It had been such a long moon.

Peace was already an unlikely thing after blood was spilled in the Red Keep and now, with the banners of war already catching the wind, it was clearly abandoned. News had reached them of House Manderly’s ruin and, of course, there were nine thousand Stormlanders outside.

Ever since Corwyn’s arrest Aenar had tried his best to maintain a dry tongue and, so far, he was doing well. His mood had fallen however and with such a grave shadow over the realm he had even chosen not to participate in the tournament. No loss, truly. He had expected his performance to be as full as the last but still, forsaking the restoration of his glory left a sting in his throat.

Then there was the future. An invasion of the West. Alyssane in Storm’s End. War against House Stark? How had his family allowed it to get this bad? They drank and danced and though he was no exception, comfortable in his feasting, his own duty was well fulfilled. Aelyx was Prince of Summer and now an army sat outside of his halls. The lions of House Targaryen conspired endlessly and yet their own kin was now named traitor.

“It's funny, you know,” the knight was pulled from his thoughts as he spoke to Garth Waters, his trusted urchin-squire, who was busy removing his armor. With Jon gone it fell to him to tend to any of Aenar’s knightly needs.

“The war?” the bastard asked with a raised brow as he unstrapped a gauntlet.

“What? No, not the-” he asked with a concerned look before moving on. “You are. My mind’s been on his grace’s loneliness, what with the long march south, all the betrayal and threats. Haven't been thinking about mine.”

“Can’t blame a man for protecting his own, but…” he thought for a moment. “Well, Daeron has Raymond at least, still, and Aelyx and Gaemon. Suppose I should count my blessings that the bastard remains.”

“You should knight more smallfolk,” the bastard recommended, half musing. “Lords are unreliable. Orphans don't have such burdens.”

“You'd think at least a letter, though,” he huffed. “Jon’s always been this way, but…”

“Aye, don't know who surprises me more,” Garth nodded, freeing the gauntlet. “I’d think the prince would have the heart but surely Ser Reynard feels the same solitude.”

Garth was privy to most secrets Aenar held and even some he didn't, his service to the knight affording him the ear of many a servant and guard. Though the two had never taken each other as lovers they had known each other well. When Aenar had needed a confidant with loyalty to nothing else he found one in Garth, and thus far their own interests had served the both of them well.

“I think I'll ask to be sent north,” he nodded. “I'll not war against my own kin if I can avoid it. No reason to go to Dorne. Maybe I can convince Reynard to assist me but I doubt Garin can be spared at a time like this. I probably can't either.”

“His grace might appreciate it,” Garth considered. “Sounds like the North has it figured out but the crown should have someone there, I think. It'll get you away from this, at least.”

Only rumors and whispers had come south. Had Jon been knighted? Was he conquering the North? Dispensing justice? Had something else happened with the pirates? Aenar supposed his history made him a good choice for ensuring it didn't get out of hand.

After he doffed his armor Aenar changed into a simple white tunic and breeches as Garth cleaned it. He sat at a table in the chamber Aelyx had given them and began to pen a letter.

10th Moon of 250 AC

Off the coast of Fair Isle, the Westerlands

The sea reeked of blood.

Sigrun stood at the prow of the Forlorn Hope, breath heavy, thick with the taste of iron, raw and sickening. Gore slicked her hair, dripped from her jaw, her armor coated in the ruin of men. Her sword, Tidecaller, gleamed black with blood.

The ocean around her was a graveyard. Farman hulls cracked and groaned as they sank beneath the waves, Banefort wrecks floating like bloated corpses, dying men still quivering upon their half-sunk decks. Her men loosed a last volley—fire quarrels streaking the sky, finding their marks in the backs of fleeing ships. A final insult. A petty vengeance. It was not enough. They had won the battle, and yet, the greenlanders had slipped through their grasp like cowardly eels.

Her eyes burned as she scanned the horizon, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. Those two ships. Those two damned ships. Their trickery had cost them a full victory, left the fleet's vanguard to take the brunt of the slaughter. She had carved her way through the Westermen, but what was the point if the rest of the bastards lived? If they took their coward’s flight south to Lannisport?

"Blasted fools," she spat. Had the Ironborn lost their edge since she was away? To let such pray escape from such meager tricks?

With a snarl, she buried Tidecaller to the hilt into the ship's rail, driving it through the wood like butter, leaving it to stand like a grave marker. She unbuckled the strips that held her armor in place, dropping each piece on the ground. Then, without hesitation, she vaulted over the side of the ship.

The water closed around her, cold and thick with the scent of death. Sails, ropes, bodies drifted in the crimson tide. The cold bit at her skin. She swam through the wreckage, kicking past slack faces frozen in death and shattered oars.

She reached the ruined hulk of one of the deceivers. The ship was listing, taking on water, its bones breaking, its guts spilling into the deep. She hauled herself up, fingers finding purchase on the slick wood, and prowled through the wreckage. Cargo torn open, barrels smashed, bodies strewn, soon to be forgotten. But she was searching for only one.

And she found him. The captain, his body half-pinned under a broken mast.

Sigrun seized him by the hair and dragged him above the water, atop the broken mast. She didn’t bother with ceremony. With a flick of her wrist, her knife found its mark, and the captain's head rolled free.

Still hanging from the leaning mast by one arm, she lifted the head high above her, its blood dribbling down her arm and chest.

Sigrun roared. A guttural, raw thing, torn from the depths of her lungs: "WE ARE THE UNYIELDING TIDE! AND WE’VE COME TO DROWN THEM ALL!"

The fleet answered with a deafening chorus of war cries echoing across the bay, their voices rising like the crashing tide.

The Lady of Blacktyde grinned at that, a sick smile tugging at her ruined lips and cheek, baring bloodied teeth beneath.

With the head clenched between her teeth by its matted hair, she plunged back into the water, swimming for her ship. By the time she climbed aboard, salt stung the open cuts across her arms, her chest, her back. Yet, she barely felt them, drowning in the adrenaline. It was a stinging sensation she was used to at this point.

She spit the head onto the deck. "Preserve it in salt," she ordered one of her men, shaking water from her braids. "Find me the other captain’s as well."

"Let Joy Lannister see what became of her little tricksters. Let their skulls weep with hollow eyes from the heights of Casterly Rock while we sack Lannisport below."

Still dripping, she wrenched Tidecaller from the rail, fetching a whetstone to run down its edge. The Valyrian steel barely needed it, the blade never dulled, but she did the ritual all the same, just as she was taught by her grandfather, Boremund. It grounded her back, and slowly deafened the incessant cries, slient and agonizing, ringing at her ears.

She had enjoyed her time on the ships, the sea salt air didn’t burn her like it did last time though that didn’t console her but rather reminded of the loss she had thrust upon herself.

There were two good things about her time on this ship. There was Tristifer and Lorren, she could only hope that they had gotten closer to her like she did with them.

She saw Tristifer in the corner of her eye and quickly turned to him. Her eyes were passionate with a mix of lust and a feeling she wasn’t used to. She had an idea as to what it was but every time she confronted the idea of love she was left damaged and broken.

Lorren on the other hand was quiet and allowed her to rant and release whenever she talked to him there was need to hide her thoughts or feelings she could just let go.

She slowly snook up on him before jumping up to whisper in to his ear. “ Boo “ she attempted to be scary though doubted that she had surprised him. She was trying to scare him for a day or two now and constantly failed.

Geralt had made his way from Grandview all the way through the CrownLands and Riverlands and the Gates of the Moon and the Bloody Gate.

Each land and landmark was marvellous to witness. It was what he had always wanted , to be free from Storm’s End and to travel and if he could secure an alliance with the Vale for his family it was all the better.

Though he didn’t hold out much hope he would offer himself up to Serena Arryn or Eleanor Blackwood or whoever with sufficient strength and power would take him. He didn’t need love nor happiness nor comfort, he just wanted to be of service to his family.

He put on a smile as he approached the Lady Serena’s location making sure to take in the architecture of The Eyrie.

The Lady Serena from what he had heard was someone who could only be described as admirable, from the mere fact that she was a woman who was forced to face the recoil and malicious that would come with any woman’s rule and yet she succeeded in punishing Lord Grafton and marching upon the North.

He could only hope one day he would manage achievements similar to her thought that was just a dream. He had no power nor authority and his capabilities weren’t particularly outstanding either.

Alastair had arrived in Mistfall a few days back but he decided not enter at least for a little while. Now time had passed and he had familiarised himself once again with Mistfall.

He had arrived at the castle not long ago and was waiting for Irwin’s welcome. He had a quiet smile stained upon his face as he waited. A small goblet of wine was in his hand.

He couldn’t wait to see his love again it had been far too long. He needed to see him, he longed for his embrace. He longed to stroke his cheek and feel his lips on his.

Alastair was a simple man when it came time to love, he loved Irwin and needed to be close to him and all he wanted was to kiss his lover and be merry for once in his life. He saw Irwin approaching, both of them were elderly now but Irwin seemed off from afar. More sickly than before.

Will nimbly ran down the stairs an excited grin painted across his face, Arwyn and Alenne had arrived. His sisters were among the three no four people he cared for.

He finally reached the area where Arwyn and Alenne were huddled as their emerald eyes searched around. Arwyn was dressed in a simple burgundy dress whilst Alenne was hidden behind her sister in a clean and calm emerald dress.

“ Arwyn , Alenne “ he quickly wrapped the girls in a sweet embrace. A small tear fell down his cheek as he dropped his head on to the older of the two’s shoulder.

“ Brother get off of me, please “ Arwyn was well composed, she had made sure to hold herself to a higher standard than the commoners even if she was nothing but a bastard in the eyes of the nobility and her brothers caring acts quite frankly disgusted the teenage girl.

Alenne however leant in to the hug and began to squeeze and tightly at that. She had missed her brother in the week or so that they had been separated. Though they both acknowledged Will’s heinous deeds, he was their brother and due to their mother’s early departure from this world he was the one who took care of them.

Arwyn gathered herself before wandering off to find a book to read, she enjoyed reading but Alenne stayed close to Will.

Alenne smiled as she kept close to her brother, she wouldn’t let him go. “ Brother please don’t ever leave me or Arwyn “

Will released a quiet stream of tears, his life was revolved around the risk of death. His life was in jeopardy at all times on the battlefield but the glory that would come from it was worth it, the riches and the blood he would be rewarded with.

The harbor of Gulltown was prospering better than ever, much of the trade of wheat, grain came though each day becoming the most important port in the whole Seven Kingdoms while the war raged in the Reach, North and West, Dockhands lifting various cargo units from Narrow Sea was a daily occurrence with Isembard Arryn taking notice of the command of the Inspection guard if there is some sort of illegal items found with them or harmful animals that could spread a sickness in the city, a random routine to investigate and look after.

"Greetings, good travellers, You'll not be leaving this port right now, I'm afraid" Isembard said to the Goodbrothers “I am a Commander of these men, This is an usual inspection to the incoming travelers, we'd like to perform an inspection of all of your baggages and inventory that you're carrying and holding at this moment, to ensure that you are not carrying anything illegal in nature that could bring any harm to the city such as animals, weapons or any some sort of rotten food, so please cooperate, thank you"

[m: isembard wouldn't have any mech bonuses or anything, just haven't had a chance to do step 2 yet]

Tenth Moon, 300 AC, Gates of the Moon

Seven thousand soldiers had marched North to take White Harbor, and less than three thousands returned with the Lady of the Eyrie at their head. She had promised her aid to Lord Dustin, and although she hadn’t stayed behind herself, she’d certainly delivered on that promise, leaving more than half her army to root the wolves out of their den. Her faith in Artys was not misplaced; he would see the job done, and done honorably.

Not like herself.

Nearly a moon’s worth of riding gave her plenty of time to stew in the guilt of what had happened to House Manderly, and on her order. She had commanded Lord Corbray to get rid of them by any means possible, and what spectacular means he had chosen. The slightest possibility remained that Aegon Manderly had been guilty for the murder of her family, but she doubted it more and more as time went on. They had all died for nothing.

Now, she was responsible for a boy of twelve, the last of his great house, and that only deepened the guilt that gnawed at her insides, like beast to a bone. To force him to live within her walls, having killed his family, well, she couldn’t imagine herself in the position, and she certainly couldn’t stomach the thought. But, opportunities had ways of presenting themselves, and she found that the solution had been by her side all along.

“What do you think of joining the Seven-Branched Tree as a squire?” She asked Daemon one evening, when they were camped by one of the many nameless streams somewhere in the riverlands.

The boy had been searching for skipping-stones in the gently-moving water, and looked up whenever she approached. His face brightened at her question. “You mean with Eleanor?”

Serena nodded. “Yes, with Eleanor. You will have a purpose within the order. They will make you strong and teach you to be a brave and honorable knight. You will see far more of the Seven Kingdoms than you would within the Eyrie.”

Daemon looked down, considering her words. “But I’m your ward, aren’t I? That means I am in your service. Don’t you want me to stay with you?”

A knot lodged itself in her throat at that.

He was young, and innocent, and she had taken everything from him. Killing his family hadn’t made her feel any better. There had been no sense of catharsis in the slaughter.

“You are my ward, yes, and I may release you from my service at any time. If you would like, we shall speak to Eleanor about it together. I am certain that she would be very happy to have you with her.”

Another few moments of silent pondering, and then Daemon nodded. “Okay. We can speak to Eleanor together. I want to be a strong and brave knight, the bravest there ever was!”

She blinked away the memory at the sound of horns blaring, announcing their approach to the Gates of the Moon. The day was a gray one, overcast and drizzling, as though the Vale itself was unhappy with her return.

The fortress gates groaned open, and a stable boy reached for the reins of her horse as she dismounted. Pain lanced through her thighs and down her calves; she had never ridden so much for so long, and the saddle sores would last for days. She ascended the stairs to the keep with the other lords who had ridden with them trailing behind, with Daemon Manderly and Eleanor Blackwood and the knights of the order who were ever at her side.

They crowded into a basket and watched the valley grow small beneath their feet, and when she took that first step into the Eyrie, she could have collapsed with relief. Ser Roland was there to greet them, along with other members of her household. Servants gathered to show them to their chambers and draw hot water for their baths, and the savory scent of food wafted through the High Hall from the kitchens. Gods, she wanted for that hot bath and her feather bed, but there was still more to be done before she could retire.

Gesturing for the castellan to walk with her, she listened intently as he filled her in on all that had happened in their absence.

Open to the Eyrie!

He lay in bed at night thinking of it, his dreams were branded by it, his obsession was ignited by it. That fateful day he danced on the battlefields with his sword in hand, it wasn’t chipped back then, it was newly made and had a unique shine.

The wails of young children as they watched their fathers be torn away from them, mothers weeping as they see their husbands and children bleed. Bleed for a cause they wished they hadn’t supported. Bleed for the sake of the women and young children’s survival. Now they have failed and these women and children will have to deal with the consequences.

Will looked younger there and he wasn’t smiling like he was in the Battle Of Deep Den but was rather fighting back tears, he had steeled his heart and mind but that wasn’t enough.

Then it happened Jonah, his friend, his only friend. The boy who had stood by him since they were young rats scurrying the streets, since they were boys whose morals were slowly being eroded.

“ Hey Will cheer up, it’ll be fine we can come back and give them a bit of our cut” Jonah was always like that, he was always smiling and grinning even in the face of such tragedy he found a way to see the brighter side of things.

Those few words got him killed. A sword straight through his stomach. Yet he was still grinning as Will nimbly ran over to find nought but a dying body.

Yet he wasn’t overcome by an intense despondence but rather was engulfed by curiosity, enchanted by the scarlet liquid that had started to pool around. He wanted to grasp it in his hands and thus he did. He brought his finger up to his mouth and slowly let his tongue out to taste it. It was his first time, the urges to do this had always been there but usually he was too busy in the fray of battle or hiding from those who would find trouble with him.

He grinned as he felt it run down his throat. He remained like this for a few moments before he stood up seemingly rejuvenated as if his closest friend hadn’t died just moments ago.

That was the day he was truly released, he was truly free from the shackles that restrained him, that forced him to conform to what every other person asked of him.

He sighed, he did regret just how he had been freed of the mind forged manacles that binder him. Jonah didn’t deserve such a thing but neither did most people.

He put on a grin once again as he left his chambers for the corridors of Casterly Rock just to admire it’s opulence once again.

Casterly Rock, The morning after Joy Lannister's speech on the balcony.

The Army camp was abuzz with soldiers getting ready for war. Jason could not have been happier as he walked around the camp, he smiled as he walked among the soldiers of the camp. He was excited, he had arrived at an opportune time to prove himself, not only to his father but to the whole of Westeros as a great knight, he hoped that he could distinguish himself enough in the coming war to earn a knighthood.

"I am going to be the greatest knight, I will defend the weak, the innocent and women. I shall be a beacon of virtue and honour!" He was deep in thought as he accidentally bumped into a servant who was carrying some pots and pans, the poor man dropped them all as he faceplanted into the mud.

He got up quickly and started to gather the pots and pans. "A thousand apologies, ser!" He said nervously to Jason who knelt beside the man and helped him pick up his pots and pans. "No I should apologise good ser, please do forgive me I was immensely deep in thought and did not notice you walking past." He smiled at the man as he gave him his pots and pans. "Here my good man." Jason took a gold dragon from his pocket and put it in the pocket of the servant. "Again, my deepest apologies." The servant looked flabbergasted as Jason turned around and walked away, a satisfied smile on his face.

An hour later Jason would be lying against a tree, close to the army camp, watching the Sunless Sea, he had never seen it, nor had he imagined that quite soon he might set sail on it. He let out a satisfied sigh as he watched the waves.

(Talk to Jason as he is walking through the camp or while he is daydreaming and looking at the sea)

Casterly Rock, The day before Tyrion Lannister's funeral

Jason's mouth was agape as he watched Casterly Rock come into view, although he grew up in the mountains, he had never seen a castle such as this. A castle atop a massive rock, looking at it he felt, insignificant in the grand scheme of the world, but he also felt a sense of excitement. He saw the army camp at the Rock and was amazed by its size.

Robert watched his son's amazement with a sense of glee and dread, he had always wanted to protect his son, he had done his best to instill good morals and values into each of his sons, but his fatal flaw had been to keep them close by his side, he knew in his heart that all three of his sons knew nothing about the real world, and would be in for a rude awakening, especially in the case of Jason, who had idolized his father and had memorized each knightly virtue and tale told to him, fancying himself a knight of legend.

1200 men of house Brax marched and rode towards Casterly Rock, Robert and Jason at their helm. "Go on ahead son! I'll get the men set up and find you later!" Robert kissed his son on the forehead and waved for him to move. Jason smiled and eagerly rode ahead.

The young man was handsome, he certainly looked like a knight of legend, a youthful appearance with a powerful physique, a gorgeous looking horse, and armour befit of a knight. I just need the title of Ser, and my legend can begin. He thought to himself as he smiled and waved at a couple of peasant girls who were watching him, they giggled as he rode past them.

He approached the gates of Casterly Rock with a cocky smile on his face as he suddenly heard his father shout at him. "Boy! Wait!" He looked back and saw his father approach him, slightly pale and out of breath. "Come with me." Jason raised an eyebrow as his smile faded. "Why?" Robert looked at him for a moment. "Lord Tyrion Lannister is dead, I have just been informed, we shall set up camp and only then shall we head up to pay our respects to the family."

Jason nodded and turned his horse around, riding beside his father as they headed for the army camp.

Hornvale the day the Brax forces marched to Casterly Rock.

The birds were chirping in the morning light as Jason awoke. “Today is the day…Today I leave for adventure and glory.” He arose from his bed and donned his tunic and his armour, the Unicorn of House Brax proudly displayed on the centre of his chest plate. He sheathed his sword, a beautifully crafted longsword which he had named ‘Valiant’s Edge.’

He made sure he had packed all his supplies. Water, food, a bedroll, a journal, his shield, and off course most importantly his copy of The Conquest of Dorne. Satisfied that all was there he marched out of his quarters and down towards the stable.

Jason expected the courtyard to be filled with people waiting to wish him good luck and farewell. However, to his surprise, it was filled with soldiers from House Brax getting ready to march.

Robert Brax walked up to his son. “Jason! There you are! I am sorry but plans have changed, House Lannister has called upon us to mobilize the men and march to Casterly Rock.”

Jason seemed puzzled. “Why? Are we going to war?” Robert nodded and looked at his son for a moment. “Yes, against the Ironborn if I understood his letter correctly.” Jason looked at his father for a while. “Does that mean…I am staying here?” To his surprise, his father shook his head and smiled. “You are joining the march to Casterly Rock, Jason. You are twenty years old, and it is time you saw the world, I would be lying if I said I was happy to see you go, but you have become a capable young man, and a good fighter, just remember you are not invincible, so don’t do anything stupid and choose your battles wisely.”

Jason’s disappointment turned to enthusiasm as he rushed to hug his father. Robert let out a laugh as he hugged his son. “You’ll make me proud, Jason; I am sure of it. We march to Casterly Rock soon. Say goodbye to your mother and your siblings. Ser Hill will be joining us as well.”

Robert was glad he was called upon to rally his troops. This meant he could escort his son to Casterly Rock and keep an eye on him. Although he hoped Jason would not want to join him in the war, he knew the young man would.

Jason let go of his father and headed over to the rest of his family. His mother had tears in her eyes as he approached, she kissed him on the cheek as they embraced. “Listen to your father, Jason and please be careful.” Jason nodded. “I shall mother, you won’t have to worry. When I see you again, no doubt you will have heard I have become a knight of great renown.”

He turned from his mother to his brother’s Kaelen and Cedric who smiled at him as he approached. “Well, seems you’re going to have all the fun while I take over the management of the castle with Uncle Jon.” Kaelen said with a grin. “Kill some Ironborn for me while you’re at it.” Cedric chimed in. “Bring me back some souvenirs if you can, oh great and honourable knight,” Kaelen said with a chuckle.

Having said his goodbyes to his brothers, Jason knelt and hugged his little sister, 10-year-old Alysanne, she was crying. “Why do you and father have to go?” Jason comforted his sister. “Don’t worry Aly, I’m going to become a famous knight, I’ll return as soon as I can, and I’ll bring you something nice.” His words seemed to calm Alysanne down slightly. “I want a doll! A prettier one than I have now!” Jason smiled. “I’ll be sure to get you one Aly.”

With that, he stood up, waved his family goodbye and headed for his horse, Daeron, named after the hero who had conquered Dorne. He got onto the horse and watched his father in turn say goodbye to his family before joining his eldest son.

“You ready son?” Jason shot his father a cocky grin. “I always am father, I always am.”

Lannisport had largely stayed the same in her absence. Everything was still exactly where she’d left it, with the addition of a few new shops and houses. That was to be expected for a thriving, bustling city, of course. The market felt bigger, as if it had expanded some, and she was dismayed to see that prices all over had risen dramatically.

Everywhere she went, the men and women of the city spoke of war. Ironborn attacks to the north, Tyrell soldiers marching on their borders to the south. She didn’t understand what was happening or why. The realm had been at peace when she left, and for a time had been thrown into upheaval against Essos, but the king’s peace had certainly never been violated so wantonly.

She sat on the sea wall, a wooden box of writing supplies in her lap and a sheet of parchment laying on top of it. Griff had been just as shocked as she to hear her mother’s dying words, but they meant little to Briar and Lem, born and raised overseas. Roddy at least was sympathetic, and they had not yet run into Tam and Cad since departing the ship. No doubt the twins were off cavorting in one of the city’s numerous brothels.

Caria looked down at the blank parchment, her mind racing as she considered what words to put there. Should she address it to Lord Lannister? Lord Tyrion? Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock? She felt silly writing to him at all. Surely he’d received her mother’s last letter and thought her dead. Perhaps it was better to just move on with her life. She had the skills to join the City Watch, if they would have her.

She might even be able to secure a place within one of the knightly orders strewn across the realm. Of course, she was no knight, but that was Tamryn and Cadwyn’s greatest wish, and she would do anything to see her friend’s dreams be realized. With a sigh, she lay her quill aside and stared out across the water, waiting for the answer to come to her, or inspiration of some other sort.

“Afternoon, Cap’n!”

Caria started and nearly fell backwards off the wall at the sudden, loud greeting behind her. Tam laughed heartily and leaned against the salt-crusted bricks. He was eating a green pear, carving off juicy slices with his knife and placing them between his teeth. She scowled at him in annoyance, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“And where have you lot been?” she asked, setting the box aside and slipping off of the wall. She landed on her feet with a little bounce and dusted her clothes off before resting her hands in her hips.

“Enjoying the finer pleasures of the city,” Cad piped up, a shit-eating smile on his face.

“You told us to have fun!”

Her scowl deepened, but they were right. She couldn’t really be upset with them.

“You missed some important news. I went to see my mother, and she said that…she told me that my father is the Lord of Casterly Rock. I’m supposed to write to him, but I don’t know what to say.”

The twins looked at each other, and then the ground, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. Tam scratched at the back of his head, and she stared at each of them, turning her own head left and then right. “Well I know it sounds crazy, I don’t even know if I believe it myself!”

Cadwyn shook his head. “It ain’t that, Caria. We heard Lord Tyrion’s dead. Killed in King’s Landing by someone called Baratheon. They had his funeral yesterday up at the Rock.”

Time seemed to all but stop.

The seconds oozed by at a snail’s pace, and the sounds of the city faded to a low whine. She had come home to find not just one parent, but her father too, and the gods had snatched them both away from her so cruelly.

“We’re sorry Cap’n. His daughter’s in charge up there now. Her name’s Joy or something.”

Caria barely heard the words.

She stumbled back over to the wall, her vision blurred. How strange it felt to mourn someone she’d never known, but she did mourn for him. He had cared about her, she knew he did, or else he wouldn’t have visited them when she was small. He wouldn’t have bothered to send them money. She closed her eyes, trying hard to remember what the man looked like, but he was only a faceless figure in the deep well of childhood memory.

The only person who could’ve verified that her mother’s words were the truth, gone.

Snatching up the quill and parchment, she pressed it against the wall and scrawled some uneven, tear-blotted words.

Arianne had remained in Wyl, Wyl was her home and her family was here. To be quite honest she doubted her family would allow her out. She grimaced at the thought of her last escapade out of Wyl. She nearly lost a hand, luckily Elia was there to talk their way out of it.

Her hand was clutched around a spear , its weight could clearly be seen as she struck at her target. A dummy, there was no soldier dumb enough to duel with her.

She continued for a few moments, her grimace warped in to a smile which slowly grew wider with every swing. Drops of sweat flushed her face as she began to feel the sword become heavy every time she raised it.

It started to burn after a while, maybe an hour or so of constant swinging had passed.
She finally lay down the spear as her steps had become heavy and her arms seemed to be ready to fall off at any moment.

She collapsed, panting as sweat ran down her body.

Arianne was by no means a giant but she was considerably taller than most women. She rested for a few minutes before jumping up again. She had been out here training for the past few hours and it had taken its toll.

She let out a large yawn as she clutched her hand around the spear and began to walk back. She wanted to talk to her cousins or at least one of them.

She made her back to the castle of Wyl yawning aplenty during the journey back under the sweltering Dornish sun. She quickly returned to her chambers which were less than ornate where she placed her spear, it was never far away from where she would sleep, she wouldn’t allow it to be too far lest some terrible accident were to barrage her.

After she had left her spear behind she ran out on to the corridors of Wyl not caring for the fact her waist was exposed. It didn’t bother her not like it did her sister or those stuck up ladies that haled from the rest of the kingdoms she had heard stories about.

“ Cousin “ a bright smile adorned Arianne’s face as she approached one of her cousins

Bear Den stood in ruins, if one could even call it that. The quays were gone, the fishermen's huts were blackened husks and the skiffs that would have dotted the horizon were at the bottom of the bay of ice. The sun had set, the smallfolk finding what shelter they could among the tents and lean-tos after a long day of hard labour cleaning away the rubble.

She'd been overseeing the labourers along with Maester Manfryd, going over the plans for the proper town Bear Den would become. Her fingers dug into the fur lining her cloak, long since gone numb from the cold. As she made her way back towards Mormont Keep, speaking to the smallfolk, making sure bowls of brown and blankets were to be had. The cold seeped further with each conversation, each story of how a life had been destroyed by that bastard and his filth. The rage burning in her breast would have to serve.

A kind word and a warm smile was what she would give her people, and for the Dustins...vengeance. Not this rabid baying for blood, but true northern vengeance. Cold, meticulous and total. If she could not carry it out, her blood would swear the oath. The Dustin line would end, whatever the cost, whatever indignity would be demanded of her. 'The line of Dustin will end, I swear it by the gods. The Mormonts will never be friends to the Crossed Axe'.

As she shed her furs and wool in preparation for her evening rest she found herself humming the tune of one the songs her father would sing in winter, when she was a still a little girl.
"My King, My Lords, perched high above the salt.
A pie! A pie! I have baked for the King,
Although the King has forgotten his fault.

But now rejoice and quickly let us bring,
The pie! The pie! Before our proud King

They struck down a guest, underneath their own roof
Now they live off their young, as the gods very proof."

Benedict had managed to find an interesting subject, it pertained to the matters of ancient beasts.

None had been seen for countless years and even dragons the most recent beasts to have been seen were long gone with only bones remaining.

She had begun her search in every book she could find, she spent hours cooped up in her chambers surrounded by a mountain of books. Each one unique, each one holding a vast amount of knowledge.

“ Benedict, take a few and begin your own search “ an aged man walked in, whilst being a commoner he had known Elia since she was young and was taken in by her not long after she came of age. The man was knowledgeable and that was what attracted her to him, his years had made him wise, wiser than anyone else in Wyl at the very least.

Vaemond sat in a meeting, yet all he could think about was the letter his brother had sent him. He looked it over again as discreetly as he could manage without offending his guests.

Vaemond,

Lord of the Tides? Doesn't sound as good as Lord Consort of Dorne, so I'll claim victory over you for now.

Princess Deria is a good soul and we are to wed whenever most convenient. She fears a war with the Stormlands and wants to avoid it at all costs. If your word is true, our fleet would have to come to their aid. Perhaps you could get Baratheon to see that we are all aligned?

You know, save the realm or something. I'm doing my part, you do yours, right?

I'll keep being a good husband-to-be. I think I might actually love her, not that I really know what love is but whatever is in my heart for her certainly feels like it. She's a good person and good people ought to win now and then. Make sure you stay a good person too.

Love,

Joffrey

It was hard to imagine his little brother in love. Out of all of them, he expected Joffrey to become a seasoned veteran of The Pink Pearl. A married man being made out of him before either him or Lucerys, well, perhaps not Lucerys... but certainly before himself was a shock. It made him wonder if Lysa Tully had forgotten him. There was still time to wait on a response to his letter, but it wasn't the resounding acceptance of love that he was hoping for. Hells, for all he knew even Lucerys might've gotten himself married off wherever he was. Perhaps it was time to consider his deal with Clea Baratheon, the pair of them accepting that if their first choices failed, perhaps each other as a second choice was best. It would at least be something easy to bring up when attempting to aid Joffrey in talking the Baratheons out of a Dornish invasion.

"Are you even listening to us, my lord?"

Right. Vaemond had assembled representatives from the budding resettlement of the ruins of Spicetown to discuss proper incorporation of the town. Much of it was rather dull copper-counting negotiations of what the new taxes and fees would be, thankfully his sister had a mind for all that, but the main contention was the alderman of Hull who detested the amount of investment going towards them rather than his side of the island.

"I'm listening." He had finally answered, though he wasn't sure who had even asked in the first place. "Look, I think you all have done a tremendous good by aiding the resettlement. Yet each of you know that it's now large enough that it can be considered legitimate and thus can be taxed. That being said, I get the feeling that the taxes aren't the main issue, it's who is going to be overseeing New Spicetown in the same way as Alderman Garrett is. Am I wrong?"

Each representative glanced about each other. There was Septa Morne, the head of the new sept, Ilyrio Moontide, the leader of the Merchant's Guild, and Ser Cutjack, the Captain of the militia. There was no pleasing all of them and, truthfully, he had the feeling that his father intended to play each of them off of each other until one won out. Likely Alderman Garrett was to assume control of tax collection and delivering minor sentences as the original plan, leading to why he was now so perturbed, but Vaemond had no intention of holding up a deal solely because his father had made it. There needed to be merit behind it too.

"Well, I think the entire island should still be considered the Town of Hull, so-"

"It's not." Vaemond was quick to cut off the alderman, who had unknowingly proven his suspicions. "We lost Spicetown in the Dance and have worked hard to bring it back to glory. To blanket call it Hull ignores the history of those that died and especially those that have carried on the name. However, we mustn't let Hull suffer from lack of attention and resources. I've decided this: instead of one Alderman overseeing Spicetown, it'll be a council of you four. Yes, even including you Garrett. I want the taxes paid on time and I don't want the three of you New Spicetowners to freeze the Alderman of Hull out of any coordination between the two towns. We are all one Driftmark, not a squabble of different beaches."

With a pause, he'd gauge each of their reactions. Seeing no protest, Valaena would chime in.

"We will hold off on levying a tax for a moon. This will give time for anyone that wishes to establish roots before the taxes begin to do so, while also providing an out for anyone that wishes to return their operations to Hull. Is this too amenable?"

Once again, no protest, though Vaemond expected a different story once there was a following meeting next moon. Regardless, he and his sister seemed to have managed both their expectations and the outcome properly. With the meat and potatoes of the meeting now concluded, the Lord of the Tides would rise from his seat.

"Now, Valaena will handle any loose threads, but I've other matters to attend to. I look forward to our next meeting."

Giving his sister a peck on the cheek, he'd make his way to his solar where he could finally get some quiet contemplation as he considered his next moves.

Seagard

Ella elegantly wrote out half a page of script only to less than elegantly rip the half completed missive and turn it into pieces a minute later. It was quickly becoming something a pattern as the Lady of Seagard would attempt to craft her letter only to face a wall that made it necessary - at least in her mind - scrap the whole thing and start again... and again... and again.

She supposed she had a fair excuse for this unusual lack of direction. The realm was no more in order than her own mind. Bandits had ransacked more than a dozen farmsteads while she and Jon were away doing their duty. That failure alone would have haunted her and set he dear husband's blood afire but the Gods seemed unwilling to leave it there.

While Seagard recovered from its pillaging the North and Vale continued their miserable war unabated with whatever aid the riverlanders had attempt to provide the Valemen in quelling it apparently being ineffective. Jon's own words on the subject were morose. White Harbor was a burning ruin but whatever that was a just fate her husband could not rightly say. All he knew for certain was that Lord Corbray was an honorless cur and that the alliance between the Vale and Trident was likely broken because of that dishonor.

And then there was her own brother unleashing the might of the Iron Fleet on the westermen on orders of the Hand. It was by her hand that twenty Mallister ships would join the fleet in its Great Reaving, a decision that she still struggled with even with the sanctioning of the Crown. It all pointed to one thing. More war and more death.

Which is why she was crafting this letter. Steps had to be taken to ensure House Mallister was ready for whatever chaos that was going to spring from all this conflict. It was her duty after all. Not that it made things any easier. If anything she wished she could reunite with Jon and take their children away from all this madness. And yet...

Ella picked up her quill and started again.

Tenth Moon, 300 AC, Lannisport

They arrived in Lannisport on a humid early morning, before the mist had cleared on the still water of the harbor. Just the sight of the city walls in the distance had been enough to ease the sudden homesickness that had struck her some days back. The light of torches carried by the watchmen glimmered in the distance, and the sky beyond kissed the stones with tender shades of lilac and mauve. Her mother was waiting somewhere in those stacks of stone, someone that she had missed with all her heart.

The ships reached the trading docks in no time, and Caria went below the deck to gather her belongings. A few trunks filled with weapons, pieces of armor and other assorted clothing items would need to be offloaded, but otherwise everything she owned fit into a single leather bag that she slung over her shoulder. As soon as the gangway was lowered, she marched across, earning more than a few stares at the sight of a woman clad in battle-worn plate. Although scarred on the surface, the set was well loved and maintained, much like the woman herself.

She sent the others to find accommodations, bringing only Griff with her. They’d met in these very streets what felt like a lifetime ago, spending almost every day of nine long years together. The path to her childhood home and the workshop underneath it was something she would remember fifty years from now, if the gods let her live that long. As they passed through the market, she stopped to reminisce with a faraway look in her eye. Griff was very good at stealing at just twelve, and they had stuffed themselves to sickness more than once on the shiny red apples and warm honey cakes that he pilfered from the stalls.

Her hand slid along the cool stone bricks as they comtimued on, turning the final corner. The building was still there, a lamp flickered in the upstairs window, and Caria let out a small sigh of relief to know that her mother had not moved elsewhere. Lannisport was not a small city, and finding her would’ve taken ages. Griff leaned against the wall next to the door, and she turned the latch with trembling fingers. What if her mother didn’t recognize her? Would she be angry after all this time? Was it possible that she’d remarried and had other children in Caria’s long absence?

Stepping inside, she allowed her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkened interior. Wooden mannequins were scattered all around, some wearing corsets and underthings, others displaying half-finished gowns and dresses. The floor groaned under her weight as she ventured further inside, and she froze like a deer at the snap of a twig as someone came to the top of the stairs.

“Who goes there?” an unfamiliar voice called out.

A woman holding a silver candlestick appeared at the bottom of the stairway, squinting at Caria from across the room. “I’m afraid we aren’t taking any visitors or new business at the moment. Madam Theia is unwell. Good day to you.”

Unwell.

Panic coursed through her, flooding her insides and making her stomach turn.

“What do you mean, unwell?” she replied, taking another step forward.

The seamstress paused with her foot on the bottom step and looked back over her shoulder, frowning. “She has been ill for some time now. The healers can’t seem to figure out what’s causing it, and she isn’t responding to any of their treatments. The workshop is closed indefinitely. Now please, run along. We don’t want any trouble.”

Caria felt like she might overflow with dread. Her heart thundered in her chest so hard that she could hear the rush of blood in her ears. Stepping forward again, she reached out desperately. “Wait, please. I-I’m not here to cause any trouble. Theia is my…she’s my mother. My name is Caria. She must have told you about me. Please…”

The look of skepticism on the woman’s face shifted to uncertainty, and then discomfort. “Madam Theia did have a daughter, but she died years ago. Shame on you for making such an absurd claim. My mistress is quite sick and she certainly does not need some troublemaker off the street barging in here and trying to get money or Seven-Know what else from her. Now leave, or I’ll call the watch!”

“Please, I need to see her. I’m not here for money or anything else. I just need to speak to her. Let me speak with her and I will go. I swear.” Caria’s voice was pained, and her fingers were balled into tight fists at her sides to keep them from trembling.

The seamstress stared at her harshly for another moment, before relenting with a small sigh. “Fine. Come along. You needn’t worry about covering your face, whatever is wrong with her hasn’t spread beyond the walls of her room.”

“Thank you,” Caria replied, jogging to catch up. “Thank you, you won’t regret this.”

The odor of death was something that Caria was all too familiar with. She had danced with the Stranger on many occasions, and each time she had been victorious. But she had seen plenty of folk die - soldiers split open from balls to brains on the battlefield, a legion of good men taken out by the bloody flux, entire cities decimated by a Dothraki khalasar. Theia’s room, cool and mostly dark, held the cloying scent of sickness for which there was no cure. The woman was dying and she had not yet reached her fiftieth nameday.

Caria crossed the room to her mother’s bedside and dropped to both knees, taking a frail hand within her own and leaning her forehead against it. Theia stirred against her pillow, looking down at her visitor with eyes that were mere slits.

“I’m here, mother. It’s me, Caria. Do you remember me? I came home. I’m home.”

At the mention of her daughters name, life seemed to return to ailing limbs and a bit of color to otherwise pallid cheeks. She reached out with a trembling finger and touched the scars on the side of the younger woman’s face. “Caria? My Caria?” she replied weakly. “Impossible…”

“It’s me. I’m sorry I’ve been away. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for leaving you behind.”

Theia’s eyes glistened wetly. “They told me you’d died, but I never believed it. I searched for you for years. I paid my weight in gold trying to find you, to bring you back to me. What happened?”

Caria smiled faintly, wiping the sting of tears from her own green eyes. “I ran away from home. Me and Griff…Gwyn…we wanted to see more of the world. We’re back now, and I’m never leaving you again. I’ll never leave you. I swear it.”

A hoarse laugh left Theia’s lips, but to her daughter it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

“I always said that ruffian would get you into trouble. I’m afraid I can’t promise you the same, my darling. Waking up is harder with every day that goes by. But, the Seven have answered my prayers. They have allowed me to see your face one last time, and there is something that I must tell you.”

“Don’t say that. I made plenty of coin while I was away. I’ll hire a maester, I’ll take you to the Citadel, we’ll figure out what’s wrong and you will get better. Please don’t leave me…” Caria squeezed the hand held within her own more tightly, as if somehow it might make the person that was attached to it stay. She had to stay.

“I’ve been on my way out for some time, child, and I am grateful that we had this time together. I’ve longed for this moment for so many years.”

Theia pushed herself up as well as she was able, but she was winded by even that small movement. “Hear my words, my darling. Your father is Tyrion Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Golden brows furrowed, and her face contorted as the revelation hit Caria with the force of a hammer. “What do you mean? That’s…that's not possible…”

“It wasn’t my finest moment, to be sure,” Theia replied with a small smile. “But it is the truth. He supported us for years when you were very young. I wrote to him…of your death, but I never received a reply. Perhaps he received the news, but it is more likely that he didn’t. The Warden of the West is a very important man, and I couldn’t expect him to care about the words of a humble seamstress. Write to him when I am gone, and he will take care of you.”

Caria shook her head stubbornly. “You’re not going anywhere. You can’t. I just got here. This isn’t fair!”

She wanted to upend the table next to the bed, to kick over every piece of furniture within range and punch her knuckles bloody on the wall.

“Please don’t leave me…” she begged instead, the tears flowing freely at last.

“I love you, Caria,” Theia said weakly, slumping against the bed, as if the effort of speaking had sapped all of the strength she had left. Her breaths became slower, more ragged as the seconds dragged on. “Until the end of time…”

Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into an hour, until eventually the only sound in the room was a young woman’s soft weeping.

Thunder roiled over the Westerlands. Rain was yet to come, but it seemed an inevitability. Dark clouds hung over the Sunset Sea, flashing lightning against the great mountain of Casterly Rock. Yet, the whole day, rain never came. The Gods seemed to hold it back, as if in respect for the dead man who was being honored.

And Tyrion Lannister was honored. A vast army was gathered at Casterly Rock, and for the funeral a path was carved through the camp, lined by rows of shining soldiers. Through that path, the procession marched towards the Rock, a slow and long trek. At its head, followed by the honored mourners, the coffin was borne on the shoulders of twelve men—eleven men, in truth, and one steel-faced young woman. It was a large, solid gold thing that they carried, heavy enough that each of the twelve bearers needed all their strength. Carved with lions and sunbursts, it was easy to imagine there was some holy power contained within the vessel. But no, Joy sighed as she hefted its cool metal on her shoulder. Only the bones of a great man.

As they passed on their slow march, the soldiers lining the path raised their shields. Lefford blue, Serret green, Marbrand orange, Brax violet. Joy took them each into account as she walked, at the head of the coffin. The might of the West has come to see you home, father.

By the time they were a quarter of the way to the Rock, her shoulder was aching terribly against the coffin. One man, bearing the middle of the coffin, had to step down. Another knight was quick to take his place, as was expected. There were plenty of replacements ready and waiting. Joy’s replacement would be Marq Mouseheart, whenever she called him forward to give herself a rest.

They made it halfway to the Rock before two more of the bearers stood down and had to be replaced. Joy’s back was burning, her shoulder numb. Every step was fresh pain, but she did not give up. Not yet. It was her father’s weight on her shoulders, and she would not let it go.

Over the next quarter of the path, the other bearers fell away, one by one. Soon enough, Joy was the last of the original twelve who remained. Marq paced beside her, watching with concern and insisting she pass the burden on to him. She brushed him away. The coffin felt like it was breaking her spine, but she kept walking. One step. One step. She could feel the Rock draw closer.

You were supposed to live. She felt her face grow hot. You were supposed to stay with me. I wasn’t supposed to do this without you. Her eyes watered, and soon tears were flowing down her cheeks, over scars and down her jaw. One step. One step.

She knew he would die, of course he would die, one day. She had wanted to be the Lady of Caterly Rock, one day. But not now. It should have waited until she was old, as old as he was. Until she had a husband, until she had children she could look at and feel hope, instead of loss. 

Why did you leave me, father? 

One step. One step.

She missed him. Gods Above, she missed him. She wanted to see his smile again, to hear one of his quips sink into the air. She wanted to hug him. She could not remember the last time she had done that. One step. One step. 

The weight pressed down on her. She felt crushed, beneath it. Her body burned with agony. Marq was saying something, telling her to let go, but she could barely hear him. They had to pause, for a moment, as one of the replacement bearers stood down and had to be replaced, himself. Then, it was one more step after each step. 

Her hand was bleeding, digging too hard into the carved gold, but she didn’t feel it. There was only the weight.

Where are you? Why couldn’t you have left with me, in that apartment? Why did I leave you alone with him? Why did I make him angry? Why did I hurt his brother? Why didn’t I make peace? Why did I do this to you, father? One step. One step.

Then, they were there. The great stone staircase of the Lion’s Mouth led up to the Rock. It was the last climb, before they delivered the coffin to the awaiting litter and septons. The other eleven bearers all stopped before the stairs, allowing fresh replacements to carry it up that long climb. Marq grabbed Joy’s shoulder roughly, trying to pull her from her post. Her fist struck out, catching him in the throat, and he fell back.

She hefted the coffin and stepped forward, onto the stairs. One step. One step. Everything burned. Her legs, her arms, her spine. She bit her tongue and felt blood fill her mouth, dribbling out from the scars in her lips.

One step. One step. The end was near. Her legs strained on the steps, and she let out a bloody scream. Everyone around her was silent, now.

You shouldn’t have left me. You were supposed to live.

The stairs ended. The wheeled litter was there, ready to receive the coffin. She moved in tandem with the other bearers, shifting it forward and then off, onto the litter.

When the weight left her shoulder, everything went black. For just a moment, she watched the men around her rush to catch her fainting form.

If someone had told Lyonel a year ago that he would rise to Lord of Lannisport in the midst of a chaotic civil war, he would have met them with a dry chuckle and a quip amounting to, not a chance in all the hells. However, the Gods had seen fit to make him the fool instead of an imagined other since it exactly so had occurred.

Antario’s death had been as sudden as it was nearly beyond belief—a horse spooked by some creature hiding in the brush threw him far enough that he punctured a lung on landing. Before any maester could work to save him he had drowned in his own blood. There was no grand betrayal or battlefield tragedy, just misfortune striking when no one expected it. Lyonel would not waste breath lamenting it.

Now, as the newly minted Lion of the Port, he marched through the ancient halls Lann the Clever had once stolen from House Casterly, his footsteps echoing off stone steeped in history. Lyonel had never been one for the silks and embellishments of courtly life, being far better suited to the battlefield or deck of a ship-and today was no exception. Clad in blood-red plate trimmed with gold, he was dressed for war, not the ballroom. He had always found that steel commanded more respect than embroidery ever could.

Once he reached the guarded doors of the solar, he fixed the men-at-arms with an expectant look and announced himself with the easy confidence of a man who had quickly become accustomed to his new role.

“Lyonel Lannister, Lord of Lannisport. I seek an audience with the Lion of the Rock.”

Elia had loved animals since she was young and had made sure to keep a pet or two over her years. Her most recent companion died a few years back though and being so far away from home caused her to realise just how large of a hole that had left.

She called upon Sylva , Obara and Jayne. She left Benedict to his own devices he was a kindred spirit to her but he would be of no use on the adventure to come. “ Girls, we hunt “

Elia wasn’t much use and was never proficient with any form of weapon but Obara , Jayne and Sylva each had their own skills enough to support her against most animals that they would find.

She smiled as she began to gather her equipment. Her thin armour to protect against some more surface level attacks. Her weapons that weren’t of much use in her hands.

She left Benedict to his own devices as he searched the archives, well the books that they had brought for clues as to what to search for when she manages her way in to the archives of Sunspear.

Will had heard whispers and rumours , well they couldn’t quite be called rumours as they were mostly truth. This order of knights , they seemed interesting.

The Order of The Bright Blades. From what he had heard their previous captain might just have been the handsome one in gold he killed on the beautiful. He was quite striking now that he thinks back to it, a shame that we were on opposing sides at the time.

His blood was beautifully sweet as well it granted him a euphoric feeling for many days after. There was only one that was any sweeter , his foe in the duel for his own life. A man who he had come to learn was called Lann Lydden, Lord of the castle his previous master had lost his head fighting in front of.

His blood was sweeter , more than addictive and if it wasn’t for that damned crowd staring in to his very being he would have long since taken more before leaving the man to take his final breaths.

He had come to know that the new commander of these Bright Blades , a man by the name of Marq ‘ Mouseheart ‘ , he couldn’t help but let out a little giggle.

He was wearing a black leather with a lilac embroidered upon it. As he began to search for Marq asking the servants along the way until he finally found the man. “ Hi , I’m William Flowers and you’re Marq are you not? “

The Greyjoy had been exceedingly bored the last week, still wounded and no use in command he was forced to sit with the fleet watching his ships and men follow his orders. At least it gave him time to write...

Lord Elyas,

We are making our move on Lannisport, we will be there in a day, the fair isle fleet fled from us but we will crush them. We look forward to your aid when you can give it. I write bearing more than just good new though.

Both Tyrell and Baratheon are cutting taxes to the King, these are not accusations. The tax records are enclosed and you may check yourself with the treasury. This is truly treason. I hate to direct you against your Lord Paramount but I must ask you have good judgement in the matter as Hand.

The Kings should be alerted of this as soon as possible. I know not where he is between Summerhall and Kings Landing.

My final issue is that of council positions, it would be my wish that Lord Mallister take your old position of Master of Ships on the council. As well I would ask for your support in my claim for Warden of the Stepstones, the Ironborn believe it their right and I believe it would benefit peacekeeping in the Kingdoms. We may do great good together you and I.

Your friend, Lord Egen Greyjoy.

Red Keep - 10th moon, 250AC

The lady Dalla Darklyn would read the missive and accompanying note while breaking her fast. Sipping the honeyed goat’s milk and enjoying a warm pastry, she would hum to herself as she thought on its contents. It seemed all she was laden with these days were requests and little time in which to complete them.

Finishing her meal, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with one of her recently embroidered handkerchiefs; red cotton stitched with seven white shields. Tucking it into what appeared to be a mere fold of her dress, but was in fact a pocket she had sewn into the fabric, she rose from the small table by the window and moved to grab her ledger and any letters she thought appropriate, including the letter of the Hand's summons. Her fingers brushed longingly over her sketchbook, the leather binder neglected as of late in favour of her other duties. With a small sigh, she took the gathered items into her arms instead and with a final look at the polished mirror of bronze, she made sure she was presentable for her endeavours.

Today she wore a dress of red silk, with a white underlay of frills that drew the eye to the pale skin of her neckline and wrists both. Her hair was up in her signature bun, held in place by hidden pins of thin silver. Though all this detail would become secondary to the corset of intricate white lace and delicate golden metalwork that outlined her narrow waist and glistened as it caught the light.

Thus, the lady of the Dun Fort appeared a contradiction as she walked the halls of the Red keep; dressed for the parties of court, yet clutching the tools of a bookkeeper close to her chest.

Her first destination was the rookery, an increasingly common occurrence. Her letters, as was her custom, were sealed with the yellow honeycomb wax and pressed with the Darklyn sigil. After seeing her letter sent, she would traverse the Keep once more.

When she arrived at the Tower of the Hand she would look to the guard posted at its entrance.

"Lady Dalla Darkyln, to see the Lord Hand, at his convenience," she announced with a soft tone that invited no argument. She pressed her lips together, reddening them with the pressure, then wet them with her tongue, savouring the lingering taste of honey in her mouth. She took a breath to center herself while she waited and let her hands subconsciously smooth out her dress.

10th Moon, 250 AC | Morning | Summerhall

Everything was going to shit. The tourney had gone fine, all things considered. She'd won the race, she'd almost won the melee. Hells, even the joust she couldn't blame herself for losing. Who could have blamed themselves for losing to someone -- something? -- that turned to dust the moment they were unmasked. It was like losing to a dragon or a leviathan; something wholly impossible had turned up and changed everything.

And then something wholly possible had arrived. An army of Stormlanders, to be precise. She and the rest of her family had been stuck there, in the meantime. It was worrying, if not outright terrifying, and she was sick and fucking tired of pacing around listening to that fear.

So she'd pushed it down, and down, and down. Instead, she did her best to focus on what she was glad had appeared at the castle. Magic. Legends. Stories. Things that should be confined to the pages of children's books had leapt out into the real world. Fuck, how could anyone give a single shit about the Baratheons when magic was real?

That morning, at least, her pacing had taken her to the library, alongside Maester Halmon. She'd brought him along just in case 'Bywin' needed tending to after the tourney, but she'd been lucky enough that he'd been utterly pointless so far. But now? Now a scholarly man seemed worth his weight in gold.

"What did you want to look for, young Mina?" The aging man asked, turning from the bookshelf he was inspecting.

"Oh! Oh, yes, well... You saw what happened at the joust, yes?"

"The old man, and the dust? Took a while to ascertain I wasn't seeing things in my old age, but yes. Why?"

"Well," Mina continued. "I wanted to see if there were stories about things like that. About... Well, about legends and relics and things of the sort. If he's real, maybe they are, and... I'm not sure what that means, really."

Halmon chuckled. "You know, I knew an acolyte who spoke like that, talking about fallen stars and magical things. All snarks and grumpkins, I thought."

"But..." Mina raised an eyebrow.

"But I saw a man turn to dust the other day. Maybe I ought to have studied the higher mysteries like that old friend of mine."

Mina chuckled to herself. "It's never too late. Let's see what we can find."

Elia Wyl hadn’t enjoyed the trip to Sunspear it was dry, it dried out her skin and made her books brittle. At least it wasn’t overly wet.

Sunspear was a beautiful city but that was about it. It didn’t offer much else at least to her, except for one thing the Martell Libraries , they would be a place of true unrelenting beauty that she couldn’t help but lust to witness.

Her home of Wyl wasn’t particularly pretty no rather in her opinion it was ugly but maybe that was her warped view formed from her years of living there. The only reasonably acceptable part of staying at Wyl was the fact she was assured a book or two to read, well usually she was.

She raised her hand to block the sun from blocking her eyes, she began to wander the city, exploring every decent street she could find, looking and skimming through a few books during her walk around.

10th Moon, 250 AC | Afternoon | Outside Harroway's Town

It had been a good moon. One by one, the Daughters had set up on the routes from Harroway's Town to its outlying villages. They had waited each time, watching for the telltale signs of their quarry. The sour looks from the villagers, the chests that had arrived empty now clinking with coin. It was not hard to recognise a taxman when you knew what to look for.

Even with the few guards the caravans usually had, no small taxman did anything but balk and beg for his life when hundreds of battle-hardened northwomen stood before him.

One by one, each village's taxes had been taken. A handful was returned; a gesture of goodwill that had won more than a few of the dispossessed to their cause. But the rest? The rest had been kept, taken as tribute to the Old Gods that watched over Raya and her sisters.

They had just returned to their camp, hidden as it was in a small valley overlooking the Trident, when things started to go sideways. Raya was sat with a lockbox in her lap, counting out the spoils of their latest work, when a cry went up from across the camp. A runner sped towards her, one of the scouts left out in disguise atop hills and along roads to watch for retaliation.

"An army!" the scout called, gasping to catch her breath when she reached Raya. "Hundreds of men strong, on the road west."

"Who?" Raya's voice had all the timbre of a rolling thunderstorm. After Seagard she had little patience for more interference, and if this was Mallister again... She slammed the lockbox down on the log beside her and stood. "Whose army is it?"

"They, uh, they didn't march with a house's banners. Not that I could see, anyway."

Raya's brow furrowed. If they weren't some noble's pet swords, then maybe... An idea started to form in her head.

"Take a few of the others and raise a flag for parley. Then get me a decent count of their numbers. I'll fetch my horse."

250 A.C. The waters beyond Witch Isle

The raid had been a success! So much gold now laid in their grubby little hands Bob could hardly believe it. How did he not partake in this whole pirating business before? Twenty years under Eustace Sunderland truly was a waste of time and talent.

But now begged the question: What next? Obviously, there was more raiding to be done, The Vale had leagues of untouched coastline, but where to? Heading further south from White Harbor seemed the cleverest play. After all, that's where the other fleet had been, but they had been slow to depart whilst waiting for the contraption to arrive.

Bob needed a map, so he grabbed one and began examining it.

"So what now B-" One of his newly minted crew members started before Bob cut them off with swift motion of his hand.

"SHHHHH!" He spat. "I'm figurin' it out".

He drew his finger across the parchment for a little while before tapping a spot on the map seemingly at random. "There! We'll go to Seastar Hall, just a day's travel south of here".

The man nodded and continued staring down at the map.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Bob shooed him away. "Go lift anchor! We've places to be damn it!"

With that the man was off, and shortly after the fact so we're the ships. On towards the next conquest.

Jaime was a long way from Hearts Home, he’d traveled far and wide, from the shores of Myr to the Starry Sept of Oldtown, but no where he had ever been was quite like the North. The forests here were denser than any he had ever been forced to traverse before, much less one he’d been forced to march an army through. Jaime didn't mind the slowed pace, he needed time to think before he was once again forced to send men to their deaths, forced to fight Artys’ battles again.

Artys

His name had been foul on his tongue the past weeks, the fool had made a mess in White Harbor, one the history books would not soon forget, one Jaime would not soon forget. He hadn't been sure what to expect from him once Lady Serena had accepted the bread of house Manderly, but that bloodshed? Jaime had not stopped chastising himself for believing his cousin incapable of such things since they had parted ways.

Artys was a fool, a cruel idiot but that massacre reeked of Jonos. Jaime had not expected peace from him, he would never expect that of Artys Corbray, but such acts of violence were beyond him, or at least they had been. Jonos on the other hand had never once found himself lacking for cruelty, Jaime didn't doubt it for a second that he was the mastermind behind the entire endeavor.

The person that truly plagued Jaimes mind though was Serena, neither Artys nor Jonos would have had the gall to end a entire house unless assurances had been made, but could Serena truly have ordered such violence? Jaime knew she grieved for her Lord Father dearly, as did Artys, but she had never struck Jaime as capable of such things, but if she was just as capable of enacting terror as Jonos…

Jaime shook the thought from his mind, Serena couldn't have done it, she had to be better, kinder. He could not have condemned his father to death just for Artys to find himself in collaboration with another monster. Jaime attempted to reason with himself Jonos deserved to die regardless, no one would have brought him to justice without my interference, he had to much blood on his hands to live, but it all seemed like empty nothings to him. Perhaps it had all been for nothing.

“Scouts report Castle Ironrath a hour to our west ser” A soldier appeared beside him, a man named Gyles Littlehill, he'd proven himself useful during the seizure of white harbor and even more so in nights when Jaime found himself lacking for company.

“Good, prepare the outriders to prepare the initial assault, I want our infantry holding back to pick up the scraps or be ready for a response.” Jaime spoke with a grim determination in his face, he didn't relish war, but he had no false pretenses about what he was sent to do. He was here to sack a castle, there was little use in asking his soldiers to show kindness to the slaughtered. “I shall lead the knights of the Vale in the initial assault on the castle's outskirts, I don't want to allow any avenues of escape.”

The castle appeared slowly in the horizon, he first caught glimpses of it from miles away, when the trees lined up just right but as they approached the image got clearer and clearer. It wasn't much, two towers, a gate, squat walls. When their reinforcements arrived he was sure they would take the fort without much issue. Still, it was a beautiful place, crafted from old stone and ironwood. It struck a remarkable image in such a remote place.

There must have been a road here once, for them to have carried such stones here, mad to think it has been here so long the forest has forgotten the structures that allowed such a place to be built

And here he was, preparing to burn it.

“KNIGHTS OF THE VALE!” the time had come, his knights had been riding in formation for the better part of the hour and now the time had come to make use of their preparations. They would sweep over the town surrounding the keep without warning, taking gold, seizing homes and all the while slaughtering any who resisted. It would be brutal work, Artys Arryn had given him his orders.

“THE TIME HAS COME FOR US TO STRIKE OUT AT THE NORTH” His voice boomed over the assembled host who answered him with a cheer, they had been restless during the march North and were all itching for a fight, he couldn't blame them, there was no worse work then waiting to die. “WE COME HERE TO AVENGE BETHANY DUSTIN, STRUCK DOWN BY STARK HOUNDS IN COLD BLOOD, WE COME HERE TO AVENGE FALLEN VALEMEN WHOSE MURDERERS STARK ALL BUT PARDONED” Angry boo’s answered him, men howled out for bloody murder, someone offered to bring him Lord Forrester head. “THE FORRESTERS KNOW OF STARK'S CRIME AND YET THEY REMAIN LOYAL TO THE BLACKHEARTED BASTARD. LET US SHOW THEM THE PRICE OF TREASON” another scream went up from the assembled host as Jaime pushed his horse into a gallop, the sound of hundreds of armored knights following suit behind him.

The serfs mounted little defense, most of them electing to flee to the safety of the castle walls, Jaime had hoped to be free of a fight but barely a hundred had remained from the surrounding town, desperately trying to protect whatever they could. They had formed a pike wall at the center of the town, the city alderman riding behind them shouting orders and encouragements. Jaime led the cavalry as they weaved over fields and between buildings, the peasants stood tall despite the mass of charging knights.

The seemingly endless wall of plated steel and horse crashed into the ramshackle wall of spears with a shout and a scream, Jaime watched a mace crash into the skull of a peasant boy, he saw a pitch fork pierce the length of a horses throat, he did not think he would soon forget the sound the rider of that horses leg made when he hit the ground. Jaime soon found himself in battle with the town's Alderman, the man lacked much for skill at arms but he made up for it with fierce determination. They exchanged blows on horseback for a time before the man's arms seemed to grow tired and Jaime reached over for a quick repost to attempt to cut the man's throat, instead of being caught by surprise tho the man grabbed his blade with his leather gloved hands and yanked on it, pulling himself and Jaime to the ground from their mounts.

The man had not been much with a sword but he had some talent with his hands, quickly wrapping his arms around Jaime's armored legs as he attempted to stand and throwing him to the floor. Before he truly knew what was happening the petty lordling was atop of him and was desperately trying to find some weak link in Jaime's armor with a old dagger. The Corbrays armor saved him though, his chainmail was the best money could buy and the man's old weapon could not puncture it, his defences provided Jaime enough time to gather his thoughts and throw a hard jab into the man's throat before rolling him off of him, producing a small knife from his back and desperately jamming it into his opponents unprotected heart.

When Jaime rose the small skirmish was nearing completion, a few knights were finishing off a handful of remaining peasants or tending to the small handful of wounded. The ground was covered in corpses, the peasants had been slaughtered too a man for their resistance. Jaime didn't dwell on it, he hadn't the time.

“Knights of Corbray and Arryn! Surround the castle, make ready the preparations for battle. In four days time we take Castle Ironrath, for the North, for the Vale!”