^(25th Day, Fifth Moon, 250 AC)

She remembers water.

-

Not the battering of waves against Shipbreaker's Bay, nor the summer rains that paint Gallowsgrey's walls black. No, she remembers that water - murky and merciless, stealing breath and brother both.

(Think, what are

drowning memories, if not

ghosts that live in your lungs?)

-

In the spaces between heartbeats, between one breath and the next, the water returns. Not in nightmares - those would be too kind. It lives in morning mist, in cupped palms, in the way shadows ripple across stone floors.

Time, they say, heals all wounds. They never mention how it drowns some memories and preserves others, like bodies in the deep.

-

They call her father the Reluctant, but they do not see how reluctance breeds its own kind of strength. House Trant knows - has always known - that duty comes wrapped in shadows, paid for in breaths and blood.

(Some inheritances are not measured in gold or steel, but in the spaces between what was lost and what remains.)

-

The truth shifts like light on water - sometimes she remembers pushing him, sometimes being pulled. Sometimes she remembers screaming, sometimes total silence. The only constant is the scarring beneath her jaw, four lines that could be fingers or could be fate.

She's learned that memories are like reflections in troubled waters - distort them enough and even truth loses its shape. After all, what's more dangerous: a girl who survived an accident, or one who might have caused it?

(The lords who whisper behind her back never seem to consider there might not be a difference.)

-

Water takes and water gives - this is what House Trant has always known. It took her brother's last breath, gave her back scars like secrets. Some days she wonders if the pond knew, somehow, that Gallowsgrey needed an heir who understood the weight of endings.

After all, what is drowning if not learning the precise cost of air?

-

She wakes the same way she always does - between one breath and the next, caught in that space where memory and morning blur together. Dawn paints Gallowsgrey's walls the color of old bones, and somewhere below, the gallows creak their ancient song.

Today, she thinks, watching light creep across stone floors. Today, they ride for King's Landing.

(Some journeys begin with a step. Hers began with a splash.)

The sun lingered in the sky as the Dondarrion party made their slow crawl up to King's Gate. Pearse could see multiple Goldcloaks in the distance and one of them was unmistakably Jon. Pearse had not seen his youngest brother since that Peasbury, captain of the Goldcloaks, had asked for Stormlander support. He was curious to meet the man that Jon had inevitably became. Pearse hoped to the seven that Jon had not become another one of those self righteous knights who took their guardship position too seriously.

As he looked out over his small entourage of soldiers, family and friends, he could not help but look with pride at his family's banner. Forked purple lightning on a field of black with speckled four pointed stars. Pearse had always taken such pride in seeing his banners fly. Their banner was one that told a story of their resolve, it was a banner that men could take pride in and rally behind. Some of the other banners of the Stormlands could draw pride from soldiers and knights alike, the warring griffons of Connington, the pierced apple of Steadmon, and the roaring stag of Baratheon could all rouse men to fight and rally. Some other houses however did not strike this feeling in him as a knight and lord. House Selmy with its three stalks of yellow wheat on brown, or House Eastermont's green turtle on green. But the forked purple lightning on black would always fill Pearse with pride.

As he put his heels into his courser he caught back up with his uncle Gilroy. Looking at the aged knight Pearse could tell he was still a hardened man. Though the lines on his face seemed to get deeper and the sides of his hair and thick mustache started to get streaked with silver, Gilroy could still fight like any of the men Pearse brought with them. As they made their way closer to King's Gate Pearse said, "What do you think will come of this trip uncle?"

"I am not sure lad, with tension building in the Stepstones again and more unrest in some of the Westerlands, I say we keep a level head about us and pray to the seven for strength," he said half gazing at the spectacle that was King's Landing.

"I will make sure to keep that in mind uncle, thank you for your wise words. Now I must go see what this city has done to the captain of King's Gate," Pearse said with a laugh. He rode up to his best friend and close advisor Harold Storm who had been carrying his house banner at the front of the party. "Harold!" he half shouted as he kept riding by. "With me, it's time to see Jon."

Pearse galloped off with Harrold in tow up to the King's Gate. "Hail!" shouted a goldcloak. "Hail and well met soldier, tell your captain that his brother is here to see him," Pearse shouted back to the goldcloak. After a few more minutes and the rest of the Dondarrion entourage passing through the King's Gate, Pearse dismounted as Jon came out to meet them.

"Come brother, let me see what King's Landing has made of you," Pearse chuckled as his youngest brother approached. He was starting to fill out his frame Pearse noticed. Jon had become much more of a man than when Jon had been back for father's passing two years ago. His reddish gold hair cut short and a close trimmed beard now adorned his face. He wore a black breastplate accented with the purple of their banners and a yellow cloak hung from his left shoulder and he wore a sword belt. He looked like a proper Dondarrion.

"It is good to see you brother," Jon said as they embraced. "Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms has made their way to this city, and you are late as usual. I figured Uncle Gilroy would have wanted to leave earlier but I suppose he can't order you around anymore," Jon chuckled.
"No not since father's death," Pearse said with a half smile. "But you're right we must get going if we are to join the festivities on time. Come uncle we must make haste

OOC: this is set like day after arrivals but im lazy and couldnt be bothered to write sooner…

As the banners approached King’s Landing, and her carriage was covered by the large shadows from the City’s walls, Elara smiled with pure excitement that she could see her Egen again. Out of her family and staff, she and Cyprian were the last to arrive, having preferred to stay in Harrenhal another night to ghost hunt (she was unsuccessful, it upset her.) Thoughts of Egen kept her distracted throughout the duration of the journey through the City, in fact, she stayed disassociated until the knock on the carriage wall behind her shook her back into her body, and she peered out of the window to see the Keep.

Elara lept out of her seat and flung the carriage door open, almost tripping at the speed, as she began to sprint through the Courtyard until she finally saw him standing at the door, her mind went dormant again as she hyperfixated on his smile and open arms as he jogged towards her. Her speed increased, and like a cat she pounced upon him, the pair flying backwards onto the grass. She was home once more in his embrace.

7th Day, Sixth Moon, 250 AC

Behind its high red walls, the sprawling city of King’s Landing was abuzz with activity. The day had proven to be a humid one, but the narrow streets were crowded to capacity with folk in spite of the heat that swelled within their confines. Wine merchants hawked casks of their finest reds and golds, inns were filled to bursting and struggled with all of the additional accommodations, and brothels were alive with employment. Dockside vendors and market squares were the busiest they’d been since the king’s coronation day.

Two hundred and fifty years had passed since Aegon the Conqueror’s arrival and the founding of the Targaryen dynasty, but that was not the only cause for excitement. The Free Cities of Tyrosh and Myr had been cowed into submission by King Daeron after a grueling conflict, and with them the Stepstones. Most recently, Her Grace the Queen had been delivered of a healthy baby girl, and celebrations were in order. Letters had been sent to the lords and ladies of the realm declaring the good news and inviting them to take part in the festivities.

The tourney grounds beyond the King’s Gate sat in resplendent readiness by the Blackwater. Several hundred pavilions and tents were scattered across the fields like a colorful sea and the lists and carousels were lined with wooden galleries, embroidered banners already displayed on their barriers to assign the lords and ladies their seats. Children ran screaming underfoot, sticks in hand as they vied for victory in a make-believe melee until real knights sent them fleeing with boxed ears and warnings to stay out of the way.

The gold cloaks of the capital had doubled, nay, tripled their watch to ensure that the King’s Peace was kept, and the corridors and kitchens of the Red Keep thundered with a flurry of commotion and barked orders. Through the bronze-banded doors, the throne room was dressed with great tables and immense tapestries that stretched along the walls between high, narrow windows. Eighteen dragon skulls adorned the spaces in between, ranging in size from that of a dog to the massive, fabled maws of Vhagar, Meraxes and the Black Dread.

Endless platters and trays of food covered the tabletops, to the point that the wood underneath almost couldn't be seen. Onions dripping in gravy accompanied honeyed chicken, racks of ribs roasted in a crust of garlic and herbs, trout baked in pepper and lemons fresh from the citrus orchards of Dorne, sausages, pasties, and seven kinds of meat pie. Quails drowned in butter, roundels of elk, mutton chops glazed in honey, roasted auroch joints, duck stuffed with oysters and hot peppers, and whole crabs steamed on their serving dishes.

Cheese and onion fritters, fried potatoes, spiced squash, skewers of pigeon and capon, sweet corn on the cob, buttered leeks and roasted roots abounded, while tureens of soup were scattered in between: oxtail and white beans, sweet pumpkin, venison and carrot, hare in thick cream, whitefish and winkles in onion broth, and beef-and-barley stew. Salads of spring greens and spinach, sweetgrass, chickpeas and pine nuts were well within reach of every plate, and whole wheels of cheese were available for cutting.

There were plums so dark they appeared black, sweet purple grapes and sliced pears, pomegranates, blood orange sections and small, sour cherries. Buns filled with raisins and nuts, hardy oat biscuits and soft white bread were available for dipping, as well as wheat loaves and little cakes spiced with cloves and dripping with honey. Desserts were enormous in their measure – pies of baked apple fragrant with cinnamon, fresh peach, and bramble with pots of cream for topping, apricot tarts, lemon cake in a sugary glaze, and honey on the comb.

To drink, there was Dornish red and Arbor gold, spiced honey wine from Lannisport and an imported Pentoshi amber alongside flagons of dark, strong beer and crisp ale. The main course, displayed on its own table in the center of the hall, was a boar as big as a small pony. Four men had struggled to kill it on a grand hunt within the kingswood, and it had taken more to cook it afterward. The beast had been skinned and spit roasted over a low flame for two days, seasoned well, and then baked with apples and mushrooms to finish.

The seating at the front of the room, beneath the dais where the royal family was gathered, had been reserved for members of the Small Council and their own families. Beyond that were the tables especially for the Lords Paramount of the Seven Kingdoms and other important guests, with space for their vassals scattered in between. Spirits were high, good food and drink were plenty, and the sounds of a lively jig filled the air as a quartet of minstrels shifted tune from a lovesick ballad to the familiar first notes of Fair Maids of Summer.

To those blissfully unaware of the problems facing the realm, the overall atmosphere was one of joy and lighthearted fun. Keener eyes and ears could sense the tension that filled the space between the Northmen and Lords of the Vale, the peace of Houses Tyrell and Hightower that seemed to hang by a thread, and the presence of the Ironborn that unnerved their greenland neighbors. Seated above it all, the imposing hulk of the Iron Throne at his back, King Daeron’s face remained a somber mask as he watched the revelry in silence.

Nevertheless, the King’s Feast in honor of the Conquerors – and his newest daughter – would surely be one to remember for years to come.

Gaemon awoke to the gray murmur of the dawn, a faint chill curling around the edges of the drafty tent. His pallet of straw and woolen blankets had offered poor defense against the night’s cold, but he was accustomed to such discomforts. Rising quickly, he lit a single tallow candle and knelt to splash his face with water from the basin. The jolt of icy liquid chased the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. Moving briskly to the small wooden tub at the foot of his cot, he sank his feet into the cold bath, gritting his teeth as his skin protested the chill. It was a ritual his master had insisted upon—a habit of fortitude and discipline. His toes, numb and aching, curled against the worn grain of the tub as he counted to thirty under his breath.

The day's work began before the sun fully claimed the sky. He fetched his master’s armor, ensuring the steel gleamed and the leather straps bore no cracks. His hands were deft, practiced, as he fastened greaves and cuirass, laced gambesons, and carefully buckled belts. There were also horses to tend to, their breaths steaming in the crisp air as he brushed their coats and checked the tack. The clamor of preparation filled the courtyard: knights laughing roughly, men-at-arms shouting orders, and the rhythmic clinking of chainmail like a bell tolling for war. When all was ready, he followed his master to the ship, the wood creaking beneath their boots as they boarded. The vessel rocked gently, tethered to the harbor.

The wind was a sharp blade out at sea, slicing through the thickest cloaks and biting at exposed skin. The sky hung low and slate-gray, a gray that swallowed the horizon and blurred sea and sky into a single, endless expanse. The waves churned with restless energy, their frothy crests breaking against the ship’s hull in cold sprays that dampened woolen cloaks and soaked through boots. Gaemon clutched the railing, his stomach lurching with the heaving of the sea. Gulls circled overhead, their cries distant and mournful. The air smelled of salt and iron, a heady mix that settled heavily in his lungs. From the fog, a small island appeared.

Gaemon stumbled as his boots sank into the shifting sands. He heard the clash of steel and the guttural roars of charging men. The air reeked of brine, sweat, and blood. His master raised his sword high, leading the charge against the coastal fort. Gaemon followed, clutching his blade with hands that trembled despite his training. Before him stood the Ironborn, their motley armor glinting dully under the overcast sky. They were gaunt and ragged, a stark contrast to the disciplined ranks of knights and men-at-arms. Yet they fought with the ferocity of cornered wolves, wielding rusted swords and crude axes with deadly intent.

In the chaos, Gaemon’s vision narrowed to the single man rushing toward him, a wild-eyed figure in a tattered tunic clutching a chipped spear. Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat a deafening drum in his ears. Fear twisted in his gut, but it was anger—a raw, intoxicating rage—that gripped his limbs. Anger at the raider's defiance, anger at his fear, anger at the sheer madness of it all. With a shout that was more instinct than courage, he swung his sword in a wide arc. The blade cleaved through flesh and bone, the force of the blow jolting up his arms. The raider collapsed in a spray of crimson, his body folding into the sand. For a moment, Gaemon froze, staring down at the bloody mess with wide, disbelieving eyes. He felt sick, exhilarated, and hollow all at once. What had he done? He had killed a man!

Gaemon awoke from his dream to the muted gray of dawn spilling through the narrow window slit, the air within his chamber cool and damp from the mist rolling up Aegon’s Hill. He swung his legs from the bed, the old boards creaking beneath his weight, and leaned forward to stretch the ache from his shoulders. His hands were rough as bark, callused and cracked from years of steel and saddle leather, and they moved automatically to the hearth. A bundle of kindling sat ready beside the grate. Soon enough the spark caught, casting flickering light over the austere chamber. The room held few luxuries: a simple bed with coarse linens, a wooden chest for armor and garments, and a heavy basin of cold water, its rim polished smooth by years of use.

He eased his feet into the basin, the chill biting into his skin and chasing away the lingering numbness of sleep. The grooves worn into the floor beneath it spoke of countless mornings spent this way, rituals born of discipline rather than indulgence. By the time his squires arrived, the fire crackled steadily, filling the chamber with warmth and the smell of woodsmoke. They set his breakfast on the sturdy table: a steaming bowl of porridge gilded with honey, a boiled egg, and a small salted herring. As he ate, Gaemon savored the quiet, the familiar scrape of the spoon on the bowl, and the distant sounds of the waking castle.

Today would be an extraordinary day. Workers across King’s Landing would receive the day off from their employers, filling the streets with cheering crowds. Gaemon reckoned more than half of them would have no idea why they were there. All they cared about was the drink was plentiful and the city watch did not seem to mind. Many others, though, would know exactly what they were witnessing: a grand tournament to celebrate the rule of King Daeron, Gaemon’s nephew, and a chance to witness the mightiest lords and most famous knights of the Realm.

“Gods damn this nonsense,” spat Gaemon as his oldest and favored squire, Theo Hill, helped him into his golden plate armor. Today would be all about appearances, his included. He considered his reflection: dark, acute purple eyes settled into harsh features, closely cropped silver hair shining glossily in the light, framing a battle-ravaged, care-lined face. “Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy it a little bit, ser,” Theo said. “Who doesn’t like tourneys?”Gaemon glared at Theo coldly, but his squire did not react. He had no focus to spare. The young man was meticulous, handling each piece reverently from an arranged stack of pauldrons, greaves, cuirass, poleyns, and other sundry components of the armored knight’s wardrobe.

“Pointless preening. And notoriously expensive. Would not our coppers be better spent ensuring the Stepstones are pacified? Building a navy to deter those bastards across the Narrow Sea?”

Theo licked his thumb and wiped away a small smudge on Gaemon’s breastplate. He bit his lip, perhaps restraining a roll of the eyes or an impudent scoff. “Folk need something to celebrate now and again. Besides, it’s a chance for all the lords and ladies to pay tribute to the king.”

Now it was Gaemon’s turn to subdue an impulse to balk. “The royal family is never more exposed than when the capital is filled with flatterers, connivers, and their entourages.”

He did not need to mention the potential succession crisis. Daeron and Queen Lianna had not produced a male heir, only a litany of daughters, and the issue of who would follow Daeron to the Iron Throne upon his demise had come up many times. Gaemon’s brother Maekar, the Steward of Dragonstone, was a strong candidate, but so was Daeron’s self-indulgent little brother, Prince Aelyx. Of course, none of them had as strong a claim as Daeron’s son would. But until that son arrived on this mortal coil, houses great and small across Westeros would seek to exploit any division in House Targaryen to their benefit, to say nothing of the Iron Throne’s enemies outside the Seven Kingdoms. Gaemon sighed. How could a knight of the Kingsguard save His Grace from the complications of the order of succession with sword and shield?

Theo tightened the final strap on Gaemon’s gauntlet, stepping back to admire his handiwork. The white cloak of the Kingsguard hung from Gaemon’s shoulders, pristine and unyielding, but Theo saw the tension in his master’s stance, the barely contained storm behind his eyes.

“It’s a tourney, ser,” Theo said after a beat. “You’ve seen it yourself: the faces of the smallfolk lit with wonder, the cheers for every tilt and every blow landed. Surely not all of that can be as dark as you make it.”

Gaemon exhaled sharply. “A tilt does not raise battlements nor fill granaries for the winter. The smiles of smallfolk fade as quickly as a knight unhorsed.” His tone softened slightly as he fixed Theo with a measured look. “You’ve been raised among courtiers and jesters, boy. Trust me when I say that this splendor is a mask, hiding greed and ambition behind painted faces.”

Theo nodded but did not entirely yield. “Even so, my lord, a knight’s duty is more than defense. It is to inspire, to give the people something to believe in, no? Perhaps today you’ll remind them why the white cloak commands such reverence.”

Gaemon’s lips curved in a wry smirk as he turned toward the door, the weight of his armor settling around him like a second skin. “Perhaps, Theo. Or perhaps I’ll spend the day keeping fools from skewering themselves over imagined slights.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder, a rare gesture of camaraderie. “Remember, a knight’s duty is to serve, not to be adored.”

With that, Gaemon strode into the hall, his steps heavy with the burden of his oaths. Beyond the stone walls, the sounds of the city’s revelry grew louder. The knight paid it no mind.

[Lianna's description provided by the wonderful Crow!]

Required Listening: Adagio in G Minor (Albinoni)

Private dining area in the gardens overlooking the ocean. Right at the start of the Hour of the Bat - 6PM

The invitations had been sent. Members of some note in House Targaryen, big, or small were contacted by runners. A large space was blocked off by Targaryen men-at-arms. An intricately carved wooden table was procured and installed. A tablecloth was laid across it bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. Ornate chairs were set on either side of the table ensuring seating for every guest. They possessed silk backs, bottoms, and arms for ultimate comfort. One chair capped each head of the table, one for Lianna and one for Daeron. As far away as possible. Fitting.

Prior to the dinner’s start, there was a small social event where wine and fruit was served. The portions were kept light to not spoil dinner, though that wouldn’t stop someone seeking to have more than their fill. King Daeron and Queen Lianna arrived first. The size of the venue encouraged mingling and even allowed for private conversations. 

Once all guests had finally arrived, they were guided to their designated chair. Maekar senior and Aelyx sat to each side of Daeron. Beside them their wives. Then, came their children on each side. Beside Alys Marbrand came Aenar, then Maekar the Younger, his sister-wife Shaera, and finally Baelon. Beside Lady Tarly came Aegon. Then came Rhaenys beside Aegon. Beside Rhaenys was Baela and the Stark pup. Gaemon bordered them, with Daenerys Celtigar, and Aegon, Myrmadora, their son Rhaegel and daughter Rhaenys filling in some of the spaces in the middle. Finally, Lord Velaryon was invited along with his wife to attend who flanked Lianna on either side at the other end. 

Daeron wore a fine doublet bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. It masterfully paired the red and black colors of his house. To accompany it was a black cloak with a red silk inside. Such that both colors could be visible at once from a certain angle. He wore the crown of the conqueror and an assortment of rings displaying rubies and onyx to match. 

Queen Lianna Targaryen, formally a child of the Tides and House Velaryon, wore a marriage of houses to this dinner. A gown of black, slashed with a seafoam green, was draped comfortably on her form. Her body, no longer lean and lithe from her childhood, now bore the battles of childbearing. Wider hips. Wider chest. And stripes along her belly, hips and thighs had started forming during her pregnancy with the twins. It had only gotten worse from there. 

Lianna's pale hair was piled intricately on top of her head with bands of gold and sparkles of rubies. Woven through her hair and sitting proudly on her head was a crown of intricate piece of jewelry characterized by its graceful and symmetrical design. It prominently features large, teardrop-shaped pearls suspended from delicate diamond arches, resembling a lattice of sparkling brilliance. 

Lianna's face was a mask of pleasant elegance, however this was not her idea of a fun time. It felt like a war. 

My family. It was a sight to behold. Though not every Targaryen received an invite, and certainly there were outsiders included, he looked out and saw a glimpse of Old Valyria. This is what Aegon intended. A house, stronger than the rest. He looked out and saw a dynasty that would rule for the next 250 years. So long as they didn’t tear each other apart in the process.

How many of them would be happier were I to perish at this supper? They look at me and see an obstacle. One that sits between them and absolute power. One accident on a hunt, or an excess of milk of the poppy with my stew and they would all be able to fight and bicker for my throne. He could picture it now. Maekar would move fast, what with Aelyx so far away. Perhaps Aelyx would sit content with his Uncle as King. He’s shown no interest in ruling, why would that change now? Would Lianna put up a fight with Velaryon backing her? Perhaps his cousins would make their own play for the throne. Or support another claimant to advance their position at court. Damned bottomfeeders. 

Of course, he only had himself and Lianna to blame. Seven children and all daughters. After him, House Targaryen would never have another daughter just to even out his string of bad luck. Or perhaps their house would never have another son and they are truly cursed. The gods played and schemed, and it was his house that would pay the price. It was some cruel revenge for the Starry Sept. He knew it to be true.

After much thought, he rose with a goblet in hand to speak.

“To Aegon The Conqueror, who brought Westeros to heel, and built the greatest dynasty the world has ever seen.” He raised his glass and took a sip, waiting for everyone else to do so as well before continuing. “To our House, may the name Targaryen live on for a thousand years as we continue to grow and expand our demesne.” Once again, his glass rose and touched his lips. Allowing him to take a longer sip. As his cup lowered, he looked down and spent a moment to watch the ripples within. Expand, yes. That was it.

Raising it one last time, he said to all. “To us! Please, drink and eat your fill. Our night is only just beginning!”

Appetizer Course

With the guests seated, the first course was served. Peppers stuffed with cheese and onions. Brown cinnamon bread with butter. Garlic mushrooms and white wine from Lys to pair.

Soup Course

Then came Redwine and Beef Stew. Local wine with carrots and onions that warmed the heart and the belly. An alternative, less filling soup of peas, leeks, and herbs with oats could be requested. To pair, a dark and sour dornish red wine was offered. 

Cheese Course

Next, came an assortment of cheese to pick apart. Each distinct cheese had its own pairing of wine. Servants traversed the table in pairs to offer their crafted pair of delicacies. Hardened bread was served to contrast the softness of the cheese. 

Entree Course

For the entree, a juicy and light pigeon breast stuffed with chestnuts was served. Blackberry wine was poured to pair and heighten the taste buds in preparation for the main course. 

Main Course

The main course had finally arrived and delivered in every way. A rack of lamb with mint sauce. It was hearty and exploded with flavor on every bite. Arbor gold, the best of the best, was served to pair. 

Dessert

Then, came dessert. Trays of honeycakes, apple tarts, lemon cakes, and sherbert. To pair, a delectable and warm cider was made available with ample refills for all attendees.

As the courses were brought out, Daeron drank his fill. The paired wines were exquisite and there was much on his mind. Some of the best vintages available to them were opened and served. When dessert came, he stood once more, albeit slightly less solidly than before.

“Now that we have eaten and engaged in merriment as is our right. How about we follow it up with a game, hm?” He then looked out, meeting eye contact with as many as he could before continuing.

“Yes, a game. One that we all can have fun with. Perhaps it will even benefit the realm. Let’s go around the table, and everyone announces who they think should inherit my throne. We’ll start to my right with Prince Aelyx, and continue until everyone has said their piece. Yes, I think this should be quite fun.”

The low, mournful call of a pipe drifted over the calm waters of Blackwater Bay as Dalton Drumm, Lord of Old Wyk, led his fleet toward the towering walls of King’s Landing. Behind him, the ships of the Ironborn cut through the tide, their banners snapping in the salty wind.

From aboard the Scarlet Tide, the Ironborn crew sang their lord's song, the deep voices rolling across the waves:

Scarlet Tide, the waves we ride,

The Fatal Hold, where none abide.

Through storm and steel, our legend grows,

To salt and stone, our blood still flows!

The Scarlet Tide was a vessel that demanded attention. The ship’s prow was adorned with whale rib bones encrusted with glittering rubies, catching the light like drops of frozen fire. The mast bore red sails bearing the bone hand of House Drumm, flapping ominously as they approached the city’s harbor.

Dalton Drumm stood at the helm as he handed his pipes to his scruffy-looking Lhazareen servant, Pod. His wolf cloak, torn from the shoulders of a Pentoshi merchant who had begged for his life, hung around his broad shoulders. Each of his fingers gleamed with gemstones; ruby, sapphire, onyx, and emerald, the spoils of countless raids. His hair was windswept, and his piercing blue eyes scanned the docks of King’s Landing with the same predatory focus he reserved for his raids.

Beside him, Garvyn Pyke, his first mate, leaned on the railing, his gaze lingering on the sprawling city before them. His face bore the scars of battle, and his salt-crusted beard only added to his rugged demeanor.

"Look at that, Garvyn," Dalton said, his voice rich and satirical. "King’s Landing, where the gold flows thicker than the ale and the men are fatter than their coin purses."

Garvyn snorted, running a hand along the railing. "Aye, Lord, but you’ve seen the feasts of Pentos and Lys. Do you think these greenlanders can match those?"

Dalton grinned, his teeth stained red from his sourleaf. "Perhaps not." He spat red into the bay. "But I’ll wager their inns and brothels hold their own. And there’s something satisfying about taking their coin while their lords gape at our plunder." He flashed his fingers, wiggling the rings in front of his face.

Garvyn chuckled. "They’ll gape all right. Not every day they see a ship like the Scarlet Tide rolling into their harbor." He glanced toward the ruby-studded bones on the prow. "And the tourney? Will you bother with it?"

Dalton shrugged. "Eh, I've not yet made my decision. The tourney’s for them. Knights strutting about in gilded armor, playing at war. But the feast… now, that’s where men like us find entertainment." He cast a glance toward the docks, where crowds were already gathering to catch a glimpse of the Drumm fleet. "Let them play their games. We’ll enjoy the real spoils; gold, women, and their astonished faces when they realize their purses are vacated."

Garvyn nodded, his eyes narrowing as the ship drifted closer to the harbor. "And what if they sneer at us, my lord? Call us reavers and thieves?"

Dalton smirked, his hand brushing the hilt of Red Rain. "Then we grin and bear it; are we not reavers and thieves? Let them sneer, Garvyn. They’ll choke on their words soon enough."

As the Scarlet Tide docked, the Ironborn sailors began to unload some of their spoils, chests of glittering coin, silk banners, and jewelry seized from the soft cities of Essos intended to be gifts for the King. The crowd murmured in awe and fear as Dalton stepped ashore. He paused, casting one last glance at his ship before turning to his men.

"Enjoy yourselves, lads!" he called, his voice carrying over the noise.

The Ironborn cheered, the sound echoing through the harbor, as they scattered into the city, ready to make their mark on King’s Landing. Dalton adjusted his cloak, a wicked smile on his lips, and strode forward, every inch the lord and reaver of Old Wyk.

Third moon of 250AC, Starpike's courtyard

Ambience

Starpike's training grounds were disturbed with a loud sound of metal on metal, a cacophony of steel and grunts, and one that had been repeating itself for quite a few hours now.

"You're too slow. You've yet to hit me once, in three moons you'll face a knight twice my size and half my patience. Come on, again" Yelled a man clad in steel.

From afar, two figures watched the mock duel.

"Your father will never allow this, you three know" Edgerran Peake said. His deep voice was followed by a wheezing cough. The old man was sitting on a rocking chair he had claimed as his own after sitting on it day after day to watch Edmund's training. A good pastime in his old age. Good enough, at least.

"We shall see about that, and even then, he doesn't have to know." Selyse replied decidedly. The woman was standing next to the old man, watching the fight without much attention. Without waiting for a response, she spoke again. "Will you be coming to King's Landing, Edgerran?"

The old man shook his head, "No, dear gods, no. Your father wants me here, girl, someone has to run his three castles in his absence." He said with a chuckle, this wasn't the first time he had to manage the House of Peake while Lord Harys went away, visiting the Redwynes, the Tyrells, and now the King... If the gods were fair, it wouldn't be the last, either.

"I doubt your uncle will be up to the task, and Florys will want to enjoy herself at the feast, surely." He added as Selyse listened attentively. He then shook his head. "Besides, I'm too old for such a journey.

"Speaking of your father," he added "I should go see him. You wild kids distracted me far too much." Edgerran said as he planted his cane on the ground and stood up with difficulty. Selyse had learned that the man preferred to endure it than be helped. Soon, the man had entered the castle.

The swords were clashing still, the loud sound of steel meeting steel filling the courtyard. Edmund was loosing an apparently never-ending flurry of blows on his opponent, one that was panting and trying to fend off the blows, clearly with huge difficulties.

"I have taught you better than that, you exhaust yourself too much." He delivered a blow to the helmet of the other combatant, which rang as if a bell had been struck. "Short steps, quick, no need to parry with all your might, small nudges, redirect my blade." At every instruction he threw another slash at the poor warrior.

At that point, Edmund's adversary took two steps back, mumbled something unintelligible under the helmet, as the loud panting continued, and placed a hand on the visor with the intention to raise it.

That hand was struck with such force that if the blades weren't dulled, it would've severed right through the gauntlet.

"ARE YOU INSANE!" Edmund yelled at the top of his lungs "Raising your visor? What's next, taking off the helmet?"

"FUCK! Edmund! I think you broke my fingers!"

"Would you prefer the gallows?" He retorted. An exaggeration, of course, but he was nonetheless insanely tense. A mix of guilt and worry for the blow, but anger for the lack of awareness.

"I'm done for today" Elyn Peake removed her helmet with one hand, throwing it to the ground, enraged. Then started walking away, clutching her injured hand, red and swollen.

"Wait! Elyn" Edmund yelled at her as he picked the helmet up from the ground.

The woman didn't reply and went straight for the keep's door. She caught Selyse's gaze as she quickly strode.

"He is right, you know? If you do that by mistake on the tourney, what will happen? It would be an outrage, women aren't knights" The Peake said to her younger sister.

"I was not at the tourney, nor am I a knight" Elyn said as she opened the door and disappeared behind it.

Lord Harys' chambers

Ambience

Edgerran took the last step of the stairs, which a second ago had seemed eternal. In front of him was the door to Harys' chambers, almost an office at this point, always littered with papers and books and with hardly any space to move. The Lord had hardly slept on his bed since Margaery had died, now a surface more to clutter. He usually fell asleep on his desk, his head resting over his arms.

The old Peake shook his head, took a few steps and heard the muffled voices of his two niblings.

He opened the door without knocking. Lady Florys had made space for herself in the bed, pushing countless pieces of parchment to the ground, and she sat, leaning all her weight against her arms which she held behind her.

Harys, instead, sat in his desk, like usual. His back straight, arms resting on the table.

The two didn't interrupt their conversation as Edgerran took a step in, and the old man quickly found a seat for himself, and rested his tired bones in it, letting his cane drop to the floor.

"And you can't raise Stillcreek's taxes?" Florys finished the sentence Edgerran had failed to overhear from outside. "They are your vassals, and their liege is in need"

Harys shook his head. "I already did that, last moon. House Graves would be even more annoyed, can't afford another headache right now." he retorted.

"What is happening, Harys? Didn't you tell me the coffers had enough for the journey and gifts for the crown? Why the sudden need-" The old man said, but was promptly cut off by his niece.

"Our Lord wants a Bakery, to put the excess of grain we got to some use. Between that, the investment in the farms and the countryside..." The woman shrugged

"I can only conjure up so many carts, and plows, and oxen before the coffers run dry." Harys added to his sister's statement.

"Can't you hold off on the animals? How much was it, a thousand dragons, last time we spoke about it?" The old man said with a worried expression. "How much is that bakery of yours going to cost us"

"Four thousand"

"Seven Hells" Edgerran replied, followed by a cough "Are you insane? Right before leaving for King's Landing? I can try to get a better price but I will not be able to shave more than three hundred gold dragons from it."

"We can take a loan?" Florys said with a shrug

"I don't trust the Braavosi. And just the trip to them would be more coin than it's worth. Best we can do is-" Lord Harys' words were cut off

"Wood, nephew. We could use the wood that's coming from the Whitegrove." The old man exclaimed, a brightness in his eyes as if he had just come up with the greatest idea of his long life "Set up a workshop of some kind, I could use it for a cheaper bakery were we to build it after"

"How much would that take us?" Florys asked

"I could have it by the time you're back" Edgerran replied. "It will bring coin, too"

"Then it will be done" And with a swift gesture, Edgerran was already leaving, and Florys stretched herself before sitting up from the bed too.

"Brother, we leave in less than a week's time. You should unwind. You're leaving Edgerran in charge for a reason" She said, leaving no time for Harys to reply, for she was already gone.

The Lord of Starpike looked around. It was the first time in moons he actually realized what chaos he had been living in.

Somewhere in the courtyard, yelling was heard. He couldn't care less

Morning of the Feast, King's Landing 250 AC, Red Keep, The Godswood

The blush of dawn slipped through the narrow windows, its pale fingers brushed unadorned stone walls. Shadows played across the chamber, spase and cold, save for the wolf pelt that was sprawled cross the floor. Torrhen Stark sat upright in his bed, his breath catching as he pushed away the lingering specters of his dreams. He wiped his brow, his hand was wet with the faint sheen of sweat that betrayed his unrest; a plague upon most of his nights.

Ice loomed in the dim light, resting beside the bedpost like an old sentinel. Torrhen's eyes flicked to it; then away, as if the sight of the greatsword conjured more ghosts and demons than he cared to face - at least this early. For a moment he sat still, the silence broken only by the inhale and exhale of his breath as his body settled into a waking state. Across the room, a modest table was strewn with parchment and ink, the tools of his waking labors were waiting as they always did and so he rose. His barefeet found the familiar softness of the wolf pelt, his toes sunk into the rolls of fur, flexed, and lingered there. The pelt was a rare reminder of home, a contrast to the unfamiliar tapestries and stone walls of this southern prison. He ran a calloused hand through his constantly greying hair and a quiet exhale escaped his lips as he glanced over his shoulder toward the space beside him, a place where warmth might have been; but it was empty as it always had been for the past eighteen years.

His wife slept in a separate chamber. The agreement was practical, not born out of malice - but rather quiet understanding. Their bond had never been built out of love; only duty. Torrhen felt the cold weight of it as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and he blinked to see the faint light tracing patterns along the wall. He thought of her briefly, and of the life they tried to build together. One without hatred - but there was no comfort either. Their children were the bridge between them, and though he loved them fiercely, even more than himself, this love was only an underscore to the chasm that had grown between he and her.

His fingers brushed over the dark fabric of the tunic as he dressed himself. The rough spun material was simple enough for him, it could be easily procured in the market, the chain and the direwolf pin that would hold his sable black cloak about his shoulders would be enough for the occasion. Torrhen moved toward the simple table and paused at the window. His eyes looked out across the city, his office had a better view, his chambers overlooked the bay, and the twinkling torchlight were like the fireflies of the Neck. Winking on and off with the whims of the wind. He stood there for a moment, until his eyes refocused and he witnessed his own face in the reflection of the hazy glass. Torrhen grunted softly before turning away from the scene to the table.

The parchment before him wasn't blank. A few lines had been scratched down in expert hand - he reread them.
"A summer’s summer, fleeting bright,
A wolf stands still, bathed in light...”

He was dissatisfied with the words but he would dwell on them later. A glance over his shoulder revealed the silver disk of dawn approaching and he made motion to vacate towards the Godswood. He gingerly plucked Ice from it's watchpost and exited the chamber -

The keep stirred around him. Servants bustled quietly, avoiding his path with wary deference, and the distant hum of the waking Red Keep buzzed at the edge of hearing. As he descended toward the Godswood, the air grew heavier, warmer, carrying the scent of summer’s bloom—a sharp reminder of the South’s endless heat, so far removed from the North’s biting winds.

Torrhen reached the Godswood’s edge, stepping beneath the canopy of green. His sharp grey eyes swept the clearing, taking in the scene with practiced precision. The Godswood here was not Winterfell's but thankfully the Weirwood was still intact and unmaimed. Here, he would await Alys Knott, Lady of House Knott, and any who would see her vows anewed witnessed.

(Open)

Hobb I

^King's ^Landing, ^250 ^AC

The first wave had begun arriving about a week past, bringing with it a new bustle in the city as the merchants and craftsmen sought to one-up one another in preparation for the coming council.

That first wave, comprised of salesmen and merchants from across the continent, heralded a new month of fierce competition amongst the craftsmen as richer merchants from Maidenpool and Duskendale upended the stalls of the lesser craftsmen hogging the streets of King's Landing. The greater craftsmen, especially those associated with guilds and fraternities, were mostly unaffected by the coming wave.

Hobb found himself somewhere in the middle of these two camps, not as unlucky so as to have his business torn apart by the incoming hawkers but nowhere near fortunate enough to enjoy the privileges enjoyed by the guild members. At the end of it, his ties to the local community allowed him to keep his work going without much interruption.

The second wave, of course, was that of the coming nobility and their retainers. Men and women who would traverse the puzzling streets of the city, gawking at the stalls and brothels. Ladies and their maids would come buzzing by to purchase jewels and gowns while chains and bracelets were favorites among the middle-aged lords. The knights and heirlings, on the other hand, preferred armor and blades as well as shoes for their horses. He could forge all of this, of course, if only he had some help.

The Maiden Fair Inn is an old establishment, standing proudly at the edge of a cobbled street close to the Eel Alley. Three stories tall, the first level is constructed of sturdy stone, weathered by time but solid and enduring, with arched doorways and narrow windows that speak to its age. Above, the next two stories are made of timber, their wooden beams intricately exposed, creating a warm contrast to the stone below. Its ownership had passed through many hands throughout the years, through acquisitions and gambles, and now it belonged to a kingslander named Addam, a hardworking inn keeper that received it through the last will of the deceased previous owner. Men employed by the Mormonts had, previously to the arrival of the main host, contacted Addam and rented the Inn for the duration of the northerners' stay in the capital.

As they arrived, banners with the Black Bear were hung on the front of the establishment and two guards remained at the entrance. Addam and his wife, anticipating the hungry travelers, had prepared food and drinks on a large scale, and the northerners were able to rest comfortably from the road.

Rodrik enjoyed a mug of ale in the main hall, after changing from his heavy road apparel into more comfortable clothes, made from black silk and gifted to him by his princely friend of Pentos. On each of his sides were his two main companions. By his right, Longclaw rested inclined onto the table. And on his left, Kyra drank with him the same ale while both talked aimlessly. Edric and Sarra sat on the same table, having a conversation of their own, and the rest of the host were either resting in their rooms, eating in the main hall or on guard duty.

By order of the heir to Bear Island, couriers were sent to the many northern and southern houses of note that also had arrived on King’s Landing, with invitations to come to the Mormont’s temporary “manse” to feast and talk. Likewise, the guards at the door were instructed to allow inside any visitors interested to meet with the Black Bear and his family.

The day had dawned hot and very humid; the air was utterly still, the sky such a metallic blue-white that it hurt to look up at it. Over the past few weeks the Yronwood party from the the south had moved slowly north through the Stormlands and at long last had finally seen the walls of Kings Landing, shining in the distance.

As the sun rose and they came closer to the city, Lord Mors Yronwood, the Bloodroyal raised his arm, blotted sweat on his forward with his sleeve. While he was used to heat, the dry air of Dorne was in his mind far more bearable than this humidity. From the corner of his eye, he could see one of his sons Edgar slightly ahead. His eldest son, Edric a large well made youth of twenty years, rode almost at his stirrup. As their eyes met, they exchanged grim nods, meant to be reassuring, each man knowing that their arrival meant that they were now treading on shaky ground. For Lord Mors, there was an eerie sense of familiarity about this day. Last time he had been in Kings Landing, it had been three years a go at the funeral of his good brother King Rhaegal.

As they drew close to the River Gate, the sun was shining directly into their eyes, and young seventeen year old Alaric Yronwood, one of the younger son of Mors, clung to his saddle pommel with one hand and raised the other to shield the glare. Chain-mail armor was not meant for long rides, and the chivalric code had been amended accordingly, adding the caveat that it was not honorable to attack a knight unless he was fully armed, thus freeing men of the need to spend stifling hours in the saddle. But Alaric’s father had wanted his entry into Kings Landing to be a memorable one, and his soldiers were clad in sun-blinding mail, brilliantly gold surcoats with the black portcullis of the Yronwoods popping from the bright gold canvas. Heralded by high-flying, bright silk banners, by trumpets and pipes, the Yronwood contingent stretched far back. Despite himself it took his breath away, raised a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the hot sun.

Lord Mors accompanied by his eldest son and heir Edric, spurred his stallion forward, caught up with Edgar and Alaric. His other sons, Damon Sand, the Bastard of Yronwood and Ormond were further back in the line. Mors would speak to them later. For now the sons in his general vicinity would do.

  “I have something to say to you all,” he said to the three of them, and guided his mount away from the path, into a shadowy grove of alder trees. Edgar followed, drew rein, and waited, glancing at his younger brother Alaric with a raised eyebrow.

“Kings Landing is a dangerous place.” said their father. “Even more so now. The city will be flooded with lords from all over the Seven Kingdoms, their knights and followers. Some of those hate Dorne and us. Even some of our own from Dorne, such as the Fowlers, would seek to do us harm. They envy us or they fear us. Perhaps both. I brought your two sisters with us in order that we might lessen that danger but they face different sorts of dangers to what you do.”

Edgar’s face was expressionless. “I know that father,” he said. “Our sisters? I don’t understand. Our sisters will be looked after by us. Who would seek to harm a Yronwood?”

Mors frowned, slowly shook his head. He did not understand. “More than you know and not all dangers are out in the open.” he said.  There was nothing more he could say for the moment. Edgar had his father’s courage and bravado without his father’s self-restraint and subtlety that came with experience. That was like to get him – and them – into trouble. 

So, by the time the Yronwood contingent had crossed the Blackwater via the ferry and entered the city through the River Gate and into Kings Landing, Mors was taut with apprehension. He didn’t show it though. He made sure the covered wagon carrying his daughters was well guarded and looked hard to the rooftops of houses for any potential threat.

As they rode, everywhere Edgar Yronwood looked, he saw sights to astonish. The streets were very narrow, shadowed by the over-hanging stories of timber-framed houses, and they were packed with people, more people than he’d ever seen in all his life. His father Lord Mors had told him that Kings Landing held nigh on a half a million inhabitants, a figure that seemed impossibly vast to Edgar. When his father laughed at Edgar’s incredulity and said Oldtown had a population much of the size of Kings Landing, Edgar could only shake his head in disbelief. Even Sunspear wasn’t that large.

If Kings Landing was truly so immense, Edgar did not care to see it. As little as he liked to admit it, he was not comfortable amidst so many people. They crowded about him, jabbing him with their elbows, smelling of sweat and sour ale, assailing his ears with their loud, incomprehensible babble. It disconcerted him to discover that the citizens of Kings Landing spoke in accents that were at times difficult to understand clearly. Edgar swore under his breath as the people crowded around him and  

Seeing his son’s exasperation, the Lord of Yronwood gave a rare grin.

 “The Common Tongue has minor variations and regional accents.” Mors explained. “The Targaryens speak Valyrian, but the Common Tongue has remained the language of the common people. Passing strange; it ought to have died out by now. It is nigh on three hundred years, after all, since Aegon Targaryen defeated us the Andals. Valyrian it is claimed by some is supposedly a far more cultured tongue, but it is useful, too, to know some…”

Edgar was no longer listening. The crowds were parting, men squeezing up against the stalls that lined both sides of the street. When Edgar saw why they were retreating, he, too, shrank back. Two fully-garbed figures had come into view, shaking clappers to warn of their approach; never had Edgar heard a sound so doleful.

His father made the sign of the Seven. “Grayscale,” he said and shuddered. “Poor souls. At least they fare better in Kings Landing than in many places. They have a house beyond the city walls, and I know one of your ancestors granted them a small portion of all flour sold at the Great Market.”

“Poor souls,” Edgar echoed softly, thankful that their cowled hoods shadowed their faces, hid their ravaged flesh.

Mors was fumbling in a small leather pouch that swung from his belt. Withdrawing a few coins, he walked toward the two afflicted. Edgar felt a surge of pride as his father calmly greeted them, dropping the coins into their alms cup.

Unfortunately, the Lord of Yronwood then found herself besieged by beggars. Mors scattered a handful of pennies into their outstretched palms, then moved on. His soldiers kept the beggars at a respectful distance, but they continued to trail after Lord Mors, pleading their poverty in loud, importunate voices. Edgar was shocked at their numbers, for beggars were rare in Yronwood.

To Edgar, the most unnerving aspect of King Landing was its noise. Sept bells pealed out the hour, summoning the Seven’s faithful to services, tolling mournful “passing bells” for dying devotees of the Seven. Men wandered the streets shouting “Hot meat pies” and “Good ale,” seeking to entice customers into cook-shops and ale-houses. Itinerant peddlers hawked their goods, offering nails, ribbons, potions to restore health, to bestir lust. People gathered in front of the cramped, un-shuttered shops, arguing prices at the tops of their voices. Heavy carts creaked down the street, their lumbering progress signaled by loudly cracking whips. Dogs darted underfoot, and pigs rooted about in the debris dumped in the center gutter. Apprentices, pilgrims, cripples dragging about on crutches and wooden legs, would-be thieves, local villagers come to watch the various processions to the Red Keep, people come to trade at the weekly market, an occasional - it was all rather intimidating to a youngster from the desert areas of Dorne.

 Mors seemed to sense Edgar’s unease, for he began to talk, telling him that his late mother had spent her girlhood in Kings Landing and that he and his mother had wed here in the Great Sept, that the black portcullis of Yronwood had flown from the battlements of Kings’ Landing in his father’s honor. “I rode right up this very lane and your uncle the late King Rhaegal was waiting for me at the Great Sept where I wed your mother." he reminded his son.

The reminder that that the current King was his own first cousin was a sudden source of comfort to Edgar, and he looked about with renewed confidence. To his left lay a rare open stretch of ground, a dark, foul-smelling pond. A crowd had gathered at the water’s edge, and Edgar gasped at what he saw now - a man trussed up with rope, bound to a wooden plank, about to be lowered into the pond.

 “By the Seven! Father, look! They mean to drown that man!”

Mors merely laughed. “No, just a good dousing. When a brewer is caught watering down his ale, or a baker weighing his loaves too lightly, the culprit is dragged to the ducking pond for a quick, albeit wet, chastisement.”

Now that he knew the man was in no danger, Edgar watched with considerable interest as he was pulled, sputtering and choking, from the murky pond. A sudden stench warned that they were nearing the the butchers’ row, but as they passed a narrow alley, Edgar’s attention was caught by a woman lounging in an open doorway. What first drew his eye was her spill of wind-blown, bright hair; only young girls went bare-headed in public, yet this woman wore neither veil nor wimple. Nor had Edgar ever seen hair the color of hers, a harsh, metallic gold, a shade never intended by nature. She was drinking from a wineskin, beckoned to a discomfited passer-by, and made a lewd gesture when the man continued on his way.

Edgar’s eyes widened. He forgot his manners, stared openly, never having seen a harlot before. He kept craning his neck, glancing over his shoulder, so intent upon keeping the whore in view that he walked right into a pig, almost fell over the animal’s back. His eldest brother Edric laughed, and he flushed, then grinned self-consciously, wondering if he’d noticed the whore, too.

“And that is known as Grope Lane,” Lord Mors said dryly, “for obvious reasons. There are other streets that have bawdy houses, too, but Grope Lane has more than its share.”

Edgar knew, of course, that there were whores in Dorne, too. But he’d not known that there were houses for whores, that Crownland harlots lived together just as Septas did. The comparison was so unexpected, so ludicrous, that his embarrassment yielded to amusement, and he began to laugh.

Mors stopped a peddler, bought them all an apple.

“Deria Martell will no doubt arrive in the city soon. I shall need to pay our lady a visit. And we shall visit your cousin, the King. I shall present you all and your sisters. None of you shall shirk your duty in this matter, as good relations between the Martells and Yronwoods is my current desire if possible. And of course the King may well disposed to help us as well. Any melee and the tourney held here will be a lesser priority.”

Edgar was keenly disappointed, for had no interest in meeting Deria Martell or her brother and the settings for these sorts of meetings were usually stiflingly boring. Even his cousin the King would no doubt be formal and stiff when they finally met him He hastily looked away to hide his expression, but not in time; Mors saw.

“Do not fail me in this matter Edgar. This is more important than you realise.”

Edgar very much wanted to believe that, but he was learning to live with his doubts.

“There.” Lord Mors suddenly pointed up a small rise, with the Red Keep in the distance behind. “Over there lies our lodgings.”

Edgar barely glanced that way. His enthusiasm for Kings Landing and its marvels was fast waning. So swiftly had his mood soured that he felt only guilt; how could he take such pleasure in trifles like pitting his skills in the lists against the realm’s best, as he had planned when so much was at stake?

He said nothing, ate the last of the apple, and threw the core to a scavenging pig. They turned the corner, rode for the rest of the journey to their lodgings in silence

#Lucion Baratheon, 250 AC, two days after Lord Daric Baratheon's Death. Storm's End.

Lucion's fingers each felt like a needle had pierced right under his nail. He had spent the last half of the hour sewing and cutting a new undershirt for himself before his hands had started shaking from overexertion. To ignore the pain, the young Stag found it best to mouth the words his gray-blue eyes darted across now in the Library of Storm's End.

His jet-black hair was tied behind his ears and he had dressed himself in some of the easiest attire that he could get on by himself. He loved the Storm End's Maester, Beldon, like a father but Lucion felt the ever-growing need to become more and more independent from him. Years prior, Beldon and his staff would need to dress Lucion for his days, but the Baratheon knew he was meant to be a man and a knight. His beard was still a patchy mess, so Lucion had started shaving by himself as well. This was apparent in the few red knicks that lined his cheeks and neck. Absent-mindedly, he scratched at one and let out a hiss as his attention was passed from his text to his fingers to his raw face in just a single short moment.

"Um, ahem. Excuse me, my lord."

Lucion's eyes narrowed some as he slowly looked from his attention up toward another new and nervous servant of Beldon.

"I am no lord, nor a knight. As a charge of the Maester, you will only address me as Lucion. Is this understood?" Lucion spoke slowly, as it took every ounce of his being for each word leaving his tongue to be communicated with the clarity and power of a nobleborn man.

The young man blinked and his look of confusion was not hidden well enough. He bowed, "Of course, L-Lucion. Um..." The man's hazel eyes looked down toward Lucion's cane as the Baratheon slowly moved his hand toward it. It was made of Blackthorn wood, the handle a stormcloud spouting rain and lightning down into the ebony, unknowable depths of Shipwrecker Bay.

"Y-" Lucion's brows knitted together. Sometimes, it was difficult to get the rest of a word out of his mind and through his lips. He took a deep breath and tried again, "You and I are men, yes?"

"Yes, Lor- Lucion." The man stammered, another bow in apology. He believed that if he were to gain any repute with the Maester, Lucion would need to accept him as well, and he didn't seem to be doing too good of a job at it.

"So..." Another one of those disgraceful pauses. Lucion made it off as needing to let a cough out. "So, speak to me man to man."

"Of-of course... The Lord Grance Baratheon would like your presence. He is waiting at the door toward the Maester's library."

"Ahh, well. We've much to speak of nowadays and not much time to do so. Walk with me... What was your name?" Lucion asked, making the mental note to perhaps ask that first rather than later.

"Mace, my name is Mace."

"Good. Th-" another fake cough, the servant knew this time, "Thank you, Mace. I will find him. Put this book back where it belongs, please."

It took a couple of minutes to get up and out of his chair, but the youngest Stag made his way toward Grance where ever he might be.

OOC: Consider this a post a setting/dressing you can always go back to and ping others to interact in. A 'rolling' open that never closes!

It was hard to visit King's Landing without hearing of The Pink Pearl. The commonfolk of the city clamored night after night to enter for a chance to earn riches beyond their wildest dreams or to spend riches... also on their wildest dreams. So too would the highborn of Westeros, and even those from across the Narrow Sea, hear tales of the establishment. While it was rare to desire intermingling with the common people, the appeal of danger and desire far outweighed common sense. And for those that wished for true highbrow entertainment the secretive second floor, which some don't believe even exists, awaited. Perhaps most curious of all, was that the Lord Hand, Corwyn Velaryon, was the financier of the entire operation. Rumor had it that he won the establishment by playing at the very tables within it.

Despite this, no Velaryon insignia could be found within, and the daily operation was entrusted by a hireling of his, Rhea of Hull, who could always be found soothing over any daily troubles, along with the bastard nephew of Velaryon, Rhogar Waters, acting as head enforcer. Nonetheless, despite his attempts to distance himself from his ownership, rumor had it that the Lord of Driftmark still visited the establishment, though only with a contingent of other nobles for high stake games. A testament to the thrill of spending your night at The Pink Pearl.

Outside

The exterior of The Pink Pearl looked no different than any other building in the crammed alleyways of the Street of Silk. Crammed in a row of buildings, flanked by a clothier and a philters shop, the only thing distinguishing it from the other buildings was a lamp of ruby glass that gave the doorway and the gravel road a red hue. For any onlooker, they'd notice that the commonfolk would enter directly under the lamped door and either leave with a lighter load between their legs or a heavier purse. Emanating out from within the establishment were the sounds of drums, string instruments, pipes, and various different flutes, as it was a common occurrence for both local and travelling troupes to make hefty coin for their services. Occasionally, when the music quieted down, the sounds of pleasure or fighting, and often a mixture of both, were clear enough, but never lingered given the expediency of the next song played.

Ground Floor, All Welcome

For those that entered via the entrance with the ruby lamp, they'd immediately find themselves flanked by guards equipped with cudgels. Oddly enough, the guards weren't occupied with phasing out those entering, but instead kept a keen eye on the extravagance laid out before them.

Next perceived would be the air, thickened with the scent of sweet incense and the heady perfume of bodies entwined. Soft candlelight flickered against the stone floor, casting a dim, warm glow over the sprawling space. The main hall stretched before them, alive with the sound of whispered moans and the rhythmic creak of beds. A large central table sat in the middle of the room, draped in a pink boa and scattered petals, its presence hub for games of dice, cards, and other open revelry. The servants here, men and women alike, worked in comfortable abandon, their faces flushed, their laughter mingling with the sounds of pleasure.

Slightly elevated off of the stone floor, the upper balconies offered a more secluded experience, where couches and smaller tables awaited those who sought a quieter, more private corner of wagers or sexual conduct. On these lofted platforms, figures writhed in the shadows, their bodies moving in rhythm with those they shared the space with, the flicker of candlelight only revealing brief flashes of their hedonistic pursuits.

The bar, a waxed counter at the far end of the room, was tended by a figure beleaguered by all the work before them, but nonetheless kept a smile. The shelves behind the bar were lined with bottles of spirits, ready to numb the mind and loosen the body, while a small storage area and kitchen stood nearby, stocked with essentials for the ever-changing demands of the establishment.

To the side, private rooms beckoned, dimly lit spaces where customers sought temporary respite from the chaos of the hall. These rooms were simple, yet comfortable, their beds made for sin, providing privacy for those who wished to indulge without the watchful eyes of others. A discarded garment or two on the floor hinted at the carnal pleasures that had taken place.

At the far end, steam curled up from two large tubs in a bathhouse section, where the tired and the aching could surrender to the warmth, surrounded by the lingering scent of soap and bodies. It was a place of release, not just for the body, but for the mind, where the cares of the world seemed to disappear, if only for a moment.

The Pink Pearl was a place of many corners and many faces, each one filled with the promise of satisfaction, a refuge for those who sought to forget the weight of the world. Its layout, its atmosphere, were designed for those who came to lose themselves, to give in to temptation, and to surrender to the pleasures it offered. It was warm, inviting, and yet there was an undeniable sense of mystery in the air, a knowing that everyone had a secret to tell within these walls.

Second Floor, Nobility and Knights Only

To gain entry into the exclusive floor of The Pink Pearl meant only for highborn and esteemed knights, one would have to enter through the clothier next door: The Velvet Clam. Any that looked to enter The Pink Pearl via the red hued doorway that looked as though they met the criteria of nobility would instead be guided directly by one of the cudgeled guards into The Velvet Clam. Upon entering the clothier, typically confusion would ensue, as the business was a legitimate high-end garment and fabrics operation. However, confusion would quickly fade as the guard mentioned a need for a pearl hemmed attire to the manager, who would then wave them to first go upstairs and behind a door that, by layout alone, could not lead into the same building that they had entered.

Through the narrow, hidden passageway, the damp chill of the stone walls faded as guests emerged into a secret room, the faint echo of muffled voices growing louder with each step. The air was thick with smoke, the sharp scent of fine wine, and something darker: gambling and whispered wagers. As guests slipped silently into the shadows of a richly decorated space, they would become quickly aware that this was no average holding.

Before them lay a grand room, its high stone walls adorned with tapestries that told tales of forgotten kings and battles long past. The soft glow of flickering sconces threw shadows that danced like phantoms across the stonework, while the heavy scent of incense lingered in the air, mixing with the faint burn of wood from a great circular brazier at the far end.

The room was divided in two, with an ornate carpet running down the middle like a winding river of color. To the left, two long, rectangular tables dominated the space, surrounded by chairs where men and women sat in quiet concentration. The tables were littered with playing cards, dice, tokens, and scattered coin. Some faces were flushed with excitement, others pale with tension, as fortunes were won and lost. The gleam of gold and the clink of coins echoed faintly, like a siren's call.

Around the edges of the room were smaller tables, nestled in quiet corners or alcoves, offering refuge for those seeking privacy or quieter conversation. The patrons spoke in low murmurs, their words too soft for anyone but the closest companions to hear. At times, a hushed laugh would ring out, the sound of a bet well placed or a jest exchanged between friends or rivals.

The bar was situated in the upper right corner, a polished counter adorned with bottles of rich ales and wines, the shelves lined with glasses that sparkled as they caught the firelight. Behind it, a figure glided effortlessly to fill orders, as though he was in tune with the music that played throughout.

And above all, the room was alive with its own rhythm, people circling like wolves, drawn to the promise of fortune, the thrill of risk. The brooding presence of Essosi stoneworks perched above, like silent sentinels, seemed to watch over the proceedings, their stone eyes gleaming coldly in the low light. Fine Westerosi art adorned the walls, much of it in Valyrian style of erotica and various depictions of sexual pleasure. The working men and women of the establishment went to a fro as though they were ripped right out of the artwork and put into flesh. Many were scantily clad, with silks made from the clothier just next door, while others kept a state of near over-dress, eliciting a mystery of what could be beneath.

Should one wish to exit, a staircase led down to the kitchens of the first floor. However, those that still maintained their senses after a long night of indulgences would be allowed departure back through the clothier from which they came. Any outsider would be none-the-wiser to any visit to The Pink Pearl from such an exit, as all they would notice is one leaving any other clothing shop.

But to leave would be to walk away from a world hidden behind the veil of common society, a place where fortunes were built and broken, where secrets were exchanged just as readily as coins. It was a place where one could lose everything... or gain it all.

The sun slowly rose over the horizon, painting the towers and spires of the red keep in its light. Just as slowly, the city of King’s Landing came to life. People emerged, here and there a light began to flicker behind a window. Many set out to their work, hearths fired up, already you could hear hammering in some parts of the city. Some overeager blacksmith seeking to finish up some work quickly. In the docks there hung a smell of sea and fish, always. So many were brought in each day it was no wonder the market stalls were caked in perhaps decades of dried fish blood and guts. But among all of that, in the docks some of the workers would stop to see a curious sight. A handful of ships, ships that had clearly not been there the night before, and nobody had seen arrive.

Blackened wood, due to the layer of pitch used to shield them from rot and seawater. Black sails, all neatly raised and tied up. On the main mast of each ship, banners flattered in the wind. A few designs, but all of them sharing the same image of a silver scythe on black. Symbols of all the houses bearing the name Harlaw. In some parts of the world, a sight like this would signal death and despair, call for screams and panic, but not here, and not now.

A small crowd had gathered to inspect, but quickly dissolved the moment the first silhouettes appeared on deck. One among them moved quickly, Lord Harlaw, moving with quite a pace given his more than 60 years of age. He climbed atop the quarterdeck, stood by the rail of his ship, and simply watched the comings and goings for some minutes. His head tilted back and to the side slightly, his expression utterly unimpressed. The red keep did not interest him, spires and towers he had plenty at his own castle. Were it not for some obligations he would have much preferred to stay home, sailing around half the continent for some feast was not even on the back of his priority list. Even less so considering the Greenlanders who now stared at him and his from the docks. He glanced at them disdainfully; how much he just hated them.

He inhaled loudly, then his voice sounded, quiet, but serious “Half a day late…”

“Poor winds captain…” another voice from behind sounded. Roland replied only in a sigh, a sigh which those who knew him could interpret easily as the word “unacceptable”.

He had planned out the journey in detail, accounted for everything, and yet, here he was, having arrived half a day late, having to sail into a busy port in the middle of the night with only the light of the moon and stars to them. It had made the whole ordeal much tougher than it should have been, but then again, Roland did not feel as upset about it as he usually did about things.

The planks were eventually put up, and the first sailors descended from the ships and marched out in random directions. On their ways to buy provisions, find drink, for some even just to stretch their legs. Many hours passed until finally more of the Harlaws emerged from their ships. Of course, the blonde ones slept in, took their time.

A few words were exchanged between all of them, Roland decided to stay on his ship, as far away as possible from the Greenlanders. Red and Aerson, always the closest of friends, set out together, seeking whatever men of their age sought these days. Roland’s daughters set out in a group led by his eldest, he watched them walk into the wilderness of the great city from his ship. Last was Leona, the proper lady raised on the mainland, setting off by herself in a fancy dress with fine furs over her shoulders. Were it not for the clearly ironborn looking guard who followed her, she could easily be mistaken for a Lannister.

Roland in the end simply withdrew back to his chambers and took his maps and parchments. There were things on his mind.

((Feel free to jump in, let me know who you encounter))

Red Keep | Sixth Moon of 250 AC | Crepuscular Glare of Wisdom

Deep within the bowels of Maegor’s Holdfast, in some forgotten chamber whose stones were among the first to be laid when the cruel king began his work, a withered old man hunched over his work table. The air was damp and stuffy, filled with the fumes that rose from the alembics, vials and jars set before the man, candlelight flickering and gleaning off of their smooth surfaces and casting long shadows that danced upon the worn stone floor.

The records did not say what this chamber had been for, or which masons had set the stones, but the imagination filled in the blanks. In the corner, the Grand Maester saw the outline of a torture rack, where one of the religious dissidents that King Maegor had hated so much screamed in agony. Perhaps even the king’s own nephew, the brother of Jaehaerys the Wise, who was said to have been torn apart in a chamber such as this. Archibald did not like to dwell on such a thought. Death and misery haunted most places in the Red Keep, especially its lowest and darkest corners, which unfortunately happened to be the most suited for the brewing of poultices and remedies. He had spent many years with the castle’s ghosts, and as he could not grant them their eternal rest, he thought it best to leave them be.

As he labored in the quiet of his chamber, his frail hands, stained green and brown from the herbs and pastes, moved slowly but with precision from one task to the other. The sound of stone grinding against stone, as he ground the wormwood leaves into a fine paste, echoed against the thick walls, and the rhythmic scraping was soon joined by footsteps descending down a spiral staircase and into the workspace.

Archibald’s hand paused just as he reached for a vial of amber liquid. He turned his head just enough for his weary eyes to meet the new arrival. Maester Ollidor lingered in the shadows, his arms wrapped around a pile of tomes and parchment. The younger man’s robe was slightly askew, and the dim light made the links of his chain glint and shine.

“Ravens from the Citadel,” said Ollidor, nodding to the pieces of paper he had brought. Archibald murmured to himself, taking his time to take his mind off of his current task for even a brief moment.

“Leave them there,” he mumbled, waving his hand in the air and pointing to nowhere in particular, and hunched over his table again.

As Ollidor walked across the chamber, his chain rattling and robe dragging against the floor, he glanced at the Grand Maester’s table. “Wormwood and valerian… A calming draught. Who for, I wonder,” he said, relieving himself of his burdens for a moment and assorting the Citadel’s letters in a pile.

“The king will need a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s feast.”

Ollidor chuckled knowingly. “His Grace is a stubborn man. He might not agree.”

Archibald’s pestle stopped moving, and the old man’s back slowly straightened to meet Ollidor’s eyes. “You ought not worry,” he said, his voice raspy and quiet. “I shall hand it to him myself.”

Ollidor stepped closer. “He grows wearier of our methods with each girl the queen gives him, as I’m sure you know.”

He knew only too well. His arm was still not the same as it was before Daeron shoved him to the floor a few moons past. What truly perplexed him, however, was how a man could be so angered by the birth of a healthy child. The blood of the dragon, Archibald reminded himself, his thoughts returning to Maegor and the poor prince he tortured to death. When another man’s blood boils, a Targaryen’s will burst into flame.

“No such draught exists that can turn a daughter into a son,” the Grand Maester replied.

Ollidor held the Grand Maester’s gaze for a moment that stretched too long. Then he looked away, his fingers brushing the edge of the parchments he’d brought, as if to busy his hands. “Your concoction will serve His Grace tonight, Grand Maester,” he said, seemingly conceding to the older man’s wisdom for now. “Though perhaps there will come a night when he’ll need something stronger. I trust you will know what to do.”

Archibald’s lips pressed into a line. He said nothing, and turned back to his work, memories of the late King Rhaegel’s affliction flooding his mind. The scrape of his pestle resumed. Ollidor lingered for a moment longer, watching the old man, and then he gathered his robes and ascended the spiral staircase.

When the echoes of Ollidor’s steps had faded completely, Archibald exhaled slowly. He stared into the mortar, at the pale green paste he had been grinding away at. “No such draught exists,” he murmured to himself again, though now it felt less like truth and more like prayer.

10th Day of the 6th Moon, 250 AC

King's Landing, the Crownlands

The closer the ship crept to shore, the more pungent the air became—a heady brew of fish guts and the acrid stench of the muddy banks of the Blackwater. It was a smell Sigrun knew well. It clawed at her memories, dragging her back to the damp shores of Blacktyde, where the sea was as absolute as the sky. One could never be too far from it. That thought coaxed a smile to her lips. So far from the Iron Islands, yet the capital of the greenlanders reeked just the same.

Her longship, the Forlorn Hope, had crossed tranquil waters and thunderous storms alike on this journey. Days and nights blurring into a rhythm of creaking timbers, salt spray, and the bellowing of the waves. Sigrun had sailed these waters before, though never under a banner of peace. As her boots struck the docks, she felt a rare flicker of relief—a journey's end was a quiet triumph in itself. The longshoremen asked for coin to unload her cargo, but she refused. The Forlorn Hope was all the quarters she needed, and much more secure at that.

The dockside air sharpened as they moved inland, through the Mud Gate and into the bustling cacophony of Fishmonger's Square. It was livelier than Lordsport’s markets, but no less rank. The musty stench of the city thickened, clinging to the humid air. Fish scales glittered in the dirt like misplaced coins, and the calls of hawkers promising "fresh catch" were a bad jest in a place where freshness had drowned hours ago. Sigrun had not endured moons of salted fish and dry bread to find herself salivating over their wares. She pressed on, her boots grinding the muck beneath.

The street ahead opened wide, a plaque naming it the "Street of Steel," though the clang of hammers against anvils needed no introduction. Smoke coiled into the sky, carrying the stifling tang of the forges. The smithies here were impressive. They displayed tourney helms crested with intricate swans, lions, and dragons, their enamel gleaming brighter than any Blacktyde forge could hope to achieve. Sigrun paused before a shop where an eagle's wings flared from a golden helm, wondering if her own battle-worn armor might need replacing. "Later," she muttered, her fingers unconsciously brushing the hilt of her sword.

The incline of the street carried them upward, and soon, Visenya’s Hill loomed ahead. At its peak, the Dragon Sept presided, its grandeur but shadow the Starry Sept the Ironborn had burned less than a century ago. Yet the sight that caught her crew’s attention was not the sept but the gaudy facade of the House of Kisses, nestled brazenly at its foot. "Seven bless this city," Harmond jeered, gesturing to the brothel. "I wonder how many little dragons were hatched in there!" Laughter erupted among the reavers, bold and unrestrained, but Sigrun silenced it with a glare sharp enough to split stone.

"Enough," she snapped, her voice a low growl. "The last thing we need is more goldcloaks sniffing at our heels." The men fell quiet, though their smirks lingered. Around them, the people of King’s Landing cast wary glances, the wariness of prey in the presence of wolves. Children pointed in amusement at their salt-stained cloaks and braided hair, while merchants moved their wares farther from grasping hands.

"They fear us," Sigrun murmured, her pale green eyes narrowing.

"As they should," Symbassa replied, her lips curving into a smirk. "The sheep always fear the wolves."

Sigrun snorted softly, brushing a strand of Symbassia's black hair back into place, "Well, we're not the only wolves around," she said after a moment, her voice quiet but weighted. Her gaze lingered on the distant towers of the Red Keep, looming over them. "Soon, this city will be crawling with them—more so than usual."

By nightfall, the city’s labyrinth of alleys and squares had guided them to Eel Alley, beneath the long shadow of the ever present Red Keep, where a timbered tavern leaned precariously over the cobblestone street below. Laughter and the twang of strings spilled from its windows. Inside, the air was no less oppressive than the streets, but the promise of drink lightened Sigrun’s step. A bag of silver secured the innkeeper’s reluctant hospitality, though his eyes darted nervously toward her crew.

"Ale for the men. Spiced mead for me," Sigrun ordered, her voice cutting through the din. The barkeep returned moments later with cups and mugs, his hands trembling as he set them down. He kept staring at her scar, making a poor job at hiding it.

“This one is the best mead we own, my lady, spiced and very strong," he stammered. "Uh, but sweet on the lips."

Sigrun tipped the mug back and drained it in a single chug, the fiery sweetness curling against her tongue. She exhaled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I’ve had stronger," she declared, setting the mug down with a dull thud. "Leave the bottle."

Her men roared their approval, their cheers rising with the clatter of mugs.

As dusk began to settle in, she leaned out the tavern’s window fram, taking in the sprawling portrait of King’s Landing. She could just make out the faint silhouette of her longship, tethered to the docks like a restless beast. It was sleek, but weathered, in stark contrast to the royal galleys anchored nearby, their bulk cumbersome and imposing, like slumbering leviathans. She noticed how clean they looked, and wondered if even half of them had seen any action at all. She smirked at the sight, her fingers idly drumming against the windowsill. Slow old tubs, she thought, recalling with pride the many times she had outpaced similar warships while raiding the Narrow Sea.

The city beyond was a mix of splendor and squalor. The wealthy districts by the Red Keep's shadow boasted tall, stately houses with tiled roofs and arched windows that glittered in the dimming light. Yet just beyond those polished facades sprawled hovels so pitifully constructed that even the poorest corners of the Iron Islands seemed noble by comparison. Shanties with sagging roofs and crooked beams sprawled like a blight across the city’s lower slopes, cascading toward the northern gates in a tide of destitution. Just these slums were probably larger than Lordsport itself, its appetites and miseries stretching far beyond her sight.

And the smell. By the Drowned God, the smell. It clung to the city like a second skin, thick and stifling, as though the air itself had curdled under the weight of so many lives crammed together. It was a vile brew of sweat and shit that seemed to coat her throat with every breath, as dense and oppressive as the heat of a summer storm.

Sigrun let her gaze linger, not out of admiration but out of calculation. King’s Landing wasn’t beautiful; it was impressive in it's own way. Not in the way of the great seas or the star-filled skies of her homeland. But it was alive, teeming with opportunity for those bold enough to seize it. And Sigrun Blacktyde had always been bold.

"Too much," his melodic voice boomed. Like a wine it had aged from the day she was born, from a smooth, deep tenor to the current slightly rasping bass. Her uncles words however had not held the same place in her heart.

"Too much?" She mused, looking it over with plain annoyance.

"It is for a... wait what is this for? A princess?" Rohanne chimed from the bed, her feet dangling over the edge, kicking against the ends of her skirts as she laid back, eyes cast to the roof.

Her Sister's tone had been plain, it was a disagreement.

"But you do not wish to effect that you wish to see the lady Targaryens take the throne, or has years of you reminding me suddenly been overturned on another fool's plan?" Titus growled. He meant well, but every time her uncle snapped it made her flinch, his voice was simply too loud for such intimate closed-door conversations.

Melantha looked back at the small decorated cushion which the necklace sat upon. Small diamonds were encrusted in a cascading set of teardrops along the length of the lowest band of white gold. The second loop held a singular larger gem of shining white in the centre. She tilted her head to the side and held her gaze on it a time longer before she gave an emphatic sigh and nodded.

"No, he's right... it is too much," Melantha groaned and she joined her sister.

"Perhaps instead of agonising over making it yourself you can simply buy it here?" Titus offered and as soon as she had fallen she shot up. Melantha looked to her uncle and her eyes narrowed, widened and narrowed again.

Finally, she clapped her hands and shooed her uncle out of the room. He left and she knew he would simply wait out the door and watch its entrance. Returning inside, Rohanne had come to her feet and was bringing out several of their dresses.

"Perhaps we might visit the forge again, I wish to check on the detailing," she said with a wide smile as she stripped down from her indoor gown. A simple green dress with a series of white underskirts. The bodice had to have been tightened to fit her, and so it was a gasp of wonderful fresh air with it gone. And expecting a new equally terribly tight dress, she was surprised as her sister drew forth a collection of items.

Trousers, a flowing coat of flowery ornamentation of gold and green and wonderfully soothing peach pink, leather boots and a nicely fitted flowing white blouse.

Melantha glanced at her sister and the younger Hightower returned a devilish grin.

"Fine, it's a good choice," Melantha conceded.

Melantha stepped out onto the street of silk with Titus and Rohanne at her side. Titus, as ever donned his breastplate, wore Vigilance on his hip and covered his back with his heavy heater shield. And though he possessed only one working eye, the towering man scoured the street with a discerning look.

"I'm sure not even Percy hates me enough to harm me in broad daylight, uncle," Melantha said. It only drew his frown into a line instead

Rohanne stepped to her side, moving out of the shadow of their uncle. Her dress, a subdued black was fitted well with its skirts stopping a few inches above her ankles for easier travel, was accented wonderfully by a thin dark mesh that sat beneath her sleeves and covered the small amount of her chest that the dress did not cover, just beneath her collar bone.

"So where first? Hunt down some of these jewelers first? The forge? Social visits?" ROhanne asked, and the final part earned her a frown and a glance from Melantha.

"What?" Surely you do not intend to simply avoid everyone until the festivities begin?" She asked.

Melantha said nothing for a moment before out of frustration at her defeat, she stormed off down the street.

"Sailing here was enough, you can be forgiven for not wanting to subject yourself to Percy's little charade... or his charity," Titus added, "but you cannot simply hide in your tomes until they're locked in a room with you."

"Surely I can simply entice them with a bat of the eyelids and a smile."

"They won't know where to find the beautiful lady in question if she never makes an appearance," Rohanne said.

She was already low on excuses from the start, but she had ran out faster than she hoped. SO she sighed and she gave a dejected nod.

"Forge first," she moped.

The Broken Fleet a remnant of the past idled in the waters of the Blackwater Rush, half a dozen ships were all they were but the crews which manned them were loud and in high spirits. Sarella remained in her quarters, the nights events had left her tired so it was Wick's job to prepare the men. He stood on the upper deck, his pale skin spotted with the markings of the Painted Ones.

"Men, you'll have a moon docked in King's Landing use the time as you see fit. Drink, eat and fuck. You have free reign, but remember just because our master has granted us some rope does not mean we are allowed to fashion our own noose with it. Any man found breaking the laws of the land will be forced to adhere to the punishments." he took in a deep breath, he men of each ship began to scurry energetically, they knew what was to come next and for Wick finished each of his speeches the same way.

"Thanks..." before he could finish the sentence the crews erupted in unison like a choir praising some strange deity "NOW FUCK OFF!" with that they raced around hoisting sails, preparing birth and ensuring that each of their ships was well maintained so they could spend their first night on land in moons the way they wanted. Wick couldn't help but chuckle, he walked over to the helm, Grazdan gave him a light nod.

"Inspiring words, Vice Admiral."

"Fuck off" he replied to Grazdan who laughed.

"These Westerosi wont know which way to skin you."

"These Westerosi don't know much of anything, why Sarella wishes to attend some foreign bastards feast is beyond me." Wick gripped the sheath of his large sword and slipped it off, and placed it beside the wheel. He gripped the wheel with both hands and began to slowly drift it round, the other ships had begun to break away from the Flagship to ensure not being crushed under it, for she was truly a magnificent ship.

"So, what's the plan?" asked Grazdan who leant against the railing.

"Make friends apparently, I've slain a dozen Westerosi or more, I'm not sure if they wish to be a friend of mine." Grazdan chuckled and placed a firm calloused hand on his old friends shoulder.

"If Westerosi are good at one thing, it's forgetting wars." they both laughed at the thought, there were a dozen houses across Westeros who had been in bitter rivalry's for generations. Still, if Sarella had a plan, Wick trusted her enough to follow it, at least for now.

As the flagship drifted closer to the city, the towering walls of King’s Landing loomed ahead, its sprawling docks alive with activity. The fleet’s arrival drew eyes from sailors and merchants, their curiosity palpable. For all the grandeur of the city, the Broken Fleet brought with it an air of menace, a reminder of battles fought and enemies made.

Wick smirked to himself, the wheel firm in his grasp. Whatever awaited them in King’s Landing the fleet would weather it, just as they always had.

(If you want to meet the Broken Fleet feel free to do so.)

“The hounds said what?” Aenar asked, giving Garth the queerest of looks. The two sat in a corner of the barracks, as Aenar worked at cleaning some training swords. “All that, with words…? You should’ve brought the beast to the Stepstones.”

“All these years and you doubt me still,” the squire spoke, with a frown. He leaned on the table behind him and crossed arms. “The dogs know things, Aenar. The Prince Steward came sailing in with your brothers. Say they spotted them looking in good health just in time for the feast.”

Aenar had always assumed the man’s vast knowledge of the inner workings of the city had come from careful bribes, but even now, he insisted this knowledge of the canine tongue. And he was right - he’d seen the dogs, coming and going, working their way around King’s Landing. As a boy, Aenar had met a Stormlander who claimed to turn into a wolf at the sighting of the moon. The knight of the Kingsguard was of a rather trusting nature when it came to those close to him, and truly he cared little to interfere in things beyond him. What proof did he have against Garth? Far be it for him to risk the wrath of the stray dog packs that roamed King’s Landing.

“And my mother?” he asked. “And Shaera?”

“Fine as well, aye,” the squire nodded in affirmation, closing his eyes as if to recall the details. “Spots thought he saw a bump in Shaera’s dress but Fat Aegon thinks it was just the wind. But yes, all there, all happy. Though your father looked annoyed.”

“I can imagine,” Aenar shook his head, staring off into the distance, voice carrying frustration. “I really can’t keep doing this. I wish Daeron would just settle on Alyssa. It was fun, when I could just drink all night. I can’t fucking wait for the seven weddings and seven more tourneys, the fourteen funerals-”

“Someone doesn’t like babies very much,” Garth said.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love Laena, she’s a joy,” the knight gave him a leveled look. “But the Gods seem rather clear. Seven daughters. If anyone wants to doubt the Gods I’ll just kill them. The Wall could use more men. Those wooden hovels in the Stepstones probably could, too, once Daeron finds lords.”

“And yet these feasts happen, and you just have to stand in the corner and watch people,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Maybe the king will let me come to this one, for my war efforts. I’ll sneak you cake and warn you when Rhaenys is nearby.”

“I do things…” Aenar looked at him with genuine confusion, not understanding where the squire was coming from. “You think I just stand around? The realm is an angry drunk. Hells, I think I caught Rhaenys trying to push Baelon off a balcony once. You know how she is.”

“Better get to training, then, the bell will be ringing any moment,” Garth said as he began putting the clean training swords into a crate.

“Aye, careful bringing these out, bloody step’s loose near the door,” Aenar said, taking one of the training swords and making his way out into the Middle Bailey. Across from the armory the Tower of the Hand provided some shade from the heat and to Aenar’s right side the city stretched on into forever. It was this very spot where On the left a group of acolytes were entering the Royal Sept and the Maidenvault’s slate roof was home to a nest of doves. Aenar ignored the stench of the stables to the north as he waited for Garth to emerge.

Maekar was here. Shaera. Baelon. Aenar was an uncle now. Like Maekar and Daeron. Like Aelyx and Rhaegel. The world changed and he was still here.

Best to make the most of it.

^(247 AC | The Red Keep, King’s Landing |) ^(Mood)

Had it not been for the Faith Militant Rhaegel Targaryen, First of His Name would be laid to rest in the Dragon Sept. Instead, presumably, he would be set aflame and his ashes sent back to Dragonstone as had been custom for years under the reign of the Dragonriders. For now, however, his carcass sat in the cellars of the Red Keep, cold and damp, surrounded by the skulls of all the dragons to whom only a century or so ago the Targaryens drew their strength from. Rhaenys had neglected to visit him until most if not all of Rhaegel’s kith and kin had already paid him their respects, claiming that she needed to be with her husband alone. And she did, though not to grieve him.

The skull of Meraxes cast a shadow over her as she made her way into the cellar. She glanced up at it as she passed it. Her rider had been her namesake, though she wondered if they could have been more different. The beloved wife of Aegon the Conqueror was impulsive, kind, adventurous, and perhaps a bit promiscuous if the rumours were true. The daughter of King Aegon, Fourth of His Name was a farce. Kind, only in the presence of others; Calculated when the first Rhaenys had been impulsive; And she had no desire to see the world. Their biggest difference was that she had always been chaste. Love, as she saw it, was something that was hard to earn. Her mother’s supposed love for her father did nothing to dissuade him from taking a replacement. Whatever love she might have had once for Rhaegel did nothing to protect her from his madness, either. She never loved him, though. Perhaps her mother and father never really loved eachother. Perhaps that was why their marriages meant nothing in the grand scheme of things - because they were.

She reckoned that, had the dragons been alive now, she might have loved to fly as much as the wife of the Conqueror did. How freeing it might have been, to detach herself from the world and graze the heavens for an hour or two. She could only dream, and the only man who might have helped open her eyes to the experience lay a few feet in front of her. Perhaps Rhaegel Targaryen just wanted to fly. Maybe he just wanted to kill himself.

Rhaenys had reached him now. She reached out to take his cold, stiff hand and stared down at him with vacant eyes, not realising even now she was still pretending.

“They say the bond between twins is unlike any other,” she said to his corpse, “that it is unbreakable, inseparable.”

She got herself comfortable, lifting her leg up onto the slab he’d been laid on to half-sit and half-lean against it.

“We shared a womb, do you remember? You should have loved me, and yet every day we were together I was made to feel inferior. I’m not even sure if I can blame you for that.”

Rhaenys gave his hand a squeeze, tentative, almost as if she were worried he might open his eyes at her touch. He didn’t; He didn’t move at all. He just laid there, facing the ceiling, like she wasn’t even there. She chuckled at that.

“Sometimes I look back on our youth and I wonder if things might have been different. Perhaps if father had been more attentive he might have been able to help you before you lost your mind; Perhaps if mother had lived, her love would’ve been enough to save you. They say a mother’s love is unconditional, too.”

She wondered, sometimes, if it truly was. She and Leonetta had always been opposed in some way or another, and her mother wasn’t there to love her. Her aunts, doting as they may have been, had been married off to all the corners of Westeros. When she had Daeron and Daenerys, she was barely a woman grown herself. She had nobody to look to, to teach her how to raise her own children. Rhaenys wondered, and often worried, if she truly loved her children or if it was all an act. If that love, real or not, was enough to save them from becoming their father.

“I wish I could’ve told you how much I hated you when you were alive.” Her tone changed, forlorn and distant to heated, disgusted. She dug her nails into his cold, dead hand and watched a mass of very thin, paltry droplets of blood run down from his hand to hers.

“I wish that I’d pushed you to your death myself, watched you fall and break into pieces like a shard of glass, heard your screams as you realised that you were going to die. Gods…”

She wiped a stray tear from her cheek, only it did little to help her. She could feel his blood on her hands, smearing across her face, and it made her feel sick. She spat on him, enraged, and watched as it ran down his cheek. In the right light, it might have looked like he were crying too.

“I should have been able to love you,” she told him as the vitriol left her. She stood up, wiped her hands on the cloth of his tabard, “and that is why I hate you most of all.”

She turned quickly to leave. As Meraxes’ skull overhead coated her in shadow, any rage that might have lingered on her face dissipated.

She would never have to see Rhaegel Targaryen again, and for that she would be grateful.

For those just entering King's Landing, no matter what gate you entered through, it would be hard to miss the heralds in aquamarine tunics shouting and intermittently blowing at their trumpets.

"WELCOME ALL! THE LORD HAND INVITES LORDS AND LADIES, SERS AND PAGES, AND ALL OTHERS OF GOOD STANDING TO HIS MANSE! A RESPITE FROM THE ROAD! A TRUE WELCOME TO THE CAPITAL! COME AND GET YOUR BEARINGS!"

Were anyone to ask for directions, they would be gladly given, though a stream of nobility was guidance enough. Ultimately, any visitors would come upon a high cobblestone wall topped with garland, but plain enough to see were the seahorse banners of House Velaryon. Guards stood at the ready, though with welcoming smiles, to any that approached the copper gate to be granted entry into the courtyard. Manicured shrubs and a well-maintained lawn were what any skilled botanist would first observe, but those with less acute sensibilities would put their attention on roundtable after roundtable draped in cloth and topped with 'finger food' aplenty. Pastries and tarts, bite-sized sausages and a gradient of cheeses, fruits and berries of the exotic and familiar variety. One couldn't ignore the wines, either, each held by well-groomed servants eager to greet you with a glass and a vintage of high esteem.

But, of course, this occasion would all be for naught if it wasn't for it's host: Lord Corwyn Velaryon. Resplendent in a blue overcoat that was lined with white seahorses that could only be discerned by close inspection, he would stand prominently well within the courtyard already in conversation with those that had arrived prior. Only after a guest had made their way past servants, refreshment tables, and other guests, would Lord Corwyn approach, donning his necklace of hands that seemed to fit perfectly into his attire.

Also present were not only his heir, Vaemond Velaryon, but his twin sister, Valaena. The pair alternated between greeting and conversing with guests together and separately. Vaemond wore a wide, if not cocky, grin, while Valaena kept a bashful curl of the lips. Baela Velaryon could be found with the musicians of the courtyard, strumming away at the harp with the backing of flutes and bells to provide a calming ambience to the event.

Any that wished to partake in refreshment and simple conversation, they were welcome. So too, could one ask for a private audience with the Lord Hand, who would lead them beyond the courtyard and into the guarded manor itself.

As befitted the house of the Sword of the Morning, the Daynes were among the first to arrive in King's Landing. This was in spite of their having traveled quite a ways from distant Starfall. They'd started early, but they'd also rode hard. Now Devan Dayne was tired, and his arse hurt. He didn't much enjoy riding. It'd been some years since a horse of his had died, but he knew all too well that when a man his size rode, the chances of hearing and feeling the sickening snap of an animal's back breaking beneath him were never zero.

On the plus side, the family's early arrival meant that they were able to secure several rooms for the Dayne party at one of the capital's more pleasant inns, a handsome half-timbered establishment calling itself The Two Keys. The innkeeper, in exchange for a few extra coins, had even managed to find a couple of extra beds to push together in order to more comfortably fit the Tower of Starfall's bulk. The resulting contraption wasn't a match in comfort for his chambers at Starfall or for Garin Martell's room at Sunspear, but it was much better than it could've been.

Devan had spent most of that first day in King's Landing resting, alternately dozing and reading a book, a chronicle of some Stormlander's adventures in Essos. Some of it seemed a bit farfetched to him -- how the hells, he wondered, did the people of Kayakayanaya manage to keep their populations stable when they cut the balls off ninety-nine percent of their men -- but the Stormlander was a good writer, and Devan was willing to suspend his disbelief a bit for the sake of good writing.

It all made him feel like he ought to be going on adventures of his own, exploring this city rather than lying here in bed. But he'd been here once already, and even after a restful morning he still ached, so he lounged around 'til evening, taking his meals in his room. Now, though, Devan felt the need to do something. At length he shook off his tiredness, setting his book aside and hauling his hefty self out of bed. He went out into the hall and knocked on his sister Maris' door.

"Maris, Mathos, I'm getting a drink. You coming?"

A beat, silence from behind the door. "No," came Maris's voice after a long moment, "we're going to take an early night."

"You alright in there?"

"We're fine, just tired. Go on, have fun. Just don't get punched, hm? We can't have you going to the big feast with a broken nose."

Devan rolled his eyes at that. "I'll try my best."

Then he turned and headed downstairs. Poor Maris. Being back here, where she'd met poor Willem Strickland, was not good for her. City of ghosts, as far as she was concerned. And what must Mathos think of it all? Devan knew his sister's husband understood what she'd been through, but to see her brooding over another man, no matter how dead that man might be, would have to be a strain on him.

But, well, there was only so much Devan could do about it all. He had no doubt they'd all put on a brave face for the feast. For now, though, it was time for some cider.

When Devan reached the ground floor of the Two Keys and came into the barroom, a palpable hush went through the place. Devan was used to that. It couldn't be every day that the good people of King's Landing saw a purple-robed giant with a pale-bladed greatsword at his hip. But once Devan went up to the bar, got himself some cider, and settled himself precariously on a grossly undersized stool, the patrons seemed to realize he wasn't about to stomp on them or slap them with Dawn, and went about their business. In one corner a rather handsome young man was sawing away on a fiddle, and some of the drunker patrons were up and dancing.

Devan himself tapped a great foot as he gulped his cider. Not half bad, that. The Dornish climate wasn't the most conducive to growing apples, so good cider like this was hard to find back home. It was fairly mild, though; it would take a full barrel of this stuff before Devan was anywhere near drunk. Probably for the best. Devan could save getting hammered for the feast, where the alcohol would be free. For now, he was content to stay perched on this stool for a while, hoping it wouldn't break beneath him.

In Devan's experience, nights like these, where things were in flux and people were in motion, tended to breed good conversations. Perhaps someone would come around and share a drink or two with Starfall's largest son.

(Open)

TW: Domestic Violence

King’s Landing, 245 AC

^(listen!)

Aenar was afraid.

He wished he could calm the cold hands that ran their fingers through his bones, up his veins. He wished he could reach into the past and unearth the courage of his childhood stories. Tales of his ancestors, of mighty adventure, of the Kingsguard whose steel could change the hand of fate. He had heard that the first King Daeron lied about the size of the Dornish forces, in his chronicle of the conquest. Were they all lies? Did his ancestors think he'd find some comfort in their conflated glory? If only they had written of what terror and shame they faced, it might afford him the chance to find stable footing.

“Baelon,” he whispered, lighting a candle. The Dragon Sept was quiet that evening and Aenar had made an excuse to steal himself away in the setting sun. His disguise was holding nicely, and the loneliness gave him the freedom to think. The marble beneath his knees was cold even through the cloth and around him lingered strange faces, smallfolk from around the city seeking the same solace he was without. Was he a fool for locking his life away behind unbreakable vows? How would he protect his siblings as the King’s lapdog? He had turned nine and ten just a few moons before. Was he ready to let go of all the years that would come after?

“Shaera,” he lit another, wondering if there was any other way for it to go. He couldn’t explain it himself, why he thought of bedding his kin revolted him so, let alone explain it to his father. Was he an exception to the Doctrine of Exceptionalism? Is that what drew Gaemon to the Kingsguard, and Aemon before him? He thought of Alyssa and Alyssane, of Valaena and the rest. He remembers holding them when they were just babes, and by the time they were of age, he'd be half through with his life.

“Maekar,” he said last, lighting two for his brother and father. Aenar was in no real position to refuse, truly, and so after some time he relented to his father’s request. When his father asked Daeron, however, he was met with the same rejection. Maekar had asked him to push the subject, to which Aenar got angry, questioning where this path was leading. Would the man’s ambition bring another Dance with it? Would his own father stain his hands with the sin of a kinslayer?

Maekar didn't take kindly to that, and suggested if Aenar cared so much for Daeron’s children over his own siblings, he should “join the bloody Kingsguard and finally put his steel to some use”. In his temper Aenar agreed, declaring Knight of the Kingsguard to be a higher honor than Steward of “Aelyx’s unwanted scraps”. A silence stretched before Maekar simply agreed and declared the matter settled.

That was moons ago and his pride remained unbroken, and only now did the reality of the situation truly set in. Tomorrow he would take the vows to give his life, his death, and all the days between. No longer would his own hands be his, nor his mouth or eyes or mind.

It wasn't the worst fate, he thought. He'd never had a care for the games they played in court and the idea of a wife half his age churned his stomach. If the gods were good Maekar would be a better man than he was and marry Alyssa, and he could protect both sides of his family until his days were done. He didn't dare ask such a thing aloud, knowing the Seven had greater matters to attend to than a petulant prince.

He did, however, ask for courage.

—-------

King’s Landing, 246 AC

^(listen!)

It had been a year and a half before the Lord Commander trusted Aenar to guard his own uncle.

Over the many moons he had learned to grow accustomed to the kingsguard, though every moon brought with it its own frustrations. As feasts and funerals passed he’d been cycled through the worst of the knightly duties and it was becoming a jape, among the others, to bet on how he handled increasingly demanding assignments. According to information he painstakingly extracted from a dozen different family members, it was Daeron’s belief that Maekar had offered Aenar to the Kingsguard as a spy. Aenar’s logical conclusion was they feared he would kill King Rhaegel. He supposed he was lucky, to be given the stable to clean instead of a knife in the back. And thankfully, his duties rotated so that he’d get to take the Princesses out into the Baileys every fortnight to play. When the other knights inevitably turned their attention away, Aenar’s games would turn into teaching Alyssa and Alyssane rudimentary sword swings. He hoped they never needed it, but just to be safe.

The realization of his perceived role had come at no shock but it did, for a good portion of the year, kill his spirits. Him? He had learned to fight from Daeron. Lord Velaryon was like a fifth father to him. He never knew Aegon the fourth, having been born a year after his death, but Rhaegel had cared for him before the madness struck. When the light still shone it had been good, at least as Aenar remembered. To know that now he was an assassin in his own home shook his core. Once upon a time he skipped down these halls and now he walked carefully, for fear even the wrong footfall would be some nefarious, foul slight.

Then there were his siblings. Maekar, Shaera, Baelon. He could stand the baneful eyes of his extended family but it was the loss of his immediate one that eventually pushed him to the drink. He was diligent about it, only sneaking sips here and hiding flasks there. If anything, it helped the time pass. He felt quite clever for figuring out a way to ease his menial duty. Wine helped chase away the chill of the halls and quicken his sleep, and for a time, his system worked quite well. Adding the occasional Milk of the Poppy, he felt as sure as any maester at his ability to care for the ache left on his bones by the weight of duty.

Worse still was his father. His love ran deep, but by the Gods, he’d spent so long trying to figure out how to satisfy that man’s ambition. He believed himself better for the realm and mayhaps Aenar was a fool for doubting him. Still, to allow him to join the Kingsguard? He didn’t understand. They’d thrown some foul words at each other but as he saw now, intimately, the madness that ran rampant through their blood had mostly been controlled by Aenar. Hells, he’d sharpened it into the finest weapon this side of the Narrow Sea.

How could he give me up?, Aenar thought one night, in silent stupor high in the White Sword Tower. He stared off into the distance and as the stars swam he tried to find some answer in them.

Kingsguard. King’s Guard. King. Defend the King. Obey his commands. Keep his secrets. Counsel him when requested and shut the fuck up when not. Defend his name and honor. Swear not to harm any member of the royal family.

Aenar doubted he brought his cousin much honor but he hoped all the dead men were a fair trade. The bedded ones were an agreement between him and the Gods.

It’s a fucking joke to you isn’t it? Our mummer’s play? Aenar thought to himself, slumped against the chair, taking baby sips of the wineskin. He couldn’t quite stomach big gulps but he found moderation to be the key, drinking it like a hot soup. Luckily his morning watch would be an easy one, and he’d make mostly a full recovery when the sun rose.

You give him aaall of these sons. Three! And the other you gave Seven Kingdoms without a cunt of sense between! Ungrateful sheep fuckers, the lot. I should've been a man and fought for Alyssa and gotten fat and sat on my ass for the rest of my days while she builds them their new Valyria while they hold their-

Another few sips of the wine and the heat roiled up his spine before coming back again.

No. No. Barely over ten and they’re already afraid of her. Let them learn when Dragon King Maekar eats them up and blights their lands. Craven fuck of a Prince. A few heated words and the man sells his heir.

Was he really… sold? To placate Daeron? To spy for Maekar? In his heart he truly didn’t know if he would choose Daeron or Maekar. Which option made him less craven? Was he a better man for defending his sworn charge or the man who helped make him? He had his mother’s kind eyes and from his father came the fire that blew where it wanted. If the court agreed Aenar might, surely Maekar knew. He’d made him. He’d given Aenar the sound his lips made and the words they formed, and even the meaning behind those. He’d given his son a thirst, apparently, as the knight was never one for wine in his younger years.

Nowadays, he found finishing half the skin in an hour no difficult task. Within it he searched for the answer for his father’s true motivations. Who would tell him? The Gods?

Sleep came rougher than usual that night yet he greeted the morning as any other, and it was that morning he’d learned he’d be guarding King Rhaegel. His heart jumped as he affirmed the order, trying not to seem too eager. Aside from public visits he’d rarely seen his uncle since the madness set in. Even though he’d be outside the bedroom, he’d at least greet the man in the morning.

That day he’d fought the itch to drink to make sure he was sharp. Still, as the day wound on he felt the urge grow. In a lapse of judgment he brought a small flask and promised only to drink in emergencies. The Grand Maester and Lord Commander brought Rhaegel to bed, the latter leaving for other duties, and Aenar stood at his post. The time seemed to crawl, in the quiet hallway, and Aenar lost track of it quickly.

The urge came and as he knew, he relented. Still, he tried to practice restraint. He didn’t need to be comfortable tonight, he only needed to get through it. A few drinks later and standing became much more tolerable.

“Ser? Ser Aenar?” The door opened and Archibald appeared. “His grace wishes to see you.”

“See me?” his head snapped and the silence hung for a moment.

“See you, yes, I’m afraid,” he sounded nervous. “Apologies, he’s quite insistent.”

“I can’t just… If the Lord Commander…”

“Yes, I understand… but sometimes a familiar face can balance the humors. He seems to wish to tell you something.”

Aenar should have just stayed at his post, but truly, he missed his uncle. For the first time in moons, someone wishes to tell him something that wasn’t an order. He hoped. Entering, he found Rhaegel in a sorry state, the man looking… different. Aenar thought of the Stranger but pushed it aside.

“Your grace, this is Aenar, your nephew,” the man sounded kind, which Aenar appreciated. The small glimpse he got into Rhaegel’s state was grim. He imagined it wasn’t easy. “You remember, yes? You gave him Dark Sister.”

“Dark… Dark Sister? Visenya?”

“Aenar, my king-”

“Gaemon? St-strong Gaemon?”

“Ae… Aenar… Apologies, my prince, he gets this way.”

“Ser,” he corrected. He’d wished to distance himself from the title, for a time. In his next foolish choice, Aenar pulled Dark Sister from his side, bringing it to his chest. “It’s alright. It was recent. He just has to… see me right.”

Aenar wasn’t wearing a helmet but he pulled his face close to the King, hoping it was just a matter of failing vision. Thankfully it seemed to work, and the man’s hands rose to cup his face. He seemed to trace the features and Aenar hoped it was bringing back some of the hidden memories.

“Aenar,” it seemed to click and a light shone in Rhaegel’s eyes, faint but present. He stared for a long moment before speaking again. “Aenar. Aegon… he dreamt of you.”

“The… late King?” Aenar inquired with a shake of his head. “Yes?”

“They’re watching. Even on the throne,” he let out a fierce cough, shaking the bed with him. “In the walls. Aegon saw it. He tried to tell me. I was a fool. Don’t be a fool.”

“Your grace…” the man was shaking now, fingernails starting to grip his face and dig at the skin of his cheek. For a man twice his age he had a strength to him. “Please, uncle, nobody’s here. I’m protecting you, see? I’m a knight now.”

“A knight…” his fingers relaxed at the world, sweat forming between the two. The room was quite warm compared to the hallway. “Aenar is a knight. Yes, Dark Sister. Visenya’s blade. A knight.”

His hands dropped to the bed and to the sword, fingertips grasping at the scabbard, feeling the material. Aenar had taken good care of it and so had never needed to replace anything. Before he realized what was happening, though, the King wrapped his claws around the sword. Like an angry hound he latched on and though Aenar was strong, he could only try to hold firm. Whatever spirit possessed Rhaegel had returned the man’s fury to him.

“No! No! They killed Aenar! Highgarden scum!” he began to shake the sword, then, slowly at first as he built towards uneasy jerking motions. “The Hightower can have its price in blood!”

Aenar had no idea what the Hells the man was rambling about. Was this life? Scared and dying and screaming for our enemies?

“Uncle, please, your-” he shook his head, at a loss for words. “Grand Maester, please, the Lord Commander-”

Aenar’s grip slipped and in one motion the sword wasn’t his and instead it was coming at his face. He was hit with the blunt end and suddenly the King was up, kicking him to the ground. Archibald tried to calm the man but a hard smack cleared Rhaegel’s path.

“Now!” Aenar shouted and the maester regained himself, fleeing from the room. The knight braced himself as his eyes darted around. For what, though? Surely he couldn’t strike his uncle with a candlestick? But when the man remembered how a sword worked? “Uncle, you must understand, your sickne-”

“Kneel! Kneel, pretender!” and in his horror the Valyrian Steel was flying through the air as the man began to make wild slashes, as if the memory was truly returning. Aenar ducked as he could and when it passed, the King seemed to have gained composure, pointing it instead at his nephew’s neck. “Kneel before your King!”

Aenar knelt, for sure, bending low as his breaths came fast. At this angle he couldn’t turn his head enough to look at the king. After a second the sound of steel tapping steel rang on the back of his armor. After a moment, it seemed the King found what he was looking for: a gap in the back near the neck, where the sword could find flesh. It was just like when he'd joined the Kingsguard.

“I’ll not have it! Your name, boy.”

“Aenar! Named after the exile-” he answered, trying to lower himself towards the ground, anything to get away from the blade. “Please-”

His protest was met with Dark Sister being pressed firmly into an area near his shoulder, but Rhaegel somehow kept a steady hand. He let the metal greet the skin slowly, at first, and pushed slowly after that. “Liar! Who do you work for?”

“Hightower!” he grabbed at a lie, any lie, anything to free him. Was this where he died? “Please your grace, the lord, he sent me-”

“Which Lord?” He twisted the blade then, sending a wave of pain crashing through Aenar’s back that was far fiercer than any wine. It was a struggle to push himself down. “Now, Reachman!”

“Titus!” he called out, thinking of the first name that came to mind, reminding himself to thank the man if it worked. “Please, your grace, I can give you information. Your grace, please-”

Aenar didn’t know how long had passed until the Lord Commander showed up, but by the grace of the Gods, his performance held. Aenar knelt in that room with his uncle playing butcher on his shoulder, saying whatever he thought would keep the man talking. Time would shroud the memory and for being one of his last true conversations with Rhaegel, he’d retain little of what was actually said. He only remembered the panic.

Of course, it would end up as his own fault for disturbing the King, and Archibald seemed to give no testimony on his behalf. Lucky, the Grand Maester declared his wound mostly superficial, with the King having not damaged anything permanent. Aenar blamed himself as well. From that day on, he remained more focused on his duty. If Rhaegel had truly had something to tell him, Aenar figured it might have to wait for the next life. This proved certain a year later when the man was found dead.

—-----

The Shore of Tyrosh, 248 AC

^(listen!)

Aenar had never seen so much blood. It burned his nostrils and stained his teeth. He tasted iron as he panted for breath. When his body hit the sands, bloody clumps pressed into the gaps of his armor, slick and cold. The rancid grit rolled on his tongue and threatened to expel what small rations they'd last had, but he pushed the compulsion away as he reached for Dark Sister. Sand kicked around him and all he could hear was dying men, the moans of the still-dying, and the ringing of steel.

He managed to find his footing and as he was rising he saw that Reynard Redwyne had saved his life, the man cutting down the soldier who’d disarmed him. This was the very same man his aunt had been promised to. He reminded himself to thank him later. The battle was mostly won and Aenar had lost count of how many he'd killed so far. It was beginning to wear on him - he could feel his strength slipping. His seconds in the sand were quite comfortable and for a moment the idea of curling up against a dune seemed more appealing than any victory.

The two were among those who had been sent to secure their landing force, driving them away from the shore. Aenar knew better than to chase any too far gone, focusing only on the few slower than the rest. He took no pleasure in striking down enemies who surrendered willingly, but at that point, he just wanted to be back on the ship. He was long past searching for glory or honor in the Stepstones. He hoped they'd slain enough that whatever forces remaining just died out on their own.

Rising to where the sand met stone and grass, Aenar saw another familiar face, this one his squire who’d gotten separated earlier in the battle. The sight of Artys Corbray brought relief to his heart, and he thanked the Stranger for sparing him an early grave. Artys was easier on the eyes than any other Valeman he’d met, like a misty valley given form, all songbirds and evergreens. Only, an army had been through the valley, and like razed land both men had been tempered by the world’s fury and it showed clear enough on their flesh.

His squire had just engaged another soldier and as he made his way towards him, Lady Forlorn proved to be in capable hands. By the time he reached him, the man was already dead.

“Artys you cunt-” Aenar tried to make a jape of the sight after a quick inspection of the body, noting the man’s superior armor and weaponry. Even though the corpse was a mess of organs Aenar still kept Dark Sister ready, as though the spirit would rise and demand a second round. “I was hoping to take him, bastard came between me and his captain. I think Tyrosh has made you quicker. He put up a good fight?”

“Just another man with a sword, Ser Aenar,” the Corbray said. He knew Artys wasn’t one to boast but nevertheless, his hand was shaking, and a fire had been lit at the corners of his mouth. His squire didn’t show pride often but Aenar knew how to read it well, when it appeared. It was one of the little joys of teaching a man to kill. “Same as all the others.”

Aenar eventually returned to their boats with his landing force and sent word to the King of how many of the soldiers had retreated, and that the shore had been cleared. Chancing upon a stray wineskin, he rinsed the blood from his mouth and chased away the ache from his bones, forcing the drink down despite his body’s protest.

“Get this fucking armor off of me, will you?” He said to Artys, who began to work at the straps holding the plates together. Aenar took a few more sips as he waited.

“Ser, this wound may need a maester, it's rather deep,” he said when he removed Aenar’s vambraces. “The cloth is too torn for me to get a proper look at it.”

“Aye, thank you,” he nodded. He couldn't recall what caused the laceration but whatever it was, it made its way between plate and chainmail. He turned and traded Artys the wine skin for the armor. “Fetch me one, will you? And take this. Tell him to finish with the wounded, though. I can wait.”

As the squire hurried off Aenar took a quiet moment to catch his breath and count his blessings. The battle was won, he thanked the Gods, and it appeared their fallen numbered in few. He prayed silently that the Stranger hadn't taken anyone he cared for. Before long the maester arrived and applied a balm to his wound that stung worse than when he got it. The man wrapped it quickly and before long Aenar was back in his armor.

Artys had returned then and Aenar pulled him aside. With Dark Sister he bid the man to kneel and from his lips spilled the oaths and tenants of knighthood. The ceremony had been a long time coming and Aenar was only waiting for the proper moment. He lifted the Valyrian steel as was done for him at Harrenhal by old Lord Strickland. When the man rose there was a glimmer in his eye - something new, something different.

The Siege of Tyrosh had begun.

The summer sun hung high as Rhaegel Targaryen rode through the gates of Kings Landing in simple riding clothes, the top peeled back to allowed him to better feel the cool breeze as it whispered between the winding streets. All around him, the city waged a futile war against the dry, sweltering heat. Children ran bare-chested, working men wrapped their brows in soaked cloth, and women hiked up their skirts more than would ever have been considered appropriate just to catch a little relief.

It had been a dry ride, and despite his efforts to avoid doing so, Rhaegel had produced his family ring thrice to convince others upon the road to allow him some water. His own skin had gone dry halfway into the ride, when he failed to properly ration its contents. Ever the fool, as his mother would say.

He was thankful that for his adventures he’d chosen silvers and blues rather than Targaryen red and black for his colors. For one, it made the mystery in being a mystery knight a true one rather than an open secret, and for two, the colors did not trap near as much heat upon his skin. His father had been far from pleased with that choice, thinking that Rhaegel’s eschewing of their family colors somehow humiliated them, or lessened what they were.

Rhaegel never quite understood his father’s worries. The man was named Aegon Targaryen and yet he thought every care had to be taken to make the world aware of that. It seemed like such a pointless concern, when Rhaegel gave his name no one ever seemed to question it. Who else would be named Rhaegel, or Aegon but a scion of the dragon?

His father worried too much, and his mother, he didn’t think much of his mother. Will she fuss at me or over me this time? It was a riddle Rhaegel could never solve, not that he was much for solving any sort of riddle. Both of his parents would give him something to groan and roll his eyes about, he was sure, but at least he had Rhaenys.

She’d fussed over him alongside their mother when he left, her purple eyes filling with tears as she insisted that it was too soon for him to leave again, especially for the hedges. Rhaegel was no prince, but he still was of royal blood, and alone in the hedges of the Seven Kingdoms his sweet sister feared some ill might befall him. It hadn’t though, just like he’d said.

Between visits to old friends and the making of new ones, he’d found time to break a few lances. He hadn’t won any great victories, but neither had he needed to forfeit his arms and armor for long. He’d always made enough in ransoms to ransom back his own, though it had gotten terribly tiring hauling it all alone. Perhaps he’d bring a squire when he set back out.

Looking about at the children rushing along the streets, he decided it would be one of their stock he took with him. Why bother with some lordling’s son when he could uplift a child from this to Knighthood? It’d be an adventure for them both, whoever the lucky boy wound up being.

Rhaegel rode on through the city, up to the castle gates, then past them without any trouble, a few of the guards even welcomed him home. He hadn’t truly wanted to return, there had been so much more to do and see, but he supposed such an event as this would be fun in its own right.

And he could see Rhaenys. Maybe the Lady of Raventree would be there too, or her sister, or even the Trant girl, that’d be good. There’ll be more than girls too, you fool. Asher, Brandon, perhaps some of the lads from Old Oak, and old Maekar, he couldn’t forget old Maekar, the man was the reason he had the spurs at all. The last he thought of was Aunt Daenerys, sweet and kind. She wasn’t really his aunt, truth be told, just some distant cousin, third maybe, but she had filled a void in his boyhood his mother had left open.

It’d be good to see them all, and he was excited for it. Yet, as he dismounted his destrier, Trots he called her, and gave the mare a scratch behind the ear, he felt his stomach turn. The stable boys took Trots and Quick Tom, his tourney horse, and Rhaegel slipped from the stables all but sick with worry. He couldn’t even say why, just that he did.

It’d pass, it always passed.

OOC: A collab between myself and /u/Fishiest-Man <3. Vassals of the Vale and Riverlands feel free to post your arrivals here if you don’t want to make a separate thread!

The trip down from the Mountains of the Moon was as exhilarating as it was daunting, for the Lady of the Vale had never set foot beyond the borders of her realm. The air was crisp and cool within the Eyrie, and there was always a breeze, but she soon found that such was not always the case at lower altitudes. Heathery stone and gnarled spruce gave way to dense forests of brown and green that seemed to stretch on forever. The land of rivers and hills was humid and warm, the air heavy and still and filled with biting insects, much to her chagrin.

Serena was delighted to find the host of Riverlords already assembled upon arriving at Darry. She kissed Old Lord Grover on each of his grizzled cheeks and gave Axel a warm hug before inviting Lady Sarra into her wheelhouse. The men were left to ride astride, and abreast they rode, the Knights of the Vale in their celestial steel and the vassals of House Tully with their banners snapping proudly in the wind. A column formed with the Lord of Riverrun and his heir at the fore, alongside Artys Arryn and the Lord Steward of the Vale. Behind them, a procession of carriages and wagons trundled along, and then lords of both realms on their horses, each at the head of their own household.

A drizzling summer rain began to pour as they left the demesne of House Mooton behind. During the day they passed through the lands of many distinguished houses of the Crownlands - Darklyn and Stokeworth and Rosby - and for two nights they camped on the side of the road, Valemen and Riverlanders breaking their fast together around communal fires. Serena was grateful for the support of her family and the display of strength and unity between houses, being wholly uncertain about what they would find once they reached King’s Landing.

With the dreary weather having cleared on the final leg of their journey, she chose to make her arrival on horseback. They arrived within sight of the Blackwater just as dawn’s early light spilled over the landscape to the east, setting burnished armor and trappings aflame. Standard-bearers rode ahead of the glimmering river of lords and ladies and knights, the sigils of falcon and trout flying high atop their lances. As the Iron Gate loomed closer, a chorus of horns filled the morning air, alerting the gold cloaks upon the battlements to their arrival.

And yet, the host would not approach the city’s walls. Instead, they would beat a wide path westwards and southwards, around the city, until eventually coming to a halt in the plains, just north of the Goldroad, overlooking the Blackwater Rush to the south, and the Capital to the east. The site had been found by a small party Lord Grover had sent ahead of the main body of the host, to find somewhere wide, flat, open and, most importantly, free of the stench of the city, suitable for the combined parties to erect their camp. The stationary host swiftly became a flurry of activity, as servants set about preparing the field to accommodate the lords and ladies they served.

The first items laid out were tables, benches and chairs, accompanied by refreshments in the form of wine, ale, fruit, bread and dried meats, in efforts to provide the travelling nobles with some comfort while their staff constructed their lodgings around them. The Old Lord Tully, however, would not partake of these comforts just yet, nor would he allow his heir to do so either. Instead the two trouts would oversee the camp as it was laid out, ensuring everyone present would have their room, and plenty of space was left amongst the tents to allow for whatever form of revelry took the gathered lords’ and ladies’ fancy.

In the very centre of the campsite, a grand pavilion was erected, large enough to seat all the households present within it twice over, forming a sort of makeshift great hall that they might utilise over the course of the festivities. Iron lanterns were hung from the tent frame, keeping the space well lit, even as the sunlight began to wane, and wooden pallets were laid out, both inside and an area outside the tent, to give people a firm surface to stand upon. At the head of this “hall” was a long table, with the banners of Arryn and Tully hung on the tent’s wall behind it. Along the other walls, long tables and benches were placed, the banners of the Riverlands and the Vale, mixed among each other, much like the men and women they represented.

Around the great tent at its centre, the rest of the campsite would gradually take shape over the hours. Little care was paid to where each family staked their claim. Beyond keeping the Blackwoods and the Brackens and their vassals very much separate, Valemen and Rivermen could mingle as much, or as little, as they pleased. They were all among friends here, after all. Before long, that once empty field had become a sprawling city of vibrant canvas.

Once the work had concluded, Grover and Axel finally took a seat, outside the main pavilion, so that they could look over the work they had done. Activity buzzed around them, nobles lounged, servants hurried to cater to their needs, and the men at arms began to set up their own camps, surrounding the one for their noble charges.

The Fifth Day of the Sixth Moon of 250 AC, Summer

The sun baked the stones of the city and sweet flowers helped mask the scent of its sewers. As the kingdoms of Westeros converged, they threatened to fill King’s Landing to the brim, and the smallfolk found it impossible to go anywhere without seeing one of the countless sigils belonging to the realm’s highborn. Whether it was the Street of Silk or Visenya’s Hill, lords and ladies would spend what time they had before the feast taking advantage of their days in the capital. Though the King celebrated, there was still business to be had by all. Even a simple cobbler could make a quick coin by betting on which house would cause the most trouble before their departure, and whether they’d depart merely from the city or this world entirely.

One by one, the banners were displayed proudly outside the walls, each one a reminder of the simmering ambition within. Before long, the encampments resembled a siege, and the sunset brought with it the mingling of soldiers and scions. Merchants would come peddling fine silks and simple trinkets, and inevitably, the stray grifter would find themself pleading with the goldcloaks that their snake oil was, in fact, the one true oil. Lords unlucky enough to have little an eye for authenticity would find themselves disappointed when their new sword refused to cut through steel and stone, as had been promised at its purchase. Thankfully, the city’s cheap ale flowed plentifully enough to wash away most sorrows.

For all the revelry, a quiet tension held the city in its grip, one that few dared to speak of but all could feel: King Daeron still hadn’t named his heir, yet had gathered them to celebrate Laena’s birth. With seven daughters and not a single betrothal, and the many branches of House Targaryen all converging upon one place, it was long past time for this uncertainty to be settled. Those with cunning would take their chances, watching for any opening, any sign that the crown might favor them. And those with wisdom, they would pray to the gods for peace—for as long as it lasted. But the days of waiting were wearing thin. In the shadow of the Red Keep, all knew that sooner or later, a choice would have to be made. The only question was whether that choice would bring the realm together, or tear it apart.

[Lianna's part provided by Crow!]

King’s Landing

[Required Listening: Schubert - Impromptu 3 in G-flat major, D. 899 (Op. 90) no. 3]

239 AC - The First Births

“Alyssa and Alysanne. I think those names will fit nicely.” Lianna said weakly.

It was a difficult labor and Lianna never once faltered. When the babes were finally in their arms. It was all worth it. His wife had borne two beautiful girls into the world. He had never felt greater love in his life than that moment. She had gone through hell for him and out came life. Throughout many accolades and achievements, this was paramount. Life. 

“Yes, those are fine names. I can think of none better.” He flashed a deep, loving smile. One that was reciprocated in kind. “They have your nose as well. Thank the gods as it is far more sightly than mine.” Both laughed then, savoring the wondrous moment. 

The twins were doted on by every servant in the keep. A blessing upon the Seven Kingdoms. Not one, but two children for the Crown prince. The birthing was celebrated throughout Kings Landing for a full fortnight afterward. Though, neither were the son that Daeron sought. He will come. Daeron thought. It is only our first try. We have a lifetime to have a boy. 

245 AC - The day that Rhaenys was born.

“Prince Daeron” The Grand Maester began, his voice shaky. “It’s another girl.”

Daeron’s face fell from hopeful, to defeat, to frustration in an instant. Through gritted teeth, he responded bluntly. “Yes, yes. Thank you Grand Maester. You may go.” His hand rose ever so slightly to massage the pain growing near his brow. This was their fourth attempt and fifth child, surely they couldn’t stop now. Not until he had a son. He could feel it. A boy was on the horizon. Just one more time. He told himself. Lianna will agree, she should want this too. Why wouldn’t she?

This was all he had ever wanted. How could she deny him his deepest desire? A son to secure the lines of succession. He would be King eventually, the realm will not settle for a daughter. The odds of another girl had to be next to zero. Even a cautious man could gamble with certainty that they would have a boy. He knew it to be true.

247 AC - The day of Jaehaera’s birth.

The news had already arrived. Another girl. Oh how the gods tortured him so. He was sure this time would be different. The maesters had informed him that this pregnancy had been especially difficult. There were complications that arose from the birth. The maesters were able to persevere, but there was no guarantee that the same would happen again. He was King now, and all eyes were on him to secure his legacy. A son would settle any conversation as to who would inherit the crown. 

“I understand the risks Grand Maester. How likely is it that both will survive?” Daeron was growing desperate now. The seventh can’t be a daughter. That was improbable. Impossible even. It was driving him to ask more and more difficult questions. When had he become this monster? Could he really bring himself to sacrifice that which he loved the most for his greatest desire?

“His Grace surely isn’t sayi-” Before the man could finish, Daeron interjected with a great fury.

“You should try your best, Archibald. For your sake. Give me a number. Is it a coinflip?”

“Yes, perhaps that, or worse.” The man responded. “Six children is difficult, a seventh could be fatal. Even then-”

The maester continued but Daeron had already stopped listening. A coin flip? He could stomach that. He let the man finish his thought and promptly dismissed him with a wave of his hand. She will survive. He thought. Smallfolk without maesters do it all the time. She has the strength. I know she will make it through. Just one more try. Then this will all be over and we can be happy again.

248 AC - A few moons after the birth of Jaehaera.

“Why are they not enough for you, Daeron? Why can’t you look into our daughters’ eyes and see an heir?” Lianna’s voice was hoarse. This had been argued time and time again. “What is this incessant need for a son that plagues your every thought? It is destroying you Daeron. We have heirs, six healthy, wonderful children that you are so intent on casting aside. All in the name of your legacy.” Every word spoken shot with venom from her lips. 

Daeron responded in kind. His disgust mixed violently with his frustration causing his statements to sting the very air they inhabited. “Every waking day that I don’t have a son is another that the vultures surrounding our house look to further their own interests! They are descending upon us Lianna, and you are too blind to see it. Our legacy is unsecured until I have a son that can sit the throne. Are you so soon to forget the ruin that the Dance set upon my House? Or yours? We need a son, or they will pull us apart until we are nothing. Our names will fade in history as a placeholder for someone else. It is imperative to the very survival of this house that you bear me a son. We will keep trying. We must keep trying. Lianna, please.”

She could not believe it. Six children. Six. Alive. Healthy. Children. And yet the man in front of her, her Daeron... birth after birth after birth after birth, he wanted more. He wanted to put her life on the line. He wanted to punish her for a prince. That must be it - it's a punishment. A punishment for having a daughter. 

Just one more time... just one more time, Lia... please... please give me a son.

Anger rose in her. She had survived the birthing bed time after time, when her dear sister did not. Daeron knew the risks. He must have. And yet he.  Ignored. It. 

"Do I look like livestock? Do I, Daeron? A prized broodmare that you're going to run into the ground until I'm the next one on the pyre?" 

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, mother of SIX healthy, beautiful girls, and the woman who radiated poise and perfection, now sat in frazzled disbelief. Bags under her eyes, hair not perfectly done, sitting in a dressing gown. This was not Lianna Velaryon. That was not the Daeron she loved. A curl of the lip and a frustrated growl, a hand slamming down on the table of fine perfumery from every place across Westeros and Essos. The bottles clacked and clanged, a few falling to the floor. 

"One. More. Time," she whispered through gritted teeth, "I will do this, for you one. More. Time. I will give you one more child, be it a prince or princess, and then I am done." 

250 AC - The birth of Laena

The day had come. It was early in the morning when Lianna began showing signs that labor was approaching. The servants were quick to surround her and fetch the midwives and maesters. Daeron was on a hunt when the news was brought to him. By all accounts, he rode hard for the Red Keep, never once giving his horse a reprieve, even as he dodged smallfolk in the streets. 

Lianna. He thought. I must reach Lianna. This is it. I will finally have a son. Aegon. His mind was filled with sweet future memories. Teaching Aegon to swing a sword, to joust. To lead men into battle and inspire them. To rule. His daughters would understand. The realm desired a male to sit the throne. He did not make the rules, the Dance proved that it was unfeasible. Times hadn’t changed, and maybe they never would. It was a selfish desire. Truly selfish. But this was all he had ever wanted. A trueborn son and heir.

Our marriage will be saved. I’ll start by apologizing for my foul moods. She will be happy too, why wouldn’t she be? 

He eventually arrived at the yard and quickly dismounted. Leaving his anguished horse for the stable boy to address. “Where is she?” Was all he could muster. He knew the answer already, but asked nonetheless. Without waiting for the boy’s response, he set off with haste for their bedchamber. I’ll find a servant on the way, they’ll tell me it’s a son. I know it is. His heart was practically beating out of his chest as he climbed stairs, two or three at a time. 

When he arrived, the midwives went to warn him. “Your Grace, it was a difficult birth. Please, she needs to rest.” A quick fury rose within him as he responded. “Let me in to see my son or I’ll have you flogged you whelps!” With that, he shoved them aside and pushed the door open with both hands. He heard a soft crying in the distance, another room maybe? Lianna was laying on the bed, unresponsive within a deep slumber. She looked exhausted. But the maester was wrong, she had beat the odds and lived. Seemingly, so too did the babe. He could focus on her afterward. She can wait. He thought. Her duty to me is done.

He ran and opened a door into an adjacent room. Within, there was a group that had formed around the crib. He pushed his way through, a smile slowly forming as the crowd made way for him. Though, it was Grand Maester Archibald who intercepted him before he could lay eyes on the crib itself. 

“Your Grace.” He began. “It’s a gir-.” THWACK. As Archibald fell to the floor, all the servants stood in silence. With that, the King turned and disappeared out the door he came. Mounted a fresh horse, and left for the hunt. Leaving Lianna completely alone. 

When he later returned, the mood had shifted around the keep. No one dared mutter the word ‘son’. Nonetheless, he planned a celebration. The 250th year since Aegon’s conquest, yes. He would honor the conqueror. And perhaps his daughter too. As he put pen to paper, he thought to himself rather contently.

She’s done seven, how much harder could an eighth be?

Bloodstone

248 AC

The banners stretched all across the beach, as did the bodies strewn on the sand. Most of the bodies were the enemy’s, though few pirates had heraldry of their own. The dragon of Targaryen and seahorse of Velaryon were chief among them, though they were accompanied by the occasional crabs, swordfish, stars, snake & sword or bull’s head. Prince Maekar Targaryen stood in engraved jet black plate, the red chasings of his armor in part concealed by slashes of dried blood from the men who had attempted to strike him down during the battle. He held a skin of water in one hand and the hilt of his sword in the other, having returned the blade to its scabbard once the pirate fortress had been stormed successfully. Though the wooden ring-fort could not be truly called a castle, it had held up the men under his command for several hours before the gates had been breached by makeshift siege engines and the garrison had been put to the sword save for the pirate captain in charge of the fort and his first mate.

He now stood on the battlements of that meager yet fierce fortress, surrounded by three household knights each looking as battle-worn as he himself did, clutching the dragon’s head helmet in his right hand after bringing it up from the ground. He looked at the small dent left by a corsair’s war hammer, then to the skies, recalling the poor fool who’d attempted to strike him down. “My Prince.” One of the knights began, causing Maekar to pivot and face him to listen. He recalled the knight’s name as Arthor Waters. He prided himself in knowing each of his men by name, from valiant knight to lowborn man-at-arms. How many other lords could boast of that? Waters continued. “The last of the pirates have been driven across the island, the scouts tell us. A ragged band, perhaps half a hundred men total. Wounded and sick among them.” Maekar nodded, closing up a skin of water and handing it to another of the knights, Ser Clement of Hull. “Rabble. Making for the ships, I suspect. Those who escape will not make it far.” Maekar declared with mild amusement in his voice.

“And our losses?” He asked, eyeing down toward the courtyard where a maester was tending to a number of their wounded with the help of some of the better-off men-at-arms. “Few compared to theirs, and being taken care of.” Ser Arthor responded. Maekar nodded, looking down toward his helm. “Send word to His Grace. Bloodstone is his. We will deal with what remains of the enemy in the meantime. Garrison this fort, leave the wounded here.” The third of the knights with him, Ser Humfrey Scales, exclaimed out loud with a booming voice, tipping the two-handed heavy long-axe he held by the bladed end a bit. “Hail, Prince Maekar! Hail, King Daeron! Hail, victory!” Well over a hundred voices took up that cry and a dozen celebrations besides, waving swords and other arms in the air. Maekar smiled mildly as they shouted his name in unison. It felt great, even intoxicating in a way. A man could get used to that sort of cheering, he thought.

Dragonstone

250 AC

As formidable a castle as the fortress his forebears had chosen for a seat following their flight from the Freehold of old right before its doom, Dragonstone itself was a dreary, cold and miserable old island nonetheless. No matter how many braziers one erected, how many lanterns and candles one lit, the chambers of the massive central tower known as the Stone Drum in particular seemed to never be quite bright enough for one to be able to read a letter written on parchment lest he squint and lean in. Perhaps it was something to do with the sorcery woven into the stones as the castle had been raised, some foolish part of him thought. And yet, another wiser part of him whispered in response that it was far more likely that he was just growing old and weak. Sorcery, in a castle?

Prince Maekar Targaryen, the Steward of Dragonstone and the lands that swore fealty to it these past three years, sat before the Painted Table and nudged the broken seal bearing the royal three-headed dragon with the trimmed nail of his right index finger. Though the wording of the letter he held in the other hand was not impolite and in fact quite personal for a message sent forth by King Daeron, second of his name, his nephew’s invitation to the grand tournament seemed to conceal a slight of one kind or another as far as he saw. He invites him to a tourney, after every slight he had suffered from the royal person of his nephew? To be sure, his nephew would invite Maekar to the festivities lest it be shown that Wise King Daeron held a quarrel openly against one of his own blood, but he knew full well that Daeron would not be greatly pleased by Maekar’s presence there.

What’s more, he knew that Daeron knew of it as well. Once again, the two of them would play pretend before the most humble of smallfolk and the high lords of the realm alike, though Maekar suspected that most of those who had a seat at the vast table where the game of thrones was played knew well enough to not mistake their shared and feigned courtesies for each other for more than they were. Bringing up the silver drinking cup that had been detailed with so many engravings it looked closer to black than its original color, he drank shallowly of the Arbor gold vintage that he had poured from the flagon sitting on top of a sturdy oak table across the room. It had not always been that way. He and Daeron had been almost as close as brothers once, Maekar recalled with a slow sigh and a sip of wine. He would have preferred it to be like that again, yet Daeron continued to vex him.

He supposed that he must play his part and attend the festivities, though his days of riding in the lists were at an end by now. It was sure to be a grand affair, though the pretense it was being hosted under vexed him further. Celebrating a girl child, when the oaf already had six before her? Maekar chuckled to himself, looking toward King’s Landing on the Painted Table. It’d be a short trip from Dragonstone provided the weather was clear, he told himself. He would not need to bring much, which relieved him. Perhaps a score of knights sworn to his household and his family. The lady Alys, his wife. His sons Maekar and Baelon, the former’s sister-wife Shaera and their babe, Daeron. Even his eldest Aeron would no doubt be in attendance, and it'd been too long since they'd last spoken on account of his white cloak. He even almost looked forward to meeting that jackanape Aelyx again, and his brother Gaemon, who too served in the Kingsguard.

The tourney would take up several weeks at the least, but it had to be said that it would be good to see some old friends and allies. And maybe there would even be something to be gained from the damned trip, Seven willing.

248 AC - The Disputed Lands, near Myr

The thunder of hooves drowned out all but the loudest of shouts of the armored knights.

“FIRE AND BLOOD!”

“A GRIFFIN, A GRIFFIN!”

“KING DAERON!”

“ALL HAVE THEIR SEASONS!”

“DEATH TO THE SLAVERS!”

“VICTORY OR DEATH!”

“JUSTICE FOR LADY REDWYNE!”

A dust cloud rose behind the riders, scarlet banners snapped in the wind, and the sunlight glinted off the points of the lances as they lowered towards a group of defenders that formed a defensive line. They stood no chance against the oncoming foes and several broke and ran but the remaining stood their ground. Most sellswords would never do such a thing, but these men were different.

Poor brave fools.

The skirmish was quick, bloody, and wholly unnecessary in the eyes of the attackers. Within five minutes it was all over. All of the sellswords that stood their ground were dead and those that fled were being hunted down. The nearby village was the attention of the riders now. As they rode into the town, the rider at the head of the called out into the village. He wore cobalt blue armor with copper and scarlet flames enameled into the armor. His lance was shattered and he still carried the shield bearing the sigil of House Targaryen.

“YOUR MASTERS ARE DEAD OR HAVE ABANDONED YOU! COME OUT! IN THE NAME OF MY BROTHER KING DAERON TARGARYEN THE SECOND, KING OF THE ANDALS, THE RHOYNAR, AND THE FIRST MEN, LORD OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS, AND PROTECTOR OF THE REALM! YOU ARE FREE!”

The High Valyrian from the Prince of Summerhall rang out in the silence of the village. More riders arrived and began to dismount. From the doors and shadows of the village, people began to emerge. Some with collars around their neck and some without.

Aelyx removed his helm, against the protestation of the men around him and made work to strike off the collars of those in the village. Most spoke the bastard Valyrian that the Myrish and those surrounding the city spoke but there was enough of an overlap that the word began to spread in the village. Their masters had abandoned them, free or enslaved, when the Westerosi had landed outside of Myr. The sellswords had been tasked with defending a few of the choice properties.

The Prince reiterated their freedom in High Valyrian and in the Common Tongue. He informed them that they were free to take anything of their masters and move elsewhere. He wanted to offer them all to come back to Westeros with him, but he knew that there would be enough room for them all. The smile on his face was one of sincere hope that they would all be able to make something better of their lives after this.

“The poor bastards,” commented one of the knights, some man in Lord Errol’s retinue.

“We are giving them a chance. Their master’s houses will serve as a good head start. Food, supplies, weapons, maybe a few valuables left behind as well.”

“So long as they don’t start killing each other for it.”

There was silence from Prince Aelyx as he contemplated it, he had to hope that they were doing something good for these people. Freeing them from slavery was a good thing. When they forced the city of Myr to capitulate they would be forced to accept the freeing of the slaves.

“Make sure we don’t let it happen while we are here. Keep order for now. We’re not expected back at the lines until sunset. Give them a head start…see if anyone wishes to join our cause?”

“None look in fighting shape My Prince…”

“If they have the spirit…”

“We have no horses for them…”

Aelyx sighed, “Let’s see to their needs for now. Sort that out later.”

The knights moved to take stock of the village and help out the inhabitants the best they could. The Prince of Summerhall made for the nearest building, glad to do whatever was helpful.

249 AC - Summerhall

The sounds of the Great Hall grew distant as the Prince of Summerhall stumbled his way across the castle. He’d slipped his companions and guards and found himself before the doors of the sept. Another successful feast and tourney had come to a close and Aelyx needed to get away for a little bit. Dodging knights, nobles, and guards alike was tricky but this was his castle and he knew it well enough to evade detection. Conversations were plenty, but the one thing that kept coming up had forced him to retire.

Pushing the gilded mahogany doors open he made his way towards the center of the room, his footsteps echoing off the red marble floor.

His brother’s wife was pregnant again, thank the gods. The Queen was pregnant. Six daughters and another child on the way, another chance to save him from the fate that threatened to derail everything in his life. Aelyx was not the most godly of men, but he did pray sometimes. He prayed before a joust, he prayed before a battle, he prayed at weddings and funerals, and he prayed for the birth of a nephew.

He laughed out loud.

“You know…you know how many men would kill…for the position I find myself in?”

The statues of the Seven remain silent.

“The Rogue Prince? Aemond One Eye? The second son who…stands to inherit everything?

His path finally brought him to the middle of the room, the full moon filtering through the stain glass windows.

“I beg you all, I saw what it did to my father….I saw the madness. The madness of that…that twisted monstrosity. Aegon’s vainglorious trophy of conquest…it drove him to….”

He twisted around, “He did nothing to deserve that! He was a good man! And you took it all from him! His mind…his dignity…and in the end you mocked us once more because you took the solace we sought in his death.”

“I have prayed….for years now. Prayers that have gone unanswered. I have done nothing but serve you and worship your name! Are you vengeful? I think you’re just playing a jest on me! I helped liberate slaves from their oppressors! I give alms to the poor! I am faithful to my wife and I cherish my children! I have fought for what is good and right in the world! What more do you want?!”

The silence was deafening. His empty cup was tossed across the sept, clattering loudly as it bounced and skipped across the marble floor and came to rest beside the altar of the Mother.

Looking up at the statue he shook his head, “My brother needs a son. Am I selfish for saying that? I don’t want that madness of it to consume me. Like it did so many before? Aegon is so young…I could never burden him with such things…he’s a good lad. Bright, curious, and so deeply caring. He is my son. Let him grow up to be a knight, a maester, a brother of the Night’s Watch, a septon, a copper-counter….anything but a King. Why am I blessed with sons and Daeron is not? Daeron kept the realm together, Daeron kept Father….he kept him alive for as long as he could.”

There was anger now.

“Until you took him away in your infinite wisdom of dear Father Above. Not very motherly, oh gentle Mother? The innocence of a man’s life means nothing, oh sweet Maiden? Where is the wisdom in that, oh sagacious Crone? Or the great strength to fight on he had oh mighty Warrior?”

He turned to face the Faceless One. The Stranger.

“Only you, spectre of Death. Only you were honest and damn you for it.”

The High Valyrian tumbled from his mouth as he raged against the Seven until it abated. He leaned against the altar of the Father for a moment. His energy was clearly spent.

“I offer my prayers for the future. I only hope you will listen.”

He turned and left the sept, digging out the few coppers that he had in the pocket of his trousers and placing them in the collection plate by the door. He didn’t know where they came from or how they got there, but in his drunken state he was not going to question it. It just felt like the correct thing to do.

He took one last look inside the sept before making his way back towards his chambers. His wife would be there, heavy with her own child. She needed his attention now.