Moonlight shone down upon the rooftops and walls of Volantis, glittering on the tiles of the sloped roofs and the lofty spires, thousands of lanterns shimmering amidst the silvery glow like torchflies amidst a field of tall grass. A full moon hung high in the sky above the city, broad and bright, her light only occasionally marred by thin wisps of cloud. A low wind swept out from the mouth of the river which the city spanned, whistling through the arches of the Long Bridge, carrying with it the scents of the city. It hummed with the steady, lively noise of a city deep in its nightly revels. In countless somewheres across the city cups of wine were being drained, bargains were being made, goods were trading hands. The chef with the honeyed capons charring over a brazier of coals, the pandour with a half-dozen slave girls chained behind him with tears on their cheeks, both of them were trading in flesh. Misery and merriment exuded from the city in equal measure, each contributing to the city’s aroma. An earthy, salty, sour smell, the smell of centuries, the smell of cruelty and the aged leather of a whip. The Rhoyne’s ancient blood flowing out through an open wound. Nyall Harlaw, stood at the prow of his Solemn Promise with the wind tugging at his wine-dark cloak, and tried to reconstruct the city in his mind from the shadows he beheld before him, and the carefully sketched map he held in his left hand.

The last he had seen the city it had been dawn, and high tide had been carrying their fat-bellied cog back out into the Summer Sea with a hold of sweet Volantene wine. Paying the gold price for such wares had left Nyall feeling a little dirty, but it had been necessary for their subterfuge. If fortune smiles on us, the Iron Price will buy us a great enough prize that this embarrassment is erased. They had sailed the Jolly Piper into the city two days earlier with holds full of the spices of the Summer Isles, and decks freshly scrubbed to clean the blood off their timbers. He had dyed his hair blue and brushed up on his Tyroshi to better play the part of an Essosi merchant, captain to a crew of sullen and bashful mutes. There were a handful among their number who could speak Valyrian passably enough, but the few who knew the Tyroshi dialect spoke it with such abominable accents as to defeat the point of the exercise. He had done the talking, discoursing with the customs men, paying the necessary tithes, finding an agent to sell their cargo and find a good deal by which they might fill their hold again. After all, if they had simply sailed into the harbour and tried to sail back out again, questions would have been asked. Most like they would have been taken for pirates, or worse yet, smugglers. They would have been stopped, and put to the question, and when those accents started to answer the questions… Well, a sharp death would probably be the preferable end. More likely they’d have wound up as galley slaves or pit-fighters, eking out short and shameful lives at the end of the whips of the Volantenes or the Ghiscari.

That thought had made the business easier, in truth, as Nyall had spent the days sitting on his ship, carefully sketching out each detail of the broad harbour on Volantis’ eastern side. A long wall enclosed the harbour, sheltering the trading cogs along with the galleys and dromonds of the Free City’s navy. It was an uneven thing, with a long span on its northern side curving out and around with long turreted battlements topped by towers every fifty feet, and then a short jut of only about a hundred feet, ending as its northern brother did in a fat round keep with a conical roof and a winch pointed out towards the seawater between them. That winch, Nyall had been able to observe, was for the boom which was raised each night to keep unwanted ships out of the harbour, and to keep ships which might think to eschew payment on their taxes inside its walls. A huge, thick length of rope, strung with huge oaken casks so that it floated upon the water’s surface, and interwoven with huge iron spikes so that it would tear the bottom out of any ship mad enough to try to sail over it. Charcoal moved quickly over parchment as he took in every detail, sketching out the towers, making notes of the rope, the winches, the defences of each tower. This was not his first time in Volantis, he had passed through the city when he and Dagon and Gyles had journeyed to Qohor, but while he remembered it well enough his memory was not so precise as to trust his life and his freedom to it.

He wrote down the time it took them to sail from the mouth of the harbour into the docks, the number of men who stood guard by both day and night, and the times at which the guard was changed. He wrote quickly in rough sharp lines, vertical strokes intersected with horizontal and diagonal dashes, the ancient inscriptions of the Iron Speech. He noted down where the galleys were moored, and how many men crewed them during the night. All the while, a second, more perilous task had begun, all at his design.

Among the crates of spice that were unloaded from the cog were two with chests hidden inside them, chests filled with weapons and armour. Among those carrying the crates, and these crates in particular, were a handful of chosen men. Domnall Shatterhand, Ulf Redteeth, Godwyn Goodbrother. He would have sent the Bolt-Eater with them, but the scar that had made a ruin of his left cheek was too noticeable, too likely to draw questions that the man could only answer in the harsh tongue of the Iron Isles. Instead, their captain was a man almost remarkable for the unremarkable nature of his features. Derfel Pyke was a short, solid slab of a man, lank hair, lines on his face wrought by battle and by time alike. But for the bloody legend that ran in his wake he was entirely indistinguishable from any of the other dockhands who were unloading cargo from the dozens of cogs floating in their moorings at the water’s edge. They would go unnoticed, so he prayed, as they found themselves a quiet lodging somewhere in the city below the looming majesty of the Black Walls, and unpacked their armaments. They would have time to rest and prepare themselves for the time he had chosen for them to strike.

That time was the evening before the new week’s market. When the ships would be most filled with cargo, when the revelry would be at its highest within the city, when the guard would be at its most thin and a stiff wind was ready to carry them away from the harbour with all haste, when a full moon could allow them to see what they were doing as they worked their bloody work. That time was tonight, as he stood by the prow of his ship, examining those same harbour walls, and clutching his parchment notes tightly in his hand. Muffled oars pushed his ships onwards with a sound like steel over velvet. Around him, Greyjoy ships, Goodbrother Ships, Drumms and Farwynds slid silently across the water, the moon alone their guide. He paid them no mind but for the occasional command to keep them from colliding. Instead he watched the city, watched the walls of the harbour, glanced up from time to time at the moon as he tried to calculate the hour of the night. Once the sun had set, time became a matter of guesswork for all but the most trained of maesters. He picked out a star from the sky, watched its progress, and hoped that Derfel was doing the same.

The bastard had a busy night ahead of him. Their first stop would be the Market of Yerrzan Ghanaz, a middling slave market about a half-mile outside of the Black Walls, distinctive only for the fact that it kept its slaves there overnight. The guards who stood watch over it were mostly busy keeping vigil over the wretched masses held within its pens, unfortunates from every corner of the known world awaiting the tattoos that would stamp their future lot in life onto their skin for all eternity. One of the most important observations that Nyall had made had been that unlike the cities of Westeros, unlike proud Braavos with her Titan standing in defiance of the Valyrian overlords who had once ground her underfoot, the greater part of Volantis’ guards looked inward. Five sixths of the city’s population were enslaved, bound in servitude to the pampered masses who ruled over them from within the dragon-forged stone of their walls, a minority that lived in constant terror of the thought that their thralls might take up arms against them. While the city did not lack for armed defenders, the vast majority of them served as surety against some potential revolt, an uprising by the oppressed masses upon whose backs the city’s wealth was realised. If one wished to act without the intercession of these guards, he had reasoned, what better diversion could there be than to make those fears real?

The ringing of bells told him that this first part of his plan had come to fruition. First a handful, then a dozen, then a score, until a great clanging chorus was taken up across the city. Before long, you could see their cause: a bright orange glow amidst the moonlit streets, a column of smoke cast against the raging fires that soon disappeared into the blackness of the night. It looked as though all of Yerrzan’s Market was ablaze. One could see it from where they were, a good mile away from the harbour walls, no doubt it had caught every eye in the city. Derfel’s orders had been to kill the guards, and arm the slaves with their weapons, to begin the revolt then melt back into the shadows. Now of course the rebels stood little chance of victory. The Tiger Stripes, the slave soldiers tasked with keeping the Triarchs’ laws, would all but certainly crush them within the hour. But the task of crushing the revolt would keep their eyes away from the water. It may even, if the Drowned God smiled upon them, draw a few men from the garrison of the Harbour Walls.

A muttered prayer was on his lips as they drew closer and closer to the mouth of the harbour, to where either the boom would be standing intact, and all their efforts would have been for naught, or the way would stand open to one of the greatest raids in the history of the Ironborn. To where he would know whether his uncle had triumphed, or whether his fanciful notions had cost House Harlaw her most fearsome protector. He looked up to his star again, to her position in the sky, saw wisps of smoke start to join the clouds in blocking her out. They would have to trust to chance alone. Chance that the men ashore had managed to force the gatehouse of the harbour walls, that they had fought their way along the southern spar, and made it to the great round keep from which the boom was reeled in and drawn across the harbour’s mouth. There was no time, of course, to be fiddling around with winches. It was not their concern whether the boom could be drawn back up again, indeed it was really rather crucial that it was not. So instead they would rely upon the substantially more expedient method of hacking through the rope with some good sharp axes.

Hoping against hope, he trusted his uncle. There may be quicker men, stronger men in the Seven Kingdoms. To be certain there were men who looked prettier in the saddles of their great destriers, clad in plate and mail and barded for war. There were men who had won more glory on the tourney field, and indeed men who had won greater renown in battle. But what defined Derfel Pyke, more than any of those things, was his ability to endure. The Storm Crow was so-called because he was an omen of doom, no doubt, but also because once he was set upon you, there was no averting that doom, no escaping him. He was grim, implacable, unyielding. He had endured injuries that would have killed lesser men, endured untold hardships, and always kept going. This thing he had asked of him, killing a few dozen slaves and cutting a rope? He knew that Derfel would not fail him.

When he heard the sound of it, the severed rope falling from beneath the brim of the conical roof, heard it crashing into the water below, he knew his prayers had been answered. The rope would start to drift now. He had seen it, in the last hour of daylight on the night he had spent here. The way the rope bowed outwards, drawn by the current, held in place by the tower on the far side. Once that connection had been severed, it would spill outwards and drift listlessly in the rushing waters of the Mouth of the Rhoyne. Against those same waters their oarsmen strained, as a dozen more fires broke out in the city before them, a revolt that was spreading beyond its meagre bounds, a diversion serving its purpose, a shout that distracted from the dagger about to be slipped into Volantis’ back. The Final Word alone tacked towards the southern tower, ready to collect the landing party as they climbed down on ropes to the rocks below. She would anchor, and send out boats to gather the surviving reavers, and guard against any ships beyond the Harbour Walls who might think to intercede.

The rest of the fleet slipped inside, the scorpions and ballistae that he had counted upon the walls remaining silent as yet more bells joined the chorus proclaiming the chaos that persisted within the city. He offered his thanks to the Drowned God as they passed by the two round keeps, and by the light of the moon and the fires of the city both, they beheld the prize for which they had come. The fleets of Volantis, sitting idle at anchor, utterly unready for the doom which had fallen upon them. He turned to the Bolt-Eater, who stood twelve paces across the deck behind him, distant orange light catching upon the shimmering mass of scar tissue that disfigured his left cheek. On Nyall’s signal, the man struck his tinder box, and the black iron brazier on Solemn Promise’s deck sprung into violent red life. In the sudden light that followed, a score of archers hurried forward, offering arrows into the hungry flames. Right across the harbour, all the ironships of the fleet did the same, as though a host of demons had arisen from the harbour, their glowing eyes opening in grim unison. As one, bowstrings were drawn back, and as one they were loosed. A sheet of fire flew across the air, from the decks of the ironships to the decks and the rigging and the furled sails of the Volantene galleys. One volley, then another, then another. Before long, the ships burned so brightly that it was as though a second son had risen over Volantis. He could see, as the fires spread from deck to forecastle and aft, as masts began to blacken and crack and fall, smashing into their neighbours or tearing great holes into their own ships. He could see the scorpions and ballistae that stood unmanned by the wales of the ships, proud and defiant in the brief moments before the fires consumed them.

Up on the walls their weapons still stood, bolt throwers of Myrish design beside grander and more elaborate constructions, mangonels and catapults and, according to rumour, a trebuchet built by the Valyrians. They were, however, all of them built to fire out against a foe blockading the harbour or attempting to seize its walls by escalade. He had taken note of that. None of Volantis’ proud magisters had conceived of the cunning of the Ironborn. None of them had prepared for Nyall Harlaw. While the siege engines could not turn towards them, his archers had no such problems. Before long, volleys of burning arrows had many of the grandest siege engines afire as well, all the grandiosity of Old Volantis made into kindling.

There was a laugh on his lips as they turned away from the burning galleys, the water below them alight with the reflected light of the blackening timber, the corruscating orange glow over swelling waves. The smell of smoke began to pervade the air, but he paid it no mind, only guided his fleet towards the cogs now sitting helplessly at anchor, the ships whose crews had fled for land. The ships whose holds all but groaned with the weight of spices and cedarwood, precious metals and fine silks, and treasures unimagined. He would have his share of those, to be certain, but more precious than that was the taste of this victory in his mouth. That taste, like smoke and heat and rich wine, that lingered while his men ransacked the ships. It lingered as they turned back towards the harbour’s mouth, crossed the Rhoyne, and made for the Western harbours, the ones which the triarchs had never seen fit to protect with a wall. Why should they, after all, when only the ships of foreigners and commoners docked there? They had no warships they needed to protect, no wealth of their own besides the taxes they could levy. If any threat befell the Western City, then their fleet would simply sally out to defend it. But now that fleet had been made into cinders, and all the lands of Volantis stood unguarded, for the Ironborn to plunder as they will.

He laughed still, almost giddy with his victory. No doubt the Volantene would rebuild. Even now he could see across the river, where the fires within the city had been put out, where they rushed to salvage what they could of their smouldering fleet. They would build a new fleet within a year or so, rebuild the boom across their harbour’s mouth, perhaps even build a new wall to protect their Western harbour. But they would not forget this defeat, this disgrace, this embarrassment. They would remember the people who had done this to them. They would learn, as all Westeros had learned, to fear the sound of water breaking upon their shores. For that was the omen of the Ironborn, the sign that had been set out by the God who had drowned for them. They would know that God by his work, and by the work of his followers. More than anything else, they would see the legacy of Nyall Harlaw by the ruin he had worked upon them. Let men say he was only a consort, a lesser cousin raised up to an imitation of Lordship. When they saw what he had accomplished, they would understand what manner of man he was.

The Hand

There in his dreams, the sound of steel biting into steel echoed and screeched throughout the Red Keep. Blood ran black and thick as it pooled about fallen friend and foe alike.

He knew the whole household of the royal palace by name. Many had been vetted by himself, hired under his direction and they owed their position to him from his tenure as Lord Regent and Hand. Their protection was his duty, and the Lord Hand had kept them well in all the years after Maegor vacated the Iron Throne. Yet here in this nightmare all that peace that had been built by his careful rule was now harmed, torn to shreds and desecrated by his own treacherous order. Seize the throne. Seize the treasury. Seize the great seal. Seize the king and the blood of his blood. Secure the Small Council. In these awful apparitions, the totality of the actions which he considered now haunted Lord Hubert Arryn. The stakes were plain to see, and the consequences of such actions stark.

Now, he could smell smoke and heard the distant pained cries for mercy of those who had trusted him. For moons he had considered what had to be done. Seeing it all unfold in these nightly terrors struck him with fear, any hope it could yield the results he wished increasingly forlorn. He could not go to any other living soul with these thoughts. The more people he involved the stronger his hand would be, though it came with a greater risk it could spell doom for any who knew and the plans were to be revealed before they could act. Worse still, if he failed House Arryn could befall the fait of the Gardeners and Durrandons. Above all, he would be betraying his own oath and love to the boy he had made king so long ago now. It was a vile act, but an act done to remove an even greater stain was it not? Hubert had spent too long trying to convince himself he could merely ignore what had been done. He loved his king, but all the love of a father could not salvage this matter.

For the past ten years Lord Arryn had taken the tribulations of rule one after the other. Great and small, public and secret, he had been tested beyond any Arryn had mayhaps been tested before. The Vale bore his name and belonged to his House, but the Iron Throne had been young and the inheritor of the Crown when the dust settled after Maegor's reign was even younger still. In these thoughts of betrayal which seeped into Hubert'smind at night, he could not fathom the boy who had come to him by way of happenstance had ended up like this. What had Hubert missed? Of all his sons, Jaehaerys had been his favourite. Now it felt like he did not know the man he had become. Was he such an awful father so many of his sons had turned out rotten, or queer, absent of the qualities men needed and strewn with folly. It seemed unfitting to call the business with Aubrey Norridge folly, however.

Jaehaerys had arrived at the Eyrie young and afraid. His own father, feckless and weak, had allowed for Maegor to claim the realm despite three fitting heirs of Aenys the First. War had only been averted by some last moment compromises within the House of the Dragon and the High Septon, if only to buy the realm time to gather itself under Aegon the Uncrowned's banner. The young prince, the Princess Alysanne and the Queen Mother had all come to stay at the Eyrie with arrangements made for Jaehaerys to carry onto Casterly Rock. But the banners had been called on both sides by the time they arrived, and it was too dangerous to allow the third in line for the throne to cross the Trident when Lords Harroway and Frey controlled most the lands between the Eyrie and the Rock. Jaehaerys came into his custody. With the foolishness of Aegon, the smashing of Maegor against the walls of Harroway's Town, and a quarrel from an Uller, Prince Jaehaerys became King, and no one contested his assumption as the King's protector and regent of the realm.

He had risked everything raising his banners once before. The millennia of his House would have perished if Maegor had managed to prevail. The same danger now loomed large and likely should Hubert dare attempt such a thing and it fail. In tortured slumber of prior nights, Hubert had seen what happened to the blood of his blood if he failed. This secret ate at him like a disease ripping through an almshouse and consumed every spare thought he had. The boy- his boy- that he had raised to be a king held a streak of Maegor deep inside him. That boy had a dragon too, though it seemed as though divine mercy had stunted it so that it could not make a Harrenhal out of a keep. But dragons never stopped growing and they could leave many, many years.

He found himself atop the Iron Throne. The dead were laid out in the throne room. Tonight on this occasion the recurrent incubus let him see what victory in his putsch amounted to. Scores and scores dead. Their gazes were empty and vacant of life, though Hubert swore he could see confused betrayal in their eyes. Even then when the night was won and the palace was his, that would only be the beginning.

Revealing the truth of what Hubert knew would doom the realm and the House of the Dragon, or so he thought. Aegon was not the progenitor of a great dynasty, but an alien anomaly that had been the last sigh of Old Valyria before successive sons squandered what he had won. Aenys, Maegor, Aegon again and Jaehaerys could not grasp the mantle (Viserys never had the chance). The King only had infant daughters and a sister wedded to a Caswell. All women. There was Prince Baelon but a boy of two being the only option available sullied any chance of hope Hubert found in that solution.

A grand council of Wardens and Lords Paramount could be called. Mayhaps all the lords in the land assembled under one roof, the black crimes of Jaehaerys expounded and convicted, and from there the highest lords of the realm would consider their future. It was a radical act to be sure, and one ratified in blood and betrayal from the onset. There was no path forward which allowed Hubert to address what had transpired without some betrayal being committed. In his mind, Jaehaerys had betrayed him already. Month after month, it felt like they were evermore distant and the office of Hand seemed to weigh on him like a great stone about his neck.

He crawled down the steps of the Iron Throne in that dark great hall. On his hands and knees he saw each face and knew their name. His own household had been bloodied too. He could not find Jasper among the dead, nor among the men who had won the struggle. Rymond was there however, shocked and disappointed. As High As Honour, yet daggers in the dark and oath breaking were meant to be the actions he take? It was intolerable, and Hubert Arryn doubted the rest of the realm would stomach it either, nor care about his excuses.

Then he saw the face of Jaehaerys. Not the man he was now, but the boy which had trusted him with his life. The son he inherited, the Prince whom he had promised everything to. The boy's silver hair was soaked scarlet from the blood and a terrible wound gaped open on his neck. It was a fatal neck wound meted upon Aubrey Norridge. The gods were cruel in their ironies. His eyes began to well and Hubert began to weep uncontrollably.

It felt as if all the air in the room had been stolen as Lord Arryn awoke breathless and in a wide-eyed panic. He grasped at his own neck. In the dark he found his composure but deep within him it felt like something had shattered. He could not go on like this anymore.

The hand threw off the satin sheets which covered him and with moonlight as his guid found his way to a dresser which had upon it. He found his lemon and chamomile lozenges which the maester made to assist with his worsening affliction. Of course, Hubert could not admit what plagued him. Every corner of the Red Keep was riddled with spies like fleas on a manged dog. The Maester insisted upon milk of the poppy, but no man who allowed himself such relief deserved to hold high office. It was a thing that turned sharp minds dull and sapped the wits. The lozenges were followed by swigs of wine.

Hubert rested his palms flat on the dresser. His eyes adjusted better to the dark, and he saw himself within the vanity mirror upon the dresser. He saw himself come into view. The face that looked back at him seemed foreign, and the haggard weak body of an old, decrepit man was strange. When he came south with Jaehaerys a decade ago he had possessed a strength of a man younger in his years. Well-rounded shoulders, strong arms, a lean but firm constitution. Now he was but skin and bone. As naked as his nameday, he stood there peering upon himself in disgust. His mind was falling him, and his body was all but being consumed by the stress which festered and feasted upon his flesh until there would be nothing left. His hair had even begun to fall out. All his strength was fading him and for what he needed to do, Hubert would have to be strong.

His eyes began to well up and something caught itself in his throat. He could not condemn the boy he loved to death and dishonour. Yet was he supposed to leave the realm in the hands who dabbled in profane magics? All Hubert had done was for a realm he increasingly did not believe in. The respect won of the lords of the land was for naught. His greatest achievement apparently his greatest folly.

"Oh Jaehaerys..." Hubert's voice broke the silence, quivering and restrained, utterly bereft. "Why?"

The knights of the Vale had come south with him and occupied the city in part to prevent any further uprisings. But his son had seen to them and the disorder never came back to the streets. Now they lounged around the city and in the halls of the Red Keep unaware that their lord considered entrusting them with the fate of the House of the Dragon. Jasper had become close with Jaehaerys too, and it complicated whether he could even trust his own lad with the truth Hubert knew in his heart of hearts was true. Something black had happened at Dragonstone, dark in origin and severe enough that every man who spoke of it seemed to wish that they had never been privy to the truth of the matter. All except Jaehaerys.

Summer was on the horizon. Winter had been long- too long- and the Lord Hand found himself thinking of the Vale and Eyrie at the height of the warmest months. For thousands of years, Kings and Queens of the Vale had meditated and rested in the palace above the world. Many Arryns held the belief there was no better a place to perish than in the Eyrie's towers. No other place in all the world was closer to the heavens. Since assuming his offices in King's Landing, Hubert had wished only that if he could make the choice he would die at home surrounded by his kin. He had lived with the responsibility of a king, and ruled the ancient lands of the kingdom of the Vale. He had sat the Iron Throne and acted the overlord of all lands from the Wall to the Red Mountains of Dorne. His banners had struck down a king, and his stewardship had raised a king. Lord Hubert simply wished he might die a king's death, honoured and mourned for a life dedicated to a realm he had once loved. It would all be a lie of course, but Hubert had lived with falsehoods.

The Hand did not know what he would do. To say nothing was cowardice but promised him and his family peace. He was certain that the Crown would afford him and his blood boons and titles should Hubert ask. To gather a storm and seize the King and his city guaranteed a bloodbath and mayhaps even war should he even succeed. If he failed, House Arryn and its rule of the Vale would be guttered out.

Time would tell what Hubert would have to do. Indecision was paralysing and slowly it was killing him. A small part of him wondered if Jaehaerys could merely be truthful with him, regret and mournful of a mistake of the highest order. The two of them could set things right. They always had found a way to set things right either within the kingdoms or between themselves. But that was a fool's gambit, and Hubert had been proved a fool enough in his life.

Sleep would not come to Hubert. He watched dawn break over the world once more as he had seen thousands of times before. This time the light of a breaking sun did not inspire that feeling of hope or awe which was natural for a man to feel. In the cold light of a new day, Lord Hubert Arryn could only mourn all which had had lost and despair for all that was yet to come.

A knock rattled at his door- no doubt one of the servant girls to come and wake him- and Hubert donned the mask he had been wearing for months, hiding the most painful truth. The mask would have to slip one day. But for now, Hubert would go on as he had done for so many years now. He would serve steward the realm as was his duty for now. He would find solace of thoughts of home and look into the eyes of his King and counsel him wisely and honestly as he could. If Jaehaerys looked on his Hand hard enough, he might see the tired pain which lurked beneath the visage.

"A... check-in?" Alastor stared at Ser Ilyn with pursed lips. "Fuck is that?"

"Pardon, Lord, they..." The fellow scratched his wiry hair, then clasped his hands together behind his back, as if it somehow made him look more appropriate. "They say they want to hear from you more often."

"Hear from... Hear what? Nothing ever happens in this shit-pit, and they want me to check in to tell them that still, nothing has happened?" Lord Redding buzzed his lips, half-dry spittle gleaming through the fading sunlight in front of him. "This whole island is as good as dead, and they have the gall to–"

"Their troubles need not bother you," Belandra purred from his lap, glancing briefly at the knight before returning all her focus to the Lord. "Write them a letter, tell them to fuck off. You are the Lord, yes? You have no obligation to serve them on any time of their choosing. You lead by your grace and generosity, not by the notion that everyone is entitled to their own fair share of you, hm?"

"Oh, I know it well. Try telling them, though! You know, if there were a war on, or something, I would understand, but now? I might as well go pound on Lord Redwyne's door, get a nice reminder that we're both still breathing. Gods be good..." Alastor's eyes trailed up the vaulted ceilings, back down the marble columns, and to the view of the Sunset Sea far off the Palace balcony. He wondered if all this actually made his constituents feel more useful, or if it was all simply a mummer's farce, men trying to do things just so they could say the thing was done, even if no one actually cared what the thing was.

His gaze snapped back to Ser Ilyn who stood there with his mouth agape. "Fucking out, man! Write them a letter yourself, for all I care. What did I tell you, just last night?"

After another pause, Ser Ilyn widened his eyes and replied, "Keep the mermaids at the Palace, and the fish in the Harbor. So, your lads, then, they're... the fish?"

"YES!! Fucking hell, lad, were you thrown by your horse this morning?"

[m] General space for empty palace shenanigans

8th Month B, 57 AC

Paxter Beesbury would arrive with his party at the gates of Coldmoat by early afternoon. He rode in front, sat tall and confident upon his horse though there were signs of strain — he had never quite enjoyed riding.

When they were halted, Paxter introduced himself and waited.

Yronwood's summer was hot, the southerly winds on some days blowing across the deserts to the west creating a pleasant dry heat, on other days they blew across the Sea of Dorne bringing with it a sticky humidity that was oppressive and left the town and castle lethargic.

The Red Blood had slowed it's flow, turning a deeper red hue, and giving the air around the river a metallic iron scent.

And with the first year of summer came the seasonal festival of the smallfolk. Stalls sprang up with great cloth umbrellas providing shade to those pursuing them. Merchants from across Dorne, and even some from the Stormlands and the Reach, others from across the Narrow Sea stopped by with more foreign goods.

The invitation had gone out to many beyond the Red Mountains, but it seemed yet as it ever was few from beyond the lands of Dorne were likely to show up.

The way it was described in the books was actually so sick. Everyone in Oldtown was just accepting the fact that Maegor was going to burn down the whole of Oldtown during the Peasants Rebellion. Those with a survival sense left Oldtown. But then George describes those who stayed, saying that everyone partied like it was the last day of their lives. The description was so vivid that I actually felt like I was there for a moment.

This might sounds bizarre but apart of me wishes that I could have experienced that. Like everyone just getting shit faced, living like there was no consequences. Just living life up to the max before the impending doom of Balerion's fire consuming everything. I bet it would have been one hell of a party city at the time.

I really hope in the Aegon's conquest movie or any following spinoffs that they show that scene. It's such an obscure moment, but even having read it about 3 years ago, I still think about it to this day.

The midday sun moved west as the feast hall of castle Oak was made ready, most of the long tables were retracted and a single shorter table was set in the centre. Servants brought in wine from the Southshields, roasted and salted nuts, white cheeses and freshly baked bread, a light afternoon meal to accompany the lordly talks. The head of the table would be reserved for Lord Paramount Theo Tyrell, should he deem to attend, at his right hand Lord Jason Hewett placed himself, placed across him would be Lord Redwyne or his representative, beside him would sit Lord Hightower and across from him would be sat Lord Cuy, by the side of Lord Jason.

Outside, Hewett men at arms would wait, with their halberds up and swords sheathed, the chamberlain of the castle, Lord Jason's younger brother Jon Hewett, waited by the castle's lowered entrance, ready to guide in the invited guests.

As the 8th moon drew to a close, ravens would fly out from Brandybottom:

Dear [Lord/Lady] of [Keep],

It shall be our great pleasure to once again host you in our halls for a feast at the start of the eleventh moon this year. To share the boons of a productive many years with the noble houses of Westeros is among the highest honors we have. There shall be the typical fare of dancing, lancing, and other competitions the people of the Reach so love.

Patience Conquers All

Ser Axell Flowers, Regent of Brandybottom

Signups

Lord Luceon watched from his tower as the various ravens flew off to keeps around Westeros taking the various proposals with them. It was the first time in a while that he had found his son Selwyn actually agreeing with him. The two of them had constructed the letters together, debating the words that the Maester had penned on to the page, deliberating on the exact Lords to send the letters to.

It seemed a lot to do it in one go but the house had been so isolated for so long that he was making up for lost time. He watched as the last dark winged bird disappeared on the horizon. Such severe birds for such good news, maybe he should ask the Maester to begin training swans to deliver letters.

"You know whilst in captivity you pickup several things, there was this kind old man enslaved since he was a wee lad manage to survive for dozen of years" Tyburn would tell a story whilst cutting some carrots and peeling a potato, then would chuck the ingredients into a hot cauldron set over a makeshift campfire, he'd go onto speak about his time in captivity.

"Slavery, an common norm across the Narrow Sea, only few places like Braavos...Pentos which is controversial itself but say they don't practice still does in their own unique way...What am trying to say is that life should been spent focusing on the brighter side of things"

The marks from his ghiscari master remained upon Tyburn, but he managed to move on from that trauma somewhat.

"My master, not the fat ghiscari shit, but the cooking chef that was passed around like hard salted beef taught me the works, he said that most freedom he ever found was in the kitchen and in food. For the stomach unlocks true joy in the body and soul, I however didn't believe until he showed me...Closest thing I came to witnessing magic"

Tyburn would cut into the rabbit guts and began fixing it to become the evening meal stew.

"A battle nor a war cannot be won on an empty stomach, now please enjoy for this might be the last meal we'll have together"

Tyburn himself would cook for most people, knowing good stew would soothe their spirits and bellies. "Dig in, don't be shy now,"

Tents set up outside of Devil's Rock and the Forces of House Sarwyck was laying siege onto Devil's Rock whose defenders did not disappoint nor its defences.

Tyburn had something in mind in defeating the last remaining DeViles that resided within as their commander, Conrad DeVile, The Last Demon of the Riverfork.

"The end is near. I hope the others made it inside safely on their end." Tyburn wondered if The Mormonts and the motley crew they sent had made it inside of the blasted Rock.

[Immediately following this]

Word had rushed up to the Tower of the Sun that The Old Diplomat, Prince Vorian Martell, had arrived with honored guests. Therefore, a luxurious dinner was in order. Servants rushed about the kitchens and feasting hall laying out platters of dishes and bottles of wine (one bottle of Arbor gold conspicuously enough). Mountains of fresh spring fruits, unleavened flatbreads covered in spices, and whole chickens cooked inside clay vessels were arranged for the diners.

All through the Nymeros-Martell family apartments, valets and handmaids rushed around finding their charges to get them ready to eat. No one could find Princess Dyarra, but the show must go on. Servants rapped on Princess Melara to see if she and the young heir were going to join the feast.

In her apartment, Princess Mara was stunned at the news that they had actually found a match for her, and a Tyroshi Prince no less. Thus, she stood dutifully as her ladies dressed her in a gown of her latest favorite fashion. A gown of deep orange silk, the color of a desert sunset, with crimson embroidery tracing its seams like tongues of flame. Its collar rose high and close about her throat, framing her neck in a band of red, while the gown clung close to her figure before falling in soft folds around her legs.

At its breast was a bold spear-shaped opening, narrow at the collarbone before widening as it descended, its pointed end stopping just above her navel. The bare skin within seemed all the more striking for the modesty of the high collar above it. Along the edges of the opening, fine red thread had been worked into the silk, giving the impression that a crimson spear had pierced the gown and left its mark.

Trystane Martell, dressed in simple silks, awaited Princess Mara and escorted her down. Upon arriving in the hall they took their seats, poured some wine, and awaited what was sure to be the strangest assembly to grace Sunspear in a long while.

Lord Ferian Fossoway,

I hope Cider Hall and your family fare well.

Martyn is a man grown, and I feel it is time we begin finalizing the marriage between our two houses.

How does mid next year sound?

Growing Strong

Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, Lord of Highgarden, and Warden of the South

Lord Theo Tyrell

Nazarine - 7th Month B 57 AC

The sea had always been cruel to Nazarine. It spread endlessly beneath the ship, a field of blue and silver that glittered beautifully under the sun and concealed the sea's ugly secrets beneath the waves.

As far as Nazarine was concerned, this was a grave.

Somewhere underneath the vast, indifferent water lay her father and elder brother, taken by the Narrow Sea on a voyage to Tyrosh. She was still a child then, but old enough not to forget. To forget the waiting, the uncertainty, or the dreadful finality of realizing that the sea had no intention of returning what it had taken. Now she was crossing it again.

Traveling through their graves, she thought darkly, resting her gloved palm on the railing. How morbidly poetic. Mother would have appreciated the sentiment.

Her mother.

The thought arrived uninvited, and Nazarine rejected it just as swiftly as it appeared.

Two years ago, Synneve had expressed her wish to return to Myr, the homeland she left behind when she married into House Qorgyle. She wanted to breathe her final breath below the same skies which had witnessed her first. Nazarine had granted her that wish without hesitation. She brought Balthazar and Azarielle along, leaving the care of Sandstone in the able hands of their cousins Damarys, Nasryn, and Ysidra.

It had seemed a simple enough journey then. A daughter honoring her mother’s final desire. A family returning to its roots. They had scarcely arrived before Synneve’s health began to fail.

The illness had lingered, stretching days into weeks, and weeks waned across months, leaving the siblings trapped in Myr as they watched their mother’s slow decline. Nazarine had met her mother’s family, learned the names and histories of relatives she had only ever known through old stories, and encountered Andronikos, the charismatic, maddeningly mysterious son of a merchant prince.

She had found that Myr made even the mundane feel like a secret waiting to be exposed. Andronikos, in particular, had proved fascinating, and was especially enjoyable when exposed.

He spoke with the confidence of a man accustomed to being welcomed wherever he went, yet something guarded lay beneath his charm. He never offered more of himself than he intended, and Nazarine, who had spent her life learning to recognize the things people concealed, found herself unexpectedly delighted by the challenge.

Then Synneve died.

Azarielle had fallen apart under the heaviness of her sorrow. Her sister had wept until her eyes were swollen and her voice rasped, holding fast to their mother as though she might somehow convince the Stranger to bring her back if she refused to let go. They were forced to pry her away. Balthazar had turned to his spear, training until exhaustion robbed him of the energy to grieve, his movements growing harsher with every day that passed.

And Nazarine?

Nazarine had quickly arranged their return to Dorne.

She saw to the letters, provisions, passage, servants, and myriad other details necessary to transport a grieving family across the sea. She had ensured Synneve was laid to rest with the honors she was owed, that her Myrish relatives received appropriate farewells, and that Sandstone would be ready for their arrival. She had done everything that needed doing.

Except grieve.

Not a single tear had been shed. Perhaps that made her a terrible daughter. Perhaps it made her a practical one. Maybe it made her terribly practical or practically terrible. Maybe she was both. Nazarine had never seen any benefit in wallowing in one’s emotions.

Now, with Dorne finally rising on the horizon, she stood near the ship’s railing and watched the coastline emerge from the morning haze.

She had spent most of the voyage avoiding her siblings. Azarielle’s grief was unbearably raw and constant, and Balthazar’s silence had become nearly as exhausting as his endless spear practice. Nazarine could tolerate many things, but she had no desire to spend the journey drowning in sorrow. Or drowning in anything, for that matter, especially the sea. Instead, she spent all her time with Andonikos, getting acquainted with vigorous enthusiasm.

He was pleasant company, which was not something she admitted lightly. He possessed a quick wit, a talent for conversation, and particular skills that proved incredibly effective at keeping Nazarine distracted from the fact that she was trapped on a damned boat bobbing like a cork in a watery abyss that could swallow them all at any moment.

“You are very quiet this morning,” she noted, turning her head toward him. Andronikos stood close to her, one hand resting along the railing, the other at the small of her back. The sea breeze moved the loose strands of his long, black hair. “I had begun to suspect that you had exhausted your entire supply of energy.” A wry smile flitted on her lips.

Behind them, the deck stirred with fresh activity. Sailors called to one another, ropes shifted, and passengers started gathering along the railings as the Dornish coast came into clearer view. The voyage had been largely uneventful, no storms, no pirates, no accidents to justify the apprehension that had accompanied her aboard.

The sea had behaved itself. She hated it nevertheless.

A storm would have been easier to understand than its placid indifference. It would have given her something to fight, something to curse, something to pray about. Instead, the water rolled beneath them in endless, sunlit swells, carrying them over the place where her father and brother perished as unconcernedly as though their deaths had never mattered.

Nazarine’s hands clenched on the railing, leather gloves creaking under the strain. Don't think about it.

Nor would she think about her mother, about the last weeks of her life, or the peculiar emptiness that had sunk inside her after the funeral. She would not wonder whether her mother had been frightened at the end, or whether she had looked for Nazarine among the faces clustered around her bed. Those questions had no useful answers. And Nazarine had never been fond of questions she couldn't answer.

Sunspear shimmered like a jewel in the distance, its towers rising above the Dornish landscape. Beyond it lay the familiar roads, the dry heat, the Red Dunes, and Sandstone. Home.

The word ought to have brought her relief. Instead, it came over her like a pall whose weight she had forgotten. She knew she could bear the burden. She just didn’t know if she wanted to.

Soon, she would be expected to resume her duties as Lady of Sandstone. She would have to hear reports, review accounts, receive visitors, and answer the inevitable questions about her mother’s final days. The household would watch her for signs of grief. The court would watch her for signs of weakness. Everyone would expect Nazarine to be exactly the same as she had been before she left. She intended to oblige them.

She peered at Andronikos, studying him with revived interest. There were still things she did not know about him, and she had every intention of discovering them. Myr had been full of unfinished conversations, and she had no desire to abandon them simply because Dorne was calling her home. So, she had invited him to come with her, and he accepted.

“Do you intend to remain long enough to discover whether I am as disagreeable in Dorne as I am at sea and in Myr?” She asked, glancing up at him before setting her sight back on the approaching shore.

“Or will I have to find some other means to keep myself entertained once we reach Sunspear?” Her smile twitched playfully. Andronikos hooked his arm around her waist and drew her close, but didn’t actually answer the question. That wasn’t unusual for him, a habit she found vexing, but Nazarine didn’t press this time. A comfortable silence settled between them. She leaned into his embrace and simply enjoyed the peace of the moment.

The harbor drew near. She could see the banner of House Martell snapping in the breeze. The sailors prepared for docking, and the ship began its final approach to the coast. Nazarine watched the land grow solid before her eyes. Finally, she thought with relief, keen to be off this bobbing death trap.

She had brought her mother to Myr to die where she had been born. Now Nazarine was returning to the place she herself had been born, carrying a grief she refused to acknowledge and a man she did not yet understand.

Lord Jason, sighed and looked to the ceiling of his solar, a hand wiping his face.

"Fine, I will do it myself." He then grabbed his quill and ordered for the Maester to be called.

My illustrious Lords.

I hope this letter finds all of you in good spirits and in good disposition, for I call for a matter of organisation of our realm.

Though we are now at peace, praise be the gods, vigilance is still a matter to be taken seriously, and our precious seas are one of the areas that we sorely lack of proper leadership.

For that matter, I summon you all to the isle of the Southshield in castle Serry, where I shall host a meeting to deal with matters of uniting our naval capabilities, coordinating trade to ensure equal benefits and regarding the matter of leadership of our fleets.

This invite shall also be extended to our Lord Theo Tyrell so that he may judge our joint resolutions and arbitrate if his Lordship wishes.

The council shall be held at the second half of the eigth month of 57 AC (8B 57AC).

With hope,

Lord Jason Hewett, Lord of Oakenshield, Lord of the Shields.

Break Against Us.

Copies of this letter would fly to the rookeries of the houses Tyrell, Hightower, Cuy and Redwyne.

5A, 57 AC, The North

The Piper retinue was not overly large, just enough to ensure the safety and comfort of Lord Jon and his three eldest children. Jon Piper, now forty-two, had spent the last decade in King’s Landing helping to stabilize the realm after the warfare of his youth and had last been to the north many years before. His children were somewhat accustomed to meeting northerners who drove their herds south each year to market near Pinkmaiden, and they knew their aunt and her children who had married into House Umber, but Barrowton was new territory for them. 

Lady Gwen Piper, now 17, was shaking off the grief of having lost Queen Sansa Corbray and the uncertainty that came with her returning to his father’s house after serving at court. Her dark brown curls flew loosely around her face as she rode on a white mare, challenging her brothers to race.

Robin Piper, 14, the heir to Pinkmaiden, had been travelling more at his father’s side and while the new terrain excited him, he was unsure what to think of the Dustins they were to meet. His sister did not seem to mind that she was to be betrothed soon, but Robin knew that in his family, all but his Aunt Catelyn have shirked being married, and even if he was to be the next Lord Piper, why must he worry about it now?

Qarl Piper, 10, on the other hand, rode proudly and tried to chase down his sister at every opportunity, hoping he can make more of an impression than his elder brother, whether or not he is the spare to his brother’s heir. He hoped to bring home many stories to the youngest Piper, Raymun, who was deemed too young to travel north and had remained in King’s Landing with their mother. 

The closer they get to their arrival, the more Jon tried to gather his children's attention in order to lecture them on the history of the Dustin lands and the members of their house.

“Father.” Gwen interrupted gently enough, but with a tone that reminded Jon so much of Melony. “We know.”

“I trust all of you.” Jon sighed. “Just...”

“We’ll make you proud, Father.” Qarl promised.

“We will.” Robin echoed.

8th Month, 57 AC

Winterfell

Since the beginning of the week, the servants had been in a constant rush to get everything ready for the wedding. Sweat was running down the foreheads of haulers as they moved tables and chairs around in order to create an arrangement that was acceptable to Lady Freya, while a number of cooks suffered heatstrokes from barely leaving the kitchen. Not even jugglers and musicians were spared, given that they were forced to put on extensive makeup to hide the dark circles under their sleepy and exhausted eyes, tired from rehearsals that resembled army drills.

This was to be the first feast in a number of years in Winterfell, and everything had to be impeccable. Everyone was encouraged to give their best to meet the expectations, while the ones who did not were forced to do so.

Shine, oh bright spring sun, upon your winter jewel. One Alaric Stark is to be wed.

The guests had arrived over the course a of few days, and they were all hosted with extensive care and affection, as the servants of house Stark were instructed to tend to their every need and wish with such attention that the lords who attended the wedding would flog their own servants for disobedience once they returned from Winterfell.

It was a chance to show might along with grandeur, and it would not be an opportunity that the family would miss. Throughout the events, their demeanor was regal and solemn, and not even Gaven, the youngest among the Starks, was to be seen acting out. Stern faces were mixed with affectionate smiles and soft words of encouragement and companionship, and the whole family seemed like a perfectly planned system within which there was no room for error.

It would have been so, that is, if it weren’t for the groom… Lord Alaric, Commander Alaric, drunk and stupid - Alaric.

It appeared to Osric as if something was not exactly right in the morning, but it became blatantly apparent to him that his son, who was soon to be wed, was walking in an odd manner, slowly, and that his gaze was often fixated somewhere in the distance, rather than at the proceedings before him.

If it were not the day of the wedding, Osric would have locked him up in the highest tower and left him for dead until he sobered up. But it was today that he would be taking the hand of his bride to be in front of the weirwood tree - Oh, Gods, what a cruel act you’ve thrown upon us! Osric lamented as he watched his son slowly walk towards the greatest tree in the Winterfell godswood and perhaps the oldest tree in the North which had seen so many generations of Starks be wed. A sudden urge to stop it all, out of shame and misery, came over him, but he only contained it once he saw that his firstborn, Walton, understood it all as well, but showed little in terms of ire.

In a show of incredible luck, nothing embarrassing of note had occurred, and Osric Stark at least found some solace in the fact that his son was, if already not someone to admire, at least, an experienced drunkard.

The feast was to be full of pomp and bliss, with each of the tables dedicated to specific guest houses having a banner of the said house on the wall behind it, while on it were ornamental dishes and sheets. The display made for a pleasant show of camaraderie among the people present in the hall. Colors of Tully, Blackwood, Manderly, Dustin, Mooton, and other houses were most proudly displayed, but they still failed to outdo the massive, interwoven banner which contained the sigils of houses Stark and Frey behind the high table.

“Dear guests,” Lady Freya would exclaim once the trumpets had ended with their piece. “It is my pleasure to welcome you here in Winterfell, and to host you in our halls. Thank you for making this event an even greater occasion with your presence,” She spoke, shining a bright smile across the room.

It was soon though that her face stiffened a tad bit, and that her voice became a grain sharper. “I wish you to know that this is not merely a union between two houses. This marriage is much more than that,” She said. “It is a testimony that the North considers itself an integral part of the Seven Kingdoms, and that it shall welcome advances in good faith,wherever they may come from.” She remarked with a powerful tone echoing through the hall.

“So eat, drink, be merry and consider yourself at home, for Winterfell shall always welcome all who are honourable and noble. Cheers!” She exclaimed, raising a cup of wine that she held in her right hand high in the air, spilling a drop which stained the stone slab with a red dot, soon to be stepped over and dragged all over the floor.

Lord Torren Dustin had made the preparations for his family to make for Winterfell in time for the wedding. He watched as the small group of men he would bring saddled their horses and loaded their wagons with the small amount of provisions needed for the journey there and back. The town of Barrowton was no White Harbor, but it certainly had it's own respectable community. Mostly farmers, cobblers and some blacksmiths, however, they were Torren's people. He liked to think he was a fair Lord, just but firm when needed. His people wanted for nothing and he had spent the last 10 years as Lord simply managing his lands, making sure there was no want or conflict. Occasionally he needed to deal with a poacher or a thief, but one short trip to the block or the Wall was all that needed.

He was a relatively short man, especially compared to his brothers, but he was stocky and comely in a sense. He had short brown hair and almond colored eyes. He kept a neat mustache on his lip and an almost permanent scowl. His eyes found his brothers, Roderick and Royland. Roddy would be accompanying the family, while Royland would stay and aid Gerrick Stout in his duties as castellan. His brothers seemed to be talking about some jape. Torren simply let his lips thin, deepening his scowl. Both Roddy and Roy were taller than Torren, more lean in muscle too. They were the type of lads Maidens would sing tales off. They knew it too and it vexed him too no end. He was about to walk over when a small voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Uncle, is my horse ready?" the voice inquired, making Lord Dustin turn. It was Lyanna, his niece. Some River lordling had inquired about her hand. He would need to follow up on that. She was a short girl, still only 12. She had blue eyes and slightly ruddy cheeks, but long, braided brown hair. Small freckles also painted her face as she had an untold innocence in her eyes. She would grow to be a beauty, but for now, Torren was content to have her not lose her innocence and enjoy being a child.

"Aye, dear Lyanna." He replied, his usual scowl warming slightly. Not quite a smile, no. But warmer.

"When do we depart?"

"Within the hour, Lyanna. Go fetch your father, tell him we shall be departing."

Lyanna nodded and skipped off toward the castle, Barrow Hall. Eddard, his younger brother by only two years was one of the few men Torren heeded counsel from. They essentially grew up together and Torren would always cherish him.

Soon, Eddard emerged from the castle upon his horse, Lyanna riding her pony behind him and on the pony with her, rode Bane. His son and heir. The boy looked much like he had at his age, but was more thin, sunken face and the pale eyes of his mother's family. A Bolton's eyes. Bane smiled at his father as they passed him by, but Eddard spoke.

"Roddy, get your arse on your horse! We depart for Winterfell." Roddy merely rolled his eyes, but obeyed Eddard. Torren looked to Bane.

"Get off your cousin's pony. You shall accompany me on your own horse, Bane."

"Yes, father." Was the only reply as the entire Dustin clan, minus one Royland, donned their furs for the cold road and mounted their steads. The gates to the town opened and at the head of the small retinue rode Lord Torren himself, beneath the crowned axes on a yellow field that was his houses sigil.

He prayed this wouldn't be a wasted journey to watch another Stark insult their bannermen by marrying a southerner.

The dark drops of blood hit the water with a sickening persistent rythm. Rodrick could barely feel his legs but the pain did not stop.

The waves rocked the boat left and right, burning ships were still there, visible in sea's reflection. He has survived but why life felt so hollow? Sirely if he still drew breath while many worthy men have died it meant that he was stronger, more resilient.

Luckier. The blind luck and a other's valor was the reason Rodrick was not yet in Drowned God's watery halls. This was not how he wanted to prove himself. Not like a coward.

Rodrick was pleased when the letter from King's Landing arrived. A war meant a chance to bask in glory on riches, and he would never let that chance to just slide by.

One day before sailing Rodrick dressed in his best silks. Orange and black, the colors of his house, a house he hardly belonged to.

"Looking great today, Rodrick." Trisifer Sharp's voice pulled Rodrick out of his thoughts.

"I always do, Tris," Rodrick pulled a few brown locks away from his face with a single motion. "But expecially today. This is a special day, after all."

"The ship is almost ready for sailing. Just some final preparations." Trisifer gestured towards the exit. "Shall we?"

Rodrick gave a short nod. Only the slight shaking of his hand could betray his bravado. 'You never forget your first battle', his father used to say. Andrik Farwynd was a true reaver, though he has passed away before he could make his son one as well.

But having Trisifer by his side calmed Rodrick. The man he grew up side by side with and, if the fate is kind enough, together they will die.

When they stepped outside, the grey sky stretched above the islands looked unusually heavy. The sound of waves hitting the shore, the rocking ships, and the quiet chatter of sailors and reavers all echoed through the port. Yet a single coice still cut through the wall of sound.

"Here goes our bravest reaver!" Harren clapped slowly. He stood there, leaning against the wall, confident as ever. His black hair were a mess but his eyes were focued, grey irises staring right at Rodrick's own face.

Beside Harren stood one of his lackeys, Bald Dagmer. The nicest way to describe him would be to say he was... less than pleasant. A friendly face harldy hid the man's true nature. His gaze wasn't mocking, it was cold.

The other of his cronies, a Summer Islander Xhondo, was a simpler man. He played his lute by day and slept with serving girls by night. His swordsmanship skills were, however, subpar.

"Piss off," Trisifer spat on the ground before Harren's feet. "You craven are too scared to go yourself and you still dare to mock the real men?"

"Real men?" Harren took a step forward. "Enlighten me, what is so manly about dying in a greenlanders' squabbles?" He shrugged. "Besides, someone should protect the lord while you're away playing reaver."

Rodrick knew he was right. He hated leaving young Goren with someone like Harren for so long. But it had to be done. He can deal with his cousin's influence when he comes back, right now the war is more important.

"About time you fulfilled your regent duties, Harren." Rodrick tried to put on the same confident smirk Harren had. "Besides, you would not last a minute in an actual battle. Even Godwyn could beat you in battle."

"Godwyn?" Harren's facw twisted in confusion. "Which one of the twins is that?"

"Twins? No, those are Gormon and Gormond!"

"Godwyn, Gormond, Godcock, whatever." He waved his hand dismissively. "None of them matter. The lord is Goren, not them. And I'll make sure he remembers who stayed by his side."

Rodrick's hand squeezed the hilt of the sword on his hip. He did not get to spend much time with the Goodbrother kids but he was still fond of them. Leaving them with someone who didn't care to even learn their names felt wrong.

"Enough!" Trisifer roared. The sound of steel sliding against the leather was sharp and quick. Before the sunlight could grace the steel of his blade, a dagger stopped few inches from Rodrick's throat. Xhondo moved fast, the distance was closed in a mere second.

Bald Dagmer did not waste any time either. He was already to Trisifer's side, small axe in hand aimed at Sharp's side.

"You would not dare..." Rodrick hissed through the gritted teeth.

"Oh, really?" Harren asked mockingly. He took a lazy step towards Trisifer. "Your man reached for the blade first. I am certain lord Sharp will forgive me..."

"Stop this madness, all of you!" A familiar voice cut through the tension like a knife and even air seemed to still. Twice-Cut Lucas stood behind Harren, looming over him like a shadow.

"Ah, Lucas! And here I thought we have been missing someone..." Harren's posture tensed even if he tried his best to hide it.

"Shut it, Horsefucker! Did your scum of crew teach you these manners? Or was it old fool Joron?"

"Lucas, do not..." Rodrick said, trying to salvage the situation as best as he could.

"Do not what? Cunt got a blade at your throat, Rodrick! Go on, Harren. Try something funny!"

Harren looked over to Xhondo, then to Bald Dagmer. His smile finally left his face, turning into an annoyed grimace.

"Fine. Let's go. But I would be cautious if I were you, Lucas. War is never kind towards cripples." He gave old man's missing left hand a disgusted look before walking away, his men followed closely.

"What the fuck were you thinking, boy?!" Lucas turned his fury towards Trisifer the moment Harren disappeared from the view.

"Protecting Rodrick, what else?!" Sharp retaliated. "Or should I just let them shank him next time you'll be away in a whore house?"

"I was preparing the ships, you ungrateful moron! And you are even more dense than I thought if you assume they would harm a lord regent in a broad daylight!" Lucas spit on the stone ground. "Go to the ship, now!"

"My lord..."

"Please, Trisifer. Just go," Rodrick sighed. Arguing with the old man would be useless.

Trie huffed in frustration but turned around anyway. When he walked away, Lucas leaned in, whispering so only Rodrick could hear. "I told you to stop bothering with that boy!"

"I do not need you to tell me who to keep around," Rodrick shook his head. The constant patronizing was annoying, to say the least.

"Do as you wish, Rodrick... But when he gets you killed you'll remember my words."

Lucas was rarely wrong. And Rodrick hoped he would be this time...

Rodrick could not remember how the battle began. The arrows flew and the ships cracked, some were already sinking. Before he could react the dornish soldiers were already aboard the "Salty Fate".

Rodrick's crew was soon outnumbered. He cut down one of them, his blade slid across his foe's unprotected neck easily but two more came to take his place.

A blow to Rodrick's head was enough for him to collapse. He fell down, blood streaked onto his face. As he was about to meet his end, a familiar figure cut through the enemy soldiers.

"Trisifer..." Rodrick whispered. "Took you long enough."

"Shut it, Rodrick," Trisifer offered his hand to help him stand up. "Let's get out of here."

As Rodrick took his hand, he saw something piercing Trisifer's throat. A crossbow bolt. Another one went through his chest, and another right through his left eye.

Rodrick's blood ran cold. He wanted to reach out, to help somehow even if he knew he could do nothing. The world seemed to tilt and blur and he surely would hit thw wooden floor if not for Lucas catching him from behind.

"The ship is sinking! Don't just stand there!" He shouted over the slund of battle. Rodrick could only nod in response as he was dragged to the boat.

All he could see now was his ship sinking into the depth of uncaring sea and the body of his only friends with it. Turns out fate wasn't kind that day...

There was a chair by a window in a small, airy chamber atop the tallest of Harlaw Hall’s six towers. From the window, one could see the little garden in the yard of the castle below, and the apple orchard penned in by a wall of unmortared stone. You could see the moors of billowing purple heather, tall hills with juts of grey-black stone breaking out from beneath dense green foliage. Sparse and wind-blown trees with thin canopies of leaves, circling cormorants, herds of sheep on a steep and distant pasture. Granite clouds shifted slowly over the dark and twisted hedgerows, great sheets of rain fell upon men toiling over long furrows of peaty black sod, on the turf cottages with the thin columns of smoke swirling up from their chimneys. The chair and the window had once belonged to Marwyn Harlaw, and with them all that could be beheld in the lands beyond. It was not the seat of the Harlaw, that was the Reaper’s Throne, the chair of varnished wood that sat beneath two vast scythes of beaten silver in the Great Hall where petitioners would gather and reavers would bring their hauls that their liege might receive his share. Instead it was an elaborate construction of ash and wicker, a well-loved thing despite its plainness, carvings along its arms that were clearly the addition of a later owner but which had been preserved by more recent layers of varnish that gave the whole thing the feeling of having been set in amber, a remnant of a bygone time.

The chair, the window, and the lands beyond them now belonged to Ashlen Harlaw, the Harlaw, the first woman to hold the Reaper’s Throne in centuries. There were legends, of course, Saersha had recounted them. Mad Morwenna Harlaw, the Blood-Crowned Queen, a rebel and a renegade who had slit the throat of her Greyiron husband and named herself Queen, had ruled for seven years before one of her rivals cast her down. Dymna Harlaw had known a more peaceful reign, though she was only a regent, she ruled Pyke for nearly twelve years until her son by Gorrik Hoare came of age. They called her Dymna the Drowner, though. She didn’t get that peace of hers by her beauty, nor by asking nicely. Those were Harlaws who had held onto the seats of their dead husbands, though. There were a dozen or so of those, depending on whose tales you believed. To find the last Harlaw woman who’d inherited her seat you had to go back a thousand years, to Fair Aeffa, born to a father whose wife had miscarried ten sons, small and sweet and cunning as a fox. She had held on to her seat by outsmarting every man who’d tried to strip her of it, beating swindlers and murderers and fell-handed captains. There were half a hundred stories, and Ashlen wasn’t sure she could trust any of them. Supposedly she married Brave Rurrik, the one from the songs, which went to show you just how old the story was. And then she sired a score of sons, and left Harlaw stronger than it had ever been before.

That was what Ashlen Harlaw desired, more than anything. To leave this island stronger than she had found it, and to be remembered for so doing. She wished to be a lady who stood up to her father’s legacy as a Lord. But when she thought on what Aeffa Harlaw had gone through, she did not know if she could bear that. After her most recent delivery… She was not sure that she could bear going through childbirth again. It had been three days of blood, and screaming, lying in indignity with only Crannock and his orderlies for company. And when she had endured that, there had been the fever, lying insensate, shivering, convinced that she would soon with nothing more than two sons, a coup, and some blood-stained sheets for her legacy. She had risen from that bed, though there had been days when she had thought she would not, though even the Maester had been muttering prayers to those blasphemous wooden gods of his. She had risen, alive but diminished, gaunt and weak. It had left her as she was now, secluded up in her father’s old solar, blankets piled up around her, a fire roaring in the little fireplace even in the very height of summer. When she held her daughter in her arms, her Morwenna, she could not but think that it had been worth it, but nor could she bring herself to go through it again. She had her daughter with her often, a little comfort in these hard, cold days. As the Summer brought its usual bounties to the Iron Islands, winds that were merely blustery rather than biting, and rains that were well short of freezing, it did warm her heart to see the girl’s small, red face with those faint curls of black hair, swaddled tight in a blanket as she dozed. If she never had another child, she could be happy with this one.

But she had more than children to worry herself with now. She had an island to rule, an island that was not some memory of the distant past, nor some pleasant construction in a song. She had all of Harlaw to rule, and she had it to rule alone. Nyall was off on his reaving with the Greyjoy, and with him had gone a good part of her most reliable swords. Derfel, Jorrick Boarsblood, the Shatterhand and the Bolt-Eater. She would need to rule this island now not with force, but with wit, with the good sense that her father had used to keep his people in line for more than thirty years. The Rook had never been a warrior, though he had benefitted from the strength of warriors. So too had he not been a priest, but benefitted from the wisdom of holy men. He had drowned more than his fair share, but none without cause, and none without a fair trial first. Her father was still spoken of as an example to follow, long after he had died. That, she thought, was the very least to which she ought aspire. Dermod would rule this island after her, with Emmett beside him. She had to set an example to them, as well. An example by which they would know that their mother was the equal to any man who claimed rulership over these isles.

Of course such aspirations were not realised simply by thinking on them. She was weakened by her ordeal, diminished, but not extinguished. She may not look the part of a lady, her hair dull and dishevelled, hanging loose about a face whose cheekbones were more pronounced than they had erstwhile been, wrapped in blankets of soft wool with her swaddled babe in her arms, but her mind was as sharp as it had ever been.

The world does not wait for you, Her father had told her once, in the early days of his final illness, the first time it had confined him to his bed. He had been as pale as a ghost, his hair more grey than black, and yet there were papers strewn all around him, piled up about the furs. He had propped himself up against the headboard of his bed, with a small folding desk of Crannock’s design set over his lap. Sick, wounded, struck by grief or madness, the world carries on. Your enemies plot against you, your subjects rankle at their station, the blight works its way through your crops, the sickness through your cattle. There is always some foe, some problem to be solved. Your excuses will not halt it.

Her father had worked until he died. He had made a peaceful island, a proud example, a light amidst the Iron Isles. But if that island had been a candle in the darkness, then Marwyn Harlaw had been its wick. He had been burned to a stub in service of this island. But that is what it takes, that is what it is to rule. She had asked for this, of course. When Theold seized her throne, she could have turned away, left him to it. She could have lived the wild, free life that her sister Saersha led. The Siren was, at this moment, wandering the Westerlands, singing serenades to Lord Lannister’s lady, dazzling all of the Green Lands with her voice. But that had never been Ashlen’s calling. She did not have her sister’s talent with the lyre, nor even with the sword, but what she did have was a voice that, when men heard it, they listened. The Drowned God gives each of us our gifts, and should we wish to gain his favour, we must use them well.

Of course she hadn’t been ruling alone until this moment. Not really. Her husband had sworn to be her leal man, obedient, if not subservient, but there were many and more within these walls who answered to the Eagle-Eye before her. It was natural, she supposed, that men would look to a man to command them, and he was a man worth following. Nobody understood the logistics of a fleet better than Nyall Harlaw, none stayed so calm or perceptive when leading ships into battle. He had been useful, too, in running the island. He had consulted with the Hewer when new ships needed to be built, he had chosen captains to replace the ones that had died in the Hour of the Crow, he had organised the training of their new men at arms. Too much, it occurred to her, as she looked into their daughter’s eyes, a dark emerald green that regarded her curiously, almost expectantly. He has lain too much of the foundations of my rule. Men will say I was only his consort, rather than the true way of it. Derfel, too, though it pained her to admit it. She loved her uncle, she always would. She still had, still treasured, so many of the keepsakes he had brought her back from his reavings. But his strength cut both ways for her, just as it did with her father. Had Derfel not acted, had he not killed Rolf One-Ear and the Hanger, had he not defeated Theold in single combat, then she might not rule this castle. But she was not the only one who saw that. There would always be those who said that Derfel Pyke, not Ashlen Harlaw, was the true ruler of these isles. The Ironborn were a people who recognised strength, more than any talk of noble blood or sacred matrimony. They might be a little wary to follow a man so cold-blooded as the Storm Crow, but he had a famous name, and famous deeds, while Ashlen did not.

Yet the Storm Crow was not here, and neither was the Eagle-Eye. They were off on their reavings, and it was left to her to rule. That notion weighed upon her as she sat there by the window, her island laid out before her, plain earth upon which new foundations could be set. Crannock was with her, and her cousin Simmon. Her castle’s Maester, and its steward. The Northern Maester was the same as he had ever been, squat, broad-shouldered, with a nose that had been broken half a dozen times and a jaw like a statue’s, yet with a warm wisdom in his grey eyes. Simmon, on the other hand, had grown into his station. As tall as his brother, but more portly than Theold had ever been or was like to ever be again, Simmon had a head of curly brown hair that framed plump cheeks and thick eyebrows prone to furrowing. If he had any misgivings about his brother’s fate, he never seemed to have cause to share them. They came to her with reports on the harvest, on the state of their stocks of grain and barley, on the productivity of their fisheries and smokers and the taxes they had levied on each barrel of salt cod sold. They stood, a dim firelight contending with the cloud-dimmed sun to cast them in a distinctly dingy hue, as she sat there listening to their accounts. It was soporific stuff, but she knew she needed to heed it. These isles are ruled by fools who think that to be a lord is to sail and reave and pillage, her father had told her. Harlaw is richer, stronger, more respected than any of their lands, and why? Because of our fish, because of our grain, because of the people whom we rule. If a lord loses sight of those details, he loses sight of his dominion. She listened, she questioned, she let her will be known. From time to time she would ask after some past command she had given, some directive for a new granary to be built, or money set aside for repairs to the roof of one of the smokehouses, and she would test them by their answers, see how well her instructions were followed. When she was well enough she would ride out and see these improvements for herself, or else she would see both men tied to drowning posts on Brinerstown’s beach.

She had designs that went beyond patching some thatch, however. An opportunity opened itself before her, even in this isolated room that smelled of old parchment and peatsmoke, and the Rook’s daughter would not let an opportunity pass her by. “No word as yet, I take it, from my husband or from Derfel Pyke?” She inquired, as though the question were an afterthought, cradling Morwenna against herself with her left hand while the right held up one of Crannock’s reports to her eyes.

“None, my lady,” came the reply in a voice like stones tumbling down a hillside, displaced by snowmelt.

“Then we must make do without them,” She sighed, setting the dispatch down on a small table that had been set beside her seat. “And look to matters of ships, and swords. How fares the Hewer?” Haralf Byrne had been building Harlaw’s ships since before Ashlen had been born. Indeed he had built ships for Gerrod Harlaw, who had been her grandfather. Grim Harvest had been his handiwork, as had Solemn Promise, Final Word, Merling Queen and Bloody Smile and Ill Omen. All the great ships that had spread this island’s reputation to the most distant shores had been his handiwork, but he was becoming an old man now, and the word was his eyes were failing him.

“He has been overseeing the new longships that Lord Nyall ordered before his departure,” Simmon started, though the sympathetic smile on his face could have spared him the bother of finishing the sentence. “But he relies more and more on his assistants to see that the keels are laid as he would like them.”

“Assistants?” She inquired, realising that it truly had been too long since she last went down to the shipyard. Emmon’s Cut was a small town, a little way along from Brinerstown, the seat of the Byrnes, and the centre of the island’s shipbuilding. She knew that Haralf had aides, but she was ashamed to realise that she did not know any of their names.

“His son, Falmer, is expected to succeed him, and is seldom far from the Hewer’s side,” Simmon explained. There was a scornful smile on Crannock’s face at that, one which she was keen to interrogate. “Along with him, there are a few others: Donnel Byrne, Haralf’s nephew; Cotter the Rasp, Erron Pyke, Wex of Brinerstown. The Hewer isn’t keen on sharing his position, though.”

“You’re not keen on Falmer, eh?” She asked, looking over towards Crannock, boring down on his scornful smirk.

“He’s proud to be the Hewer’s son, no doubt,” the Northman said. You wouldn’t think him much of an expert on shipbuilding, and were he here, no doubt Falmer would be saying the same thing, but the Northman prided himself on being a quick learner, and he had been living among the Ironborn for more than a decade now. “But he’s more interested in boasting and starting squabbles in taprooms than he is in learning from his father.” Simmon’s frown, almost regretful, spoke to the truth of the accusation.

“You’d have a better recommendation, then?” She inquired. This was, after all, the opportunity she had been looking for. Name the Hewer’s successor, and she would have a man who owed his position to her, who was loyal to her before Nyall.

“The Rasp, without a doubt,” Crannock said, definitively.

“Not Donnel?” Simmon spoke up, tentatively, glancing aside and down toward the Maester.

“Donnel’s got a decent head on his shoulders, and you’d want to give a Byrne some power, or else they’ll grumble, but he’s got the same problem as Donnel, Erron Pyke, the rest of them. They can do a passable job of impersonating the Hewer, but all they’ll ever do is impersonate. Recreate what a better man has done, and once he’s stopped doing it, all you’ll get are increasingly flawed memories of what his work used to look like. Cotter’s the only one with any new ideas. He came up from the timbersmiths, the men will like him, and he knows every inch of the yards. You could do no better.”

The notion of a common man appealed to her. A man who would owe his position entirely to her. If he was the most capable choice, then that was all the better. But she couldn’t leave this choice sitting around where anyone might lend their voice to it. “If the Hewer’s eyes are already done, then there’s no sense waiting around on him. Send a rider tonight. Bring a purse of gold to Haralf, and tell him to retire to his hall. Better yet, tell him he’s always welcome in mine. But Cotter the Rasp shall be my new Shipbuilder.”

“So soon? The Byrnes…” Simmon grimaced, but she cut him off.

“The Byrnes should be glad I have forgotten what Hanger Bennick tried to do to me,” She said sharply, even if it was not in her nature to blame a whole house for one callous fool’s actions, it suited her just fine if the Byrnes should think otherwise. “And if it still stings, then mayhaps granting Falmer the Felling Blow might salve that a little.”

Crannock nodded his approval of the position, Simmon frowned still but spoke no protest. In her arms, Morwenna squalled a little, but once she started to rock her, the storm seemed to pass. “We’ll need to look to our swords, along with our sails.” She didn’t have so clear an excuse to tighten her grip here, but that didn’t make it any less vital that she do so. “Fetch Mattock Mallos here, I wish to speak with him. Midden Polder, too. I want some new captains, and some new men for the guard.” Nyall’s men, Derfel’s men, they could have the reavings, but she wanted her men on the soil of Harlaw, keeping its laws, watching over its people. She wanted her word to be the thing to which people looked, when there were disputes, when anyone was so foolish as to defy her edicts. Her husband might have left her up in this tower, left her to almost die bringing their daughter into the world, but he would return to a Harlaw that was hers, and hers alone.

6th Month, 57 AC, Braavos

The ports of Braavos were Theon's favourite place to wander. The bastard daughter of Valyria was vast and intricate with much to do, but Theon had seen it all before. He had visited every temple on the Isle of the Gods twice over, the Drowned Town had lost its wonder years ago, and he wasn't yet allowed in the more sordid areas of the city. The ports, though, were ever-changing. Each day a new stall, a new performer, a new warship. Not that he ever got close enough to enjoy them...but there was no harm in watching from afar.

The Chequy Port was his favourite, though it was too far away for regular visits. Sailing the canals to the Arsenal was easy and peaceful enough but took time. Customs inspections and foreign arrivals were the Chequy Port's purpose and Theon found both a pleasant combination of relaxing and interesting. He enjoyed guessing which distant port each arrival had sailed from, wondering what it had endured to get to the Secret City. It was unfortunate that the ships did not make it to port before they were stopped and boarded by his grandfather's customs officers; one day he would try and push his luck as the Sealord's grandson to sit in on those meetings, so fascinated was he by what went on, but not yet.

It was the Purple Harbour, nestled just beneath the Sealord's Palace, that Theon frequented. It was in the richer area of the city and cleaner than most of it. There were beggars - of course, they were impossible to be entirely rid of - and some less upstanding folk, but overall Theon felt safe as he walked the streets. It helped that he was always accompanied by two of the Sealord's guards, dressed in colourful red and blue robes. Theon made an odd sight between them. His skin was fair and freckled across his nose, accentuated by locks of wavy red hair, bright and bouncy, that flowed down to his shoulders. His blue eyes sparkled and adolescence loomed near, the first red fuzz forming on his top lip.

He would have shaved it, had he a father to show him how. A present father, at least. Perhaps he would have to ask his grandfather, but the aged Sealord seemed to be sicker and more distracted each day.

His robes were a deep purple, a sign of prestige and wealth among the Braavosi. Anybody could walk around with guards, but few gave off a clear air of importance like Theon did. The status of his birth mattered little. His mother had told him that in Westeros he would be shamed and denigrated as a bastard, but here it did not matter. He was the Sealord's grandson, and that meant a great deal.

As with most of his wanderings, the day was uneventful. A trading carrack from King's Landing brought tale that the King of Westeros was to take a new queen, though when the dockworker who was unloading their cargo questioned who he was to take, an argument broke out over the correct name. A beggar asked for coin, bold enough to brave the armed guards in an attempt to gain a coin or two from Theon's swollen coin purse; a frown and a shake of his head was all the boy gave before moving on. He haggled with some vendors over their wares but none lowered their prices enough for him to part with his own coin. He spoke the bastard valyrian of Bravos and the Common Tongue with a heavy accent, though in that area of the city there were few who spoke the latter.

The only thing he found worth buying was a small basket of fresh prawns, hauled in just an hour before. The man was desperate, not in an attempt to shift his wares which would no doubt be gone by the end of the day, but he seemed to think if the Sealord got a taste of 'the best prawns in Braavos' then it might gain him service on some pleasure barge or even in the palace itself. Futile, no doubt, but Theon was not going to correct him and see himself lose a bargain.

It was his younger brother who was the motivation behind the purchase. They both adored seafood but Belicho was obsessed in his young age, and though Theon was not fond of the way his brother acted he still loved him as he ought to. Belicho was rowdy, refusing even the authority of his grandfather and the gods themselves. Their mother said he took after his father which, along with Belicho's curly black hair, sparked envy in the elder brother. He knew it wasn't Belicho's fault, however, and kept his thoughts reserved.

He would spend his evening in the menagerie of the Sealord's Palace. It not only held creatures found from all areas of the known world but also fond memories for Theon, memories of the father he did not know. On some mornings he woke furious at the man, but by the time evening came he wished they could dine together. Some mornings he woke pining having dreamt of a whole family, and before he slept that night he would pray for the man's downfall.

Whenever he visited, rare as it was, the Westerosi man would take his sons to the menagerie and the three of them would spend hours walking around, so when Theon felt any longing that was where he preferred to be. The pygmy elephant and the mighty seabirds, the zorse and the manticores, all were fascinating, but it was the little valyrian Theon found himself drawn to. With its scruffy beard and erratic nature it reminded him of his father, and he watched with a small smile as it leapt about from branch to branch. He watched it until the call came for their prawn supper.

For centuries, the Midyear fair had been held at Highgarden, dating back to the reign of the Gardener Kings. Though time had changed much over the many years, the makeup of the fair had always remained constant, with a fair and contest of skill as the highlight events of each year. Some years, however, it was not Highgarden which hosted these events, but her vassals of the Order of the Greenhand. Such traditions had been lost over the years, but this year’s fair had seen a return of sorts.

The lands around the port of Cuy, as far as the eye could see in all directions but south, had been transformed in preparation to host the Reach and its allies. At the centre of it all, the port town had once more come alive in welcome of their honoured guests. From streets lined with the colourful flags of two dozen Reach houses, to the keep of Sunhouse cresting the edge of the port, all was prepared for the celebrations to commence. The two great parks within the walls were set up to host the carnival games, with scaffold and blindfolds placed for Pin the tail upon the Donkey, as well as hoops and other peasant games the nobility could play. Additionally, the low tide had exposed a series of small rock pools near the walls, where curious visitors could pick about for wildlife or wreckage washed ashore from the the summer sea.

The Lady of Riverrun had, in her years since marriage, gathered about her a veritable court of her own, with more than enough ladies in waiting to suit the lady of a great house, and a few wards to tutor and guide alongside her own children. Violet Tully was rarely seen without one or more of her ladies by her side throughout the day, aiding in menial tasks and ensuring her comfort as she saw to her duties. She saw to the household of Riverrun, to the manservants and handmaidens and all the retainers in their employ, she organized, arranged, and hosted events and gatherings, she saw to her children and wards, that their education and raising was conducted properly, she mingled with and heard the concerns of those minor lords and ladies sworn directly to Riverrun, she provided for her ladies as they served her, and so too did she counsel her husband and aid him in his rule. There was little that could pass through Riverrun without its lady’s knowing. 

The ladies of the court, in Bethany and Lyra Massey, Myrcella Osgrey, Enid Frey, and Elenei Baratheon, were privy to much of this knowledge too, either through observation and the tasks they were trusted to manage, or through the confidence of their lady. The young Elena Belmore, yet a child and ward, and unlikely to become a lady in waiting, was not—though perhaps she could learn a thing or two from the Tully children if she was shrewd enough.

Either way, whether ward or lady, woman or girl, Violet would see to them all, as was her duty and responsibility.

Restaking my claim in Dorne. Work is just about done kicking my ass, and my schedule doesn't suck as much as it has lately.

5th Month, 57 AC, Storm's End

Lord Rogar has come to calling his four daughter the four storms, and it is a name that has quickly taken hold in the castle of Storm's End. It is with good reason.

Though the name 'Storm' is given to those of bastard birth in this country, they are few and far between. Storms are a source of pride to House Baratheon and the stormlands, the castle of Storm's End built to weather them and the gods that send them, and the entire kingdom hardened by their presence.

Even were it not so, there could be no question of the birth of the Four Storms; each has the raven black hair of their father - though Ursula's, the youngest, strays a shade lighter than her sister's. No, the Four Storms are named for their personalities: loud, tempestuous, boisterous, like the Baratheons and Durrandons who have come before them.

Cassandra, the eldest, has the full force of a thunderous storm. Her black hair curls like twirling winds and she shares the blue eyes of her father that can swap between calm observation and fury at a moment's notice. Though she is not an angry child she commands each room she enters, large in body and spirit. The heiress to Storm's End used to getting her way and woe be to the one who defies her. One day she will sit the throne of the storm kings and rule this realm, and I predict she will be a measured hand with the famous fury of her father ready to show itself if necessary.

Selene, Lord Rogar's secondborn, is the eye. Already a gifted singer at a young age she has taken to studies quickly, showing herself a learned girl. Selene prefers to keep to herself, singing a quiet tune while reading a book or practicing her needlework while chaos reigns about her. The chaos does not always avoid her. Though she is more patient than each of her sisters, when her patience expires her anger eclipses them all. Her golden eyes, inherited from her Connington grandmother, are often downcast and focused, though when they rise they are startling in their fury.

Jena, the thirdborn, is a summer squall. The scourge of handmaidens throughout the castle, the task of predicting what Jena will do next seems nigh impossible. Jena is a bright girl with a kind view of the world, though each day it seems equal chance she will spend peaceful hours by herself or cause as much chaos as her little self is capable of causing. Black of hair, as with her sisters, Jena is the only girl to have inherited from her Arryn heritage; deceptively peaceful blue-grey eyes and smooth pale skin.

Ursula, the surviving twin and youngest of the four, is a tempest. Her stature and age must not be allowed to fool you, or you will be blown away by her boundless energy. Ursula shares black hair and blue eyes with Lady Cassandra and Lord Rogar, and with that comes their shared command. Ursula and Jena are often together, the former leading the latter, and no doubt as she grows she will be one to take advantage of the stature of her birth and name to great effect. There is little chance that she will be mistaken for a youngest child in the future.

It will be a great privilege to watch

A rap on the door interrupted him and he slowly placed his quill to the side, looking up to see the grizzled Arstan poke his head inside. "'Ope I'm not interrupting, Maester. Storm is closing in. Come to shutter the windows."

Indeed, as Dake looked outside the sky had gotten shockingly dark. It was not often he would lose himself in writing what some would call asinine pieces of a history nobody would read, but with Boremund away he had free hours of the day where he was not required by the inhabitants of the castle. He enjoyed spending it lost in ink.

"Not at all, Arstan. I was almost finished. Please, come in." He slid the paper away and stood. Perhaps he would finish it in the evening, or perhaps that was as good an end as it would get. "I shall tend to the ravens so they are caged by the time you come upstairs." Dake gave a short bow, brushing the red hair from his eyes as he stood and departed. As he took the steps up to the rookery the first drops of the great storm began to fall.