“The judges have made their decision known…”

The heavy oaken doors of the great Winterfell Library groaned open under the weight of Symeon Stark. He moved with each step sloshing along the blanket of snow that had enveloped the library, passing the empty tables and straightened books that lined the towering shelves.

“In the name of King Damon of House Lannister and Queen Danae of House Targaryen, and in the presence of both the old gods and the new…”

Above him flakes of snow continued to flurry down the absent ceiling. The Blind Wolf did not seem to care why. It didn’t matter. He was finally home.

“Symeon Stark is hereby sentenced to death for the murder of Prince Thaddius Lannister.”

Looking afar, his eyes blurred his sight. He could make out the unmistakably human silhouette that was sitting at his table. Symeon proceeded to simply follow the cooing and laughter of the familiar woman. He could hear the faint happy cries of a babe and felt his heart leap for a brief happy moment.

“Talisa?” he asked, approaching her.

The books and the table were kept uncharacteristically tidy. There was not a hint of snow to be seen.

“I knew you’d come here.”

Her voice was shaken, yet soft.

Symeon furrowed his brow, trying to concentrate on her features. She still possessed a small and dainty figure. Her skin glistened pale white and the long black hair gently shined in the light of room as she turned to face him. He wanted to tell her so many things, but only a few words came when he opened his mouth.

“I wanted to see you myself.”

“I know,” Talisa replied, coldly.

Symeon noticed she was holding a child covered in blankets. He could not make out the babe’s face, only Talisa’s.

“I’m sorry,” he said, knowing it was never enough. “I missed you. Even in my dreams I barely see you. I am so sorry, Talisa.”

“I know,” she said with sadness.

Symeon tried to place his right hand on her shoulder to offer consolation but she turned him away.

“Will I at least...” He felt a lump in his throat. “After… what happens to me, will I see you again?”

“Don’t you already know the answer to that, Sym?”

Symeon frowned.

“Don’t you?”

“Don’t you?”

Symeon shivered awake and sat up; his heart beating fast. For a moment, he was still, gazing at the cold morning mist that blew in through the tiny dungeon window.

And then the door opened.

Two shadowy and indistinct figures approached, and Symeon Stark had no time to contemplate his dream.

Let me face my fate with dignity.

“I am ready.”

Symeon got up and took a few steps towards his silent gaolers, offering his wrists. They bound his hands with iron chains.

Outside the castle he felt the cold crisp wind breeze by.

He could hear the bells of King’s Landing ring as the morning mists slowly faded away. He knew the Street of the Sisters would be packed with smallfolk, and gold cloaks to maintain order. Today was a tremendous day.

It had been a while since King’s Landing had seen an execution involving a member of the Great House.

The distance to the stage where he would die was long, but the walk was short. Symeon wondered if the last moments of every man’s life passed like a bird in a flight, or if such curses were only for the guilty.

Or the damned.

The crowds were even greater than he expected. From the heights of the stage he could see as far as the red walls of King’s Landing. There was still a small glimmer of hope in him that Jojen would break the gates of the city to come for his rescue.

He scanned the crowd for Ysela but to add to his sorrow he also failed to find her.

I promised to protect you, sister.

There were familiar faces on the stage with him.

The Hand, the White Cloaks, the Crakehall who had saved him once, the King.

Symeon had never been so surrounded by people, and he had never felt so alone.

Before the Master of Laws could read his sentence to the restless crowd, a stone struck the Blind Wolf’s head, leaving a large gash on his forehead.

The jeering and screaming began then, and the bold ones threw more things in his direction.

Through vision blurred now by both blindness and blood, he could faintly see the gold cloaks with their spears, pressing back against the angry mass.

“By decree of King Damon Lannister and Queen Danae Targaryen!” the Master of Laws shouted over the roaring of the bloodthirsty crowd, “the First of their Names, King and Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lord and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protectors of the Realm! The traitor Symeon of House Stark has been sentenced to death by sword for the murder of Prince Thaddius of House Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!”

Was death forgiving to you, Lyanna? he wondered.

“May the gods have mercy on his soul!”

The King’s Justice stepped forward, naked sword in hand, and Symeon marveled at how he could hear those steel footfalls over the raucous mass of cityfolk.

The guards gently eased the Blind Wolf to his knees.

The wind blew in short gusts, it was turning chilly. Symeon stared towards the sky for what was mayhaps his last time.

“Remember the Words, Sym,” he could hear Edmure and his father say.

The metallic taste of blood trickled down his mouth. Clouds were gathering above, blotting out the weak light of the sun. He could hear a faint crackle of thunder from afar.

His mother always told him the Autumn sky was dark and vengeful, but Symeon knew that it was Summer.

“We never fear the storms of Autumn, Symeon. Do you know why?” Celia Stark had said, laying his head in her lap and stroking his hair. “Do you know what the leaves and autumn snow say to the fields when they fall to kiss them so gently?”

“They snuggle them all up like you with your quilt.” He felt safe in her arms. “And they say ‘go to sleep darling, go to sleep and dream till Summer comes again, dream my darling because-’”

“Winter is coming,” Symeon said quietly, and he lowered his head.

A raindrop landed on his shoulder, and soaked through the thin cotton fabric of his tunic.

It was the last thing he felt.

/r/GameofThronesRP is a storytelling role-play taking place in the universe of George RR Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire books, but set 200 years after the conclusion of the series.

1. Your first step: Creating a Character

Visit the Sorting Thread once you've decided what sort of character you'd like to play. If you're having trouble choosing, feel free to pick up someone else's non-player character from the NPC List, claim one of our Unclaimed Houses, or ask for some advice in our chatroom!

2. Learning our Lore

Once you've created your character, they will be stepping into 200 years of new lore, filled to the brim with characters and events created entirely separately from the books. This means that it is important that you understand the world your character will be stepping into. If not the fine details, then at least the large brush strokes.

To this end, we highly recommend that you read the front page of our Wiki and explore any related pages that may catch your eye. While not required, our Major Events thread provides a great resource for the current status of Westeros.

If you are really loving reading our history, feel free to check out:

• Our Kingsguard doc (which lists the Kings, Kingsguards, events, and seasons stretching from the current year all the way back to King Stannis Baratheon's reign)

• Blood and Whispers (our role-play's story as told through a narrative format)

• GameofThronesRP: A Prologue (A narrative retelling of the Second Greyjoy Rebellion)

Questions? Concerns? Need some help? Feel free to message the mods!

It is 515 AC, and it is Winter.

Join the game. The Game of Thrones.

Written with all involved.

The Small Council chambers had seen its fair share of men and women over the centuries that had passed since the Targaryens first laid the stones of the castle.

The ornate candelabra that hung over the center of the table had cast light on Westerosi and Essosi both, on Northerners and Southerners, usurpers and dragon riders. But Damon wondered whether it had ever illuminated a gathering quite as historically diverse as their own.

The Vale, the North, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, the Reach, Dorne and even the Iron Islands - each region of the continent was account for at the long oak table that normally sat the most powerful men and women in Westeros.

Those of the Small Council had chosen their usual chairs, with Nathaniel occupying the one that the Queen usually took, and the rest of the judges found their own places at the board.

“Our task now is to assess his innocence,” Damon explained to them levelly, “and determine an appropriate sentence should we find him guilty of the crime for which he stands accused.”

“Kill him,” said the Lady Greyjoy. “He is obviously guilty. As for the manner of execution, since the Stark murdered a son of Pyke, his death should be done in the fashion of the islands. We can stake him to the sands on the shore of the Blackwater, and let the tide claim his life.”

The voice of Dorne rolled her eyes.

“Are all Ironborn so barbaric?” said the Lady Allyrion. “Let the Stark feel the sun one more time before he loses his head. The man is guilty, the evidence proves just that.”

The Greyjoy narrowed her eyes.

“Are all in agreement on just that?” Damon asked before his aunt could reply. “The Stark’s guilt?”

He looked at the men and women gathered about the table, and one by one they gave their responses.

A silent nod from Lord Bolton.

An “aye” from the Master of Ships and the Hand, given in unison that surprised even the both of them.

“Yes,” the Reachman added.

“There is no doubt,” finished Lord Arryn.

Well, Symeon Stark, Damon thought, you have managed to do the impossible- seven people from seven different kingdoms all of a singular mind on an issue.

“Then all that remains is for us to determine his sentence,” he said.

“Sending him to the Wall is one option, although I doubt anyone would be happy to serve with the likes of him,” the Lady Allyrion voiced her opinion, bluntly.

“The Wall is too kind a punishment for this Stark,” disagreed the Mistress of Ships. “You heard the testimony. The murder he committed was brutal. Let his sentence be brutal as well.”

Lord Estermont broke his brief alliance with the Greyjoy woman. “No. Let it be swift, let it be unflinching, but let us be done with it. This was a crime against the Crown, and justice will only be served if it is even-handed.”

There was silence at the table until the Bolton lord finally spoke, his voice as eerie and hollow as the rest of him looked. It sounded small and queer in the vastness of the chambers.

“There is the Dragon…”

“No,” said Damon. “The dragon is not an executioner. It is not meant for such purposes.”

“The Queen has burned many a traitor in dragonfire,” offered Lady Allyrion with a shrug.

“I am the King.” Damon shot the Dornishwoman a reproachful look. “The dragon will not be used. It isn’t even here at present. I’ll hear no more of it.”

“I am in agreement with Lord Estermont,” the Reachman finally said, breaking his long silence. “A quick and fair death to end this swiftly. The headsman or the noose, perhaps?”

The Hand nodded along. “He is a Stark of the North. Death by the sword might soften the blow to Lord Jojen somewhat.”

“I have little interest in what Lord Jojen would find to be suitable.” Damon turned his hard stare to his uncle next. “Thaddius was murdered at a feast he presided over. There is a degree of culpability in that. A lord’s duty is to uphold the guest right in his castle and at this Lord Stark failed.”

“Please forgive my bluntness, Your Grace,” Domeric attempted to edge in nervously, “but wouldn't it be better to avoid the possibility of angering him into rebellion?”

Damon stared at his sister’s envoy as though Butterbumps had just appeared at the table to offer his opinion.

“I beg your pardon?”

The Reachman looked as though he'd seen a ghost, a terrified expression finding its way onto his face. “I mean no offense, Your Grace, but if you would go to these lengths to ensure justice for your brother, what would stop Lord Jojen from doing the same?”

Damon looked to Lord Bolton as if the man hadn’t spoken.

“I would not oppose the sword if it truly is the case that Northerners consider it the only appropriate means of execution. Is that so?”

“His death is inevitable,” the Bolton replied. “However it is done will be the appropriate way.”

Damon turned to his uncle.

“You believe it should be the sword.”

“The man committed treason of the highest kind. To hang him would be no better than a horse thief or any other common criminal.”

Damon looked around at the other faces at the table. His aunt’s face was carved in stone, the Dornishwoman nodded, carelessly. Nathaniel had been decidedly silent during the proceedings, but gave a stiff nod when the King faced his way, and even the Reachman mimicked the action with some hesitancy.

“Very well,” Damon said with finality. “Symeon Stark will die by the sword.”

“By your hand,” the Bolton murmured, his voice so low it was almost as though he spoke only to himself. “They would understand nothing less.”

“By the Crown’s hand, the very same he committed his crime against.” Lord Estermont spoke firmly, an edge of distrust creeping into his voice towards the pale lord across the table. “As the King said, this was done under House Stark’s roof. To ensure the sentence is meted out properly, it must be done for the realm to see.”

The Bolton’s pale eyes fixed onto Damon.

“The realm will see. But let them see that the man who passes the sentence swings the sword.”

“You are one of seven passing the sentence. I don’t believe all of our hands will be able to grasp the hilt.”

“I mean no disrespect, I only offer what the North would consider an appropriate means of execution.” A thin lipped smile flickered across his face only briefly, but Aemon’s was unchanging.

“We are not in the North. The sword is concession enough.”

The Bolton narrowed his eyes at the Hand, and Damon interjected quickly.

“Then it is settled,” he said. “Symeon Stark will be executed by the sword on the morrow.” He allowed himself a small sigh. “I would like to have it over and done with.”

“It is done then.”

Nathaniel rose from his chair.

“Come, my Lords, Lady Greyjoy, Lady Allyrion. Let us have Crakehall read the sentence.”

^with ^{aemon and eon}

It was going to rain.

Damon could tell by the ache he felt in his arm in the place where it had broken all those years ago, in the same city streets below the castle he sat in now. It was dark then, as it was tonight on the eve of the most important trial he was likely to ever preside over.

When things are small, the terms should still be so;

For low words please us when the theme is low.

He supposed this meant that the opposite were true as well, that grand things required grand terms, but was it possible for a thing to be both grand in size and low in theme?

Surely such was the case for this trial, as it was for the Sack of King’s Landing, too.

Damon remembered that night, and the injury he’d taken. Joseph Baratheon was a mountain in steel and muscle, and had shattered the shield as well the arm. It was a fight Damon was certain he was not meant to have won. If there were gods - and with each passing day Damon grew less certain this was so - they had been with him on that night, sparing him one fate for another.

This one.

“Once the sentence has been reached, you will read it aloud to the court, Lord Crakehall,” spoke his uncle, drawing Damon from the courtyard of the Great Sept of Baelor in his memory back to the solar of the Red Keep.

The three were gathered there - Lord Aemon, Lord Eon, and himself.

It was close to the hour of the wolf and each of them was beginning to show it. Lord Crakehall’s broad shoulders were slumped, and he rubbed at his temples as he stared down at the papers on the table they were seated around.

“Have we any expectation for what that sentence might be?” the Master of Laws asked, and Aemon’s reply was quiet but firm.

“It is up to the judges to decide.”

The candle on the table was nearing its end, and Damon lit a new one from it wordlessly.

“Seven in all.” His uncle flexed his fingers, reaching for another aged tome on archaic law and procedure. He stared blankly, bleary-eyed at the title, before cracking it open. “Myself, His Grace, Lord Arryn, Lady Allyrion, Lady Greyjoy, Lord Bolton, and this Reachman, he is-”

“A nobody,” Damon finished. He pinched the wick of the dying candle and waved away the smoke. “The house owns fewer acres than I have cupbearers. The man isn’t even the heir. He is the second-born son to what is most likely the second-born son of some other second-born son. Ashara means to rankle me.”

“If that was her intent, it seems to have worked.”

Aemon’s face remained impassive, and Lord Eon cleared his throat.

“To embarrass me, as well,” Damon continued. “How will it appear to have this no name Reachman seated beside the other judges? I know she bore no love for our brother, but this… This shames our family as well.”

“As long as he performs his duty,” Aemon replied. “Ashara must have thought him capable.”

“Duty. Someone ought to have taught my sister a thing or two about duty.”

Aemon did not disagree with that, nodding his head. “She has a will of her own. Much like Thaddius did.”

“A will to vex me, both of them. In life and even in death.”

Again, Crakehall cleared his throat. Shuffling some papers, he straightened up.

“Well, unless I can be of any more use to you,” he began, voice softened by weariness, “I’ll take my leave.”

There was an edge of urgency in his voice, and his eyes were downcast. Rising, Eon retreated towards the door, closing it gently behind him.

Shadows played across the walls, the candles illuminating the bookshelves in slivers, leather and gold emboss shining amid the darkness here and there.

Damon stood, feeling an ache in his legs to match the one in his arm. He hadn’t realized how long they’d been sitting there, hunched over the table in the dimly lit solar. When he went to the windows he saw the first drops of rain strike the panes.

“This isn’t how I wanted it to be.”

“The gods rarely ask us how how we wish things to be, Your Grace.”

The sea was invisible in the black of night, but a low rumble of far off thunder could be heard, barely distinguishable from the roaring surf far below.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“As you wish. Damon.”

The rain clattered against the windows, an uneven rhythm in the silence. Aemon shifted his chair to face him.

“If you had their ear, what would you have wished for?”

“An island,” said Damon, watching the rivulets run down the glass. “An island with alder trees and black sandy beaches and shallow waters teeming with fish. A boat with a single sail and the wind behind me. A lens to see the stars at night, and the sun always shining by day. A prow pointed to the line where the sea meets the sky.”

“Regarding family. And the trial.”

Another roll of thunder.

“Justice, I suppose.”

“A noble word. But not much of a prayer.”

“Not just any justice.” Damon went to his desk, where a pile of letters rested. His fingers traced the one on top, the one from his sister. “A grand display of it. A trial so inarguably fair that all in Westeros would have no complaint to lodge about it. A trial of high themes and high terms. One so just, even the Father himself would look down upon the proceedings and bestow one of those paternal nods of approval, those very slight ones - the subtlest dip of the brow I saw Thaddius receive from time to time in the training yard when we were boys.”

Damon looked to his uncle.

“The Father is the one for justice, yes?”

“The Seven Pointed Star says that the Father gave us justice, but it is up to men to dispense it. Some men happen to be fathers.” Aemon scratched at his beard. “Whether it makes them just, I cannot say.”

Damon pushed Ashara’s letter aside, and Aemon glanced back at the disarray of documents laid on the table before him.

“I’m not one to wait on prayers to be answered,” said the Hand. “Especially not for grand displays of justice.”

Damon returned to his seat on the couch across from his uncle, and put his head in his hands with a sigh he had been holding since evenfall.

“I don’t know that it even matters now,” he said. “It’s been so long. Thaddius is dead and he isn’t coming back. By week’s end, Symeon Stark might be dead, too, and yet the world will continue on as it always has, irreverently, unconcerned with anything the people who are part of it are up to.”

There was silence before he lifted his gaze to Aemon.

“Am I doing the right thing, uncle?”

Aemon shifted in his seat.

“Time and tide will tell. All I know is that when a man picks a heading, he ought to keep it.”

“I was so certain when I started and now here we are, on the eve of the event… Standing on another precipice, and I…”

Damon trailed off and looked around the room- at the paintings, the furnishings, the carpets and the pitcher on the table by the door that should have held wine, but was filled with water instead.

“I should sleep,” he said, staring at the crystal carafe. “We both should.”

“Rest easy, Damon.” His uncle rose, leaving the papers. “No man can tackle the world on his own. At least, not without a good night’s sleep.”

When he departed Damon remained on the couch, hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees. Two of his rings were touching, and when he moved his fingers gently he could hear gemstone scraping gemstone. He knew which ones they were without looking - a gold band set with emeralds worn by Loren when he was alive, and a lion with rubies for eyes that had been his grandfather’s.

He took them both off and set them down on the table before him.

The lion stared and the emerald band sat there, both glittering in the candlelight, and Damon waited for some sudden wisdom to befall him - some memory or oft-repeated quip from either patriarch to leap to mind and tell him what to do, guide his actions, or simply remind him why he sat there or deserved to.

But nothing came.

Damon stood, leaving the rings and the solar both, and set off from his chambers down the torchlit halls. The kitchens were deserted at this hour, a single lonely guard outside the doors to shoo away any would-be bread thieves.

“Your Grace,” he said with a bow of his head as Damon approached, and then, “Ser Flement.”

“Endrew?” Lefford’s face shifted from its usual bored expression into one of surprised recognition. “Endrew of Sarsfield?”

“Aye, Ser.”

“Seven hells! The same Endrew of Sarsfield who broke six lances against me at the Maiden’s Day Tournament of Crakehall four years past?”

“The very one.”

The gold cloak seemed intent on maintaining some degree of formality in front of his King, though he allowed a smile, but Flement pulled him into an embrace anyway.

“Good to see you, my man!” he declared, and not in the mood for hearing whatever the two had to discuss, Damon slipped past them both and into the kitchens.

They still smelled of supper- honey and garlic and seared salt fish. No torches were lit but the last dying embers in the massive ovens along the wall still glowed orange, casting just enough light to avoid the corners of the enormous tables that ran down the center of the long, narrow chamber.

There were great big baskets upon them filled with fruits and vegetables Damon could not distinguish as he made his way slowly over the uneven floors. He had never entered the kitchens this late and it was strange to see the normally bustling room so empty. He always sent Flement to fetch him a drink, and it occurred to Damon then that he didn’t actually know where within the cavernous room he could find wine.

He hardly had time to explore when the clatter of metal drew his attention.

Damon turned sharply in the direction the sound had come from and saw several hanging pots swaying in the darkness.

“Lefford?” he called.

The only reply was a rustling behind him, but when Damon spun round all he saw was a single radish, rolling towards the edge of one of the tables.

“Flement?”

Silence.

His hand moved to the hilt of the dagger on his belt.

“Are you in here, Lefford?”

More rustling, this time to his left, and Damon caught a flash of dark fur and the glow of yellow eyes across the center table - two beady black rimmed eyes that had him drawing the short blade from its sheath and-

“Damon.”

For a moment his heart leapt to his throat, but when Damon spun and saw who had spoken he exhaled heavily, and slid the dagger back into its leather.

“Talla. What are you doing in here?”

She was holding her hand out at her side and the monkey appeared from the shadows, placing an apple in the Summer Islander’s waiting palm before using her arm to pull itself up onto her shoulders. The creature’s black and white ringed tail wrapped itself about her neck like a scarf, and it stared at Damon with those ugly, beady eyes.

“Waiting for you,” Talla said simply, examining the apple her pet had brought her.

“Me? I was just-”

“I know what you were doing.”

“Dabbling in the higher mysteries, are we? You’ll have to teach me some of these mind reading skills of yours so that I might use them on myself, for even I don’t quite know what it is I am doing.”

She lifted her dress to draw a blade from a sheath on her thigh. Its hilt was crusted with blue gemstones and topaz.

“That looks like lord Lefford’s dagger,” Damon remarked as Talla used it to carve a slice of the apple.

“Does it?” she asked, uninterested, offering the fruit to the monkey. The silver knife flashed in the darkness, and Damon withheld another sigh with great difficulty.

“Why are you here, Talla.”

“To keep you from doing something foolish,” she said, bringing her gaze to him at last. Her eyes were dark and judging, and the monkey on her shoulder mimicked the glare as it noisily ate its prize.

“I had only-”

“I do not like to lie to Queens, Damon. I like to lie to friends even less. And I would never lie to a lover.”

She turned her head and said something to the monkey in her native tongue, then made a tutting sound at the creature until it climbed down from her shoulders.

“If you are going to make a speech,” Damon said, “you had better make it quickly. Ser Flement is just outside and I wouldn’t want him finding the two of us in here alone.”

“We aren’t alone,” Talla replied. “Gundja is here.”

The monkey limbered back to Talla’s side. It had fetched another treat, this time a pastry of some sort.

“You’ve named it. How charming. Is that Summer Island for hideous monkey?”

“It means ‘ass’ in Low Valyrian.”

The monkey looked Damon in the eyes before stuffing the entire pastry into its mouth, chewing messily.

“You won’t find what you’re looking for in here, Damon,” Talla said.

“Oh? Have you emptied all the wine casks? Done away with all the brandy? Poured the cider outside in the garden? That would be a costly lesson you mean to teach me and a pointless one as well, but you wouldn't be the first to try.”

Talla didn’t answer. She said something to the monkey again in her strange tongue, and it scampered off for a moment before returning with a new object.

“Here,” said Talla taking the wooden chalice from the creature and handing it to Damon. “Search the bottom, as you like to do. Do you see your father? Do you see your wife? What about your children? The ones you know and the ones you’ve lost and forgotten. Do you see your kingdoms and your crown? Your subjects and your loyal lords? Your enemies, the men and women who plot your death when your back is turned? Your murdered brother and his killer?”

Damon took the cup but refused to do as she bid, meeting her unwavering glare instead.

“If you’ve made your point-”

“I haven’t.”

She stepped closer, her sandals near silent on the stone, closing the space between them.

“A man can be weak,” Talla said, her voice low. “A king cannot. You are in love with Danae and these kingdoms, Damon. Don’t. Fuck. It. Up.”

When she drew back, Damon saw the monkey staring at him unblinking.

“I am going to bed, Your Grace,” Talla said, turning around. “Make sure you wait a few moments before leaving. After all, you wouldn’t want anyone to think we were in here alone.”

She made another tutting sound, and the monkey gave Damon one last blank look before hurrying after its master. Talla paused for a moment to let the creature climb onto her shoulder.

“And you wouldn’t want the Queen to know you were in here at all.”

She walked away, disappearing in the darkness of the kitchens, and Damon was left standing there holding the wooden cup.

When he left the kitchens, Ser Flement and the guard were still engrossed in conversation - something about an innkeep’s daughter and flask stopper. Damon walked past them, back in the direction of his chambers.

As he made his way through the darkened halls, he thought back to the poem he’d read about the ship on stormy seas. This deep in the castle, Damon could not hear the sound of the rain outside, or the thunder that had been so faint, yet he remembered the words of that author.

But when the gods above survey,

And calm at one regard the raging seas,

Stretch'd like a peaceful lake the deep subsides,

And the pitch'd vessel o'er the surface glides.

When things are small, the terms should still be so;

For low words please us when the theme is low.

https://www.reddit.com/r/subredditoftheday/comments/5bml0v/november_7th_2016_rgameofthronesrp_a_storytelling/

Sometimes, when the wind whistled through the joints in the stones just so, Danae could imagine she was back home.

The early spring nights at Sharp Point had always been punctuated by the yowling of feral cats scuttering about through the darkness. Unlike Creature, these beasts had been ornery, skinny and stinking always of fish, eager to steal a scrap from any errant fool they may have encountered. They only grew lively when kitten season came-- lively and fierce, Danae recalled as she palmed at the memory of a scratch on her forearm.

When their time came, they could be found tucked away in damp crevices, licking their legs and bellies until their hair stood stiff. Danae remembered standing barefoot in an alleyway, swaying back and forth as some particularly round looking cat with notched ears whelped her litter. She’d been the only one to stop that rainy afternoon, despite all of the racket the ruddy little beast made.

“You know,” some stinking, lanky boy had spoken harshly into her ear as he passed her by. “She doesn’t need you. They can do it by themselves.”

So when her water broke in the middle of the night, Danae told no one.

She found the time between the seizing pain in her back to stoke the fire, careful to keep the poker from slipping to the floor despite the tremor in her hand. She welcomed the heat that pooled along her skin, silver hair running in rivulets along the column of her neck. The collar of her nightgown clung to her chest, but she hardly noticed the pull of sweat-soaked linen against her skin.

It hadn’t felt this warm in King’s Landing since Damon had left.

One hand clutching her hip, Danae took another turn about the chamber, yanking the curtains down around the windows to preserve the fire. Shutting out the night felt like the proper thing to do; she imagined it would have been among the first things a midwife would have called for, had she ever bothered to send for one.

If she felt any regret, it was fleeting. She had no need for procedure or routine, not when all of her previous experience with childbirth had been anything but. It didn’t seem terribly complicated-- at least, no more complicated than Daena’s birth had been. The sparing help she’d gotten then was almost worse than nothing.

Now she didn’t have the evening sky to keep her company as blood trickled down the curve of her calf, tickling as it gathered in the hollow of her ankle. She held fast to the couch, groaning with the wood as she waited for the worst of the pain to pass. It was better this way, she thought as she swayed from side to side, not to have what felt like a thousand hands all over her, to hear a thousand voices crowding her. The arch of her foot ached as she melted back down to her heels. Danae knew it was time to retreat to bed.

Creature, yet undisturbed by all of Danae’s rustling, had somehow found her way to the foot of the bed. While normally the cat’s presence was something of a bother-- especially given that she was prone to spending half the night licking the same spot on her leg-- tonight, it was a comfort. Danae was glad not to be the only mother present.

She thought of the feral cats on Sharp Point again, panting into the darkness. Motherhood came to them by instinct, just as it had Creature. They’d curled into themselves and comforted their mewling newborns, licking the gore from their squirming bodies before tending any wounds of their own. It was hardly a beautiful thing to welcome a child into the world, but it was bloody, and at least Danae was equipped to manage the latter.

There was plenty of blood, too. So much that Danae was sure she’d ruined not one but two of the plush mattresses that adorned her bed. She’d been of sound enough mind to spare but one blanket for her child, who came only when the moon had all but sunken into the sea. Its little blue face was scrunched in discontent as Danae wrapped it in silk dressings, and despite the tuft of mottled white hair upon its head, Danae struggled to recognize it as her own.

Her heart still sank, however, when the stubborn thing refused to draw breath.

After a moment of vigorous rubbing, it seemed to remember its purpose, and at last, gave a hearty wail. Only when she was sure it resembled something pink and lively did Danae dare to peel the blanket away from the babe’s belly to inspect it.

“A girl,” she murmured. “Alright. A girl.”

Creature lifted her head from where she had been lapping at her paw to look at Danae sidelong, reminding her that there was still work to be done. She plucked the ribbon from her braid, now mostly unfurled, and made a lame attempt at tying off the cord with one hand.

It was strange that she’d carried this little thing for nine moons and still the thought of setting her down made Danae’s stomach curl.

As visceral as her response to the idea may have been, she hadn’t expected it to actually pain her. She stiffened as another lightning hot jolt crawled through her back, recognizing the ache that followed at once.

“Fuck. Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Danae shushed the whimpering child at her breast as she reached down to press her hand against her belly. Where she had expected to wince at the softness she found there, her fingers brushed over an unmistakable lump low in her abdomen. How it had proven unmistakable to her and not every maester who had poked and prodded at her for the past nine moons, she didn’t know-- but she vowed to find out if she survived.

Cats were fine to manage a litter on their own, Danae knew, but this was not a venture she should have dared to endure alone.

Daylight had begun to creep beneath the heavy velvet drapes that covered the windows. It wouldn’t be long before someone came to turn down the bed-- or, if she couldn’t silence the baby in her arms, before someone was drawn to the sound of crying from the Queen’s bedchamber. The servants were always up and scurrying about like mice before dawn.

Or, at least, they had been, when the household was better managed. Danae prayed for her own sake that they had risen on time that morning.

The pain lingered longer and somehow stronger now, but she had enough strength in her to wait. Untwisting her free hand from the blood soaked sheets, she raised her palm to her brows, wiping away the sweat that had gathered there. Even if she wanted to cry out, she refused. She couldn’t, not with her daughter-- the spitting image of her husband, Danae realized, now that she had wiped the blood from her face-- looking up at her.

The sunlight had stretched its way to the carpets before Danae could make out the first rustling of life on the other side of the chamber door. Teeth clenched, she waited until the maid had stumbled in to lift her head from the pillows.

The poor creature had obviously not expected to find her there, nevermind find her in such a state.

“Your Grace! I-I-”

“You are going to find the closest maester to this room. You are going to bring him straight here. You are going to run. Both of you. If he is old and he drops dead, find another. Do you understand me?”

Without so much as a curtsey, the girl was gone.

In truth, the maester wasn’t much help, but it was still a comfort to know that he was there. Danae was not alone when she welcomed her son into the world feet first, and for once, she was glad for it.

“You know what this means, don’t you, Your Grace?” the maester spoke softly as he settled the boy into her arms.

“That I shall be very sore upon the morrow, I suspect.”

He was not amused, but continued nonetheless.

“To come feet first means a child is keen to take on the world.”

Danae laughed through her delirium, looking up at the old maester as she ran her fingers through the baby’s downy hair.

“Perhaps that may be true of every other child, but this boy is a Targaryen. He was already born to that. I think the answer may be more simple than what you proclaim.”

“Then you have my apologies, Your Grace.”

“Yes. I think he was born to make things difficult,” she mused. It was hard to believe, looking down at him, whimpering so sweetly in her arms, but she’d thought the same of Daena, too. “It’s in his blood.”

^^Written ^^with ^^D

“Forgive us, Your Grace,” the Guildmaster said for what might have been the dozenth time. “But we still have our doubts.”

The room they sat in was large, spacious enough for a full table and ten and four chairs around it, but with every single one of them filled, plus two white cloaks standing vigil in the corners and a third just at his back, Damon couldn’t help but feel as though the chamber was short on air.

He’d been meeting with the tradesmen in the Red Keep for over an hour, and it seemed as though he was making about as much progress toward his goal of convincing them he wasn’t out to steal their sovereignty as a man made swimming against the tide.

No one had budged an inch.

“This presents absolutely no changes to the structure of any guild,” Damon said to his wary listeners for what was most likely the dozenth time. “Master Kenned, you maintain your leadership of the Organization of Wine Sellers for the Capital and its Sacred Provinces. Grenn, you do not forfeit any of your buildings or facilities held and leased in the name of the Guild of Shipwrights. Narbert, the tempestuousness nature of-”

“The prices. You want to set prices for bread, beer, melons-”

“In exchange for reduced tariffs, as I have explained. Lower duties. Some of the current inhibitions to commerce, in fact, would be removed entirely.”

There was murmuring at that, and Damon watched as the men discussed his words amongst themselves, for what was most definitely the dozenth time.

He had done all it seemed possible to do. He’d presented his case, his explanations, his requests and his rewards. He’d presented the sigils, too, painted by Owen of Lannisport onto oak plank and steel.

Most of the guild-masters were onboard.

Watching the faces of these last dissenters as they debated back and forth between each other on the merits of his offer, Damon tried to remind himself that it was they who truly swam contrary to the current. He was offering them a rope, and they could take it or they could drown. The tide was coming in regardless, he knew.

He was the one bringing it.

It was bright outside, and far easier to breathe. The sun was cheerful and the sky was blue and Damon ignored them both, heading for Maegor’s where a mountain of books and papers on trial and law awaited him in the solar.

He’d hardly reached the middle bailey when he saw Danae, walking quickly in the direction he’d just come from, and Damon put himself in her path.

“Good morning to you, Your Grace!” he called as she approached. “Where are you headed on such a fine day as this?”

When she drew nearer, the look on her face almost made him regret the question.

“The stables,” she snapped, striding past him in a hurry.

“No!”

He caught her by the wrist.

“That is to say… No better a time than this for… For some other activity. Why do you want to go to the stables?”

Danae stared at him.

“Why else?”

“You want to ride? On a day like today? But…” Damon looked around for an excuse. “Surely there are better ways to spend the afternoon than in the smelly stables, riding a smelly horse, no?”

“I don’t see how it concerns you.”

“Because it’s not ready! I mean, I’m not ready, the horse- I’m not…” She was narrowing her eyes suspiciously, and he cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. Ser Flement stood there uselessly. “Why don’t you do something else?” he offered to Danae. “Something besides riding, for once?”

“Because the Keep is full of people, and I don’t particularly want to speak with any of them.”

“What about me?”

“Depends on what you have to say.”

Damon hesitated, still holding onto her wrist.

“Well, I just left a meeting with some of the guildsman who stand in opposition to the regulation of the monetary-”

Danae pulled away and spun in the direction of the stables.

“Wait!”

Damon went after her.

“We don’t have to discuss business!”

She was walking quickly and he hurried to keep pace, gaze moving worriedly between Danae and the stables that loomed ahead of them.

“We can talk about something else!” he promised. “Anything you like! You’re upset, I can see that. Why don’t we talk about it? Why are you angry? What’s gotten you so worked up?”

“I don’t expect you’d understand.” Danae dodged his gaze and tried to duck around him when he stepped into her path but he matched her movement, blocking the way. “I want to go riding.”

“No, let’s do something else. Something together, in a different place.”

“I don’t want to-” She tried to step around him one more time, only to find her steps interrupted. “Why are you being so odd?”

“I’m not being odd. I just…” He looked over his shoulder at the stables again, and then back at Danae. “We can go riding another day. Let’s do something different this afternoon.”

“We can go riding? You never ride with me.” Danae folded her arms across her chest and raised a suspicious eyebrow, but ceased her attempt to march forward. “What else do you have in mind?”

“Ah…”

He had exactly nothing in mind, but thought fast.

“There’s always sailing. You did promise.”

“I meant it, but you haven’t brought it up again.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Danae bit her bottom lip and looked away, staring off into the distance.

“I want you to come!” Damon said quickly. “I mean it, I do. I’ve just… I’ve been very busy, that’s all. We’ll go. Together. What about tomorrow morning? We could go then. Actually, no, tomorrow morning I’m supposed to meet with the guildsmen again, but the next one! The next morning, for sure. You have my word. We’ll sail and then we’ll go to the stables together, you and I. I promise.”

She looked around him, to where the barns awaited.

“But for now,” Damon said, putting an arm around her waist and leading her away, back in the direction of the Serpentine Steps, “We can think of some other activity. Something that can be done together.”

“I’m not dining with the visiting nobles,” she protested at once. “They’re conservative, traditional, boring dullard men, and their ideas aren’t really worth our time. Honestly it’s more of a steward’s duty-”

“I wasn’t thinking of anything that involved the nobility,” Damon interrupted, pulling her closer to his side as they walked. “I was thinking you, and me, and no one else. Quentyn can listen outside the door if he likes, it makes no difference to me, but inside it would only be the two of us. No barns, no hay, no smelly animals- just you, me, and a bit of privacy for once, to do whatever it is that two married people who love each other madly do when they’re alone.”

Danae’s expression shifted at once, and she grinned up at him.

“You mean that you’d like to discuss grain stores in the Riverlands? Perhaps kittens, too?”

He sighed.

“I really wish you would lay that to rest, Danae. You make it very difficult to seduce you.”

“Oh it’s my fault, is it?” The stiffness in her posture relaxed, and she leaned against him as they walked. “The sweet nothings you whisper could use polishing.”

“Well you’re the first to ever complain. Most women find me very charming.”

She straightened again, and the frown returned.

“Who?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean who? What are their names?”

Damon smiled, confused.

“I don’t understand.”

Danae stared at him skeptically.

“Who are these women who-”

“It was a jape, Danae.”

She relaxed noticeably and he laughed.

“Believe me, if the meeting I just came from is any indication, I couldn’t charm another human being to save my life. Or this city.” He pulled her closer again. “Luckily, one dragon riding Targaryen Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is enough for me.”

“And how are you going to charm her?”

They’d reached the staircase and Damon stopped and turned to face her, lifting her chin to look her in the eyes.

“As I have in the past,” he said. “With talk of grainstores and kittens.”

Danae feigned a yawn.

“Look at that, you’re exhausted. Straight to bed with you! I’ll see you there myself.”

He took her by the hand and pulled, and she came along with pretend begrudgement, trying not to smile.

The law books and the manuscripts on trial proceedings would be there in the holdfast when they arrived. They’d be there, and Danae’s new gift would be in the stables, but both could wait.

They could wait, the guildsmen could wait, the new construction at the docks that begged his attention could wait.

With Danae in her black gown with the low neckline at his side, able to be coaxed into a grin, the whole wide world could wait.

Written with Damon

“Lamb meatballs, potted hare, oxtail soup, blandissory, braised quail, sweetgrass, sweet biscuits, sweet plum wine, sweet-”

“Stop,” Danae interrupted, making a face. “You’re going to make me sick.”

She was standing in front of a tall looking glass and smoothing the skirts of a silk gown of rich amethyst with a deep neckline and a latticed gold belt that cinched around her waist.

“The thought of food alone is enough to turn my stomach, but why does everything have to also be sweet?”

Damon stood with his back to her as he sifted through the wardrobe, pausing occasionally to examine its contents.

“Because victory is sweet, my love,” he said over his shoulder. “And that is what this feast is for.”

Danae rolled her eyes. “My victory,” she reminded him. “And that isn’t the point. There is a new dynasty now, a biarchy backed by dragonfire. We’ve gathered all the Lords and Ladies here to show them that. This feast is for kneeling.”

“Kneeling is sweet, too,” he said, giving her a coy smile before pulling a tunic from the wardrobe and laying it out on the bench at the foot of their bed. He stripped the shirt from his back first, throwing it carelessly onto the floor, and Danae caught sight of a fresh bruise she hadn’t seen before.

“That looks new,” she said with a frown, and Damon looked over his shoulder where a welt was turning black and blue.

“Ah, right. You should see the one on my thigh.” He picked up the neatly folded tunic from the bench and shook it out. “Ser Ryman has brought a new fervor to our trainings since we arrived back home, which seems odd given that the war is over. Sometimes I swear it’s as though he’s trying to wound me.”

Danae raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you’ve done something to anger him.”

“Me?” Damon pulled the shirt over his head and gave her a bewildered look as he reached for his belt. “No, I don’t believe so.”

When both were dressed, Danae put Damon’s crown on his head and he hers, and then both left their apartments together. Four knights in White Cloaks were waiting just without, including an ornery looking Sunglass, and they fell into step beside and behind the King and Queen.

The halls were unusually busy, but not with noblemen and women. Three times the normal amount of guards patrolled the halls of Maegor’s holdfast, even though that part of the keep would be sealed off entirely to feast goers. The men’s cloaks were red, but on their surcoats was the new sigil of the ruling house, the conjoined banners of Lannister and Targaryen.

“There’s more where that came from,” Damon muttered, noticing Danae staring at the helmed swordsmen. “You should see the throne room, absolutely crawling with soldiers-”

“And the dragonpit?” she interrupted.

“And the dragonpit,” he confirmed. “I doubt someone could set foot atop Rhaenys’ Hill without being stopped by a gold cloak. We must be expecting lots of Dornish at the feast. I only hope the guards are enough to handle both the hot tempered southerners and my Iron Island kin.”

“If I see any severed limbs tonight…”

They emerged from the holdfast into a warm pleasant evening. The sun was just setting over the pale red stone, and a breeze stirred the palms. Outside there were banners of red, gold, and black hanging proudly from each turret as the royal pair made their way down the serpentine steps.

“Speaking of the throne room,” Damon continued, “I still cannot believe you put those hideous skulls back up. Who wants to eat beneath the bones of dead monsters?”

“Have you stood before Balerion?” Danae ignored the remark and looked up at him with eyes suddenly full of wonder. “Can you imagine what he was like? One day Persion’s skull will hang there, snarling and fierce and powerful behind our descendents while they rule.”

“Our descendents,” Damon repeated, sliding an arm around her waist as they walked, and for once the look on his face seemed to reflect pride at something other than himself.

Knights in glittering plates opened the doors to the throne room for them, and when the King and Queen entered, the feast was already in full swing.

^{Written by Harlan and Damon}

Cadwyn frowned at the bruised and browned bowl of apples before him.

They were Archmaester Agrivane’s favorite fruit - or they had been, before the blight had spoiled near everything in the Reach. He was a crotchety old man, though in Cadwyn’s opinion nearly all of the higher echelons of the Citadel were filled with that sort.

Still, Old Weather Vane, as the rest of the acolytes called the archmaester behind his back, was especially intemperate and even more particular about his breakfasts. It was up to Cadwyn to serve him, despite the slim pickings.

He wasn’t looking forward to seeing what sort of mood the graybeard would be in.

Even just a few years ago, when Cadwyn was still a fresh-faced novice and hadn’t forged even a single link of his chain, the kitchens would have been bustling. Normally they were full of fresh-baked fluffy tarts, savory meat pies of all kinds, and salads made of the ripest green vegetables.

What he found now were wilting leaves, tiny strips of perch drowned in vinegar, and over in the corner a poor acolyte stirring pumpkins that had begun to go soft into a soup over the fire. Cadwyn reached for one of the few spare biscuits lying on the table and found it hard and stale. Someone had tried to substitute oats by mixing in acorns.

Cadwyn grimaced.

He gathered up the least offensive offerings and loaded them onto his platter, knowing that Agrivane would turn his nose up at them regardless.

The acolyte made his way through the various towers and domes of the Citadel, past the Weeping Dock where young boys had increasingly tried to catch frogs to supplement their meals. Cadwyn noted very few of them anymore. It seemed the Honeywine River had grown too chilly for even the frogs to make their home there anymore.

He passed the Seneschal’s court, and the stocks where novices and other acolytes found guilty of petty thievery had been locked up. Every now and then, someone would stop by to hurl rotten vegetables at the shamed offenders. There was no shortage of ammunition these days.

Not far beyond that was his true destination. Across the Honeywine was the Isle of Ravens, home to a squat ancient keep where Agrivane spent most of his waking moments. As he crossed the bridge, a wind cut through his robes, causing him to shiver.

Cadwyn ascended the stairs of the west tower with his tray and no small amount of dread. Towards the top he could hear the mutterings of the old man even through the planks of the door, along with the occasional clatter and crash of some glass instrument.

Cadwyn cringed inwardly.

Such noises usually meant that Old Weather Vane was feeling even more cantankerous than usual.

He took a deep breath before pushing open the door.

Inside was the stooped, balding man. His scalp was as bright and as reflective as the many bronze links in his chain, though twice as many were made of black iron. A mask and rod of the same material lay on his desk, haphazardly placed.

“I have brought your breakfast, Archmaester Agrivane,” announced Cadwyn.

“Yes, yes, put it over there,” snapped the old man, waving him off as though he were some pesky fly. “Ten and five moons, yes, and six and nine makes another…”

He was muttering to himself, and Cadwyn set the tray down where he always did, careful not to rattle the delicate glassware on the table.

Vials, lenses, and counting stones… Cadwyn had not excelled in his lessons regarding the tracking of the planting seasons nor the prediction of the weather. He couldn’t even remember the uses for half the instruments Agrivane kept, but he knew that the Archmaester did not like them to be touched.

“I, ah, apologize for the paltriness of the spread,” he began hesitantly, wiping his hands on his robes. “There have been… Well, with the Blight-”

“Dark clouds reported from Greenstone,” the old man mumbled, picking up a sheet of crumpled parchment and scanning it with hazel eyes before stashing it quickly in a drawer. “Yes, yes, and gray ones from the Lonely Hills…”

Cadwyn cleared his throat.

“There were some raspberries today,” he offered, glancing at the shriveled pink fruits that were scattered in amongst the other food. They looked more like raisins than raspberries, truth be told, but Agrivane wasn’t looking at them anyway.

“Rain in Dorne, a squall from the Sunset Sea…”

He had paused beside his desk, half-murmuring, half-whispering. Then his voice dropped so low, Cadwyn struggled to make out the words.

“Archmaester?”

He frowned, and took a step forward.

“I beg your pardon, did you say something?”

The old man looked up suddenly, locking eyes with the acolyte and seeing him for the very first time.

He was possessed with grim-faced determination.

“Fetch the white raven,” he ordered gravely. “Word must go out. Summer has passed.”

Damon lay awake, staring at the canopy.

In the darkness he could just make out the vines stitched all over, the yellow leaves on red with their pointed corners, like some sort of golden holly.

There were many canopies for the royal bed, but Damon remembered that this was the one that had hung above them on their wedding night.

He remembered the vines.

He’d taken dinner with Danae to make her happy, and had gone to bed with her, too, but now he found himself unable to sleep. It was early, after all- at the feast he would have otherwise attended they were still likely passing the first dishes below the salt.

Beside him Danae slept peacefully, naked beneath a sheet of satin.

Sometimes, as in this moment, she looked so beautiful that it didn’t seem possible she could be real, yet alone lying so close to him. He could touch her if he wished, to check if he were dreaming, but Damon knew that he wasn’t.

He couldn’t sleep.

He tried to lie on one side, and then the other, and then he laid face down against the pillow for as long as he could hold his breath before finally turning onto his back once more. Damon drew his hands from beneath the covers and held them out in front of his face, golden vines shining dully on the canopy behind them, and saw that they were shaking.

He tried to think of Danae, and of the beach. He tried to remember how it felt to stand barefoot in the surf, the waves eroding the sand beneath his heels, or what it was like to see a dragon silhouetted against a purple sunrise, but his distractions failed and in the end Damon rose, dressing in the darkness and slipping from the chamber without a sound.

“Do you fancy a visit to the kitchens?” he asked Ser Flement, who was waiting just outside the apartments.

The knight shrugged.

“If that is what you wish,” he said, and they walked to the Great Hall in silence.

Damon sat on the low wall above the gardens as he had before, and gazed up at the stars. It was warm out, and cloudless enough that he could spy the Ice Dragon, its blue eye pointing faithfully north. Damon wondered if the constellation had been what guided his brother to the place where he would die.

“Tell me a story,” he said to Lefford when the white cloak returned from the kitchens with a wineskin.

“About mermaids, Your Grace?”

Ser Flement sat down beside him on the wall, but ignored the stars in favor of a few serving girls chatting idly below them in the gardens, their voices drifting up unintelligibly from beneath a trellis of tea roses.

“No, I don’t want any fiction. Tell me a real story. I tell them all the time, all day long. False ones about mermaids and magic birds to my children and true ones to my vassals, these guildsmen. The children take every word as fact and the guildsmen think me a liar.”

Damon accepted the skin and found that it was filled with a sweet Reach wine.

“I am tired of storytelling, Ser Flement,” he said after tasting. “I really think someone else ought to take a turn.”

“Alright.”

The knight shifted, making sure his cloak wasn’t caught beneath him, and then sighed.

“A story. A true story… Did I ever mention that I was at the Rock for your twentieth nameday?”

“No.” Damon lowered the skin and shook his head. “No stories with me in them.”

“You danced with my sister. I remember she was-”

“No stories with me in them,” he repeated obstinately, “and certainly none with sisters, or dancing, or any combination of the three. Do you know what it is I remember from my twentieth nameday?”

“Not my sister, I’d wager.”

“The wine. There was a feast, a fantastic feast- all manner of dishes you can think of, snails in honey and garlic, fish stew, whitefish and winkles, clams and crabs and mussels, and the wine... It was a Dornish wine. Their reds are sour, not like the sickening Arbor Gold you find here.” He lifted the wineskin as evidence. “I can even remember the markings on the barrel.”

“What’s wrong with Arbor Gold?”

“Nothing, if you like terrible wine.”

Damon drank and tried to imagine that the wine was a sour Dornish red, from an oak barrel stamped with Hedonist, a bunch of red grapes in the mouth of a boar painted onto the wood.

Flement smiled wryly. There was light pouring out from the kitchen at their backs, and the torch just outside the door distorted their shadows, throwing them long and slender across the ground.

“‘Yes Wine,’” the Kingsguard said.

“‘Yes Wine?’”

“That’s what we called it.”

“Why?”

“Because after a woman’s had some, she’s more like to say ‘yes.’”

Damon looked down at the skin.

He looked down at it for what felt like a long, long time.

“Women can be indecisive when it comes to matters of the… heart,” the knight went on. “Wouldn’t you agree? Sometimes they say no, when what they really mean is yes. Sometimes they need a bit of coaxing. Persuading. Arbor Gold is far more charming than I am.”

When Damon glanced up he saw that Flement was eying him as though the knight were speaking of some great secret that Damon, too, was in on.

Damon looked away.

“I can see that.”

Ser Flement laughed.

“We used to have this game, my friends and I, that we’d play at feasts- especially the grand kinds, the ones with snails and fish and mussels and expensive, imported Dornish wine. A contest, of sorts, to see how many women in a single night we could-”

“Mermaids,” Damon interrupted.

“Beg pardon, Your Grace?”

“I’d rather hear a story about mermaids. Have you got any?”

“I don’t-”

“A pity.”

Damon stood, and felt dizzy for it. The ladies in the garden below were still chatting, and their laughter floated up to them on the night’s breeze.

“I ought to retire,” he said. “It’s late. I can walk myself back.”

Ser Flement began to rise.

“The Lord Commander would kill-”

“Ser Ryman isn’t here.”

The words came out more harshly than he’d intended, and Damon forced a quick, apologetic smile.

“The Lord Commander won’t know,” he said, and then after a moment’s hesitation he offered Lefford the wineskin. “Arbor Gold. You should enjoy it while you can. If things continue in the Reach as they are, this wine will soon cost as much as a castle, and we’ll all start calling it ‘No Wine.’ Even you. Goodnight, Ser Flement.”

He turned and headed in the direction of the holdfast, walking carefully so as not to stumble in the darkness.

Overhead, the Warrior flickered dimly.

There were three stars for his belt and four for his sword, and the brightest one shined at the blade’s point. Even for all his angst over his brother’s deeds and disposition, Damon could never look at the Warrior and not think of Thaddius.

“What is the difference between you and I?” Thad had asked him once, in one of their last conversations. “I wield a sword, and you... You wield tens of thousands of them.”

Tens of thousands of swords. The Arryns’ swords, the Hightowers’ swords, the Freys’ swords, the Lannetts’ swords. Swords like Daeron’s and Ryman’s and Benfred’s and Flement Lefford’s.

“You are the King,” Thaddius had told him. “The Gods smile down on you.”

Damon almost laughed at the memory.

The gods were above his head.

They didn’t seem to be smiling down on anyone.

“Your Grace!”

He hadn’t gotten very far when the familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

Another Lefford.

This one was Garrison, and at his side hurrying over the sward was the other- his nephew? Cousin? Loras, was his name. Or maybe Lothar.

“The feast is in the other direction!” Garrison called, and Damon stopped to let the fat man catch up. “You’re headed the wrong way,” Lefford huffed once he did, Luton beside him smiling politely.

“I was on my way to bed,” Damon explained. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, and want to sleep every bit of it off.”

Garrison grinned, his teeth showing white in the night. The light from the kitchens couldn’t reach them here, and everywhere was darkness.

“The Chyttering’s brought some of their famous cider,” Lefford reported. “You ought to come sample it.”

“I’m afraid cider won’t solve my problems, lord Garrison.”

“Neither will milk, or water, or- if we’re to be honest- sleep. An hour, that’s all, Your Grace. Can’t your problems wait an hour?”

Damon glanced over his shoulder, where a few lamps lit behind the windows of Maegor’s Holdfast gave shape to the shadowy fortress.

“I’m sailing with the Queen on the morrow. I can’t be up late.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Garrison clapped him on the shoulder and Damon found himself being pulled in the direction of the throne room once more, beneath a star streaked sky.

An hour, he reminded himself, trying not to stumble as the two men dragged him along.

Only an hour.

^{w/ D}

They journeyed for the better part of the day, first along the Kingsroad and then on some other one, unmarked and made of dirt. They’d passed a dozen-odd travelers along the former but the latter was empty, walled by verdant green forest, berry bushes and ash trees growing right up against the path. Here and there, through their leafy arms and branches, Damon could glimpse the sea.

We should have sailed, he thought with remorse. It’d still count as sleeping beneath the stars.

Danae had been quiet throughout the afternoon, and the only comments she did make were directed at her mare whenever the dragon passed overhead, offering assurances to the animal in a gentle voice she reserved only for her children and her horses. Above their small party Persion soared lazily, gliding in circles and vanishing from time to time out over the forest only to return the very moment Damon managed to get his own mount to stop fretting.

“This place you’re leading us,” he said to Danae as the sun began its slow descent and the dragon cast them all into shadow once more. “How did you come to learn of it? Did you ever travel this far south as a girl? How much further is it?”

His horse snorted and stamped its hooves against the packed earth, and Danae steered her mare closer.

“I already told you,” she said, taking the reins from Damon in one hand while running the other soothingly down the palfrey’s neck. “I visited the place with my handmaidens while you were away.”

“Yes, but how did you know of it then?”

When the horse ceased the gnashing of its teeth, she passed the leather ropes back to him.

“You’re not the only one who can look at a map,” she said. “If you’d bothered to read one before we left, you’d know there’s an inn up ahead.”

“Have you changed your mind about sleeping under the stars?”

“You wish.”

Danae glared at him and dug her heels into her horse’s flanks, leaving him behind in another cloud of dust.

Damon had expected the worst, and so he was pleasantly surprised when they did come upon the inn. It was a small building, to be certain, covered in creeping ivy from foundation to timbers, but it was made of stone and had a shingled roof and there was a stable with a thatched one just beside. Danae and Ser Daeron had already dismounted outside the leaning barn, and Danae was leading her mare to the trough.

“We can water the horses here,” she called out to Damon as he arrived with the knight of Tarth. “Daeron, go see that the innkeep is paid.”

Warblers trilled from nests tucked into the stable’s roof. Both it and the two storied inn were situated in a clearing just off the road, the forest behind the buildings thin and the grass around them tall. It reached Damon’s knees when he dismounted, and he could hear the cicadas buzzing at his feet in their infinite numbers.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Danae asked, annoyed. “Your squire is back in the Red Keep. You have to do these things yourself sometimes. Most people who weren’t born on top of a pile of gold know that a-”

“Danae, I have been off that horse for all of three seconds, you needn’t-”

“And you’re already searching for a stableboy.”

“I was not, I was simply admiring the scenery. Oh, look, I think I can spy a glimpse of blue through the trees! Can you see the ocean, Danae, or is your scowl so deep that it hinders your vision? If your eyebrows get any closer together, you’ll end up being mistaken for that unfortunate looking wet nurse from-”

“Your hair looks terrible,” she said. “It looks absolutely awful, and-”

“Queen Danae?”

They both turned at the sound of the new voice, and Ser Tywin and Ser Quentyn moved their hands to the pommels of their swords.

“King Damon? By the Gods, Your Graces! It really is you!”

A spindle-shanked man in drab browns had come out from the inn, the door still open on its hinges behind him, and Damon had never seen ears so big as the ones on this stranger’s head.

“What providence!” the man announced with a grin. “Gurn?!” he called next, turning over his shoulder to shout inside. “Gurn, it’s them! Tell Liane! Yes, I know, I’ll pay her later! Fetch the boy to take their horses!”

He came bounding over to them with the excitement of someone a third his age, and Damon exchanged a wary glance with Danae before instinctually beginning a protest.

“I don’t-”

“Your Grace, what an honor, what an absolute honor it is to have you both at my humble establishment. I didn’t believe Nelly when she said she saw the dragon, you know, and even if it were the truth, what of it? The dragon has been seen over the Blackwater before. But when the knight came in and then I glimpsed that silver hair from the window, I just knew-”

“We’re just passing through,” Danae interrupted, as Damon found himself trapped in a very vigorous handshake. “We can’t stay much longer, it’s best to leave before it gets any darker out.”

“Your Grace, I insist that you at least partake of a meal. It’s nigh on supper, and one should never travel on an empty stomach. The next inn is a full day’s ride ahead, and you won’t make it before nightfall.”

“But we’re planning to camp-”

“He makes an excellent point,” Damon interjected. “A quick bite to eat won’t set us back terribly… Did you know that today is Her Grace’s nameday?”

Danae shot him a deadly look.

“Is it truly?! Then you must break bread with us! Such a historic occasion! I shall have to rename the inn after this day, for it isn’t any ordinary one that brings the Dragon Queen of Westeros, and on her nameday, to this hearth!”

Danae made to argue, but the innkeep was already hurrying back inside.

“Come!” he called over his shoulder. “Dinner is just being served! I hope you like leek soup!”

Damon looked to Danae and smiled before holding out his arm for her. She frowned, and walked on without taking it.

“We’re still not spending the night,” she told him quietly when he caught up.

“You’re right, absolutely not. Under no circumstances-”

“The beach is close enough to make it by nightfall, so only one bowl and then we’re leaving. Understand?”

“Of course, I agree entirely. A single serving of soup and we will be on our way.”

The inn was uncrowded and lit by candles, nary a lamp in sight, but its columns were stone and the fireplace had a lacquered mantle not unlike what one would find in a modest castle. Barrels were stacked against the western wall, and a woman used them to fill the cups of patrons- patrons who had all ceased their drinking and their conversations in order to stare at the new arrivals.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Damon whispered in the awkward silence to Danae, taking her by the arm and steering her past the gawking men and women towards a vacant table. “I bet they’ve got feather beds upstairs.”

“And we’ve got a beach to get to,” she hissed back. “We’re not staying.”

There were empty seats all over the place, including near the casks of ale, but Danae pulled him in the direction of a booth against the wall instead, as if it made a difference where they sat. Everyone was watching them. The Kingsguard followed, cloakless, the clink of their armor and the crackle of the hearth’s fire the only sounds in the silent hall. Danae slid onto the bench quickly, scooting as close as she could get to the wall, and Damon sat down beside her.

“A toast!” the innkeep declared, taking a cup from the bar’s counter and raising it towards the ceiling. “To our King and Queen! The first monarchs to set foot in this humble establishment since King Orys the Second, all those years ago!”

There were excited murmurings from the patrons then, but Damon wasn’t paying attention. The innkeep had gestured to a space on the wall just above their heads, and there Damon saw hanging a decorative shield, splintered in the center where it looked as though someone had struck it with great force. Danae nudged him when she took note of it.

“And to the Queen especially!” the innkeep continued. “On this her nameday, Danae Targaryen, The Last Dragon, Burner of False Kings, and Rider of Persion chooses to break bread with us! Truly she is a ruler of the people!”

The room full of strangers lifted their mugs in their direction.

“To the Queen!” some said, and others, “To the Crown!” but after they’d sipped from their ale and the conversations began again in hushed tones, all eyes remained on the two of them. Danae seemed to shrink in her seat.

“Wine, Your Graces?” came a voice. Damon looked up and and found an older woman waiting with an apron and a pitcher, two wooden cups now placed upon their table. “It’s a Dornish one,” she explained. “Sour red.”

He could see that.

He could also see that Danae was staring at him.

“Thank you,” Damon said politely, “but I don’t partake.”

“I do.”

The woman had hardly finished pouring when Danae grabbed it, lifting the wine to her lips and drinking deeply. Damon watched as she slowly drained the chalice in its entirety before lowering it again, setting the empty cup back down on the table noisily, and so too did the innkeep, apparently, for he laughed from his place in the center of the room.

“Our ruler!” he declared with a grin, opening his arms wide, and a few others who had seen her drink applauded, impressed. The innkeep motioned to the serving woman for another round, and announced loudly, “Tonight, we must all drink like a Queen!”

“Aye!” came the reply, and soon more empty mugs were being slammed onto tables, and the serving woman was scurrying to tend to them all after first seeing to Danae’s.

“I thought we were stopping to water the horses,” Damon said, after she quickly finished the second.

“We are. Do you see any water in my chalice?”

“I don’t see anything at all in your chalice anymore.”

“It’s my nameday.” Her tone was defiant and her cheeks were flushed pink, but Danae grinned when the aproned woman came and filled her cup again.

The soup was brought out shortly after that, and Damon learned that when the innkeep described it as “leek soup,” he meant it quite literally- leeks were the only ingredient, besides a broth of some questionable substance. He stared down at the bowl placed before him, and espied a single strand of hair suspiciously similar in color to those of the stable boy they’d passed on their way in.

Danae elbowed him excitedly.

“This is the same soup my father used to make!”

“I thought he was a fisherman?”

“He was, but when my mother died my father had to fill the roles of two parents. He cooked before we were old enough to help, and I can recall him with a needle and thread, sewing the holes in my clothing.”

Damon considered it a shame that the House Targaryen was so lacking in recipes, but decided to keep that thought to himself.

“A man who can sew isn’t so unusual,” he pointed out instead. “All children on the islands learn to do it. Sailcloth tears, afterall.”

Danae laughed in his face.

“Wait a moment… I thought on the Iron Islands you prided yourselves in not sewing.”

Danae couldn’t see the look he gave her- she was already tipping her soup bowl back as she’d done her wine.

Damon had dared to hope for a second course, but this turned out to be in vain. An hour passed, and while no further food was brought forth, the inn had grown loud and the aproned barkeep had all but sat down beside them, frequently as she visited their table to tend to Danae. By then the Burner of False Kings was slouching in her seat, an elbow on the table and her head resting in her hand as she laughed and japed with the woman.

The server wasn’t the only one to take a liking to Danae. Many of the patrons had come to steal a closer look at her, under the guise of offering nameday congratulations, and when the innkeep (who was proudly named for an old, dead Targaryen, as it turned out) learned that Malliard’s Mistress was one of her favorite songs he personally procured a dusty lute and led a rendition more tunelessly than Benfred Tanner. Damon held his empty wine cup idly, and from time to time lifted it in halfhearted toast to Danae, or himself, or Persion, or Barnacle Ben’s pole.

When the barkeep left again to refill her pitcher from the barrel, Danae put her hand on Damon’s knee beneath the table, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Are you growing tired?” he asked her. “We could always spend the night. Our good friend Baelon informed me that they have several open beds, including one whose straw has just been changed after a mouse eviction. Doesn’t that sound inviting?”

Damon had learned a great deal more than that from the loquacious innkeep, including the name of the establishment (Splintered Shield, rechristened from its original moniker of Serpent’s Shield after King Orys’ visit), and its history. Centuries ago, before rowdy Baratheons or any of the wars Damon knew, the structure had been part of a castle, which explained the masonry. A knight held it, and his sigil might have borne a snake. The paint on the shield was chipped and faded even before King Orys got to it, however, and so this could not be confirmed. Baelon explained that his father had the forgetting sickness before he passed, and so he wasn’t entirely certain which details of his inheritance could be trusted.

“We’re not spending the night here,” Danae protested, though she nuzzled closer to him. “I told you a hundred times that we have to leave.”

“You no longer seem to be in a hurry to do so.”

“It’s my nameday, and I’m enjoying myself.”

“So am I. But if you’re having a good time, why not stay? You’ve probably only got two of the seven barrels of Dornish wine left to finish off. Are you truly going to abdicate now?”

Danae made her fingers walk from his knee to his thigh and onwards.

“Yes. I told you what I want. Are you so cruel, to deny me on my nameday?”

“I believe I’m receiving some mixed messages, Danae. Your mouth is telling me that you want to leave, but your hand-” He caught hers at his belt. “-implies you’d rather stay. There is a room with four walls and a door upstairs.”

Danae deliberately brushed her lips against his ear when she whispered her reply.

“Too bad we’ll never see it.”

The barkeep returned and she drew away in favor of her wine cup and more gossip about the nobles along Massey’s Hook. Damon contented himself to stir the uneaten soup before him, which had grown stone cold. He could smell the wine even over the leeks, and watched as Danae finished another cup.

“We shouldn’t ride in the dark,” he told her when the woman next left, this time to tend to another cauldron of onion stew. The few windows the inn had were shuttered, but while some men and women had turned in for the night, those who remained were twice as loud and three times as drunk, as though they intended to compensate for it.

“If we sleep here,” Damon said, “we can leave at dawn for your beach, and spend the whole day on the shore.”

“Persion will not wait,” Danae replied, shaking her head. “And neither will I. Let’s go.”

She made to rise, but Damon was blocking her escape from the booth.

“What, now?”

“Now,” Danae urged, pressing her body against his and pushing with all her might. When he did not budge, she pulled back and stared at him with a frown. “If you don’t get out of the way,” she warned, “I will straddle you as I leave this booth.”

“Shouldn’t a lady be more concerned for her dignity?” he teased.

“I’m not a lady, I’m the Queen.”

Danae placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back against the seat before climbing onto his lap as promised.

“Are you ready to leave, yet?”

Someone whistled. More aware of the other patrons in the inn than he had been since entering, Damon grabbed hold of Danae’s wrists gently and pulled her hands away.

“Danae, get off, it isn’t proper for-”

She cut him off with a kiss, but before he could chastise her for that she slipped away, and was heading for the door.

“Good-bye, Liane!” she called cheerfully. “Good-bye, Gurn! Good-bye, Baelon! Good-bye, Nelly and Borcas-One-Ear! I might see you on our way back! You’re welcome in King’s Landing at any time!”

Damon was quick to follow, but was stopped halfway to the door by a man in hunting garb who slurred that he’d always wanted to touch a Lannister, to see if he might turn into gold for it. Ser Quentyn did not approve of that one bit. By the time they escaped into the darkness outside, Danae was already atop her mare, Daeron was scrambling to untangle the reins for his, and Tywin was desperately trying to keep two rowdy stablemen at bay.

Thunder clapped from somewhere in the distance, muted by the trees and the moisture in the heavy night air.

“We’re behind!” Danae yelled, and she drove her heels into her palfrey, galloping off alone in the direction of the black woods.

The lines spread out across the paper, criss crossing and intersecting, stretching and reaching, grasping for the edges of the parchment. Damon had never seen Westeros like this, so veined with roads. The maps he was accustomed to handling drew only the main routes, the ones that Jahaerys had named.

The Kingsroad, the Gold Road, the Ocean Road, the River Road, the Roseroad…

This map had more than that.

The throughways of the Crownlands and the Riverlands had all been marked- the smallfolk roads, the trails, the dirt paths that were made by the feet and wagon wheels. Damon studied the map carefully, looking for the one that had led to Lady Redditch’s keep, while the ocean breeze made the corners of the parchment bow.

He was adrift in the bay on The Maid with the sails all drawn up, the Red Keep a blur on the horizon behind him, an array of papers onboard, and a copy of one of Nathaniel’s law books in his lap as he sat on the deck of his ship. Damon had the map spread out atop the leather cover, and used the quill he’d been holding between his teeth to make a neat X for the old woman’s tower when he discovered where it belonged.

First the Crownlands and the Riverlands, next the Reach…

It was probably getting close to mid morning now. He’d left port a bit later than usual, having overslept somewhat. Lia had scowled and announced it a wonder he was able to sleep at all when he did emerge from his bedchambers, given an apparent storm that had kept Daena wailing throughout the night. She had come to complain about that and the other girl, Jenny, and ask for the dozenth time when the Queen would be returning.

Damon didn’t know.

A clanging ship bell caused him to look up from the map, and he put the quill back between his teeth and rose slowly. A vessel approached, a passenger cog from the eastern continent (Aemon would have been able to say the city), and Damon realized that he had drifted quite unwittingly into its path at some point.

Annoyed, no doubt, by his inattentiveness, they battered the bell some more while adjusting their sails to avoid him. As the ship passed, tall and handsome with three masts and an aftcastle painted black and gold, Damon saw children leaning over the rail- a boy and a girl. They saw him, too, and waved.

He wondered how ridiculous he looked, half naked without his shirt, pants rolled to his knees, a feather in his mouth and a book in his hands. He moved the tome and the map under one arm, and waved back.

Damon watched while the ship went on, cutting through the dark water, its wake sending little waves to rock The Maid. He shielded his eyes with his hand as the vessel grew smaller and smaller in its approach to the harbor. The wind was picking up, rustling the parchment pressed against the book, and in the distance he heard the low, dull roar of the tide.

Which was odd, considering he was far from any shore.

The wind was picking up a lot.

He turned to face the sea and saw the dragon’s shadow first, larger than the passenger cog had been, huge and black and splayed across dark water. The sight of Persion in flight was enough to make entire armies tuck tail and run, he’d seen it at Oldtown, and every time Damon caught a glimpse of Danae’s dragon through some castle window, even behind the safety of stone battlements, his heart went to his mouth. Now, as close as this, it might have left him entirely had he not been so taken by surprise.

When she passed over his ship, the boat dipped towards the water on the port side, and the parchment slipped free from his grasp in the gust of wind the dragon’s massive wings created. Damon dropped the book and caught the map before it flew to sea just barely, leaning over the edge of the rocking vessel.

When he reached the docks, Leffords were waiting. Three of them, in fact.

“Beautiful day for a sail!” Garrison was saying jovially, dressed for rain. His nephew Lothar was there, and came forward to help with the mooring. For once, Damon decided not to protest. He left the ropes to the lordling and started off for the dockside stables with his book and his map, Ser Flement on his heels.

“I hear that sailing is best after a storm,” Garrison went on, hurrying to catch up. “The skies are empty, the air is clean… Are you headed for the keep then? I saw the dragon. How long does it generally take Her Grace to reach Aegon’s Hill from Rhaenys’? I haven’t yet had the chance to formally make her acquaintance. I’d be delighted to tag along and-”

“Apologies, lord Lefford,” Damon said. He was walking briskly, and the fat man struggled to keep pace. Damon did not slow down. “I am in a rush, we’ll speak another time.”

He quickened his pace and soon left Garrison behind, panting and probably still talking to his back.

The cries of the dying mingled with the shouts of those still standing, the wind carrying a single long scream into the night. Sweat and blood dripped from Gareth’s brow in equal measure, though he wasn’t entirely certain the blood was his own. For the first time since they’d set out from Castle Black Gareth didn’t feel the cold, warmed by the heat of battle.

The snow around the camp had been trampled down, blood and mud mixing to make a sickening slurry that provided nothing but treacherous footing. Bodies littered the ground, the life still bleeding out of some.

They’re all mine, Gareth thought, looking at the fallen. The wildling ambush had been brutally efficient. The alarm had never been sounded. Gareth shuddered to think of the absolute slaughter that may have occurred had the savage who attempted to kill him in his sleep been less sloppy. As it stood, the wet cut across his collarbone stung as a reminder of how close he had been.

“To me!” Gareth yelled for the thousandth time, sinking his sword into the belly of one of the raiders.

The advantage his men would have had in a fair fight was gone. Few among them had any armor on, and fewer still had been prepared for a fight when they had been roused. The small group of skirmishers Gareth had managed to draw to him were still vastly outnumbered. The difficulty of their situation had only grown worse as they realized how thoroughly the wildlings had entered their camp.

They may have been here before I even went to sleep, he thought, noting that he was hard placed to put a name to any of the faces of among those around him now. The battle had so perfectly scrambled Gareth’s sense of direction that he couldn’t place when last he’d seen the young Beron Reed. He hoped he was alright.

“There!” Gareth yelled, pointing his finger at a larger group of wildlings that had taken the field. Unlike their counterparts who had emerged from the snow and darkness to attack in ones and twos, this group fought as a unit, cutting through Gareth’s tents and cleaving through the scattered remnants of the Northern army.

The one blessing of the wildlings ambushing them the way they had was the merciful absence of arrows. Sure, a few of the free folk had loosed arrows, but coordinated fire was impossible.

Without another word, Gareth’s group advanced. Though they were outnumbered, they still cut a swath through the open spot between the two groups before engaging the other. Their lines, such as they were, crashed into each other in a chorus of screams and steel clashing with steel.

”Get the one in the middle!”

”Let King Oslaf have him!”

”For the Magnar!”

Gareth’s men were outnumbered, but far from outmatched. The word King had rung in all their ears, and all the fatigue Gareth felt in his sword arm vanished in an instant. Red clouded his vision as bodies fell to the left and right.

“Gah!” Gareth yelled in pain, an arrow loosed into his side by a boy, no older than Beron, standing in front of him.

“Should have brought a sword, boy!”

Gareth swung his own down, rending the boy nearly in two from his neck to his belly. He fell in a puddle of his own blood, adding to the mess on the ground that seemed to run in rivulets towards the lake.

”Gelmar!”

Even as Gareth was extracting the arrow from his side, a massive wildling clad in furs and leather charged him. His blow sent shivers up Gareth’s arm as he parried it. He was ruthlessly strong. Stronger than Gareth, even, as he quickly found himself on the defensive.

“Hold the line!” Gareth yelled, staggering under the weight of blows. He parried most of them, but several deep cuts had been opened up on his arms. When Gareth slowed, so too did the line. They were no longer benefiting from following in his wake, and the drive they’d been attempting through the group had slowed to a halt.

As they slowed, though, others began to join and fill the ranks. Those who had been swept into the line began to find their footing. Several stragglers also added their numbers to Gareth’s. Though their line was thin, they almost managed to match the wildling rank to a man.

“Don’t let them surround us!” Gareth warned, launching his own counter-attack at the massive wildling. He released a flurry of blows, probing relentlessly against his attacks until the man was on his own back foot.

“Where’s your King? Is he as weak as you are?” Gareth mocked, the pain receding as his vision filled with red. The familiar exhilaration overtook him, his arm seeming to move of its own accord. The man’s defenses were crumbling before him, shallow wounds opening across the center of his body. For every blow he parried, Gareth landed one that could not be defended.

The whole line seemed to buckle as one, moving back towards the woods they spawned from. The only thing that slowed Gareth’s advance were the bodies of the fallen, and the only resistance they offered was forcing Gareth to step over them.

“You,” the wildling spat between gasps, “Are nothing, kneeler.”

The hulking wildling gave a roar and launched himself back against Gareth with surprising force. His allies took up another shout, rallying around him with calls of “For the Magnar!”

Though he had redoubled his efforts, the giant was exhausted. His sword was slower than Gareth’s and Gareth made sure he paid for each tired stroke. Though more cuts had opened up on the Umber, his blade met flesh more and more often.

”For the Thenns!” yelled the man’s comrades, who joined their strength to their flagging leader. Gareth’s skirmishers did their best to counter, but more and more often Gareth found himself choosing which sword in the flurry to parry and which blows he could weather. The taste of iron filled Gareth’s mouth, though the bloodlust he felt muted the pains that would doubtlessly sting when the battle came to a close.

”Magnar!”

The bark came from the back line. To Gareth’s surprise the man he’d been engaged with backed off, giving ground and lowering his blade. For the first time Gareth became aware that the snowfall had slowed to a mild flurry, the worst of the wind going with it. His breath frosted in front of his face as the newest challenger took the field.

He wore the simplest of crowns. Had Gareth not known better he may have mistook it for something a child would fashion for their imaginary games. Of an age with Gareth, they stood eye to eye. The pretender was bulkier than Gareth, his arms well laced with scars that spoke of fights won in the past.

“So you’re the King of savages? I look forward to the songs written when I kill you.”

The King spat on the blood-soaked ground. Bodies piled around them from both sides. Elsewhere in the camp the fight still raged, but here it had come to a halt, the men on the periphery of their bubble still exchanging blows but without the gusto of earlier.

“Are you the Stark?” the king asked simply, leveling his blade at Gareth.

“No. Far worse for you, I’m the Umber.”

The King moved with deceptive speed towards Gareth, their swords meeting as the lines crashed into one another again. The large man, who Gareth surmised was the Magnar, joined his King against Gareth.

Gareth’s men moved around him, their own fighting keeping more from falling on their commander as they fought.

Why didn’t I grab a fucking shield? Gareth thought as he narrowly avoided a vicious stroke from the King, nimbly stepping to the side as it passed harmlessly by. Though he’d been fighting a long time, the foe before him had revitalized Gareth. His sword arm felt light and precise. The brief gaps his enemies left in their defenses were punished with quick strikes. The leather the King had clad himself with was soon split in half a dozen spots, blood flowing freely.

The Magnar did no better. He was visibly tired. Sweat poured off his brow despite the cold. His sword was much slower than the King’s, to the point that Gareth didn’t have to respect his attempts in the same way. Simply stepping from side to side (taking care to avoid the bodies that attempted to trip him up) neutralized his slow, but still heavy, swipes.

“Go, the others need you more than I,” said the King between breaths.

A deep cut had opened on his cheek, almost to the bone. Gareth had been aiming for his eye.

“I’ll bring help,” said the Magnar, nearly doubled over in exhaustion.

“I won’t need it.”

“You’re wrong.” Gareth grinned before redoubling his assault, pushing the King back. The Magnar broke away, too, heading back for the woods that he’d emerged from.

The two battered against each other. The King surprised Gareth, hitting him with a vicious punch that he’d not been prepared for and staggering him. For a moment Gareth saw stars that he was sure had only just been obscured by clouds until they disappeared a moment later. He parried the follow up attempt, spitting a thick globule of blood onto the ground.

Their dance saw them moving closer to the edge of the woods, the fighting still going behind them. The fires that had lit the battlefield had gone out, only embers surviving to provide shadows.

We need the sun, Gareth thought, gasping as the King’s sword caught him across the ribs. Sticky warmth spread across Gareth’s body when he pulled away, blood gushing from the deep cut.

“Fuck,” he breathed, taking the smallest of steps back. He raised his sword arm, wincing at the pain.

They’d become turned around in the fighting, Gareth’s back now facing the forest. The first of trees was so close that he may well have been able to touch it.

“There’s nowhere to run, Umber.”

“Already thinking of retreating? I thought you were going to give me a good fight. My wife holds a sword better than you.”

Both men took the brief respite to recover their wind. Though Gareth’s ribs ached painfully, he’d given as good as he’d gotten. The King was covered in blood, both his own and Gareth’s. The noise from the camp had lowered a bit as fighting began to slow. More men had joined Gareth’s, and they nearly matched the wildlings to a man.

Bodies littered the field. From what little Gareth could see, the Wildlings had fared poorly once the Northmen had managed to group together. The element of surprise had allowed them to eliminate more men than Gareth cared to think about, but on the edge of the woods the savages had lost a great amount of strength.

Gareth renewed the fighting, closing the gap that had formed in a single stride. Their swords sung once more, blood dripping from the pommels of both hilts.

The bloodlust remained, but it no longer dulled the fatigue. Gareth was tired, his breath coming in gasps. His lungs burned, particularly the one beneath his injured ribs. He was vaguely aware that neither him nor the king were moving as much, standing in place much more and letting their arms do the fighting.

Gareth was caught once more. A sloppy parry combined with a lazy swing from the King combined to place Gareth’s hand in the wrong place.

“Ah!” Gareth yelled, his sword dropping to the ground. He didn’t have time to clutch at his hand, now less his two bottom fingers. The cut was to the bone across the back.

While the wildling’s defenses were down Gareth tackled him, bringing the full weight of his body down on the King. He hit the snow with a loud crunch and a grunt of pain.

The King’s own sword was flung to the side. He put his hands on Gareth’s face, trying to stave off the blows.

It did not stop Gareth. His fists landed over and over on the man’s face. A satisfying crunch and a scream welcomed as the King’s cheekbone crumbled under the weight of blows. Gareth kept pounding away as the faintest glimmer of light began to crest the horizon.

The King lay on the ground, beaten. His breath came in ragged gasps. Gareth stepped off the man, finding his sword on the ground. He gripped it with both hands, his off hand and what remained of his sword hand.

“This isn’t over,” wheezed the King. He rolled onto his stomach, clutching at his mangled face.

“No, it is.” Gareth stood over him, holding the sword high over his head. “The North remembers all, but we won’t remember you.”

He swung with his remaining might, separating the King’s head from his shoulders with a sickening crunch. The body spasmed violently before falling still.

”For the North!” Gareth screamed, holding the bloody blade in the air.

The cheer that followed seemed deafening to Gareth, a smile on his face that he was sure would never fade.

“Oslaf?”

The question surprised Gareth. It had come from the woods. Stepping out of the shadows was the Magnar, flanked by more than a dozen bloodied, but still standing, fighters. Gareth’s battle line was still engaged closer to the camp. He was alone.

“I’ve beaten him, and you’re next,” Gareth said with a bravado he did not feel.

The Magnar’s face contorted in rage. He hefted his sword, an action mirrored by his men.

”Charge!” he yelled, spilling forth from the woods in a flood of bodies.

They were on him in moments. Gareth tried, but he was one man. One sword. A dozen others fell upon him. The wildlings cut at him as he tried to retreat towards the camp. It was too far.

Cold steel plunged into Gareth’s heart, put there by the Magnar himself.

“Oh,” Gareth whispered, falling to his knees.

This is what it feels like.

Blackness overtook his vision, one last fleeting image of his home flickering in his mind’s eye.

Thanks to Sarella and Dagon~~

Danae exhaled when the hot water met her fair skin, back arching into the stream as it trickled down her spine.

“Too hot?” Talla whispered, tucking a strand of damp hair behind Danae’s ear. She set the pitcher down and leaned against the outside edge of the tub, dangling her other hand just above the water.

“Far from it,” Danae murmured contentedly. She liked her baths hot, scalding even, some might say. The heat of the water reminded her of Persion’s scales against her skin.

“Good,” Talla replied as her nimble fingers dipped into the warm waters to caress the Queen’s thigh. Danae rested her arms against the lip of the tub and closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

For a long moment, the only sound was the gentle trickle of water as it dripped from her long hair. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of lavender, and Danae’s head was swimming from the steam of the bath and the sweet, flowery oils.

“Won’t you join me?” she asked after a time, opening an eye and turning her head to the side of the great tiled tub. Talla grinned in reply, but shook her head.

“Your bath is hot enough to boil an egg,” she answered with a laugh.

It was the same reply Damon always gave. Danae frowned and stared down at her reflection in the glassy surface of the water.

“Besides,” continued Talla, “the others will be here soon. Outside of the bath I’m simply your lady in waiting. Inside of the bath, well… how would that look if they were to walk in? Meredyth has been particularly nosy lately, ever since those dresses arrived from Dorne-”

“But it’s been months,” Danae complained, and she looked up from the water to give the woman a teasing pout.

“Whose fault is that?” Talla arched an eyebrow. “I’ve not been invited back to your chambers since the night of His Grace’s departure. You’ve resigned me to tea with all the others.”

Danae smiled a wicked grin and slid to the side of the bath, her damp hair trailing behind her in ringlets of molten silver.

“I’ve been preoccupied,” she whispered, sliding her hand over Talla’s. “But now I’m not, and Damon has been gone for a very long time.”

“Has my Queen grown lonely?” the woman asked, leaning forward so that her lips brushed against the Targaryen’s neck.

“Terribly,” Danae murmured, closing her eyes and feeling a shiver make its way down her spine.

“What is it that you miss? Tell me.”

“I miss…” She hesitated. “I miss you, of course.” She quickly intertwined her fingers with Talla’s. “I miss your lips, your hands, your-”

The groan of iron hinges sounded from somewhere outside the bath chamber, and Talla straightened at once.

“Your Grace?” came a muffled voice.

Meredyth.

“Your Grace, are you still in the bath? I’ve brought the masks! And wine, I’ve brought wine, too!”

Danae heard the faint sounds of her friend bustling about the bedroom, then a high pitched squeal and a yelp, followed by an unhappy meow.

“Rhaenys is here, too!” Meredyth called. “And Ysela!”

Talla smiled at Danae as she stood, gathering the water pitcher and a carafe of oil.

“I’ll keep them entertained,” she promised with a wink, switching to her native tongue. “You take your time.”

The door closed behind her, and Danae sank into the bath until the water was up to her chin, sighing.

It’s not the same.

When she wandered out some time later, robed and with her hair brushed free of tangles, she found the girls all seated on her bed, dressed in their gowns and picking through some jewelry laid out atop the covers.

“This was my mother’s,” Meredyth was saying, holding a bracelet up for Ysela. “Isn’t it lovely? It’s an emerald, and that there is gold, and this is- There you are!”

Rhaenys smiled, a strand of pearls in her hands and a small kitten pouncing on the bottom of her ruffled skirt. The Caron giggled as she gently picked up the creature.

“Now, now, I’ll play with you later,” she said to the little cat, giving it a pat before placing it back down again, this time right by its sibling. She looked up at Danae’s entrance, beaming. “Your Grace!”

Talla was waiting beside Danae’s vanity with a chalice of Dornish Red. The Queen took the wine in hand and drank deeply.

“More?” Talla asked when she finished, a sly grin on her comely face.

“Come, sit!” Meredyth pleaded, patting a place on the bed beside her. “We were just looking over the jewelry. There are some pieces here I know you’ll love.”

The Tyrell’s gown was as she’d described it, mossy green with gold stitching, and in her lap was a mask to match. Danae slipped free of her silken robe and tossed it carelessly atop Damon’s abandoned wardrobe before crossing the room naked and sifting through her own clothing in search of her gown.

Ysela blushed.

The snow white dress was soft and cool against Danae’s bare skin, and Talla helped her adjust the straps before the mirror, letting her fingers linger over the low neckline when no one was looking.

Despite the feel of skin against her own, Danae was distracted, staring down into the dresser drawer before her. What was once full of gemstones and jewelry, all gifted to her by her husband, was now empty save for three small items.

She ran her fingers over her mother’s broken comb first. Two of the tines were cracked and missing, and the ivory shaft was faded yellow with time. Next to the comb was Melly’s necklace, a tiny charm in the shape of a clover hung by a piece of twine. Beside it lay the toy figurine of a boat, carved delicately out of wood.

“Look at this one,” Meredyth called from the bed, and Danae glanced over her shoulder. “It’s shaped like a dragon’s talon. It goes around your arm. Here, let me show you.”

She closed the drawer at once and crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed beside Meredyth. The Tyrell fastened the silver band between Danae’s shoulder and elbow.

“We were just discussing who we’d like to dance with this evening,” Meredyth went on.

“Oh?” Danae asked. “And?”

“Well, Gared will be busy with his duties. I told you about the Risely boy, though. I haven’t seen him yet, but I heard through the grapevine that he’s in the capital.”

“He is,” Danae confirmed. “His family arrived late last evening. What about you, Rhaenys?”

Her cheeks reddened as she answered, “Jaremy Fell, Your Grace.”

“Oh, Talla, share yours!” Meredyth goaded, and the Summer Islander looked over at Danae coyly.

“Nathaniel Arryn,” she answered boldly in the Common Tongue, her accent thick.

The women giggled. Danae arched an eyebrow.

“Lord Arryn?” repeated Ysela. Her voice was still timid and soft, and her cheeks reddened again when all eyes turned to her. “The Regent Lord Paramount of the Vale and former Hand of the Crown?”

“Nathaniel Arryn,” Talla confirmed.

The handmaidens exchanged glances while Danae met the Summer Islander’s stare.

Talla winked.

“What about you, Ysela?” Meredyth prodded.

The Stark turned crimson.

“Oh, I dont-”

“Surely there’s someone.”

“I never-”

“A Crownlander perhaps? You should know the ones from court by now.”

“I didn’t-”

“What about Lewys, or Alaric, or Jared? What about the one with the great big beard? Brandon! That’s his name. He looks half Northern, by my judgement.”

Danae tuned out the conversation, taking another long drink from her chalice. Her mind was on the last ball held in the capital after their victory in the Reach.

“Your Grace? Queen Danae?”

She was pulled from her thoughts by Meredyth’s hand on her knee, and realized that the Tyrell was looking at her expectantly.

“Your hair,” she said. “How would you like me to do your hair?”

Danae shrugged.

“I think it looks prettiest when it’s left down, personally.”

She shrugged again, and took another gulp of wine.

When they were finished with their hair, their gossip, and a few more glasses of Dornish red, the handmaidens began to collect themselves, standing to smooth out skirts and fasten their masks.

“How do I look?” Meredyth was asking Ysela. “Can you tell it’s me?”

Ysela nodded, though she quickly shook her head after Meredyth frowned at her first answer.

The hallways were unusually busy, but not with noblemen and women. Three times the normal amount of guards patrolled the corridors of Maegor’s holdfast, even though that part of the keep would be sealed off entirely to those attending the ball. Danae spied the white armor of Lefford and Brax standing guard dutifully outside the nursery doors when they passed.

“The throne room is full of cloaks as well, Your Grace,” Ser Tywin informed her as they made their way out of the holdfast. “And the dragonpit, just as you ordered.”

The evening was warm and pleasant, and the faint sound of music grew louder as they made their way down the serpentine steps just as the last rays of sunlight were slipping over the pale red stones of the keep.

A line of nobles stood outside the throne room in their finery as Danae and her handmaidens were led forward past them all. Ser Daeron in his glittering white plate opened one of the tall double doors, ushering the women forward.

The black dragon skulls along the walls glittered in the light from the candles, and the banner of the Crown hung on almost every column. The distant strum of a lute could be heard rising above the chattering of voices within, and Danae felt Meredyth take her hand and give it a light squeeze.

“Smile, Your Grace,” she whispered. “This night is about having fun.”

/r/GameofThronesRP is a storytelling role-play taking place in the universe of George RR Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire books, but set 200 years after the conclusion of the series.

1. Your first step: Creating a Character

Visit the Sorting Thread once you've decided what sort of character you'd like to play. If you're having trouble choosing, feel free to pick up someone else's non-player character from the NPC List, create a character in response to one of our Wanted Ads, claim one of our Unclaimed Houses, or ask for some advice in our chatroom!

2. Learning our Lore

Once you've created your character, they will be stepping into 200 years of new lore, filled to the brim with characters and events created entirely separately from the books. This means that it is important that you understand the world your character will be stepping into. If not the fine details, then at least the large brush strokes.

To this end, we highly recommend that you read the front page of our Wiki and explore any related pages that may catch your eye. While not required, our State of the Realm thread provides a great resource for the current status of Westeros.

If you are really loving reading our history, feel free to check out:

• Our Kingsguard doc (which lists the Kings, Kingsguards, events, and seasons stretching from the current year all the way back to King Stannis Baratheon's reign)

• Blood and Whispers (our role-play's story as told through a narrative format)

• GameofThronesRP: A Prologue (A narrative retelling of the Second Greyjoy Rebellion)

Questions? Concerns? Need some help? Feel free to message the mods!

It is 510 AC, and it is Autumn.

Join the game. The Game of Thrones.

Written with Ben

Ser Ryman could feel the cold. Autumn had barely begun and the sun still shone, but deep in his bones he could feel the winds of Winter rising.

Had it always been this way? When he was young, Summer had felt like forever, and the Winters short. When it snowed, he had a thick cloak. When the sun beat down, he rode with a bare chest.

Now, alone in the White Sword Tower, he felt the ice before it crept south. The arrival of the white raven had made him wonder how many Summers he had left. He had been a Winter birth, mayhaps he would be a Winter death.

He rubbed his old oilcloth along the long blade laid out over his lap. Duty was a weapon of gigantic proportions and it didn’t need the cleaning, but it was a monotonous task, just what he needed right now.

Exactly what he didn’t need soon walked through the tower door.

“Benfred,” the Lord Commander said, rising and leaving his sword on the wide table. “What can I help with?”

The serjeant was unusually solemn, his scarred face that normally bore some ill-gotten grin now deadly serious. The Lord Commander hadn’t seen that sort of look on the man since they were in the Riverlands and the Crownlands, routing out those who were waylaying the roads effort.

Benfred appeared much the same now as he did in the muddy field outside Hullen’s castle, watching little Abelar face down the knight with the flaming noose on his shield.

“Ryman,” he said. “We have a problem. Damon has a problem. I don’t know that he’ll listen to me about this.”

The Lord Commander stared uneasily.

“You want to help Damon?”

“With Danae.”

“In what regard?” Ryman asked pointedly

Tanner raised an eyebrow. “Come now, Lord Commander. Surely you see what she does to him.”

“You mean to aid their marriage?”

“More like rescue Damon from it.”

For all his glower, and dislike of the sellsword, it was all that Ryman could do to not laugh.

“Ben, I appreciate the motive,” he said. “But it is not-”

“Look, you swore an oath, yes?” Ben interrupted, perhaps a little more testily than usual.

“I’ve sworn-”

“To protect the King.”

“I did,” confirmed Ser Ryman, slightly put out by Ben’s interruptions. “Where are you going with this?”

“Protect him from all threats, yes? Do you really think being with Danae is safe for him?”

Ryman stroked his head and sat down heavily in one of the wide chairs. Ben crossed the room and sat to his left, careful of the large blade on the table.

“It is the King’s choice to be with her,” said Ryman slowly. “They are bound in holy union.”

“I don’t think Damon has a choice. I’ve seen the way she treats him; I know exactly how little of a choice he has.”

“Ben, be a little more frank if you will.”

“When she left, she swore that if he hadn’t dragged himself out of the pit she continues to dig for him, she’d take him from the children, force him off the throne, and send him west to be devoured by the wolves he calls a family. She’d kill him, Ryman, and I don’t think she even realizes it’d be his death. If he ever stopped loving her, she’d kill him, and if she ever made it clear she’s stopped loving him, he’d kill himself. He said so, Ryman.”

Ryman sighed.

It was not something he had been blind to.

“And the drinking,” Ben said. “When have you seen it happen not as a result of something with that woman?”

“Well,” begun the Lord Commander hesitantly. “When I first joined Damon’s service, it was quite the same. Different Queen. Not as different as the new Queen would like to admit.”

“So you’re saying that Danae is like the mad one? Didn’t she fuck her way into her dragon’s death? Commit high treason? And you’re saying Danae is the same as her? Seven hells.”

The Lord Commander stirred uneasily.

“In part,” Ser Ryman admitted uncomfortably. “They are Targaryens, the Blood of the Dragon. They have the same temper. And the same…”

Benfred stared at Ser Ryman.

“What? Same lovers?”

“No,” the Lord Commander said flatly.

“So Danae does have different lovers!” Benfred said. “I knew it! Explains so much. Though the brothel incident is now particularly frustrating...”

“It’s not like that,” Ryman quickly interjected.

“Does Damon know? Of course he doesn’t, he’s far too in love and far too pathetic. So who is it? Some shithead knight? One of those Essosi fucks?”

“Sarella Martell,” the Lord Commander finally revealed. “But I am only telling you this because of Damon’s trust and love for you. I keep the King’s secrets.”

“Oh, not the Crown’s secrets?” Benfred grinned.

“I am the King’s man, Ben. I have sworn to keep his family safe, I didn’t swear to indulge his gifts to his wife.”

“So, Danae fucks Sarella fucking Martell.”

“And she’s now in Sunspear, again,” Ser Ryman spat. “I can’t believe the short sight on that woman. Why on earth does she need that one? I thought the procurement of that Summer Islander would let her reduce the urge, but she instead goes back to the very person who attempted to murder her husband.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Her lover is a traitor who tried to murder her husband?”

“Yes, and it was only Ulrich Dayne that stopped it, Gods be good. We should have taken the girl’s head when we had the chance. Martell is… Unbalanced.”

There was silence. Silence of the grave. Silence of a hunter about to release a string, of an assassin about to draw a dirk.

“Martell still wants Damon dead, doesn’t she?”

“I am not certain,” admited Ser Ryman. “I think she more wants the realm to collapse. I believe she wants Dorne to be independent. Explains why her only allies are Essosi. However...”

“However?”

“She is kin to the Baratheons, you know? Perhaps she wants Danae to take revenge for her.”

Benfred stood, chair scraping the stone floor, eye flashing.

“Let her try.”

“Damon trusts her completely. He is in love.”

“And struck blind and foolish by it. He’d die for her, and she consorts with those who’d arrange it.”

The Lord Commander stood.

Benfred might have a black heart, but it was in the right place. It made little difference, and he had duties, ones which did not include attempting to reconcile two people so utterly quarrelsome that it had passed beyond farcical. All he could do was to avoid it affecting the realm.

Ser Ryman snorted at that thought. Benfred cocked his head to the side.

“Well, fancy that. Didn’t know you knew how to laugh under all that alabaster dead weight.”

“Well… It’s nothing.”

“No, tell me. I’d love to find out what the fuck you think is funny.”

Ser Ryman sighed and shook his head.

“I was just thinking about the realm, about Damon’s place in it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, who is the ruler?”

“Damon seems to do most of the actual ruling.”

Ser Ryman nodded.

“Danae leaves,” Ben continued. “Whenever she likes. Flies off on her fucking lizard and leaves our man heartbroken, forces him to sit around and have meetings with the most boring and sometimes murderous people possible, makes him do all kinds of things that she has no idea about.”

Ryman nodded again, stiffly. This was not a conversation he was planning on, nor one he hoped to have again.

“I don’t understand how she can shit on him for all his imagined failures, run away and then claim to be an actual Queen!” the sellsword ran on, standing up. “Queens are meant to lead. And the children. How much time has she spent with her children? Damon spends every moment he can with them, and she foisted her newborn daughter off to a wetnurse and fled to the waiting arms of some traitorous Dornishwoman."

The Lord Commander stared at the sellsword, boring into him as he learnt to. What was the motive? Self preservation? Danae was not fond of the man. But if it was more noble?

“What do you want me to do?” he asked at last.

“I don’t know, but perhaps keep an eye out?” Ben replied, standing.

“I always do,” intoned the Lord Commander.

“I can’t be there all the time, and Danae trusts me much less than she trusts you. With reason. She’ll break him unless we can get him away from her.”

Benfred turned to go, but seeming to have another thought, he called back.

“Or you could do like your predecessor and kill the dragon. That would help a lot.”

Ryman shook his head grimly. He was, in the end, no Ulrich Dayne.

For better, or for worse.

The sellsword nodded, and Ryman was left alone in his tower. He looked back at his sword, as it lay glistening on the table; bright, deadly and wet, like the tongue of a hungry beast.

It was his duty to protect the Royal Family. Was it right to protect it from itself? What, or who, exactly, was a threat?

He picked up the blade and the oilcloth and brought the sword back to his lap.

It was a monstrous task, Duty.

The blade sliced through the skin cleanly, like a knife through warm butter, and soon Damon’s hands were wet and sticky.

It was still morning, and he still smelled of saltwater and the bay.

“Apple,” Desmond said impatiently, reaching over the breakfast table for the peach Damon was carving.

“No, this is a peach. Peach. Can you say peach?”

When Damon handed him the cored fruit Desmond stuffed all of it into his mouth at once, juice dribbling down his chin.

“Apple,” he managed with his mouth full.

It was strange to eat with the children without Danae present, but then again, it had been an unusual morning. Damon woke before the sun was up, even though he’d gone to bed long after it dipped beneath the horizon, and it was still dark when Ser Flement helped him push off from the docks of Blackwater Bay.

The knight said nothing when he returned soaking wet, but on the journey back to the castle he told a story about a shoemaker’s daughter in Lannisport with whom he had gone swimming once.

“Smallfolk are like wildlings,” he related to Damon. “They have no inhibitions.”

Damon thought it unlikely that Lefford had ever encountered a wildling.

“Where do peaches come from?” asked Tygett from across the table, licking raspberry jam from his fingers.

The windows in the room where they were breaking their fast were drapeless and open, and the whole sunshiney chamber was perfumed with fresh fruit and fresh air.

There were some benefits to Danae’s absence- one being that Damon could decide to hold breakfast in the library for no reason other than that he enjoyed the view, and felt like it. A second was that his nephew was present for a meal- another peculiarity.

Thaddius’ son sat opposite Damon, his golden hair so long now that Lily wound it in a braid that she tied with a little red ribbon. He looked more and more like his father with every passing day, with the exception of his smile.

When Thaddius grinned, there was something sinister in it.

When Tygett showed his teeth, they were covered in jelly.

Damon didn’t have a chance to answer the boy’s question about peaches before Harrold discovered them.

The steward swept into the library already midway through a sentence- a complaint, it seemed, and Ser Flement followed uselessly behind him.

“Another one, Your Grace,” the Westerling said, shuffling a mess of papers in his arms. “And this one only lasted an hour. She handed Daena to Ser Tywin before walking out without a word. Bless his heart, I don’t think the old knight knew what to do with her. She’s with the Septa now, no, don’t get up. It’s fine. There is much more to discuss, and you won’t like any of it.”

Harrold himself didn’t sit, though he almost set his papers down upon the table until catching sight of Desmond’s sticky hands close by.

He was wearing a tunic the color of sand with six white shells embroidered on the breast, and his mouth was drawn into a frown, wrinkles at each corner betraying the familiarity of the expression.

Damon thought it passing odd that a man who so openly detested the sea would choose to have his house’s crest emblazoned on all that he owned, but then again, Westermen did so love their conventions.

“I’m taking care of the matter of the Princess’ nurse,” Harrold said, guarding his papers more closely when he noticed Tygett staring. “I’ve already written Casterly. Shall we start with the guildsmen, the trial, or the roads?”

“Which is worse?”

“The guildsmen, but I’d rather save them for the end, since you’ll be needing to meet with them in an hour.”

“The roads then.”

Desmond whined and reached for Damon as the steward began. It was his first time seated on on his own chair, and he was struggling with it.

“Progress has slowed dramatically,” Harrold began, as Damon relented and pulled his son onto his lap. “The tract from the capital to the crossroads is finished, but the remaining portion to the Twins is positively crawling. The mapmakers from the Reach have returned, however, so there is that bit of good news. The only good news, really, of my list.”

“Then I would have rather heard that part last-”

“There have been various delays, but the jurors for the trial of Symeon Stark will be arriving within a moon's turn. Those not already here, at least. I’ve spoken with the Dornishwoman, as you asked me to. She will participate, though she didn’t seem enthused. It’s a bit uncommon, I still say, but if you insist upon having-”

“I do.”

Harrold opened his mouth and then closed it, then repeated the action once again.

“I’ve studied trial law extensively,” Damon said, nodding vaguely to the shelves around him, from which new books had been pulled earlier. “In other places, this is how all trials are conducted, with several-”

“What other places?”

“Well, lots of other places. Lys, for one, is-”

“Westeros is not Lys, Your Grace, with all due respect.”

Damon had been in a good mood, after his sail. He clung to it with the same fierceness with which Desmond was clinging to his shirt.

“I think that every man is owed a trial that is fair, and the fairest way to try a man is to have the trying done by his own peers. His equals. Several of them, in fact, so as to ensure balance, and they say that seven is a holy number and-”

“Every man, Your Grace?”

“Yes, every man. I’ve written it down, it’s in-”

“Apple!” Desmond interrupted, and Damon pried his son off of him long enough to grab another peach from the bowl, while Harrold looked on with an expression halfway between disgust and worry.

“I know you’ve been writing. Do you plan to show Lord Arryn these… musings of yours?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s a peach, Desmond. A peach. Say peach. I won’t let you have it until you say it properly.”

“Peach,” offered Tygett by way of example. “Pea-ch. Are there any melons, uncle?”

He still had jelly all over his face. Damon surveyed the table, which had no melons, and then looked to Harrold.

“Are there any melons?”

“Melons? Heavens, no! With the Blight in the Reach, the Dornish have increased their prices tenfold, and thanks to King Daeron, all the lax tariffs on exports from that kingdom mean-”

“Nevermind.”

There came silence, then, which Desmond broke shortly with another whine.

“Apple,” he whimpered, and he buried his face in Damon’s neck as though he wished to hide from them all.

“Very well,” Harrold said finally. “The guildsmen remain.”

He shuffled some papers.

“This is not a formal reunion. It’s light fare in the gardens, politicking, chatting… Lyman will be there. I think you ought to let him do the talking.”

“You want me to stay in? I will do so gladly.”

“No, you must attend, only…”

“Only what?”

Harrold looked nervously around the room before bringing his gaze tentatively back to Damon.

“I think that it would be best if you do not speak,” he finished.

Damon stared at Harrold.

“You want me to attend my own event, and not speak.”

“After the incident at supper only a few nights-”

“Fine. I won’t speak. I’ll stand in the corner and look pretty, since that is what a king is for.”

“Perfect.”

Harrold looked visibly relieved. He organized his papers one last time.

“Make certain that you bathe before joining us,” he said. “You smell as though you took a bath in the bay this morning.”

“I was counseled to.”

The steward wrinkled his nose.

“It might be time to rethink some of your advisors.”

Desmond bit greedily into the peach, uncarved, and Damon lifted his son with him when he rose.

“Actually,” he said, “I think it’s the best advice I’ve gotten yet. Come along, Tygett. We’re going to see if we can’t find you some blackberries. You’ll like them just as much as melon, I promise.”

His nephew scrambled out of his seat, leaving jelly fingerprints all over the fine upholstery.

Harrold was still sifting through his parchments as they passed him.

“Oh!” he declared. “There’s a letter here from Banefort, it looks as though-”

“Save it,” Damon said, making for the door with the Prince and his cousin in tow. “I imagine I’ll be needing some good news after this meeting with the Guildsmen is through.”

Here's a link to the /r/TinySubredditoftheDay thread!

“Varyo,” Daelys cautioned. “I am not going to let you go in there alone.”

The two tooks long strides together through the underbelly of the Palace. Servants and retainers scurried past the two, ignoring them in their hurry from this task to the next.

Daelys and Varyo seen together did usually not give the impression of siblings. Varyo took after his mother in most things, his body slim and taut like a stretched bowstring, whilst Daelys was tall and broad shouldered, with the quiet might of their father. Even their hair was subtly different, Varyo’s a shade colder than the silver gold of the Knight. However, today none could deny it. As they strode through the servant’s passages and up stairs, they were perfectly in sync.

“It’s dangerous,” Daelys continued as they opened into the hall of one of the quest apartments. “We do not know what he is here for, or what he is capable of.”

The rooms were whitewashed and small, but not without a certain charm. Not much in Lys was without a level of beauty and painted vines and leaves ran across the pale walls, here set with a small Myrish glass set into the plaster.

“You should know by this point that you cannot stop me,” Varyo replied, walking towards one of the three doors that opened out of the short chamber. A Seahorse stepped to attention as he did so, an olive man with the upper body of an ox and a patchy copper beard. “You will wait here Daelys, I would prefer if you did not get mixed up in this sordid matter.”

Daelys opened his mouth to protest, but soon thought better of it. The Knight fell into his familiar stance, the one that the Prince didn’t doubt had been the same for the King before him.

Varyo took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Behind was a comfortable, although again, small solar. Light streamed into the chamber from a long slit window above the right wall, setting copperwork along the walls to shining.

His guest stood as he entered, bowing his badly shaven head with a friendly, wet smile. He wore a thick robe, the sleeves pulled up, showing off the dark marks beneath his skin.

“My Prince,” he said with a slight titter in the common tongue of Westeros, moving to sit down once more at his table, a small, dark, Pentoshi export set with a heavy silver flagon. “Can I just say that it is a true pleasure to see you once more. Your absence from the capital has been such a pity.”

Varyo crossed the room idly, not looking at the man, who continued to babble in his polite and high-pitched voice.

“I do not blame you though, my presence has become, aha, difficult too. My former employers found that I possessed certain, aha, knowledge.”

Still standing, Varyo took the heavy flagon, his guest had clearly been drinking from it already, and only a small amount remained of the thin red. He poured himself a flagon from the dregs, spilling some as he did.

“This knowledge,” the man continued, “could prove valuable to the right man. Or perhaps…”

He tailed off, finding the Prince’s eyes with his own glittering gaze.

“To the right ruler.”

“Rymar Royce,” Varyo replied gruffly to the Westerosi. “Have you come here because you think I will buy your secrets?”

The spymaster shifted in his seat, keeping his gaze steady. Varyo took a cloth from his pocket and wiped some of the spilt wine from the top.

“I have come here, my Prince, because we both know you are a man with ambition. Ambition and the will to power. What you could do with this information,” Rymar shook his head. “Why, Kings could fall.”

The Prince took a mouthful of the red. It was far from the best vintage from Numys, light and thin, perfect for an uninvited envoy.

“I know you,” the spymaster continued, his slimy smile playing across his bearded jowls. “You and I working together once more. It could be earth shattering.”

Varyo put down the cup, his hands lightly fingering the flagon.

In one fluid motion, he took it and brought it down on the Westerosi’s knee. Rymar screamed, his knee jerking out. The Prince pulled the spymaster up, stomping down on his leg as he did so.

Another scream was joined by a satisfying crunch.

“No, no no no!” the Royce moaned pathetically, struggling against Varyo’s hold. “Please, I know you will not pass this up. I have news about-”

Another crunch. Another scream.

“Please!” he shouted. “This is not-”

The Prince struck the spymaster, throwing him back against the chair with a soft thud. He pulled up his sleeves as the Royce rolled in pain.

“You don’t seem to understand,” Varyo began softly, pulling a long knife from his belt. “You have never understood. You think that your whispers, and your little gossips keep you safe. Well here is another secret for you.”

He pulled the spymaster up, forcing the knife into his mouth. Rymar burbled something about mercy, but all too quickly there wasn’t any left,

“I don’t care about your little whispers, and they won’t save you now.”

It was a jagged cut, and the floor was wet. When he was finished, the spymaster retched silently upon the stone floor, the slimy, red piece on front of him.

“I know what you did,” Varyo continued, putting the knife down. “What you ordered. Sarella told me all about it.”

The silver flagon was in his hands again, and it smashed into the Westerosi’s ribs with a shattering crunch.

“You tried to take Lyaan away from me. You tried to hurt my family.”

The Prince struck him again. He could feel his palms ache with a dull throb as the silver collided with Rymar’s face once more.

“Now you come here offering your secrets,” Varyo said, his voice a hoarse growl. He pulled the battered head of the spymaster up to his own. “That is your hubris, mummer. You think all your little secrets and plans and informers can keep you safe.”

The Prince let Rymar’s head fall again, and stood, weighing the silver in his hands.

“Well now we will test your whispers against my flagon to see which wins. You are, and have always been, just a fat pink lordling, who thought he could play the game of thrones.”

Rymar gurgled, and for a moment, he looked up through blooded eyes, begging. Only for a moment though, for then Varyo began.

Across town, at the House of Lohar, Rhaenys would be being put down for her afternoon nap. Down three flights of stairs, Lyaan was holding a meeting with two guilds and a bank. Up here, Rymar’s cheeks had just collapsed, and one eye was red and open.

Tomorrow, Varyo would take Rhaenys to the yard for the first time, and let her feel the weight of a sword. Today, the spymaster’s jaw had caved in.

The spymaster had stopped yelping. Each impact on his face had grown wetter, and now he lolled back, not even protesting.

Varyo pulled him forward, meeting the ruin that had been his face once more.

“I think I win.”

The Prince stood slowly, letting the flagon drop. He took the cloth from the table, wiping his hands and knuckles clean.

He left the body rapidly cooling, as the spymaster let go his last. Daelys met him outside with that frown he always wore, when things deviated from his precious ballads.

Varyo didn’t care.

His family was one death safer.

“Would you look at that?” Willas breathed in awe, staring up at the flaming pyre of the Hightower in wonder.

Damon held the reins so tightly in his hands that his knuckles were white. “Believe me,” he said. “I’m looking.”

He sat on horseback at the front of the siege line, head tilted towards the sky and the castle that scraped its clouds. The dragon had soared down from the Hightower some time ago, disappearing somewhere outside his field of vision and the vision of the army at his back.

Thank the gods.

Damon wondered how many had fled when the shadow fell over the columns.

“It’s burning brighter now,” Addam declared, slackjawed. His horse fussed beneath him anxiously, scraping at the dirt and whinnying.

We’re all skittish, man and beast alike.

“Dragons are magical creatures,” Willas told the boy solemly. “The blood of Old Valyria, ancient beasts wrought in flame and blood.”

Addam looked to Damon, likely expecting a rebuttal or dismissal, but the King was silent. His gaze had shifted to the gates of Oldtown, which had opened just wide enough to accomodate the single rider that came forth.

“No banner,” Willas noted once he caught sight of the envoy approaching. He glanced nervously to Damon and then Lord Crakehall. “Perhaps Queen Danae simply couldn’t find one…”

No rainbow banner in the entire castle of Hightower or the city of Oldtown. Damon thought that unlikely. Did she mean to make him sweat? It was working.

When the man neared the siege line, Damon saw that his hands held nothing but the reins of his steed, and the knight had no satchel or pack, just the sword at his hip. His face was ghostly pale, his anxious eyes scanning each of the faces at the front of the party in turn before finally resting on the King.

“Your Grace, King Damon,” he said. “Queen Danae Targaryen has bid me send word that Gylen Hightower is dead and his son Gerold has surrendered. She has commanded me to escort you to Battle Island.”

“No bread and salt?” Willas asked the question the rest of the party was undoubtedly wondering themselves.

The envoy managed to look even more nervous at those words. “Her Grace said to tell you that she could not find any, and that she hopes you aren’t hungry.”

It was the longest ride Damon had ever taken. He said not a word, and neither did the knights Tarth or Brax or Oakheart, nor Lord Crakehall or little Addam, nor the column of knights at their backs. Even Captain Willas lapsed into silence, surveying the closed up homes, the empty streets, and finally the wreckage of the harbor.

Ships half sunk were still aflame, and the charred remains of the Reach’s fleet lay littered on the sea’s surface like so much forgotten diftwood. Bodies floated amidst cracked hulls and splintered masts, and the current discarded some onto the shore. Damon could not tear his gaze away.

It was only when they reached the bridge to the island that he forced his eyes back to the road ahead.

Danae.

He hadn’t seen her in so long, and now, mere moments away from laying eyes on her again at last, all he could think about were the words she had uttered a lifetime ago, closing a book of ancient history on the table in front of him and smirking down at him in that certain way of hers.

“Let’s let history repeat itself as you bend the knee to me.”

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

• Part Five

The room had grown silent. Either the fighting had died down outside, or Varyo could no longer hear.

For a long second, he stared into the trapdoor beneath him. It seemed to recede far, far away, beckoning him in.

He closed the false floor with a final slam, pulling up the lever that concealed the entrance as just more floor boards. When he threw the carpet after, dust and a foul musty smell flew up in a draft from under.

The room was a dead end once more.

His hands had started to feel as though they were no longer his own. They belonged to someone else now, or something else.

They trembled too. As he drew his brother's sword, he could barely keep it steady. If it was for rage or fear, he could not tell. They were someone else's.

The steel was well sharpened. Daelys had always kept his longswords immaculate. It was dark in the half-light of that room, shining oily. It reminded him of his shame, his one prayer to that one god.

Demon-reaver he remembered, the thought coming up without bidding.

Now was no time for philosophy. He mumbled a wish under his breath, a desperate prayer. Most like, the last prayer.

My blood for theirs.

With a sigh, he walked to the door and opened it.

Staying low, Varyo ducked behind one of the statues in the corridor. The crossbowman who had stayed lay moaning there. His weapon was loaded though, so he took it.

Further up, a body darted around the corner, a soldier, not one of his own. Varyo broke cover, crossing the hall in a mad dash. He did not aim, but the bolt struck true, taking the foe in the hand and driving it into his leg.

There were three, he realised. They scrambled for their weapons, they must have thought all dead this side.

His longsword took one in the jaw, spattering blood across his plate mail. The next didn't get his shortsword from its sheath before Varyo took off his hand at the wrist.

He did not stop, and left the men screaming. His body was a tightly wound spring, finally unloading. Varyo entered the brothel's main hall.

The darkened hall, like most on Lys today, stank of blood, of death and piss. Left on the floor like Autumn leaves lay the dead, almost coupled in lifeless embrace.

It was into that solitude that Varyo walked, panting and wheezing, graceless and broken. At home, at last.

He was at the dais, on the far end. From here, he could see as far as the main doors, over the raised stadia below, where once She had danced.

Tears came back to his eyes unbidden. He put his arm over them, willing them away, when he heard the shout.

"He is here!"

It had come from above. Opening his eyes, Varyo saw the balconies lined with men. There must have been half a hundred of them. The steel tips of bolts glinted, all pointed at him.

He waited. Then he realised they were waiting too.

"Do it!" He ordered. His voice coarse and desperate "For gods sake, just do it!"

None of them moved, then ahead, through the main arch, the reason why entered.

"Rin!" Varyo exclaimed with all the hate he had left. "You? Why?"

The Lengii woman had come at the head of quite a company. Twenty looked like Assemblymen, most Greens, a couple of other galleries. They were flanked by soldiers, Lyseni men, tall and well garbed.

She did not seem afraid, but she did not answer. Instead, the tall woman let a young bearded man be the first to speak.

"Tyrant!" He spat, coming forward from his peers. "As though you do not know. We have done this to free our city from your domain."

"To free your slaves," agreed a brightly dressed youth from behind him. "Lady Rin only made this possible."

Some of the party did not look particularly enthused with this response, Varyo realised with glum satisfaction. Others nodded furiously, and gave awkward cheers.

They still see this as some great game.

"This is for the best," the first Assemblyman continued. "You gave this city a false pride at the cost of its soul. Our society deserves better than you."

Varyo almost laughed at that.

"It really does not," he responded fiercely. "Look around you, boy. This is what Lys deserved, a stinking brothel, filled with the dead."

It was unfair to his building almost. Its bones were at least not rotting.

"I dreamed it could be better. My wife did. And you snatched it away. You killed my family. Any hope for this city died with them."

The traitors seemed near shocked. They must have assumed that their Prince's end would have been more noble and silent.

He decided right then to not give them that satisfaction.

"This is your glorious restoration?" he asked cruely. "Your grand scheme to put everything right? You rich children playing with your toys and no understanding."

He did laugh. With no humour, no humanity. Just the last rattle of a dying man.

"This city will eat you alive. Your bodies will sink in it. Mark my words. I give you this curse."

The party had quietened. He noticed that they fidgeted, like children caught in a lie. They could not even hold his glare. Only Rin met his eyes, from far away.

"Lys will murder your souls."

Varyo began walking towards them, stepping down to the platform that ran the length of the room. The men on either side lowered their spears and ran in front of their charges.

Only the foreigner did not flinch.

"Now end it," Varyo said softly.

The soldiers did not move. Rin locked eyes once again with him.

"I think you had best leave us," she said to her companions, not turning away. "It is over."

The politicians and traitors left the room, some gladder than others. With a crash, the door slammed shut behind them.

The secretary and the tyrant waited for someone to break the silence. Varyo decided it would be him.

"You didn't do it for their cause, did you?"

"No," chuckled the Lengii, breaking her stance and starting to pace. "I didn't arrange all of this just to free a few slaves. Quite the opposite in fact."

She was waiting for a reaction, surmised Varyo, so he did not give her one.

"I am not who you think I am," she continued. "I am not who they think I am. I have a different master. Someone far from here."

"Who?"

"Does it matter?" The foreigner asked, turning, hands placed on her hips. When he did not answer, she smiled. "I suppose it doesn't. His name is Moreo. He, and his partners are powerful men. Slavers."

"So you are using these Radicals?"

"Just as I used you? Yes."

Rin sighed, raising her hands in a plaintive gesture.

"They are a means to an end. Just as Myr and the Archon of Tyrosh were. Your rivals were grateful to be offered the opportunity to stall Lys’ power,” she continued. “As for the end itself, well, many wise men have discussed your rise to power, and all agreed, your rise meant the fall of slavery in Lys."

"And so a loss of profits," Varyo shot back.

"Yes," admitted the tall woman. "And also no. The fall of slavery in Lys under yourself would have been permanent. And when outsiders saw that you only became more powerful, they would have questioned the institution elsewhere."

She began to pace again. He noticed that she made gestures when she talked, something he had never seen her do before.

"You see, there is an unnatural order to this world. Slavery does not come with birth, rather it is the duty of slavers to prop it up wherever they can."

"You don't seem like much of an idealist," Varyo observed.

"I am not," she agreed. "In fact, I am much like you!"

Rin turned back to face him. Her manner was distractingly pleasant, as though this were a teahouse debate.

"I am a sellsword of a sort," she explained, rolling her head. "I am a professional, an expert in destabilising rivals. Although I must admit you were my biggest prize to date."

She seemed almost sad to be in her position. The position she had worked for months, like an insect burrowing into rotting fruit.

"It is rather a shame, you were doing so well. Perhaps in another life we could have been allies."

The foreigner's pacing had brought her close, finally, tantalisingly.

In a fluid movement, Varyo leapt from the dais, sword over his head. Willing the borrowed blade to bury itself deep in that smug skull.

Faster than he could have thought, the tall woman was away. He landed with a heavy thud.

Three soldiers met him.

"Goodbye," Rin said calmly, falling behind her company.

The beast was free, hacking and whirling. He danced between the bodies, cutting through, begging with every screaming fibre of his corpse to be allowed to strike down the arch-traitor.

A from above, the screaming bolts came down, then a sting, like an angry bug as someone struck his back. The tall woman had vanished behind her men, and all that filled his vision was steel.

A bolt took him in the shoulder. It was like a red hot poker burning his insides, but still he fought. Every part of his body was whirling and striking, he caught a sword in a gloved hand, cutting open the palm, and allowing him to give the owner a blow to the eyes.

He turned, and the sword drank deep of another man, but he could not get it free in time to parry a traitor rushing from his right. He was slower now. Another blossom of pain erupted in his side from a knife.

Then his back. His mouth tasted of metal. It curled into a sneer. He had no one around him now. They had taken distance, and formed a circle.

Like a trapped lion, he turned and wheeled. He could no longer see their faces. He could no longer see.

Varyo felt the third bolt hit him below the shoulder. He fell.

A metal gate opened, Varyo felt a hand in his own, and his nose was filled with the smell of cherry blossoms.

The winding paths through the hills north of the city were well-beaten, but narrow and difficult to march an army through. After a week of marching and resting, they neared the headwaters of the Noyne. Cleos ordered a three-day rest before turning east, and Serjeant Vyros had come to him expressing his gratitude at the order.

“These men need more work with their formations,” he’d said as he found Cleos breaking his fast in his tent. “Most hold the shield well, but can’t tell their cock from the spear.”

“Perhaps we should purchase Unsullied,” Ser Olyvar said as he entered the tent. “There’s no cock to confuse with the spear.”

“We don’t have the money for any significant amount,” Cleos replied, his focus completely on slicing the pork sausage before him.

“It was only a jest, Your Grace.”

Cleos quietly sighed. “Ser Olyvar I’ve told you to st-”

“I know, I know, stop calling you ‘Your Grace,’” the Dornishman interrupted. “Though I find it entertaining, how you seem to hate it so. Your Grace.”

“Vyros, you were saying?” Cleos said, turning his attention back to the Lorathi master serjeant and ignoring Ser Olyvar.

Vyros saluted Olyvar before continuing. “As I was saying, Captain, our heavy infantry could benefit from the time at rest. Nearly half of our new recruits from Norvos have joined the heavy infantry, and haven’t oriented themselves as well to the drills as I’d have hoped.”

“Take today and tomorrow for drilling instruction,” Cleos replied. “Ser Olyvar and I will examine the drills before we pack and march again.” He stood and crossed the floor to where Vyros stood, looking the man in his eyes. “Is that all, Serjeant?”

“It is, Captain.” He bowed before being dismissed and exiting the tent.

Cleos turned his attention to Olyvar, who gave him a nod.

A naturally flat outcropping overlooking the extensive camp in the valley below was where Olyvar led him. A dying tree made a perfect post with which to tie their horses to, and after taking down the packs with their gear, Cleos strolled to the edge, glancing out to the east at a range of mountains substantially far in the distance.

“Beyond those mountains lies our goal,” Olyvar said as he examined the tourney sword he pulled from its position at his mount’s side. “That range marks the western boundary of the Axe.”

Cleos turned, raising a hand to catch a second tourney sword that Olyvar had tossed his way. “How much further?”

Olyvar shrugged. “Some weeks, depending on how much longer we’re at rest.”

“Are you implying we shouldn’t be resting?”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Olyvar replied, whirling his sword around at his side. “Merely an observation.”

He lazily thrust his weapon at Cleos, who slid to the side and quickly parried it away. “You’re not wrong, Ser,” he said as he and Olyvar circled each other. “Resting means less time on the road. Less time on the road means-” he stopped to grunt as he deflected a sideways cut. “Means less ground covered.”

Olyvar finally broke through his defense, jabbing him in the side before whipping his blade around and striking at the outside of his arm.

“Start again,” Olyvar said as Cleos reset his stance.

“How did you do that?” Cleos asked, incredulous.

The middle-aged Dornishman grinned. “I can’t teach you all of my secrets, Your Grace. There’s a reason they call me the Featherblade.”

Cleos rolled his eyes.

Ser Olyvar’s offensive abilities were clearly far superior to his defense, and he managed four more strikes on the young Baratheon. He could feel the bruises beginning to form as their training went on, and was thankful that Olyvar refused to strike at his head.

After three more successes with passing Cleos’ defense, Olyvar determined it was time for a rest.

Cleos strode to a stone beside the tree where their horses waited, leaning his sword beside a large stone and taking a drink from his waterskin. There was a deep ache from the wide bruise on his thigh that he couldn’t see but knew was there.

“Why aren’t we using shields, again?” he asked after wiping his mouth. “Fighting without a shield doesn’t seem very smart.”

“You may not always have a shield on the battlefield,” Olyvar replied. “You need to know how to fight without one. We’ll bring shields tomorrow.”

“Why didn’t you bring Patrek with us? He needs to learn too.” Cleos gnawed at a stiff strip of salt beef they’d brought along.

“Patrek is fine learning from the serjeants,” he spat. “When he proves himself to them, I will teach him.”

Cleos sighed, his thoughts traveling back to the room where they had met with the Norvoshi magisters. Patrek’s words had stolen the coin from the very pockets of his men, earning him the enmity of men from all divisions. He had hoped to keep it quiet, but as Edric had once japed with him, gossip spreads quicker than a whore’s pox through an army camp.

Another thing that couldn’t be kept secret was Ser Olyvar’s disdain for Patrek. Cleos was certain that the Dornishman was the reason for the spread of what had happened in that room. Patrek was a fool, but after Cleos had made his threat he surely wouldn’t be fool enough to let slip his role in it.

But could he be?

“Is something troubling you, Your Grace?”

Yes.

“No. I’m fine.”

Ser Olyvar laughed. “You’re a horrible liar, Cleos. Do you want to know how I know when you’re lying?”

Cleos said nothing, prompting a grin from his companion.

“Mayhaps I won’t tell you, Your Grace. I’ve already learned your tells, why make it more difficult by allowing you to change them?”

“I’m worried about the food,” Cleos finally exhaled, glancing at the strip of beef he still clung to. “The men need the rest, but we only have enough for a month on the march. Every day we rest we eat without gaining on our goal, and we were behind schedule before we stopped.”

“We will reach the Axe with plenty to spare,” Olyvar replied in his Dornish accent. “Especially if we continue sending hunting parties into the hills as we continue on.”

The Baratheon shook his head. “The hills are dangerous. I’m not sure we should be risking them slipping on loose rocks and killing themselves.”

“We can send men out to supplement the food and livestock we’ve purchased, or we can keep them with the host and see our supply dwindle day by day. The choice is not yours alone, Your Grace.”

Cleos gave a wry grin. “I thought people who were called Your Grace could do as they pleased?”

“In Westeros, yes,” the Dornishman replied with a wink. “We are not in Westeros. And if you want to be king, you’ll need to know how to fight. Get up. Your Grace.”

He didn’t get up, only gazed off towards the edge of the outcropping, the fringes of his camp visible just over the drop.

“I don’t want to be a king,” he finally said. “I didn’t want to be a captain in a damned sellsword company.” Cleos turned his gaze back to Ser Olyvar. “I wanted Storm’s End. The only place that was ever truly home to me. And now I have a sellsword company marching through shit and rocks and mud to fight for men who despise us.”

Cleos paused, his eyes dropping to the stony ground beneath his feet. “Now I have no home. And worse, no claim to a home.”

He kept his eyes low but noticed the shadow of Ser Olyvar approaching. The Dornishman planted the tip of his blunted sword as stiffly into the rock as he could before kneeling. He placed a thinly gloved hand on Cleos’ shoulder, prompting the young man to look up and into his dark eyes.

“You are right, Your Grace,” he nearly whispered. “Your home was taken from you. And you have no home right now. But someday you will. Someday you will find your purpose in this world, and your home. I felt the same as you when your father died. I felt a failure, unworthy of my position as Kingsguard, unworthy to call myself friend to him, for why should I when I could not carry out the very duty I existed to carry out?”

He raised his hand, planting it on the back of Cleos’ head. “But then I found this company. I found these men. I found you, the son of the king I swore to protect, and after these years at your side, I’ve come to love you as my own child. If I can find purpose in this world, Your Grace, you surely can. You are the blood of Renly and Trystane Baratheon. Of Stannis and Robert. Of Lyonel and Borros and Orys of old, who cut down Argilac Durrandon and established your very house. You are not your brothers, nor your father, but you are a Baratheon. If any one man can claim to have a place in this world, it is you.”

Cleos let out a sigh. “What if I never find my place?”

Olyvar eyes tightened ever so slightly, and Cleos could feel a fire in his eyes, one he hadn’t seen in quite some time.

“Then you will carve out a place for yourself. And any man who stands in your way will come to know the words of your house. Ours is the Fury. Say it.”

“Ours is the Fury,” he stated firmly, his heart thumping against the inside of his chest as the words left his lips.

“Ours is the Fury,” Ser Olyvar repeated before standing and backing away. “Now. Get off your ass, Your Grace. All of the fury in the world will not save you if you can’t parry a blade.”

Cleos nodded, taking up his blunted weapon and approaching Ser Olyvar, ignoring the stinging pain his bruises gave him as he took the first swing.

Written with Cregan, as Eon Crakehall

Although he sat upon the Iron Throne, Aemon Estermont’s mind was anywhere else.

A small gaggle of smallfolk stood in the throne room, bickering over some family dispute. If he followed it correctly, one of them had died unexpectedly, leading to a vigorous fight over prime tracts of land. The deceased’s daughter was currently jabbing her finger into the chest of an elderly man, accusing him of being absent for the past eight years, only to show up now. None of them seemed particularly interested in Aemon’s take on it, more content to throw bile towards each other at the base of the throne’s steps.

It might have been for the best. While he was doing his best to pay attention, Aemon was distracted by the words that kept running through his thoughts, leftovers from the night in Damon’s chambers.

“You see your children even less often than you see your wife. I’m willing to bet you haven’t a single relationship with any one of them, of those that remain. Elena is here in this castle, isn’t she? How often have you gone to see her? Have you ever?”

“Well?!”

Aemon snapped out of his reverie to find all of them staring expectantly at him.

“A man’s children know him best, and ought to inherit his legacy.” He looked towards the daughter. “Half of the lands shall fall to you, and the rest will be divided up equally among the rest.”

None of the party looked particularly happy with his decision, least of all the daughter, but the resigned grumbles were a marked improvement from the shouting that had preceded them. Aemon waved to the herald, signaling that he had heard enough petitioners for the day, and hobbled down off of his seat.

Eager to find his way to his solar, Aemon was crestfallen to see the busybody steward, Balman, waiting by his desk with his back turned. He whirled about at the sound of Aemon’s boots crossing the threshold.

“Ah! You’re late.”

Aemon looked crossly at him. He’d long since stopped being surprised by the man, who was so focused on his duties that he felt the need - and the ability - to reproach the Hand of the Crown for timeliness. Balman, to his credit, maintained his imperious expression, no doubt practiced from years spent in his station.

“Court was trying,” Aemon offered as he pulled off his boots, hoping it would satisfy Balman.

Unsurprisingly, it did not.

“And delayed. I have the list of names you required. Witnesses, for Symeon Stark’s trial.”

“Surely it can wait until my eyes are rested.”

“With all due respect, Lord Hand, it has waited quite a long while now. Time and tide waits for no man.”

Aemon sighed deeply.

He extended one hand, reaching out to take the list from Balman. As he poured down the page, Balman continued chattering at his side.

“I spoke with Harrold Westerling, and the King has made mention of the importance of keeping the appearance of fairness and impartiality. It will be imperative to consider this while selecting both the witnesses, and the judges involved.”

Aemon stopped to look back up at him. “He will be tried for the murder of the King’s brother, and that of the Lady Paramount of the Reach. Either or both of whom may sit in judgement.”

Balman sniffed and responded tersely. “As is to be expected, given their positions. I don’t doubt they want to see justice done. They are family.”

Aemon scratched at his beard. “So much for impartiality. Many will not call it justice, to be judged by King and kin both.”

Balman made a motion with his shoulders that might have been a shrug.

“I would not call it justice to murder a man at a feast. No matter whose brother it was.”

Aemon was taken aback. In all of his years of service, the only opinions Balman had ever voiced were on the quality of the drapes, the dress of the small council, or the tardiness of the servants.

“Do you have family, Balman?”

“Me? No, my lord. The bricks of the Red Keep are my only family. At birth, I sprouted out of them. When I bed down for the night, I simply climb inside one of the suits of armor and close my eyes.”

Aemon’s eyes narrowed. Balman merely looked back at him, stonefaced.

“You may go now,” he said, dismissing Balman and pouring down the list of potential names.

For all of the talk of family, there was a prominent name missing. Not all of Thaddius’ family would be present.

He recalled when Loren Lannister had received the news, however false, of his son’s death. Archers had swayed from trees all along the Gold Road, from here to Casterly Rock. His wrath had been terribly wrought on men of no names worth noting. Aemon could only imagine how he would have handled Thaddius’ murder within Winterfell’s feast hall.

Loren would have eliminated Symeon Stark and all his kin, without a moment’s hesitation. A trial wouldn’t have even been a consideration.

The lengths men would go for their children was at once a great and terrible thing. Aemon had heard brief mention of a girl, born to Symeon back in the North. Is that what drove him to commit such a heinous crime, to break guest right so boldly?

As his eyes drifted down the parchment, Aemon wondered how many of the names on it had children of their own. Or how many had lost one. For a moment, he was back on the battlefield, the clatter of arms around him as Martin disappeared into the fray.

It dawned on him that there was a better way to measure the character of the people on the list. Eon Crakehall would know them more intimately. Though he was likely the last man trusted to oversee Symeon’s fate, given the last time he was imprisoned, he was nonetheless still the Master of Laws.

He is family now, and a dutiful man who means well. It’s not as if I’d be handing him the keys to Symeon’s cell this time.

The hallways that led to Lord Crakehall’s office were empty and echoing, lit by braziers that needed attending. He entered cautiously, pushing the door open gingerly. Spotting his son-in-law, Aemon hesitated.

“Lord Crakehall?” His voice was brusque and restrained. “Are you available?”

Resting his weary quill on the desk before him, Eon glanced up, gray brow high. “Lord Hand,” he replied, pushing back in his seat, hesitating a moment before fully rising. He offered a tense bow and a warm smile, or at least warm by his standards. “Of course! This is all…” Eon’s voice trailed off as he glanced down at the papers spread out beneath him. He gave a vague wave and shook his head. “How may I be of service?”

Aemon scanned the room before his eyes returned back to the Master of Laws. “I know you’ve been… otherwise tasked as of late. Still, I would appreciate your experience with a matter for the trial. Might you examine the list of witnesses to call?”

Tight-lipped and firm-jawed, Eon’s face was stoic as ever, but his eyes betrayed surprise. “Oh. Why, yes, I’d be glad to… take a look.” Making an almost visible effort not to appear too eager, Eon accepted the parchment with a shallow nod.

His practiced gaze ran over the parchment, nodding with recognition at many of the names. He reached for a quill, occasionally pausing to cross off one or another.

“You can do without this man’s testimony; he’s a known liar and a cheat. Every month he turns up at the gate, claiming his ‘daughter’ was robbed. Always a different woman.”

Aemon nodded solemnly.

Eon continued on, muttering under his breath to himself. “There. The rest should be in order.”

“Thank you kindly, Lord Crakehall.”

“You are quite welcome, Lord Estermont,” Eon replied with a courteous nod, though his eyes were on the door. Clearing his throat, his gaze shifted back to Aemon, and there was nearly-concealed apprehension there.

Aemon looked about the room again, his gaze resting on the door that led from the Master of Laws’ solar into his personal chambers.

He cleared his throat before speaking. “Have you been well?

“Yes. Yes, I have. Quite well,” answered the old boar with all the charm and personableness of his sigil. “And yourself?”

“Well as any man can be. Particularly in my station. The Hand doesn’t have the luxury of being unwell.” He massaged a tender knot in his palm.

“Glad to hear it, that you’re well. It’s a pleasant way to be.”

“Indeed.”

There was a heavy silence for a while, neither man daring to speak up or cross the gulf that lay between them. It was only a few feet, with a worn wooden desk as the only obstacle. Yet it felt wider than when Aemon stood on the deck of the Lady Jeyne and stared out at the featureless horizon.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Lord Hand?”

Elena is here in this castle, isn’t she? How often have you gone to see her?

“I would be remiss if I did not ask after my daughter.” His fingers worked over his sore knuckles. “How has she been since your wedding?”

A heavy pause, followed by his son-in-law’s deep throat clearing. A broad hand rubbed at his beard for a moment before Eon finally replied. “Lady Elena has been well as well.”

“That is...reassuring,” he said, without the slightest hint of reassurance. “I’m quite familiar with the… effort that must be placed into a marriage like yours.”

“I’m certain no marriage is without its challenges,” Eon allowed, forest-hued eyes downcast, “But your daughter is more than I could have wished for in a wife.”

“Her mother claims that she takes after me, though Jeyne was much the same when we wed. And for the next few decades, to tell the truth of it.” Aemon realized how little comfort that might have been, as soon as it left his mouth.

“Lord Gerion had little concern for compatibility between Jeyne and I, when he bid me visit Casterly Rock for the first time. Perhaps it’s simply a Lannister trait.”

For a moment, Eon froze, uncertain, but then a smile was permitted, and for once, it seemed to reach his eyes. “Aye, perhaps it is.”

Aemon cleared his throat again, and attempted to straighten out his shirt. “Well, I wish the both of you better fortune than her mother and I. Perhaps one day you’ll have a family of your own.”

The flash of humor faded swiftly, and Eon cleared his throat, broad chest rumbling as he did. “I, uhm… Perhaps one day. Though, these days… I should not hold my breath for grandchildren, Lord Aemon.”

“I see.”

Aemon rubbed his knuckles once more, his expression downturned. “I’m sure she’ll grow to become more familiar with you, in time. At the very least, you both inhabit the same castle, and don’t have the width of the Seven Kingdoms between you two.”

“Aye, as you say.”

Studying his son-in-law’s face, Aemon began to doubt the truth of his previous statement.

“When you see her next, tell her I came to call. And that-,” he paused, unsure of what sort of message to leave the daughter he hadn’t seen in many moons.

“Tell her she always knows where to find me.”

“I shall tell her the moment I see her,” Eon answered, dutiful, nodding. A cloud of hesitation rested on his brow before he added, an aside, “Whenever that might be.”

Aemon nodded solemnly, turning to exit the solar. He strode his familiar path back to the Tower of the Hand, list of witnesses gripped tight in one hand. At least he could count that task complete.

Returning to his solar, he melted a stick of wax over a lonely candle, and pressed the seal of the Hand onto the document.

It still looked foreign to him. He’d seen numerous sigils accompanying the seal over his many years, and yet the one that struck him as the most memorable was Loren’s lion. The Estermont turtle seemed a less distinguished replacement, preceded by so many Great House of Westeros.

What kind of Hand would he be remembered as? Would the maesters write of him in the manner of Myles Smallwood and Septon Murmison, the great failures? He hoped he’d be remembered more fondly, or at least as competent. Aemon wasn’t sure he’d ever step out of the imposing shadow of Loren Lannister, but he was committed to the slow, steady effort he’d known all his life.

Aemon had no notion of how fair the history books would be to him, but he knew how he wished to be judged. At heart, he was always a sailor first, a lord second, and if the gods were kind, his tenure as Hand would measure up to both of those.

If they were kinder, he might even one day be half as good as a father.

“It’s harmless to children,” the Maester assured her. “It’s just uncomfortable. Why, I’m certain you wailed just as much when you had your redspots.”

Ashara gazed down into the small bed, where Loras was tossing and turning, tears pouring out of his little green eyes. He’d been scratching so much that the Maester had to clip his nails, and only the threat of mittens caused him to grip his blankets instead of continuing to tear at his delicate skin.

“Father wouldn’t let me scratch,” she said shortly, forcing herself to look away. “He said I would ruin my pretty face.”

“Well, redspots can scar,” Maester Cellador said comfortably. “That and the near-immunity to redspots in the future are the only lasting effects to a child who contracts it. There are rare cases where it can become something far worse--but that’s only if the mother contracted her redspots during her pregnancy. I think we can safely say that’s not the case here.”

Ashara just nodded.

“Don’t worry, your ladyship,” he said cheerfully, scooping Loras out of his bed. Loras mumbled something that might have been a curse, had he known any and been old enough to use one. Ashara turned away, her throat tight. “We’re going to give him a cold bath with some vinegared wine and basil. He’ll be right as rain in no time--isn’t that right, my little Lord Hightower?”

“Blegh,” said Loras, scrunching his face.

“That’s the spirit.”

After Maester Cellador left, carrying Loras who stuck his tongue out at her over the Maester’s shoulder, Ashara slowly lowered herself into the nursemaid’s chair, feeling the ice in her veins melt.

It’s nothing. The Maester said it was nothing.

I could have lost him, she retorted coldly. Does that mean nothing to you? Are you so used to losing people that you’ll stop caring the moment your Maester says your son is fine? You should be by his side day and night, making sure he’s getting better, looking for any little sign of recovery or worsening. Why are you letting someone else do it?

Because I have an entire Kingdom to worry about, she told herself, though her inner voice was laced with doubt.

The demon in the shape of a dragon, a wooden dragon, its teeth and claws on fire, whispered, Which comes first, your power or your family? Or can you not tell which is which, Ashara Lannister?

She had no answer to that.

An eternity seemed to pass before there was a knock on the half-open door.

“Enter,” she called, though she knew it was Wilifer by the knock and the pipe-smell that perfumed the air around him like some sort of exotic, smoky garden.

He nodded. In his hand was the ever-present pile of correspondence.

“Oh, good,” she muttered, resting her chin on her hand.

“Beg pardon, milady?”

“Nothing, Wilifer. Sit.”

He did, in the only other chair in the room not sized for a three-year-old lordling. “You’ll have to excuse me, milady,” he said, his mouth puckered into a frown. “I wouldn’t usually bother you with letters until all the ravens were in for the evening, but I’m afraid there’s a matter of some small urgency.”

“Oh?” Ashara said with forced calm, her mind immediately leaping to reports of a new, deadly form of redspots running rampant throughout the Reach.

“Yes, milady. A raven from Southshield.”

“Southshield?” She visibly relaxed. “A plea for aid, I take it? Haven’t the Shield Islands rebuilt themselves already?”

“It’s nothing to do with that. The new Lady Serry has sent her stepdaughter to serve you as a handmaiden.”

“I see.” She looked at him for a moment. It was sort of look her father would have given someone who presented half-cooked pork at table. “And why is this so urgent?”

Wilifer, alas, looked completely unperturbed. “Because, milady, the raven was delayed by the storm four days ago. The young Lady Serry arrived an hour before the raven did, and is sitting in your great room looking more lost than a Dornishman in the North.”

“And you didn’t send her up to the solar?”

“Begging your pardon, milady, but if I sent everyone up to your solar who claimed they’d been introduced by raven, you would never get any sleep.” He produced a letter, the seal of the swirled rose of Serry already carefully broken by his small, neat bladestrokes. “Here’s her introduction, if you’d care to read it.”

Ashara took the proffered letter and skimmed it briefly. Cyrenna Serry...daughter of Lord Alyn Serry...plays the harp...falconry...writes poetry and letters...unable to find a husband at home, perhaps a change of scenery will be good for her...seven-and-ten, will turn eighteen within the month…

“Send her to my solar,” she said, after a moment. “We’ll see what we can make of this Serry girl.”

“Yes, milady.”

Ashara waited until her castellan had left before rising. Seventeen and unmarried, she mused, climbing the stairs of the Hightower. Father would have thrown a fit if I had been seventeen and unmarried. No highborn woman should be that age and unbetrothed. Not unless there’s something terribly wrong with you…

The lights were low in the solar. The chambermaid must have not come in yet to stoke the fire and light the lamps for the evening. There was a figure sitting by the small, circular dining table, hunched over like a gnome in a dark green cloak.

“Cyrenna Serry?”

The figure leapt to its feet like a deer sensing a hunter. “Yes, your ladyship.” Her voice was hoarse. Had she been crying? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any confusion…”

She dropped a curtsey. It could use some work, Ashara noted--but the thought immediately left her head as the Serry girl raised her eyes to meet her new liege. One eye was a perfectly normal hazel, common to girls in the Reach. The other was milk-white and dead. With the shadows of her solar, Cyrenna looked like a hungry spook, come to claim her soul.

Preposterous, both of her inner voices whispered at the same time. She’s just a pathetic highborn girl with a blind eye, that’s all. No wonder she couldn’t get a husband.

“You may sit,” Ashara said after a moment, once she’d gotten hold of herself again. “I have your stepmother’s letter. You are welcome in my keep for the moment.”

Cyrenna dropped back into her seat somewhat less than gracefully as Ashara took her chair opposite. “Thank you very much, your ladyship.”

“Your stepmother said you could play the high harp as well as ride, hawk, and write letters. Is this true?”

“Yes, your ladyship,” she said, in the same rough voice. “I can also dance, embroider and manage a small household.”

“My household is managed by my steward, Wilifer. I’m afraid your householder skills will go largely unused here. Can you sing or recite?”

“No, your ladyship,” Cyrenna said in a small voice.

“Why not?”

“No one wants to hear me sing with this voice.”

“I’m sure it’s fine when you’re not in the throes of a cold,” Ashara said, not unkindly. “Were you simply never taught?”

Cyrenna flinched as though she’d been slapped. “My voice doesn’t change, your ladyship. This is how I have spoken since I learned to talk.”

“Ah.” Ashara was somewhat taken aback. No wonder she’s unbetrothed at seven-and-ten, the poor thing. “Well, then.”

“Will you send me home?” The expression on Cyrenna’s half-dead face was an odd mixture of terror and...hope? What does she have to be hopeful about? Dying an old maid?

“No, I won’t. But it does change my expectations somewhat.”

Cyrenna waited. Everything she does looks as though she’s being hunted. Did I look like this at her age?

“You’ll sleep adjacent to my solar, in the chamber my former handmaidens used to occupy. I haven’t had any since my...well, since Loras was born, so the room is yours for the moment. In the mornings, you’ll help my maidservant dress me, and we’ll take breakfast together. Should I need you for riding, walking, or other activities, you’ll accompany me at those times. In the evenings, you’ll go through my correspondence, and anything very important you’ll direct to me--otherwise it goes to Wilifer. I don’t keep a very strict schedule, but all I ask is that you be present when I need you.”

Cyrenna nodded, but she hadn’t lost that look of trepidation.

“Yes?” Ashara asked tersely, after a moment.

“Will I be...expected to speak with your voice, milady?”

“What do you mean?”

“Taking...audiences. Speaking to smallfolk and the like for you.”

“No,” Ashara said, and was pleased to see her new handmaiden’s shoulders loosen in relief. “You will be required to be present when I need you, but I do not expect you to sit the throne when I am ill or indisposed. That is not the duty of a handmaiden.”

Good, Cyrenna’s one good eye seemed to say, though she kept silent.

Ashara rose. “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping, and we’ll have a servant bring your things up after supper. Then I’ll take you to meet my son, Loras. You have had your redspots, have you not?”

A shadow passed over Cyrenna’s face. “Of course, your ladyship.”

“Excellent. Oh, and Cyrenna--” She paused to look the girl in the eye. “While we are in the Hightower, you may feel free to call me Ashara. “Your ladyship” will do in public, but here, you are my friend and confidante and it wouldn’t do to have that wall between us.”

“Yes, your lady--Ashara.”

“Very good. Come this way, and mind the stairs.”