Father against Son 6

The celebration went on long into the night. The men cheering and drinking around the fires; camp followers plying their trade in the gaps between tents for a few coppers. Watch towers were manned, but none expected a return for Durran's shattered host. The dismounted knights had been unable to outrun the enemy when the battle turned against them. A three hundred and four had met their deaths on the field, and hundreds others wounded, yet more were captured, along with the lords they were to serve. Of the enemy levies, thousands littered the field, along with the men of his father's host. He had lost fewer knights, less than two hundred, and all captives had been freed after the battle, but Durran's charge had torn through his foot like a razor through rice paper. Plenty would not be returning, slain by sword or spear or trampled by the destriers of Durran's host or left to drown in the slush made by the rain.

The trophies of war were heaped in great piles outside the camp, one pile for useful things, one for those unserviceable, and one for those that might be salvaged with work. Heaps of swords and spears, shields and boots, belts, knives and quivers, shirts of mail, boiled leather and cloaks upon cloak, sigil upon sigil. The piles had been larger earlier, but Jasper had let the men take their trophies. Peasants were not permitted to bear swords, but many would be returning with a sharper knife than before, or a proper spear where once they'd had a sling or a pitch fork, an iron helmet in place of a cloth cap and a pair of stout leather boots to replace their own cloth shoes, fallen apart in the war. All would go with a story of their bravery and talent, about how they had slain a thousand foes, all the while praying that they never got called to battle again.

He walked past them in silence, the men at arms on duty barely acknowledging his passing, watching out for looters who would take more than their share.

His torch made the shadows of the banners twist into grinning masks on the grass before being consumed by the light. He ignored them and focussed on the ring of flaming braziers just outside the camp. Surrounded by men of the order, and encompassing a sea of cages jutting up from the grasses like ugly armoured fists. The prisoners were kept away from the camp and the light, surrounded by a strong guard. Lord Wendwater had suggested ringing them with steel in the centre of the camp. But so many knightly captives had been taken that his father feared putting them in the heart of his army, surrounded by weapons.

The lords had been invited to dine with their victors, but there was one who had refused, and so Arlan was bringing his brother food in the cage.

"My Prince," said Ser Robert Monkton of the Order, the knight assigned to lead the guard of the prisoners. His left arm was in a sling, but the maester had assured him that he wouldn't lose it. "Are you here for your brother?"

He nodded. "We all need to eat, Ser Robert."

The knight nodded. "He's in the centre, over there," he pointed with his good arm.

"Thank you." He walked smartly past the cages of knights, sitting around in circles, eating the food provided for them, but Arlan ignored them all. Some gave him a look, but none said anything.

He found the cage he was looking for. Another knight guarded it, his black helm hardly visible in the darkness. "Open the door," he commanded. He nodded, and opened the cage. He slid the torch into a brazier as he passed. "Brother."

Durran was hunched against the cage wall, knees pulled up and eyes staring at the ground between them. He looked up slowly. "Arlan," he said in a dead voice, cold and lifeless as the earth he was sat on. "What do you want?"

"How are you?" He asked, ignoring the venom in his brother's voice.

Durran snorted like a boar. "Of course, brother, let's sit here and discuss how I am, or I'll sit anyway, it's not like I can go anywhere else." He rattled the chains at him like a child's toy. "Well, I am doing very well," gone was the venom, instead there was sarcasm. "I don't know how my friends are doing or even if all of them are alive; I'm cold, wet, tired, aching all over and my own father is likely planning to take my head off. How about you, Arlan, how are you?"

"Father isn't going to kill you, don't be absurd." How could his brother think that? Perhaps it was the chains, or the hunger. "Here, eat something."

"I'm not hungry, Arlan."

"Is that why you refused father's invitation to dine with him?"

"I will not be served like a dog at the table!" He snarled, his eyes flashing hard and cold. "I will not sit there and listen to him celebrate his victory in front of me!"

Arlan placed the tray of food on the ground, too far for Durran to just knock it over in anger. "Of course he's celebrating, he just won the battle to keep his throne."

"How many bloody times do I have to say it? I wasn't after father's fucking throne!" He slumped back. "Where's Robert?" He asked, calmer. "Where's our brother?"

"Alive and well," he assured Durran. "Lord Commander Horpe captured him and had him escorted from the field under escort."

A flash of relief lit his brother's face momentarily. "I'm glad."

Robert had struggled against his captors, but in the end, he was but a boy, barely a year older than Cat. "He believed in you to the end of that battle, likely still does. They all did."

The rebels had been vehement in their support of his brother. More than half of the lords had refused to raise their cups to any of the toasts at dinner, and several had upended them. "I offered them a... better future than father. They fought for that. Nearly won it as well."

Arlan raised his eyebrows. "We have most of them in chains now. The rebellion is over. You didn't seem to win it to me."

Durran looked at him. "You saw how close I was to winning. I nearly had father. Had you not interfered I would have taken him captive and the battle would have been mine. Even with you, I nearly won."

He remembered the sight of Durran's knights tearing through his father's front line like a hot knife through softened butter. "It was a bold plan." He said. "I wouldn't have thought you'd be so willing to fight that way against someone as experienced as father."

Durran looked at him. "I know how father fights his battles. He's taught me enough. He reacts. He holds to take the first blow and then reacts to it. It's how he taught me, and confirmed by how he set up his forces. The foot in the centre, four lines deep, with the order on either flank, himself behind. They were buffers, meant to hold against an assault and bog it down while he won in other areas of the battle and then struck against the stymied assault. So I took the options away from him. While my knights charged the centre I had my other forces hold down his flanks. My archers drew his knights away from the line on the left, your right, and we matched wall for wall on the right, your left. There wasn't any other support in the centre when my knights carved through his line. You saw how quickly it shattered apart. We had nearly reached him. If he turned to retreat, or if he'd tried to stand against my charge alone, he'd have lost."

"But he did hold," Arlan reminded his brother, lost in the melancholy of what might have been. "And you lost."

"He held, true, in some small part thanks to your intervention. Had those men not come in, we'd likely have reached father regardless. But make no mistake, brother, you didn't win that battle, nor did father, not his experience, his skill or his right to rule as he so wishes. The rain won your battle for you."

"The rain?"

Durran nodded. "Had we not been forced to dismount we'd have reached father and taken him. Instead, we had to dismount, and a knight is suddenly far less terrifying to the levies when he is afoot, and the men of the order are trained fighters, though they aren't as good as their knights. On the equal footing, the your numbers prevailed." He let out a breathy laugh. "The future of our dynasty, decided by the rain. That would be another battle that was decided by father by the weather. He does have luck in that regard."

"Father-"

"Would no doubt berate me for trying to reach him through four lines of footmen. But he can't deny they shattered like glass before a warhammer." He shook his head. "I was so close," he whispered.

He crouched down. "Durran... brother, this isn't the end for you, for any of us. He held out a piece of salt beef. "Eat, regain your strength." His brother's arm lashed out, knocking the beef from his grip and making it drop into the mud with a squelch.

"Leave me be, brother."

Arlan bowed his head. His father had said this might be the case. Durran might refuse to see reason for sorrow at his defeat. "I'll leave the food here," he said, standing up again. He dropped a skin of water as well. "Here's some water as well. Father will likely summon you tomorrow. Fair well brother."

()()()

Father did indeed summon Durran to him, embraced him openly as a returned son and then sat with him in his tent. Alone. Father and son, rebel and lord. What they discussed Arlan never discovered, but it took most of the day, the sky orange by the time Durran was escorted back to the stockades.

Then Arlan got to meet with father alone. He was hunched over a basin, dipping a cloth into some cold water and dabbing at the left side of his face with it. "Ah, Arlan," he said, dropping the cloth in the bowl where it turned around and around like a lazy eel. "You're here."

"Father," he bowed. "How was your meeting with Durran?"

There was a pause. "Awkwardly, to say the least," he replied. "But the specifics are between us, for now." He let the water trickle down the side of his face and sat down. "We shall be beginning our march to the capital tomorrow," he informed him. "I've sent out riders and ravens to tell of the victory, I suspect the rebels will be singing their surrender before long, and those on the fence will be declaring that they were with me all along." He snorted. "At the same time cursing that I was victorious here."

"How will you treat the rebels?" He asked.

"One of the many things discussed with your brother," he said. That was it. "Your brother... it was difficult to see him sat there that way. I knew it wouldn't be easy to defeat him, but I never thought that it would come so close to my own defeat. If the rain and Kingsguard hadn't come..."

"Where were the Kingsguard?" Arlan asked. Only Ser Garlan had been near the battle between father and son, and he was dead for it, drowned in mud. Such a poor bloody waste of such a fine and loyal knight.

"I sent them to rally the men of the order and whatever levies they could. I would need all of them. If they hadn't come, I would be my son's captive, like as not, so would you. But still," he stretched out his shoulder. "Durran has grown as a warrior. I've never fought anyone like that. Not the Knight of the Flowers, not Barristan the Bold, no one. I owe you greatly as well, without you, I wouldn't have lasted long enough. He would've taken me." He shook his head. "At least I know the Kingdom will be in the hand of an able warrior when I'm gone." He smiled wistfully before looking back at him. "If you wonder about your reward, don't worry, I have one in mind, and I shall be granting it when we return to King's Landing."

He hadn't considered that. "I... thank you, father." A reward, what could it be?"

"It is earned," he assured him. "More than earned. Now go and prepare your things. We are marching tomorrow."

()()()

The march took them three weeks. They travelled slowly, moving carefully along the Roseroad, scouting out in every direction to ensure that there was no ambush ready to free the lords of the rebellion so that the fires may continue to burn. But nothing happened and they made it to the capital unmolested.

The people lined the streets of the capital in celebration as the royal host entered the city. He rode in pride of place beside his father, behind them the knight captains and lords bannermen, their banners fluttering in the breeze, snapping at each other like dogs at play. They and their knights had their arms raised in celebration, catching the petals swirling around them from the smallfolk.

Behind them rode the knights, both household and of the order, a sea of black and grey and silver and green. Then came the footmen of the order, marching in lockstep, polearms shouldered as they marched to the beat of the drum through the main street of the capital, towards the Red Keep. Last came the noble and knightly prisoners of the Battle of Meadows Field, in their cages, pulled on wagons by their horses, and while the city had cheered for the army they jeered at the captives.

It was quite the display, food was given out in recognition of the victory. Whatever the lords in the country felt, King's Landing was firmly behind the King, the man who had rebuilt the city after the war, who had saved it in the war before. His annexation of Pentos had helped trade across the narrow sea, making the merchants enjoy his rule. He was their champion, and their champion returned victorious.

At the entrance to the Red Keep was the Queen and the court, waiting patiently and calmly, though he could see his mother was barely restraining herself from rushing to them. He dismounted with his father, their horses taken away as the lords did the same and the knights filed to the sides, so the people might observe. His father made his way slowly up the steps to his mother, pulling her in to a soft kiss for all to see, his hands on her waist as hers rested on his arms.

They turned to the crowd as he followed his father, kneeling before his mother, who took him and raised him to his feet, kissing his cheeks, before he also turned. The victors celebrated with the people before they turned to the Red Keep. The business of court had to be attended to.

()()()

His father was sat on the throne, far above them all, looking down on them all. His mother sat on one of the smaller thrones, to the right of his father, and he had been awarded the throne on his left. It was a hard, uncomfortable thing, though his father had once sat on a throne made of swords. No wonder he changed it, how could any bear that? But it was not the stone that was most uncomfortable. Normally it had been Durran that had sat this throne, at his father's left hand, while Lord Stannis sat to his right. He was in his brother's seat, and it was wrong, all of it. The room was crowded with lords bannermen, knights and the richer citizens of the city, all jostling for place to observe the formalities of ending the war. They'd heard as soon as they'd entered the keep that more than a dozen nobles had sent ravens indicating they were on their way to King#s Landing to bend the knee. The host outside Harrenhal had tipped their banners to Robb Stark who came on them from the north and was escorting the captives to the capital.

But this day it would truly end. The trumpets sounded out the arrival of the first to be honoured for the battle. Lord Commander Richard Horpe, Lord Bryan Lettan and Lord Bryce Caron. They entered resplendent in their finest rainments, sable cloaks trimmed with gold and silver, and thick tunics, gold chains and rings showing themselves off. Richard's cloak was that of the Lord Commander, unique in the Seven Kingdoms. "For the valour shown in the battle," his father said. "It is decreed that the following men shall be honoured. Lord Bryan Lettan, to you I award you the funds to build a second holdfast in Andalos for your second son, as well as a sum of ten thousand Gold Dragons to do with as you will. Lord Commander Richard, it shall be my honour to take your young nephews into my household as pages, to become squires once they have aged enough. When they come into their knighthoods, their first suits of armour shall be provided, as shall their weapons and two horses each. Lord Bryce; you have served faithfully for many years. I grant you a sum equivalent to that awarded to Lord Bryan, and I also grant you the guardianship of the young lady Belmont, to be raised by you. She shall be your ward to raise as you see fit, and it shall be to you to arrange a marriage for her and her education." Lady Belmont's father had been died of an injury sustained in battle, leaving only a daughter behind. Custody of her was a valuable prize, and Lord Caron's son was unmarried. How Lord Belmont should be turning in his grave, the king's prerogative to assign custody of underage heirs and heiresses was one of the complaints the lords under Durran had risen to him.

They all gave thanks to the King and rose to the applause of the crowd. Next came in men who were not lordly. They didn't have silks to wear, but their clothes had been smartened by his father's own tailors. "Presenting the Goodmen Willam, Jered, Edmyn and Lorcan!" Called the crier. "Goodman Willam, he who captured a knight in the battle, Goodman Jered who held the shield wall together under heavy assault, Goodman Edmyn who saved his master from under his horse and Goodman Lorcan, who commanded two dozen archers in the battle, men who brought low the banner of Lord Gorlys Hunt, despite his being in the thick of battle."

"Goodmen. You have served with distinction in the battle, and hence I shall reward all of you. Goodman Willam, please come forward." His father gestured and the first man shuffled nervously forward. "I present you with a sum of silver, worth the value of the knight who yielded to you." A chest was brought forward. "As further reward for your efforts, you shall be permitted to join the gold cloaks of the city of King's Landing, with food and board for you and your family, also, I know that you have two sons. Your eldest shall begin training in the Justiciar's Tower, one day to rise to be one of that rank, enforcing the King's laws across the realm. The younger shall be taken as a page into my household and, should he serve well, risen to become a squire, and then a knight."

He thanked the king. Even though everyone knew what their rewards were before coming in, most probably still couldn't believe it. They had been nothings before this. Now their sons would rise to become knights and justiciars.

"Goodman Jered, please, come forward," just like the one before him, the man came forwards and bowed. He was presented with a great oak shield, banded in iron, and a silver hafted spear. "Should you wish further employment, you shall be allowed to join the Order of the Stag, at the rank of serjeant, a full spearman of the foot, there to serve with payment until age or injury takes you from service." Jered bowed, accepted the offer and joined Willam to one side.

Goodman Edmyn was presented with a heavy silver chain and a his son taken as a page by his master, soon to be a squire.

Finally Goodman Lorcan stepped up. He was gifted with a great yew longbow from the marches and three dozen arrows. An offer also come to serve as the second in command of the King's archers, who had been taken by a stray bolt in the battle, an offer likewise accepted.

Then came the moment he had been waiting for most. His name was called out and he got to his feet, walked down until he was in front of the throne and knelt before his father and King. "Arlan, my son..." He could hear a hint of affection in his father's tone. Only a hint, but that it was there was more than enough. "You chose to remain at my side. Despite knowing that your brother would one day be king, despite the fact that it looked as though he was to win. You were given the option of waiting here, sitting out this war. You didn't. You chose to fight at my side, as proof of your loyalty. For this you shall be duly rewarded. As a prince, you do not want for wealth or prestige, and you have no sons as yet. But your faith and trustworthiness have made you worthy of a position of power, and so it is that you shall receive." His father's steward stepped forward, a large scroll sealed in golden wax on the finest vellum available resting on a purple cushion in a dark mahogany case, being presented to him. "I would name you the Prince of Andalos, granting you the seat of the Newfort in Pentos, and the authority to rule that land in my name while I am not present. You shall rule as if me, collect the taxes of the lords there, raise and command armies for it's defence, exact justice according to it's laws and maintain the peace of the land."

There was a collective shudder from the crowd, murmuring from around them. Upon his coming of age, Durran had been granted the Isle of Tarth, in a stroke, Arlan's had secured a lordship more than seven times the size.

He licked his lips, suddenly dry. "It would be my honour father," he said. "I will serve you loyally and to the best of my abilities." The crowd began to applaud, he kept his head bowed to hide his smile. Finally he got his facial muscles under control and looked up to see his father right before him. He gripped his shoulders and took Arlan to his feet, kissing him on the cheeks and inviting him to sit back down again. He did so, the throne suddenly far more comfortable.

When the applause died down, the door opened again. No trumpets or announcement this time, only silence. The last call had been what he'd been waiting for, this one, the one he'd been dreading. His brother walked down the centre of the hall, none daring to meet his fierce eyes. Everyone else had been dressed in their best finery, not Durran, he entered in a hair shirt with a rope tied around his neck, like it was ready to be strung up. There was silence as he made his way to the foot of the throne. He looked up at his father and for the longest moment, father and son stared at each other, neither moving or blinking.

"My son," Jasper said, looking down with a face of stone. "Twice now on this throne I have had to sit in judgement of close family. The first time was my own mother, and now my eldest son. Perhaps the gods are making a mockery of me." The murmurs started up again. Everyone knew the result of the last trial. His father had his mother executed, having had her head shaven and eyes ripped out before. "You lead a rebellion against your own lord and father, besieged castles of those loyal to me, rooted out their garrisons, imprisoned my representatives and met me in battle. And here I am, to sit in judgement again. The price of treason is high, punishable by death, and the gods themselves know that I have not flinched from such a duty before. But never before has one I loved so much been the one I must judge. What do you have to say, my son?"

Durran didn't answer for a long, frozen moment. The tension in the room like a bowstring pulled tight. Then Durran sunk to one knee. "Father. All I did I did for the realm... for our family. You taught me that one mast have conviction, I cannot apologise that my convictions led me to do what I did. But as a future king, I have a responsibility to those who chose to fight at my side and at my back. Those who chose to put their lives on the line for what I offered. I beg you father, I beg you most humbly, not for my own life, but for theirs, that they not be punished for making an impossible choice. It is in their name that I most humbly apologise for my actions, and seek your forgiveness."

His father sat back, looking down at his prostrating son with an iron mask. Perhaps his mother, perhaps the Lord Commander, could determine what he was thinking, but no others. "You ask for mercy. Normally I would not be inclined to give it. However..." He touched his lips with his fingertips. "You act in this moment as a King should. You seek to protect your vassals, as you and your fellow rebels claimed I was not properly doing. That is as a King should act. And I must act in that manner, for the crown is, for now, mine, and I have vassals that need protection. You lead these rebels, will you speak for them here?"

Durran bowed his head. "I will, father."

"Then I am willing to pardon those who took up arms to fight under your banner. Full pardons, without reduction in territory, execution or the taking of hostages. Any crimes from before conflict between us will be punished in full accordance with the laws of my land. This protection will be extended only upon an oath that you yourself shall take." He looked around the room. "I am not removing you from the line of succession, I do not have the will or the power for that, that is a sacred and binding law. However, there are men and lords who fought for me, in full knowledge that one day you would be their overlord. If I am to offer assurances to your supporters, you must swear a full oath, here, in front of the realm, that you will in turn seek no vengeance against those who supported me when you come into the throne." He paused to let that settle in. Arlan hadn't known that detail. Was that part of the agreement made between the two of them in private? It had to be. "Will you swear this? In turn, you and your followers will be forgiven."

"I will, father," Durran said, head bowed low.

His father nodded. "Then I swear upon my throne. Any rebel who ceases his treasons and swears me fealty again will be brought back into the King's Peace without punishment."

"And I in turn, upon the throne that I will one day inherit, swear that I will take no vengeance or punishment against those who supported my lord father in the rebellion."

That was it. The matter was settled, the war was over with those words. His father descended the throne, drew his son to his feet and kissed his cheeks, embracing him tightly. He took the rope and drew it over Durran's head. "You are a rebel no longer. These are the clothes of a rebel, bring my son his clothes."

Durran's clothes were brought to him and the father helped dress the son as the court watched. When he was dressed properly, Durran knelt and kissed his father's ring. The court cheered the public reunion of father and son and the end of the war. None had likely expected his father to be so lenient in his victory, but Arlan saw the truth. Not only would his father's supporters have nothing to fear because of this oath, but those who had supported Durran had him to thank for this leniency. Father and son were securing the future of Durran's reign, and a peaceful transition of power.

Durran took a seat to the side of the throne. One by one the lords captured in battle were brought forward to renounce their treasons. Only Lord Tarly was sentenced to death. Not for the rebellion, but for bringing harm to a Justiciar before the war started. Durran was uncomfortable, but he knew this was the price, and did not object again.

There was a celebratory feast that night. Durran and father both served each other, a symbol of solidarity, and the feast progressed well, although there was tension between the newly forgiven rebels and the loyalists who sat side by side.

Afterwards, a family gathering was called in his parents solar.

Waiting for them was Laena, Stannis, Robert and Cat, who'd not been allowed to the sentencing or the feast, the focus had to be on his father and brother. "Durran!" Cat slammed into his brother's middle, wrapping her arms around him tightly. "You're back," her voice seemed to crack.

"There there little sister," he said, kneeling and kissing her. "I'm back now. I'm sorry about... everything."

"I don't care!" She insisted, hugging his head to her chest. "You're back. Now we can-"

"Cat," he chastised his sister, taking her arm gently. "Let's let our brother be greeted by his wife and son, shall we?"

She nodded and came with him, hugging his stomach. "I'm glad you're back as well."

He smiled down at her. "I said I'd bring them both back didn't I?"

She nodded, then looked at Durran and Laena, looking away again quickly at the sight of them kissing. Durran picked up Stannis and held him on his hip. "I'm home, Stannis." He said, tickling him gently. The boy tried not to laugh, but struggled. "I'll be going away again shortly, but then I'm back."

"Where are you going?" Laena asked.

"I'm taking him with me," Jasper said. "I have to show him something, him and Arlan. I meant to do it some time ago but... things always got in the way. I always put it off. No longer."

"What about Andalos, father?" He asked. They'd heard the news when they returned. His father had disrupted trade when he'd called the fleet to bring his army from Andalos, hiring many merchantmen, and buying their cargoes destined for Braavos or Lorath or Myr or the other Free Cities who were up in arms. Both the Volantene Hegemony and the Braavosi alliance had made moves against Andalos while it was weakened to recoup the losses in trade. Father had to return and settle matters there. But there was somewhere he wanted to take them first. The site of his greatest failing was all he had said. "It will take time for the supplies to be gathered for the journey across the sea, and when we return, you and I shall go." Durran would be remaining here, not participating in this campaign. Durran had wanted to go, but father reminded him that Arlan needed to get the respect of the Lords of Andalos without him.

"What will I be doing, father?" Durran asked.

"You will be remaining here," his father said sternly. Whatever he had said on the throne, he was going to be watching Durran for a while. "Your mother will be regent in my absence, and will accept the surrender of your rebel lords. Get to know your son a little, spend time away from the tourney field. When I return from Andalos... we shall discuss your position further."

"I... yes father."

"Now go," his father said. "We could all use some sleep, and we can begin trying to put these dark days... this dark year, behind us."

They bowed and left.

"Congratulations brother," Durran told him with thin lips outside the room. "Truly, you deserve it."

"Thank you," he replied. "Where do you think father is taking us?" He didn't want to dwell on these events. It would only breed resentment. Now the family needed to unite again.

Durran pursed his lips. "I'm not sure. Perhaps the Wall, where he got his scars?"

"Perhaps." It was clear that neither of them were sure. "I'm sure we'll find out in due course." He pulled his brother into a tight hug, feeling his arms wrap around him. "It's good to have you back brother."

"It's good to be back... brother. I'm... sorry, for any pain I may have caused you."

"What about us?!" Laena came in with mock anger in her tone. "You had us worried stiff, didn't he Stannis?" Their son nodded.

Durran chuckled. "I mean to make it up to you, both of you," he glanced at Arlan. "All of you. If you're willing to meet me half way."

He laughed himself. "You always did more than half of the work when we were children, brother," he reminded him, thinking back to all the times that Durran had taken charge of them.

"Where's that brother of mine!" They turned to see a very angry sister bearing down on them. One of the few people who'd ever been able to cow Durran, though those days were long gone. Cass smacked him across the face audibly, before quickly pulling him back into a tight hug. "Don't ever do that again!"

"I hope I won't have to," he replied, hugging his sister tightly. He caught her wrist as she moved to smack him again. "We're long past that point, wouldn't you say, sister?"

She pulled her wrist from his grip. "Arse."

"I missed you as well, sister," he replied. "But- No, that argument has passed, I won't bring it up again." He looked at Cass' stern face. "We can talk more tomorrow sister, if you can steal my time from Stannis, Laena and Cat. But for now, I need to rest." He pulled away and wrapped his arm around Laena, holding out his hand for Stannis to take, leading them down the corridor.

Cass wrapped her arms around him from behind, far more gently than she had with Durran. "Thank you," she whispered, "for bringing him back, for mending the family."

He patted her hand. "Always."

Now we just have to keep it that way.