The mountain air bites, and the hounds bark.

“Ah, now here they come,” Alyse laughs. A pair of old, scarred sheepdogs race through the grass to greet them with short, sharp yelps and the sounds of snapping teeth. Ser Anders warily canters his mount to the fore.

“I think they might remember us!”

They had followed the stream into the valley, past patchworks of orchards still barren from winter. It had been a silent ride, since their strange find. At first, Ser Anders had carried the shield, but it was an unwieldy thing with its straps broken. In the end, Frynne had insisted upon taking it from him. Though none would say it aloud, all of them very much wished for the knight to have his hands free, should he need to draw a real weapon.

It had not been long before they came to the Sept—A modest building of smooth red stones, set atop a rocky outcrop. A sturdy timber cabin lies beneath it. The denizens of the valley had spared no effort for their place of worship, though Alyse cannot help but think that its builders had more worldly motives. The sept’s commanding elevation and fortitude made it a good watchtower and holdfast for the village down the stream. This little valley had seen its share of invaders.

And it is here that they are greeted by the snapping jaws.

“I think, Lady Wyl, that they are not fond memories!” Quentyn grips his reins with some alarm at the sight of the beasts. The hounds snarl at the knight, but his battle-trained mount does not flinch.

A white-robed figure emerges from the cabin, and shouts something across the distance. The two beasts turn tail and dart back the way they came.

“‘Tis not like Old Edric to put out his hounds when the sun has only started to dip,” Frynne says warily. She is clutching the shield a little more tightly now, and not, Alyse thinks, because of the dogs.

“Mayhaps he heard of that same screamer we did, last night,” Quentyn nods towards the shield. “Mayhaps it has even ventured down here. If the creature is willing to hunt travelers, it may well menace the village too.”

“Mayhaps,” Alyse dismounts her horse to approach. “We shall surely ask him. But come, Maester! I promised that you would not sleep under the stars tonight, and Ser Edric keeps a kindly home.”

“Ser?” Quentyn asks.

Alyse regards the Maester blankly, then clicks her tongue. “A force of habit, Maester. The Septon was once a knight and the Master-of-Arms at Wyl, though he donned the crystal near a decade ago. After Yronwood’s rebellion.”

Doran, the older of the two armsmen, perfunctorily spits at the name.

A moment later, Alyse chuckles to herself. “I would wager that the man has boxed half the ears here.”

“Aye,” Anders winces, “And mine worse than most. But I will call it a fair trade. He put a sword in my hand. Later, he put one on my shoulder and those of six others, just the eve before we crossed the river to Yronwood lands. ‘Twas to be a hard crossing, he said, and no worthy man would face death without his knighthood. If we survived, ‘twould be for us to earn the honor bestowed, in the battles to come.” A tinge of disappointment enters his voice. “When the war ended, Ser Edric left, and I never had the chance to ask him if I’d done so.”

“You surely did, Ser,” Alyse feels compelled to say. She had heard the tale before, though only in rumor and passing. “I am not Ser Edric, and the Septon will surely tell you that no such person now lives. But you surely did earn it. If not that day, then in the many days since.”

“No man better for it,” Davos agrees. Doran too, nods in silence.

“There. Now any who dispute the matter may contend with us,” Alyse determines.

The knight offers only a tight nod in response.

Alyse would never forget the man they had brought back from the battle that day. His face had been near half slashed open, and his brain so drowned in the poppy that he hardly twitched when they sliced off the ruined mass of his ear, nor felt the Myrish fire used to clean the wound. Had she not brought Wyl’s Maester to await the injured in some Boneway tower, he would have surely died.

The Red Mountains had seen a thousand skirmishes and would see ten-thousand more before the seas washed them away, or the winds blew them to dust. Throughout unwritten history, men had scrabbled here in their tens and twenties, over goats and valleys and meadows not large enough to bury their dead. Drop by drop, they had painted the rocks red. Such battles did not live on in songs or books. They burned themselves only into the nightmares of the survivors, and the sorrows of those left behind. Ten years ago, in a skirmish that the world forgot the day it was fought, Ser Edric had brushed his shoulder with hell. It was the hell that Alleras would never return from, that Sylva would never speak of.

Ser Edric's wounds had been fresh, but Septon Edric’s scars are old—An ash-white river running from the lump of flesh where his ear had been, across his cheek and through a ravaged nose. His beard hides more of the same. The man is old too now, older than Alyse remembers, though she had last seen him but five years ago, before the first snows fell. His head had been gray then, now it is balding.

Surely, time had not always stolen so much? But the Septon breaks out in a grin and raises a hand in greeting.

“Lady Wyl,” he says, “You honor us again.” The hounds, who sit by the door, now watch her lazily.

“Aye, so I do,” Alyse agrees. “It seems I must. You did not honor us, this past winter. Twice we did call him to the castle, did we not Ser Anders?”

“Aye,” the knight says gravely, “Once by invitation of the garrison, and once by your word, Lady Wyl.”

“And twice you ignored us, Septon!” Alyse exclaims.

Edric offers a wan smile in return. “I replied on both occasions, Lady Wyl.”

“‘Twas not the reply we sought! This valley is no place for an old man come winter. My own brother Yoren near rode here himself to fetch you. He may well have, had the snows not blocked the way first.”

“I have seen younger men perish of chills in these mountains, Septon,” Frynne adds loyally.

“And yet, older men remain,” Edric remarks. “Who am I, to take up the mantle of this Sept by summer, and leave it come winter? I’ve two good hands, as sure as any other. And there is work to be done, even when the snows arrive.”

It is, Alyse supposes, the reply she had expected, just as surely as Edric had expected her vexation the moment the snows melted. The man would never have come, not if the Others themselves had fallen from the skies. He had made this valley his post, despite all her efforts to keep him in Wyl’s service. But none at the castle would have been happy had she not made the effort to draw the old man back when the weather worsened. Edric might as well have been a second father to half the knights and armsmen there. She, certainly, would not have been happy herself.

“Aye, so you say Septon,” Alyse declares. She turns to her party, and spreads her arms with a deliberate air of the dramatic, “But still, ‘tis no small thing to ignore me, surely? Even a man of the Gods must heed his earthly liege, must he not? Would I not be just, in claiming a night’s lodging as recompense?”

Agreements murmur from one and all, and the Septon’s face twitches up into a wry smile. For a moment, Alyse can see the knight from the training yard again.

“Aye, I should be pleased to have you,” Edric waves at the cabin door. “Come, Trebor caught some pigeons of late, and he has sent me his pies.”

The two hounds slink inside in the Septon’s wake, and Alyse motions for Anders to follow. Doran and Davos hold back to tend to the horses, while Frynne hands the shield to Quentyn while she removes a pack from her own mount. The Maester, who had watched the encounter with the quizzical silence of an outsider, is all too pleased to have something to do.

The Septon’s cabin had changed little from her last visit. Its single room is still just as spartan, with a single long pinewood table, a cot, and an unlit hearth at the far end. An old lute, dusty with disuse, occupies one corner. The Sept, Alyse recalls, had once been home to more than one brother of the Faith, and oft served as a waystation for travelers as well.

Now, with winter just receding, she can see that it hosts only Edric. The man turns somber.

“The Stranger came for Septon Mallor as a chill in the chest,” he explains. “I would believe that they left as friends. He had seen more winters than even I, and I think he expected this one to be his last. Septon Michael too, is no longer with us.”

“Truly?” Alyse frowns. The names match to faces in her mind’s eye. Mallor, old and half-blind the last time she’d seen him, some five years past. And Michael, a young man, younger than her even, and in the best of health. Alyse could not say what might have driven him to wear a Septon’s white robes, she had not cared to ask at the time.

“Michael, surely he did not merely succumb to winter? A man of his age?”

“Aye,” the Septon says slowly. Distaste for the tale he must now tell is written across his face. The man pushes a heavy bench out from under the table with one leg, and sits heavily upon it. Anders does the same on the other side, and Alyse joins him. Creaking floorboards announce Frynne’s entry, and then Quentyn’s. Both linger by the door in silence.

“‘Twas an unhappy thing. He became lost one night, at the height of winter some two years past. ‘Twas but a short walk from the village to the Sept, but a man can be easily turned around in the snows. ‘Tis lucky we found him, he was near frozen when we did, rambling and raving. The boy recovered, aye, but was well-convinced that he had seen something in the darkness. White Death and Her Children stalking the snows, he called it, with terrible blue eyes. I could not believe him, nor could any other man, but he claimed to sight the things again on a second night, then a third. They came to him in his dreams. One day he fled, without a word.”

“White death stalking the snows? Blue eyes?” Alyse scoffs, “These are the ludicrous tales men tell of lands beyond the Wall. Mayhaps I should write a complaint to the Night’s Watch, if the Others have reached Dorne!”

“‘Tis a poor thing for a man to break his oath in such fashion,” Ser Anders growls.

“So it is.” A heavy note of weariness creeps into the Septon’s voice. One of the dogs, a tough, gray-furred beast, pads up to the man. Edric picks the creature up and places it on the bench beside him. “But he was under my responsibility, I take my share of the fault. I have seen men break before, and the boy’s fear was real. I am certain he believed himself to have seen something. Surely, he knew the dangers of fleeing his only home in winter. A man does not take that journey on a whim, and I fear even now young Micheal’s bones lie somewhere in these mountains. He thought not to steal a single scrap of food, so I must think that his was not a malevolent heart. Mayhaps, a kinder word would have kept him.”

“Great cold can cause a man’s eyes to see that which is not there,” Frynne says quietly, “And can lull his mind into believing it. In the height of madness, he may even tear off their clothes, and let the Stranger take him, or dig his own grave in the ground. I have seen such bodies.”

“Aye, and I have heard the tales,” Edric grimaces. “It must have stuck with the boy, till his nerves failed him. His was not a firm character, and Mallor’s passing pushed him sorely.”

“I will put word out at Wyl when I return,” Alyse assures him. “If he made it out of the mountains, that is the nearest place worth going. Mayhaps someone saw him.”

After two years, the man might be anywhere and under any name, and most likely he was with the dead now. But that is all she can do in this matter.

Edric only nods silently, and then turns to Quentyn. “I see you have a new Maester.”

“One year old now, Septon,” Quentyn replies. He still holds the shield, its face gouged by the shadowcat’s claws.

White death stalking the snows.

Anders seems to have the same thought, but shakes his head. Alyse does not need to ask why—Shadowcats were more black than white, and a local man like this Septon Michael, who had resided in these mountains all his life, would surely be able to recognize one. A frightening sight to be sure, but clearly no ghost.

“Aye, as he says, a new Maester,” Alyse chuckles. “Septon, this is Quentyn. Once of Sunspear.”

“I thought all Maesters were of Oldtown.”

“This one will be of Wyl, before long,” Alyse declares. “Come, Maester, join us,” she waves at the bench, “Septon, I can do naught for ghosts, but mayhaps this will raise your spirits.”

Frynne had arrived with a small pack, from which she now produces a handful of bottles. Tyroshi pear brandy.

“I’ll trust you to be a godly man, and give Trebor a fair share,” Alyse grins, “I know he is near as fond of this stuff as you.”

“You are too kind, Lady Wyl.” Edric picks up a bottle with one calloused hand, but his face is grave. “I fear I must show ingratitude by placing some troubles upon you. Trebor has no shortage of gifts at the moment.”

All eyes turn to the Septon.

“A knight came to the village, not half a moon ago,” Edric says. “One of yours, Lady Wyl. Ser Ferris. I trust you recall the name.”

She does, and it is one that darkens her mood. Anders and Frynne both cast troubled looks across the table.

“I recall that he was chief among those who dishonored themselves in Wyl, after my father’s passing.”

“And he distinguished himself again, fighting the Yronwoods,” the Septon shrugs. “If his crimes were unforgivable, he should not have been allowed to bloody himself again beneath your house’s banner.”

“Be as that may, I consider his crimes unforgettable,” Alyse says sharply. “Well? What of him? This is a strange place for him to travel, but he has the right to do so. As you say, I retained his service.”

“I take no issue with Ser Ferris. But he comes with company. Armed strangers one and all. I tell you now, these men are trouble. Three are Tyroshi. They have all had altercations in the village. Gambling, drunkenness, rudeness, and ill-discipline of every sort. One of them, this… Alequo, he has already brawled twice with Larra’s sons, over remarks he made about her daughters. The fourth man, whose name I do not know, goes masked and silent. Likely to conceal some injury, I think. I can certainly sympathize with that,” Edric’s ruined face assembles into a lopsided grin that soon fades. “But he is also missing fingers. The mark of a thief caught and punished.”

“These are strange men to come into the service of a knight who I know to be all but penniless. I misliked the look of them, and did not offer the hospitality of this Sept. Indeed, they are why I set my hounds to watch for strangers in the day now. Ser Ferris plied Trebor with gifts such as these,” he shakes the bottle, “Easier to get in the lowlands, harder up here. He has allowed them to camp on the pastures at the far end of the valley, while they conduct their business.”

“Last I heard, Ser Ferris kept his home in one of the fishing villages along the Wyl,” Anders interjects. “What business could he have here?”

“He hunts a shadowcat.”

The Maester, so far unable to enter a word into the conversation, raises the shield before Alyse can speak further.

“We found this in the stream. It washed down from the mountains,” he explains, “It looks as though a shadowcat attacked its bearer. Mayhaps Ser Ferris found his quarry.”

Edric regards the shield, and scratches his beard. “The sigil is faded,” he says quietly, “But Ser Ferris carried a shield of this sort, and it bore his personal symbol of a red hand. As I said, his fortunes greatly declined after he was cast out of the castle, and they worsened when he was injured fighting the Yronwoods. The man turned to tourneys some years back, and lost his horse and armor. He must have had to make do. Mayhaps he sought to recover some glory by felling a fearsome beast.”

“Mayhaps recover favor too,” he adds for Alyse’s benefit. “There was indeed a shadowcat which preyed upon livestock here over winter. It left neither sign nor sight of itself, save the goats it devoured and the dogs it silenced. There was little hope of hunting the beast in the snows. We might have done so come spring, or sought aid from Wyl, but the beast had since returned to its traditional prey… and then Ser Ferris appeared to offer a much-desired vengeance. Had he succeeded, his name would have been well-sung here.”

“‘Twould explain why we heard its screams last night,” Frynne comments. “A shadowcat hunting its prey is as silent as the Stranger. But one whose lair is invaded? The beast would first seek to frighten the intruder. Then to kill him.” The woman tilts her head towards the broken shield. “It surely killed him.”

An uneasy silence settles upon the table. Ferris had been old, but all knew him to be an experienced fighter, one who had thrived upon the battlefields of Essos and Dorne alike. One who had been in Wyl’s service longer than Alyse had been alive.

“I had hoped that after tomorrow we would hasten our journey south, and then return to Wyl,” Alyse glances at Quentyn, “As much as I would like that you be familiar with these lands, the castle should not be without a Maester for long. But here we have a grave task. Whatever I may think of him, Ser Ferris was a knight of Wyl, if he has encountered some catastrophe, ‘tis our duty to find him, and if need be, retrieve his remains and avenge his death.”

“So it is,” Anders says simply. “Ferris’ company could tell us more of what transpired, and where… If they yet live.”

“I have heard nothing of them,” the Septon grimaces. “Ser Ferris and all four of his companions struck out on their latest expedition. If what you heard was Ferris’ death last night, then mayhaps their survivors are still limping back to the valley. They will surely arrive soon if that is so, if not tonight then tomorrow. They could not have gotten far. Mayhaps they were even victorious, in the end. Or mayhaps all are dead. In truth, if they return, they would do best not to linger. The valleyfolk tolerated the Tyroshis’ indiscretions out of respect for Ser Ferris’ knighthood, and out of support for his cause. Even then, the folk here became deeply divided over their presence—And aye, I will say freely that I took sides in that. Had I not heard of Ser Ferris’ likely passing, I would now entreat you to settle these disputes. But without Ser Ferris, or the promise of a slain beast, those men will face a great animosity here.”

It is Quentyn who gives voice to Alyse’s thoughts.

“You are truly quite ready to see these men gone, Septon.”

“Would you not be, Maester?” Edric challenges, “After all I describe? If men acted in such fashion in Wyl, they would have been flogged at best, and perhaps exiled from its walls. This village is just as much our home. ‘Tis not a place for men with swords to amuse themselves. Aye, many were willing to put up with them for a time, so they remained. Now? What is their purpose? That they are now leaderless, and without the restraint Ser Ferris provided, only gives me cause for more worry.”

“If you wish them gone, Septon, they shall be gone,” Alyse assures the man. “As you say, they have no further business here, and I will not leave leaderless sellswords to run amok. And if there is any substance to the claims laid before them, then they surely will face a worthy punishment. But to the task at hand—They pledged themselves to Ser Ferris, and Ser Ferris was pledged to me. If these men yet live, I mean to find them and assume command of them. As Ser Anders says, we shall need them to bring any closure to this tragedy.”

Gods, and then what? Try to escort four truculent mercenaries through the mountains, with only my three?

Ser Anders had not even brought his suit of plate. The two armsmen were reliable and competent, but that was the end of it, if things came to some sort of trouble. Neither she nor Frynne nor the Maester were armed, nor were they likely to do more than embarrass themselves if it were otherwise.

Mayhaps the valleyfolk can be of help… or mayhaps tomorrow we send a rider to Wyl.

It would take days for any word to reach the castle, and for any reply to come. She certainly could not depart herself, not when she had just promised to bring Ferris’ men to heel. Alyse puts these thoughts aside, as Anders begins speaking.

“We have some daylight left. These men made their encampment at the far side of the valley? Give me leave to ride. If I find they have returned, I will summon them here.”

“Take Davos and Devan,” Alyse says immediately. “And if you do not find Ferris’ men, seek out Trebor. He hosted Ser Ferris’ party, he may know the direction of their last hunt.”

“I am loathe to leave this place unguarded,” Anders frowns as he considers those that would remain.

“You may loathe it freely, Ser,” Alyse waves the concern off. “But you are more likely to encounter trouble than us. Even if something should arise, the Sept is well-built, and the village is quite close. Now, you may ride after we eat,” she concludes pleasantly, and looks to the Septon. “Someone promised me food.”

That settles the matter, and after a few moments Edric brings out the pigeon pies. But despite all efforts at levity, the somber air in the room sinks bone-deep. Even the hounds are silent, and the two armsmen make no further effort at conversation when they finally arrive and hear of Ser Ferris’ misfortune. Alyse’s mind lingers on Ferris. Forty years of knighthood, of battles, hunts, tourneys, and bloodshed. And one year of treachery. He left no widow that she knows of, nor children that survived him. He’d had no friends to witness his end.

Only strangers and scoundrels. And the blood-red mountains, that would soon forget them all.

The feel of his hand as he attempted to close it into a fist was like a thousand tiny demons were pricking him. Some used tiny daggers, but in some parts of his hand he was being lanced. His flesh had mended more or less, but the muscle and bone had seized half way through healing and now trying to use his hand was agony.

He cursed in his father's old high backed plush chair in front of a tall oversized hearth that was a showpiece for anyone who was entertained in the lord's personal chamber. The fire was blazing hot and it felt nice to burn a little after the bitter damp chill outside.

Trystane sat on the plush rug in front of the fire with the tourney knights armour placed about him. The young man was using the downtime to carefully mend and oil the complex puzzle of steel. He took time from his work to look over at his stoic master. He knew from years of watching Harrold that his hand felt worse than he let on.

“You should have that looked at again.”

Silence was the only response he got from Harrold. Instead the proud man tried vainly to close the hand that once gripped his shield. His grimace popped the subdermal vein In his forehead and forced a grunt from his lips. His hand closed a small amount but not fully.

He thought perhaps he could tie a shield to his hand or use it like a vambrace in some fashion, but he knew that was not ideal. He would be fighting one handed for a while, perhaps forever. He figured it was better to fight with one arm than to fight with two poorly.

The younger man had watched this ritual almost nightly when they had time to rest. He shook his head at his master's stubborn nature. At least he could tend to the armour somewhere warm. The lord's chambers were comfortable and this room was among the most luxurious places he'd ever been in. His bed would probably feel like a cloud.

It was then that the room was entered by high pitched voices and the patter of soft soles. Two young children, one boy, one girl scampered into the room leading a wizened crone who indulgently watched over them. Both children entered the room and then noticed the two strange men by the fire. Their voices stopped suddenly and they were hushed and shy.

Both children were a mirror of their mother.

Harrys, the boy was about 7 and had the family trait of being broad and tall for his age. A brunette curly mop ran over his ears that was cut off neatly at the shoulders. His high cheeks and pale complexion were pink with excitement, he had run most of the way.

Harys had been told a knight from the south was in his father's receiving room, he hadn't cared for any other information.

Four year old Hally had tried to follow her brother but had fallen on the stairs leading into the Lords wing. She sniffled at the smart in her knees, but only a slight tremor remained on her face as she encountered the men at the fire.

Elsa, a long time servant of the house and one of the women that had raised Harrold stood behind them.

“Well look who shines his knightly light upon us. It is the prodigal son himself.”

Elsa's words had a venomous bite, but Harrold knew the old woman used a blunt object when she made words. It was merely her way.

“Of all the people I had thought I'd see today, you were not one of them. Did they raise you from your place under the godswood just to greet me Elsa?”

“You should know I'm hard to kill, and when the gods take me I won't be coming back. Not even the wight's north of the wall could keep me from death's sleep, especially not you.”

“It's nice to know you again. You certainly are a pleasant sight.” He said, meaning it despite his sarcastic tone.

“Ahh. You are not the only highborn to try to flatter me Harrold Hornwood, but you may be the youngest in many years. I am not opposed to it.” She said with a bone dry candor that came from many decades of service to the Hornwood's. She then moved to the matter at hand.

“Please let me present to you your cousins removed once. This is Hally and Harys, who are the children of Brea who as you know was once married into house Flynt. They are now fostered at Hornwood Castle.” She then addressed the children in kind. “You are before Lord Harrold Hornwood, your liege lord and protector. Be mindful of your courtesy.” She said with a familiar tone of gentle instruction completely at odds with her prior unceremonious greeting.

He smirked as he found himself on the other side of the ritual. For long years he had been taught formal courtesies in the very same manner. Every introduction was a chance for his teachers to teach him the words, the posturing, the platitudes. He didn't require the children to address him formally, but he realized why Elsa insisted on the practice. The children would be seen as highborn or lowborn, elegant or coarse depending on their mastery of these graceful phrases and protocols.

Harys as the eldest stepped forward, his eyes on the elder Hornwood. His brow creased with concentration as he bowed in deference to Harrold.

“Good day My lord. Welcome to Castle Hornwood. I hope that your journey was pleasant and you find yourself comfortable. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

He held the bow until his words were complete and his eyes never raised until Harrold completed the ritual.

“Well met Harys. You honor me today with your words of welcome as well as the hospitality of your hearth. Please be at ease and find a place at the fire cousin.” He said in the formal manner he learned so many years ago.

Harys looked back at the old crone and Elsa nodded with a smile, and the young boy came and sat on the floor by the fire to warm his hands. He waited to talk, watching his sister who was next. He subtly gestured for her to start.

The younger cousin stepped forward and curtseyed awkwardly, her knees bending and holding out her dress in a manner that mirrored what she had seen and been taught since birth.

“Welcome to Hornwood my Lord!” Hally said with far more enthusiasm than the formal greeting required, but all present found themselves smiling despite the breach in protocol.

Harold suppressed a laugh as he addressed the four year old who now had her arms stretched out as if she were a harald announcing the next joust.

“Also well met Hally. You also honor me with your greeting. Please join me at the hearth and be warmed by it. You and your brother are both a credit to your parents. Your mother would be proud of you both.”

He said and he meant it. He had never heard an evil word from Brea, she was far too gentle for this world. The children had her cherub face and brunette curls. The boy was a Hornwood alright. Harys was a tall sturdy lad and although he was nervous he had acted as expected. He patted the boy on the head and ruffled those curls as the boy looked over the assortment of armor scattered all over the floor in front of Trystane.

“Are you both knights? Like real ones that fight in tournaments and joust against other knights on horseback?” The boy said this with a wide eyed look that Harrold was very familiar with. Boys loved swords and armour, and horses and pageantry. It seems Harys was no exception.

Harold nodded simply and winked as he looked at Trystane. “I am a knight and Trystane soon will be. I've been training him for a few years now.”

Young Halys looked at Trystane as he picked up the steel forearm guard on Harrolds armour examining it closely by the light of the fire. He looked at it as if imagining himself wearing all that metal and then looked back at Elsa. “Can I go out to the practice yard tomorrow? Please? I'll study first.”

Elsa looked at the boy as if she had seen it all before. In fact she had seen it with Harrold himself when Ser Ryyon traveled through Hornwood so many years ago. She shrugged, and looked at Harrold as if realizing there was no stopping where this led.

“You best ask my Lord to find someone to work with you then Harys. I'll not have you being a nuisance to the men there.” She said looking at Harrold with emphasis.

Harrold regarded the young boy and asked Him gravely. “Have you learned anything about a sword yet Harys?”

“Not yet my Lord. Lord Halys once took me out to shoot a bow with Daryn, but it's been so long.” He said as if apologizing.

Harrold nodded then spoke from his seat but he leaned forward so that he was inches from Harys’ face. The rough sun baked skin of his nose looked like a giant's to the little one, and his beard covered mouth looked like it could swallow him whole. This giant smelled strongly of horse, sweat and iron.

“You must treat learning the sword like any skill, no, it must be treated more carefully than learning any other. For with the knowledge of swordplay comes a knowledge of death itself. You will find yourself tempted to be careless about learning to kill one day, but you must be vigilant. You must learn the sword diligently, and never question your instructor. Do you understand? Learning to use a sword is no game.”

He said this so near the boy that he could smell the wine on his breath and part of Harys feared the older Hornwood. Despite this Harys nodded and promised Harrold he would work hard at it, and take it seriously.

Harrold nodded once more then addressed his squire. “I will be in planning meetings all day and won't have time to show the boy. Will you take Harys out on the practice yard and show him basic forms?”

Trystane looked up from his work and nodded with a smile. “I'll show 'em where the pointy end goes, then get his arms working till they don't move anymore.” He said with a little grin that made the boy smile back.

Harrold then nodded and patted the boy on the head. “Good, so you are Trystane's pupil after your tutor has completed your lessons and you have finished your private studies. You can't neglect words and numbers just because you pick up a sword. You must keen your mind and your blade.”

With that pronouncement Elsa nodded, her duty of Introduction complete. “Well I'll leave you to gain acquaintance. Try not to have the little ones burnt in the hearth by the time Lady Mallora arrives. She will call for the evening meal when she arrives.”

Harrold called back with a dry retort with only the slightest grin on his face “Enjoy your cup of black bitter beer crone. Something has got to warm your bones.” Elsa cackled her way out the door, her elder body moving stiffly with the aid of a cane and indomitable will. “With no menfolk my age alive around here a cup of beer will have to suffice my lord.”

Harrold sipped his wine and stretched his hand while he watched Trystane try to show the young lad how to oil his right gauntlet. His squire was good with children, though this made sense as the squire had many siblings and cousins. Hally watched mystified at the strange game the boys played at and soon became bored. She turned to the big man in the chair and raised her arms in the universal sign for “up”.

Harrold didn't understand the sign language at first but then caught on to the little one. He pulled the little girl up onto his lap, surprised at how light the child was in his arms. Depositing her in his lap he watched the fire and sipped the wine in his cup. The wine had cooled by now but the small bundle of Hally kept him warm and he might have dozed off a little after that or perhaps went into that state where neither time nor place exist. The fire kept the chill at bay and all was content.

When the door opened the little group looked up to the woman who joined them. Lady Mallora who had a stoic look of neutral resignation upon her face strode up to the little group quietly. She took in each of the group one by one but focused on Harrold who she only knew from reputation.

Harrold tried to grip his fingers over his arm rest but they held frozen in place.

“Lady Mallora, please join us by the fire. It is a chill evening and the hearth is roaring.” He said, his greeting formal, yet with some intended familiarity.

She smiled warmly though it was a practiced smile. Harys ran up to her and put his arms around her then immediately told her about sword practice and cleaning armor. Hally had dozed off on Harrolds knee and Trystane pulled out the second chair so that she might have a spot to stay warm. There was much awkward clattering of steel and leather before Lady Hornwood was seated.

She looked at little Hally and smiled, it was much less of a practiced one this time, and she raised her eyes to him.

“Hally instantly becomes one's famillar once she's introduced. She is made for hearth fire and sitting on laps.” She said with a look of maternal gentleness. He nodded and looked at the children, one full of activity and one dozing and thought he might be able to put down roots. But Would those roots grow for him?

“They have Brea's gentleness, and no doubt much of you in them as well.” He considered his next words for far longer than he intended. He drew up a half a dozen sentences then bludgeoned them in his mind before finally settling on simplicity.

“Thank you Lady Mallora. You have guided this house forward since Halys died. I can not repay your service.” He said as earnestly as he could.

She listened to him as he spoke but her expression was calculated neutrality. She nodded carefully, not saying anything further on it. It was as if the words on his lips were stopped by a castle wall, or like ‘Ravens being shot by bow fire’. He thought to himself as he considered how to move forward.

“Was your journey safe? There are brigands on the road of late.” She said it simply, casually, yet he could not help but feel she laid blame.

“We traveled fine but for the chill. Please, let me introduce my squire, Trystane. He has been with me for two years and is good with a sword. I intend to take him into Hornwoods service. If he’ll stay.”

Trystane smiled widely, the old knight had not yet divulged his plans for him. He could not be happier but he found himself nervous when Mallora turned his gaze on him.

She was tall and handsomely made. Dark brown hair, almost black and forest green eyes that seemed to analyze him where he sat. He felt a tension in her that he was unprepared for and he realized he was an interloper upon something he was not invited to. He chose to defer his attention to Harrold.

“I am grateful for the opportunity Ser Harrold… Lord Harrold has given me my lady. And thankyou for your hospitality. Hornwood is a fine home.” He said using the height of his etiquette.

She could sense nervousness in his words and she realized she was the cause of it. She didn't intend to bully young squires, her intended anger was at Harrold. “Of course, you are most welcome at Hornwood. We need loyal men and will have more than enough work for you to keep you occupied.” She said with as much gracious calm as she could muster.

‘Did he truly intend to hide behind younglings and squires forever?’ she thought angrily. She had gone over this confrontation for so long that she was positively spoiling to fight. She couldn't wait to put the children to bed, but she had to be gracious and aim her anger at the right target.

“Shall we be seated for dinner then? I have made the meals here more modest of late, but silver saved on meals pays for soldiers patrolling the roads and the walls.”

“Any meal will be sufficient My Lady.”

“I suppose it will be more appetizing than whatever you might find under a hedge.” She said as she rose and stepped gingerly over steel tripping hazards to pick dozing Hally from Harrolds lap.

Harys and Trystane scurried aside and began to clean up the half oiled armour and Harrold stretched out as he stood stiffly making his way to the table. Mallora headed to the door and alerted a servant in the hall about the need for an evening meal, and everyone took a seat at the table with Harrold at the head.

Hally babbled post nap and she was propped up on the chair she sat at. Harys sat beside her reminding her to stay quiet, and Trystane took the spot next to Mallora, and poured wine for both Hornwoods as well as himself.

The food had been waiting to go out and so several girls entered the room and efficiently placed a platter of roasted chicken, bread and winter vegetables in front of the lord who sat quietly and sipped his wine.

In observance of the semi-formal nature of the meal today he served each of his family starting with Mallora, then each child, then Trystane.

Each was given a portion of the bird, and then each was served a Slice of bread with butter. Harrold sliced off thick slices of the dark hearty bread then complimented it with some pickled vegetables from a jar.

It was simple fare and yet it was well prepared, the bread was baked that morning, and the pickled vegetables were tart and flavorful. Mallora was silent throughout the meal, only talking to the children when they engaged her. The men were mostly silent as Trystane followed his master's lead, but the children's excited chatter was enough to keep the conversation going. Talk of swords and horses was the verbal fare for that meal.

By the end of the meal Harys was all ready to go to bed as his time in the yard would come that much quicker. Hally dozed in her seat once her chicken was eaten, her bread was chewed between nodding off and the vegetables never got touched.

“Harys, would you like to show Trystane your room?” Mallora asked, baiting the younger lad into a bout of excitement. Harys Immediately jumped from his seat and began pulling Trystane from his chair. Hally of course started to join in taking Trystane by the other hand. “My room! My room!” She chirped In an enthusiastic tone.

Mallora called out to Trystane. “The children will be put to bed by their maid, so no need to tell bedtime stories, but they seem to have taken to you. Then you'll know where to pick up Harys after lunch.” She said with a charming smile that Trystane could only smile back to.

“I'd be happy to escort the little uns’ to bed.” He said taking a short bow before leaving with the children. The sounds of high pitched happy chatter and Trystane's attempts to slow them both down echoed through the hall until the heavy wooden door closed.

With the door closed and the two adults in the room the air grew a little more stale and Harrold grunted as he took a little more wine and played it over his tongue.

Even angry, Mallora was attractive. He remembered seeing her as a maid on her wedding. She was all grace and strength. Like a fir tree In winter snow, dark branches and pale snow white and pretty. Stoic. Her trunk had widened over years but her matured profile only had added some attraction for him.

Her green eyes had sparkled when she saw his brother and the moment they shared before the altar was more real than anything else that day.

His father was about the pomp, the celebration, the allies he would make from binding him and house Lake. He only required Harrold to be present at the wedding and did not bother with him for anything else. Before the ceremony Lord Halys spoke to Harrold.

“So the hedge knight returns. We will have to set a place at the table since you have graced us with your presence.”

It was a greeting he had expected from his father. Harrold had not been back to Hornwood for many years by that point. He arrived the day before but had stayed at the inn in the village. He felt like an imposter and his father's words had reinforced it.

Now that distance was shared across the table like the shadows that reached between them in the fire light.

Mallora knew he would likely sit and drink like that till winter so she spoke.

“So now you come back. I have been Lady of Hornwood for 10 years, your father died so many years ago and I've only ever glanced at you.” her anger was obvious though she kept it contained. He noticed her eyes, they flashed with emotion and he shrank internally.

“I came because of the letter. I was asked. I would not have come otherwise.”

“So Lyonel holds so much esteem for you that his request for help was enough?”

“Your request would have been enough.” At that she gripped her fingers into a fist and he sat silently as she reigned herself in.

Mallora took in a breath, then another.

“I never thought you'd come. Even when Lyonel sent that letter I was certain you wouldn't.”

“It is my duty.”

“It was your duty to be here before now.”

“I was staying out of the way.”

“No! You can't escape like that! You can't just pretend that you weren't needed. That your absence helped us. That we didn't need you.” She yelled across the table and he felt her grief strike him and he watched his hands while she screamed.

And then tears ran down her cheeks, a sob which forced her to rub her nose angrily.

“Everything I loved has died. Halys, and then Daryn. Even Brea. You were like a ghost here. Harrold the younger brother. Harrold the hedge knight, Harrold the adventurer.” She paused and breathed out a sigh that wracked with pain. He couldn't help but feel guilty as he watched her try to breathe through sobs.

“For me it was Harrold the dullard, Harrold the simpleton. Harrold, who could not do sums nor remember Heraldry. Harrold who could not write with proper care. He who would never be a proper lord or even a proper man.”

He tried to tell her. He could still hear his father's voice as he spoke yet he felt sorry for her. For ten years he thought of coming back, but he couldn't come home and play at being the doting uncle and brother. His father's words and disappointment forced his hand.

“Halys and Brea loved you. It hurt them that you never came home. They died hoping you would come back. Daryn could have used your help in guiding him.” she could barely believe she was saying this, she had never spoken so openly to a stranger. It all poured out like cheap wine, it muddled her mind and her grief made words in a puddle at his feet. She hated it. She hated that he saw her disassembled.

“He needed help from his uncle. We needed help. I needed help.” Her words wavered into a sob and he could see that tears glistened the immaculate porculine skin of her cheek. “He died a little lord. So feeble… A little bird who wouldn't eat. He only wanted to be held.”

Harrold didn't know exactly what ailment afflicted his nephew. He understood it was rare, and that it afflicted children randomly it seemed. A sickness of the blood. He didn't understand It nor would he try. Children shouldn't die, it wasn't the order of things.

He could only watch Mallora try to contain herself, supplicating her with pleasantries would come off false.

He tried to reason.

“When Halys died I didn't want to create doubt over who would succeed him. If I had come back then every courtier and neighboring lord would have looked to see what they could gain from having me usurp the boy. With me forgotten, Daryn would have had a clean claim to the title.”

Harrold said words he had practiced mentally for months, he put breath into thoughts that he had held for years. His jaw ached with the tension in him and he hoped somehow, he could move past this with the woman.

“Please believe me on that Mallora. I have seen how the brother can make trouble for the son, even if that is not the intention of the brother. I felt as though I was best out of the way.”

He could feel her eyes on him as he tried to explain and he tried to close his hand. The pain in his hand was much easier to endure. When he finally raised his eyes he saw her pain plainly. So many seasons of tragedy and a hard cold winter holding everything together alone. The fire from the hearth was dimming leaving the room locked in shadows. She was a beautiful woman, strong, real, and sad.

“You are wrong. You abandoned us. You let your father's words outlive him. Halys told me why you left and why you never came back. Your father hurt you, and you ran. You let your pride dictate your life.”

The anger inside Harrold had been gentled by her sadness but at her angry words his own took flight. He watched as she stood up tall, the scraping of her dining room chair was an angry grating sound at odds with her icey tone.

“You fought, fucked, and drank yourself across two continents for so many years because you couldn't get over your father's rejection. You kept your family at arm's length because of one man's harsh stupid words. You talk about duty and observing Daryns birthright, but let's not mince words. I know you would rather gut men for blood money than do your duty.”

Now Harrold was on his feet and his face was contorted in rage. If she had been a man, any man he would have…

“Your pride has made you a washed up hedge knight and sellsword, and now you will try to fill your brother's shoes? Halys was twice the man you are.”

She watched as he rose from his chair and she looked at the brutish looking man as he snarled. The shaggy beard only slightly graying on the tips, a bull's heavy nose, and grim fat lips on a face that looked very much like the moose of his family's heraldry.

He hunkered down as if squaring off against another fighter and closed the distance between them faster than she could track. For a second she feared he would kill her but he stopped short of charging her and stood so that only a finger's distance separated them. He smelled of horse, steel and wine.

He slapped viciously at the wine glass beside him smashing the fine blown glass into another before it disintegrated on the stone floor. Harrold breathed out an angry snort.

“I am all those and a few worse things! A rogue, a hedge knight, a killer as well. But I'm also lord here!”

She smirked, his outburst was loud and perhaps deadly, but predictable. “How very much like your father you are. I have seen that display many times. He didn't like criticism either.”

He very nearly struck her. His temper raised his hand, but it held, shook violently, then lowered. He knew she was right of course. His temper had always caused him trouble and he ground his teeth as he watched her hold her ground. He was used to strong men backing down when he was angry which meant Lady Mallora was braver than most.

He went to pour a glass of wine for himself then realized he had smashed his vessel Suddenly tired he leaned himself against the table as he considered her.

“You’re right of course. I have my father's temper. I suppose our house words are ‘righteous in wrath’ for a reason.”

He took a few more breaths trying to settle the emotion inside him. He loathed this part of him.

“I hope I can show a better side from now on my lady but I'd understand if you wanted to live elsewhere, with the Lakes, or…”

“I'll stay.”

She said as she took a sip from her own cup which was still very much intact. They stood only inches apart for some time until she said. “You will need help with the children…”

“And other things.” Harrold had to admit he was out of his depth on running a household. She knew the villages under Hornwood protection and the current political ground in the North.

She nodded silently as she watched him pick up the decanter full of wine and drink directly from it. He certainly didn't receive his brother's looks. He was coarse and sullen, his nose broken at least once. His words came from him like he was building them brick by brick.

“I… I won't keep you any longer Lady Mallora. It was good to meet the children, and you of course.”

“It wasn't a good first meeting.”

“If you aren't knocked down on the first pass, you still have a chance to win a joust.”

“I know nothing of lances and horses.”

“You would probably pick it up fast if you were a man.”

She smiled a bit even if it was a small one. It reached her eyes though.

He went to sit by the fire then and took the decanter with him. She figured that was what he considered a dismissal.

“Good night Harrold.”

He grunted a little as he got into his father's old chair. “Good night.” He said as she closed the door to the Lord of Hornwood's chamber.

There was lavender in the enormous sandstone pots on Arianne’s balcony. 

All the lavender at Starfall was in pots, not the ground, because like mint it would spread and take over everything if it weren’t contained within some boundaries. Once, Arianne had buried a pot of lavender by her favourite place in the gardens. Not even a year later, it had begun to strangle the sage and near bury a stone bench. When she dug up the pot, she discovered that the roots had burst right through the clay, crawling out to grasp and twist round those of every other plant.

Hopefully sandstone proved stronger. 

“The caravan will arrive on the morrow,” Colin said. They were standing – Arianne, the steward, and even a sleepy-looking Allyria – at the balcony’s ledge. Allyria leaned on the railing, pulling a loose thread from her sleeve. Colin was looking anxiously out at the Torrentine and the horizon beyond it as though the massive column of Dornishmen could come into view at any moment. Perhaps it could. 

“Do I have to be there?” Allyria asked, not bothering to stifle a yawn.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that,” said Colin.

“Arianne is the Lady. I’m only the sister.”

“It is tradition.” 

Tradition is the death of victory, Arianne remembered. Morna had told her that. 

“Have you something better to do?” 

“Yes.”

“Something more important than welcoming the Princess of Dorne and half of the kingdom? The most important visit to Starfall in centuries?”

“Yes.”

“Lady Arianne, please talk sense into your sister.”

Arianne was looking at the lavender. The flowers grew in long cones – purple with soft, pointed green tips. They were covered in swarms of bottle flies whose gold-green bodies glinted in the Dornish sun, giving them a shine not unlike desert scarabs.

“You have to be there, Allyria,” she said.

“Is that an order?”

Arianne watched the flies. These were pollinators, and as if that alone weren’t helpful enough, their larvae could be collected and used to treat stubborn wounds. 

Why couldn’t Allyria be useful in even just one way?

“I guess so.”

“Well, I’ll try.”

Colin scoffed. “Try? She’ll try. Incredible.” He left them, the slap of his sandals against the stone floors muffling whatever else he muttered under his breath. 

Arianne sighed, more heavily than she’d planned to, and pulled her gaze from the lavender to look pleadingly at her younger sister.

“You ought not to vex him so.”

“He shouldn’t be so easily vexed.”

Allyria seemed to be struggling with the thread on her sleeve. She frowned, wrapped it several times around her finger, and then pulled hard enough to snap it. 

“I have something important to tell you,” she said when she was finished.

“I mean it, Allyria. You’ll be in charge while I’m gone and that means you’ll have to work with Colin. You’ll have to do a lot of things you don’t want to do, or, more likely, you’ll have to leave those things to him and then make sure he isn’t… I don’t know. Doing them wrong. Or overstepping.”

“I mean it, too: I have something very important to tell you.”

Arianne knew then that her sister hadn’t listened beyond her first words. She sighed again, and left to follow where the steward had gone.

“I mean it!” Allyria called, chasing after her with a new loose string hanging from the same sleeve. “The other day, when night fell for a moment in the midst of–”

“I have no idea how long I’ll be gone,” Arianne said, passing through wispy curtains into her chambers, “but I expect it will be a long time. A very long time. They say they’ve turned Harrenhal into a proper city, one we’ll all live in for however long it takes to sort out…” She paused. “...whatever it is we’re supposed to sort out.”

At the centre of her room was a low table made of metal and coloured glass, surrounded by tasselled cushions and topped with the remnants of her breakfast: half-eaten figs, unfinished stuffed dates, the peels of an abandoned blood orange.

“I may even come home with a husband.”

Arianne doubted that, but saying it might make the journey seem more important, she thought.

In the corner, her trunks were laid out and open, waiting to be packed for the long trip to the Riverlands. She knew she wasn’t the only one in the holdfast with waiting luggage, either – whether Starfall’s inhabitants were eager to join because they wanted to bear witness to history in exciting new surroundings, with new people, or they simply wanted to avoid a Starfall with Allyria as its regent, she wasn’t sure. But she would not be going to the Riverlands surrounded by wholly unfamiliar faces. It was a comfort, however small. 

“Arianne, listen.” 

Allyria grabbed her arm, and held tight when Arianne reflexively moved to yank it away.

“The vessel confused me.” Allyria’s eyes looked strained from lack of sleep, and what hair of hers had escaped her braid fell scraggly around her face. She looked a bit like a mad woman, Arianne thought, staring.

“You confuse me,” she said.

“It is as Cailin said, water is water.” Allyria was still clutching her arm, and Arianne could feel her sister’s uncut fingernails through the thin sleeve of her gown. “But the vessel – it confused me. Distracted me. The stars. The Sword of the Morning is at Starfall, right now, the wielder of Dawn is here and–”

“My Lady!” 

They both turned at Colin’s voice and saw him standing in the threshold of the bedchamber, breathless. He hadn’t even knocked.

“The caravan – the Princess… She’s here.”

Baldric had been a prisoner all his life.

It was funny; his accommodations were less luxurious now than they had been when he was Orys’s ward. It made sense, of course. Then, he had been first among hostages; now, he was merely the third son of a politically inconvenient man.

His father won the war, but then he’d lost whatever it was that came after.

Baldric hadn’t been barred from attending court in the wake of the siege, but he’d avoided it all the same. He’d spent so much of his life in that great hall, listening to Orys dole out gruff verdicts, that he felt the Stranger’s eyes on him, watching them commandeer the Connington high seat. So he hadn’t been there, heard whatever spirited debates had taken place, but he saw their outcome: the so recently raised Dondarrion banners, stricken.

It had been presumptuous of Lord Uthor Dondarrion to raise them in the first place.

Lord Uthor Dondarrion, it turned out, was a presumptuous man. Baldric had remembered him as many things. Stern. Powerful. Tall. Frightening. But not presumptuous. Not desperate for the affection of his son. That must have been a new development.

No letters had ever come for Baldric from Blackhaven. Not in ten years. His father had raised swords for him, but couldn’t have lifted a pen? And now, to have the audacity to presume any sort of filial bond. Baldric scarcely remembered him; how could he love him?

Memories of Blackhaven were few and foggy. He could recall feelings more than moments. Impressions. Shadows on the wall, but not the forms that cast them. He remembered his father’s dark beard and black temper. He remembered Corenna’s cold disinterest, her teenaged disdain, the quiet sound of her weeping behind closed doors. He remembered Maldon, pale and sick, on borrowed time, but always borrowing more.

He remembered Durran’s laughter, the echoing light that rolled through the halls of the black castle. He remembered the world as it had looked from atop his brother’s shoulders.

Now, he viewed the world through a cloudy glass window from his quarters in the drum tower of Storm’s End. He watched the rain beat against the gray sea. Through the downpour, he could make out familiar banners. Under Orys, he had known what to make of each of them; House Connington commanded their respect, if not their affection. They were coerced allies, obedient to a point, and as loyal as a headsman’s axe above their child’s neck would compel them to be. But as things stood now, Baldric didn’t know. It was House Dondarrion’s alliances that shielded him now, and the strength of those, he could not say.

There was a knock on his door. Baldric paused after. Silence. That was a comfort. The siege had gone on so long, he’d grown discomfitingly accustomed to ever knock on the door being followed by a gaoler’s orders. And more recently, he’d come to expect each knock to be accompanied by his father’s voice imploring, “Sup with me, Baldric,” “Join us for a ride, Baldric,” “Let’s walk the battlements, Baldric.”

But this lone, unadorned knock was a comfort. He hadn’t been expecting company, but if it wasn’t his father, perhaps it would be someone bearable. He crossed the room to open the door.

The Swann siblings stood on the threshold.

Beric Swann had been Orys’s cupbearer, and Baldric’s closest confidante through their years of wardship. He was a year or two Baldric’s junior, with a round face and warm brown eyes. His sister, Sybelle, was a few years older, taller than Baldric by half a head. Her hair was black as onyx, with a shock of white springing from her part.

“Evening,” Baldric says.

Sybelle blinks at him, her dark brow furrowed. “Evening?”

Baldric glances out the window. Surely it wasn’t already tomorrow morning.

“I… believe so,” Baldric ventured.

Beric Swann laughed. “See?” he said, glancing at his sister. “I told you, he’s fine; he just forgot.”

“I forgot?”

“We were meeting in the library. Remember?”

“Oh.” Baldric paused, trying to think of an excuse. Finally, he settled on, “I forgot.”

“We know,” Sybelle said. She gave Baldric a pat on the shoulder as she strode past him and into the room. “So we brought the library to you!”

Sure enough, Beric followed behind her, carrying a stack of books in his arms. He dropped them in a thoughtless pile on the table by the window.

“Careful, Beric!” Sybelle snapped. “Those books are older than House Lannister-Targaryen.”

“They can take it,” Beric said.

“I can’t,” she answered with a scowl. She sat down by the window, the beads of rain racing down the frosted glass. She reached for a book, but not one that Beric had provided. No, she produced a small leather-bound book from the bag slung across her shoulder, and flipped to a half-filled page.

“What are we working on tonight?” Baldric asked her, voice low, as if it would only be a distraction at a certain volume.

Sybelle pulled a small inkwell and a quill from her bag as well, and began arranging her workstation. She spoke, a bit distracted, as she got settled. “The poem I showed you last week,” she said. “I’m trying to finish it.”

“I thought you already did,” Baldric said.

“So did I. Turns out we were both wrong.” She brought the quill to her tongue, and then dipped it in the well. “What about you, are you writing anything tonight?”

Baldric sighed. He shrugged. The last time he met the Swanns in the library, he’d been working on something, but upon reflection, he’d realized it was terrible. He became suddenly concerned that Sybelle could look at the ash in his fireplace and somehow know that’s where the poem had wound up.

“Probably not,” Baldric muttered. He stared at the pile of books. Beric was already picking through them. Baldric would let him have first choice, and pick one of the one’s he’d passed over. “I don’t know what I’d write.”

“Well,” Sybelle said, pausing mid-stanza to look up at him. “Did you have any dreams last night?”

Each night, Baldric peered down from the battlements, not into Shipbreaker Bay, but rather into a great chasm. And each night, Orys Connington begged him to jump. For his sake. Each night, Baldric betrayed him.

“I don’t really have dreams,” Baldric answered.

Sybelle clearly didn’t believe him, but neither did she press him.

“The First Seaworth,” Beric Swann announced, thumbing through the book. “Do you think Myranda’s read this?”

“Surely,” Sybelle replied, glancing at the cover only for a moment before dipping her quill and resuming. “It’s the history of her house.”

“Perhaps we should start inviting her to our library nights,” Beric suggested. He looked to Baldric for approval. Baldric looked to Sybelle for approval.

Sybelle didn’t lift her eyes from her notebook. But she did answer, “I suppose we could.”

“She must be lonely,” Beric continued. “The last of her house, and all…”

Sybelle sighed. “Beric, you can’t wed her. They’ll never let you.”

“Wed– who said anything about wedding anyone!” Beric said, wide-eyed.

“Mhm,” was the only response Sybelle deigned to give, along with a telling raise of her eyebrows.

Uncomfortable, Baldric reached for a tome. On it’s cover was the sigil of House Swann. Two Sons of Stonehelm. He opened it, only to find it was all one big poem. How could someone commit to rhyming and rhythm for so many pages? He’d never managed a poem longer than twelve lines before losing his resolve.

“I just think we ought to, you know, as future lords and ladies of the stormlands, foster, errr, positive relations between our houses,” Beric continued.

“And yet I don’t see you inviting that Trant boy to join us,” Sybelle said. “Why might that be?”

“It might be,” Beric countered, “Because Sebastion Trant an ass.”

“Or might it be because he isn’t as pretty as Myranda Seaworth?”

Baldric recognized the story of this poem. Part of his education had been to learn the history of the various houses of the stormlands, so of course he had heard of the Swann twins, the two scions of House Swann who had each distinguished themselves as great knights, who each went on to ascend to high honors. One, as Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard, bathed in white, in glory. The other, as Lord-Commander of the Night’s Watch, cloaked in black, in duty. It was a familiar tale, but not one he’d ever heard told so beautifully.

“One house to rebuild is enough,” Sybelle was saying to her brother, not unkindly. “You’re the heir to House Swann, Beric; if you married her, you’d likely have to take her name, or else let it fade from the realm for once and all. No, I doubt the new Lord Paramount would permit that.”

“I know that.”

Baldric tried to focus on the tale of the two Ser Swanns, but the conversation the real Swann siblings were sharing kept pulling him back in.

“Perhaps Sebastion Trant would be a good match for her. But if I were Lord Paramount, I’d look to House Dondarrion for Myranda’s groom. Lord Uthor has an heir in his grandson, and a few sons to spare. No offense, Baldric.”

“None taken,” Baldric said slowly. He looked between the Swanns. Beric looked jealous, as though Baldric had announced designs on his sweetheart. And Sybelle looked aloof as ever. He wasn’t precisely sure which Swann’s reaction upset him more, but he hastened to add, “I’m not interested in Myranda Seaworth, though.”

He was interested in Myranda Seaworth, of course. A touch smitten, for all the same reasons he was enamored of Sybelle Swann. They were both of them remarkably lovely, remarkably lonely.

“Interest has little enough to do with it,” Sybelle answered, setting her quill aside. “I was promised to Alyn Connington, you’ll recall. Do you imagine I was interested in him?”

“I guess I never thought about that,” Baldric said. He had thought about it often.

As Sybelle labored over her poem, her hair shifted, and Baldric found himself staring at the pale nape of her neck.

In a moment of panic, Baldric glanced at Beric to see if the Swann boy had noticed.

He had.

Baldric tried to find a way to silently apologize, through eye contact alone, but it seemed that Beric received a different message.

“Oh, I just realized,” Beric said all of a sudden, “I forgot something in the library!”

Baldric tried to wave off his friend, to stop whatever wheels were in motion, but then Sybelle looked up. “What?”

“I said I forgot–”

“No, what did you forget?”

“My…”

Beric looked to Baldric for help, but Baldric could only grit his teeth.

“... Dagger,” Beric finally finished.

“Your dagger?” Sybelle repeated.

“Yes,” Beric committed. “I was, er, carving things into the shelves.”

“Things?”

“Obscenities, mostly.”

Sybelle glanced between Beric and Baldric and then asked dryly, “Is this some sort of male instinct?”

“It is,” Baldric threw in. “I do it all the time.”

“We both do,” Beric confirmed.

Sybelle sighed and shook her head. Baldric couldn’t tell for the life of him whether or not she believed them. But she waved her hand and said, “You’d better go find it– and make your apologies to the maester.”

Beric gave his sister a self-deprecating sort of look and then headed for the door. He lingered on the threshold and turned, so only Baldric could see, to give him an apologetic look.

Baldric tried one last time to signal that this was all a misunderstanding, but Beric was too quick in leaving.

Baldric stared at the iron door fittings for a hopefully-not-too-noticeable length of time before turning back to the table, the window, and the girl.

Sybelle had shifted to be more comfortable, her head resting on her arm on the table, staring sideways at her quill as it danced across the parchment. How giant her words must have looked from that angle. He stood and watched her like that, for longer than he intended.

It was Sybelle who broke the silence, though she didn’t look up from her work.

“His dagger. Honestly.”

She knew it all. Of course. Baldric was half-convinced Sybelle could read his mind; of course she had noticed what he and Beric had done.

“He used to never lie to me.” Sybelle’s quill stopped moving.

Baldric stood, uncertain. “Why do you think he’s lying to you?”

“He does this all the time now. Making some absurd excuse to slip off on his own.” Sybelle set her quill down and looked out the window. “Ever since the siege. At first, I thought he was up to something. Meeting some girl or something. Or some boy, maybe. Beric doesn’t lie, you know that. It must’ve been something he thought shameful. Something he didn’t want anyone, not even me, to know about. I followed him once, to find out his secret, so he could stop hiding it.”

She hesitates before finishing, “I found him in a cupboard. Sobbing. Shaking. Sweating.”

Baldric hadn’t noticed anything like that. But then, he’d been so in his own world. He crossed the room to sit at the table with Sybelle.

“Is he ill?” Baldric asked.

“No,” Sybelle answered, looking across at him. “He’s terrified.”

Baldric knew what she meant.

Beric had been Orys’s cupbearer. He’d suffered more than his share of abuse from Lord Connington, but still, their bond had been strong. Beric had spent the better part of a decade running at the sound of Orys’s voice.

Maybe he had dreams like Baldric.

“Have you talked to him about it?” Baldric asked.

Sybelle shook her head. “I didn’t want him to know I’d seen.”

He didn’t know how to respond. Anything he could say, Sybelle already knew. Beric had spent months in a cell, a political prisoner in a besieged citadel. And he’d listened, night after night, as each of his friends, the closest thing he had to brothers, were dragged out to slaughter at the hands of his captor, the closest thing he had to a father. Night after night, he’d prayed for the death of the man he loved most in the world.

Baldric realized he was holding his breath, and released it in a hurry.

“I could try talking to him,” he said haltingly.

Sybelle raised her eyes and gave him a smile. Her look usually set his heart to pumping, but there was something in her gaze that stirred his sympathy, not his desire.

“How are you sleeping?” Baldric asked.

She almost laughed.

Baldric smiled wanly. “Me too.”

He looked across at her, and maintained her gaze as much as he could dare, until she finally turned to watch raindrops race down the pane.

“Maybe I will write tonight after all,” Baldric declared quietly.

“Oh? What about?”

“Just a poem.”

She smiled at him. “I wish you good fortune,” she said, taking up her own quill once more.

How long they sat across from one another at that table by the window, Baldric could not say. But when their hands grew sore and their hearts leaked empty, they each sat back in their seat and looked up at one another.

He could see in her eyes that she was about to ask him something intimate.

“Would you read what I have so far?”

Desmond would never admit it to his father, but he hated Casterly Rock. 

It was not a fortress. It was a cave. It was dark, dull, too hot or too cold depending on which chamber, hardly had any windows, and smelled funny close to the port. The only good thing about Casterly, as Desmond saw it, was its proximity to better places – to Lannisport, to Elk Hall, to the little towns near Feastfires that they sometimes docked at on sailing jaunts, to Fair Isle where the boat races were, and to the mountains and woods where they sometimes got to go hunting. 

And the best thing about Casterly Rock right now was that Desmond was almost never in it. 

“What do you think?” Loras Hightower asked him, holding up the results of his whittling. 

They were sprawled out on the bow of the Maid of the Mist, her wood planks baked hot from the sun, having a carving competition. 

Desmond was, naturally, winning. 

“It’s okay,” he said charitably. “But Tygett’s is better.”

It was rare that Tygett got to come along on their sails, but all the rules seemed to change when the Hightowers arrived at the Rock. They went sailing much more often, and hunting, too. And Tygett was given a reprieve from many of his squire duties – a development with which Desmond was secretly pleased – and joined them for mealtimes again like he used to. Daena voiced her guess that it was because Father wanted all the cousins and brothers and sisters together, which sparked a fierce debate on whether Tygett was a cousin or a brother that left Desmond so confused he ended up thumbing through his Valyrian books in an effort to prove himself correct. 

He was, naturally, not. 

“Yours is really good, Loras,” Tygett said. He himself had whittled a knight, shield and all. Loras looked at it enviously, and blew a lock of sandy hair away from where it’d fallen over his eyes. 

“People are easier,” the Hightower cousin said, turning his gaze back to the misshapen horse in his own hands.

Hugo gave a loud yawn. He was the only one of them not competing anymore, a handful of deformed animals abandoned close to the pile of driftwood they’d brought on board with them. He lay on his back, letting the sun beat down on his freckled face. 

“Whittling is boring,” he decreed.

Desmond looked over to the stern, where Hugo’s father was also yawning. They looked very similar. So did Loras and his father. Desmond often heard himself likened to his, but he couldn’t be sure if it were wholly true, since he couldn’t quite remember what his mother really looked like. 

A figure stepped into his view, and Desmond shielded his eyes from the sun in order to better make out the image of his sister.

“I want to join,” said Daena.

“Whittling is for boys only,” Loras said without looking away from his work. “You can’t join.” 

Daena shot him a look that, had Loras seen it, would have certainly provoked an apology. "Persio gaohot aōhom kekepoma imazumbagon kostā,” she snapped.

“We’re done anyways.” Desmond clamoured to his feet. “Let’s go ask Father if we can stop to swim.” 

He grabbed Daena by the hand and dragged her away from the stern. Once certain that the wind and the rattling of the line against the mast would cover their voices, Desmond looked at her sternly. 

“You can’t keep telling people that Persion will eat them,” he said.

“You can’t keep doing everything without me all the time!”

“I’ll do something with you later.”

Desmond was still pulling her towards the bow where the men were laughing and conversing, but Daena pulled back hard and forced him to stop.

“I want to whittle.”

“Fine. I’ll teach you to whittle when we get home.”

Daena looked past him, at Loras and Hugo and Tygett. “I don’t like Loras,” she said. 

Desmond followed her gaze. The boys were playing with their figurines now, making Tygett’s knight battle Hugo’s deformed animals. 

“Well,” Desmond said, “his station is beneath yours.”

Their request to swim was refused on account of a formal dinner later, but Father did allow them to dock at Lannisport to purchase honey-glass from their favourite merchant, who always kept the sweets on hand just in case they should visit. They ate until their bellies ached and their faces and fingers were sticky. On the journey back to the Rock, they took turns having Hugo’s father hold them over the rail by their ankles so they could reach the water to wash, which was exactly the sort of great fun they’d never get to have if the ladies were on board.

By the time they’d bid farewell to the Baneforts and were seated around the board with only the Hightowers, Desmond was much too sick from the sweets and the sea to eat any of the magnificent spread before them. He pushed some peas and pheasant around his plate and hoped in vain that Lady Joanna wouldn’t notice the bit of honey still on his doublet, which even with Father’s help he’d been unable to wash clean.  

“All of the arrangements for tomorrow have been made,” Lady Joanna was saying, her gaze flitting from Desmond, to the stain on his shirt, to his face once more, and then gratefully to the Lady Hightower. “I thought that we might ride together with the smallest children, as my carriage is by far the most accommodating.”

“I had best ride alone,” Lady Hightower said. “I am often sick with this child, and I expect a long carriage ride to worsen it.”

Desmond tried stuffing a dinner cloth into the collar of his shirt to hide the stain, but Lady Joanna was giving his father looks now.

“Would it not be some comfort then, to ride with others?” Father said. “Lady Joanna is no stranger to such sickness herself.”

“Oh yes, Damon, I and the whole realm know about Joanna’s propensity for falling sick with children.” 

“Now, Shara-”

“Well, I’m certainly beginning to feel ill, now that you mention it,” Lady Joanna said.

Lord Gerold began coughing loudly. “My, what spices are in the… the quail, is it? Yes.”

“My darlings…” Lady Joanna pinched the bridge of her nose before turning to the children. “You may excuse yourselves. And don’t let me catch you lingering in the doorway, either, or I’ll find some horrid lesson to keep you occupied tomorrow.” 

Desmond was happy to leave the table, and happier still when Daena revealed on their way back to their chambers that she’d filled her skirt’s pockets with butter rolls. 

“Are you going to teach me to whittle now?” she asked.

“Are you going to share your rolls?”

“You answer first.”

They paused outside the door to Desmond’s bedroom and faced one another. 

“We’ll answer on three,” he told her. “Mēre, lanta, hāre.”

After they both said “yes” at the same moment, he opened the door and showed her inside. 

Desmond’s bedchamber was huge, and messy. Thrice the size of what he remembered of his rooms in King’s Landing, there was space for two sofas, a table for eating, and a mammoth desk where he sat to do his sums and writing. Numerous bookcases stretched from floor to ceiling, laden with texts on law, history, and Valyrian, along with stories of knights and kings and adventurers. The well-worn copies of Galt and the Magic Crow were within easy reach.

There was a large chest at the foot of his bed which he’d filled with wood for carving, and a smaller one underneath the bed with all his treasures. After a moment’s consideration, he went to retrieve the smaller one. 

“Why do you think Lady Joanna is sick of us?” he asked, lifting innumerable layers of silk and satin in order to reach the space under the bed. 

“She isn’t sick of us,” Daena said. “She’s sick of children. That means the babies, not us.”

Desmond groped blindly until his fingers found the edges of the little wooden chest, and after some clumsy turning and scraping he managed to drag it out from the darkness. 

“Here,” he said, bringing it to the table. “This is what Uncle Ben made me.” He opened the lid and delicately removed the little wooden crane. “You can hold it but you have to be careful.”

Daena accepted it with reverence, keeping her hands cupped and close to her face. 

“It’s beautiful.”

“I can’t carve anything that good yet, but I’m trying.” He accepted it back from her and returned it to the box. “Here’s a shark tooth I found in an old bedroom here,” he said, showing her the next treasure. “And here’s a snakeskin I found while hunting. And a lucky rabbit’s foot. And…” 

Desmond looked over his shoulder at the door to his bedchamber, checking to see it was closed. 

“Do you want to see something really special?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Do you swear?”

Daena looked at him seriously. “Aōt kīvio ñuhe tepan.”   

Desmond sorted carefully through the box until he found what he was looking for: a smooth, round, heavy object wrapped in cloth. He placed it in Daena’s waiting hands before pulling back the silk.

“A dragon egg,” he explained. 

Daena looked down at the object in her hands. 

“This is a rock.”

Desmond snatched it back, fixing the cocoon of silk around it. “No it isn’t,” he said. “A trader from the East brought it, just for me. You’re just jealous.”

“Why would I be jealous of a rock?”

Desmond sighed, closing the box back up. “Do you want me to teach you how to whittle, or not?”

“I do.”

“I’ll show you the basics and let you have some of my wood. You can practise on the ride tomorrow, since you’ll have to sit in the carriage anyways ‘cause you’re a girl.” He knew the reminder would anger her, but she must have been intent on learning, for she held her tongue for once.

After one last touch of the crane, for remembering, and the rabbit’s foot, for luck, Desmond packed up his treasure chest and returned it to its hiding place. He set up a place for them to whittle by the hearth, where a fire was already crackling, using cushions and blankets pulled from the sofas. Daena seemed to be good at everything she ever tried, and so Desmond was somewhat pleased to see her struggle with the old knife he’d given her, even though he knew it likely to be because the blade was dull. 

“What are you making?” he asked after a time. 

“A dragon.”

“That’s too hard for your first sculpture.”

“Then it will be my second, if I break this one. Or my third, if I break the second.”

Desmond would never admit it to his sister, but he admired her stubbornness. 

She was not a girl. She was some sort of wild creature, too honest or too deceitful depending on the situation. She got away with talking back, hardly ever made mistakes in her lessons, and always smelled like spices from the kitchen. But the best thing about Daena, as Desmond saw it, was that her cleverness granted him access to what he otherwise would be barred from – from information, explanations, and forgiveness for disobeying Father.

And if he were to be stuck at Casterly Rock forever, Desmond was glad that she was, too. 

The parts of Princess Sarella in this post were written by Damon with mod approval!

Nymos sat, pensive, in his solar. It was a fine room, stacked with books on either side, washed in colourful light filtering in from a large circular, stained window with the hand sigil of house Allyrion fashioned upon the centre pane. Its colours brought in hues of gold and red into the room, especially now at sunset. 

He dipped a black quill into black ink and wrote his black words:

‘I, Nymos Allyrion of Godsgrace, write personally to Starfall and Lady Arianne Dayne to inform her of the passing of my late Lord Father, Lord Nymor Allyrion. His manner of death is a subject on which I shall speak with Lady Arriane upon our next meeting, which should be in due time.’

He finished with a swift signature, leaving the parchment and gleaming with slick, wet ink. Despite the contents of his letter, his father’s passing was not that which was on his mind. His place in Dorne, rather, bothered him. He was a new, young lord. Not even his liege knew of his father’s passing, and she would not learn until the Dornish Caravan was at the door of Godsgrace’s halls. He would have to make a name for himself, like his father did, and from what he had heard it would not come easy with the sitting Martell Princess.

Nymos turned to see a sundial his father had placed into the solar, just beneath the ceiling’s glass-paned window, so he would always know the hour. If he had been there he would have pointed out each one’s passing, its name and its meaning down to the most minute detail. Dawn had passed almost two hours ago and Nymos had been writing and sending letters all night.

He turned back again to write another. 

One last one and I will go to bed, he told himself – as he had been telling himself all night.

 He began writing, though as he did the realisation of the time and the tiredness began to kick in. His grip began to loosen. His head began to lull. Before he could finish writing, his black quill slipped out of his black-stained hands and his head fell onto wet black ink, as he slipped into slumber.

Nymos was awoken to a banging at the door. 

“Maester Rycherd, my lord!” a guard from outside shouted. Nymos jumped to his feet, though not before wiping the black stain on his cheek, managing to make it even worse. 

“Enter, Maester!” he said, finally. 

And so Maester Rycherd did. 

He was a slim man, of a similar build to Nymos, though quite older, almost as old as father had been when he passed. He had a soft face with a beard growing down his abnormally long neck. His skin was the rough pale skin of a northman. Nymos always thought it ironic that the Citadel in Oldtown had sent a northman to the centre of the Dornish desert, though he never pondered too long and never had time to ask for Rycherd’s own thoughts on that matter. The man stepped in with a nervous gait and smiled at Nymos.

“My Lord, a raven has come. I apologise for the hour. I know a young lord such as yourself must rest after a day's hard work.” 

Nymos glazed at the sundial. Only two hours before sundown. He turned back to the maester who now had a twisted expression of confusion and oddness on his face and was glancing at the large stain on Nymos’ cheek. 

“My apologies, Rycherd. I was writing letters all through the night and it seems I fell asleep on top of one.” Nymos looked down at the ink-smudged piece of paper on his desk, where his head had laid.

“Of no matter, My Lord.” Rycherd smiled.

“And of the raven?” Nymos asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The, uh, Dornish Caravan, my lord,” he began, hesitantly. “I’ve just got a raven saying it shall be at Godsgrace by sundown.”

Nymos’ heart skipped a beat and came back twice as fast.

“Today?” 

“Yes, my lord. But not to worry. I’ve had your servers lay out your travelling garments in your chambers and your garrison is preparing themselves.”

“Ah, thank the gods for you! But what of dinner and accommodation for the princess?”

“I have had the girls ready a room for the Princess, though we have only a Dornish dinner suitable for a family. Nothing as grand as a Princess might expect.” 

“It shall suffice. Thank you for all your work, maester. Come, walk with me.”

The two took the stairwell that led to the upper floor of the courtyard of Godsgrace, where Nymos now saw a portion of his garrison readying themselves in their travelling gear.

They walked along, Rycherd’s hand on the bannister, for the man was becoming old and without a cane. Godsgrace was a beautiful place, Nymos always thought so. Stained glass often caught the sun and refracted it onto the mosaic floors in fluorescent yellows and reds, plants dangled from the roofs of the courtyard walls, their branches and vines twirling like spiralling veins in the marble pillars.

They turned again into another hallway which led to the Lord’s chambers. Upon reaching the room, Nymos turned the bronze handle and entered. When Nymos was younger, often he would open the door to jump onto father’s quill mattress if he had nightmares, or dress up in some of his cloaks and tunics and pretend to be some great knight. 

But Lords don’t have nightmares or play dress-up. 

He entered to find Daisy and Dandy quickly setting out clothes. They were two scrawny things of seven and eight. Daisy acted like some noble lady, despite her lowborn ancestry, and Dandy acted like no sort of lady at all. They both seemed to have some interest in Nymos, if expressed very differently. It amused him at times, annoyed him at others, but children would be children.

That was me not too long ago. He smiled at the thought

“M’lord! We apologise for the delay,” the older Daisy said by way of greeting. “We have prepared a bath for you and your clothes will be ready the very minute you get out!” 

“Freezing, m’lord,” Dandy said, maliciously smiling, “just the way you like it.”

“I thank you for your services, girls, though that will be enough for today. Perhaps the kitchen requires hands like yours?” 

“Of course, m’lord!” they both exclaimed in unison, finishing his outfit. 

He slinked away into the bath and stripped his old clothes from him. He was nervous and the cold water did not help, though as his father was fond of saying: “A lord must always keep his wits about him, even in his most vulnerable of times.”

Father had kept popping up in Nymos’ head during the lead-up to Princess Sarella arriving. It should have been him to greet her. It should have been him riding north to the Great Council. He dressed himself, ridding his mind of such thoughts. 

Nymos arrived in the hall to sup quickly, only a small bit of meat and bread with the Arbor’s red water. He did not consider himself a normal Dornishman, but he did agree with that: wine of the Reach tasted of nothing.

Afterwards, he set for outside, the maester Rycherd once again by his side. They continued to walk to the stables and Nymos mounted his dappled grey palfrey. He paused when he was atop the saddle. 

“Rycherd, I would have you accompany me to Harrenhal. You have served me well since the late lord’s passing. I have already written to the Citadel and they are sending another Maester to Godsgrace as your replacement. A small price to pay for your loyalty.” 

“It has been my pleasure, my lord. Citadel permitting, I would gladly travel with you.” Rycherd beamed at the young lord. 

And with a quick kick, Nymos took off to meet with Sarella.

Sundown had come by the time Nymos and a collection of six other household knights spotted the caravan. It was a great thing, kicking up immense storms of sand, and still it was only the men of House Martell and perhaps one other. Nymos could only imagine the strength of this caravan by the time they were to enter the reach. 

He rode forward, his heart pounding to the galloping of his horse’s hooves on the ground. He was accompanied by several knights, including Ser Pearse. He’d grown quite fond of him over the last two weeks, especially since his visit to the Greenblood.

By the time they were close enough to see individual faces, it was by torchlight. A messenger had been sent to greet Nymos and his company. They rode towards the Princess’ caravan, which slowed to meet them. The line of horses and litters snaked over the dunes and into the darkness. It was impossible to see how long it was. Nymos dismounted and stalked in, pushing the flowing orange silk from his path. 

And there she sat, the embroidered curtains drawn back from an elaborate litter of silk and bone that itself surrounded by attendants and riders – the Princess of Dorne, Sarella Martell.

He knew it was her, even though she was swaddled in layers of silk that all but hid her face. Even if it weren’t for all the glint of gold and gemstones in the torchlight, there was something about the way she sat – a calm sort of poise that was not so much a mountain lion staring down from a ledge as a cobra, quietly debating when to strike. 

The adder. That was what they called her, Nymos remembered.

“Princess Sarella, of House Martell!” one of her banner-bearers called out. 

“Lord Nymos Allyrion of Godsgrace!” Ser Pearse called back.

Nymos bowed to the princess, though she made no motion in return. She spoke over the wind in the sand and the gentle rustling of armour. 

“Lord Nymor sends his child to greet me? It must be quite an illness to keep him abed when his Princess comes calling.”

“No illness had befallen my late lord father, Princess. I sent word to Sunspear, though it did not reach you before you took your leave.”

Nymos was angered, though he smiled sadly. Princess Sarella was a powerful woman and he thought it best to keep her happy and well. 

There was nothing in the Princess’ dark eyes to suggest she regretted her greeting, and her next words dispelled any notion of forthcoming condolences.

“Is your intent to have us stand here all night, Lord Nymos?”

“I come, humbly, bearing bread and salt, Princess,” Nymos replied. “Food and a meal awaits you and a small portion of your company in Godsgrace. For the majority of your men, you will find the grounds around the castle hospitable. They may come into the gardens for meat and mead and to break their fast in the morning.”

“Very well.”

With a faint wave of her hand, the curtains fell shut again, and the column began to move.

Nymos bowed his head in respect one more time before turning to take the lead, Ser Pearse at his tail. His eyes twitched. The Princess was a brutal woman and he must be careful.

North of the Barrowlands, where the lonely heaths and moors give way to the highlands, rises a long, flat peak. An outcrop of a larger summit, the smallfolk who dwell in its sight call it the Younger Son, as towering above it is the grey-black mountain named the Old Father, itself a vassal peak of the mighty Rills to its north.

Through the long winter, ice built on the fields of scree, sometimes dropping some granite to the valley floor in a rush of snow and dead heather. Upon the Younger Son, fed by the melt from above is an ancient tumbledown well, cut deep into a mountain brook. A wizened ash, curled and bent from age and wind rises above this deep pool, its roots going deep to where the water remains liquid through the long years of winter.

As the season turns, this water starts to bubble up, the first stags of the season drink from its clear water, dripping bloody velvet from their new horns into the cold blue depths. As life returns to the valleys below, and the people of the Barrowlands thank the gods of bud and bough that they have lived through another winter, the stream begins to flow once more.

At first, just a trickle, rolling through earth hard as iron from the winter chill, then in more force as the first snowdrops start to flower and the miner bees are called out from their deep lairs. Before long, the sun has warmed the ice above enough that the water starts to reach the valley floor.

The first to notice it was a shepherd, taking his flock from their winter retreat. As he stopped to eat a griddle-cake that his wife had prepared, he noticed his sheep drinking from a stream that had been dry last he had come this way. When winter had come, he had been a boy, now he had a child of his own, one who would grow in what he prayed would be a long summer.

From there, the word was sent quickly overland. So it was that long after the Maesters of Oldtown had made their calculations and determinations that it was so, Spring had come to Barrowton in the manner it had come for thousands of years.

From there, tradition was to be observed. Two moons after the word had reached the ears of the Lord of the Barrowlands, people from villages and holdfasts from the Rills to the White Knife began to assemble on the Watchman’s Moor in the sight of the Great Barrow.

Merchants and tradesmen set up a little tent town near the broad and furrowed road, their fabrics worn but colourful and smelling of polish, scented woods, roasting meat, and spiced ale. The smallfolk slept on stable floors, or in stalls newly clean and whitewashed. Vassal Lords made their way through the ancient gates and towers of Barrow Hall, and took the hospitality of their liege.

Lists and stalls and paddocks were set up by carpenters, musicians and mummers filled the air with noise, and before long, the whole common had become a fair, a riotous celebration that the people of this ancient land had once again defied winter.

On the appointed day, the thronging crowds lined the way out of the wood walled town, as Lord Morgan Dustin rode out to start off the festivities. He rode at the head of a procession of half a hundred sworn-swords, family members and bannermen. He was a tall man, fiercely bearded and broad of shoulder, dressed in fur and wool and horse barded with amber and brass.

In the south, stands of seats and boxes would be laid on for nobles at such events, not so here. Although this was not due to any lack of distinction of rank, as the noble party dismounted and made their way to an old stone structure, weathered and grey from lichen. Instead of some temporary building, benches had been set on an old raised trellis where once the Dustins had heard justice, when they had been kings. Above rose an old, grey weirwood, its carved face so old and hardened that it seemed to cry tears of stone. No leaf sprouted from it, for the tree was long dead and petrified. When the Barrow Kings had been cast down and bent their knees to the Kings of Winter, a ring of bronze nails had been hammered into its base. They were there now, blue-green stains where the roots started to plunge into the earth.

Once the noble folk were seated, a liveried master of ceremonies came forward and called out the day’s events in a clear voice. Once the serving man was done, Lord Morgan’s uncle, Lord Denys of Giantsgrave, stood. A strong man bent by age, he was the oldest kinsman, and so to him was given the duty of saying a blessing for those who came to compete.

He barked out some words as the wind swept in green and grey waves across the moor. From the back of the crowd, where the breeze snapped banners to and fro, even a voice as fierce as his could not be heard.

A horn sounded, and with a glad cheer and the burst of sudden music, the contests began.

As tradition, a contest of axe throwing set off the first day, the first to be thrown by Lord Morgan.

He walked with an easy grace, despite his bulk, as stable as though rooted in old rock. One of his companions, a dandy looking fellow with sandy hair and an oiled beard with copper rings weaved through, took his cloak and wools. Lord Dustin took a fine ash-hilted axe, and after a minute to feel the weight and balance, he sent the thing spinning.

It was a fair hit, landing off-centre in the target butt, but it provoked a smattering of applause, as surely it would have were it not fair.

The challengers lined up in pairs, contending with three axes apiece. An older man, a grizzled bear who had served as a Man-at-arms for the Dustins for twenty years and more judged the affair, sending back the winner to choose another opponent and sending the losers off with a gruff word.

The spring sun warmed the contestants as the day went on, and by the time they had narrowed to half a dozen, they were stripped to the waist and red from the effort. They went one against the other for another three rounds, neither being judged any better, before one of the men slipped from the exhaustion and almost clipped the judge.

The victor, a thin-faced man in the service of Lord Tyne, was awarded a keg of ale from Barrow Hall’s cellar and kept the axe as a gift from Lord Dustin. The runner up was likewise given his axe as all agreed it had been a fine showing.

Later there was a race on horses between the villages that marked each end of the moor. Upper Gair was a collection of turf roofed cottages at the centre of a spiderweb of thin strips of land divided by plain stone walls. Lower Gair was slightly larger, at the intersection of two broad roads. The horses galloped down the stony road between them almost running over some of those who were too eager to watch.

That night a group of acrobats, jugglers and fire-eaters entertained the folk in the light of split logs that burnt here and there, filling the air with warmth and smoke. The field echoed to the cheers and applause of the crowd, made merry from nut-brown ale and even some summer-mead that had been laid by all winter.

The next day was one of the most awaited events. The ‘War of the Wives’ where newlywed couples fought in a fool’s battle to win a sprig from the heart-tree of Barrowton. The husbands bore their wives on their backs, and so long as they remained there at the end, they would win the cutting, which was said to bless any child cradled under it.

Despite how plainly ridiculous the ‘battle’ was, it was a hard fought affair. The wives of the Barrowlands believed in the old folktales implicitly, at least the new wives did, the ones whose hearts pounded anxiously for fear of their first child. Despite the laughter and japing around the paddock, it soon became a large puddle of mud from the incessant running boots of the husbands leaping to obey the commands of their wives.

One woman was so fierce that she took to jabbing at the eyes of her foes with grasping fingers, and looked to be the winner before a willowy young wife with a belly just starting to swell pulled her from her seat head-first and sent her sprawling.

After the light-hearted entertainment, the afternoon saw the so called ‘Blacksmith’s sports’ a part of trials of strength. The first was to toss a great iron hammer as far as it could go, spinning around and letting it fly off down the field. The second was to carry an ancient anvil from the floor of an old smithy that still poked out of the green as far as it could be managed.

Old round men with curved bellies and red faces that puffed up from the effort did best in this, and victors were crowned quickly enough.

The wrestling was a truly ancient affair, supposed to have been at first a competition to decide sworn swords for the Barrow Kings of old. Of course this was no longer the case, but it held a certain dignity that many other of the games did not.

The competitors fought within a ring of grey, coiled rope, seeking to eject each other from it, or to gain the submission of their foe. No blows, gouging of the eyes or privates were allowed and all was done stripped to underclothes to prevent any steel from being smuggled.

By the end of the bouts, it was evening and the fires were lit once more. This evening though, all those who had competed and had not shamed themselves - and in truth some who had but had been especially bold or who had some importance - were invited to dine in the pavilion of Lord Dustin. Most of the men were smallfolk, tillers of the land and wood, who saw the chance to dine with their Lord as a fine honour. Some others were sworn swords, freeriders, other men of steel, who sought employment. Some other few were small Lords themselves, Masters of some vale or stream who did homage to Barrow Hall.

All were feasted on mutton, roasted whole, with fresh crabs and mussels brought up the Saltspear, turnips with wild garlic and butter, round loaves of fresh bread that smelt as inviting as a maiden’s bed, sweet pickled vegetables from the stores at Barrow Hall brined with peppercorns, and a brace of wild grouse greasy and crisp from spits. To wash it down, ale and stout, and some fine summer cider warm and mixed with pears.

Lord Morgan laughed and listened to the men, giving them every impression of his sincerity and joviality at their company. He was solemn when a man with a young family talked of how his father had gone hunting this winter, and gave him some words of comfort. He was paternal to a youth of two and ten who had entered the fray and made so strong a struggle as to break his arm trying to escape a hold. He was careful to never spend too long with any of the little knots of conversation and merrymaking that formed, and moved from one to the other, greeting them each with fondness.

As the fires burnt low, mead came forth and Morgan stood and raised his voice above the festivities. His voice cut clear through the throng and the wrestlers were silent.

“I thank you for taking my hospitality, as your fathers will have done of mine,” he began, his manner plain but forthright. “I know that what we do these few days is but a game, a chance to make merry, a chance to shed our wools and furs after the cold and find what joy spring heralds. Indeed, I know some of you have been shedding a little too much and finding a little too much joy!”

The crowd laughed at that, there would be a brace of bastards made here born before the year was out.

“But we must take care to remember what else it is, a small piece in a great chain. One that stretches from the dawn of days to the world’s end. You are Dustin men, like your fathers were, like your fathers’ fathers were, and on and on for thousands of years. Like your sons will be.”

Morgan raised a tankard of mead high.

“I am your Lord and I charge you to be true to me and my house for so long as we keep the lands betwixt the Wolfswood and the Blazemater. I charge you to be Dustin men, and hold to that honour so long as you live. I charge you to give me your steel when it is called for, and my share of my lands when it is not. In return, I swear to keep your rights, give you justice, guard you and yours, and dig deep in summer and give well in winter. To this I drink.”

A ragged cheer came back as they drank the toast. With that done, the Lord in time excused himself, taking care to make his exit slow enough to avoid any insult.

The next day was the last, and it was a more piecemeal affair. Contests of archery and spears, and the main event, a raucous game that was half a battle between the villages of Upper and Lower Gair, where the townsfolk fought to drop a painted ball into the well of the other village.

The thing was rolling series of battles and huddles and mad dashes up and down the moor. Before long though, the lower town won the upper hand, smashing through a wall of uptowners that were blocking an old bridge over a stream and carried the ball into the village before a serious challenge could be mounted. From there, it was only a short matter of running fights in the street before the goal was called and the villagers could relax with some well earned cider.

Whilst all this was happening, the master of arms at Barrow Hall, a man with a sallow face and sunken cheeks named Jacks Tarr had brought forth the dulled armoury of the castle and had set up a makeshift yard. There would be no melee today, that was considered to be bad form on a spring festival day, but such events always drew freeriders, unsworn swords, and other warriors without masters looking for service. As such, pens were always laid out and training weapons and padding provided so that such men could fight bouts to catch the eye of the lords and masters in attendance.

With winter’s end, many of the small lords were feeling able to expand their households once more, and whilst the winter had not been the worst in memory, it had been bad enough to leave brigands, poachers and bandits distressingly common. Almost two years prior, Lord Morgan had been forced to lead one hundred swords and nearly as many crossbowmen south to Blazewater Bay where a camp of wreckers and marauders had begun preying on vessels and travellers headed for the Saltspear.

Many of those who came to demonstrate their skill were lucky enough to draw the eye of a new master, and so the lords trains that readied to leave were a good deal longer tha when they had arrived.

A great bonfire was lit that night and the evening was full of merriment and festivity. Musicians played, jugglers and sword swallowers and even some stilt-wakers made the crowds clap and laugh. However, upon the raised dias, beneath the ancient weirwood, a darker mood had descended.

They caught the woman earlier when a great hue and cry was raised where some smallfolk had been camping. She had been drunk, that was clear. A few hours chained to a post behind Lord Morgan’s pavilion had sobered her some, but she was bleary and red.

She had been one of the women who had with such enthusiasm fought in the ‘Wive’s War.’ A bony woman by the name of Bessa. She was with child, just starting to show. She had crept into the campsite where the victor of the contest – a young woman named Joy – had stowed her prize, and had made off with the sprig of weirwood.

Lord Morgan sat upon a low chair of dark wood banned in hammered bronze beneath the dead tree. For all the world, it looked more a scene of five thousand years past, the bannermen of the Dustins lining the side, lit by torches and giving the whole scene the air of dark antiquity.

The Lord of the Barrowlands listened to the tale: the older woman had come drunk, meaning to simply steal off with the prize. She pleaded her belly, she had lost a child in the winter and another had been miscarried, she said she did not mean to harm anyone, but hearing that Joy had four strong children already and another on the way, she was wroth that a woman who so obviously did not need the blessing of the gods had received it.

Harm she had done though, for the prize of a piece of tradition. When she began rooting through the possessions of the younger woman, Joy returned. Bessa had knocked the young wife to the floor and attempted to make her escape. Though she was caught soon after, the damage had been done. Joy lay in a puddle of blood, and a healer was called for to bring forth her babe, stillborn.

Lord Morgan heard both the parties, Joy’s husband called it murder and almost came to blows with Bessa’s. The young woman was quiet and distant, giving short answers when she was prodded for any questions.

The decision had been made after much deliberation and after listening to the opinions of all the leal bannermen who attended. Lord Dustin stood that the assembled might hear his justice.

“You held envy in your heart for this woman. An envy perhaps understandable, but nevertheless an ugly thing. When you acted upon that you became a thief, for that, I will have your nose slit.”

Bessa gasped at that, but the wronged party seemed sullen before he continued.

“As for the child, the decision is not mine to make. You will be whipped from the gate of Barrowton to the heart tree at my godswood. The gods will decide whether you will keep the child or not.”

So it was that the spring games ended, with merrymaking, and with the cries of a woman through the streets of the ancient town. The accused did indeed keep the child, though her back was torn and bloody by the time she knelt before the solemn weirwood of Barrow Hall. The gods, it seemed, did not see fit to take the child that quickened within her.

As the smallfolk and lords began to break down their camps and make their ways to their homes, the household of Barrow Hall turned their mind to another event. Spring had come to Barrowton, and with it, the Great Council that the King had called drew near. A council that Morgan Dustin – despite his distaste – had every intention of attending.

“Are you asleep?”

“Hm? No. I’m awake.”

It was a lie, of course. Theon’s eyelids had never felt heavier. Every blink threatened to steal fifteen minutes from him, and leave him disoriented in his saddle, bobbing along.

His Uncle Nathaniel regarded him with shrewd eyes perched above a hooked nose. Theon knew better than to imagine his uncle believed him, but the Stone Falcon had the grace not to belabor it.

Theon was not certain when Nathaniel had started riding alongside him. Before his last blink, Theon had seen his uncle’s banner all the way at the head of the column. He should have known his uncle would come find him sooner or later; he’d hoped for later.

“You’re about that age, I suppose,” Nathaniel Arryn said.

From atop his destrier, Nathaniel Arryn looked… well, Theon understood why they called him the Stone Falcon. He was getting older, for a certainty. Crow’s feet around his eyes, deep lines on his brow, drooping jowls and speckles of gray, but he still cut an undeniably imperious figure. Seven hells, Theon was astride his own stallion, and even so, he still found himself having to crane his neck to look at his uncle’s stately profile.

“What age is that?” Theon asked.

“The sleeping ‘til midday age,” Nathaniel answered. “You’ll be broken of that habit soon enough.”

Theon sighed. It hardly seemed fair; here he was, riding at the heart of the Arryn party as it passed through the Gates of the Moon, and while the sky was still orange and purple with dawnlight. It may have taken his servants a few good tries to rouse him this morning, but he was here, wasn’t he?

“It’s not a character weakness,” Nathaniel continued. “Your uncle Dake used to sleep ‘til the sun went down when he was your age. Though I suppose he’s not the best example to use. What I mean to say is, once you’re in the swing of your duties, a routine– It’s natural, to have a lie in when you’re left to your own devices. But those days will be behind you soon.”

“I know,” Theon said.

Nathaniel glanced down at him. “Is that petulance I hear?”

“No,” Theon said. He wanted to be indignant, but found a smile creeping unbidden onto his face.

“Because petulance is unbecoming of the Lord of the Eyrie.”

“The word isn’t in my vocabulary.”

“I’m afraid it will be introduced soon enough,” Nathaniel said. “We ride for Harrenhal, where the greatest lords and ladies in the realm will be gathered to discuss matters of state and law. Petulance, I suspect, will be in great supply.”

Uncle Nathaniel had spent years in King’s Landing. He knew better than most what to expect at this council. Still, his prediction did little to quell Theon’s excitement. It was a Great Council, after all. Surely, it would be Great.

“You think they’ll take umbrage at the new laws?”

“I do.”

“Well… They’re laws. From the Crown. So, really, I suppose it doesn’t matter if–”

“It matters a great deal,” Nathaniel told him, not unkindly. “Back to petulance: If Mother bids her babe eat all his greens, and he takes umbrage with this, do you think he eats it because he recognizes his Mother’s authority, or trusts in her better judgment and best intentions? Or does he spill his plate, splatter the walls, writhe and wail, and soil himself for good measure?”

“Alright,” Theon said, “But that’s an infant. We’re speaking of mighty lords.”

“Indeed,” Nathaniel said. “So if anything, their tantrums will only be made the worse for their might.”

Theon stared at the road ahead of them. Twin ridges of pale dirt winding a path through the valley, between the mountains that embraced them on either side. This road would bring them down the mountains and into the Riverlands. It would turn to stone and carry them across rivers and streams, and eventually bring them to the great smoldering ruins of Harren’s hall. To the Great Council. To Lannisters and Targaryens and Starks and all the others. And, apparently, to a score of very angry noblemen.

“I am just glad such things are no longer my problem.”

Theon turned swiftly to look up at his uncle. When Nathaniel saw the fear in his nephew’s eyes, he chuckled.

“I’m just teasing you, lad. You’ll have me to advise you, however much longer I’m around to be of assistance to you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m getting old, Theon. That’s the cause of these gray hairs, or so the maester has told me. But I don’t plan on dying in the saddle between here and Harrenhal, so don’t fret too terribly. You’ll have my council at the council.”

“Good. I shall need it.”

Nathaniel smiled. The leather of his glove let out a creak as he released his reins and lifted a hand– to waggle a finger. “Remember you said that, when I give you council you don’t care for.”

“I will!”

“Would that I had it in writing.”

“You don’t need it in writing,” Theon countered. “You have my word. And the word of an Arryn is as high as honor.”

Lord Nathaniel’s laughter was a rare thing. Whenever it sprung forth, it was to be savored.

“Very good, very good,” Nathaniel said. “In that case, you’ll have no trouble waking in the morning from now on, so you can join me at the head of the column. The men need to see you as a leader, a lord. And not a petulant child.”

“I thought you said lords were petulant children.”

“Largely, yes,” Nathaniel said. “However…”

He peered down at Theon, an exacting look in his eyes.

“The Arryns, I insist, shall remain ever the exception.”

The wind blew sharply past Ser Harrold so that his armour became chill against his skin despite several layers of padding between him and the metal. His many days trek up the Broken Branch river from the port town of Ramsgate reminded him why northerners preferred a less heavy armourment. Winning a battle relied more on your ability to stay alive in the elements up here. What he wore was impractical, but he had formed a habit of dressing this way in the field. He could stand the cold for a while longer.

Although there was a clear yellow sun in the sky it did little to stop the cold and wind. He shivered through his whole body and he tried to counter it by stretching out on horseback which was certainly a trick, the custom fitted suit groaned and clattered as his muscles strained and shifted. 20 years in warmer climes had surely melted some of the ice in his veins, he thought. The veteran knight looked forward to a warm fire and a mug of spicy mulled wine.

Would he even find a cup of hot wine at Hornwood Castle? He could not remember his father ever drinking wine. His Father Halys Hornwood's tastes ran to the coarse end of the beverage spectrum. Always black beer, from Robb the brewers cask.

It was one reason among many that Ser Harrold had left his childhood home. Wine was a wonderful thing. He loved Arbour gold and Tyroshi pear brandy and don't forget the spicy reds from Dorne that assaulted your tongue like a dozen vipers. His mouth could sympathetically feel the heat even as he blew out thick curls of frost fog from his chapped lips.

Ser Harrold loved the cities and their variety of exotic tastes and experiences. Hornwood Castle was drab and grey by comparison.

Oh! and the women. The women in the cities came cheap and ready, all shapes and sizes, and colours and demeanors. You might be able to convince a servant into your bed in more rustic parts, but in the city all you needed was gold, or fame. As a tourney knight he had a little of both and he had taken advantage. Given the choice between being handsome and having coin he'd choose the latter.

He savored the baudy memories in his mind as he plodded his white and grey dappled charger into the wind toward the castle holding at the cross of two rivers. It was about time he answered the letter of help from the seneschal - but he had taken his time getting here. One last trip on the road.

As the castle came into sight he grimaced sourly. "This was the end," he thought. "You will die in this place. An old man, barely able to lift your head." He muttered it under his breath as he thought it. Muttering was an old habit he acquired over years of living alone. He rarely had to worry about making someone uncomfortable and he enjoyed his own company. Harrold found it hard not to mourn his old life on the road traveling from one regional tourney to the next.

Fighting, jousting, merry making. He had lived life one pint of beer and one fleshy woman at a time, sometimes two. Or if the mood struck him he'd spend months on campaign or on contract. Powerful men were always in need of a good sword. Westerosi fighters could catch a good fee as an armed bodyguard or sellsword in Essos. The life of a tourney knight could be brutal and hard, but it was always what you wanted it to be if you could stay fed.

Now that was coming to an end. The letter from Lyonel bound him to his old home and he had to respond eventually and take up his familial yoke. However his squire Trystane had not heard his bitter musings over the wind and so as he trotted his own chestnut roan beside his master he was of much better spirits.

“Is that a Castle? It rather looks like one… but smaller.” he said with an impish look. His nose was beet red with the cold and it ran rather profusely. His sleeve soon caught the dribble as they both looked at Hornwood Castle coming into view. He had gotten used to grand fortresses like the one at Kings Landing and cities like Oldtown and Lannisport. Two years on the road had skewed his judgement heavily. Regional castles like Hornwood were certainly unremarkable in scale.

“That's Hornwood castle.” The old knight said with a bit of a sour chuckle. “The north tends to make things smaller this far out from the King's road. With the exception of Winterfell and a few others, most castles are efficient. Some of the houses still use Motte and Bailey for defence, wood timbers for the walls. You wonder why in the summers, but in the winter when you have to fell whole forests to keep yourself warm it becomes obvious.”

He looked at his childhood home as he took the sodden track to the swollen river crossing. As he expected, 20 years had shrunk everything around him as if he was riding up to some tree fort he and his brother would make in the woods. It all looked much… less.

Trystane was a ruddy sprite of a boy, or man he supposed. He had ridden with him for 2 years and now at 16 the lad was all lean muscle and bristling energy. Years on the road and at practice had made him good enough with a blade to be a challenge for most, but not worth even a bit of notice on the lance. He had trained the boy at first out of pity.

Trystane was a fourth son of an impoverished hedge knight that Harrold had befriended once. When the knight had taken a badly turned Lance to the jaw and had died slowly of his wounds Harrold had taken pity on the boy and his mother and had offered the boy a place in his service. He never thought he needed a companion or servant but he had to admit Trystane had grown on him.

He wasn't really a knight, he never took an oath or got down on his knee as some lord bestowed the honor. Harrold just used “Ser” to get around easily in the south. The smallfolk always gave him deference when he rode up on his war horse wearing his heavy plate. They called him ser without asking if he was one.

The northerners would see him as a pompous ass wearing more steel than he was worth. There was something to that he figured but he had learned the value of putting steel between an opponent and your flesh. Many life ending blows had been turned by his armour.

Trystane had been a good companion over the years. He rather liked the boy even if their relationship relied on a certain lack of sentimentality. He had been hard on the lad, especially at first. He had fed him but also worked him to the bone. It was essential as a traveling knight to be able to move from place to place on little coin. If Trystane was in his service then he needed to embrace the hardship. To his surprise Trystane had fared well though enthusiastically doing the work and listening. Now their daily tasks were performed with few words and efficiency.

He'd make a good hedge knight, or sellsword, or perhaps a knight in service to a lord. Hmmm. That thought was strange and he couldn't get used to it. He knew he would likely be a lord soon, but when Trystane realized he was never going back on the road would he still want to stay with him?

Well he'd make the boy an offer anyways. He was an asset, and he had to admit he would miss him if his squire decided to make his own way without him.

Two branches of the Broken Branch River ran along either side the castle and then continued on conjoined towards Ramsgate and the “The Bite” further to the south. The joining of the streams was perfect place to make choke point as the river bank was carved deep by centuries of melt off from the hills that ran to the North. The river was fast flowing, especially treacherous in the spring.

The sturdy bridges erected and maintained by his family for generations were one of the few traversable points on the river. The convenience alone made it a place many travelers used. A guard wearing his family livery of a Bull Moose on an orange standard was standing at the entrance to the bridge. He looked at the two riders and gave them a dour look. No doubt he was cold and tired of his watch.

“Please state your business at Hornwood. If you are carrying goods you wish to sell in the market you must declare them so the appropriate tax may be applied.” He said in the distant tone of a man that has said the same thing too many times.

Harrold looked at the guard and grimaced. He had no goods to declare but to tax incoming goods was a move that would kill what trade came into the region. Merchants would not go out of their way to make slim profits. The ploy smacked of desperacy and he realized that the winter must have hit his family in its coffers heavily. It didn't bode well for what may come.

“I have no trade items to declare footman. I am Harrold Hornwood. If you would please direct me to Lyonel the senechal I would be grateful.” He said not sure what the young man's reaction would be. The guard blinked several times at Ser Harold's matter of fact sentence, and then predictably looked at the aging knight with new eyes.

“Harrold.. h.h.. Hornwood?” You are the brother of Lord Halys?” He seemed to think about it more carefully and Harrold could almost see him editing his next sentence word by word. Suspicion was written in his brows as he said the next.

“You understand m'lord that I need to prove your identity before I can let you enter the castle unescorted and armed. Ser.” He tagged on the last almost begrudgingly, not sure how to conduct himself.

Harrold nodded patiently before assuring the guard. “I understand your suspicions. I've been gone a long time. My squire and I will wait right here until you bring me someone from the household who will remember me, if not Lyonel then perhaps someone else? Perhaps if Denys is on duty, or Young Rob?” His mind raced through the guards he had been acquainted with in his time at Hornwood and it was a short list. Most of the men he knew as a boy would be old men now.

His mention of familiar men seemed to put the young man at ease however. He seemed surprised that he had named men he knew, and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

“Denys died last winter when a bloody flux hit his village and Rob stopped working for the guard recently.” The young man's lips curled into a smile as he said the next. “He said he wouldn’t stand to guard through another winter.” Rob the younger was a notorious complainer and even Harrold could remember the ruddy cheeked guard grumbling in the snow. The rye smiles shared between the two put both at ease.

“Found work guarding a fireplace then?” Harrold asked, chuckling.

The footman laughed. “More or less. He is a guard now at “The Maiden”. To which both men started laughing.

Harrold looked side eyed at his squire and filled him in. “‘The Rosey Maiden’ is the local brothel Trystane.” He said which forced his young squires cheeks to a rosey pink as well, which drove even more laughter from the men.

“It looks like you'll need to find Lyonel for me then. I'll wait with someone here If you like… What is your name, footman?” he asked casually.

“Alayn Ser, I mean.” He paused suddenly, not sure how to address him. Harrold felt sympathy for the young man. Alayn was not supposed to be aware of noble decorum but he was trying.

“Ser Harrold is fine Alayn. Thank you.” He said gently so the younger man would move on with the task at hand.

Alayn abruptly turned and rushed off in the direction of the nearby guardpost. Another young man trotted towards him to keep an eye on him and his squire.

Trystan smirked through the whole exchange then chuckled when the bright ginger haired boy took Alayn's place at the station. The ginger boy wordlessly watched the bridge pass trying not to make eye contact with the knight and squire. Harrold followed his lead and pretended to analyze the river fork and castle walls.

“How long has it been since you've been here?” Trystane asked.

“Around 10 winters, before that 10 winters.”

“Most have probably never heard of you.”

“That is very likely.”

“But you said you are the only one left who has a proper claim on Hornwood.”

“I did say that.”

“Then shouldn't they be greeting you with open arms rather than having some lickspittle guard you?” At that the ginger haired guard raised his eyes and quickly withdrew them as they met Ser Harrolds.

“He's doing his job Trystane, and you were wet behind the ears once as well. This will all take time. We shouldn't expect anything more.” Harrold spoke in the definitive tones he used when he would accept no more words on a topic.

As he waited he did have a look at the walls and he realized he recognized damage to the walls that would need repair. By the time Alayn came back with Lyonel, Harrold noticed that while several parts of Hornwood had been improved or maintained, the castle keep and walls were in disrepair. He figured it wouldn't take much to storm this holding.

“When the seneschal greets us you can take the horses to the stable, ready and rest them, then come find me. You'll likely be able to ask anyone where I am and get an answer. By now word is going everywhere that I'm here. Just knock on whatever room I am in and I'll introduce you to my family.”

That word felt strange on his tongue. Today was the first day for 20 years that he saw people as his responsibility. His brother's widow Mallora, and two child aged cousins from his first cousin Brea lived in the keep. Brea died of a fever two years ago. So three people were the only family he had left in the world.

“We are small now, but we will grow. If I can help it.” He said, once again muttering under his breath as the seneschal came into view walking towards him. Harrold noticed a hobble was in the older couriers gait and the young Alyn was beside him watching the man to make sure he didn't fall in the mud and snow patched ground.

He greeted the familiar older man with a firm clasp of the shoulder and an extended hand. The castles long time steward was clearly filled with emotion as he approached and his eyes shone with unshed tears. Harrold could see the relief on Lyonels face as he greeted him, and as they exchanged greetings and made plans for an indefinite stay he seemed even more elated.

“I am so very glad you have finally arrived. Mallora and I have our best to hold things up after… after.”

“After Halys died.”

The old man had a shaggy unkept kind beard that had always been graying, but when he had last seen him Lyonel had been plump, and jovial. His approach was studied and defined by an air of contemplative care. The man that now stood in front of him was clearly overburdened. His plumpness had thinned, his shaggy beard was now a dirty white, and there was a quiver on his lip even when he spoke. His voice was still quiet and carefully delivered but now as he spoke with him there was an edge of tension.

He walked to the keep slowly with the man and took in everything he said along the way. He tried to think about how other leaders would have made things right in this situation. Comforting platitudes were thought of then slain in his mind. He realized he was not the type of man who spoke them. Best to speak plain.

As the older man spoke about the debts incurred over the winter and how bandits roamed the hinterlands he stopped the man, looked him in the eye, and in his most earnest tone interrupted him.

“You and Lady Mallory have done a good job holding Hornwood together, and together we’ll put things to right again. This house owes you a debt of gratitude, Lyonel. No, I owe you my gratitude.” He then once again took the man's shoulder and clapped him in the back as they walked through the main hall.

Servants and footmen watched the odd pair. A fully armored knight over 6 foot, heavy set, dripping wet from the condensating ice cold armour and the damp of first spring, and the frail hobbled old man. Most simply stared as they went by. He felt as though he was on display, dozens of eyes watching for any hint of what comes next.

Lyonel didn't seem to notice though, his eyes bleary with tears. The steel in Harrold melted under his Lyonels thankyou, which was a muddled mess of court decorum that was heartfelt but unrecognizable.

“I will need to see the Lady Mallora in private next, and the young maid and master.” Lyonel, blinked and seemed to forget about Harrolds young cousins for a minute but then spoke in a burst of joy that seemed to take some of the heaviness from the interaction.

“Of course Lord Harrold. I will have them all summoned to your reception chamber so you can get reacquainted. The children are lovely and well behaved, both so energetic. They are the image of thier mother. I will have a meal brought up later so you can all break bread together.”

He smiled. Children were children. He had no doubt they would be wonderful. It was Mallora he dreaded speaking to. He invited the children in part hoping to deflect the blow of a full on confrontation between him and his brother's widow. He could eat however, and Trystane was always ready for a meal.

He nodded as his evening was decided for him but added. “I will need some help removing my armour but my squire is dealing with the horses first. Is my old room available to change in?” He asked not wanting to cause a fuss but not wanting to drop his armour in the middle of the main hall.

Lyonel looked at the dripping, road weary hedge knight and smiled. “Your old room is the young masters now. But I'm sure I can find some privacy for you and your squire. Leave that to me.”

It almost seemed to Harrold that the old man had lost 10 years in the span of one conversation. A burden lightened for him was one placed on Harrolds shoulders.

A long dead memory of one of his toutors flashed to mind. He never understood the words said as well as he did now.

“The smallfolk labour through the day, so they may sleep deep and sound.

The lord works and rests at will, but never sleeps till he's underground.”

He hoped he was going to be able to live up to the man's expectation. The feeling of being constrained once more entered his heart as he was led down familiar halls. He realized he was being led to his father's old chambers. The room had its own wing and was marked by a massive set of moose antlers that hung above large oaken double doors.

He always felt a pang of fear when he entered those doors as a child. He could remember his father's words, often admonishing, often disappointed. He had few words with Lord Halys Hornwood that weren't some recitation of his faults.

Harrold often wondered if the words said in that chamber set him up for a lifetime of traveling, fighting, and scrabbling through life.

He had made his living on his strength and he always felt less for that. His father the lord Hornwood had wanted a studious son. “To better serve the house.”

Sometimes when he needed to summon the strength to kill a man he remembered his father telling him he'd never amount to anything. It never failed to rouse him into a rage.

He felt a familliar tense fear in his heart as he opened the chamber doors to his new life as Lord of Hornwood.

It was windy. Gwin Greyjoy hated it.

Revenge rocked in the wake from the wind, and the fishing lines aimed over its sides bent and bowed with the current. Old Ralf said there were ancient sharks in these parts, massive ones that dragged their bellies over the bottom of the ocean that lay leagues and leagues beneath the ship and were so delicious, wealthy easterners ate them as a delicacy. 

“There was a valley here once,” he’d told her, “deep and narrow, with cliffs ten times the height of Pyke’s tallest tower, until the Drowned God filled it up with the sea.”

Ralf was full of shit. He’d never been anywhere near where they were, somewhere off the coast of the eastern continent, and the Drowned God probably hadn’t been either. But it was nice to have someone with whom she shared a home and a god, and so she tolerated his sombre-toned but idiotic musings.

Also, he usually had sourleaf and was occasionally willing to share. 

“I don’t see how we’re supposed to know if a fish is biting when the line is moving like that all the time,” Gwin told him. 

Ralf was seated behind her on a crate stamped with foreign words, sewing a hole in his cloak and doing a piss poor job of it. 

“Look for when it moves wrong,” he said.

Gwin leaned over the rail to feel the line with her fingers. She didn’t know what that meant. She found it hard to tell whether their bait had even survived the cast, but Ralf had proven nothing but reliable when it came to putting fish on the table. 

The rest of Revenge’s crew was similarly slacking off. Andrik – Aleric to most of them – was holed up with his queer bookkeeper, so now was the chance to breathe and fish and drink and otherwise set down work for a while without fear of a lashing. Even Maerie, the ugly whore from Lys, was entertaining no one but herself. She was seated by the oars, wrapped in a blanket with her face turned to the cold sun above.

“Is the Captain still angry with you?” Ralf asked, trying and failing to be coy. Gwin would have given a lashing of her own for his asking, but she wanted something to chew on and wasn’t willing to risk an opportunity.

“Aye.”

Andrik hadn’t liked her prying and had been chilly to her ever since she’d cornered him about where they were headed and why. But his anger had done nothing to quell her curiosity. 

“What’d you do?”

“Ask too many questions.”

“Ah. Not fond of those, our captain.”

Gwin’s gloves had fingers once, but now she counted herself lucky that the tatters still covered her palms. She pulled gently at the fishing line, which pulled right back, and tried in vain to find the precise spot where it disappeared into the choppy sea below. It felt sharp, even against callused skin. 

“Are you still looking for answers?”

She looked over at Ralf, who shot a conspiratorial look over his shoulder before abandoning his sewing and joining her at the rail. 

“They’re in that book of his,” he said in a low voice once beside her.

“What book?”

“The – are you dense, girl?” Ralf tossed another look behind him in case someone had overheard, but the crew nearby remained occupied – with cards, with drink, the whore with whatever she saw in the sky. “Coin’s book. The one they’re always passing back and forth.”

“Who’s Coin?”

When Ralf stalked off swearing, she knew she wasn’t going to be getting any sourleaf. 

Gwin plucked the line absentmindedly. If there were ancient sharks at the bottom of an ancient ocean valley, then she supposed it made sense that ancient Ralf knew about them. But this line didn’t seem strong enough to bring up anything that would satiate the appetite of a whole ship. 

She sensed Maerie approaching, but ignored it. The Lyseni whore made her uncomfortable in a way that was hard to explain but probably had a lot to do with the way she looked. Gwin knew that the whore was not disfigured, but she felt it to be true nonetheless. 

“I heard you and Ralf talking,” Maerie said. She was still wrapped in her wool blanket, like a child recently pulled from the sea who needed to be made warm again. Gwin instinctively moved away when she drew closer. “You were talking about the book.”

“It’s no fucking business of yours what we were talking about.”

“Then don’t talk so loud.”

Gwin glared. “Don’t be spying,” she shot back.

Some silence passed between them, broken only by the lap of rough water against the hull and the faint chatter of the gamblers. Gwin felt the line again, trying to determine if it were moving wrongly.

“Coin is the man the Captain is with right now.”

“Great.”

“If you get his book, I can help you read it.”

“Get it yourself if you want to read it.”

“I’m not the one Andrik is keeping in his bed these days.”

Maerie left before Gwin could ask about what she’d called him. But maybe that would have been a stupid question – men fucked pretty whores; they confessed their secrets to ugly ones. Besides, it did not bother her if Andrik loved Maerie enough to tell her who he truly was, because sometimes she hated his very guts.

The problem with fishing, Gwin realised after a time, was that there was nothing else to do while waiting but think. She kept a sideways watch on the door to Andrik’s quarters and when it finally opened, abandoned her post.

The one Ralf called Coin gave her a dirty look as she approached, closing the door to the Captain’s quarters behind him.

“What?” Gwin challenged. “Don’t like to share?”

She’d never paid much mind to Coin. That was easy to do, since the man was rarely above deck. Short, and bookish, he’d have been out of place on the ship if it weren’t for him being Westerosi. Gwin assumed that was mostly why Andrik kept him around – to have something from home. From what she’d seen, Andrik was good enough on his own with sums and with reading. 

“No,” Coin said. “Don’t like Greyjoys.”

He left in a hurry, but Andrik already opened the door anyway before Gwin could think of a retort. She was surprised when instead of shutting it in her face upon seeing her, he opened it wider and bade her enter.

“Is there no one on this ship with whom you won’t quarrel?” he asked, closing the portal behind her. 

“I’m awful nice to you, aren’t I?”

“You quarrel with me most of all.”

Andrik had his book – the one that Maerie and Ralf spoke of – under his arm. She tried to read his mood, but he could be like a woman sometimes. 

“Am I welcome here again?” Gwin asked, but he only grunted in reply, moving to his desk. His things were all out of sorts, which was unusual, and he began to make them right again. He slid the book into a drawer. 

“Old Ralf says there are fancy sharks under the water here.”

“Fancy?”

“Aye.”

“How can a shark be fancy?”

“If fancy people eat them.”

“Hm.” His focus was on his desk and his papers.

“Like the fancy people you went and saw in Braavos, and in Pentos.”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you, Gwin?”

“I thought you trusted me.”

“Loving you is not the same as trusting you.”

She was taken aback by his words – they had never spoken of love, not once. He still hadn’t looked away from his tidying, and she was grateful for the chance to mask her surprise.

“You love me?” she teased.

“Against my better judgement, yes.” Andrik turned to her at last, but his face was no more readable than it had been when she entered – than it had ever been, at all. “I’ll tell you everything in good time, Gwin. I’ve already told you more than I ever planned to.”

“And I, you,” she reminded him.

“Aye. That you have.”

Gwin chewed at her lip and tasted blood.

“Do you think there really are sharks down there? Ones as big as whales and hundreds’ years old, as Ralf says?”

There came a commotion from the other side of the door – the shouting and whooping of men, the scuffle of boots on the deck, and what might have been the whizzing of fishing line. Andrik flashed Gwin a smile – a rare, real one.

“Seems like we’re about to find out,” he said, and he grabbed his cloak from the back of a chair before rushing past her out of the quarters. 

Gwin looked at the drawer where he’d stashed his book. 

“I’ll tell you in due time.”

Gwin hated to wait.

Carried on from my posts here and here

“Goodness.”

The setting sun had painted the skies as pink as Maidenpool’s walls.

“Oh, that really is good.”

Her mother’s voice is hardly a whisper above the evening breeze, but her smile is as alive as Elissa can remember. In this late hour, Alysanne Mooton had found happiness.

Elissa nods wordlessly, the wind tugging at her hair as it whistles past Jonquil’s Tower. She leans over the balcony and looks out over a silent tapestry. War and winter had danced to their graves, and left a gentle quiet in their wake. The levies had disbanded, and the sellswords went on to bloodier pastures. Even many of the knights had left, to tend their own families and estates.

Or to play games in the Vale.

The castle feels beautifully frozen in time with the absence of its loudest residents. Oh, to be sure, the usual stream of townsfolk and servants still came and went. But now the baileys stand still, and the cobbled pathway down the hill twists emptily through the still-open gatehouses. From this balcony, they may as well be the last people in the world, herself and her mother. Her lord grandfather’s chambers lie just inside, but they too are only frequented by the odd servant dusting off the shelves or polishing collections of coins. Lord Mooton had long ago quit his traditional rooms atop the tower—Age and injury precluded him from making the climb.

“Can you still see the sea, child?” Alyssane grasps the balcony rails with one bony hand as she makes to rise. The long flights of stairs had exhausted her, and Elissa had taken the liberty of dragging out a chair from the neighboring chambers. It is a finely carved thing that still looks as new as it is surely old. Myrish, no doubt, if she knows her lord grandfather’s tastes.

“‘Tis where it always is,” Elissa says, and holds one arm to help her mother stand. Past the streets and buildings of the town below, past the scarcely-visible clusters of masts by the harbor, lay the waters of the Bay.

“Ah, so it is,” Alysanne breathes, and sinks back into her seat. It had been days since she had ceased to accept the Poppy, and Elissa had all but abandoned all other duties to remain by her side. They had spent hours in the Maester’s library, and hours more with the twins. They had played cyvasse beneath the Godswood and even had some of the traders from the market square bring up the first fruits of spring.

“I used to bring you up here when you were a child, you know?” Alysanne remarks. “I never dared to bring Myles, of course, I was always… terrified he’d find a way right off the edge!” She laughs at the memory, and Elissa cannot help but smile as well. Her brother had been a horror for any who held him. “But you. You would sit there quietly with me, pointing at the ships, demanding to know their names, as though I’d know. Hah, I had to start asking Ser Waltyr for stories to tell you!”

“I remember growing up expecting to meet a lot more Carcosan pirates and Lengii sellsails than I ever did,” Elissa says wryly.

“Would that I was so lucky,” Alysanne grins, “My father told me tales of squishers. Pale and scaled with worms for eyes, rising from the swamps cut open bellies and eat unborn babes. He tried my father, and I think those were the only sorts of stories he knew to tell. Too much time with my brothers, I reckon, and they had morbid tastes, gods bless every one of them. I could not sleep for a week afterwards!”

The breeze picks up again, and the sun drops lower. Elissa turns to see her mother shiver.

“I will get a blanket,” she says quietly, and turns to leave. A hand clasps around her own.

“What for? Should I worry about catching a cold?” Alysanne asks drily.

Her mother’s fingers are cold, and so frail as to fill her with a mortal terror. Something croaks in Elissa’s throat when she tries to speak.

Gods, just give me the one miracle.

Alysanne slowly rises again to hold her daughter in a fragile embrace. The musty scent of her sickbed has all but vanished into the wind.

“Ah, dear. What’s all this for then?” Alysanne chuckles as Elissa’s vision begins to blur with tears. “Heavens child, was there a funeral today?”

Elissa just shakes her head.

“Then save it for one,” she declares, “Not mine though. I mean to keep you waiting just a little longer. The Stranger is as decent a man as any to court me, he will wait his turn to dance. And I would see Myles, before I go.”

Myles. Where is her dear brother now? Somewhere in the Vale, surely, meandering his way through the mountains. A long way away, and his return would take longer still. Elissa has not the heart to say it.

And father… There had been times she had wondered whether her father even knew he still had a wife.

Elissa feels the dull throb of a growing headache, and wipes her eyes as her mother slumps back down in her chair.

“At least come inside then,” she rasps, “Theo and Tion will not yet be asleep.” Her mother had seen the twins but once in the past days, and somehow never again. Alysanne offers a sad smile, as though she is well aware of that.

“I do not think they knew who I was,” she says wanly, “They can hardly remember me, they were so young when I took ill. And I think… I would keep it that way. I did not remember my mother either, and so I did not miss her as much as I might have. I think…”

Elissa desperately wishes to argue, but cannot find the words. Instead she grips the balcony railing until the stone edges start to bite, and looks out over the inner courtyard. The godswood’s lonely old tree waves lazily back, and the shadows grow longer. Across the yard, she can see men finally shutting the gates for the night.

“Another day,” Alysanne muses, “What shall I do tomorrow, I wonder…”

“‘Tis the seventh day tomorrow,” Elissa says, “Everyone will attend to the Sept.”

“Good,” Alysanne’s lips quirk up in a smile, “I will have the castle to myself then.”

Despite herself, Elissa laughs. “Septon Colmar would-”

“Be an understanding man,” Alysanne interjects. “Do not fear, I will speak to the gods myself soon enough. And I mean to bring few complaints.”

Alyse rips the skin off another orange, and its blood drips into the water.

“Ah, dear,” she clicks her tongue in lamentation, “Treasures beget unclean hands, as the Septon would say. Maester?” Alyse offers the man an unpeeled fruit.

Their company had begun its descent come morning, a short journey made long by the many switchbacks down the mountainside. The Maester’s equestrian struggles had not faded, much to Frynne’s open mirth, but even in the forested foothills, haste seemed uncalled for, and they had proceeded at a leisurely pace. These were troubled times to be sure, and there was much to be desired in a swift return to Wyl. But no matter their speed, they were certain to reach their destination for the night, and would perhaps remain there for another day as well. An hour lost on the way, Ser Anders had insisted on Quentyn’s behalf, was of no consequence.

And so it was that by midday, the procession paused by a snowmelt-fueled stream that snaked through the little valley. Further down, Alyse knew, where the soil grew less rocky and the land more open, they would find clusters of farmsteads, and tapestries of orchards waiting to bear fruit. Further still, and this water would become one more rivulet feeding into the Wyl, and from there, to the sea.

Quentyn accepts the fruit and crouches down by the riverbed to peel it.

“I haven’t had one of these since I left for the Citadel,” he chuckles, “My father tried to grow an orchard once, out near Sunspear. Guarded the things like they were his own life.” The Maester shakes his head, “One of the buyers took ill, just as soon as they ripened. Father made sure we ate… oh, it must have been a few trees of the damned things ourselves, before they went bad.” Quentyn grimaces, “Not one to just give things away, my father.”

“If you don’t want it, give it here,” Frynne pointedly holds out her hand, having finished one of her own already.

“I am not one to give things away either,” the Maester says wryly, and tears the fruit open.

Nearby, the horses thirstily set themselves upon the stream under Ser Anders’ watchful eye. Alyse tosses the last peels aside. They drift into the waters before catching a current and speeding away.

“Aye, I should know the type,” she muses, and chews on a slice, “Stubbornness and spite.”

The Maester nods, and only the sunstruck stream chatter on.

One by one, the orange slices vanish, and Alyse bends down to wash the mess off her hands. A moment later, a splash disturbs the silence, and Alyse turns to see one of the armsmen wading into the shallow waters. Davos, was it? Or perhaps Doran? It was difficult to tell the two apart from here.

“There is something in the waters!” Frynne says with some alarm. She is on her feet now, and the Maester still chewing, is quick to follow.

“What, now…” Alyse frowns as she dries her hands on her cloak.

“Other than a chill in the chest,” the Maester adds. The water was clear, and navigable if navigated with care. But it was deathly cold too, and Davos—she was certain it was Davos now—would surely be shivering.

Alyse stands for a better view. Yes, the man had certainly found something. Large, round, and flat. A shape too close to perfect to be some natural detritus swept down the mountainside. He hands it to Ser Anders and Doran, and all three of them converse a moment. Finally, the knight holds the object up, and Alyse can see the same indecipherable discolorations that had doubtless caught Davos’ attention.

A shield.

“It was caught on the rocks. Must have drifted down from… somewhere,” Anders says helpfully, displaying the piece as the party reunites.

It was a shield, certainly, of a sturdy wooden make, though it had clearly seen better days. The edges were badly chipped from its journey. Whatever sigil it once bore had in part washed away in the water, and what remained was badly obscured by savage gashes. Only a red swirl of paint still served to distinguish it from any other debris.

“‘Tis hardly anything,” Alyse remarks. She waves Davos off, “Go get yourself dry, we can scarcely afford sickness here, as the Maester says.”

The two armsmen turn to trudge back to the horses. “It caught our eye, nothing more,” Anders shrugs.

“Aye, no doubt,” Alyse sighs, “But there must be no shortage of old armaments littering these mountains. Of every sort and era, no doubt. Maester, can you make anything of its markings?”

“There is little left to make anything of, Lady Wyl.” Quentyn kneels in front of the shield and runs a hand over its scarred face. “Though I do not think this is some relic of a past age. Save for the damage, the wood itself is still in good condition. It has not rotted away, as it might were it old. And it could not have been long in the water.”

“How long?” Alyse demands, “Hours? Days? Weeks?”

Quentyn can only spread his hands in defeat. “Mayhaps less than years?” he suggests, “I truly cannot calculate how this particular wood ought to deteriorate over time under the conditions it was subjected to.”

“The things I pay the Citadel for,” Alyse rubs her head, “Very well. Someone lost a shield. What else?”

“Lost it with violence, by the looks of it.” Anders eyes the other side of the piece, where the leather straps that would have held it to a warrior’s arm lay broken, and half-torn off. “Though it may well be shoddy workmanship.”

“All those I have seen in Wyl use shields of steel,” Frynne opines. Alyse can only bury her exasperation as her own handmaiden now eagerly joins the ever-expanding investigation of the battered flotsam. It was like watching her brothers when they found a particularly interesting-looking snake. Or perhaps her nephews now, when they did the same.

How time flies.

“So they do,” Quentyn readily agrees, “This is nothing more than pine and some paint. An inexpensive make.”

“You know this?” Alyse asks, in a dry tone of voice that hides some unease now. They were not wrong, the more she considers it. Someone, an armed someone, had met something unfortunate in these mountains. Perhaps not long ago, as the Maester suggested, and likely not far from here either.

“The Maester has the right of it, Lady Wyl,” Anders interjects helpfully, “Men who can afford better than this, will.”

“And I know of no nearby houses nor knights of repute who bear this color of red,” Quentyn muses, “Either our mysterious warrior comes from afar, or he is some petty hedge knight or sellsword, who may make any symbol for himself.”

Alyse surrenders to her own curiosity, and motions for Anders to hand her the shield. “These gashes do not strike me as a weapon’s blows.” She considers the gashes that scrape across the damp wooden surface. “‘It reminds me of… yes. ‘Tis almost like when Sylva’s cats duel the banquet table.”

An excellent table that was, well-crafted by Myrish artisans, and brought home from her father’s last war in distant Essos. All measures to protect it against the beasts her sister took for pets had failed, till at last even Alyse had accepted defeat.

“Claw marks,” Alyse concludes. Frynne is already nodding, her face pale, “The shadowcat. We heard the beast last night.”

“We heard a beast,” the Maester says quickly, “Who is to say this damage was caused by the same?” He revises himself a moment later, “Though, from all the Citadel’s libraries have to say, they are solitary and territorial creatures. I would not think to find more than the one here. But who is to say that this damage occurred in the shieldbearer’s final battle?”

“‘T’would be impressive, if the man had survived the encounter, only to fall later,” Anders observes. “The gods have their sense of humor, but this joke is a shade too dark for the Stranger himself. I would sooner imagine that he slew the beast, and discarded the broken shield.”

“They are shy creatures,” Alyse frowns, “Even a lone traveler…”

“We are not so far removed from winter, m’lady,” Frynne insists, “There is still hunger to be found in these mountains, and desperate beast will attack any number of men.”

“Were it merely hunting, we should have heard nothing,” the Maester murmurs, recalling Alyse’s own words. But the two armsmen return to find grim faces all around. Each of them could imagine it in their own way, that desperate battle on a lonely mountainside. The shadowcat leaping from the darkness, the shield raised in desperation. Claws shrieking across wood, the beast’s own weight and force crushing the arm of the bearer, snapping the worn leather till it all fell down to the water. The man must have died then, belly torn open, or neck broken and dragged off without so much a scream. Or perhaps not, as Anders wished to believe.

“Bring the shield with us, Ser,” Alyse finally decides, “Mayhaps the residents of this valley will know something of its bearer, or will have some thoughts on the matter. Thoughts are always easy to come by.”

The knight nods, and they each disperse to prepare for their departure. All save for the Maester, whose eyes are still fixed upstream. Alyse cannot help but follow his gaze, and perhaps, from some rocky outcrop or hidden cave, something watched back.

They’d been at the Rock a few days now, and Gerold had little to complain about – certainly much less than he’d expected. Whether the King were a forgiving man or Ashara had (once again) beseeched her brother on his behalf, Gerold could not say. But he was content to face a cold shoulder rather than cold steel, or better yet, be ignored altogether.

Also, the weather had held.

Not that Ashara’s mood had become any less stormy since their disastrous meal with the King and his mistress…

They broke their fast in fine quarters with their son, Ashara still wearing a faint scowl as she focused her attention on a book she’d laid open beside her empty plate.

Better a book than me.

Loras was eating quickly, which Gerold knew to be because he wanted to go play with the Prince and his companions. He was pleased at how well and quickly Loras was getting on with the other lads. He’d worried that their time in isolation in Oldtown would have made it harder for the boy to make friends, but it seemed to have had little effect.

“What are you reading?” he asked Ashara, since Loras seemed unlikely to engage in conversation with his mouth full of bacon.

His wife had yet to speak or eat. She still complained about her stomach, which was growing more quickly now. Interestingly, the only time she hadn’t woken him with her sickness in the morning was when they were at sea. Gerold was certain she would deliver at Harrenhal, and was not looking forward to it.

“Your father’s journals.”

“My – what?”

“He has six of them. I found them behind a false panel in the solar.”

“How did you find a false–”

“This is only the second. It’s slow going. I don’t know half of what he refers to and must keep referencing some other texts from the Hightower library. I will have to write for more, but I don’t know whether to have them sent to Harrenhal, Casterly, or this absurd little hunting hall my brother is so intent on dragging us to.”

Gerold wasn’t sure which was the thornier topic – whatever Ashara was reading in his father’s private journals (which she naturally hadn’t deemed to tell him about on her own) or plans with the King.

Seated between them at the board, Loras cleared his throat.

“May I please be excused?”

Gerold gave a nod of permission and Loras nearly knocked over the bench in his haste to be off.

Ashara set the book down once he was gone.

“I was thinking about the Septon’s execution,” she said.

“Depending on the thoughts, I wish you’d save them for after I’ve finished eating.”

Gerold hoped a jape might do some good in repairing her mood, but she seemed to make no note of it.

“It’s all a bit strange, isn’t it?” she asked. “The robes, the belts, the careful numbering of attendees.”

“I don’t see anything inherently strange about it. Every kingdom has its traditions and ceremonies around such things, especially when the person to be executed is of some prominence. Surely the Rock has its own.”

Ashara seemed to think on that. “Lannisters long before us had a lion pit, with a lion to serve as a judge of innocence,” she said after a time.

“See?” Gerold tucked into his quail eggs. “Perfectly normal.”

“Hm.” Ashara set the journal down and looked away, drumming her fingers on the table.

“Are you looking forward to sailing later?” Gerold asked. “Loras is excited to be with his cousins.”

“I’m not going. I’m ill.”

“Ashara…” Gerold set down his knife. “Please don’t make me do this on my own.”

“I’m not going sailing with Damon and his stupid whore.”

Gerold briefly debated the merits of a conversation about mistresses, then decided against it.

“Your brother will throw me off the boat to drown and say I slipped overboard.”

“He will not. He promised me at Hightower. Whatever his promises are worth these days…” She didn’t look up, turning a page in her book. In his father’s book.

In the end, Gerold accepted his fate – whether that be drowning or an uncomfortable afternoon – and went to the docks with Loras after the hottest part of the day was done with, as planned. His son felt like somewhat of a shield, at least, even though he bolted towards the Crown Prince as soon as he spotted him from a ways down the wharf.

Casterly Rock’s cave docks were strange, and smelly – a different sort of stink than Oldtown’s. Danker. Darker. But the King’s ship was beautiful, moored among other expensive looking ones at the nicest part of the wharf. His good-brother was already aboard, doing something or other with a heavy looking rope while small children ran about the ship’s deck. He looked up at Gerold’s arrival and the two locked eyes at the precise same moment they seemed to reach the precise same realization: Lady Joanna and Lady Ashara would not be joining. It would only be them.

The disappointment on Damon’s face was plain, and deep. In that moment, he looked precisely like his sister.

“Your Grace.” Gerold offered a bow with his greeting, though the King remained unimpressed. Gerold looked about the docks – for something, anything, to suggest what he could say next. His gaze came back to the boat, and the rope in the King’s hands. “Might I help cast off?”

“This ship is worth more than your life.”

That would be Lannister-speak for ‘no’.

“Right. I’ll look after the children then.”

They, at least, were happy. There were a lot of them, and Gerold wasn’t entirely sure who was who apart from Prince Desmond, who Loras had become thick as thieves with, and Princess Daena, because she was the only girl among them. The rest were all golden-haired and rowdy. The smallest kept so close to the King’s legs. It was a wonder he was never stepped on.

Once at sea, the children huddled around the mast playing pirates and arguing amongst themselves while the King took up a spot by the stern. Gerold leaned respectfully nearby. The weather was the perfect sort for a crisp wine, but he knew better than to get his hopes up. He’d heard the King was a teetotaller now.

“It’s pleasant sailing today,” he said after a time, figuring that would be difficult to dispute.

“Pleasant enough.”

That qualifies as a Lannister-agreement.

“Ashara is happiest at sea, I think.”

“Our mother was a Greyjoy.”

Gerold felt foolish for having forgotten. There was little about Ashara’s appearance to remind him, yet then again, her demeanor–

“But Ashara has never been to the islands,” Damon finished.

“Have you?”

“I was fostered there.”

“Of course.”

Gerold looked to the fuzzy horizon before them, and tried to appear thoughtful. He had forgotten that, too.

“Is she well?”

The King’s question took him by surprise. “Ashara?”

“No, my mother.” But, that didn’t– “Yes, Ashara. Is she well?”

“She’s ill, I’m afraid, but it’s only the child. She doesn’t–”

“No, I mean to say… Is she well. Truly. Is she satisfied, is she content, is she–”

“Happy?”

“Is she happy, yes.”

Gerold thought genuinely now. The Sunset Sea seemed vaster here than it did from Oldtown. From Battle Isle. From Hightower.

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

Damon was watching the sails and the children. There was some sort of scuffle by the mast and some brief crying, but they both waited and the matter settled on its own.

“You know,” Gerold said carefully, after some silence had passed between them, “I saw her laugh the other day.”

“You dont say.”

“At me.”

His japes hadn’t worked on Ashara that morning, but the curious look on his good-brother’s face gave Gerold a glimmer of hope.

“We had just rounded the coast after the Shield Islands when the sea began to grow unruly. She found it amusing that I… well, that my breakfast did not remain with me. The waves didn’t seem to bother Ashara at all. Rather, it reminded her of the summers she spent here in her youth. I confess, it’s difficult for me to imagine her swimming, though I suppose she’s never had occasion to in Oldtown. Did she ever tell you that she was the one to teach Lady Joanna how to swim?”

“No, though… We’ve never been the type to discuss such things.”

“Ashara must be quite the kraken. She mentioned having to save Lady Joanna from the wrath of the waves on more than one occasion. I imagine she feels much the same about…” Gerold gestured somewhat awkwardly to the children, not wanting to choose the wrong words and offend. “I would count myself fortunate to have a friend who cared so deeply for my well being, even if we didn’t exactly see eye to eye on the matter.”

The silence that followed was a comfortable one. Gerold allowed himself to breathe, to feel the wind on his face, and to taste the salt in the air.

“Perhaps Ashara was right to insist you be spared,” the King said. Damon was looking at sails, his face not fully visible, but Gerold thought – or hoped – he saw a faint smile. He cleared his throat and straightened.

“I am glad to hear it, Your Grace, as this seems the opportune spot for you or your Kingsguard there to toss me overboard should you change your mind.”

Damon moved to adjust a line, and Gerold could see a smile more plainly now.

“Well, there’s still Elk Hall,” the King said. “It’s awfully secluded there.”

Gerold returned a smile. He considered making a quip about the likelier dilemma being whether Ashara or Joanna would emerge from the trip alive. But although the King had proven to indeed be a forgiving man, and the weather was fine, and the children were more or less behaving…

He decided to keep that particular jest to himself.

Danae wished she had been reading when Lyman knocked at the door. It would have been easier to explain. An army of broken combs lay scattered across her vanity and still her hair looked no better for it. She regretted refusing a handmaiden’s help if only because her arms were sure to ache for days. The most stubborn knots remained, haphazardly woven back into a braid that she was certain would come loose before their meeting was at an end. 

As she stood to bid Lyman entry, her gaze lingered over the engraved silver shears that had so tempted her earlier that morning. 

These chambers were new to her, and while she fumbled with the door handle for longer than was dignified, it still felt better to welcome him here than in the rooms she had shared with Damon. There was no trace of her marriage here, her own belongings strewn over the horsehair sofa and across the foot of the bed. The desk was littered with half-read missives and dried up ink wells. Before the hearth the twins had left a mark of their own as well, their toys spread across the carpet in what Danae was certain was an assassination attempt on her toes. 

“I suppose you’re here to tell me that I can’t put the Iron Bank off any longer.” 

“An astute observation, Your Grace,” Lyman began. “Especially given that your invitation promised no tea.” 

She held the door wider for him then and with a slight bow of his head, he slunk into the room and quickly claimed his usual chair– though not before brushing aside a handful of crumbs one of the children had left behind. He’d begun to look less like a weasel to her as time had passed, though whether it was because he’d taken on the current fashions or because he’d grown on her, she didn’t know. 

“You have the advantage of arriving by dragon, but I’m afraid if we delay any longer, the rest of your party will be late. Travel by boat has a tendency to be more perilous.” 

“Ah, fuck. You’ve got a point. I hate when you have a point.” 

It seemed she had grown on Lyman as well, because out of the corner of her eye she caught him with the hint of a smile. She was careful not to let her pride show. 

“You’re certain I can’t convince you to ride along with me?” 

“Absolutely, Your Grace.” 

He’d taken the liberty of arranging for the ship and all of the other various meaningless tasks associated with it, an undertaking that surely would have driven her to empty all of the casks in King’s Landing had he left it to her. There were seldom any perks to being queen, but she now counted Lyman’s assistance among them. 

“When do you think you will be ready to depart?” 

She let the question hang in the air for a moment before conceding. 

“Ugh, after a good night’s rest, I suppose.”

“I wish you luck, Your Grace.” 

Luncheon seemed to drag on forever, but Danae’s plate remained full nonetheless, something she’d doubtlessly regret come bedtime. Her ladies had gathered to provide their usual mindless chattering and she’d almost tuned it out entirely before Ysela provided a morsel that was actually worthwhile. 

“The Celtigars have taken residence in their manse once more. I wonder how long before they come calling at court. I did so enjoy the Lady Naera’s company last we met.” 

Danae’s fork scraped the plate when she set it down. 

“Why not send for them now?” 

She hadn’t intended to be left alone with the Celtigars, but her ladies had made themselves scarce by the time they had arrived. Arthur was more weathered than she remembered and his wife was more striking than he deserved. He was more than content to waste the evening entirely and regale them with stories of his travels, but Danae managed to interject by the time the roast duck was served. “I hear you were present for the Velaryon wedding on Driftmark. I regret that I was unable to attend. How were the festivities?” “I remember the wine was excellent.”“Ah, so not much to regret, then.” “Not unless you’ve a taste for fine wines.”

“Not much different than any other wedding I’ve been to then.” Danae barely managed to conceal a laugh. “Except mine, you mean.”

Danae shrugged. Naera finally spoke, raising her napkin to dab politely at the corners of her mouth. 

“If it were up to him, we might have had dancing bears at our feast.”“She would’ve remembered our wedding if we had!”

“He’s got a point. I hate when men have a point.” 

Danae wasn’t much of a hostess herself if the long silence that followed was any indication. Damon was much better suited to the task of preventing such dinners from being so unbearably awkward. 

“So…” she began after a time. “What brings you to King’s Landing?” “We thought it prudent to arrive before you departed for the Great Council, Your Grace.”

“Ah, yes. Stupid question.” 

“We also hoped our children might benefit from the companionship of the Prince and Princess. If you were agreeable, that is.”

Danae scoffed. “I wish them luck. These days the twins only seem to be interested in seeing how much of their supper they can pour onto the floor. Perhaps they’ll be able to assist them with their manners, in any case.” 

“I’m sure if they take after their mother at all, they are sharp of wit,” Naera said, managing a small smile. 

Danae usually had no taste for flattery, but something about the way Naera spoke made her long for the ability to maintain a true friendship. Naera might have even been tolerable. 

“I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that you’ll have ample time to settle in before our journey to Harrenhal. I have an errand I must attend to in Essos before we can depart.” 

Arthur chuckled lightly, before straightening up and asking, “Truly? You’re going to Essos?”“Unfortunately.”“I thought the Council would be keeping you too busy to–”“It is,” Danae interrupted. “But there’s something that requires my immediate attention.”“Don’t tell me the spymasters have turned up the last of the Baratheons in exile. Need to make a quick trip across the Narrow Sea to finish the job, hm?”Naera laid a hand on her husband’s forearm. A warning, no doubt, but a needless one. The laugh Danae let out was the sort she hadn’t managed in ages. 

“I wish it were so exciting. Perhaps after the Council I’ll have cause enough for such a venture. But no, it seems I must beggar myself to the Iron Bank, as my husband insists dragons have more appeal than he can manage alone.” “If His Grace thinks a dragon’s fangs will loosen the Iron Bank’s pursestrings, well… he doesn’t know them like we do.”“Actually,” Danae started from over the lip of her chalice. “I was relieved to hear of your arrival. I was hoping you might be able to help me, if you were willing.” Arthur stared at her for a moment, blinked, and then glanced at his wife. 

“Of course, I understand if your wife won’t allow it,” Danae said quickly. “But I think… I think you could help with something specific. I know Valyrian, but only the High sort, as my father taught me. You know the common sort. If you were with me, I’d feel…” She struggled to find the word. “I think it would be helpful. Just in case.”

“I haven’t been to Essos in ages,” Arthur muttered, stroking his stubbly chin. Danae thought she saw the hint of a smile on the old sellsword’s face. But he was clearly reluctant. “But I could hardly leave my wife alone here in King’s Landing. We only just–”Naera gave his arm a light smack. “Oh, you can. House Celtigar may even be able to make a good impression at court.” Lady Naera leaned forward, giving Danae a conspiratorial look. “It may surprise you to learn that some of the more courtly folk find my husband somehow off-putting.”

Something your husband and I have in common, unfortunately. Danae bit her tongue.

“It’s settled then. We leave tomorrow. I hope you haven’t unpacked from Driftmark entirely.” Arthur Celtigar gave a wave of his hand. “I’ve unpacked, but the wrinkles haven’t been ironed out, so no trouble. I imagine you’ll be traveling by Persion?”

“I’d never leave him behind. He’s even more irritable than my children.”“It’ll do me good to sail beneath the shade of a dragon’s wing again. Old Persion… You know, I promised Monty I’d make an introduction. The lad dreams of dragons.”

Danae nearly choked on her wine. 

“I fear that’s an introduction best made from a distance.” 

“I see. Well, I suppose Monty has the whole trip to get to know him.”“I think not,” Naera cut in. “Monterys will be staying here with me.”Arthur drummed his knuckles on the table in defeat. “Can’t fault me for trying. It’s a big world. The lad ought to see more of it.”“King’s Landing is plenty world enough for Monterys for another year or two,” Naera told him.“You’re right, of course,” Arthur sighed, “but I’ll miss the lad.” He paused, shaking his head. “I hope he takes the news alright. I know he was excited we’d all be here together.”“He’ll understand, dear.”

Danae couldn’t help but think of her own son, so many kingdoms away from her. She doubted he understood why, but part of her hoped he at least missed her. He was likely the only child she had that would ever bother with such sentiment. She imagined he would have loved Essos, though not nearly as much as his sister. 

She looked at the woman across from her. Naera was of a similar age to her, she guessed. She was a mother, too, and a wife. The wife of a man she seemed to tolerate only in turns. Surely there was enough common ground between the two of them to start… something resembling the friendships her handmaidens seemed to value so. 

Danae shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and tried to think of what Meredyth might have said. “Have you any requests, Lady Naera? I understand there are many wares in Essos that the ladies of court covet.” 

“It’s not for me to make requests of a Queen, Your Grace,” Naera replied, bowing her head. But when she looked back up, there was a wicked smile on her face. “Though I wouldn’t say no to a few bolts of Braavosi satin.”“Oh, Naera,” Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “The correct answer was ‘naught but the safe return of my husband’.”“That, I could take or leave,” Naera said with a smile. 

Danae considered a bolt of cloth easier to guarantee than success in Essos.

“I will have it in hand when I return,” she said. “As for you, Arthur, you’re on your own.” “It’ll be just like the good old days, then.” Arthur leaned back in his seat, a golden tooth glinting in his smile. “You know, I’m almost looking forward to this.”

It wouldn’t be easy to explain to Lyman, of course, but as she raised a toast to their impending journey, Danae found that she was almost looking forward to it as well.

She stares at the sky, and a hundred eyes stare back. A thousand. A thousand thousands, each burning pinpricks in the night.

“What is a thousand thousands?” Alyse asks aloud.

“A million,” comes the sour response.

The Lady of Wyl only nods in acknowledgment. A million stars, each infinitely distant. Even here, high in the Red Mountains. So close to the heavens.

“Gods, this chill will be my death,” Quentyn growls. The Master’s chain clinks and heavy blankets shuffle as he shifts closer to their dying fire. Alyse wonders if the thing ever left the man’s neck. Perhaps he had worked too hard for that most prized possession, to ever let it past his reach. Or perhaps he felt the need to keep that display of status close. Terribly young for a Maester, this one was.

“We might have spent the night in the last village,” he remarks, “Like as not we’d eat better too.”

“Aye, no doubt we might have,” Alyse stretches her legs and throws her hands behind her head as she leans back against a boulder. “They would have given us their hearths and homes. But I mislike asking for that.”

It had been a day since they had departed from Wyl, and the journey had become one of winding mountain paths, so narrow that even a procession in single-file rode upon the sharp edge of a knife. They had camped the first night in the relative comforts of a cave, shielded from the elements as surely as if they had not left home. Today, they had paused at a high, grassy meadow, home to a dozen families. But theirs was a party of six, and goatherders not even two moons removed from winter had only so much hospitality to give. So they traveled on by evening and camped at the meadow’s edge, where the trail descended to the west and a rocky outcrop gave protection from the wind.

Quentyn offers a noncommittal grunt in reply.

“Oh, do not be so surly, Maester,” Alyse chuckles, “This is not so bad. There are higher places still, where the peaks still wear their winter coats of snow.” She exhales a puff of fog that hangs in the frigid air, then fades away. “The true wilds are there, not here in the east where the trails are still wide enough to ride, and clear so soon with winter’s passing.”

“Once, Alleras and I paid a fisher to sail us far up the river. We carried on by foot, deep into the west, to the birthplace of the River Wyl. Where the Vulture Kings once made their roosts.” The memory, by now surely a decade old, still brings a smile to her face. And a familiar stab to the heart. “‘Tis not the kindest hike, nor one to make outside the height of summer, but… goodness, it was like we could see the world from those ruins.”

Ser Anders pauses in some muttered conversation with Frynne to extend the Maester a half-emptied bottle of pear brandy. Quentyn accepts it after a moment and takes a long draw of the Tyroshi drink before handing it back to the knight with a grateful nod.

“Those two have both gone and dozed off,” Anders jerks his head towards the shadowed silhouettes of the two armsmen, both huddled within their yellow cloaks. He kneels by the fire to throw on more fuel and stir it back to life.

“Let them,” Alyse shrugs. There were more beasts to fear here than men, and even a desperate shadowcat, long hungered by winter, would not pursue a party of their size. “I can keep my eyes open well enough for now, and I will wake someone when I cannot.”

The knight nods and returns to his own quiet chatter.

“I fear my fondness for climbing began and ended at the steps of the Citadel. Once I felt that I could see the world from there too,” Quentyn says, though the dancing flames reveal a faint smile now. “I must have been like that… herder’s child, when I first arrived.”

Alyse laughs. Some girl, not more than six years of age, had watched with wide eyes their arrival. She had followed the Maester’s every step, drawn by some fascination with his chain. Doubtless, she would remember nothing from before the winter snows had closed her home to the world. The mounted strangers who stopped at her home might be the first sign she’d ever seen of life beyond this meadow.

“Aye, we might all be winter-born children, who have never left their mountains,” the Lady of Wyl says, “In our own fashions.”

"A frog in a well," Quentyn chuckles, "Is what one of the old Maesters called it. When all the frog knows is his well, its waters are the oceans, and the stars he sees the entirety of the heavens.”

“A frog in a well, an old Maester in the Citadel,” Alyse mimes weighing the two in her hands.

“That may have been his point, yes,” Quentyn says wryly, “Though I like to think we have the bigger we-”

A shrill wail of inhuman terror cuts short the Maester’s reply. It rises like a nightmare and echoes off the mountainsides.

“Seven hells!” the Maester’s face pales. Alyse can see him fumbling for the hilt of a blade. The armsmen stir awake and curse. Ser Anders and Frynne leap to their feet and hurry to calm the horses who, save for the two war mounts, now add their frightened squeals to the distant cacophony.

“‘Tis nothing more than a wildcat, Maester,” Alyse’s voice carries over the momentary chaos, “Fear not. We are not its prey. I do not imagine the creature is hunting at all, with that sort of ruckus.”

Quentyn casts a shaken look across the fire. The screams fade away, and the horses grow silent again.

“Well,” he rasps, and pulls himself together, “More is the pity. ‘Twould at least be warm in its belly.”

“Aye, keep acting like an old goat, and you might find yourself at home there,” Alyse grins from the shadows. “Tomorrow, we will descend into the valley below. Though I cannot promise you the warmth of Sunspear, you may find its climes more to your liking, and its residents better-suited to host us. So get your sleep while you can, Maester. Your well has gotten a little bigger today.”

The Maester recedes into his bedroll, and a moment later Alyse pulls a warm quilt over herself, and turns her head back to look at a million stars.

Winds were low and Nymos rode at dawn towards the river. He expected a storm soon enough, whether of sand or rain. Small twisters of the former were already rising around where his palfrey’s hooves clopped against what sandstone had risen above the surface of the dunes. 

‘A desert is a place without expectation,’ Father once said. Nymos had never quite figured out what that meant.

The foliage that enveloped the Greenblood began to appear in his view. It started with blades of grass poking from brownish sand-soil. Then, soon enough, large ferns rose above his head. Great cattails swarmed the river’s edge. He guided his horse in a trot in its direction. 

Father would have remarked on the water level, pointed out the way the tips of the succulent leaves were tinged with pink, and noted that a westerly wind had replaced the eastward breeze. And most of all, he would have explained what it all meant.  

But Father wasn't here, and Nymos had found scant time to mourn the fact. The funeral was a hasty affair. He had not even found time to write letters to the Lords and Ladies of Dorne and beyond, informing them of his lord father’s passing.

He came to a halt and quickly dismounted his palfrey. He had brought only one knight to this event and even this knight, Ser Pearse of the Pass, seemed to have come into his moniker suspiciously. He was some sort of commoner, allegedly making a living trading in the Prince’s Pass before a passerby knight raised him up. Nymos suspected the nickname to be self-appointed. But regardless, the man happened to be handy with a sword and quick on his feet, and that was all Nymos required.

When he parted the curtain of man-sized cattails, a large gathering of boats appeared before him. The sea of vessels stretched from one shore of the river to the other. Nymos signalled for Ser Pearse to stay in his position and guard the horses, before stepping out cautiously and boarding the closest of the slips. He’d made sure to dress simply today, so that no cloak or cape would get snagged between a boat or dirtied by the Greenblood.

While the one he found himself upon was empty, many had already left the shore with passengers. Nymos smiled at orphans as they departed, everstill admiring the beauty of the carvings that had been etched into their vessels. He hopped from one boat to the next before making it roughly two thirds through the width of the river. 

There stood his friends, Bella Sand and Ferret. 

Bella was some bastard, likely of a nobleman that found her orphan mother particularly desirable. Whoever her father was, he must have the lovely highborn look Bella possessed, her dark curls framing a slim face. She was in body slimmer than even Nymos, who’d grown up teased with nicknames like Reed or Twig. Ferret, on the other hand, at just a year younger than Nymos, was rough and tumble. His worn face, with its deep smile wrinkles and dark, masculine eyes, turned to Nymos upon his arrival. 

“We were wondering when you’d show up,” he said, his voice full of warmth.

“Ferret, Bella. How are you both?” Nymos tried to keep the smile that appeared on his face from being sad, but the discomfort and haste in Bella’s voice when she replied revealed his efforts as a failure. 

“We heard news of your father. Word travels quicker than water down the Greenblood. We are sorry, Nymos.” 

“Yes, sorry we are,” Ferret said, eyes darting around, as though something in the landscape might offer him the chance to change the subject. 

“It’s not your fault. Yet, I’m sure you know what this means.” Nymos cleared his throat. “I can no longer visit you. It paints a name for me and anyway, I’m travelling north with the Dornish caravan, in my father’s stead.”

Ferret’s eyes opened wide, though his face remained sombre. “Nymos- Really?” 

“Yes, I’m afraid. And it may be that I will not have plans to return to Godsgrace. It all depends on the events of Harrenhal. It may be months, or even years, but I promise as soon as I return, I’ll make sure that word comes to you that I’m back. Then you can come visit me.”

Bella nodded, but Ferret cupped his face in his hands. Bella put a reassuring hand on their friend’s shoulder as she addressed Nymos. 

“Thank you for telling us. Maybe you’ll finally get married to some hedge knight’s daughter-”

Nymos gave her a playful punch before she could finish the sentence, and the tension between the three seemed to break like a wave on a cliff.

“Oh, please. You know I have much bigger plans than that.” 

He hugged her, and she squeezed him back.

“Oh,” Nymos said as he withdrew, “I got these for you, for your boat.” 

He placed a palette of inks down on the boat’s bench, then gave her one last hug before turning to Ferret. 

“You won’t be forgotten, Ferret,” Nymos said, lifting his friend’s chin with his finger. A few tears had run down Ferret’s face. Nymos smiled, this time without an attempt to not make it sad. That would have been impossible. He brushed his lips against Ferret’s cheek. 

“You are free. Use your freedom,” he murmured.

Nymos nodded at both friends before turning and walking solemnly back across the boats to the shore and his waiting horse. He could feel tears on his own face, now, though he could not say what for. 

Ser Pearse was waiting. And so was Godsgrace. And so was the rest of his life, and the beginning of his reign.

Walton walks through the halls of his family’s heretical home, Lolliston Keep. He has spend nearly every single waking moment around this keep, playing with his siblings or shadowing his parents in their duties as the Lord and Lady of Lolliston. However, there was an oddness of quietness as he approached his father’s study.

He had been told by a messenger that his mother wanted to see him. Usually that wouldn’t be no cause for worry but the fact since his father has started to groom him to take over as Lord of Lolliston when he turned 16 and rarely had been summoned by his mother for anything. He reported to his father on everything and so he only would be summoned by the lord of the lands. The factor made the fact his mother summoning him added to the bizarreness of the quietness.

Walton walked into the Lord’s study which was coloured in orange tinge that the sunset coated the landscape in. The study sported the handcrafted furniture inherited from his ancestors. The Lolliston lands were and still are known for their craftsmanship of woodworking, it would be a shock if the interior had not included some of the lands crafts. The orange of the sunset and browns from the furniture created a calming atmosphere that Walton’s father, Benjamin, had aimed for in his decorating of this room. In fact, Walton would have been soothed by the room's atmosphere in the spring afternoon, if it was not for the woman sat in his father’s chair with his father’s Castellan and Walton’s combat trainer as well as Godfather, Ser Clayton stood by her side.

“Walton, please sit down” Ser Clayton saids as he turns to look at Walton enter into the room.

“Mother, are you ok?” Walton asked as he shifted over to the seat across from her sitting on the other side of the desk from her. She looks up and her eyes are red from tears. She extends out her arm in her hand is a small piece of paper.

“Lady Lolliston… are you sure you don’t wish to gather your whole family first?” Ser Clayton saids as he watches Walton outreach his hand and grab the piece of paper.

“Walton is the heir… and so he shall be informed at the earliest opportunity” She saids as she turns to look at the aged man next to her. Who only nods and keeps silent.

Walton reads the paper which turns out to be a note. “To Lady Lolliston, If the messenger got to you before the the entourage returned home, we wish to inform you of your husband's unfortunate passing mere hours ago. He was severely wounded in a fight against robbers which outnumbered the entourage. We… I tired my best to get the Lord to some help to treat his wounds but before we could reach safety he scrummed to his wounds. We had decided to put a stop to the tour of the lands and make an immediate return to the Keep preparing the body for burial. Hopefully, we will not be ambushed again. Your Loyal Servant and Captain of the Guard, Ser Alwyn”

Walton looks up after reading the note and puts the note on the table. He looks at his mothers face and stands up. She looks at him trying to put on a strong face for him. Walton then shifts his eyes to Ser Clayton

“When did the note arrive?” He asked with a seriousness in his voice.

“This morning” Ser Clayton saids, the old man offers an apologetic and sympathetic smile “He truly was the best man amongst us”

Walton crosses the room and looks out the window to see what slowly approaching dot in the distance which he assumes is the entourage that his father had taken to do the monthly tax collecting, this fathers last action.

“Wal…” Lady Lolliston attempts to speak but her voice still carries the pain from recently hearing of her husband’s death.

“Don’t talk mother… save your voice” Walton saids as he stares out the window not breaking his sight from the approaching dot.

Ser Clayton puts is hand in Lady Lolliston’s shoulder then crosses to behind Walton. He looks at the young man, only 19 years of age and soon to be newly declared Lord Lolliston while fairer than many lords who usually inherit their lands in their mid-teens, no young man should have to have the lives of many on their shoulders. From Godson to Regent.

“Walton allow me to be the first, as your Godfather” Ser Clayton saids in a low tone, with his close friends death still impacting him. Walton flickers a look at the approaching dot then turns to face Ser Clayton. The old man looks at Walton meeting his eye, he unsheathes his blade and stamps the tip into the wooden floor and attempt to take a knee.

“I, Ser Clayton Wilton, swear my fealty to Lord Walton, the Lord of Lolliston to this day I swear to defend Lord Wilton against all that desire to harm him with word, deed and force. From this day forward, as long as my Lord allows, I am bound to be faithful to this declaration” The old man tries to stand back up. Walton reaches forward and helps the man up.

“Thank you… Clayton…” Walton smiles, nods and dust of the old man. He turns back around and looks out the window. “It’s going to be a busy few days, isn’t it”

“Yes M’Lord” Clayton saids with a grin “it indeed will be”

The pile of letters on her desk was dwindling. 

As the days grew longer, the sun hesitating on the horizon more and more each day, it had gotten easier for her to manage it all. Danae had scraped together a semblance of routine, attending council meetings each morning before retiring to her chambers to study alongside Lyman. She even saw the children most days, though they didn’t seem to mind her as much as their suppers.

She was left with ample time in the evenings to deal with the daunting amount of correspondence that had accumulated throughout the day. Though she’d delegated some to Aemon, she found it encouraging to manage the bulk of it herself. By the time she was through most nights, there was almost nothing left to read, but Danae was sure to always leave herself a letter or two for the morning. It was better, she found, to have a proper reason to get out of bed. 

On that particular evening, there was one scroll Danae could not neglect, however much she wanted to. 

Danae sat with her feet propped atop her desk, glaring at the offending letter from over the lip of her chalice as though the sender might feel the sting from afar. She wondered if it were another command, or a plea, or an apology. None would bring her any satisfaction. When she went to take another sip she found her cup empty. She considered shaking the last of the wine from her flagon, but thought better of it, knowing it would only stain the nightdress she wore. 

A proper queen would have had a cupbearer. A proper queen would have a husband, too, but all she had was that fucking offensive piece of parchment, its seal half pried away from where she’d nearly dared to start her morning with it before coming to her senses. 

She wondered if he was alone while he wrote it. If he picked it up and put it down between duties. If Harrold was there to help him with the phrasing, or if his insufferable mistress was at his side, or if their children were badgering him. She wondered if it was the first thing he sat down to accomplish in the morning, or if he put it off all evening if she had. 

She wondered if it was hard for him or if it took no effort at all.

Fuck him. Damon never had to try at anything, because it always always just fell into his lap. 

She slid her feet off the desk and resolved herself to open it at last. 

It started the same way their letters always did. A small comfort. Danae marveled at how the ink wasn’t even smudged. Damon never dragged his hand across the parchment like she did–  she’d never seen him walk away from his desk with ink stains on his fingers. 

The pleasantries it began with were sterile and brief. A remark on how long it had been since their last correspondence. A note that the children were well. And then his reason for writing… The Blackmonts. Dorne. The need to break a silence with a punishment. A unified one. Danae snorted at the word. When was the last time they had been united on anything? He must have known her mind, for his next sentence was an answer. 

…Whilst I know us to be of the same mind regarding the late Lord Olyvar, it is an inescapable truth that his murder cannot be permitted to pass unchallenged, and given the sway his house still holds, the response must be memorable to all…

In its sum, the letter was surprisingly unwordy. 

He must have had help, she surmised. Someone to trim his overly long metaphors, strike the six-syllable adjectives, order him to staunch the abrupt outpouring of a year’s worth of emotions he so often interjected into the letters he’d write her. She remembered the correspondence he’d sent to Dragonstone. She remembered all Damon’s letters.

Interestingly, this one asserted that the matter of the Blackmonts must be dealt with, but offered no suggestions– perhaps because he knew exactly how she intended to handle it. 

Danae set the parchment down and pushed it away from her. 

She hadn’t put the Blackmont matter off so much as she hadn’t had time to worry about it. There could be no dispensing of justice if the council never happened, and she’d already wasted too much time on dragonback tending to the disaster in the Stormlands. Regrettably, the Iron Bank could wait no longer.

She reached for a quill and ink. 

d,

Fire and blood will suffice. 

If you can’t get behind that, you’re welcome to stand in front of it.

D

Written with Cregan

The commotion of a crowd was not unfamiliar to Harwin. In the yards of his home he had seen dozens rushing about their business. In the shipyards and lumber yards of Shackleton he had seen a few hundred. And, from a distance, he had observed the teeming activity of White Harbor’s ports and an army gathering to his brothers’ call beyond the walls of Oldcastle.

But he had never witnessed the bustle of thousands in the way he did when their procession found itself approaching Moat Cailin. The soft earth was cratered by the hooves of numberless steeds, by the booted feet of men and boys. The hills were blanketed in a city of tents and oxcarts, worn-faced labourers swarming between them. Youths ran on nimble legs, bearing messages and sacks over their shoulders, while teams of their fathers and elder brothers guided carts and hefted crates between them.

Some, it must be granted, sat for a midday meal under the overcast sky. Smoke drifted from one of the larger structures on the hill to Harwin’s left, a wooden cookhouse erected for the workers. Others stood in conversation, hard words and kind alike forming a din of noise that obscured the sound squelching mud under Magpie’s hooves.

A few hundred eyes were following them, suspicion and curiosity in equal measure. Harwin made sure that he sat up straight in his saddle. He rode at the front of their caravan with his siblings, with Benjicot bearing their standard ahead. Valena almost ruined Harwin’s composure by speaking up suddenly.

“Gods,” she said. “That’s beautiful.”

Harwin had been so enamoured by the crowds that he had almost forgotten their purpose. Ahead, sat astride an ancient crossroads, stood Moat Cailin. The dark stone seemed almost black against the pale clouds. There was a good deal more of it than there had once been, he knew. It was a messy sprawl of a fortress, stretching itself across the marshland, a complex of steadfast towers forming a long courtyard. The walls, thick and strong as they were, were incomplete, reaching out for one another between the towers. Where there weren’t stone walls, there were wooden ones, placeholders until the work might be completed. Men swarmed the fortress, dedicated to the reconstruction that had begun when Harwin was a small child.

Harwin’s attention, however, was drawn to a tower that stood alone from its brethren, looming over the East road, ancient moss covering it like a pelt. From its broken crown, a standard of House Reed hung, barely swaying in the soft wind. Harwin shot his sister a question with a glance.

“Children’s Tower,” she smiled. “One of the originals. Apparently that’s where the children of the forest stood when they tried to drown the Neck.”

“Did they, truly?”

Valena gave a shrug, her focus taken by the structure. Harwin just watched her fascination for a moment. She leaned back in Surefoot’s saddle, groping for her saddlebag. When Harwin registered what she sought, he interrupted her.

“When we’ve presented ourselves, I’ll ask for leave so that we can explore, and you can have more time for your sketches.”

Valena gave a grateful smile, sheepishly returning her grip to her reins.

“Who are we presenting ourselves to, again?” Sylas asked. “I gather it’s a Reed, but I’m lost beyond that.”

Harwin tried not to feel embarrassed as he slipped his own notebook from a pouch on his belt. His notes of nobility, collated over so many hours of Maester Ulf’s assistance. A ribbon marked where he had most recently been checking, and he opened that page to ensure he wasn’t misremembering.

“Lord Eyron,” he read aloud. “Cregan Reed’s brother, named castellan of the Moat and put in charge of the reconstruction, um, at some point. After Forrest Umber died.”

Benjicot turned in his saddle, grip adjusting on the standard he bore, an eyebrow arched. “Lord Eyron?”

Harwin nodded, and Benjicot shot a grin towards Valena, pointing towards the fortress. “Does that make those Eyronic columns?”

Valena breathed a quick laugh, though she shook her head. “New Eyronic, maybe, but no. Architecture- it’s not always named after a person, but if it is it’s usually a king, not just the local lord. So, that’d be-”

“Danaean?” Harwin suggested, at the same time Sylas said, “Damonic?”

They looked at one another. Shrugged. Valena considered their interruptions with a tilted head.

“Neither. The project started before the ascent, right? So, Harysian, or something.”

Sylas tapped Harwin’s shoulder, and nodded at a group of mounted men who were emerging from the shifting traffic, approaching them. By their diminutive height, and the black lizard-lions on the breasts of their rough green tunics, these were crannogmen. The leather of their sword belts and saddles was pale and cracked with age.

“Seems we don’t need to present ourselves, after all,” Sylas said. Harwin watched him lounge in his saddle, as if the greeting party were here to serve him.

“Sy,” Harwin whispered, biting off the word, “straighten up. First impressions.”

His reaction was half-apology, half-indignation, but Harwin cut him off before he could say anything. “These people have worked closely with our liege for years, Sy. I’ve only been lord for a handful of months. Please.”

It took a moment, but Sylas nodded, straightening as the first crannogman brought his steed to bear. His beard was a lighter blonde than his curly hair.

“Welcome, welcome,” the man called. “Always a pleasure to see the old crossed keys!”“And a pleasure to see the lizard-lion on my travels,” Harwin responded, hoping that the nicety didn’t sound forced. He shifted in his saddle. “I am Lord Harwin, these are my siblings, Sylas and Valena. House Locke is at your service, my lord.”

The man cocked his head, curious. “Lord Eyron Reed. I met a Lord Barthogan Locke once, is he…?”

Harwin’s jaw was tight as he spoke the words he knew were due to become repetitive as this journey wore on. “My father was taken by illness late last year.”

“My condolences, then, my Lord.”

Lord Eyron’s entourage shifted, allowing a boy to push through from the back of the group. No more than eight, the lad’s red hair was tied back, and he was focused and uncomfortable in the saddle. Was this Eyron’s son? Harwin scanned the boy’s features for resemblance, but couldn’t be sure. The youth spared little more than a glance for the Lockes, before Eyron followed Harwin’s gaze, and nudged the boy’s shoulder.

The lad looked at him, brows creasing momentarily, before he took a breath and said, “My father speaks highly of your house.”

That seemed to confirm Harwin’s suspicion. Before he could ask the lad’s name, Eyron smiled and gave him an approving pat on the back , and continued. “You’ve timed your arrival well. A day later, and you’d have missed my brother. He arrived yesterday, and means to ride south on the morn. But tonight– I’ve coerced him into feasting the lords who’ve yet to go on. Moat Cailin is no Harrenhal, but I did poach the cook from Greywater Watch, so you will eat well. You do like frog legs, don’t you?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. The red-haired boy almost smirked, but his eyes retained their sullen neutrality. Eyron, on the other hand, broke into a wide grin at their reaction.

“Just a jest. The legs will be from chickens, not frogs. Though the taste is really not so dissimilar.”

Overcome with a clumsy need to cut the topic off, Harwin muttered, “We’ll take your word for it, my Lord.”

Eyron chuckled, and then his face shifted into an approximation of formality. “House Reed welcomes you. Please, come along, I’ll introduce you to everyone. You make for the Great Council, I surmise?”

A flick of the reins, and Magpie began following the crannogmen as they brought their steeds round. The Locke carriages groaned into motion, and Benji smoothly peeled away to the flank, allowing the nobles their privacy.

“We do,” Harwin confirmed.

“Exciting times,” Eyron remarked, a smile on his lips. “I can scarce recall the last time the lords of the realm were called together.” He turned his gaze on Harwin. “I envy you, to be young in such a historic moment. You, and my niece and nephew. Nephews, now.”

“Lord Cregan had another son?” Harwin asked. A letter had remarked on the pregnancy a long while ago, but that had been early on, an unsure prospect.

“Little Torrhen,” Eyron answered. “And another child is brewing in the belly of his new bride, Lady Talisa.”

“I’ll be sure to give Lord Cregan my congratulations.”

Eyron took a moment to lean back in his saddle, eyes dancing to take in the rest of the entourage, as if he were looking for someone and failed to find them.

“Have you no children yourself, Lord Harwin? Or does your lady wife await in Oldcastle for your return?”

Harwin felt himself blush. “I’m afraid none of us have been blessed with marriage.”

That brought the Reed’s eyes to his, something conspiratorial in the set of his brows, “Some might say you’re better off. Myself included. I never sought a woman’s hand, much to my brother’s chagrin.”

Harwin’s smile was, he imagined, awkward, “We hoped, but between the wildlings’ war and my father’s illness, it fell by the wayside.”

“Well,” Eyron began, “The Great Council is as likely a place to find a bride as any. You may find some good fortune there, in the romantic arena. Assuming, of course, you know how to wield a lance.”

Valena utterly failed to stifle a laugh, which set off Sylas in turn. Eyron took a second, and grinned back at them.

“I meant wielding a lance in a joust. To win a lady’s favour,” Eyron chuckled. Then, he added, “Though… that as well.”

Harwin gave a smile, hoping that his delay in understanding the joke looked like politeness and not idiocy. Hoping it would cover his embarrassment, he pressed on, “You never married?”

It seemed odd. Eyron Reed was nearly twice his age, and had a son in tow. The Reeds had no reputation for debauchery or bastard-bearing, though perhaps swamp gossip didn’t make its way to Oldcastle.

If the question scandalised Eyron at all, the Reed didn’t show it. He merely shrugged, and offered a casual, “In my courting years, well, I had other priorities. And now, well, it seems an awful lot of trouble.”

Harwin could not help but look at the boy who rode at Eyron’s side. He did not seem to respond to his father’s inference of his bastardy, but perhaps that was why he seemed so downtrodden.

“Oi, Will,” Eyron called, his voice cutting through Harwin’s thoughts. He was addressing one of the guardsmen. “Go tell my brother he’s got more guests!”

“Ser Benjicot, go with him,” Harwin said. It drew a half-glance from the boy. “Give the lord my compliments.”

“Aye, my lord,” the knight said, nudging his steed into a canter to catch up with the Reed guardsman.

The sullen, red-haired boy watched the knight as he went, and Harwin could not help but wonder what fascinated him so.

“Did you hear about Fern?”

“What about her?”

“She brought old Patrek to bed.”

“She did not!”

“She did! Just the other night, I swear it. My sister saw ‘em sneaking off during supper.”

“Sneakin’ off where?!”

“I haven’t a clue, but nowhere secret enough that no one saw them leavin’ together – or heard them bumpin’ bones.”

“Bloody bold of them, to slip off like that during the Lady Ashara’s welcome feast.”

“Bold? More like stupid. Here, Princess – turn your work like this. Yes, that’s right.”

Daena was seated on a stool in front of the kitchen hearth between two maids, trying to wrestle yarn from needle to needle in the way the women did. It was challenging but they made it look easy, whipping up scarves and shawls while making chit-chat and occasionally stirring something in the pot behind them. Daena wanted to get as good as they were. It was slow going. 

“Fern is an idiot,” Sage went on, speaking to Harp over Daena’s head. “Does she think just ‘cause he’s old, he can’t make children no more? That only dust’ll come out?”

The Princess mostly ignored their conversations. The women in the kitchens were always talking. Like her father. Like all adults. And nothing they said was ever interesting. 

“Fern will be fat again by fall, I guarantee it, but at least this one’ll be a right bastard, and not a noble one.”

Behind Daena, the pot held over the fire warmed her back and bubbled and burped, filling the air with the heavy scent of beef stew. She had peeled and cut the carrots for it, and Sage even let her add the spices: a big pinch of dried thyme, smashed garlic, sugar, salt, red peppercorns, and four big sprigs of rosemary they’d picked from the herb garden that morning. The herb garden was always under the care and control of the Lady of the Rock – a tradition, she was told. But Lady Joanna let Daena plant mace and cloves and even dragon peppers that a trader had brought one day from someplace far away. Lady Joanna even allowed the trader to show Daena how to dry parts of the peppers for crushing into spices, so long as she promised not to tell Father about any of it. But the stew on the fire now was for everyone, and so Sage forbade her from adding the secret spice.

“Dragons are for dragons,” she’d said. “No one else here likes it that hot. Save for your brother, perhaps.”

But Desmond didn’t like spicy foods. Daena had brought him stuffed grape leaves once, filled with lamb that she’d seasoned with the dragon pepper, and he told her it tasted like ash. She’d called him a number of things that wouldn’t have left him so confused had he put more effort into his Valyrian lessons.

“Almost midday,” Sage said suddenly, setting down her work. “Harp, you ought to make sure the Princess is attended to.”

“Whaddyu mean? She’s right here.”

“The other Princess – the Lady Hightower. I don’t want her servant back in here complaining again about the food not being just right, or just when. I swear, I’d rather work in the docks than cook for a pregnant woman. ‘Specially one like her. Ser Lenyl can get this Princess back to where she ought to be, once he stops ogling Moriah.”

“I don’t ought to be anywhere,” Daena spoke up, setting down her knitting. “I’m allowed to go wherever I want, whenever I-”

“You’ll be in the way here, little one, we’re about to start serving. Now off you go – and don’t twist those stitches! Left to right, not right to left. Off with you!”

The maid stood and shooed her like a mouse in the direction of Ser Lenyl, nearly taking the stool out from under her the moment Daena made to rise. Daena huffed a big sigh to announce her displeasure but went obediently to the knight, finishing the row she was knitting as she walked. Sage said to never put down your knitting before finishing a row, but never ever let her do so before abruptly ejecting her from the kitchens. Daena would make a law against it when she became Queen. She had already decided on that and a number of others related to making children do sums and embroidery. 

She let Ser Lenyl guide her lazily back towards the Lord’s chambers, not minding the way he stopped to say hello to some of the soldiers or the servant ladies. Daena liked Lenyl. He was never in a hurry, never raised his voice, and never said an unkind word unless it was about Ralf, the cook, who deserved every mean remark made about him. Father didn’t seem to like Ser Lenyl at all – mostly for the bit about never being in a hurry – but he said unkind things about every Dornishman. 

He was waiting for them in the solar, impatiently like he always told her not to be. She could tell he was impatient by the way he set his mouth kind of crooked. People said she did exactly the same.

“In the kitchens again, were we?”

The Septon said that lying was bad, and so Daena did not answer. 

“Come, I’ve need of your wisdom.”

Daena was always helping Father with important things. She came to almost every council meeting, pressed the seal into the wax on letters, and even named the horses. It was a letter he wanted help with this time. Parchment, quill, and ink were laid out on his great big desk. He pulled a stool just beside his own chair and gestured for her to sit.

“We need to write your mother.”

“Why?”

“The Dornish.”

He said it the same way he cursed the clouds sometimes before they went sailing. 

Daena watched as he began to write in perfect, flowy letters like her Septa tried to make her do. Like the women with their knitting, her father made it look easy when she knew it firsthand to be impossibly hard.

“You didn’t finish her name,” she said after a time – ample enough for him to have corrected the mistake on his own. 

“Oh. No, I…” Father seemed to think. “I always write my letters to her like that.”

“It just says ‘D’.”

“Yes.”

“It should say: Her Grace, Queen Danae of House Targ–” 

“No, I know. I just… This is how I write to her. She writes to me the same.”

“The same?”

“Yes. ‘D’. Only, she makes the letter a small one and I make hers– this isn’t important, Daena. Can you read the rest of what I’ve written so far? Can you see?” He angled the parchment so that it better faced her, but Daena had already read what else was written. She was a quick reader, unlike Desmond who took ages and then still got the Septon’s questions wrong.

“What is ‘the Blackmont matter’?” she asked.

“House Blackmont of Dorne is suspected of murdering the head of an important Reach house. Or, a formerly important Reach house, as it stands. Regardless, it is a grave sin and has potentially dire political consequences for relations between the two kingdoms if not handled appropriately and judiciously. It’s the sort of matter the Crown ought to address – your mother and I, together.”

Daena was not afraid of anything: not of spiders, frogs, snakes, and certainly not dragons. But she was wary of speaking about her mother to her father and about her father to her mother, and so she said nothing.

“The Dornish will be coming to the Great Council, along with all of the Reach. It is a good time to administer justice where all can behold it, but it is important that the Crown is united on the matter before we see the Princess Sarella and her people in Harrenhal. I believe they’re already on their way – they’ll pass through the Boneway within two moons, I imagine.”

Daena was quiet for a time, gnawing on a question.

“What does it mean when people bump bones?”

Father put down his quill.

“So you have been in the kitchens.” 

Daena squirmed in her seat, and an uncomfortable moment passed between them before her father nodded at her skirt. 

“Your knitting needles are sticking out of your pockets.”

“I’m making something for my brother.”

“Oh? Which brother?”

“The one in Lady Joanna’s belly.”

“What makes you think there’s a baby in Lady Joanna’s belly?”

Daena said nothing, and Father looked at her curiously.

“Well,” he said, “this is news to me. And I imagine it will be news to Lady Joanna.”

“When will you make dust instead of children?”

“You’re full of questions today. Would you like to go for a sail with your cousin and your aunt this evening?”

When Father met her questions with a question of his own, it meant she wasn’t getting an answer. 

“Lady Hightower?”

“And Loras, yes.”

“And Uncle Gerold?”

“Gods, I hope not.” Father pushed back his chair and bade her to rise. “We’ll leave this for now. If my senses aren’t mistaken, I think the midday meal has arrived.” He inhaled deeply. “Hm, and your brother, too. From the stables, I’d wager. Come. I’ll finish the letter later.”

A man cleared his throat loudly from outside the solar, and Father set his mouth crooked again.

“I’ll finish it now,” he said. “But you run along and eat.”

Daena took one last glance at the letter before obeying. Father was right: Desmond was there, along with Lord Harrold and a few servant people setting up the table in the chamber where they often took their meals in private. That seemed to be less and less often now that more Westerlands people were here. Daena was surprised, but grateful, to see that Desmond was unaccompanied by any of his friends. And the babies weren’t around, either.

“Skoriot Hugo se Loras se Roberti issi?” she asked, switching to Valyrian. 

“They’re washing,” he answered in the Common Tongue. “There’s a play later. A troupe from Pentos.”

“Jemme mazigon kostan?”

“You can’t come with us. It’s for boys only.”

Daena narrowed her eyes, suspecting a lie.

“Now, Prince Desmond,” Harrold said. “Chivalry starts with mothers and sisters. Princess Daena is perfectly welcome to attend, and in fact she ought to, as the performance is in Valyrian and your tutor seems to think you won’t understand a word of it without her.”

Desmond shot her a glare, but was sure to soften his face before Harrold caught it. “Nyke rhakiteta sȳrje.”  

“Rhaki-TEN sȳrjĪ,” Daena corrected. “Obviously you don’t understand perfectly well.”

“Stop bickering,” said Harrold distractedly. “Eat.”

The two took their places at the table, though Harrold himself didn’t move from his spot on the sofa where he sat sifting through something boring. The meal was the soup that had been at Daena’s back not long ago. She watched with great offence as Desmond carefully ate around the carrots she’d cut. After a time, Father emerged with his letter. Daena was further dismayed to see he’d sealed it himself, without her. 

“I was diplomatic,” he said to Harrold, walking over to hand him the parchment. 

“Not too diplomatic, I hope. Her Grace loathes when you get wordy. And she’s hardly the only one.”

Harrold looked more worried as of late. So did Father, for that matter, and he did not banter back to the steward like they usually did. 

“Danae will do what she will do.”

“Lord Lyman seems to have faith. He’s seen a change. He’s seen…” Harrold looked up then, and catching Daena staring, cleared his throat. “The Crown will be united in the Blackmont matter,” he said in an announcing sort of voice. “Harrenhal will be the opportune place to deliver justice, unitedly. And I’m sure the children are looking forward to seeing their mother again.”

Desmond slurped his soup, and did not look up. 

Daena said nothing. 

Joanna woke to the glimmer of sunlight reflecting off of her ruby bracelet. 

Her earrings had left an impression upon the skin of her cheek, she was sure, but she had worn crueller marks. Indeed, the bruises that decorated her skin now were greater proof of Damon’s reverence than the tiara that sat upon his bedside table. She traced the pattern he’d left behind, the memory of his fingertips stained a faint purple along the curve of her hip. When she drew a hand over her navel, she prayed that bruises were not all she would have to remember their evening by. 

Damon didn’t stir when she rolled to face him, his arm still cast around her waist. It was strange to wake before him and stranger still that the servants had not yet disturbed them, but she was glad of it. They’d more than earned a good night’s rest, and gods knew they had so few ahead of them in the months to come. 

She brushed his hair away from his face before leaning in to kiss him, sliding her leg between his when his lashes began to flutter. 

“Do you think we have time for another?” 

“Hm? Another what?” Damon said, his voice still thick with sleep. 

“Another–” Joanna hummed and shook her head before she kissed him again. “No, I suppose not. If we survive your sister, perhaps I’ll enlighten you tonight.” 

“Ashara.” Damon groaned. “I’d forgotten.”

He scrambled out of bed quick enough to curse, though she knew better. She collapsed back into the pillows as he gathered himself, his fingers catching in the knots in his hair as he tried– and failed– to soothe it. Ashara could have been standing right outside of his chambers and it wouldn’t have stirred Joanna to action. She merely raised her wrist to admire her bracelet and smiled. 

Casterly Rock was hers, and if she bid its guests to wait, wait they would. 

When she finally joined him to break their fast, the children were halfway through, Willem balanced upon his father’s knee. Joanna suspected the bouncing was not for the baby’s benefit, but said nothing as she took her place at Damon’s side. The golden chiffon of her many layered skirts fluttered when she sat and she was careful not to let it catch on the prongs that held her rubies in place. 

“Good morning, Mama,” Byren spoke from around a mouthful of honeycake. She didn’t have the heart to remind him to mind his manners when he smiled so freely. 

“And to you, my precious boy. You look so proud in your new vest. As do you, my Dārilaritsos– that dress is so lovely. Are you excited to see your cousin?” 

“Who?” Daeana asked in Valyrian.

“What?” asked Desmond.

“Your cousin Loras is arriving today with his lady mother Ashara and Lord Gerold.”

“Who’s Gerold?” Desmond asked.

Damon set his cutlery down with unusual force.

“Des, we have discussed House Hightower at length. You and I, and you and your tutor. This isn’t some – some obscure and inconsequential house from a kingdom such as, I don’t know, the North. This is the seat of power in the Reach, and your family, for that matter.”

It was unlike Damon to speak to the children with such impatience and there might have been an uncomfortable silence were it not for little Daena, speaking in hush and hurried Valryian to her brother. It also helped that Willem knocked over his father’s cup. 

“Oh yes, Lord Gerold,” Desmond amid the commotion, a servant rushing in to mop up the mess. 

Still balancing the baby, Damon looked unconvinced and ready to launch into another lecture, but Joanna was quick to intervene. 

“In any case, their stations are below yours, so it’s of little consequence. Now, don’t fill up on breakfast– I’ve arranged for you all to have a treat if you’re very good this morning, and I won’t be sympathetic if you have a stomach ache later.” 

In the end it was Damon most unprepared to welcome those in the Reach’s ‘seat of power’. Ashara and Gerold’s sails were spotted during breakfast and even though it took them hours more to reach the Lion’s Mouth, Damon spent most of those hours pacing. When the Hightowers were escorted into the throne room, where a packed court waited in full (though somewhat crooked, in the case of Byren) regalia, he seemed no more ready than he had when she’d first woken him. 

Ashara was resplendent in a gown of green and gold, her hair twisted into an elaborate style laden with strings of the most perfect pearls Joanna had ever seen. Her husband seemed pale in comparison, and though it was easy to attribute that to the trials of their journey, Joanna suspected Gerold always lingered in his wife’s shadow. She knew the feeling well. 

“Princess Ashara of House Hightower, Lady Paramount of the Reach, sister to the King of Westeros, daughter of House Lannister,” the court’s herald announced, and then with a heavily pregnant pause, “... and Lord Gerold.”

If the snub, however owed, bothered the Lord Hightower, he did not show it. 

It seemed the years had changed more than their titles. Ashara was almost entirely unreadable, her face set in a courtly mask that reminded Joanna too much of Lady Jeyne. They even shared the same barely perceptible look of disdain – no doubt at the place Joanna shared with her children – all of them — atop the dais.  

“Welcome, sister,” was Damon’s attempt at a formal yet affectionate greeting.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” was Ashara’s perfectly polite rebuff. 

Though she had been raised to bear the indignities of lengthy formal proceedings with grace, there was nothing Joanna wanted more than to be through with it all. Her feet were aching by the time they were free to retire to the Rock’s gardens for luncheon. No one was more grateful than the children it seemed, who all danced merrily ahead, their laughter echoing across the stone. Only then did Ashara drop her highest of formalities – and only slightly.

“The harvest banners might have been better suited, brother. A sign of expected fortune at the Great Council.”

“The lands surrounding Harrenhal are still laced with ash and barren, Shara. What has been sewn there that can be reaped?”

“It is intended to be a metaphor.”

“And so was my comment.”

“Poor banter is worse than dull conversation.”

Gerold was notably silent, but unlike his wife, he didn’t seem rankled by the absence or presence of any particular banners. He was content to watch the children chase each other up the narrow stairs ahead. Willem, seated at Joanna’s hip, shared the same blissfully ignorant stare. 

“Just wait until you see the tapestries we had commissioned, Ashara,” Joanna said in an attempt to salvage the interaction. “They’re magnificent, aren’t they, Damon?”

Both Lannisters simmered in silence rather than indulge her. 

Joanna was relieved to find that the gardens were just ahead, and doubly so that the spread had been laid to her exact specifications. Rather than delight in having their own special place at the table, the children had stooped to relieve themselves of their shoes — Daena’s satin slippers among the first to be tossed into the rose bushes. If the princess noted her father’s disapproval, it did little to deter her, as she led the charge past her scandalised aunt and into the trellises beyond. 

Joanna followed Gerold’s gaze to the tray of crystal goblets that waited for them, though she imagined for entirely different reasons. 

“Your children have no manners,” Ashara indicated to Damon.

“It’s only the one,” he said. “The others follow.”

Ashara didn’t seem to appreciate the jape. As the children played, the adults remained seated in silence and Ashara managed to look even more stormy than she had when first entering her childhood home. Joanna felt a keen discomfort, not unlike when they were all children. It had always been her task to repair social tensions. If stations, titles, and feelings could change over time, why couldn’t duties? 

After some silence, she realised she’d once again have to be the one to make conversation.

“I do hope we’ll have the opportunity to tour the gardens later. I took some cuttings from the Hightower gardens to be grafted with our rose bushes here when we visited last. How lovely to have a piece of home with you wherever you go.” 

“That was very thoughtful of you, Lady Joanna,” Gerold remarked. “Those could very well have their roots in Highgarden, from centuries long past.”

His tone was relaxed, almost jovial, as he watched the children play between polite bites of biscuits that Daena had insisted on preparing herself. Perhaps not all men yearned for power. Perhaps some saw relief in relinquishing it – no doubt especially in situations like this. 

“Each kingdom has its speciality, no?” Joanna said, turning a warm smile to Damon. “If only gold had as sweet a scent of roses. What do you think?”

Damon gave a pathetic sort of “hmm” to that, and Joanna decided that she’d had quite enough. 

“I thought the children were off playing,” she said, setting her napkin down upon her empty plate. “But since there are still plenty seated round this table and they’ve decided to squander this otherwise lovely afternoon, let us squander it properly. What exactly are you so cross about, Ashara?” 

Ashara showed no indication of surprise, and Joanna was once again reminded of Jeyne.

“I can think of shorter lists to procure than one of my grievances,” she said without pause, “so let us begin with one of just five: the jewellery you wear on your neck, your ears, your fingers, your wrist, and your brow. Have you lost all decency, Joanna? And you, Damon, all sense?” She turned fully to her brother now, and nearly hissed the words. “Those are the Lannister family jewels. And you put them upon your mistress.”

Joanna did not miss the way Gerold placed his hand upon his wife’s lap beneath the table, but the attempt to calm her was a fruitless one. 

“How many of these golden-haired little children in our family’s garden are poised to unravel the realm?” she went on. “How reckless can you be, both of you? How selfish? How short-sighted? Stronger houses were brought down by less bastards than this, longer reigns, better-deserving Kings. You’d throw away everything our father gave you, all the work he’s done, all the sacrifices he’s made – I’ve made, to put you on a throne.”

“You’re not the only one to have made sacrifices,” Joanna said as she dropped two cubes of sugar into her tea. “And I would hardly say any of them were made in vain. You think one woman is enough to bring down a realm?”

“I think one woman, however many illegitimate children, and a fool’s plan for a Great Council would certainly do the trick, even without the Queen to consider.”

“I have no designs on the crown, just as I have no designs to imperil the Great Council.”

“Oh on that matter, Joanna, you may rest the pretty little head you like to pretend is empty when it suits you.” Ashara shot her a look so withering it might have made a lesser woman’s lip tremble. “I have read the book of laws and know it to be entirely Damon’s. Only a man could be so brazenly stupid.”

“Only a man?” Joanna tilted her head, withholding the urge to laugh. “Really?” 

Gerold cleared his throat bravely. “Now, I think we all–” 

But Damon was standing. “My children? You bring my children into this – into your grievances? You have no right, Ashara. No right to name them–”

“I cannot, Damon, you produce far too many too thoughtlessly for any one of us to keep track.”

“There’s really only the one…” Joanna interjected flippantly, though Damon didn’t seem to hear.

“How dare–”

Gerold stood now, albeit gently, and for a moment Joanna marvelled at the strangeness of the situation as it must have seen from afar: two women who’d known each other their whole lives and had mostly counted themselves as friends, seated straight-backed and poised with their tea cups; and two men who’d last seen each other in a battle against one another, the riotous one now attempting to placate someone he’d last riled up himself, on behalf of and in spite of his wife. 

“Come,” the lord Hightower said, an edge of nervousness to his voice so faint that Joanna was confident the Lannisters missed it. “Whatever differences Your Graces have with one another on family matters are not worth squandering, as the Lady Joanna has said, a truly lovely afternoon. And matters of law and the Great Council are best discussed not over tea, but a table, with an audience better suited to arbitrate it fairly. No?” 

Damon seemed to hesitate, and Joanna was certain she could ease him back into his seat once more until Ashara spoke again. But this time, her voice wavered – something so unexpected it seemed to paralyse them all. 

“My whole life,” she said, nearly choking on the words. “My whole life, I have done what was asked of me, when it was asked of me, without question. I have endured–” She stopped herself from finishing the thought. “I have endured. And you… You, Joanna. You simply do as you please. Rules be damned. Others be damned.” 

“You truly believe that? As though I didn’t have to claw my way through indignity and humiliation to get here? To have what I was promised? I was raised to be the Lady of the Rock, and so I am. You speak of rules as though they command suffering, when in truth, the rules are what we make them.” 

“No.” Ashara shook her head and spoke through gritted teeth. Joanna couldn’t be sure, partly for the light and partly for the unlikeliness, but there might have been tears welling in her eyes. “No, the rules are what they make them. You think you’re writing yourself a new story. You’re writing a eulogy.”

“And is that any different than what you’re doing?” 

Joanna sighed and set her cup back in its saucer, leaning over to take Damon’s hand in her own. 

“I have always valued your friendship, Ashara, and held you in highest regard. While I assure you that nothing has changed between us, even despite this, I can promise you that I don’t need you as an ally. I have the favour of the guilds, of the people of Lannisport, of the courtiers, of the King and you…” 

She smiled sadly. 

“You have a husband. If that is what you choose.” 

Ashara stood, Lord Gerold quickly offering her his arm.

“I hope you enjoy your golden jewellery and your golden throne while you have it,” she said to Joanna, her voice quiet. And then to her brother, “And you your iron one. May it be worth what we all have done.”

Gerold looked to the children and seemed to make a decision – Loras was not called for. Instead, he gave an appropriate bow to Damon and a similar one to Joanna, along with what might have been an apologetic smile or a grim one, and the two took their leave without looking back. 

“Well, it was good of her to allow Loras to stay. At least our children aren’t beneath him.” 

Damon was looking in the direction of where the children were playing. 

“And their grudges?”

“Will be forgotten when they remember how lovely their time was together at Elk Hall, yes? We can hope.” 

He didn’t seem convinced, but he did not argue. 

“It is a long road to Harrenhal, isn’t it?”

Joanna’s bracelet caught the light again, reflecting red against her skin. She placed her hand on his, once more taking care not to let the prongs catch on the embroidery of his sleeve. 

“Long indeed, my love. Long indeed.” 

Welcome to Game of Thrones Roleplay!

r/GameofThronesRP is a storytelling role-play set in the world of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. Over 200 years have passed since the War of the Five Kings, but the game of thrones continues in Westeros and beyond.

Creating your Character

Will you be a Westerosi lady, a Pentoshi magister, a Wildling spearwife, or a maester of Oldtown? What about a travelling bard or the heir to an ambitious house? Take your imagination over to the character creation thread on our Community Subreddit and be sure to look over the rules and Recent Events. Interested in joining the noble class? Check out the list of Available Houses to see which are available to play!

Joining the Community

We’re glad you’ve taken an interest in our RP and can’t wait for you to join our story! We primarily organize on our Discord Server, so come chat with us! If you’ve got an idea of the type of character you want to play, we’re happy to help you find a place to begin your tale!

Learning the Lore

GoTRP has been running for almost a decade, and we have a lot of story built up, but please don’t be daunted! You’re not expected to have an encyclopaedic knowledge from the jump, you can learn as you go. We do, however, have a few resources to help lore-lovers catch up:

The Wiki is our central database of everything that’s happened in the sub. It’s imperfect, so let us know if you have any questions on the Discord Server!

The White Book tracks the history of the Kingsguard throughout both the pre-sub history and the sub so far, and gives a quick impression of the Baratheon Dynasty that began with King Stannis!

The Timeline is a quick overview of some of the most important events of GoTRP and when they happened, both in- and out-of-universe.

Note: GoTRP is an inclusive community that values good storytelling and great interpersonal relationships. We believe that good stories are diverse stories, and great relationships are built on respect.

With all thanks to Damon <3

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Edmyn and the King walked side by side down the long corridor that led to Casterly Rock’s stables, the Prince keeping his own pace to the left of his father. 

It was pouring rain. Even without windows this was evident – the bad weather haunted the halls like a spectre. Amarei would have the shutters closed and a kettle on the fire for making tea. Depending on where Damon was taking them, perhaps Edmyn could see her when their business was through. How easy it was to imagine her descending the stairs of their little towerhouse when he’d knock on the door, in a silk white dressing gown.

The last time he’d been there, they’d laid in bed all morning, listening to the lute being played by a man on the little square in front of the house. Ed remembered how the breeze had blown in the drapes, and how soft Amarei’s hands felt as they gently made their way up and down his chest. Perhaps this time, they’d stay awake all night. 

Desmond’s voice broke through his revelry. 

“Will we be taking a carriage?”

The Prince was taking long strides, gaze cast to the ground – specifically the cracks between the stones, which he was taking great care to step on or around in a very specific way known only to him. 

Edmyn felt a small pang of affection. However grown the boy now was, looking the very image of his father and dressed from head to toe in finery, Desmond was still a child.

“If you wish to,” said Damon.

“No, I want to ride.”

Edmyn felt the pang of affection quickly vanish. 

“It’s raining rather hard, Your Grace,” he suggested gently. 

“Squires ride in all sorts of weather. They never take carriages. Even in a snowstorm, they won’t take a carriage. They don’t even have them.”

“I bet they’d give their last copper for one in a snowstorm,” Damon said. “If you wish to ride, we can do so, but you’ll have to be the one to explain to Lady Joanna why the choice was made when we come to dinner with wet feet.”

Desmond fell silent and Edmyn knew then that they would be taking a carriage.

“Has Tygett encountered any snowstorms yet, Your Grace?” Edmyn asked the Prince, hoping to salvage the mood. The King’s countenance was stormy, which was not unusual for Damon these days, but the Crown Prince still seemed capable of his typical cheer. 

“No, but he and Ser Lydden are going to Sarsfield in two day’s time.”

“Sarsfield? Well, I doubt that what they’ll get up to there will be half as interesting as what we’re about to do in Lannisport.”

“Catch the Butcher,” Desmond said, nodding grimly. 

“We’re not catching the Butcher,” Damon chimed in. “We’re simply introducing lord Edmyn to the relevant parties with whom he should consult in the collaborative effort to bring justice to–”

Desmond was rubbing his thumb on the hilt of his sword as they walked, making noises under his breath, his gait now even more erratic. Already battling the Butcher in his imagination, the Prince was most certainly not listening to his father, and Edmyn found himself giving into the same temptation as the King began to explain the various functions of Lannisport’s authorities and their tangential roles in the enforcement of such-and-such laws. 

Amarei had worn her dark crimson dress the last time he’d seen her. It had lace on the sleeves and on the plunging neckline, delicate white cloth stretching with the heaving of her– 

“Isn’t that right, Edmyn?” 

They had reached the end of the corridor quite unexpectedly, and stopped as the guards went to open the doors that lead to the stables.

“Oh, quite right.”

“One of the most important skills you can have as a ruler, Desmond,” Damon went on, “is the ability to see in others what they’re best at. Choose your advisors accordingly and take their counsel on the matters for which you chose them.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation as the guards slowly pushed the massive, heavy doors open, and so Edmyn added a hearty “Indeed” along with a serious nod. 

“But on other matters, you’ll have to rely on your own judgement. Your advisors, your lords, your people, your family… Each will try to push you down the path they think is best. But the choice is always yours, and the hardest parts of any path you’ll have to walk alone, besides. You see, when–”

Amarei had worn her hair down the last time Edmyn had seen her. Ed remembered lying in bed, running his fingers through the soft waves of soft brown curls, her head against his chest. 

“Careful.” 

Edmyn had walked into Damon’s outstretched arm, which was a good deal better than walking into the path of the horse he hadn’t seen. The stables weren’t terribly busy, not with people, anyways. No one was eager to ride out in this weather but them, it seemed. 

They were led to a magnificent-looking carriage and Ser Flement took his knightly post atop it while the three of them climbed inside. 

“Family is everything,” Damon said, and Edmyn knew then that he could properly tune out the incoming lecture. 

He leaned his head against the side of the carriage as it rumbled out the fortress gate and into the city proper. It was a journey Ed had taken countless times since their return from Elk Hall. To see Amarei was to take food without a stomach – no amount could satiate or satisfy him. 

The last time he’d visited her was but a few days ago. She’d been somewhat distracted then, something to do with her brother returning to Lannisport soon. He had sailed east before the season changed and Amarei once jested that it would be best that his and Edmyn’s paths never crossed. She’d said it with laughter then, but now when she poured over letters or came directly from an audience with her uncle, her face was contorted in a frown. When Edmyn pressed her, she dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand and a battery of her own questions: how goes it in the Rock (“Quite well, though busy in anticipation of guests for the trek to Harrenhal’s Great Council.”)? Was his sister still upset with the King (“Yes, but this is hardly unusual for the two of them.”)? Does Edmyn ever dream of leaving it all – of running away with her to Lys or Tyrosh? (“Every single day, my love.”)?

Lys was his favourite of the two, and though Amarei had first espoused her love of Tyrosh, she quickly changed camps to his. Neither of them had ever left the shores of Westeros, but it was a lovely day dream that Edmyn happily slipped into as the carriage carried them through the rainy streets of Lannisport. And he would have been happy to stay in it, but for the occasional interruptions of the King’s lecture to Desmond.

“– of course, none know you better than your family, who–”

“That’s not true at all.”

Edmyn was as surprised at his interjection as Damon seemed to be. 

“I beg your pardon?”

The rain hammered the carriage and Edmyn shifted in his seat, straightening. He hadn’t meant to interrupt and certainly hadn’t intended to offend, but the King was staring at him hard and Desmond was looking up at him curiously from the bench.

“I apologise, Your Grace, it’s just that… Well, you say that no one knows a man better than his family and I… Well, I disagree.”

“How so.” Damon had an uncanny ability to deliver questions like commands.

“Well…” Edmyn thought hard, trying to choose his words carefully. “I think that while family may think they know you best, the truth is that they only know a certain version of you, from a certain time. Usually a younger time, at that.”

“Is your younger self not yourself? That is to say, are there moments in your life when you cease to be who you are? One might argue that the person who you are when young – when least inhibited by responsibility, by station, by the designs of others – is who you are in truth. In that vein, your family who knows you at your youngest knows you at your truest.”

“But people change.”

“And family knows the full context of those changes from a more impartial perspective than your own. I would say that it is precisely for this reason that they’re able to place your best interests at heart in a context not yet visible to yourself.”

“While they claim to have your best interests at heart, how often does reality reflect that it's truly their own they pursue?”

Damon raised an eyebrow. “Accept my apologies with this remark, Edmyn, but you have spoken like a veritable second-born.”

“And yourself the eldest sibling, Your Grace.”

The carriage jolted suddenly, and Edmyn nearly lost his place on the bench. Desmond did. A wheel had struck something, it seemed, and their movement halted just as voices outside began to rise. People were shouting over the rain, one of them Ser Flement. Edmyn could not grasp the words as he was still trying to grasp hold of something to steady himself while Desmond picked himself off the floor. Damon had already abandoned them both, closing the door sharply behind him, and Ed did not miss the flash of steel from a sword half-drawn in the process. 

“What’s happening?” Desmond asked, smoothing out the wrinkles in his doublet once he’d climbed back into his seat. The Prince tried to draw the short sword at his hip but abandoned the effort when it wasn’t freed easily the first time. “Where is Father?”

“He’s seeing what’s the matter,” Edmyn said in what he hoped was reassuring tones. “We’ve probably just struck a stone, is all.”

In truth, he had no idea what caused their abrupt and ungraceful stop and was cursing himself for not following Amarei’s advice to carry a weapon of his own. 

“Is it the Butcher?”

“What?” Edmyn’s thoughts turned at once to Amarei, imagining her opening her door to a courier bearing news that the Butcher of the Wynd had attacked the royal carriage, slaughtering them all, cutting through a helpless and unarmed lord Edmyn to murder the crown prince. No sword in hand. A coward’s death. That would be awful. “No, I’m sure it’s just–”

The door to the carriage swung open before he could finish. It was Damon again, now soaked from the rain but sword back in its sheath. 

“A dog,” he said, resuming his seat with a sigh. “Darted right in front of the horses.”

It seemed to take him a moment before he registered the panicked look on Desmond’s – and possibly Edmyn’s own – face.

“The dog is fine. He was on the run from a butcher he’d robbed and lost only his meal, not his life.”

Desmond was visibly relieved by the news and settled back into the cushioned seat as the carriage resumed its journey. 

“What were we discussing?” the King asked after a beat.

“We were–”

“Right, the Butcher. As I said, the City Watch has been hindered in their investigation by the sensitivities of the merchant class, who don’t want Cloaks seen walking about their streets yet alone entering their homes, their safety be damned. You and Tytos will have a much easier time pursuing their leads without the burden of their station. Be sure to tell him I said so, along with… well, everything else I said. We’re nearly there.”

Edmyn had almost forgotten about the Clegane's involvement. He was scrambling to come up with a suitable way to ask about the ‘everything else’ he’d happened to tune out along the ride when the carriage stopped again, this time with the gentleness of purpose.

“Wouldn’t it have made more sense for you to just tell us both all this together?”

But Damon was already exiting the carriage, Desmond quick on his heels. Edmyn made to follow, but found his escape blocked. Damon was poised to close the door.

“We’ve got to meet with the carpenters’ guild, but this carriage will take to you to the City Watch where Tytos is waiting.”

“You’re not joining?”

“No, as I just said, we’ve got to meet with the carpenters’ guild.” Damon gave him a look of thinly-veiled disapproval. “We eldest siblings must so often repeat ourselves.”

“I look forward to making lord Clegane’s acquaintance.” 

It was a lie, of course. If Damon was taking such pains to avoid seeing Tytos himself, Edmyn couldn’t imagine what a piece of work the Clegane might be.

“Do what you like in the city afterwards, but don’t go wandering anywhere alone – keep these guards with you,” Damon said, adding after a quick glance over his shoulder, “And I apologise again, but they most certainly report back to your sister.”

He seemed sincere, for what it was worth, but Edmyn couldn’t keep the disappointment from seeping in anyways. Perhaps he wouldn’t be enjoying a hot bath following the rain, after all. 

The King clapped him on the shoulder before stepping down from the carriage, an attendant closing the door before Edmyn even had a chance to see his turned back. Sinking back into the silk pillows on the bench, Ed considered that a wet dog under any conditions was a poor replacement for his Amarei. 

It stormed in Starfall. 

Perhaps elsewhere, too. Allyria couldn’t be sure. But a storm never kept a raven from its duties, and so surely that wasn’t an excuse for hers to have not yet returned from the North. Not that she was expecting a reply – she never got those from Widow’s Watch – but it was unusual for the bird to be gone as long as it was and Allyria tended to worry about them after a while. 

“Maybe he’s stopped to roost with some friends,” she wondered aloud. Birds were social creatures. Not like her.

From the north-facing windows of her tower, Allyria could see that the ironmen’s structures had held through the lashing rains and heavy winds of the past two days and were now awash in noon’s sunshine. Those structures would eventually be home to however many Dornishmen who’d joined the Princess’ caravan thus far on their way to the Great Council. 

Time was running out. They’d be here soon. 

Allyria thought the sight of the waiting tents might make her sad – a reminder that Lord Erik had gone. But she had his gift to remember him by, and had already filled the secret compartment of the broken-looking far eye with treasures: a sea shell, a few coins, a small figurine of a sheep carved with wood and wrapped in real wool that was given to her when she was a child. She held the lens in her hands, fiddling with it as she gazed out the window in the hope of seeing black wings.

“I am talking to myself,” she said. “When I send letters to Widow’s Watch, I am addressing no one but myself.”

She had been writing the northern holdfast for years now. Allyria thought it a pity that star keepers outside the Citadel did not converse more with one another. She had never been North, and would likely never go, but she knew that the stars would look different from the peninsula jutting into the Shivering Sea than they did from here. Different, too, from Seagard and Bear Island. From the Fingers and from Claw Isle. But while Cailin passed to her the records of those maesters, there was none from that eastern holdfast – the small castle on the lonely strip of land jutting out into the wide, mysterious sea north of Essos. 

She wrote them nonetheless. 

Her raven always returned, but never brought with it a new message. What was done with the scrolls she attached – handwritten copies of her star charts, occasional questions and observations – she did not know. Perhaps the bird simply dropped them into the sea. 

“I ought to stop talking to myself.”

Allyria gathered a few things and headed for the stairs that would take her down from her tower and into Starfall. It wasn’t often that she was awake during the daytime (she had the storm to thank for that) and she could do with some company.

Qoren was the obvious choice, but he had become difficult to find as of late. Perhaps it was because of the impending guests, but whereas normally he’d be waiting outside her chambers by nightfall, now she found herself charting the stars alone, occasionally opening the door to her tower in the hopes of finding him. But she was always disappointed. Tonight she resolved to go further than the top of the tower stairs, however. She’d go all the way to the barracks, if she had to. And it turned out she did. 

“Qoren, milady?” The sentry outside seemed doubtful as to whom she was asking for. “The deaf one?”

“Yes, Qoren.”

“I think he’s in the yard with Lady Arianne.”

“Could you tell him I was looking for him when he gets back?”

Satisfied with his obligatory promise to do so, Allyria wandered up to the rookery a second time. Her bird had still not returned. The last message she’d sent Widow’s Watch was an unusual one, which was perhaps why she held out hope that this time, despite years of precedent, would be different. She’d written it half-awake after being pulled from a strange dream. In it, the Dornish Princess arrived at Starfall wrapped in long silk made from moonlight. She’d brought with her a chest and in it were the remains of Ulrich: his ribs, his skull, his arm. The chest was leaking blood all over the floor of the great hall, pooling at the Princess’ feet, but the hem of her silvery gown was not stained. It seemed to sit atop it, like oil upon water. 

Allyria had described the dream in her letter and carried it to the rookery while still in her bare feet and nightgown, sleep crusted in her eyes. She’d been in the process of binding it with string when a final thought occurred to her, which she hastily scribbled at the bottom of the parchment. 

If the sun sets in the west, how could darkness come from the east?

She pictured the raven stopping to roost in the rocky cliffs of the Prince’s Pass, her letter fastened to its ankle as it caught up with old friends. Perhaps they discussed her ramblings amongst themselves, swapping their own theories about what the cryptic message from the stars meant: darkness comes from the east. Perhaps they lined their nests with her parchment. 

She meant to go back to her tower, perhaps catch some precious sleep before night fell and the stars came out, but Allyria found herself instead on one of the balconies overlooking the training yard. It wasn’t noise that drew her there, for Arianne and Qoren were quiet. The only sounds in their training was the shuffling of feet on sandy stone, a soft grunt here and there, the occasional muffled thud of steel greatswords on leather. Allyria wasn’t sure what it was that prompted her to pause and observe.

She leaned over the rail and watched them spar. They did not speak to one another, she noted, communicating only in nods and small gestures. Sometimes, when her sister was concentrating, she stuck her tongue out the corner of her mouth. But Arianne’s expression now was grim. She blocked and parried. She watched how Qoren moved his feet and imitated the motions.

Then, the sky darkened. For a moment, Allyria thought a new storm was rolling in. But this was a different sort of darkness. It was as though someone were slowly draping a veil over the whole world… except that she could see a thin layer of orange on the horizon, just beyond the castle’s walls. There, in the distance, it was day. But above Starfall, quite suddenly, it was night. The temperature sank, frogs in the banks of the Torrentine began to croak, shadows sprung up where none had been, and those that were there grew blacker, more distinct. 

Allyira might have thought she were imagining things, but Arianne and Qoren had stopped their sparring and turned their gazes towards the heavens, along with every sentry on the wall. Around them, and around Allyria, too, guards were similarly staring at the sky in confusion and wonder. But no one spoke. They were all looking at the same sun – now a ball of black with only a thin halo of light around it – in a tense kind of confusion. It was disorienting. Allyria felt her heart thumping in her chest and realised, as though from a distance, that she was frightened. She had lived her whole life within these walls and yet the sight before her now was of another world. 

So, too, were her sister and Qoren. Arianne was in the shade of the balcony but the steel of Qoren’s sword reflected a bar of silver light across her face. Beside her pale features, Qoren’s grew even darker in the black shadow – his dark hair was now black as pitch, his eyes obscured beneath black brows, even his armour, dyed leather, was black.

Darkness comes from the east. 

Whole minutes passed before the day’s second sunrise seemed to happen before her eyes: the sky lightened, shadows returned to where they ought have been, and the sun grew bright and yellow once more. The frogs and the bank insects grew silent. Birds sang again.

Allyria flew. 

Past guards, past guests, past the members of Starfall’s counsel, all headed in a panicked confusion towards the courtyard, Allyria ran. She took the stairs of the Palestone Sword tower two at a time, losing a sandal along the way but abandoning it entirely. 

How could I have been so stupid? she wondered. Darkness from the east! It wasn’t the tree, it was never the tree!

In her chamber she found her desk in a state of disarray. Her work had been much more organised with Qoren’s involvement and the absence of it showed. 

Darkness comes from the east. Dawn. Dawn!

She hadn’t yet found the chart she was looking for when she heard a pounding on the door. She ran to it quickly, dragging open the heavy wooden board and finding an unexpected face on the other side. Her confusion must have shown, because the steward began with his explanation. 

“I don’t mean to disturb you, my lady, but a raven came and I thought you would want to read it right away.”

Allyria blinked.

“It’s from Widow’s Watch.”

She snatched the scroll from Colin’s hand the moment he showed it, unravelling it hastily as she rushed back to her desk. The astrolabe sat crooked on the wall. She didn’t realise she’d accidentally knocked it askew in her haste.

Pressing the parchment flat against her desk, she read the words written in an unfamiliar hand. 

You are missing the second half of your riddle: 

bringing with it dawn.

A drawing was etched beneath it and Allyria scanned the markings quickly. They painted a picture of the night sky, each star’s position carefully logged. The Crone’s Lantern, the Ghost and the Galley, the Sword of the Morning…

“It’s Qoren.” 

Allyrica looked up from the paper at the astrolabe on the wall. The device that had deceived her.

“The next Sword of the Morning. It’s Qoren.”

Spring had finally begun to fully settle over Casterly Rock, and the early season showers had slowly given way to serene, sunny afternoons. Joanna kept the windows cast open as often as she could, especially in the nursery. The children would need the fresh sea air to preserve their health, what with so much travelling ahead of them. 

Daena most of all, blessed creature. 

Joanna had perched herself on the edge of Daena’s bed, running a comb through the princess’ tangled tresses. Daena was doing her utmost not to fidget from her place on the horsehair bench, and failing.

“It hurts,” she reported, though Joanna had taken care to be generous with the oil she put on the comb.

“I know, precious, but this is why you ought to let me braid your hair before you venture into the brambles.”

She hummed a tune from a play they’d seen the evening prior, which distracted Daena for a good while until the Princess started squirming once more. 

“I made you something,” she said after a time.

“Oh?”

“By myself, with my needles.”

Without turning round, Daena stuck a hand under the waist of her skirt to rummage through her pockets, eventually producing a small wad of cloth. 

Joanna couldn’t determine what it was with any certainty, but she inspected it with awe nonetheless. 

“Such fine craftsmanship! Show me how to use it properly.” 

“You do it like this,” Daena said, dabbing the cloth against her face. “But with water.”

A washcloth, Joanna realised. 

“Oh, how thoughtful of you. I’ll treasure it always. Thank you, sweetling.” 

Daena settled then for a while, it seemed, listening patiently to Joanna’s humming. It was a play about the trials of a young shepherd. Willem had spent much of his time since imitating the sheep, bleating at his siblings while they broke their fast. It caught her by surprise when Daena spoke next.

“I wish you were my mother.” 

Joanna paused, halfway through a tangle. She set the brush aside, leaning down to envelop Daena in an embrace. 

“I would be so honoured to have a daughter like you, but we ought not to discuss such things.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because it would make your mother sad. We can be something else, if you want. Something special, but different.” 

Daena was content with that for only a moment. Joanna hadn’t even begun to tackle the next knot when a small hand closed around hers. Daena had twisted in her seat to look up at her.

“My mother won’t be sad. She’s never sad.”

“I had a lovely little girl much like you, once. I know it would have made me sad.” 

That was enough new information for her to ponder in silence. Daena resumed her obedient position between Joanna’s knees and let her finish her work on her hair. It shone in the firelight, a molten mix of silver and gold. Joanna weaved it into two neat plaits before pinning them, one overtop the other, to form a crown at the top of her head. 

“There we are. You look lovely, Princess.”

“Are we going sailing today?”

Joanna wished that Damon had neglected the topic entirely, but he’d slipped, mentioning their plans to the children over breakfast. While Desmond was entirely uninterested– or perhaps more excited to have the opportunity to get up to mischief without them– Daena was less than thrilled at the idea that she was not invited. 

“Another day, perhaps. It’ll just be me and your father, I’m afraid.”

“Can’t I go with you?”

“Not this time.”

“I never get sick on the boat.”

“I’ve never been afraid of that.” 

“I don’t understand. Why do you have to be alone?” 

“Because, little dove, people who love one another want to spend time together.” 

“You love him?” 

“What do you think?” 

Joanna squished Daena’s cheeks between her hands just to watch her squirm before sending her off with a kiss.

She met Damon at the docks before the sun had sunk below the horizon, casting its light in shades of red, orange, pink and purple all across the sky. She wondered if she ought to have been worried by the invitation, given his sudden morbid fascination with an untimely death, but the evening was too lovely to squander contemplating such matters. 

“A thousand apologies for the delay, Your Grace. Your daughter’s hair was beyond saving.” 

“A family trait, I’m afraid,” Damon said with a smile, and he extended a hand to help her onto The Maid of the Mist. 

She rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek once safely on board.

The Maid of the Mist was one of the few places where both she and he could truly be alone – no Kingsguard, no city watch, no advisors… just the two of them. Oftentimes, they’d retreat into themselves, Damon focused entirely on the sails, the rudder, the horizon, herself daydreaming of what could have been.

Being alone together was something they both cherished and had unfortunately found little time for in recent weeks. Joanna’s residual anger aside, Damon had been too preoccupied with the Great Council to escape. Once again, they were left to pretend that things were simpler, and that they’d never ceased taking the opportunity to enjoy each other’s company in contented silence.

Once Casterly Rock was far enough behind them and Damon had set the sails, they found each other. Damon had kicked off his boots and sat himself by the rudder, leaving a place for Joanna to sidle up against him. It was quiet, save for the lapping of the waves, and slowly she could feel the tension they’d boarded with melting away.

“My sister will be arriving soon.” It was Damon who broke the silence after a time.

“I have everything in hand. You needn’t worry.” 

“I’m worrying about the things that cannot be in hand. Such as my sister herself.”

“I think you forget how well I know your sister.”

“Knew my sister.” He looked down at her, nestled in the crook of his arm, and raised an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten the reception she gave you in Oldtown?”

“I had other things on my mind. Seeing you again, mainly. Besides, we’ve always had that sort of relationship. The push and pull.” 

“Another thing about women I suppose I’ll never understand.”

She looked up to see him smiling; she hated that she could forgive that sort of grin so readily. Doubly so now that their son shared one that looked much the same. She swatted him before settling back into his arm.

“Don’t spoil the moment, Damon Lannister.” 

He squeezed her tighter to himself.

“I’m glad we have this moment.” 

Her throat suddenly felt unbearably tight. Every conversation they’d had as of late had been tinged with a sense of foreboding, as though a fortune teller had promised Damon that his death waited just around the corner.

“The children are displeased with their new wardrobes.” 

“Oh?”

“Well, Willem didn’t fuss at least, and Daena is positively delighted we’ll match. Desmond, however… was very unhappy. Especially about the stiffness of his shirt collars.” 

“Hm. There will be more than just the children unhappy with a matching ensemble.”

“I don’t mean to offend. In truth, if I thought it bothered you, I never would have suggested it.” 

Damon pulled away to look her in the eyes. “No, it doesn’t bother me. Quite the opposite, in fact. It brings me great pleasure to see our family presented as it ought to be.” He leaned back into their embrace. “It’s only my sister I was thinking of,” he explained. “Though nothing will be able to appease Ashara in this regard, and so half measures are whole wastes of our time.”

“Ashara is hardly the sort to be unhappy without reason.” 

“I don’t mean to say she hasn’t her reasons, only that those reasons needn’t beckon me to action. I cannot fix the world’s unhappiness, Joanna, but I can try to make my children happy. I can try to make you happy. Tell me how I can make you happy.”

“I am the most happy.” 

“Hm. And yet not the most believable.”

She scowled at him then, though it was only half meant, and quickly soothed when he offered her an apology kiss in turn. 

“I have something for you.”

“I’ve heard that from one Lannister already today.”

“Oh?”

“Daena made me a washcloth.”

“Ah, is that what that was?”

“As though you could ever present a gift even half as worthy – handmade, thoughtful.” 

Damon raised an eyebrow playfully. “What I have for you is handmade, just… Well, not by my own hands, necessarily. And thoughtful? I hope so. A great deal of thought went into it. All the thoughts I have, in fact.”

“Well, not to be greedy but get on with it then.” 

“Wait here.” He got up, taking care not to disturb her, and moved to the cabin.

Joanna pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin atop them. The breeze off the Sunset Sea was warm. Spring has truly settled in and she decided that should summer never come, that would be fine enough. This was fine enough – for both of them. 

When Damon returned he was carrying a small leather pouch in his hands, which he held with care as he took his seat back beside her on the deck. 

“I hope it isn’t another washcloth, darling, because I already have a favourite.” 

“Here, see for yourself.” He gingerly passed her the bag, not being able to contain a final, “careful,” as he did so. 

Joanna opened the bag carefully to find a set of jewels– necklace, earrings, bracelet and small sunburst tiara, all in the most dazzling matching rubies. 

“These are Lannister jewels.”

“They’re your jewels.”

“No, they’re–”

“They’re yours, Joanna. For decades now, they’ve been set aside for you.”

Joanna felt almost afraid to touch them, still holding the open satchel and staring at the treasure within. When she reached a hand forward, her fingers were trembling and she could not bring herself to continue.

“Put them on,” Damon insisted. 

“No, you put them on me.” 

He obeyed, taking back the satchel and then sitting up properly to clasp the necklace around her throat, the earrings on her ears, the teeth of the tiara’s comb in her hair, the bracelet around her slender wrist. The last she could see glittering in the sun reflected off the Sunset Sea.

She wished she could see the rest of them. 

“Well, how do I look? Like the Lady of the Rock?” It felt strange to say out loud. They’d been dancing around the subject for so long. 

“You’ve always looked like the Lady of the Rock, Joanna. Now you look like my wife.”

He had always been the only one who could make her blush.

“I’d say to never take them off, but you do have to sleep, I suppose.”

She laughed, feeling light and breathless as she tilted her wrist to watch the gold of her bracelet catch the gold of sunlight.

“I wonder,” Damon said, “how it would be for you to do so in my bed once more.”

“I have been sleeping in your bed, Damon.” Joanna refused to let him be coy. “Are you asking me to bed you properly?” 

If he were embarrassed, he was trying not to let it show and Joanna delighted in that. 

“I am the Lord of the Rock, am I not? What am I to do with its Lady?”

“I think you’ll be disappointed when you find that this lady does as she pleases.” 

As if he’d taken it for a challenge, Damon leaned over to slide an arm around her waist, pressing his forehead against hers. She could feel her hair brush the floorboards of the deck, and at once wanted to feel them under her back. 

“You’re my wife, Joanna,” he said, murmuring the words as he buried his face in her neck, the heavy gold and ruby earrings becoming tangled in his windswept curls. “I want to have another child with you – I want to have seven children with you. It’s a holy number, Joanna, don’t you see?”

“Well, I do believe we made our last on this boat…” With his lips against her throat she found it harder to come up with the right words – the sensible word – no. That no, it was too risky, that no, they had gone far too far already, that no, to push even further now would be taunting the very gods themselves with– 

“Six more to go, then.”

“Damon…”

“If my life were to end tomorrow, my only regret would be that I didn't spend more of it with you, Joanna, that I didn't leave this world without leaving more of you and I together in it.”

“Don’t talk like that, you aren’t–”

“But we can fix that – we can fix something at least, right now.”

Joanna slid her fingers into his messy hair, the golden bracelet disappearing into golden curls. She knew what was sensible, but The Maid of the Mist was hardly a place to be sensible. It was home, after all. For all of them.

The barrowlands were a vast expanse, unforgiving and empty. Hills undulated and rolled, carved by the winds and time and the hands of the First Men. Dust that had once been kings’ bones sat in the thousands of slopes that defined the landscape, their blatant artificiality only occasionally marred by collapses and uncontrolled treelines.

It was in one of these barrows that the Locke party had taken shelter. The edges of a spring storm had reached them, darkening the sky before its time and blanketing the land with misty rain.

The barrow was unmarked to their eyes, any runes long since worn away by time. Even Valena did not know to whom the tomb had belonged, and to Harwin’s mind, that meant nobody knew. Now, night had fallen in truth, and a small cookfire crackled fitfully, smoke curling out of the doorframe to be lost in the mist. Their meal was strips of salted venison, the finest gift of the Manderlys’ court, and a small celebration that they had set out on their way.

They had spent two weeks in White Harbour, in the end, and the memory left him glad to be free. Bella Woolfield was a busy woman, distracted and superior in equal measures. Harwin had felt exposed, especially when their hosts toasted the memory of Lord Barthogan and Marlon Locke.

Sylas sat against the far side of the dark barrow, eyes straining at that book he had brought from Oldcastle. He’d so far evaded any questions about it, and the well-worn leather binding gave little clue. The space was crowded by the rest of their retinue, quiet men intent on their food, tired from a day’s travel and disheartened by the weather. Only Valena seemed energised, scanning the roof of the barrow, a sketchbook open on her knees, charcoal staining her fingers as she scraped it across the pages.

“What are you drawing?” Harwin asked, finding her easiest to engage with. The question drew several pairs of eyes. Only three of their number weren’t present. Frenken was out checking on the horses, Jorah had insisted on standing guard, and Benjicot had not yet returned.

“Ceiling,” Valena said, pointing. “See how the way the stones are stacked makes an alternating pattern? Sort of back and forth here by the entrance? Spiralling in the burial chamber?”

Harwin nodded, though in truth it took him a moment to parse what she meant.

“That allows them to stack into an arch without mortar. The weight of the soil on top keeps everything tight, and it’ll more or less stand forever.”

“Why not build castles like that?”

“Because–” Valena flicked the stick of charcoal in that way that meant she had caught herself before giving an inadequate answer. She took a moment.

“They did build fortifications. I guess you wouldn’t call them castles, and honestly this all depends on which maester you read. In any case, though, it doesn’t scale. You couldn’t build something the size of the Wolf’s Den or Oldcastle like this.”

Harwin nodded. There was a fragility in expansion, he knew. He had seen some small glimpse of it in the pulls on Bella Woolfield’s time. So many things that could go wrong. It didn’t discourage him as much as it probably should have.

“Who goes there?” came a voice. In the muffling of the wind and the barrow, it took a moment for Harwin to identify Jorah. The voice that answered was too far away for Harwin to make out the words, but he knew its sound. He was on his feet before he knew it, striding out of the ancient tomb.

“Benji!” he called, grinning unexpectedly. The soaked knight smiled in return. One hand held the reins of his horse, the other rose in greeting. Harwin ran in, clasping a hand to Ser Benjicot’s shoulder.

“My lord, it’s good to see you again,” Benji said.

“And you - I was worried you would pass us by, in truth.” Harwin took the reins from him, and Benjicot hesitated only slightly at the unexpected courtesy.

“I did,” he admitted. “I passed by here, oh, four hours ago, when the storm was worse. I figured I must’ve missed you and turned back.”

“Glad you did, ser.” Harwin brought the horse over to the others, and thanked Frenken when he took a blanket from one of the carriages, throwing it over Benji’s steed and tying it down.

“How was your visit to White Harbour?” Benjicot asked, wiping the rain from his brow uselessly.

“Uneventful, in truth. We didn’t mean to stay so long, but the Woolfield-Manderlys were having a feast to celebrate a nameday. Insisted we stay.”

“Sounds luxurious, my lord.”

Harwin shrugged. “If I ever eat another lamprey pie, it will be too soon.”

Benjicot chuckled, and then made a little oh noise at the back of his throat, and fumbled for the saddlebags of his horse. “That reminds me, my lord. I have something you may enjoy, hold one moment-” Whatever he sought had been packed low, but eventually Benjicot pulled out a small satchel, opening it to reveal what initially seemed like so many mottled bones.

“King crab legs. Salted, from Sweetsister. Care to try one?”

He handed the leg over, and Harwin followed his lead as he split the shell with a press of his thumbs, pulling the pale meat out from within with his teeth. The meat was softer than he expected, sweetness mixing with the salt of its preservation. He made a satisfied grunt as he swallowed.

“Gods, that is good. Sweetsister, you said?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“I must visit some day. Is everything there that delicious?”

Benji chuckled. “I couldn’t say, honestly.”

“And this,” Harwin gestured to the food as Benjicot stowed it again, “should I take it as an indication your visit also went well?”

“I believe so, my lord.” Benjicot pulled a different, familiar satchel from the saddlebag, and gestured ahead of them in a question, shall we step out of earshot for this part? Harwin nodded, and they began walking in a wide orbit around the barrow. Harwin blinked into the mist, trying to clear the rain from his lashes to no avail. Benjicot took a moment before he spoke again.

“I wasn’t perfectly successful, my lord. The captains I spoke to were – I think understandably – mistrustful of an unproven town like Shackleton. Not to say there was no interest, mind. There was one captain from Widow’s Watch who seemed to take pleasure in the idea of undermining the Manderlys.”

Harwin couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Well, it’s one way to make an ally.”

“Indeed, my lord. Once I realised I should emphasise that Shackleton is a lumber town, I got some more interest. The Sisters have a great demand for wood these days, as I understand, and Braavos’ Arsenal is always hungry. In all, I think I convinced seven captains to make some trade, with another four or so on the fence.”

He handed over the satchel, and Harwin opened it. He didn’t bother counting the coins within, merely shifting them from side to side to get an impression. A bit over half remained from the allowance that Harwin had given.

“Thank you,” Harwin said. “I hope you didn’t run into any trouble?”

“Thankfully not. I met a man I had known as a squire, but he did not think to suspect me of anything.”

The near miss sent a small stab of fear through Harwin’s heart, but he tried to put it aside. It was days or weeks past now, and not worth worrying about, especially if Benjicot was discussing it so offhandedly.

“No other news from the New Castle?” Benji asked. “I know you had some concerns about the possibility of a marriage being suggested.”

Harwin laughed. “No, it never came up. Sylas tried to flirt with Bella’s cousin, but I don’t think it went well. He’s been unusually quiet since, though he was quite happy to spend my money to distract himself at the time.”

“My sympathies to him,” Benji grinned. “And your sister?”

“Oh, she spent much of the trip in the Wolf’s Den. I went with her a few times, stopped by the weirwood there. She took notes on the construction of the Den, I’m sure she’ll tell you everything you might want to know about Eyronic columns.”

“I have no doubt, my lord.”

Harwin stopped walking for a moment, looking out into the darkness of the barrowlands. The shadows were impenetrable, the rain oppressive. And yet he felt warmer than he had in weeks.

“I have missed you,” he said, turning to his knight. “More than I had expected to.”

Benjicot’s hair was windswept, auburn darkened to almost brown with the damp, and his beard was growing in stronger than he had let it before. It did not hide the smile that crept up his cheeks.

“And I you, my lord.”

“Thank you, again, for everything. We should probably go inside, get you warm.”

“I would appreciate that, my lord.”

They completed their lap of the barrow, returning to the small room with too many people, and the warmth of their greeting was greater than that of their fire. A plate of venison was pressed into Benjicot’s hands, and an energy filled the space anew as everyone asked after the knight’s health and of his news. Sylas retrieved wine from one of the carriages, and laughter rang through the tomb. The secrecy of Benjicot’s purpose in White Harbour was maintained, but gently mocked by all involved.

Harwin watched them all, trying not to focus too much on Benjicot. One would not think to look at the knight that he had risked his honour and freedom for Harwin. The merchants that he bribed would, Harwin hoped, prove profitable to Shackleton and Oldcastle for years to come. It was impossible to know just yet.

He was just glad to have Benjicot back amongst them. He had almost forgotten how close he had come to rely on the man in their weeks apart. Now, his household felt complete again. And it was his household, after all. The thought warmed him more than it once might have. 

Sylas’ voice cut through the din of conversation. “Harwin, what’s our next stop?”

It took Harwin a moment to understand the context of the question, and so he barely avoided stammering when he answered, “Greywater Watch. Wanted to meet with the Reeds.”

Sylas nodded, curiosity satisfied, and returned to his conversation with Frenken. Their destination seemed to be helping him prove some point in a friendly argument. Benjicot was speaking with Jorah and his men, laughing over some dockside tale, pushing crab legs into the protesting guardsmen’s hands. Finally, Valena caught Harwin’s eye, smiling knowingly.

“Are we making friends all over the North?” she asked, half-mocking and half-sincere.

Harwin laughed, and didn’t answer. 

Gods, he hoped so.

Erik listened as Morna’s footsteps gave a backing beat to the rhythmic busywork of the ship. She was pacing, her shoulders hunched, pointedly not looking over Shieldbreaker’s side, averting her eyes from the retreating silhouettes of Lady Alannys and Unwelcome Guest, and the Lute and Harp flotillas in their wake.

No matter what task they busied themselves with, the ship’s crew parted to allow Morna her passage back and forth. She stopped just in front of Erik at the stern, turned on one heel and marched back to Kiera at the bow. She probably felt cramped on the ship. Erik remembered how she had walked the walls of Lordsport on the day Sigorn was injured, her relentless pace only hitching momentarily in front of the maester’s door on each cycle.

Soon she returned to him again, both eyes on the deck, though only one saw it.

“Do you want to sit down?” he asked her as she swivelled, not particularly expecting a response.

“No,” she said, and stopped. It seemed to take some effort to look back at him. “I want to hit something,” she explained. Now that she was still, hands clenched into fists, she stood out amidst the rolling motion of the oarsmen to either side.

“Once we get cruising, we can spar, if that would help?”

Morna hesitated. “I want to break something,” she clarified. 

“I don’t think I can help there.” 

Morna waved a hand in a way that meant she’d get over it. When she resumed her pacing, Erik followed her to the midpoint of the ship, retrieving his fiddle from the hold. He met both his wives at the bow, and brought the instrument to his chin.

Drawing the bow across the strings, he pushed a few bars of an old and nameless tune, rising notes wishing good fortune across the waves.

Morna relaxed as the answering verses whispered back to them, leaning her scarred forehead against Kiera’s shoulder. After a few moments, she straightened, pushing her hair back from her eyes.

“I’m alright,” she insisted, flexing her hands, “I just hate when I can’t do anything.”

Neither Erik nor Kiera responded. There was no need. They understood.

Three days after the fleets separated, the winds turned on them. The tips of dark clouds on the horizon spoke of a storm that Shieldbreaker and the Fiddle flotilla were only feeling the echoes of, but it was a complete headwind all the same. Everyone aboard knew what it meant, but they groaned all the same when the nausea, the strain, the third thing began.

Erik kept his focus on the fervent activity on the deck, oarsmen keeping balance, two-men teams on the spar lines, Erik’s own hands on the rudder. Hours into the nauseating back-and forth, he found his focus drifting. He called Osfryd over to take the rudder for the upcoming portside turn.

Kiera had abandoned her perch on the bow that morning, and spent the whole day with her back against the mast, rubbing her forehead, eyes closing every time the creaking sail beam swivelled over her head.

He went to the canopy at the mast, and gently pressed a kiss to Kiera’s forehead. She looked up at him, smiling apologetically.

“The creaking makes my head ache,” she said, by way of an explanation. Erik just leaned on the mast beside her, and held her hand down by his side. They watched their other wife for a time. Morna was at the windward side of the ship as it turned, helping some of the crew scrape clinging seaweed from the hull, exposed from the waterline by Shieldbreaker’s dramatic tilt.

“She’s going to heave if she keeps going like that,” Kiera commented. Erik murmured an agreement, watching the seasick stagger that was starting to come into Morna’s movements.

“You know what she’s like,” Erik said. “You and Asha grew up sailing, she thinks she has to prove herself.”

Kiera scoffed, though there was a smile hidden in her offended scowl. “Asha barely sailed.”

Erik conceded that with a shrug. “She’s Ironborn, though.”

Kiera nodded, then squeezed her eyes shut as the ship began tilting to port, the spar over their head groaning as it scraped against the mast. She had always been Erik’s softest wife. Even as the shipborne bastard of a Tyroshi merchant, her youth had been filled with more comforts than a wildling huntress or daughter of a tiny Ironborn house were ever afforded. 

The deck shifted beneath them, and the hull-scrapers abandoned their posts to move to the other side. Morna passed through the cabin, teeth bared even more than her scars usually made them as she tried to breathe through the nausea.

“Fuck this,” she said conversationally, and accepted Kiera’s kiss to her scarred cheek.

“You don’t need to work yourself to the point of illness, darling,” Erik said, but she shrugged the comment off like he knew she would.

“You can help any time,” she pointed out, not unfairly.

“I’ll be over in a moment.”

Kiera shook her head. “Iemnȳ ēdrulio glaesas, dōnītsosi. I read charts and look pretty. You strong people can do the actual work.”

The storm’s wake had passed by the next day, and Erik allowed his exhausted crew a morning’s rest. The bed of sand and the cookfire were back out on the stern, Theomore frying fillets he had cut from the fish other men had pulled from the sea in the days before.

As lord and captain, Erik had the benefit of first serving, sitting with his wives under the canopy at the ship’s centre, a well-done piece of cod speared on the knife that had avenged his father.

“You’re still a kneeler, as much as the rest of them,” Morna was saying, waving a fishbone insistently. Kiera’s lips twitched into a smile at the familiar argument.

“Look, the Archon is chosen-”

“By the people with gold,” Morna interrupted.

“Yes, but you told me the Kings-Beyond-The-Wall were chosen by clan chiefs-”

“That’s not the same.” 

“I’m still not sure I’m a kneeler,” Erik interjected, smiling at how Morna's face twisted into mock outrage.

“Lord Botley, I do love you, but you’re the most kneelerish person I can put up with. We’d be up raiding Bear Island, or whatsitcalled, the lion city, Lannister-port or something, if you weren’t a kneeler.”

“Those people never did anything to us,” Erik tried.

Morna pointed, catching the error. “And what did this Volantis do to us?”

“Enslaved my mother,” Kiera pointed out. Morna eyed her, making sure her wife was still in the mood for play, before she pressed on.

“Fine, what did we do, then? Why raid the Frozen Shore?”

“Well you did-” Erik caught himself before he said “raid the North.” Morna eyed him, teasing curiosity raising her mismatched eyebrows.

“You got me,” he smiled, taking another bite of cod. “I only go raiding where I can find beautiful women.”

Morna grinned at the flattery and opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by Kiera tutting in mock-outrage.

“I’m sorry, dōnītsos, but why are we stopping peacefully in Tyrosh, in that case?”

“I’ve met your father,” Erik reasoned. “Your looks come from your mother’s homeland.”

That broke the momentum of the debate as Morna barked a laugh and Kiera tried to hold one in, pinching the bridge of her nose. Erik chuckled, and managed not to flinch when the sailor called for him.

“Milord!”

Erik turned. Osfryd, leaning against the prow, hair flickering in the wind, pointed over his shoulder to the horizon before them all.

“Ship rising!” he called, by way of explanation.

Kiera was on her feet first, stepping lightly between the myriad of chatting crewmembers that Erik was surprised to see surrounding him and his wives. She reached the bow and climbed it deftly, hooking a foot in the lantern-ring as she often did. Erik and Morna followed more slowly.

“Merchant, by the shape,” Kiera said as they approached. Erik followed her gaze to the tall, barrel-hulled carrack coming over the horizon, half-silhouetted by the low morning sun. He could just make out a pennant fluttering at the tip of the tallest mast.

“Can you make out the flag?” Erik asked.

Kiera took a moment before answering, “Myrish, I think. They’re keeping dead on. You’d think they’d try to get around us, no?”

“Quicker to go through, I suppose,” Erik suggested. “Plus, they’re likely unsure how wide a fleet we have, or if we even want to attack.”

“Do we want to attack?” Morna asked. 

The question drew the attention of several crewmembers, who quickly turned to listen to Erik’s answer.

Playing for time, Erik looked out at the ship again. The thought of battle made his blood tingle, but he was wary. Shallow-drafted longships like theirs were ideal for a shoreline assault, but much less suited for warfare at sea. There was a reason that the Royal Fleet consisted of dromonds and other tall ships. Attack even one Myrish trader and dozens would sink to the Drowned God’s halls. Pointless, unless there was some real reason to take that risk.

“Slavers?” Erik asked.

Kiera shook her head. “They’re heading to Dorne or the Stormlands, they know they can’t sell them there.”

“Then no.” Some men around him looked disappointed, others relieved. Erik reckoned he could guess how long each man had been sailing by that reaction. 

“We’ll save our strength for a greater bounty, further East,” Erik said, his voice shifting to a commanding baritone. “To oars, men! Give them space to pass! I’ll not have them loose arrows on us for some misunderstanding.”

The knot of listeners loosened and fell away, dipping oars to water and pushing Shieldbreaker further out of the Myrish vessel’s path. The ship loomed as it came closer, and Erik saw men with crossbows take positions on the upper gunwale. A blue-haired, green-bearded man, the captain by his stance, stood at the prow and looked out at the passing fleet with suspicious eyes.

Kiera cupped her hands around her mouth and called, her voice clear and carrying as a flute, “Jemī ōdrikagon indī daor!”

We mean you no harm. It was one of the few phrases Kiera had insisted Erik learn. It got the captain’s attention, his eyes flicking across the ship until he found the speaker.

“Jaehor ojehiknon irughas!” he responded, his stance softening. The crossbowmen followed his lead. Not all of them lowered their weapons, but enough did that Erik relaxed. The captain followed with a sentence that included skoriot – where? Asking where they were from.

Erik saw Kiera give her best smile, and she gestured to the fish-covered green pennant on Shieldbreaker’s mast. “Āegenka Āja. Mȳro iksāt, kessa?”

The captain seemed to hesitate a little at her response, though Erik would have assumed that their hailing from the Iron Islands – for he recognised Āegenka Āja – was obvious from their ships. Their vessels were almost level now, and Erik could now read the curiosity in the man’s smile. He finally called, “Hen mirto Āegenka Ājor, Valyrīhos sȳrī ȳdrā!”

Kiera’s smile faltered at that, but seemed to renew with some quiet pride. “Īlōnda quptyri issa daor!” 

The captain barked a laugh, and the reaction was echoed by a few chuckles among the crossbowmen. Erik couldn’t understand the joke, but laughed along anyway. Kiera leaned over to her husband.

“They are from Myr,” she confirmed. “I don’t think they’re interested in a fight.”

“Good,” Erik said. “Ask where they’re going.”

Kiera returned her attention to the passing ship. “Skoriot īlāt?” she called.

The captain pointed westward, presumably indicating his destination.

“Jelmāzmari Mōrio!”

Erik recognized the name of Storm’s End, but the rest of the man’s sentence was lost in a flurry of unfamiliar syllables. The captain rubbed thumb and forefinger together, so he gathered that he was speaking of trade with the Stormlanders.

The ship was passing them now, Shieldbreaker swaying as it was buffeted in its wake.

“Biarver aōt!” Kiera called. The man’s response was lost in the wind, but his smile told Erik that it had been some kind farewell. He watched the retreating galley with contentment. It was always good to meet a kindred spirit on the high seas.

The cawing of seagulls was the first sign they were approaching land. Always a light sleeper, Erik’s eyes shot open at the sound. Morna’s arm was still draped over his chest, her eyes closed and shallow breaths peaceful with sleep. Erik was careful as he wriggled out from beneath her, stood and stepped over her and Kiera, who had her face pressed into the nape of Morna’s neck.

Most of the rest of the crew were asleep as well, wrapped in thin blankets between the rowing benches. Three men were talking quietly to one another in the shadows to starboard, while six others played cards in the light of the new bow lantern. Back at the stern, Erik found Mathos posted at the rudder.

“Milord,” Mathos said, by way of greeting. He kept his voice low, and Erik followed suit.

“Mathos. No trouble in the night?”

“None, milord. Wind was steady, we’re dead on for the Bloodstone strait. Mind you, those smoke trails have me wondering, milord.”

Erik’s eyebrows asked his question for him, and Mathos just pointed past him, out towards the bow and the sea and the deep, dark shape of the island on the horizon, blocking the spill of starlight beyond it. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the sight, he saw them – thin, curling lines of smoke rising over the island. Five of them, tightly packed together, shining silver in the light.

Erik shrugged. They disquieted him, as well, but he voiced the most obvious objection to his worry all the same. “Bloodstone isn’t entirely uninhabited. It’s probably just a fishing village.”

Mathos gave a sort of half shrug. He obviously didn’t want to contradict his captain, but he pressed on anyway.

“Perhaps, milord, but who’s staying up to tend the fires this late? Sunrise is barely an hour away, by my reckoning. I can’t think of many reasons folk’d’ve fires kept so late.”

“Watchtowers?”

“It’s just a guess milord, but aye. What’re they keeping watch for, I wonder?”

Erik kept his eyes on the smoke, though his attention was focused inward. There was some fear there, and a hesitant surprise. Excitement boiled in his chest, but it had a core that Erik took a moment to identify. Satisfaction. Here was proof that he would not return to Lordsport unsated, that he would find more of what he sought most, as he had found first in Starfall. 

The unexpected.

Bethany had always believed there were worse fates than death, but a warm bedchamber with a lovely view had never been quite what she’d imagined.

Her modest rooms at Breakwater were bleak in comparison to those she now occupied at the Gates of the Moon. While she was sure it may have felt a prison to many, she could find no room for complaint; the hearth was tended to each morning and her bed linens were turned down each night. True prisoners never had the luxury of tracking servants across a carpeted floor each day, their arrival as sure as that of the rising and setting of the sun.

When she’d first set foot on the mainland, Bethany had expected to be thrown in some dank, cold dungeon, left alone with the occasional plate of molded meat and stale bread that she’d share with the rats who kept her company. Instead, the bread was always soft, the food was always warm, and the guards at her door were kind enough that she didn’t mind allowing them a morsel from her plate every now and again.

It wasn’t as though she ever finished.

A sudden rapping at her chamber door stole her attention away from the bleating sheep beyond her narrow window. With her supper served and the fire roaring in the hearth, there was no reason for the servants to be calling– which left only Pate.

Pate had the misfortune of being posted at her door more often than any other poor soul, and while Bethany wouldn’t venture so far as to call him a friend, she liked him better than any of his comrades.

He stepped in, with that familiar mix of apology and obligation in his expression, and cleared his throat.

“You’re to follow me.”

The halls were narrow and winding, their weathered stone especially oppressive in the absence of the narrow windows that lined her chambers. It was only made worse by the knowledge that she was so far from the sea.

Her only solace in the last two years had been the sheep in the fields beyond– though most were now occupied by heraldry-laden tents, fluttering flags on towering poles, and squires running back and forth on errands that probably weren't meaningless to them. She spent most of her afternoons counting the arrival of new lambs, bumbling about their mothers and skipping over the jagged rocks that break up the fresh spring grass.

It made her miss home.

The last time the guards had come to fetch her from her chambers without explanation, she’d been whisked away from Breakwater– and much the same had occurred once she’d settled in the Eyrie. While she usually had a keen ear for servant’s gossip, Bethany hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about any plans for the hostages to be moved.

She missed home, and now she would miss the sheep, too. She prayed whatever dreary keep she ended up in was closer to the sea at least.

She followed Pate down through several more winding corridors and a set of winding stairs before they found themselves in the entrance hall. While it wasn’t unusual for there to be such a commotion about the castle, given the tourney just beyond its gates, it was unusual for so many passing glances and hushed whispers to be directed at her. The shuffling of feet and clanking of metal echoed through the room, so grand that each of its sconces were lit and none of its tapestries were threadbare.

It wasn’t the polished sconces or the brilliant tapestries that caught Bethany’s attention, however, not once she recognized the cloaked figures lingering in the entryway.

Pate shouted when she rushed past him, though he was too slow to catch her, her arms already outstretched. It was her mother that she reached for first, her long red hair concealed beneath the hood of her cape– though it was grayer now than when she’d seen her last. She’d grown thinner, too, her bones as delicate as that of a bird, but it didn’t stop Bethany from squeezing her as tightly as she could.

The gold coils at the end of Lia’s braids were sure to leave imprints on her skin, and she would wear them proudly.

“Come here, girl, let me look at you! I haven’t seen your face in so long, don’t you hide it from me.”

Lia’s fingers were cold when they grasped her cheeks, likely still chapped from the ride.

“It’s the same, I think,” Beth admitted through tears, lifting her head to allow her mother the chance to examine her properly. She laughed as Lia skimmed her fingers over her cheekbones and across the bridge of her nose before pulling her tight to her chest again.

“Don’t they feed you here, Bethy?”

“The Arryns are gracious hosts, Mama, I swear it—”

Her father scoffed from behind her, though he was wise under the watchful eyes of the guards not to comment any further. Beth managed a smile as she turned to embrace him, her mother’s grasp lingering reluctantly when she pulled away.

Gerrick Borrell was broader than his wife and sturdier too, though he still swayed a little when Bethany thrust herself into his arms. His coarse beard tickled her forehead as he wrapped himself around her, soothing a hand over her hair.

He still smelled of home, like the brine of sea salt and a warm fire, and it made her heart twist in her chest. It wasn’t enough to chase away the sinking feeling that their being at the Gates of the Moon meant they were in a desperate situation.

She’d long wondered aloud to the gods– any gods; the last few years had taught her not to be picky– why it was that her parents had been spared. It wasn’t for any lack of gratitude, but rather a nagging suspicion that some worse fate awaited them. With the Great Council approaching, it wasn’t out of the question that the Queen would decide to make an example of them the way she had Elys Sunderland.

The Arryns had been good enough to her that she imagined offering them a chance to say goodbye wasn’t beneath them.

“I thought they were keeping you at the Eyrie,” Gerrick’s voice rumbled throughout the chamber.

“They were for a time. It’s been almost a year now since I’ve been here, and to be honest, I prefer it. Less of a draft.”

Her weak attempt at humor was met with little more than a curt nod from her father. She pulled her woolen shawl tight around her shoulders as she stepped back to study him. She imagined he liked the weight of everyone’s eyes upon them even less than she did, and while she’d grown used to it, it suddenly felt especially invasive.

“You look tired, Bethy. You’re sure they’ve been feeding you?” Gerrick continued.

“Oysters don’t keep this far inland. I’ve just been missing them is all. I’m perfectly well, Father, I promise.”

“Right. Suppose the Longthorpes would have raised a second rebellion by now if their bellies weren’t full.”

It had been months since she’d seen the Longthorpes last, though she knew them to be held within the same keep. The Arryns had been careful to keep them apart, lest they think to conspire– as though Bethany had ever had any interest in conspiring with the likes of them.

She heard someone shift then, footsteps retreating down the hall. Some gossip, off to tell the Longthorpes what they had heard, no doubt.

“As lovely as it is to see you,” Beth reached for her mother’s hand once more, as though she might vanish before her at the mere mention of it. “I can’t imagine you’ve been allowed here for a simple visit.”

“Lord Arryn has granted us permission to take you to Harrenhal for the Great Council,” her father eyed the guards warily as he spoke. “With a few conditions, of course.”

“Conditions?”

“It’s of no importance to you, girl. Be grateful House Arryn doesn’t seek to deny you your future.”

She knew better than to ask any one of the questions that suddenly plagued her. Not only was she not in the mood for a lecture, but the servants didn’t need any further excuse to gossip amongst themselves. Worse still, part of her could guess the answers and she didn’t like them at all.

“But I… I’m not ready in the slightest.”

“I took the liberty of bringing a few things I thought you might miss,” Lia squeezed Bethany’s fingers gently. “There might even be time to take in a few of your dresses. It certainly looks like you’ll be in dire need of it.”

“It’s not as though I don’t have any dresses here, Mama.”

Gerrick rumbled his discontent once more, and while both Lia and Bethany cast him warning glances, he ignored them both.

“Right then,” he started, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “You’d best pack what you can and be quick about it, before anyone changes their mind.”

In the end, she took nothing of true import. Two dresses, her shawl, and a wooden carving of a boat she’d taken from Breakwater all those years ago. There wasn’t much else she would miss if it disappeared in her absence, and she didn’t dare hope that she wouldn’t be back to count whatever belongings remained. Still, she wouldn’t miss that lovely bedchamber, nor the hearth, nor the warm food that always waited for her there.

Bethany counted sheep from the back of her father’s horse as they rode away from the keep, and upon a second count, she discovered that there was a new lamb in the field.

It was hard to tell if it was raining from inside Casterly Rock.

Even in the Lord’s chambers, one of the privileged few to have windows, it was difficult to identify a rain cloud from the ordinary ones that enveloped the mountainous fortress, so high above the sea and city. Glancing through the panes only revealed a grey-white mist. It could be a drizzle, it could be fog… No use just looking for water on the sill – the ledges were always damp, the stone permanently discoloured and splotchy with condensation of some sort. Only by unlatching the glass and holding out a hand could Damon feel ice-cold droplets hit his palm in a steady rain.

“You’re going to catch a cold if you do that,” Harrold chastised from the sofa, not glancing up from the writing he was doing in his lap. “Again.”

Damon relatched the window and withdrew. Joanna was still angry, it’d be no good to have his steward cross with him, as well.

“The Dornish have begun their journey,” Harrold went on. “Lady Hightower will arrive sooner, of course. Those preparations are nearly complete, but for the work that awaits you here.”

He was referring to the clutter that had taken over the solar where they now sat: tapestries draped over horsehair couches, heavy cloaks and child-sized gowns, floral arrangements barely contained within vases of ruby-studded gold. But the workload was much smaller than the mess implied – Joanna had already made the important decisions, Damon’s approval was a mere formality. He had no intention of overruling any of her choices (he was not foolish enough to think he knew better), but he found the tapestries laid gingerly out for examination to be a welcome distraction from difficult conversation and the window which muffled the cold, quiet rain.

“Any word from the other kingdoms?” he asked, straightening out the edges of one of the larger pieces so the embroidered image became less distorted.

“Not yet, Your Grace.” There came the soft scraping of parchment against parchment as Harrold turned the pages of his book and began listing out excuses. “Lord Frey is busy mopping up the civil war, as I understand. Lord Arryn, well, he’s nineteen. And I’m unsure if anyone has even told the young Lord Estermont that he’s in charge yet.”

“And the Starks are just as likely to give no warning out of spite,” Damon said. “The North and the South take such pains to be difficult.”

The tapestry was, like most of the ones brought to the solar, of Ashara in her youth. She was recognisable at once from the Lannister cloak draped over her shoulders and pooling at her feet. Conjured in fine thread in the gardens of the Rock, her hair was long and plaited, flowers woven into the braids, and she was surrounded by her handmaidens. They were all in the colours of their respective houses, but only one other girl had flowers in her hair.

“The Crown still hasn’t issued a royal response to this Blackmont business, as well, I remind you,” said Harrold. “I believe we’ve waited long enough and can conclude that the Queen does not intend to address it.”

“Danae always handles Dornish matters.”

The wind was starting to pick up, and hurled raindrops against the window panes. Damon looked down at the tapestry and wondered how his own boyhood was recorded. Had artisans gone back to add clues to his eventual ascension? References to a destiny?

And how would thousands of threads depict his rule?

“It is my understanding that Her Grace has dedicated her efforts to refining her Valyrian in preparation for her visit to the Iron Bank.”

“I thought she already spoke Valyrian.”

“The bankers use a different sort.”

Damon gave a vague ‘hmpth’ of acknowledgement.

“It is best if the Crown is united on this Dornish front, no matter how busy Her Grace may be elsewhere,” the steward said from his place on the sofa. When Damon pried his eyes from the tapestry to meet a deepening frown, it didn’t fail to astound him how uncomfortable a man could look while swaddled in the highest luxuries, even after all these years.

Then again, he’d yet to see Benfred in a cloak.

“You’re saying I should talk to Danae.”

“I’m not suggesting my first, second, or even fifth preference, but yes. I do believe that is what must happen.”

Damon looked back at the image of Ashara and her handmaidens in the garden. How much simpler life would be if there were even just one woman he did not fear.

“I will write her.”

“There’s also the matter of staff for the Great Council.” Harrold seemed just as eager to move on from the subject as Damon was. “Lord Benfred has declared himself responsible for the hire of any and all needed hands and insists that any you wish to bring of your own volition be vetted through him first. I agree.”

Benfred getting involved? Some part of Damon almost wanted to correct the Steward, but he knew no mistake had been made.

“Then it will be done.”

He set the tapestry gingerly off to the side to view the one beneath. It was Ashara’s wedding to Gerold, as inaccurately depicted as Damon’s own to Danae.

They might as well commemorate my reign with a portrait of myself on the back of a dragon, he thought. Desmond would like that, at least.

“I’d prefer to leave no loose ends here in Lannisport when we depart,” he said to Harrold. “Do you recall the most important outstanding matter for the city?”

“Well, with Lady Joanna having settled the guilds and such, I suppose you mean the Butcher.”

“Indeed. If one of my children is to inherit the West and its heart and seat, I’d prefer there be no killers running rampant in it.”

Harrold looked as though he wanted to say something, but dismissed the thought with a shake of his head before venturing, “If your intent is truly to tie loose ends, I can think of far more important threads for a King to untangle.”

Damon knew without looking what Harrold was staring at: on the table, cluttered with books and papers and maps, was a heavy seal that would press an anvil and scales into wax. In the tapestry, Ashara wore Lannister red beneath her Hightower cloak and she and Gerold were smiling. It looked as though the artist had placed them in the New Sept in Lannisport.

“Your Grace, if I may…” Harrold was waiting for Damon to look at him, but Damon refused to yield.

“Those other threads will strangle me,” he said.

There were flowers in Ashara’s hair.

“I don’t plan to go gallivanting across the city, Harrold. But let me at least ensure this is left in capable hands.”

“The killer in the Wynd? The murderer they’re now calling the Butcher of Lannisport, ever since that body was found in Westfold? The one who leaves the innards of his victims in bizarre arrangements that have prompted not one, not two, but three members of our City Watch to turn in their cloak? With Benfred in Harrenhal, just who in the gods’ names has hands capable enough for that?”

There would be no tapestries made of this part of Lannisport’s history – not unless they were depictions of the hero who brought the monster to justice. Damon would make certain of that.

When he left the Lord’s quarters in search of his children, it was still raining hard. The weather made him anxious in a way he couldn’t explain, like every drop of rain to strike a window was hitting him as well – a thousand irritating pokes. Daena was not in her chambers where she was supposed to be. Her nurse gave profuse apologies but explained that she’d demanded Ser Lenyl take her to the kitchens to practise cooking and told the poor Dornish bastard he had no choice in the matter, given her station. It was somewhat correct, which Damon knew was his daughter’s precise intent.

His son, on the other hand, was exactly where he was meant to be.

Desmond was finishing his numbers lesson with the same maester who’d taught Damon and his brother and sister. Shara was the only one who was ever endeared by the man, who gave Damon a familiar disappointed glance when he entered now.

“Father!” Desmond rose at once. Damon would have liked to believe it were for the joy he took in seeing him, but knew firsthand that it was more the relief of a rescue. “Is it time for a lesson?”

“This is a lesson,” the old maester grumbled, but he was already cleaning up his papers and quills.

Once in the halls, Desmond looked round for his sister.

“Where is Daena?”

“In the kitchens, playing at being a scullery maid.”

“Shouldn’t we fetch her? She was very keen on not missing–”

“If Daena wishes to learn about the duties of rule then she must act like a ruler. Princesses don’t learn in kitchens.”

Desmond seemed to think about that as the two strode, father and son, down the corridors of the Rock.

“She’ll be angry if we go without her.”

“She’s always angry.”

The Prince had no retort to that. He seemed to sense his father’s mood and grew quiet, which only made Damon feel guilty and even more anxious.

“Being a ruler doesn’t mean doing everything you want, all by yourself, all of the time,” he said. He was trying to salvage the conversation, but when he raised his voice to be heard over the rain, it only made him sound more severe. It didn’t help that he was issuing the same sort of lecture Lord Loren once – twice, thrice, a hundred times – gave him.

“You’re both always alone and never alone, in the most extreme sense of each. Do you understand what I mean, Desmond? You need people, capable people, who you can trust. You’ve got to keep them around you, all the time, which is why you're never alone. But you must also never fully trust anybody, ever, which is why you’re always alone.”

Damon hazarded a glance at his son and saw confusion writ on Desmond’s face. Loren had worded it better.

“You’ve got to find people with talents but also with loyalty. The kind of people you can count on. Responsible, dependable, focused… And then you figure out what they’re good at, and you have them do it. You see, the realm is a complex thing… And a city…” The rain lashed at the windows. “A city is a bit like the realm, right? But smaller. A smaller realm.”

He hadn’t realised how quickly he was walking (Desmond kept pace all the while, resting his hand on the hilt of some showman’s sword, one with more jewels on its handle than most men saw in a lifetime) until they were suddenly at their destination far sooner than expected.

It was a blessing – Damon was bungling the conversation.

The doors to the small hall were open and men in long robes were filtering out, bidding farewell to the person who’d hosted them. They were guildsmen, wearing the sigils of their trades, and Edmyn Plumm gave a friendly goodbye to each. His smile was practised, his hair combed, and his shirt without a single crease. Joanna had gotten to him, as Damon expected.

The last of the leaving guildsmen gave bows and formalities as was due, including to the Crown Prince, and dispersed amid their own lively conversations.

“Good day, Edmyn,” Damon offered.

“Good to see you, Your Graces!”

Desmond kicked the ground, bored.

“I need your help with something.”

Edmyn’s smile faltered, if only for a moment. He straightened his back somewhat, and looked Damon in the eye.

“How can I be of service, Your Grace?”

“Have you made the acquaintance of Tytos Clegane?”

“I have, in passing. An interesting man, though something about him keeps others at bay, I feel. Why do you ask?”

“Are you familiar with the Butcher of Lannisport?”

“Well, I certainly haven’t made his acquaintance.”

He chuckled, Damon grimaced, and Desmond looked at them askance.

“I’ve certainly heard of him in the city, though,” Edmyn continued, his expression severe. “Amarei-” His eyes shifted to Desmond. “Well, folks in general, are frightened.”

“Indeed.” Damon nodded towards the corridor, whose tall windows brought no sunlight. Rain, rain, rain.

“Come with us,” he said. “I think there’s something you can do about that.”

The maiden’s cloak hung on the rack before Selyse, and she tried not to attach meaning to it. The embroidery was intricate, the crimson stallion rendered in more stylistic detail than any battle banner. Its eyes were wide, mouth open in a call, legs curled in the midst of action. Selyse couldn’t decide if it looked proud, defiant, or afraid. Perhaps those were the same thing.

She stood still, eyes tracing the lines of the embroidery, and kept her arms raised while the greying handmaid, who was not Lenna, fussed over her dress. It was a fine garment, its fastenings hidden to make the design look simple when it was anything but. The skirts were layered, warm white wool half-obscured by a pleated lace ghost over it.
The handmaid finished her adjustments, making a hum at the back of her throat that Selyse took as grudging acceptance. She gestured to one of the chamber’s chairs.

“If milady pleases, take a seat. I’ll send Hanna in to do your hair.”

Selyse nodded her assent, and the woman took her leave. With her gone, Selyse found herself able to pull her eyes away from the cloak at last. These rooms – her rooms, now – were still strange to her. Stone Hedge’s ceilings had been low, thick, and reassuring in their strength. These high trusses of dark oak left her feeling oddly exposed. Her eyes darted, counting the ceiling beams. Ten. She whistled a low pitch, unsatisfied with the number.

Her suite had two rooms – a bedchamber, and a small connected lounge. Latticework doors from the solar led to a small balcony that looked out on the godswood, the gargantuan heart tree towering at its centre.

She remembered when she had first seen those white tendrils of ancient weirwood, reaching across slate-grey clouds like the untended ivy of Stone Hedge’s walls. The strange, organic shapes had been a strange contrast to the stout walls and square towers that surrounded Raventree Hall. Coming, as it did, at the end of two weeks’ travel, it was a foreboding sight.

Selyse cast her mind back to the day her life had been set on this course. Nearly a month had passed since Harlon received that letter. Lord Blackwood is in need of a wife, he had explained. She had objected, of course, but when her brother handed her the letter, the blue wax seal of Lord Frey clarified things. They were not being offered, they were being told.

And so, they had prepared, as quick as they could. An entourage and dowry had been arranged, the gown and cloak commissioned. For all that it was for Selyse, she felt herself being pushed out of the way. She tried not to think of it as Harlon’s cruelty, and tried to sympathise that he had been forced to deliver Lord Brynden’s.

But she was the one who sat, now, as Hanna – the other handmaid’s daughter, by her face – pulled her hair neatly into a silver hairnet encrusted with rubies. It was Selyse who had to contemplate what this day would bring, who her husband might be.

She had seen Lord Quentyn only briefly when they had arrived the day before, greeting them with grim formality at the front gate. One analytical glance was spared for her before he and Harlon began talking business, and Selyse was quietly escorted to her new chambers, the oak doors closing heavily behind her.

It was Harlon who knocked on those doors now. Four sharp impacts, on the middle batten. He pushed the door open without waiting for a response.

“Sister,” he said, eyebrows knitted apprehensively. “It’s time for the ceremony.”

“Of course.” Selyse cast a glance to Hanna, “Are we finished?”

The girl curtsied, stepping away. “Yes, milady. And if I may say, you look beautiful.”

Without thought, Selyse’s hand clenched into a fist at her side, and she felt a reproach bubbling up in her throat. But no. The girl had only meant to be kind.

“Thank you. Hanna, is it?”

“Yes, milady.”

Selyse allowed Hanna to drape the maiden’s cloak around her shoulders, and wished her well before Harlon led her from the room. He was accompanied by two guards in Blackwood regalia, gambeson halved red and black with a white tree embroidered over their heart. They led them down two flights of torchlit stairs, through a central corridor towards the courtyard and Godswood beyond.

“I don’t like this, Harlon,” Selyse said as they passed into the dim sunlight of a cloudy noon.

“Nor I.”

She looked at him. “Look after everyone, won’t you? Mother, Father, Bryon, Brandon, Petyr. They all need help.”
Selyse saw the question in the way his eyes avoided hers, in the way his shoulders dropped. And who will help me?

He didn’t speak it aloud. He knew the answer as well as she did.

Nobody.

“Of course I will, Selyse,” he said, and that was enough.

The fine cobbles of the courtyard ended abruptly at the godswood gate. The path beyond was hard-packed dirt, hemmed by logs, leading through twisted oak trunks to the towering weirwood. The tree’s bloody-eyed face seemed to gaze disapprovingly upon the small congregation at its roots. Selyse’s mother and brothers stood to one side, and the Blackwoods to the other. The rest of the crowd was filled by people Selyse didn’t know, witnesses for the Lord Paramount, bards, and the Blackwoods’ friends and allies.

Selyse understood that her husband’s lordship had come after the death of his brother and nephew during the war. At a guess, the older woman glaring at the raven-cloaked figure by the weirwood was Margaery, the late Lord Andar’s widow. The young man in Blackwood colours was harder to place. If Andar or his brother had living sons, after all, Selyse wouldn’t be here.

“Who comes?” called a too-jolly-looking septon from the head of the group. “Who comes before the gods this day?”
Harlon’s sigh was a private apology before he called out, “Selyse of House Bracken comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the old gods and the new. Who comes to claim her?”

The raven-cloaked man turned, finally, to see their approach. He had likely been handsome, once. Striking, clear eyes sat in dark, wrinkled sockets and fine, sharp cheekbones had been rendered gaunt by the passing of years. His hair was thick and healthy, but streaked with as much grey as black. His eyebrows seemed to frown independently from the rest of his face as he watched her.

“I do,” he said. “Quentyn of House Blackwood, Lord of Blackwood Vale, and of Raventree Hall. I claim her, in the sight of gods and men. Who gives her?”

“Harlon of House Bracken, in place of our ill father, Lord Walder.” Harlon paused, took a breath, and looked at Selyse. “Lady Selyse, do you take this man?”

Selyse’s eyes met Lord Quentyn’s piercing gaze, and she found herself short of breath. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she drew them close to her chest. She knew the words, but they could not be unsaid once said. Her life was collapsing in on itself, and this seemed her final, futile chance to try and stop it. Cold anger bubbled in her chest.

Quentyn’s eyes left hers for a moment, seeming to focus on something over her shoulder. He took a deep breath, and held out a hand for her to take. It was as close to a peace offering as she was likely to get. A low, sharp whistle escaped her lips before she could stop it.

“I take this man as my lord and husband,” she said, seeing no alternative.

She stepped forward, and forced herself to take Quentyn’s hand.

“And I take this woman as my lady and wife,” he said.

And it was done.

Prayers followed. Silent meditations to the Old Gods, lilting hymns to the Seven. The septon anointed them and bade them rise, and the congregation returned to the keep. The great hall, when they returned, was decorated with drapery of gold, crimson, and black. Elaborate silver candelabras lit the room alongside roaring hearths, and music filled the air from a trio of bards in one corner.

The food was fresh, lavish, and alluring in its smell, but Selyse couldn’t focus on it. She felt like the world was being held at arm's length from her. Quentyn had not spared her more than a glance since their vows, and she wasn’t sure whether she should be relieved or insulted. Either option left her irritated.

Quentyn was focused on his food, casting an occasional sour look at the chattering guests along the high table. This man is taking control of your life, she told herself, and he barely seems to notice. Part of her wanted to resent him for it, but another couldn’t help but wonder why. It seemed the most likely way of getting some acknowledgement, if nothing else.

“Why did you wait so long?”

His focus shifted to her mid-spoonful of soup, and he coughed as it went down the wrong pipe. A small thrill of petty joy ran down Selyse’s spine.

“Wait so long for what?” he said, when he’d recovered.

“For this. Marriage.”

Quentyn shook his head. “I didn’t. Sent for you as soon as I could.”

“It’s been over a year since you became lord here,” Selyse pointed out.

“Yes, but I was in Braavos at the time. A letter didn’t find me for some months.”

Selyse hesitated. She hadn’t known. A crow cage swayed in the wind in her mind’s eye.

“That must have been hard.”

Quentyn only nodded, then seemed to shake the memory off. His shoulders shifted as he tried to return to his meal, but curiosity was driving Selyse now.

“If I may, my lord, why did the lordship fall to you?” His eyebrows creased in response, and she realised how stupid the question sounded. “I mean to say, I was surprised that your nephew Roose had no direct heirs, no wife. He was twenty-five, was he not?”

“Ah,” Quentyn said. “Yes. My brother and nephew were both quite stringent about their faith. There are surprisingly few highborn maidens that follow the Old Gods, and sending letters to the North always takes time. I believe he had an eye on a Locke girl, but died before he could send a letter.”

If a girl had been chosen, why inflict this on me? “Was the Locke girl not to your liking?”

“No. You were just–” His mouth stayed open for a moment, as if he was going to continue, but he closed it, and looked at her. Took a moment to examine her with those grim, pale eyes. Then he seemed to deflate a little.
“You should know that you’re not my first wife. Cassana died some time ago. I loved her a great deal, and I fear this ceremony is bringing up bitter memories.”

Selyse had assumed her husband was a widower. Most forty-three-year-old noblemen were, but she hadn’t taken any interest in the details in the weeks since his letter.

“You had no heirs by her?”

“We lost three pregnancies, if I remember right, but we had one daughter. Ryella.”

Selyse bit her lip, holding in the low whistle that threatened to signal her alarm. “I did not realise I was stepping into the role of stepmother.”

For the first time, Quentyn cracked a thin smile. “I wouldn’t recommend you try. Ryella’s older than you – and married, before you ask. She’s not lived in Raventree Hall for almost five years.”

His eyes lost focus for a moment, and he looked out the great hall’s window, out to the godswood and the bone-white tree. He kept his gaze there as soups were swapped for the main course, bringing the food to his lips without thought. Selyse watched, but did not try to pull him from his reverie.

As guests finished their meals, many began to rise to dance to the music. Wine started to reach people’s heads, and the growing revelry sent anxious needles down Selyse’s spine. She didn’t stop the whistle this time.

It seemed to get Quentyn’s attention. He turned his whole body to her, leaning towards her, faces barely half a foot apart. Selyse couldn’t decide if the pose was conspiratorial or intimate.

“Ryella and I spoke often in the months before her wedding,” he said. “I can guess your fears. Some of them, at least. May I be… impolitely honest with you, Selyse?”

Selyse nodded. Quentyn avoided her eyes, seeming to read something in the air.

“I have no interest in you. I loved Cassana, and would not replace her if I had any choice. The fact is, I require an heir, and so, I need a young woman of noble blood. But know this: I take my oaths very seriously. I will not dishonour you. I do not seek a plaything or servant or lover, only a wife, and a mother to my future son. That is the oath we swore.”

His tone was flat, matter-of-fact, even cold. It was the first reassuring thing she’d heard all day. Even so, it left a question.

“What do you wish me to do?”

Quentyn looked back out to the guests. The energy was growing, leering eyes beginning to drift to the pair of them.

“Only your duty,” Quentyn said. “As I shall do mine.”