Author's Note: My break after A Dragon of Duskendale didn't even last a week.

I didn't plan to be back to posting another story so soon or maybe ever again, but this idea ambushed me a day ago and I somehow found myself writing it. This fic is even less planned out than my previous one had been when I started it, but I suppose there is no harm in giving it a whirl.

This story will have a lot of content from the Sansa Stark/Alayne Stone preview chapter of The Winds of Winter, so make sure to check that out (an online version is easy to find via google if you haven't already read it). It has been a good while since I read the books, but I will try to keep my facts straight from the events already published. Afterwards I imagine it is at my discretion. There will likely be some show elements thrown in as well down the line. As A Dragon of Duskendale was centered around an OC, this fic will likewise feature a character from my imagination. I know that isn't everyone's cup of tea, but I urge you to at least give it a try!

I don't truly know where this story will go, but at least we'll all be surprised together. Please leave me a review if you have the time, and I hope you enjoy.

The rain fell in heavy droves, soaking man and beast and cobblestone. It carried with it the smell of the sea, crisp and fresh with subtle undertones of seaweed and algae, as well as a chill that had been increasing steadily over the past months. Other aromas, neither of rain nor of the ocean, hung heavy over Gulltown, resonating from the always busy market square; Valemen merchants were not easily deterred from any chance to make a profit, much less by something so trivial as a rainstorm. The booths and shops were still a beehive of activity, consumers pulling the hoods of their heavy cloaks over their heads as they hustled from shop to booth to shop, haggling with round-faced men over dragons and coppers. The docks were likewise busy no doubt, traders from all the Free Cities and other exotic venues loading or unloading their cargos of jade or furs or precious metals.

No, rain didn't stop the flow of trade in Gulltown, but he nearly took it as an excuse to forsake this unpleasant duty. At least I spotted Ronald in one of his shops; the man knows what his daughter is doing and with who, so he clearly doesn't care, but I still find it awkward when he's present when I flush my cousin out of his daughter's bedchambers.

Ser Hadrian Hardyng rode at a slow pace up the cobblestones streets, hood pulled over hair the color of cornsilk. No one paid him much mind, walking or riding by the broad figure atop the brown palfrey with little or no notice of him. That suited Hadrian just fine, for undue attention rarely did anyone any good. As far as anyone was concerned he was just another knight going about his business, a squire trailing along behind.

That's what Ser Hadrian preferred. It was also the truth, which made things pretty simple.

It had been raining consistently enough that a miniscule stream of water had begun to run down the side of Larra's Street as it began to rise in the incline towards Larra's Hill, random bits of debris occasionally floating along on the small currents path towards the sea. Hadrian didn't know who Larra was, but she must have been quite the figure in Gulltown's early history. There was a street, a hill and a merchant's square named after her, having carried the woman's name for millennia. Perhaps she had been a Shett, the First Man family that had once been Kings of Gulltown, or maybe a Grafton, the Andal bloodline that had ruled it since betraying Osgood III Shett after allying with him against a Royce king. It didn't truly matter, for a hill was a hill and a street was a street no matter who they were named after, but Hadrian had always been mildly curious.

Perhaps Larra was a particularly promiscuous woman, in which case I'm certain there will one day be a Saffron Hill as well.

He knew the route well by now, having made this trek more than thrice over the last half a year or so. He'd made it so many times, in fact, that Big Bolson at the door was awaiting him the stables instead of his customary position in the foyer of the cobblestone mansion of Gulltown's richest spice merchant. Big Bolson was certainly a big man, six and a half feet of thick muscle and thicker beard. The black broken wheel of House Waynwood was stretched across his green surcoat, the handle of a longaxe peeking over his right shoulder. He said nothing as Hadrian trotted his brown into the small stable; neither did the stablemaster, as used to these visits as Bolson was and already moving to tend to the knight and his squire's horses.

Hadrian swung out of his saddle, heavy boots hitting the hay strewn floor of the stables. With a groan he stretched, his shoulders and back popping, before speaking to the stablemaster. "Just give them a quick rubdown and bag of oats, and prepare Harrold's palomino and the horses of his guardsmen. We'll be leaving again soon."

The stablemaster gave a quick nod, gesturing towards one of his young grooms to hurry after the feed. "Yes Ser."

The broad knight clapped him lightly on the back before turning to his squire, a reedy boy of two and ten. "Albar, give him a hand. I'll be back shortly." The lordling from Fair Isle nodded, sliding off his black palfrey to set to work. "Good lad." Still twisting his torso in an attempt to work the stitch out of his back, Ser Hadrian started at a slow walk towards the mansion, hood still pulled over his head to fend off the rain.

Big Boson fell into step beside him, standing a good four or five inches taller than the knight though they were of equal build through the chest and arms. "I wondered when you'd show up, Ser. We've been in Gulltown for two whole days, and he's spent nearly every hour of it here."

"Lady Anya opted to let him have his fun before sending me after him. I imagine she hopes it will keep my cousin relatively settled for our time at the Gates of the Moon, though I myself doubt it."

Big Boson wisely didn't comment his own opinion. "I suppose I shall rouse the men, then. We'll be awaiting you in the courtyard."

Hadrian nodded. "Make it quick, Bolson. We both know Lady Anya despises being made to wait."

The two split as they neared the entrance to the mansion, the captain of the guards going right towards the guest housing while Hadrian stepped under the shelter of the portico, columns of marble on either side of him. Ronald, the baseborn owner of this admittedly beautiful two-story stack of stone and dark wood, had made a fortune with a shipping company he started with only the small fishing boat his father had left him. Now the merchant owned a fleet of over one hundred trading galleys and a dozen warships to protect them, trading in exotic goods from as far away as Qohor and the Summer Isles. His mansion reflected his wealth, his sprawling two-story residence surrounded by gardens of daylilies and roses, a hedge maze, pavilions and marble statues. It was the crown jewel of Larra's Hill, which was covered from base to peak with the homes of Gulltown's merchants.

Ser Hadrian always felt out of place here, his own upbringing much more humble. House Hardyng had commanded their small but hardy castle of Hardvale and the lands accompanying it for centuries, but they were only landed knights. Powerful landed knights, for they commanded near five hundred men and had a score of other knights sworn to them, but landed knights all the same. They could not deliver justice on their own land, instead having to appeal to House Waynwood, who held dominion over their lands. Though not poor, they were far from rich, and Hadrian felt uncomfortable surrounded by such blatant displays of wealth.

It was worse when he stepped inside.

The chandelier was Tyroshi crystal, the stairs made of goldenheart wood from the summer Isles. More statues, at least one from each of the Free Cities, lined the halls leading to either side, occupying pedestals in evenly-spaced recesses. Rugs from Myr, torch sconces with silver finishes…wealth was in every corner, and Ronald was fond of telling guests all about it; Hadrian only knew so much about the details of the furnishing because he had heard the spiel from the fat merchant a dozen times. The knight was very grateful he wasn't here now, for if he were Hadrian had no doubt he'd hear it all again.

Perhaps if he had been as adamant about protecting his daughter's virtue as he was flaunting his wealth I wouldn't be here. If only the Seven had so blessed me.

Neither of Ronald's guards guarding the entrance—when you were filthy rich, you needed to take precautions to protect that wealth—bothered to follow the knight as he started up the stairs. They'd both seen him here enough times to hardly even notice his arrival anymore, and the servants were much the same. Hadrian climbed the steps of goldenheart and walked down the second-story hall unbothered, his only interactions an occasional servant begging his pardon.

Hadrian thanked the Seven when he heard no sinly sounds coming from Saffron's chambers; he'd interrupted his cousin and the merchant's daughter amidst their lovemaking more than once, and his skin had nearly crawled off his body each time. Even so Hadrian knocked loudly on the thick oaken doors, raising his baritone voice. "Harrold, it is time to go."

A sleepy voice answered him from the other side of the doors a few moments later, feminine and certainly not his cousin's. "He'll be just a moment, Ser Hadrian." The broad-shouldered knight ground his teeth at Saffron's voice; the girl had a bold promiscuity that any good woman would fine shameful, but drove young men who thought with the wrong part of their body absolutely mad. It had certainly pulled in Harrold. But then again, anything with breasts will pull in Harrold.

Hadrian loved his cousin well enough, but the lad was as wild at heart as any noble in Westeros, and had been since he was three and ten—Hadrian had been saving his younger cousin from angry fathers and stilted lovers since Harry had figured out what his manhood could do. He found it shameful for a potential future Lord of the Vale to make a habit of sleeping with the daughters of future bannermen, but then again he also understood the forces that drove men of that age. He'd felt them himself once.

Then he had met Mary Moore, and everyone else seemed completely insignificant. She had been gone for four years now, yet Hadrian still loved her as fiercely as he ever had.

Harry took his sweet time in opening the door, but Hadrian had known he would. His cousin gave him a cocky grin when he finally did, his tunic hanging loose and untucked, sandy hair messy. Hadrian knew why young women such as Saffron were so drawn to the young heir to the Vale; Harry had deep blue eyes and dimples when he smiled, and his frame was muscled from years of training at arms. Clean-limbed with an aquiline nose, he looked the part of a future Lord Paramount, even if he acted like the careless lad a year shy of twenty that he was.

Though they shared a grandfather, Hadrian and Harrold only had a marginal likeness. Hadrian was six years his cousin's elder, the youth of nine and ten having been replaced by the harder lines of five and twenty. They shared the same Hardyng eyes and both were on the tall side, but there the physical similarities all but ceased. Harry had sandy blonde hair and an aquiline nose, while Hadrian's hair was cornsilk and his own nose had been broken twice. Harry was lean and agile, while his elder cousin was broad as a bull and more reliant on brute force than speed. Even so, they were even more unalike in personality; Harry the Heir was gregarious and playful, while Hadrian was quieter and serious. The younger cousin loved to tell stories and boast, while the elder instead listened and chimed in only when he deemed it necessary.

Harry slept with everything that had two breasts and a heartbeat, while Hadrian hadn't touched a woman since Mary.

Yet Hadrian still loved his cousin, for it was certainly hard not to. "Boson and your guardsmen should be near to ready. It is time."

Harry's grin turned into a smile as he opened the door wider. A massive, four-poster bed resided in the room behind him, a very pregnant girl with dark hair tangled in its sheets. Hadrian let his eyes fall on Saffron only a moment before he looked back to Harry, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. His cousin laughed, slapping Hadrian lightly on the shoulder. "Sometimes I wonder if there is any warm blood in your veins, cousin."

"There is plenty in Lady Anya's, and we will both feel it full force if you don't get a move on."

Harry laughed again—laughter came easy and often to the young knight—and turned back towards the room. "Aye, I imagine you're right. Give me just a moment. Step in if you wish; Saffron has a wonderful view of the docks."

Hadrian didn't, standing with his hands clasped behind his back as Harry rummaged around Saffron's floor for the rest of his clothing. The merchant's daughter chattered at her lover, one hand on the swelling belly where their bastard child was growing, but Hadrian paid her words no mind. He wasn't fond of the girl or her of him, though Hadrian had always treated her with respect. Saffron was as shrewd of mind as she was promiscuous of body, and knew quite well what her lover's cousin thought of her. The Seven say you must be kind to women; they never said you have to like all of them.

Harry finally left her with a kiss and vow to return soon, closing the doors of her chambers behind him, his clothing and hair still ruffled. By the time the two men of House Hardyng stepped back into the pouring rain and the cold of the outside he had corrected both, looking as noble as any man ever did. His personal heraldry was embroidered on his tunic, the red and white diamonds of House Hardyng and black wheel of House Waynwood in the first and third quarters of a shield outline, the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn in the second and fourth. The same color scheme decorated both his shield and the trappings of his warhorse, whereas Hadrian had kept to the simple field of diamonds. Then again, Hadrian's mother was a Branfield, whereas Harrold's had been of Arryn blood.

Harry nudged his cousin in the ribs as he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. "One of these days you'll warm up to Saffron, Hadrian."

The elder cousin shook his head slightly. "Not bloody likely."

Harry only laughed again. "I don't understand your issue with her. She will be the mother of my child for the sake of the Seven."

"Your second and bastard child, and don't take the gods in vain. Unlike you, I'm not so certain the child is yours in any case. You told me yourself she was no maid when first you had her, even if I wished you hadn't shared such detail."

"Oh, the child is mine alright. Saffron may not be the chastest of maidens, but she knew what she had when she took me into her bed. There is a good reason why she never grew with child until she and I became entangled. I assumed you would admire her shrewdness. Besides, my knack for procreation isn't hurting anyone."

Hadrian shrugged, though he imagined Harry had the right of it. "Is it not? I imagine there is a girl at the Gates of the Moon who will most certainly be hurt when she learns of it, assuming she hasn't already."

That shattered Harry's good mood quite quickly. "That is damnable folly. I am to be the future Lord of the Vale; the daughter of a lord as minor as Petyr fucking Baelish is not a suitable match, much less a bastard daughter."

Hadrian personally agreed with his young cousin, but he had always played the role of opposing advocate. "You are a potential future Lord of the Vale, not a guaranteed one. Besides, Lord Baelish is Lord of Harrenhal and the Lord Paramount of the Trident; those are no minor lordships in themselves, much less when together."

Harry snorted as they neared the stables, the sound of creaking leather and muffled voices coming from within. "Hollow lordships the both of them; they were granted to him by King Joffrey, and King Joffrey is dead. My father should never have agreed to this match, even if Baelish is the so-called Lord Protector of the Vale."

"Your father is sworn to Lady Anya, and Lady Anya supported this match. Ser Wallace was only doing as any good bannermen would."

Harry wasn't finished pouting, grumbling to himself as he stepped into the dryness of the stable. Even so, Hadrian heard part of what he had to say. "Uncle Gillum would never have agreed to it."

Aye, in that you have the right of it. Ser Wallace Hardyng and his younger brother Gillum were as opposite as Hadrian and Harry were. Wallace was cold and serious, whereas Gillum had been as hot-blooded as Harry. Our fathers could have switched sons; I'm more like Uncle Wallace than Harry will ever be, and Harry is more like my father than I could ever dream of being. Gillum had been a fierce, lively man who took whatever he wanted, having married Leah Branfield and had Hadrian before his elder brother had even thought of marrying Dahlia Waynwood, the daughter of Alys Arryn. He would have argued viciously against any of his blood marrying the bastard daughter of one of the poorest lords in the Vale.

But Ser Gillum Hardyng had died on the walls of Pyke two and ten years earlier, and Ser Wallace had followed his liege Lady's lead. Still, Hadrian regretted bringing the bastard girl—this Alayne Stone—up; Harry's surliness would make for a grating ride.

Hadrian's squire Albar Farman was holding the reins of Breeze, Hadrian's plain but surefooted palfrey mare. His warhorse, the huge blood bay he had unoriginally named Charger, was being brought along with Lady Anya's retinue from Ironoaks. The destrier was well-suited to battle, but his gate would jar Hadrian's hipbones into his chest if he rode him every day. The knight took the reins with a nod to the young boy, who scurried onto his own black palfrey as Hadrian swung atop Breeze. Harry mounted his palomino gelding, giving neither the stablemaster nor Big Boson and the guardsmen so much as a glance before he kicked him into action, trotting out of the stable into the pouring rain. Hadrian flipped the stablemaster a copper and followed.

Hadrian moved Breeze into position beside Harry while the others followed along behind, two of the guards holding banners, one of House Hardyng and the other of House Waynwood. The elder knight reached out to ruffle Harry's hair, causing the younger to jerk his head away with a muttered curse. "Where are we to meet my kinswoman?"

"Lady Anya should have already left Ironoaks. We are to rendezvous with her a few day's ride from the Gates of the Moon."

Harry kicked his horse into a gallop, thundering out of the yard of his lover's mansion and down Larra's Street. This is going to be a long trip. With a sigh, Hadrian rode after him.