with her life as well as her duties, whatever they may be. She is currently three-and-thirty in 400 AC.

As a child Olyvar was prone to sickness, he was forced to spend most of his first eight years stuck in a bed. Watching as the world gave up on him, as his parents moved their focus to their other child, their healthy child.

The one they were sure was going to survive past ten, Victaria. She’d always been smart and beautiful but most of all she was rarely ever sick, even when she was it was never like Olyvar’s. He could recall his sister coming to visit him, a small and weak little boy.

She’d read to him, sometimes even stay with him when he was too afraid to sleep alone. Where his parents failed she did not. Victaria was the sole reason Olyvar keep on fighting, without her he’d likely be dead, at least he likes to tell himself that.

In truth it was the Maesters who nursed the boy back to health, but even while he does not credit them for his survival. He does credit them for everything he’d learned.

As a sickly child, he had nothing else to do but read and learn. He loved nothing more than history, reading about his ancestors or about the great Storm Kings and even the Winged Knight of the Vale.

All valiant, brave and healthy men of high honor. Yet, his favorite knight was not a man, but Brienne of Tarth. Olyvar never cared much about the fact that she was never knighted, knowing if she was a man she’d have been.

What he did care for was her spirit, her unwavering determination even when the rest of the world didn’t believe in her, she believed in herself.

Eventually, Olyvar’s father learned how high he held Lady Brienne and ensured the Maester never let anything about her near his sick son. Lord Axel despised warrior women, thinking them to be out of place.

As if that would help his sick son, but Axel cared not. If his son was to survive he wanted him to look at men like Aegon Targaryen and Aegon Blackfyre as his hero, men who conquered whole kingdoms.

Not a woman who donned men's clothing.

But Olyvar’s guardian angel, Victaria always looked out for him. Victaria had found ways to smuggle in the books for him. Eventually, Olyvar had read everything Goldengrove had to offer, but by then he was strong enough to walk around the castle.

He’d found himself seeking trouble, as he’d never been able to do so before. Olyvar was finally able to dictate his own life, and that drove him to live it with excitement.

By the time he was nine, Olyvar was trouble for his parents and a joy for his sister. Victaria was never one for trouble but she found happiness in the fact that her brother was healthy enough to be. She at times was so excited to see what he’d done or heard of it, that their parents punished them both for it.

At one point, shortly before the Targaryen rebellion. Olyvar had learned about Lord Hightower's wife, a Targaryen beauty. He’d become ten by then, and he was far too troublesome for his parents to control.

Oly had heard how godlike Targaryens looked, how beautiful they were. He wanted to see her in person and knew he could if he planned it right. He’d tried to convince his cousin, Harlan to come with him.

Instead, Harlan ran and told Lord Axel. Who destroyed Olyvar’s dreams once more, for good reasoning. Riding from Goldengrove to Oldtown was dangerous, especially since relations were strained.

And within the month, Olyvar was sent to Highgarden to squire under his uncle. By now he’d become healthy, and had been training in swordsmanship for years. Yet it would be in Highgarden where he was truly able to become himself, a troublesome yet skilled knight.

Olyvar sat with his parents at a table within the pavilion. He’d been called over by his parents after another night out drinking. Had it not been for the early rise, he could have slept a headache away.

Instead, Olyvar was now dealing with an ache and an odd ringing in his ears.

“I’m going to send a letter to Lord Tarly once we arrive back home, you and his daughter will meet and then we’ll see if we can move forward with a betrothal.” Lord Axel said, in his ever so commanding voice.

“Jocelyn Tarly?” Olyvar knew her brothers, he’d squired with one of them and befriended them both. She was basically family, and he’d rather not sour his relationship with her due to a marriage.

“He doesn’t want her, just like all the other beautiful, smart, and eligible girls in the Reach,” His mother said. “I’m sure if we found him a whore from King’s Landing he’d happily marry her”

Olyvar simply rolled his eyes, he’d told them time and time again that he’d pick his own wife. He didn’t care about the politics that came with marriage, Oly didn’t want to end up like his own parents.

Together but not, both of whom had their own bastards. Yet they wished to force him into the same life, one which they gave up on so long ago.

“I’ll find myself a wife, as I’ve done since I fucking came back from Highgarden,” Olyvar said, letting his temper show.

“Watch your language boy, and no. You’ve looked far too long, It’s our turn to pick one for you.” His father said staring his son dead in the eyes.

“Fine! Then please tell me just who you think I should marry. I’m sure you know just who I like” Olyvar said sarcastically. He knew his father would sooner or later tell him anyways, and Oly wanted to jump over all the useless discussion.

“Good, Jocelyn Tarly would make a perfect wife. As would Alicent Tyrell….” Olyvar felt a cold shiver run through his body as he heard her name. It had left him speechless, but not his mother.

“No!” She said in disgust. “The boy was raised beside her, she’s basically a sister to him”

“Alicent is not his sister, she’s his cousin and the sister of the Lord Paramount of the Reach. Not only that but, Olyvar likes being around her. Politics along with whatever feelings he’s searching for”

“I’d love to see you request that to Theo, I’m sure it’ll go swimmingly,” Olyvar said as he rose from his seat, and made his way out the room.

Alicent was more than just a cousin to him, she was his family. More so than his own parents had been, she was his sister, and always would be.

Daeron woke up two weeks ago in a damp cell. He was already informed of his choices. Three fingers or the Night’s Watch. He chose the more merciful of the options.

He was told the Wandering Crow would arrive in a few weeks. He figured now must be the week, considering that the goldcloaks started dragging people out of their cells. Either that or they got tired of the cost of supporting them.

Soon the goldcloaks arrived at his cell and swung open the door. ‘Alright mate, get up. Your new home awaits.’ The guard says with a grin. Daeron got off of the floor of his cell and stood up. ‘That mean the Crow is here then?’

‘As much as I wish it wasn’t true, he’s come to claim you. Along with the other idiots.’ the goldcloak scowls. Daeron walks forward and between the goldcloaks. He begins to walk out of the prison, surrendered to his fate.

At the top of the stairs there is a gruff old man clad in all black waiting at the top for him. ‘Congratulations, you are on your way to becoming a man of the Night’s Watch.’ he says in a thick ironborn accent.

However, Daeron didn’t feel excited. He didn’t think any of them we’re exactly excited. The Wall was an ominous and foreboding place. The wandering wights and pillaging wildlings made it an extremely dangerous place too.

Daeron walked forward to a cart and a goldcloak clapped him in chains. He got in the back and sat down.

‘So, what’d you do mate?’ A rather skinny looking boy said. ‘Robbery. What’d you do?’ Daeron asked him. ‘I, ehhhhh…. stabbed a bloke for nicking my bread. I’m real poor. I needed it.’ the skinny kid said. ‘What’s your name?’ Daeron asked him. ‘Duram. I used to be a Bar Emmon boy but I ran to King’s Landing when I was ten.’ Duram said.

Daeron heard the wandering crow bark some orders at the front of the caravan and the wagons began to move. ‘So, I guess we’re men of the Night’s Watch now. Or will be when we get there. What branch do you think you’re going to get in?’ Duram asked. ‘Ehh, I don’t know. I can't read so probably not Stewards.’ Daeron said with a little chuckle.

‘I was thinking about the rangers. Everyone wants to be a ranger though.’ Duram says. ‘Yeah, I guess.’ Daeron says. He sees the Mud Gate slowly approach in slowly the distance. It raises lazily and the goldcloaks glare at them from the top of it.

‘Well, our new lives start now.’

Two square towers along the western bank of the slow-moving Honeywine were connected by a stone bridge with stalls scattered across it. Many from Oldtown came to the Citadel for such make-shift shops, either ran by merchants or maesters themselves.

Above it all, the skies showed a light and airy blue with puffs of white clouds littered with gulls. Below, cobblestone paths led north towards the Scribe’s Hearth and the sphinxes just beyond that.

A slight breeze traveled down the river as the sun passed its peak of noon. Walking along the bridge on the western bank, maesters, acolytes, and novices found there grey toned robes rustling all about. None seemed to complain of the slight annoyance from the winds, however, they were a rather welcomed relief to the hot summer day.

Leaning against a pillar as he sat on the edge of the bridge, Luke read a tome by a maester named Yandel, a text on a period of history the young man would rather forget than study.

‘A time when dragons did not rule is a time not worth learning.’ His words to the copper-masked archmaester rang in his mind as he read about some Stag King warring with a Kraken.

Sighing, the silver-haired acolyte flipped through the pages of the text lazily, scanning for some sort of passage that may be of interest, but after merely a few seconds, he gave up the search. Closing the thick tome, Luke carelessly plopped it onto the ground beside where he sat. Stretching his arms to the sky, he felt the joints and muscles of his shoulders and back crack and revitalize, having been stiff from inactivity.

Another gust came rolling in as he slowly lowered his arms once more. A combination of the motion of his upper body and the breeze from the north made the links worn on his belt ring like chimes. Glancing down to the musical sound, Luke admired the acknowledgment of his success here a moment before clasping them in his hands to stop the sound.

Eventually, Luke found himself rising from his seated position along the edge of the bridge, returning to the commotion of stalls between the two square towers as he continued with his day.

Glancing towards the path left, he knew a lecture on economics and taxation awaited with the archmaester of yellow gold. He grimaced at the thought of needing to stomach another one of those lessons, however, the young man would sooner return to the Yandel text. Instead, he made his way to the right, passing several novices and acolytes he knew as fellow students of the Citadel and entering the tower he had come from previously.

Crossing through a corridor, he first made his way to a large study hall, in order to return the text he hardly read. Many within seemed nose deep in one book or another, either deeply intrigued or horribly dedicated to whatever it was they studied. Luke knew the feeling; when he read the histories or heard the lectures regarding the higher mysteries, he could never get enough.

Since arriving in Oldtown from Driftmark, all the former Velaryon had desired to do was delve deep into the knowledge the Citadel held on dragons, magic, Targaryens, and the Long Night. He’d been fascinated by the topics beyond that of everyday men since before he could remember: a reason Luke assume his father chose the grey robe over the seven-pointed star for his youngest son, he knew Luke would find some solace there, as Monterys had at the Great Sept.

Deciding to toss Yandel’s text onto an empty desk as opposed to putting it back in its rightful place, Luke was amused to see it flip in the air and yet still it landed face up, showing the golden letters on the title for any who passed by.

Pondering what to do next, he knew Gwayne was teaching something about naval knots along Weeping Dock soon, yet knowing most if not all of what the maester planned to explain today already, Luke brushed off the idea of attending. He had already received a brass link after all, why would he need to hear about knots now?

His early morning was spent in lectures regarding functions of the body, followed by the dull read he attempted to suffer through since noon, surely his lust for knowledge was quenched for the day… It was other lusts that needed quenching now.

Turning his back on the book and the desk, he began to head for the exit, knowing that the path north to the sphinxes and then beyond to the harbors of Oldtown would be his next destination. A tantalizing blonde was waiting with goblets of hippocras from Highgarden after all.

“Acolyte Lucerys,” the rasping voice of an old man came from behind Luke as his hand grasped the handle to the door. “I do not believe you are finished in the study, it appears you’ve forgotten to return a text.”

Still facing the solid wood door, Luke took a moment to breathe heavily as he rolled his eyes, disgruntled. Slowly turning back to see Maester Howland next to the desk looking particularly unamused, Luke forced a side of his lips to curve into a smirk.

“My mistake,” he spoke casually, striding back to the desk. “I’ll be sure to put it back properly this time, maester.”

“Hmph,” Howland grumbled, furrowing his bushy caterpillar eyebrows. “See that you do, Acolyte. I’ll be checking to make sure it's done.”

“Of course,” the younger man spoke with the same forced smirk painted on his face.

The maester picked up the text and handed it to him before making his way past Luke and towards the exit of the study hall. He watched the man exit, his forced expression immediately ceasing as he came out of Howland’s view.

Turning back to the open space, he gazed upon the walls of shelves reaching nearly two stories high with massive ladders all around to reach the highest points. Crossing to one of the ladders with text in hand, he stared upwards to where it was supposed to be stored. Letting out a chuckle to himself, he knew full well that he would not be wasting his time here when the whore in the harbor waited not so patiently with his wine.

Glancing to his right, he noticed a potted plant stationed next to the shelf. Nonchalantly, Luke tossed the tome into the soil of the fern, before heading back for the exit of the room with a chipper and amused demeanor to his steps.

I told him I’d put it away properly, he laughed to himself as descended the stairs to the base of the tower, closing in on the Scribe’s Hearth and the gates to the city beyond.