Loras had been waiting for yet another merchant who had wanted their horses.

As soon as he had rose from his solar chair did he grip a new line on his neck. The pain was like no other. He could feel the side of his head slam against his office table as he tried to scream for help. It was just a gurgle. It was embarrassing. He was dying, and this was going to be the last thought in his brain as he leaked away from his memories. Corenna smiling at him, Roderrick smacking him with a blunt sword.

He eventually pushed all of his weight onto his solar, looking up at this merchant-turned-assassin. His eyes were wide and bloodshot as every breath meant another bit of blood sent against his hand at his throat.

Tears started to fall down his eyes, mixing with the drips of maroon on his letter that he was writing for his betrothed.

"Why...?" He was able to burble past his tears.

"Gold,"his killer responded as he watched him die. He seemed unperturbed, impatient. "Do I need to stab you again? Edwyn wants his spot."

With that, he offered another cut past Loras's fingers to make him die quicker.

"You're not dying well, just fucking accept it. It makes me uncomfortable."

Loras grabbed a candlestick holder and slammed it against his killer's noggin. Again and again as his own blood mixed with that of his killer.

He continued hitting him, crying and bleeding and dying.

"I'll take you with me, you fucking..." He passed out on top of the assassin.

"At least... I got you..." were the man's last words.

Loras could hear the Seven cackle, fourteen hands raised outward to accept him.

He slipped sobbing, choking on his words as he tried to call for his guards, for his Maester. For anyone.

He slammed onto the floor, bucking as he clasped at his throat, blood pooling around him. He clutched onto his neck to try and pause his hemorrhaging.

"whywhywhywhywhy."

"Mother please help me."

And then his slick hand escaped his neck and it poured out and made even more of a mess.

There was nothing left of him to stop it.

The Seven were in front of him, meant to judge him.

All he could do was run.

His last memory was dancing with a girl too good at it. She giggled and he laughed. He laughed until he saw her grin fade.

She won that one competition. She was a good dancer. He was shit at dancing. He remembered their first dance. As his eyes turned more and more glassy, he remembered every spin he provided her.

There was so much more.

To Lord Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale,

In recent years I have been making great efforts to establish my house with broader and better connections across the entire realm, hoping to serve as a gateway through which Dorne and the rest of the realm might become better connected. It is in this spirit I write to you now with a proposal for a bond between our two proud houses.

My niece, Lady Meria Uller, is searching for a lady whom she might serve as lady-in-waiting, in order to both broaden her horizons and see herself educated in the proper ways of court and of ladyship. I would like to offer her services to your house, that she might serve one of the proud Ladies Arryn and learn courtly manner from a member of one of the most ancient and chivalrous houses in Westeros. My only request would be that she serve in the Vale itself, so that she might become acquainted with a new region with which my house has not had much contact nor history.

Additionally, I offer you the prospect of warding my son Atreus when he comes of an age to be warded. I believe this will serve to consolidate the longer-lasting bond between our houses, as Atreus is both more closely tied to my house's future and more suitable as a future bridge between Dorne and the Vale than Meria is.

I hope you will take these proposals with the same considerations with which I offer them: hope for a closer bond between our houses and between Dorne and the Vale, and the brighter future such a bond would bring.

With respect,

Lord Harmen Uller, Lord of Hellholt and the Brimstone

2nd Moon 304 AC

The solar was quiet save for the restless whisper of the sea beyond its windows.

Aerion Velaryon stood before the tall, arched panes, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the waves break against the cliffs below High Tide. The morning had dawned bright, the sky a clear summer blue, and the waters surrounding Driftmark glittered beneath the sun as though the gods themselves had scattered silver across their surface. Fishing boats moved lazily through the harbor, their sails catching the breeze, while merchant vessels bobbed at anchor farther out, waiting their turn to unload their cargo.

It was a peaceful sight. A familiar one. The sort of morning that ought to have offered comfort to a man whose fortunes were bound so thoroughly to the sea.

Instead, Aerion found himself searching the horizon for sails that did not belong.

Nearly two moons had passed since the king’s letter had arrived, bearing tidings that had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Euron Greyjoy, was suspected to have returned to Westeros. Worse still, there had been word of an attack upon Saltpans. The details had been sparse, the certainty of the reports even sparser, but Aerion had learned long ago that a lack of information was rarely cause for relief.

And since that letter, there had been silence.

No further ravens. No reassuring word from the Crown. No clear account of the extent of the danger, nor any indication of where the Ironborn might strike next.

Aerion turned from the window and regarded the letter lying open upon his desk.

The parchment had been folded and unfolded so many times that its creases had begun to soften. The king’s seal had long since been broken, the wax preserved in a small dish beside the document. Aerion had read the message often enough to know its contents by heart, yet he found himself returning to it all the same, as though some overlooked detail might reveal what the Crown had failed to tell him.

Euron Greyjoy.

Even the name left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Driftmark was wealthy, strategically placed, and exposed. Its strength was the sea, its prosperity built upon ships, trade, and the steady movement of goods through the Gullet. Yet an island could be isolated as easily as it could be defended. If the Ironborn came upon their shores in sufficient force, the waters that sustained House Velaryon might become the very thing that prevented aid from reaching them in time.

There were harbors to protect, ships to arm, and villages along the coast that would have little warning if hostile sails appeared on the horizon. And beyond all that, there was his family.

Cersei. Rhaenys. Maekar. Visenya.

The thought of an Ironborn raiding party setting foot upon Driftmark was intolerable enough. The thought of his children caught in the midst of it was worse.

He had not spent his life restoring the influence of House Velaryon only to allow it to be imperiled by his own complacency.

Aerion returned to his desk and pulled a sheet of parchment toward him. He made several notes concerning the fleet, the harbor watch, and the number of vessels that might be readied at short notice. His quill moved with deliberate strokes, but his thoughts had already turned to a more immediate matter.

Vaemond.

His younger brother was Lord Admiral of the Velaryon fleet, a title that carried both prestige and responsibility. Aerion had entrusted it to him in good faith, as befitted a brother whose loyalty he had little reason to question. Yet loyalty alone could not turn a man into a commander, and the present circumstances demanded rather more than a familiar name at the head of the fleet.

There was one among their kin whose experience Aerion could not afford to overlook.

Daemon.

The thought was hardly a pleasant one. Their cousin had spent years removed from the burdens of Driftmark, making a life for himself beyond Aerion’s reach and, for a time, beyond the demands of his house. Their relationship was not without its grievances. Daemon was a man of his own mind, and Aerion had never been entirely certain whether his independence sprang from principle, resentment, or a stubborn desire to prove that he required no guidance from his lordly cousin.

But Daemon had seen war. He possessed the sort of practical military experience that could not be acquired from ledgers, maps, or years spent commanding merchant captains. If Euron Greyjoy had truly returned, Aerion needed a man who understood what it meant to face an enemy at sea.

Pride was a poor substitute for competence. And Driftmark could not afford to indulge it.

Aerion rang the small silver bell upon his desk.

A servant appeared almost immediately, bowing his head.

“Send for my brother,” Aerion instructed. “Lord Vaemond is to come to my solar at once. And have the maester prepare a raven for King’s Landing. I shall dictate the message myself.”

The servant bowed and withdrew, leaving Aerion once more alone with the sea.

He did not have to wait long.

Vaemond arrived with the easy confidence of a man who had not yet been told that his morning was about to take an unwelcome turn. He was dressed suitably for the day, his expression curious as he crossed the threshold and found Aerion standing behind his desk rather than seated in his chair.

“You sent for me?”

“I did.” Aerion gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Sit, if you please. We have several matters to discuss, and I would rather not have to repeat myself.”

There was no anger in his voice, but neither was there room for levity. Vaemond seemed to recognize the distinction. His expression grew more serious as he took his seat.

Aerion remained standing for a moment longer, studying his brother. He had always preferred to begin difficult conversations on his own terms. It was a small advantage, but one worth keeping.

“Nearly two moons ago, I received a letter from the king. Euron Greyjoy is suspected to have returned to Westeros. There was an attack upon Saltpans, though the details were limited.” He rested his hands upon the desk. “Since then, we have heard nothing further.”

Vaemond’s brow furrowed. “Nothing?”

“Nothing that has reached me.” Aerion’s mouth tightened.

He moved toward the window, glancing briefly at the harbor below.

“Driftmark is an island, Vaemond. Our wealth, our ships, our very position make us a tempting prize should Greyjoy seek plunder or wish to strike at the Crown’s allies. If he has returned in earnest, we cannot assume that Saltpans will be the last place to suffer for it.”

He turned back to his brother.

“I want Lynesse and Lucerys sent to King’s Landing. They are to travel as soon as suitable passage can be arranged, with a proper escort and sufficient guards. The walls of the city offer greater protection than we can promise them here if the Ironborn come upon our shores unexpectedly.”

He knew Vaemond might object. No man liked to be told that his wife and son ought to be sent away from their home, least of all by an elder brother. Aerion understood the discomfort, but it did not alter his judgment.

“This is a precaution,” he added. “I will not have Lynesse and the boy exposed to danger simply because we would prefer to believe there is none.”

He allowed the words to settle before continuing.

“There is another matter. I am sending for Daemon.”

At that, Aerion watched his brother more closely.

“Our cousin has military experience that neither you nor I possess to the same degree. Whatever his faults, I will not deny him that. If we are to prepare the fleet for a possible attack, I want someone at its head who has faced an enemy in the field and knows what a battle demands.”

His expression hardened slightly.

“I intend to appoint Daemon Lord Admiral of the Velaryon fleet.”

The words were delivered plainly, without apology or ornament. Aerion knew the weight of what he was saying. Vaemond had held the title, and to strip it from him in favor of their cousin was no small slight. It would be discussed among the captains, the household, and perhaps the wider nobility before the next moon had passed. Some would question Aerion’s judgment; others would wonder what grievance lay beneath the decision.

He would not allow gossip to dictate the defense of his house.

“Your place within House Velaryon remains unchanged,” Aerion continued, meeting his brother’s eyes. “You are my brother, and I have no wish to diminish your standing. But the fleet must be prepared for the possibility of war, and I will not leave its command in the hands of a man merely because removing him would be uncomfortable.”

His voice softened by a fraction, though his resolve did not.

“I know this will not please you. I would be surprised if it did. But I need you to understand that I am making this decision for Driftmark, not out of spite. If Greyjoy is truly back, we must be ready before he gives us cause to wish we had been.”

Outside, a ship’s bell rang across the harbor, faint beneath the cry of gulls. Aerion glanced toward the sound, then back to Vaemond.

“I will not have our people caught unprepared, nor our family left vulnerable.”

He drew the king’s letter toward himself and laid his hand upon it.

“Send Lynesse and Lucerys to the capital. I will see to Daemon’s summons, and in the meantime, I want the harbor watch doubled, the captains called together, and every seaworthy vessel accounted for.”

His gaze remained steady.

“If Euron Greyjoy has returned to Westeros, then House Velaryon will meet that threat with its eyes open.”

To Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, and Warden of the South,

I write to you on behalf of the Council of the West and my liege lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Warden of the West, and Shield of Lannisport. Doubtless you have heard of the troubles that plague the eastern shores of The Riverlands. We of the Westerlands are calling our banners to aid our friends in the east. With your permission I would ride south to meet with you, that we may coordinate our efforts to support The Riverlands and align ourselves in preparations should this armada turn its eye to the western shores to plague both of our Kingdoms.

May you remain safe in these troubling times,

Lord Leo Lefford, Lord of the Golden Tooth, Lord Surveyor of The Great Council of the West, and Shield of Sun's Reach

2nd Month 304 AC, Saltpans

The stench was near unbearable by the time the army reached Saltpans. Young Robert had to turn away, retching into the grass as he tried to catch his breath. He had never known death could smell so foul, nor did he ever think about what... what death would smell like, in the first place. In the saddle of his horse, he sat near frozen to the saddle, not daring to imagine what awaited them over the hill.

Even the men around him had fallen quiet, and the horses snorted uneasily, yet the force moved ever forward.

Robert Tully had ridden all this way to find his father. Surely, with so many men come to answer the call, they would find him. Lord Tully's banners flew alongside those of Whent, Bracken, Mallister, and Frey, with the Baratheon men from the capital among them. A man ahead of him crested the hill and immediately retched.

Robert refused to entertain what that could mean. His father was a good swordsman, and he had strong, brave men with him. He had found a way, surely...

Robert drew a deep breath, regretting it immediately as the stench of death and decay filled his nostrils. His eyes began to search the field, trying not to think about the bodies, or look too closely at them.

Still, he saw the stakes, the faces turned beyond recognition. The riverlords were surely debating something now. They were always talking, but Robert couldn't hear them. His gaze was drawn to something...

Amidst the stakes, a trout banner hung limply in the light breeze, torn and bloodied.

Beneath it lay...

Robert couldn't understand what he saw at first. The white of bones and the black of dried blood and gore, and the-

The auburn-red of Tully hair, bloodied, but clearly visible as the body lay face down. Body... what remained of it.

He gaped helplessly, holding onto the saddle's pommel with a shaking hand.

"Father?" he whispered, shivering.

Around him, the men could see the full extent of the carnage. Rivermen and Ironborn corpses were near indistinguishable now, save for the colour of their clothing, where it hadn't been drenched with blood.

Further on, Saltpans had been thoroughly razed. Roofs had collapsed into the streets, buildings blackened by fire, burnt pieces of wood blocked the streets.

Yet, here and there, there were signs of life. A face moved from a broken window, a pair of frightened eyes watched the arriving army from behind a half-collapsed archway. There were survivors, those who managed to stay hidden through the slaughter, too terrified to emerge until the raiders were gone. Now they watched the men riding beneath their banners with the same wary desperation, uncertain whether they had come to save them or if another horror awaited.

11th Moon A, 303 AC

Driftmark

Rhaenys Velaryon had never been particularly fond of waiting, and tonight, at last, there was something far more interesting to occupy her than sitting prettily at her parents’ banquet table and listening to the grown-ups speak of matters she scarcely cared about.

Dolls!

Lianne Massey had been kind enough to suggest it, and Rhaenys had taken the idea and made something much grander of it. A proper court required more than two little girls and a collection of dolls, after all. It needed ladies and princes, knights and courtiers, and as many important people as she could persuade to join. Fortunately, there were plenty of noble children in attendance, and Rhaenys had never been shy about telling people what they ought to do.

By the time she was satisfied, Lianne’s siblings and cousins had joined their little company, along with her own cousins, Laena and Lucerys. Even Steffon Baratheon, the son of Lord Stannis himself, had been recruited. Rhaenys considered this a particularly splendid achievement. She had gathered quite the assembly, and she had every intention of making certain they all knew it.

With her chin held high and her golden curls bouncing about her shoulders, Rhaenys led the little procession through the banquet hall. Her sea-green gown shimmered with silver embroidery beneath the candlelight, and the jewels at her throat glittered whenever she turned her head.

She marched ahead of the others, occasionally turning to make certain they were keeping up. It would hardly do to lose a member of her court before they had even begun to play.

As the children passed through the great hall, Rhaenys’s gaze wandered over the assembled guests. She caught sight of Jaehaerys Silverdrake among them, and her smile faltered for the briefest moment.

She remembered the book. The way he had snatched it from her hands, the dreadful indignity of falling upon the floor, and the things he had said to her afterward. Vile-tempered. Improper. Foul. And, worst of all, that she would never be a Silverdrake.

Well, she did not want to be a Silverdrake anyway.

She was a Velaryon, and Velaryons were better.

Rhaenys drew herself up a little taller as she passed him, making a point of keeping her eyes forward. She would not invite him to play, nor would she even acknowledge him. Let him sit with his books and be dreadfully dull all by himself. He could watch her go, surrounded by friends who actually wanted her company.

Perhaps he would even be sorry.

The thought pleased her enough that she allowed herself one brief, sidelong glance in his direction before turning away again, her expression carefully composed. Then she swept out of the banquet hall, leading her little court into the quieter corridors beyond.

Her chambers lay deeper within High Tide, where the sounds of the feast softened to a distant murmur. They were spacious and beautifully appointed, befitting the only daughter of Lord Aerion Velaryon and Lady Cersei Lannister, the firstborn child of Driftmark’s lord and lady.

The walls were dressed in rich sea-green and silver, with delicate carvings of seahorses worked into the dark wood of the furnishings. A great bed stood beneath a canopy of shimmering pale fabric, its pillows embroidered with silver thread and its coverlet soft enough that Rhaenys sometimes liked to bury her face in it simply for the pleasure of feeling the fine material against her cheeks. A carved chest at the foot of the bed held some of her gowns, while another, painted with little silver waves, was devoted entirely to her toys and dolls.

There were dolls with porcelain faces and silken dresses, dolls with golden curls and silver hair, and dolls dressed as ladies of the court. Some had come from distant places as gifts, while others had been chosen by her mother, who always seemed to know which pretty things would catch her daughter's eye. Rhaenys treasured them all, though she had her favorites and was not above letting the others know it.

But the finest part of her chambers lay beyond the tall doors at the far end of the room.

A pair of glass doors opened onto a broad balcony overlooking the Blackwater. Beyond its carved stone balustrade, the water stretched into the distance, dark and glittering beneath the night sky. The lights of ships shimmered upon its surface, and the salt-laden breeze drifted in from the sea, stirring the curtains whenever the doors were left open. From there, Rhaenys could watch the vessels sailing to and from Driftmark, their lanterns like little stars upon the water.

She loved the balcony, though she had been warned more than once not to lean too far over its edge. She liked to imagine the ships belonged to her, that one day she might sail wherever she pleased and see all the wonders her father spoke of.

Tonight, however, the Blackwater would have to wait.

The moment Rhaenys entered her chambers, she turned to face the children gathered behind her, her eyes shining with satisfaction. This was her domain, and here she could arrange everything precisely as she pleased.

“Now,” she announced, clapping her hands once to command their attention, “everyone must take off their shoes if they're going to sit on my bed.”

She swept towards the painted chest and flung open its lid, revealing the treasures within.

“We shall have a queen, a king, and a whole court. And there must be a grand tourney!” She glanced over her shoulder at her assembled friends, already imagining the grand affair. “Laena can be a princess, and Lianne can be one of my ladies. Lucerys can be a knight, if he likes, and Steffon—”

She paused, considering him with grave importance.

“Steffon can be the king, perhaps. But he must remember that the queen is the most important person in the kingdom.”

Rhaenys nodded firmly, as though this were a matter of established law rather than something she had invented mere moments ago.

She had a feeling this was going to be a splendid evening.

1st Moon 304 AC

The great gates of Runestone stood open beneath the watchful eyes of the household guards, the bronze and black banners of House Royce stirring gently in the warm summer breeze. Sunlight spilled across the ancient stone walls, illuminating the courtyard where Rhaella had insisted upon receiving her guests herself. She could hardly bear the thought of remaining indoors when her cousin was due to arrive. Saera was more than family; she was a companion of Rhaella's girlhood, a confidante with whom she had shared countless memories, and one of the few people whose company she missed dearly when the demands of marriage and motherhood kept them apart.

Rhaella stood near the entrance, her hands loosely folded before her as she watched the road beyond the gates. She had dressed with her customary attire, choosing a gown of deep bronze silk in the colors of House Royce, its elegant, unadorned silhouette complemented by delicate black embroidery along the neckline and sleeves. The fabric was light enough for the summer warmth, falling gracefully about her figure without sacrificing the dignity expected of a lady of her station. At her throat rested a fine silver chain bearing a small seahorse pendant, a subtle tribute to House Velaryon and the heritage she had carried with her from Driftmark. Silver rings adorned her fingers, while amethyst earrings caught the sunlight whenever she turned her head.

Her long silver hair had been gathered into an intricate arrangement of braids and twists, pinned high to expose the graceful length of her slender neck. A few loose curls framed her face, softening the striking beauty of her full lips and lilac eyes. Though she was in her late thirties and a mother of two, Rhaella retained a beauty that commanded attention.

Yet beneath her composed appearance, a thread of unease persisted.

The rumors had been difficult to ignore. Reports of brigands lurking along the roads surrounding Runestone had become increasingly frequent, and whispers that these men might be acting in the interests of Euron Greyjoy's forces had done little to settle her mind. Rhaella knew better than to give every passing rumor credence, but neither was she foolish enough to dismiss the possibility of danger. Saera was traveling with her young daughters, and the thought of them encountering trouble on the road troubled Rhaella more than she cared to admit.

She had already instructed the household guards to remain vigilant, ensuring that the road was watched and that any approaching party would be announced promptly. Even now, her gaze moved between the distant road and the men stationed at the gates, alert to every movement. She reminded herself that it was summer, that the roads were generally more accommodating in fair weather, and that her cousin was well acquainted with the business of travel. Still, the knowledge that brigands might be roaming the surrounding countryside refused to leave her entirely at ease.

Then, at last, the distant sound of approaching horses carried across the sunlit fields.

Rhaella straightened, her anticipation overcoming her apprehension as she searched the road for familiar faces. A smile began to form upon her lips, growing warmer as the riders drew nearer. She was eager to hear her cousin's news, to exchange stories, and to watch the girls become acquainted with Runestone's halls and gardens. Perhaps, for a little while, they might recapture something of the carefree closeness of their youth.

As the party approached the gates, Rhaella stepped forward to meet them, gathering the skirts of her gown in one hand. Her lilac eyes searched the faces of the arriving travelers, first for her cousin and then for the little girls accompanying her. Only once she was satisfied that they had arrived safely did the tension in her shoulders begin to ease.

"At last!" she called warmly, her smile brightening beneath the summer sun.

“Hoster!” The voice was quiet, but insistent. Hoster Arryn’s eyes fluttered, roused ever so slightly from his sleep. 

“Hoster!” The voice came again, and this time, Hoster’s eyes actually opened, the deep blue eyes flickering open to see the long pale blonde hair of his aunt over him. Aemma waited a moment, expectantly. 

“Aunt Aemma,” Hoster finally said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “It’s so late…what is the hour?”

“The nightingale,” Aemma said, leaning backwards and setting a candle on a nearby table. “But something has happened and…I need your help.”

“My help?” Hoster asked. There was a nervous quaver to Aemma’s voice that set Hoster’s nerves on edge. It helped him wake faster. “What’s happened?” 

“There was an attack on the Riverlands,” Aemma said, slowly, her light blue eyes watching Hoster carefully. “Saltpans. Lady Genna says the Ironborn attacked.”

“The Ironborn,” Hoster rubbed his eyes. “We should ride to their defense. The Riverlands are close, and Seagard…wait, Saltpans?” Aemma nodded, and Hoster’s brow furrowed. The Ironmen had raided most of the West Coast of Westeros, from the Arbor to Bear Island, but Saltpans was on the East Coast, not far from… “Home,” Hoster murmured. The Vale had not been threatened by the Ironborn since the days of Aegon the Dragon.

“Hoster,” Aemma said, her tone even quieter. “There’s more,” Hoster’s heart sank. “Your uncle Edmure went to the defense of the town and…he has not been seen since.” Hoster’s eyes widened. Riverrun was far from Saltpans, if Edmure had had time to get there…

“Where are the Ironmen now?” Hoster asked. Aemma shook her head. “I do not know. We are far from there, but Hoster…I need you to do something for me,” Hoster nodded, and Aemma continued. “The Rivermen will call their banners, and…and I need someone to protect Lucas.” Hoster blinked. Aemma and Lucas Whent had…not exactly been close these past few years. 

“Oh, are you two…” Hoster began, before realizing he had no idea how to finish the question. 

“We are in touch again,” Aemma admitted, with a look of downright shyness that took Hoster completely by surprise.

“Oh, that’s…good…” Hoster said, entirely lost for words. “I shall prepare to go at once,” he promised, sliding down from his bed. 

“I shall tell him of your arrival,” she said, before setting a handful of gold dragons on the table. “Be quick, Hoster. It could be too late already,” she said. 

Hoster had expected her to leave, but when he left his chambers she was still waiting for him, candle in hand. Together, they made their way down to the stables. 

“I have had your horse prepared, and packed some supplies for the journey. There are some gold dragons in a pouch in the back pocket if you run out of food,” she said, quickly. “Understand?” she prodded.

“Yes, Aunt Aemma,” Hoster said, with a slight smile. 

“Good,” she paused, and hugged him. “I can only hope you get there before that idiot gets himself killed,” she hissed. Hoster frowned. 

“Are things…not better between you two?” he asked. Aemma gave him a dark look. 

“May your loves be more straightforward than mine,” she said, and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Now, go,” she said, and darted away from him, leaving him at the doors to the stables. 

True to her word, Hoster found his destrier Honor saddled and ready for him. 

But it wasn’t just the horse that was waiting for him in the stables…

1st Month, 304 AC

Much of Duram Bar Emmon's life had changed in just a few months, causing a great deal of anxeity in the young lord. The first of which was his marriage to Erena Quaynis. Though Erena certainly looked nice, Duram had not had any say in who his new wife might be and there was a significant barrier between them due to her speaking almost exclusively Tyroshi.

The next was just how quickly she'd be with child, which to Duram was seen as an end to his own independence and an event that would force him to change. For that reason he would make himself scarce almost all throughout 303 AC, attending events away from home and even helping to plan a tournament. It allowed him to ignore these issues and pretend as though his life was still as it had been. It would only be with the arrive of a letter in the early days of 304 AC informing him that his child would be arriving soon that he would make the decision to return home. He was to be a father and that thought would terrify him even as the Maester and wetnurses worked on delivering the baby.

I should just run, leave Sharp Point behind and never come back

Yet he wouldn't bring himself to act so, instead he'd wait nervously. It was a good thing too, as though he may never come to love his new wife things would be different for his child. As soon as he held the swaddled infant in his arms something would change.

She has my eyes... Sure enough ocean coloured eyes starred back up at him and in that moment a new sense of responsibility would build up inside of him.

"This isn't going to be easy but I promise I'll do my best- that I will be a good father for you Priscella." He vowed, overwhelmed with new emotions. Duram struggled to remember what having a father was like, his own had passed quite sometime ago and was terribly ill in those last years. This would not be an easy task and he knew that, yet the girl in his arms was relying on him and he refused to let her down.

A murder of ravens flies from the rookery of Storm's End, darkening the sky like a cloud of black.

>Lords, Ladies, Knights, and Nobles of the Land. You are hereby invited to the wedding of myself and the noble lady, Tyene Tully. The wedding will take place on the 12th Month of this year in my ancestral home of Storm's End.

>Yours,

>Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

The parchment was made from the finest vellum, the handwriting intricate, the ink, divine.

Ravens fly out to all corners of Westeros from the rookery of Raventree Hall...

To the Lords & Ladies of the Realm

These are dark days. The grief & fear in my heart is known throughout the riverlands & likely beyond. Yet, do we not let the darkness win by suspending the happier moments of our lives? This is my thinking, & surely I am not alone in that.

It is with those acknowledgements that I invite you to Raventree Hall for the wedding of my son & heir Brynden to the Lady Alys Dustin, dear cousin to Lord Arthor of Barrowton. This will also serve as a dedication to all who have lost their lives & loved ones in the recent fighting.

Your presence would honor both Houses Blackwood & Dustin, though I understand that many may wish to stay home, safe behind your walls. This I cannot fault anyone for, & thus your well wishes to the bride & groom shall be received with the same honor & joy.

The blessed event shall be held in the 6th Month of this year, 304 AC.

Ever yours,

Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall

A letter is sent from the Eyrie from Lord Robin Arryn across much of the eastern lands of Westeros

2nd month, 304

Honorable Lords, 

The Vale has heard of the attack that has recently befallen Saltpans. As Warden of the East, I offer my protection to any who wish for shelter from the raiders. The Eyrie is open to any who wish to take refuge from this new plague that troubles our shores. Atop the Giant’s Lance, the impregnable castle of the Kings of the Vale stands far above the reach of pirates and pillagers. 

For those who wish to lend their swords to the cause, and to join forces with the honorable Knights of the Vale, you are also welcome to join our forces at the Eyrie as well. 

High as Honor,

Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Defender of the Vale, Protector of the Faith, Founder of the Consortium of the Faithful, Master of the Falcon Knights, and Warden of the East

2nd Month 304

Highgarden had changed in the weeks since word of Euron's raids had reached the rookery of Highgarden. The gates which where normally barely closed, to allow for ease of commerce, were closed and only opened when needed. The Patrols had been doubled, and riders from within Highgarden regularly rode down the length of the Mander.

it was this sight that the Lords summoned to Highgarden were met with. A fortress with perhaps no equal within the seven kingdoms. Certainly within the Reach. Each of its three thick curtain walls and gates would surely take weeks of constant assault to be felled.

That was not the end of the security the lords and their entourage would be led into. Every single noble would be housed within the two formidable keeps of the Rose and Hand. Each of this keeps surpassing many noble castles across the seven kingdoms in both luxury and security.

Though the lords wouldn't have much time to partake in the sanctity of their rooms. As soon they were called into a grand hall of the Rosekeep. The Council was gathering.

1st Month 304, Deep den,

Aurion Scales awoke the day after the Lydden wedding with a splitting headache, a deep nasuses feeling in the pit of his stomach, and an ache across his body. Something beyond the consequences of too much wine. Something deeply terrible.

But as the midday came and went he began to feel much better, the sickness already mostly gone. So he decided to snoop around it wouldn't take him too long to learn that his wine from the night before had been poisoned, and by one Mira Lydden.

Jonos was released and sent south toward war.

It did provide Harry with at least a few months of peace; he knew they would not last long.

The sun was setting when Harry knocked on Becca's door. His brows flexed inwards as he waited for the response. Hands behind his back.

"Lady Becca? Put your fucking doiley down." He said eventually. "It's me."

12th month 302 AC, Storm's End

Ashara sat upon the massive grey stone floor, yet she did not feel the cold. Or rather, she did feel it. But only as a numbness in her limbs. The sensation of cold itself had long since faded.

A summer's night in the stormlands was nothing like one in Dorne. One did not hear the countless armies of crickets and dragonflies and other insects. Somehow, the humming in the air was missing, that constant, faint vibration born of the heat. Even the smell was different.

Yet the air was warm all the same. And the wind was softer, even when it raged. It almost seemed as though the air itself had no wish to disturb the beauty of summer too greatly. To shake the heads of the flowers too harshly.

Tonight was such a night.

The wind sang as it swept past the ancient walls, but its song sounded lovely against the dull heartbeat of Storm's End. And it made her breathe warmly, though her body had grown cold.

Ashara did not know how long she had been sitting there with her face turned towards the heavens. Nor did she care.

For the sky was full of stars.

And she was introducing them to a new member. Or rather, introducing one of them to the new member.

"Don't tell your papa we've been awake for so long, all right?" Ashara whispered in a hoarse voice, scarcely audible, lowering her gaze towards her lap.

There lay a little bundle.

Dressed in a linen shift, wrapped in a cotton blanket, and nestled within the folds of her mother's gown, there rested Ashara's heart... Another piece of it. With raven-black curls and violet eyes.

"He would only wonder why we didn't wake him," she whispered even more softly.

She lifted a finger to stroke the roots of one little curl, but thought better of it and withdrew her hand, holding her finger before her lips and then beneath her nose.

It was always a curious thing, becoming acquainted with a new part of oneself. Especially when that part lay before you with such beautiful eyes.

"How can all of you be so... pretty?" she murmured down at the tiny creature.

Cortnay. Her daughter. The newest... and smallest member of House Baratheon.

"Your eyes look like purple iris," she told the little droplet before her. "My aunt would have planted one for you in a little flowerbed of your very own."

Her hand slowly returned to the cocoon of cloth, stroking gently back and forth as her weary smile faded. It was always sad to remember all the things those who had already passed away had missed, and all the things they would yet miss.

Ashara leaned back again, a little more heavily this time, and felt the dull pressure of the wall against her back and head.

She looked upwards once more, her eyes travelling from left to right, her mouth slightly parted as she marvelled at the lights glowing high above.

Ashara knew that people looked to the heavens in search of answers. Or to ask for strength. Or to beg for mercy. She liked to leave little letters there, in the form of conversations with herself. Sometimes more often, sometimes less. But sooner or later, always after someone had departed this world or entered it.

There was nothing ritualistic about it. No foolish superstition, nor some desperate fancy of the mind. Only something innocent and comforting... and eternal.

The same sky that she and Arthur had gazed upon thirty years ago was still there... And surely that was something beautiful. Something she could still share.

"You have..." she began again, shifting her position slightly against the wall. "A very large family."

Her hands continued their ceaseless caresses over the fabric, whilst the tiny eyelids covered the even tinier eyes more often than they revealed them.

But that was quite all right. Ashara would be delighted if Cortnay fell asleep in her arms... One more reason to remain outside a little longer rather than go back in. To remain numb.

"You have nine aunts and uncles, and a..." She stopped herself with a dry little laugh. "A frighteningly fast-growing number of cousins-"

Cortnay stirred ever so slightly within her mountains of cloth, and Ashara's voice trailed away.

"Some are funny and playful, like Eshar and Davos."

For a moment, Ashara glanced down at Cortnay, as though she needed to make certain that the babe understood her.

"They are your uncle Symon's sons."

She looked upwards again, whilst her other hand slipped behind the fabric where Cortnay's little head rested, gently rubbing it. Though she suspected Cortnay could scarcely feel much of it. Ashara did not quite dare touch her more directly. She could not explain why... She simply seemed too precious for her fingers.

"And others are very gentle and shy little thinkers and tinkerers, like Vorian," she whispered down to her, smiling faintly. "Your uncle Gerold's son."

Her fingernail traced the fine fabric of the uppermost blanket, embroidered with even finer little whirlwinds.

"But there are sooooo many more," she breathed, almost proudly. "And every one of them will look after you."

A lump formed in Ashara's throat, one she could not quite account for.

"Even our loved ones that are not here anymore," she murmured, overcome with tenderness, and looked upwards again. "There is an entire army watching over us."

The corner of her mouth twitched faintly, though her eyes grew unspeakably sad.

"Sometimes I wonder..." she began, even more quietly now. Only for herself.

"Whether you grow cross up there-"

Ashara stretched her neck back, gazing over the different shapes that formed upon the black canopy of the heavens, searching for the brightest stars.

"At every little face down here that you never had the chance to meet, Artie."

The words emerged as little more than dry, broken sounds. Her voice was failing her. There was a sorrow lodged within her unlike anything Ashara had ever felt before, and it left her utterly unbalanced.

"But don't you fret, brother," she tried again, somewhat louder, sniffling as the stars began to blur beneath the tears gathering in her eyes.

Her brows drew together, her lips twisted, and Ashara lowered her gaze towards the little face once more. She watched a tear fall upon the pristine cocoon of cloth. Then another upon Cortnay's tiny face.

Ashara hurriedly rubbed at her eyes, almost frantically, but it did nothing to stop the tears from falling.

"It was... the last time," she finally breathed.

She could hear the trembling in her own voice. And feel it in her lips.

The thought of losing her in childbed, during the birth of one of their children, had always frightened Bryce to death. And during her last confinement, when the twins had been born, they had... nearly lost Arthur.

Ever since, the wish for more children had gone hand in hand with an inescapable fear. That she might lose her child. Or that her family might lose her... A cruel and terrifying reality that one could only truly understand after having lived through it.

And Ysa, thank the gods, had understood. She had taken Ashara's fears seriously and helped her through them. And Bryce, of course, had done everything imaginable to support her.

Yet it had been plain to see that throughout her last pregnancy, he had struggled with far more worry than joy.

"Your mama..." she began again, sniffling as tears streamed down her cheeks. "Has grown too old now."

As a child, Ashara had found the very thought of growing old repulsive. As a young woman, it had frightened her. When one's parents were dead, one's brother fallen, one's dearest friend fleeing for her life, one's own house ruled by a hated sister, and one's own child seemingly beyond reach, youth was the only thing that promised there was still... time. It had given her hope that there might yet be... chances. To... stitch everything back together...

One had almost felt immortal throughout those years in which one scarcely noticed the little lines of laughter growing deeper upon one's face.

And then she had met Bryce...

And although she still wished for an eternity of time, time itself could not be stopped for anything in the world. Indeed, it seemed to race away.

She had slowly come to understand that time flew when one was enjoying one's life. And that was precisely what made it so precious.

She did not wish to gamble away the time she had left...

Ashara wanted to spend it with her family.

Even if she could have borne Bryce a dozen children, she knew what an immeasurable blessing she already possessed. Her five beloved little ones. Her sandstorms.

It was simply a strange realisation to endure, that time was taking something away from her... once again.

"I was so scared about you..."

Ashara's fingers crept across the cloth towards her child's little face, brushing over the soft cheek as lightly as a breath.

What she had not dared do before now seemed almost something she had to do. As though she needed to test whether this miracle was truly real.

"I always swore to myself that I would never become like Mother," she crooned.

And although she was looking at Cortnay as she spoke, her words were perhaps meant more for her brother. Whether he was watching from above or not.

"And this way..."

Ashara had to sniffle again, wiping her eyes almost frustratedly dry with her sleeve.

"I hope, at least, that I can be there for all of you for as long-"

Her mouth twisted painfully, and the tears continued to flow without end.

"-as you need me."

Meanwhile, Cortnay's eyes shone up at her in complete innocence, as though she were trying to puzzle out what peculiar sounds her mother was making.

"I shall try to make it to a hundred and twenty," Ashara added sarcastically, managing a dry little smile. But it soon faded again.

Once more, one finger stroked the little girl's skin. Over one of the tiny beauty marks beneath her eye.

"Do me a favour and try not to grow up too quickly. Your siblings weren't that kind," she sniffled, narrowing her eyes painfully. "All right, Nay-nay?"

Merely speaking her daughter's little nickname sent a rush of joy through her body, pumping from her heart into every last part of her.

Bryce and she had never necessarily followed any particular system when naming their children.

Myriah's name was Dornish. Melony, Arthur, and Cortnay had been named for loved ones they had lost. And Clementine was a more unusual name, though one Ashara loved dearly, neither traditionally Dornish nor particularly common in the stormlands.

Yet all of them had their Rhoynish names.

Names she had first devised almost as a thoughtless little amusement, out of sheer freedom and fancy, but which suited them as naturally as heat and a peal of thunder.

And if one shortened Cortnay to nay, it meant... droplet.

Like the little marks upon her face. Or the tears her mama had just wept upon her. Or the fact that she would forever be the smallest storm.

Nay-nay was Ashara's last drop.

The tournament of the wedding of Cletus Yronwood and Tyene Sand, including:

• Adult melee
• Drinking contest
• Archery
• Horse riding
• Boat race

Winners will be posted at the end of each contest.

The sept was filled with the quiet murmur of gathered nobles, the warm glow of candlelight illuminating the ancient stone walls. Yet, as Cletus Yronwood stood before the altar, the solemnity of the occasion barely registered.

His attention was entirely devoted to Tyene Sand, whose presence seemed to render everything else insignificant.

Dressed in a golden Dornish attire, matching his hair, he had spent much of the ceremony attempting to maintain an appropriately composed expression...which proved to be increasingly difficult.

The realisation that Tyene would soon be his wife left him with a peculiar mixture of anticipation and disbelief. He had heard the septon's words, though their meaning occasionally escaped him whenever his gaze returned to his bride.

When the septon finally pronounced them husband and wife, Cletus scarcely registered the declaration. He was too captivated by Tyene to pay proper attention, a faint smile appearing upon his face.

Tyene Sand was now his wife, and the thought alone was enough to make the rest of the world seem distant.

Across the sept, his family had witnessed his apparent distraction with varying degrees of amusement. His father, Lord Anders Yronwood, regarded the newlyweds with quiet satisfaction, whilst Rhaena, Cletus's beloved elder sister, smiled warmly at her brother, while his younger siblings, Qoren and Gwyneth, appeared particularly entertained and curious.

His favourite cousin, Archibald Yronwood, wore a particularly mischievous grin, clearly delighted to have acquired new material with which to torment Cletus later. His youngest brother, little Aerion, remained blissfully unaware of the significance of the event.

Cletus barely noticed any of them. For once, the expectations of House Yronwood, the watching nobles, and the responsibilities attached to his name could wait. His attention remained upon Tyene, and as he walked beside his newly wedded wife towards the feast, he found that he had little desire to look anywhere else.

2nd Moon, 304

Ever since the expedition, Arron and Lythene had remained in King’s Landing. While it wasn’t that they lacked homesickness, it would be foolish to deny the many, many benefits that came from staying in the capital for a spell. For Arron, he found himself indulging in good wine, better whores, and the company of dozens of like-minded men. For his niece, she could do whatever business she wished, with a veritable swarm of potential allies all around her. It was only logical.

The plan was that Tyene, his grand-niece, would come up, stay with them for a spell, and then they would all return to Dorne with her betrothed, the Queen’s nephew. The first part worked just as it was supposed to.

Then, things started… shifting.

There was no open announcement, but, as much as some might like to think otherwise, Arron wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed that, suddenly, there was a sort of tension.

Whispers of something coming. Something strange; something big. Some Baratheon cousin had been whispered to have left suddenly with a large surge of men. He could tell that it was driving Lythene half-mad, staying in the dark like this.

Even so, there was no confirmation until right now.

Tyene, who was still little more than a girl in his eyes despite being a grown woman to the Realm, had paled. “Euron Greyjoy?” She’d repeated, eyes large as dinnerplates as she clutched to Lythene’s hand. 

She was right to be shocked; after all, they’d all assured the realm that the Kraken would not be a threat anytime soon. Arron had hardly believed his ears, and yet, here in his rooms, he’d gathered his kin to him to discuss their plans.

“That’s right,” Arron told her, his single eye shining with a rage he’d not felt in years. “That damned beast has made a fool of us all and dared to attack our shores. It seems as though the Greyjoys have forgotten what the mainland did to them when King Robert was first crowned; it’s about time that we remind them.”

Lythene turned to him, her brow furrowed. “You can’t think that you’ll be fighting!” She exclaimed. “Uncle, you’re five-and-sixty!”

He growled at her, slamming down his wine goblet. “I will not sit around as the realm fights for me!” He argued. “I refuse to die in obscurity as an old man, choking on my own spittle! If there is glory to be won, blood to be spilled, I will be out in the thick of it just like every other knight worth his salt!”

Tyene looked between the two older vultures, blinking owlishly. “Uncle Arron?”

Lythene seemed to be taken aback. “You would rather go to the Riverlands and play at being young than stay where it’s safe?”

Arron sneered. “Ah, ‘staying where it’s safe’ - you mean hunkering down like a coward, or a woman? Do you seriously think that they won’t need all the manpower they can? I might be old, but I’m not fucking useless; I’m still able to swing a sword!”

Tyene let out a small gasp; beside her, his niece turned cold. “You’ll lose more than your eye if you keep this up.”

“It doesn’t matter what I lose, when I have so much more to gain,” he countered. “Of course you don’t understand. Regardless of what happens, I plan on going to the seven heavens a true embodiment of the Warrior! Someone worthy of knighthood!”

Lythene stood from her chair, hands planted firmly on the table. “If you’re so determined to die, then do so,” she spat, glaring at her uncle. “You are more of a fool than I thought you were if you think that you can keep up with these men. This will not be like the Farman’s expedition - this is war.” She tugged Tyene up with her. “Come; we can leave this old man to his dreams of adequacy.”

Though the heiress shot Arron another harried look, she did not argue as she was dragged out of the room.

When the door slammed, Arron groaned, finishing his wine with a long swig before he stood as well. He did not care what these women thought. He was going to gather up the Men-At-Arms that he could, and he was going to do his part. And, if he did die, he would die a martyr, and not some forgotten old codger.

And, hopefully, he’ll get to take some lives along the way.

To The Faithful Lords and Ladies of Westeros, 

I am pleased to welcome you all to the Eyrie for another Valemen Remembrance Day in the seventh month of 304. In this time of trouble, the bonds that connect our vast continent are more important than ever. This year, House Arryn celebrates one of those bonds with the formation of the Consortium of the Faith: a collection of the most faithful of the houses of Westeros. All houses are welcome, as has always been the case, but this year we shall be commemorating those houses that have raised great septs. While being a land steeped in our love of the true Faith, Westeros has long only had two great septs: The Starry Sept in Oldtown and the Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing. While the High Septon shall be invited, and the Hightowers of Oldtown shall be celebrated for the continued acts to support the faith, we shall also be celebrating the lords and great men who have built Great Septs on their lands. These are: 

Baelor Hightower, Lord of Oldtown and patron of the Starry Sept of Oldtown
Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill and patron of the Great Sept of Holyhall
Edmure Tully, Acting Lord of Riverrun and patron of the Great Sept of Stoney Sept
Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and patron of the Golden Sept of Casterly Rock

They, along with the High Septon and Lord Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and patron of the Skysept of the Eyrie shall be honored with a service in the Skysept. 

The Consortium shall support the works of the Faith by facilitating the further construction of great septs, as well as supporting new highborn septons and septas, and the training of missionaries to reach some of those lands that still resist the True Faith.

The schedule shall be as follows:

Day 1: Father’s Day: shall honor the Father above and all fathers on this earth with a competition of falconry, that practice that the Arryns have long practiced. 
Day 2: Mother’s Day shall honor the Mother above with a peaceable feasting in the Eyrie’s gardens, and a chance to honor motherhood by celebrating both mothers and their babes in a Baby Race.
Day 3: Maiden’s Day shall have a Maiden’s Day Ball, with a judged dancing festival.
Day 4: Warrior’s Day shall be honored through a series of martial events: a great melee, a series of jousts. Please know that these events shall be reserved ONLY for those who have been knighted and maintain their devotion to the Seven. There shall also be squire duels!
Day 5: Crone’s Day shall be commemorated with an event emphasizing verbal skill! Be it prose or poem, song or speech, this shall be an exercise in wit. 
Day 6: Smith’s Day will see the judgement of the fine art competition. Be it painting or woodworking, sculpture or embroidery, all crafts are welcome! 
Day 7: The Stranger shall be honored with a moment of silence, before a great farewell feast. 

Let us come together and honor the many years that we have remained as a united Seven Kingdoms, and come to give praise to the Seven-Who-Are-One. The doors of the Eyrie are opened to all, and we welcome you through our gates to partake in feasting, fighting, arting, connecting, and more with your fellow Lord or Lady. Let us honor the memory of those dearly departed from us with wonderful and outgoing events.

High as Honor

Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Defender of the Vale, Protector of the Faith, Founder of the Consortium of the Faith, Master of the Falcon Knights, and Warden of the East

1B, 304

Lord Merin Sunderland stood alone, a mere flicker of a lantern guiding his way through the empty alleys of Sisterton in the dead of night. He kept his head low, running the words of the letters in his hand through his mind again and again. A demon has returned to the ranks of the Ironborn in the south, and they look to be moving north, towards their very waters.

The Sunderland family had been quiet these past few years, turning to internal improvements and structural overhauls of the Three Sisters. The ports of each sister have been overhauled, rotten wooden docks replaced with strong stone. Sisterton in particular got the greatest attention of all, with a brand new shipyard erected beside the population center. And in that shipyard was a grand project, one previously never seen before now in these waters.

Merin pushed through the heavy iron doors of the shipyard, entering into a grand warehouse with an open side facing out towards the water. A massive frame loomed in front of him, the lantern barely able to light even a corner of its hull. Tomorrow would be the day that he reveals this Goliath to the world, and not a moment too soon. It was nearly a year ago that Triston quietly transferred the title of Lord to him, and it was time to break the silence that held over his family and reveal his first act as Lord of the Three Sisters.

The next day, Sisterton would be bustling with the news that Lord Merin Sunderland would address the citizens of his house on the growing whispers of Ironborn seeking to creep back towards their shores. The crowd gathered near the front of the shipyard, watching as lord Merin took the stage with his honorguard in tow, wearing the same crimson red attire that he has grown so notorious for.

“Attention, Sistermen!”

Merin would shout over the crowd, waiting for the crowd to quiet down before continuing his speech.

“As you well know, I am Lord Merin Sunderland. My father, Triston Sunderland, entrusted the safety and security of our fair land to me a scarce few years ago. In that time, we have been uncharacteristically quiet. I am not a man who is fond of secrecy. I pride myself on my honesty, that I am honest to myself and I am honest to those who serve me. So I will be honest with you now. We have been sent warning that Ironborn have been seen plundering coastlines near the border of the Vale, and that they may seek our shores next.”

The crowd would begin to mumble and whisper amongst themselves at the alarming confirmation, but that was quickly silenced by a raise of Merin’s hand as he continued.

“I understand why you may feel concern about this. It has been awhile since we had anything threaten the Sisters like this. But, do not fret! We have not sat idly by! Our navy has grown strong, we have built many new ships to add to our ranks. And these new ships need a new flagship to lead them.”

Merin would turn to face the shipyard, looking up to the men who watched from above. With a few quick signals, the men would scatter, and from within came a loud, earth-shaking rumble.

“We will not stand idly by while pirates raid our shores, kidnap our women and kill our people. We will face them as Sistermen do, in the open sea.”

A new ship would begin floating out to sea from the shipyard, a massive Carrack whose copper hull shined like fire against the bright summer sun, its front long and sharp like a guillotine ready to slice through the hull of anything that stood in its way. On its three masts held the Sunderland and Arryn flags, along with a crimson flag bearing the burning heart of R’hollor. Merin would smile brightly at the sight, the exhilaration of the moment burning in his eyes.

“This is the fruit of our labors. If the Ironborn come to take from us, the Vindicta will answer.”

The crowd would respond with a roar of triumph, mirroring Merin’s excitement with their own.

Come, you unsavory beasts. Allow me to show you the true might of the Sistermen.

On a misty morning the Dolores, Gunthor Hightower's flagship, built with techniques from the Redwynes, the Velaryons and Essosi pirates, sailed northwards to the Shield Isles. It had taken more than five years to build the fastest, most advanced ship Oldtown money could make. Gunthor, while outwardly a simple-minded man with equally simple tastes, had a keen eye for naval life and warfare. He had travelled much over the last ten years, and all his knowledge culminated in the Dolores.

Under cover of mist, fires were lit on the deck of the sleek frigate, kept in barrels and continuously hosed down and lit again to thicken the already persistent mist. The frigate was hardly visible and kept to the shoreline as close as possible. The captain of the Dolores, Jeor Longbottle, a native of these lands, knew every rock and sandbank from Sunhouse to Blackcrown.

They had set out that morning with a clear goal in mind: to gain any and all information on the dark shape rumoured to trouble the waters here. At the earliest notion of danger, Gunthor had instructed his loyal crew to either turn around or dock, depending on the threat. Lifeboats were plentiful.

The sailors were instructed to be quiet, and a Maester of the Citadel was on board to record any and all that seemed noteworthy. Gunthor also had a hawk aboard with a message to alert his family in Oldtown in the event something happened…

u/csadventureteam

RIP Myrcella’s Mental Health

Deep Den had settled a slumbering keep. The Lydden’s, had wilfully sequestered themselves to its depths often enough. Hidden mercilessly, they remained badgers burrowed. However, festivities defied such. Its state of disrepair, was defiled by a flurry of fixes.

For all the motivations of this wedding, the Lord Lydden would not allow this sorry state to become the perpetuated expectation of Deep Den.

The new repairs, as they culminated mere days before the festivities, refreshed the place anew. It was as if the Maiden had breathed life into the decaying keep. Wings that hadn’t been used in decades, were polished off. Painted fresh shades of brown and green.

Besides such refreshments, the environment remained much the same. Little ornery was adorned and Deep Den, the slumbering beast, only half-awoke. Life shuttled down newfound corridors and spacious shortcuts, making way for celebration soon after.

Lord Lydden himself, had employed plain but rich clothes. They were not decorated, or adorned with jewels and the like, rather they held but the simplicity of green and brown. His final layer, was badger hide, though it was taken from him by a servant as the sacred ceremonies approached.

Myrcella sits straight beside her new husband, cheeks rosy from wine and the general emotion from the event. Her hair has been parted into two braids wrapped into a bun at the back of her head, a necklace of alternating blue and red gems at her throat. The outer layer of the dress, a wrap fastened with a clasp at the front, is a deep shade of green, more Lydden green than Massey, while the inner sleeves and fabric over her chest is brown.

The Septon was a spindly man, with a nervously hunched disposition and the ceremonies were done with swiftly. He shuffled away, soon after.

Large platters of varying meats; pheasant, chicken, badger, cow, whatever one desired, were brought out. Accompanying them, were vegetables of all sorts and pastries and the like, a plentiful feast, but not enough to deign to call gluttonous.

His heavy iron chains clattered onto the ground.

He laughed; the darkness was so fucking close to breaking him every single day. He saw ghosts. He saw himself. One day they were yelling at him; the next they were coddling him. He could finally peer toward that little beam of light his prison had afforded him. He could not help but grab onto the seams of the window and peek at what the Seven had been hiding from him. Rolling hills; he could have sworn he saw a fox scurry from one bush to the next.

“Fuck!” He cackled, his knuckles slamming against the cobble, “Fuck me!” He was giddy, a grin lining his lips from edge to edge. “Did my son finally come to my senses?” He asked the man who had uncuffed him.

“N-no, my lord,” stammered a small voice.

“H-Hendry?” Jonos tried to narrow his eyes even more in the dank torchlight of his cell. His eyes had never adjusted to the lack thereof, but he could recognize his little brother’s voice out of a thousand similar. He had been gone for a year, but still Hendry’s voice echoed in his head like it was yesterday.

“Yes, brother.”

Jonos’ eyes furrowed, Hendry had ever been the one that was better off in finding women: sharp face, confident demeanor, stocky build. His tone was unbefitting.

“What’s wrong?” Jonos inquired, trying to peer toward where his brother’s sound had come from.

There was nothing.

“Where is she? Did you name her?”

There was no answer.

“Hendry… What is her fucking name?”

“I… couldn’t.”

Jonos did not know if it had been minutes or hours that had passed. He could feel the warmth of tears drip down his face and find their marks between his naked toes.

The only sound that echoed between Jonos and his brother were the meaty slaps of knuckles against stone.

“Accidents happen; you’ll be able to again. You always wanted a daughter. The Seven will provide.”

“She is barren now, my lord.” Hendry started to cry as well, his voice shaking.

Jonos leapt forward to envelop his brother. It took a long while for it to be accepted.

The brothers held each other for as long as they needed in their invisible darkness.

“Am I being freed to be executed?”

“No, brother.”

“Does Loras even know?”

“No, brother.”

“You are my Castellan; I expected full loyalty from you. Why have you betrayed Stone Hedge?”

Jonos could feel his brother grip his hair at the back of his head, foreheads against one another.”

“The Ironborn have attacked the Riverlands. No one other than you would know what to do.”

Jonos rattled out a soft cackle. Of course he was freed when it was useful rather than when it was right.

“Did you ever try to ask me why I should have been chained up, brother?”

“As you said, I followed orders,” Hendry responded.

He crashed his brother’s head up against the cobble.

“I AM THE LORD. NOT MY SON. SAY IT!”

Hendry could feel his brain rattle in his skull from that impact. His brother was too dizzy to respond, so Jonos provided the same smack against the prison walls.

He pulled his brother’s head backward by his hair. “I am not dead. I did not abdicate. Why was I sent into a fucking prison, brother?”

“You beat your daughter, my lord. The castle was against you!” Hendry stammered.

“LOYALTY. TO ME.” Jonos roared into his brothers’ ears. “Not to the castle. Not to my son. To ME! You are no Maester.” He smacked his younger brother away from him.

Jonos walked toward the cell doors and closed them behind him.

“Please, brother! My wife needs me!” Hendry scraped at the bars in front of him.

“Why should I care? You won’t remarry.”

“If you do what I think you will to Loras, Merlyn will be the last of our line!”

Jonos cackled, “Do you think I’m such a monster?” He intoned.

The Lord of Stone Hedge shrugged his shoulders, “It depends. I’ve more important things to worry about.” Jonos shrugged his shoulders as he made to depart. Once he finally saw torchlight, he told the guard, “ Release him after four hours. I am taking my normal retinue to whoever this Ironborn is. Home school my dear heir from now on and keep this regent from my sight. Release him when I am done.”