This is the final chapter that was posted. Now that we are all caught up the updates will come at the same time.


Elia walked down the hall arm-in-arm with Harry, eyes flicking to the large canvas floating in front of them. The guards stared straight ahead, the odd man shifting as they failed to contain their surprise at seeing magic.

Three moons and they've not gotten used to it, she thought, slightly amused.

They were met with Oberyn and Maester Caleotte, the latter hovering by Doran's bed as he tinkered with the phials on the bedside counter. There were others spread across the room, leaving to fulfil whatever order Doran had given them; cousin Manfrey's eyes widened as he saw her, and Elia sent him a quick smile.

"Are you certain it will work?" she asked lowly, seeing the worried look Oberyn failed to hide.

"It'll be fine," Harry murmured. "Grandfather Linfred is the best in generations, and Great-Aunt Helen remade many of his original potions."

He squeezed her hand, glancing at the rapidly approaching man before he made his way closer to Doran, twisting his wand so that the canvas hovered along the wall in full view of Doran.

"Manfrey," she greeted warmly, hearing him laugh breathlessly as he folded her into his arms.

"I didn't believe Oberyn when he said you had returned," he said, pulling back to take her in. His eyes darkened as they found her stomach, the orange gown she wore not hiding the swell of her belly. "You're with child."

"Nearly five moons gone," she told him, giving him a smile as she saw his gaze lighten.

"You wouldn't be upset if I kissed that man of yours, would you cousin?" he asked lightly, hazel eyes crinkled in amusement. "I fear we've yet to give him a proper welcome."

"I see the time as Doran's castellan has not turned you serious," she said in amusement.

"The Seven have saved me from such a dour fate, cousin," Manfrey grinned. "Though they've given me grey hairs, I fear it has done little to dampen my appeal. Now, this man; is he a paramour? Husband? A maester you've turned against his vows?"

Elia chuckled, gaze drifting to where Harry spoke to the maester. The cover had been removed, showing Linfred in his frame, Helen Potter Bones next to him as they waited for the spell keeping them in place to wear off.

"Husband," she answered, feeling the slight weight of her rings.

Manfrey frowned, glancing at Harry and the hovering Oberyn. "More's the pity," he muttered. "I had thought him to be a maester you'd snatched from Oberyn. He certainly seems to appreciate the appeal."

Elia failed to stifle her laughter, swatting her grinning cousin as the others glanced at them in bemusement. "You are terrible."

"I aim to please, Princess," he said with an exaggerated bow, grasping her hand to place a swift kiss on her knuckle. "I am so very glad to see you hale, Elia. You shall have to introduce me to Aegon and Rhaenys."

"Edward and Maia as well," she said, smirking at his wide-eyed look. He sent a long, scrutinizing look at Harry, humming thoughtfully.

"He's certainly determined to keep you sated," Manfrey murmured suggestively. "Do you ever let him ou—"

Manfrey's words were cut off by the sound of vicious swearing. They turned to look at the group, seeing Oberyn glowering at a smirking Harry as Doran merely sighed in exasperation.

"Are we all ready?" Helen spoke, a no-nonsense tone coating her voice.

"What magic is this?" Oberyn asked, staring at the two Potters in fascination.

"Portrait magic, Prince Oberyn is it? Yes, you have dear Elia's eyes," Linfred said, smiling lightly at her brothers. "This must be our patient."

"Portraits don't speak," Oberyn said flatly.

"Magic," Harry replied dryly, wand in hand as he crouched closer to Doran.

"Elia," Manfrey said lowly, hazel eyes glinting as he stared at the portraits. "I think I like this husband of yours."

"Have you the potion? Ah yes, there it is. Careful now," Linfred instructed.

"Can this be made with ingredients from Westeros?" Oberyn asked, a curious note in his tone.

"Not in its entirety," Helen answered, watching carefully as Maester Caleotte measure the necessary dose of potion.

"Almost everything of such a nature requires magical ingredients, Prince Oberyn," Linfred instructed. "There are, however, a number of potions that that perform minor mending that use far more common ingredients. It is possible this world may even hold the equivalent of several magical ingredients."

"You can instruct him on the precise art of potions-making another time, Grandfather," Harry interjected, gesturing at the bed.

The two Potters whispered lowly amongst themselves, looking at Doran as they came to a decision.

"You'll have to break the bone above the knee," Helen said.

"Break the bone?" Maester Caleotte stammered. "That—"

"—can be done fairly quickly with magic. It'll be a painful process, to be certain, but we mustn't vanish the prince's hips," Helen added.

"No, far too dangerous a procedure if we take that course. You have your affairs in order?" Linfred asked.

"Manfrey," Doran called.

They made their way to Doran, Elia seating herself on the edge of the bed opposite Harry and Caleotte, Manfrey kneeling by Doran's side.

"Arianne will perform all duties for the next moon."

Manfrey nodded seriously, a slight quirk of his lips the only show of emotion. "Of course, my prince."

"Prepare Sunspear for a gathering. All of Dorne shall come in a moon's time to greet their returned daughter. Seven days of feasting to begin the turn of the year. I'm certain between yourselves you can accomplish the necessary tasks," Doran instructed softly.

"We shall give you no cause to take issue, cousin," Manfrey answered, kissing Doran's ring.

He turned to face Harry, gripping his face and pressing two swift kisses to his cheeks, uncaring of the wand pressed dangerously against his ribs as he beamed.

"Well met, cousin. I daresay we shall get along splendidly." Manfrey strode off before Harry could say a word, the door clanging shut behind him as he tossed Elia a wink.

Harry blinked, glancing questioningly at the chuckling Oberyn. "I believe Manfrey very much approves."

She shook her head, smirking at the determined look on Harry's face.

"Have the potion ready," Harry ordered, wand raised. The moment Caleotte poured the skele-grow and the sight of the smoking potion became visible, Harry twisted his wrist, a sharp crack renting the air.

Doran inhaled sharply, a soft moan of pain leaving him. He hadn't noticed the vanishing of his bones, his legs and hands turning soft as Caleotte guided the cup to his mouth. Only a grimace showed his displeasure at the taste as he dutifully swallowed every last drop.

"The milk of the poppy?" Caleotte asked, hand reaching for the phial.

"Not yet," Helen warned. "Let the potions settle for at least a minute. We wouldn't want them to interact harmfully."

"Of course, my lady," Caleotte bowed. He scribbled in his book, no doubt writing his views on the entire process. Caleotte had practically salivated at the sight of a few books that went into depth on magical remedies. What will he do when he realizes there is more?

She sat next to Doran, watching as the maester administered the milk of the poppy after the nerve-regenerating potion; anxious to learn whether it would work as intended.


Doran had meant seven days of feasting in every sense of the word.

They had entered Sunspear on the fourth day of the planned festivities, the streets littered with people in high spirits as they took advantage of the wine flowing freely, children running about with food in hand as they gleefully played a game of spears and dragons.

Their guests had all arrived days prior, celebrating with the people of Sunspear. Allyrion, Blackmont, Dayne, Fowler, Gargalen, Jordayne, Ladybright, Manwoody, Qorgyle, Toland, Uller, Vaith, Wells, Wyl and Yronwood; not a single House had refused, coming in full force to answer their Prince's call as their own bannermen mingled amongst the gathered nobility. In their midst had been the lords from the Reach, their banners conspicuously absent.

They had remained in their rooms for that night, preparing for the day of celebration that would see Aegon introduced to his future lords.

"Thank you, Mara," she heard Ashara say, footsteps padding forward as Elia slipped into her gown.

It was odd, having someone help ready her, but being in Dorne once more meant Elia had to acclimate herself to having ladies-in-waiting again.

"Need I ask what you've done to have the poor girl almost refusing to enter your room?" Ashara asked, a familiar glint in her eyes.

She smiled, shifting to allow Ashara to tie the gown. It was a softly spun silk confection of orange and red, sitting snugly against the swell of her belly as it left her arms bare.

A soft pop caused Ashara's hands to still on the tie, hesitating before she continued as the jewellery box appeared on the vanity.

"It takes time to adapt," she murmured, glancing at the mirror as she took hold of the box. Ashara's purple eyes drifted to the box in curiosity, not recognizing the crest on the cover.

"It's a Peverell heirloom," she told her, opening it to reveal the gem within. She'd not realized exactly what the Potter ladies had given her all those years ago – not until she had been introduced to the full extent of the Potter inheritance shortly before her wedding.

"Peverell?"

"The first Lady Potter was the eldest of a number of daughters in her generation. She brought the lion's share of the Peverell wealth to her marriage," Elia explained, placing the blood red diamonds on her ears as Ashara deftly closed the clasp of it's accompanying necklace.

"I see why Doran has no reservations on your marriage," Ashara said, a sly smile on her face.

Elia smirked, placing the last of the gold bangles in place, the Potter-Black and Martell signet rings glinting on her right hand. There would be a number of lords wondering what benefit her marriage brought, and Elia did not plan to give them the chance to question it.

"Do we know who among the Reachlords are present?" she asked, curious as to who the Spider believed would join Dorne so readily.

"A Fossoway, former squire to one of the Tyrell sons I believe, and Lords Rowan and Tarly. Lady Oakheart has sent her heir and granddaughter," Ashara answered.

Elia stilled. "No Hightower or Tyrell, and an Oakheart willing to treat with Dorne," she noted. "Are we to expect civil war in the Reach?"

Ashara pursed her lips, stepping back as Elia turned to face her. "Tarly has yet to forgive his liege for bending the knee," she admitted. "The others I cannot say, though Lady Oakheart has seemingly disregarded her House's long enmity with Dorne."

"All but Florent are present and can claim Gardener blood, and you've mentioned Randyll Tarly could care less for his wife's Florent relations. Stannis Baratheon's wife is a Florent. No doubt they see an opportunity to regain what they believe should be theirs."

"Possibly," Ashara murmured. "Mayhaps not. Lady Oakheart would not risk sending her heir to court open rebellion in the Reach with a Tyrell squire on hand and Tywin Lannister's dog roaming the Ocean Road."

Her lips twisted, remembering the hulking giant of a man. Destruction and disaster whenever Ser Gregor makes himself known, she thought, wondering how much the smallfolk had paid in Lord Tywin's bid for power.

"We have time enough to discover what plans they have for the Reach," she responded.

"Is it wise to trust him? The Spider is not a man to divulge his secrets," Ashara said lowly.

I am, as ever, a loyal servant of the realm, Your Grace, he had written, ever insistent on his position.

"I don't trust him," Elia replied, recalling the last words he had said to her when news of the Trident had reached them. "But he has earned my goodwill for the nonce."

There was a light knock on the wall, and Elia ignored Ashara's wide smirk as she curtsied with a murmured, "Lord Herakles," leaving the room without a backward glance as Harry entered.

"Would it be considered poor manners if we showed up fashionably late?" he asked, pulling her into a searing kiss.

"I'll not forgive you if you ruin my hair," she murmured, wiping her rouge from the corner of his lips.

"I suppose there's always tonight," he answered with a wicked grin.

"The children?" she asked, stepping back to appraise his outfit. He'd gone with the Black colours today, a grey open robe above a black tunic tucked into grey trousers, curls shortened and tamed into a deliberate mess.

"Dressed and plotting," Harry said, a wry grin on his face. "What trouble do you think they've gotten themselves into?"

"Something manageable I'd hope," she answered, looping her arm in his as they made their way to the Great Hall.

They had been huddled together the past week – the past month, really – falling quiet when anyone neared them. Aegon had hurriedly admitted to bringing Daenerys and Viserys to meet the dragons, and Elia had withheld her questions at seeing Viserys more relaxed around them.

They've come to some sort of understanding, she knew, seeing Viserys whispering to Aegon as they waited, Ser Arthur stood behind them with a hand on the hilt of his sword, and glad at least that had been resolved.

There was the smallest sign of nervousness in Aegon's eyes, and Elia smoothed the shoulder of his black doublet as she said, "You'll do wonderfully."

"Right," he sighed, straightening as a light grin twitched to life on his face. "Only plotting a rebellion. Nothing unusual."

"Restoration," Viserys corrected. The hair dye had been removed courtesy of Teddy, and stood next to Aegon in a black doublet with his hair beneath his ears the resemblance was evident.

"Princess," Ricasso greeted, bowing lightly with a smile. "We are ready for you."

"Showtime," Teddy muttered, straightening his doublet.

Rhaenys looped her arm in Aegon's, a determined look on her face. "I'm not marrying you, little brother, but if the Reachlords come with a proposal you'll insinuate the possibility of such a match."

"We're playing the game, nephew, and you are the greatest prize," Viserys agreed.

They could put off any marriage alliances until they knew the situation the Reach was in, knowing the existence of dragons gave them the advantage. Florent, Oakheart, Rowan; any one of them could seize control of Highgarden, she thought, smoothing her face as the guards prepared to open the doors.

She felt a tingle of magic, glancing at Harry. There was nothing on his face to show his thoughts, only the palpable aura of danger he wore comfortably like a cloak as the doors opened, countless eyes turned to them as Ricasso cleared his throat.

"His Grace, Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Defender of the Faith, Protector of the Realm. Their Graces; Princess Rhaenys, Prince Viserys, Princess Daenerys. Her Grace, Princess Elia of House Martell, Lady Potter-Black, her husband, Lord Herakles of Houses Potter and Black and his son, Lord Edward."

There was a sharp intake of breath somewhere to her left, and Elia could feel the collective relief and glee at the sight of her – at the sight of them. Dorne's lost princess had returned with her children, and the time to once more seat Dornish blood on the Iron Throne loomed ever closer with Aegon stood before them.

They sat along the high table, Aegon sitting between her and Doran as Viserys took the seat beside Arianne, and Elia saw the countless eyes dancing along the length of the table. Three and ten years since they had seen more than one Targaryen in one place and now they beheld four next to their ruling House. More than one eye drifted to Harry next to her, bouncing between the two and the swell of her belly.

"You would think they'd never seen a pregnant woman before," Harry murmured lightly, a slight grin on his face.

"They were told it was impossible," she replied. "Now they wonder what cause they fought for."

Ten thousand Dornishmen and Dornishwomen lay dead, their blood spilled on the banks of the Trident, and Elia knew it was only Aegon's Martell blood – Dornish blood – that kept them from showing their displeasure with House Targaryen. Aerys and Rhaegar were dead, and it would be one of theirs that sat the throne.

"There are our guests," Oberyn said, head tilted to the table close to theirs.

She recognized Mathis Rowan, recalling him from his visit to King's Landing. Seated next to him was another lord, the huntsman giving away his identity. Randyll Tarly, she thought, a scar crossing across the side of his face. He was speaking lowly to a young man, not much older than Viserys if she had to guess, his hand resting lightly against that of the young woman beside him.

"Lady Oakheart's granddaughter?" Elia asked.

"Anwyn Oakheart," Oberyn muttered. "Ser Allyn has mentioned his daughter is to marry the Fossoway boy."

Not too far off to be considered an unusual match, she thought, though she was unaware of where the boy sat on the Fossoway succession.

The food was brought out, platters of spiced meats and saffron rice, fish and fruits carried out amidst the barrels of Dornish Red and sweet Summerwine.

"Arianne and Viserys seem close," Harry muttered, smirking at the pair as they whispered to each other between bites. Rhaenys sat next to him, lowly needling Teddy for the flush he hadn't managed to hide in time, attempting to find out which of their guests had brought out that reaction.

"They are betrothed," she said pointedly, ignoring the cough from Aegon.

"It hasn't been announced," Aegon said lowly, his eyes glancing out at the crowd.

"Do you think either would turn it down?" Elia asked wryly, eyes flicking past him to the two in question. It had been almost astonishing to see Viserys almost entirely relaxed, but it seemed the two had managed to find some comfort from their proposed betrothal.

"I cannot wait until you see the number of people tripping over themselves for your hand, Rhae," Teddy said, "or that you have to entertain their suits."

"I'm sure Auriga is deterrent enough," she returned, smiling winningly at him.

Doran stood, hand raised unnecessarily as the rest of the room fell silent at the sight of their prince standing without the strain of his illness. He had spent the better part of the last moon regaining the strength in his legs. He might not return to battle, as unused to having a sword in hand as he was, but Elia knew the return of his health would see him far more proactive than he had been in recent years.

"Friends, I welcome you to this…celebration," he said, voice carrying effortlessly. "It is the beginning of a new year – of a new era for Dorne, for our friends in the Reach. Three and ten years, we have waited, we have planned, we have bled as those who turned cloak have flourished, have benefitted from removing our princess. Three and ten years we have mourned our loved ones, have yearned to see them avenged."

She could see the anger in their eyes, Doran's words pulling years of rage to the fore as he recalled the countless years warring along the Marches.

"…We have waited patiently for justice, for vengeance, and it comes now with fire and blood. His Grace, Aegon Sixth of His Name, has returned to bring justice, to bring vengeance with fire and blood."

Had there been spears in the room, she doubted they would keep silent. As it was, the song of spears was unneeded, a strong shout of agreement rising from the crowd.

"Long has the lion held himself mighty, have the stags thought themselves above reproach. No more," Doran said softly. "Today, we celebrate; for the last notes of the lion's legacy, of the stag's reign begin."

They cheered, the minstrels beginning a tune she did not recall.

Oberyn let out a laugh, raising his goblet to the table of Reachlords. "Lord Tarly's song is a rather apt beginning to the festivities, don't you say?"

"They've written a song for him?" Aegon asked curiously, gazing at the man.

"Oh, plenty, though this is perhaps the finest," Oberyn grinned.

"For o'er the March the lion lord came,

Searching for Castamere,

Yet the Hunter sprang forth

With nought of fear

And roared his displeasure

For they hunt only lions here,"

"I do believe Tywin Lannister cut the tongue of a man who dared sing it in King's Landing," Oberyn said, a dark edge to his smile. "Very much like his former friend, this lion."

Worse, she thought. Aerys had fallen to madness, yet Lord Tywin did everything with cold calculation.

"What do you say to a dance?" Harry asked, smiling as she took his arm.

She felt the eyes following them as the sounds of a very familiar tune began to play, the magic causing her to narrow her eyes lightly as the minstrels shifted in surprise.

"A waltz?" she asked, feeling his hand fall into place.

"Naturally. Poor me, I've not had the time to learn the dances of Westeros," he replied, grinning at someone over her shoulder.

"Show-off," she muttered, knowing very well how he operated.

"I am a Potter and a Black, darling. It's practically engrained in my blood," he retorted. "Besides, your friend seems to find it amusing."

"My friend enjoys the chaos you cause," she told him. He laughed, agreeing with her assessment of Larra, and she smirked at seeing the looks they gathered.

A dichotomy, no doubt that was what ran through their mind; his smiling lord with a ring of expert craftsmanship and an aura that told you to keep well away from upsetting him. What has Dorne gotten themselves into?

"Princess, my lord," the young man with the Fossoway sigil bowed. He glanced at Harry, smiling politely as he held out his hand. "If I may?"

"I'm off to charm your brother's bannermen," Harry said in her ear.

"I'm sure Ashara is more than willing to help," she muttered, smiling at the look on his face.

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, taking off to no doubt gather as much information as he could.

She took the young man's hand, spotting Aegon across the hall with Oberyn and Lady Jordayne, Viserys speaking to Rhaenys and Teddy as Daenerys danced with Trystane.

He led her into a dance, his steps showing the years of training he had no doubt received. They glided across the hall, catching Arianne and Sylva Santagar whispering together as they shot a look at Teddy.

The poor boy has no idea what is coming, she thought, making note of the glances her niece's friend shot her son.

"You are Lord Mace's heir, correct? Or are you the younger son?" she asked, brow raised at the flash of surprise that crossed his face. "You bear some resemblance to your father and uncle, my lord."

She'd not seen Baelor Hightower in years, Mace Tyrell even longer, but the boy had enough of his family in his features, in the soft curl of his sun-beaten brown hair for her to be confident in his identity now that he stood so close.

"I apologize for the ruse, Princess Elia," he said lowly, a light flush on his handsome face. "It was not meant to disregard you. I am Willas Tyrell."

"Lord Willas. I imagine your father is unaware of your presence in Dorne," Elia said dryly.

"A stopover on my journey to Lys," he answered smoothly, spinning in time with the music.

He need not know your plotting, Elia thought, rethinking what she knew of the Reach. The boy's aunt had married a Fossoway; perhaps the Reach was not as divided as it appeared.


They met in full on the final day of festivities; the Reachlords sitting comfortably amongst the Dornish as if they had not spent centuries at war, Lord Randyll near friendly in his greetings to Ser Myles Manwoody.

Dorne had sat together the evening before, pledging their spears to the cause of one of their children, eager to see the return of Aegon's crown as justice for the Dornish blood spilt in the rebellion and the Wars of the Marches.

They fell silent as Aegon stood, shoulders pulled back as he gazed confidently at them, his ever vigilant Kingsguard standing quietly as he ignored the looks his presence received. "My lords and ladies, I thank you for joining this council."

There was surprise in the faces of the Reachlords before an appraising look settled on Lord Rowan.

"We thank Your Grace for hosting us," Lord Willas said. "The Reach has waited eagerly for your return."

"Have you?" Viserys asked idly. "You've not been as busy these last years."

"An unfortunate cease of hostilities," Lord Randyll replied, lip curled in disgust. "One we hope to remedy."

"And how do you plan to do that?" Harry asked curiously. "There are only four Houses present, my lord, one of which has an heir masquerading as his cousin."

Lord Randyll's eyes lingered on Harry's face, scrutinizing his features. An unfortunate resemblance, Elia thought, knowing for all that Harry looked little like the Baratheons, his colouring would bring the current king and queen to mind.

"A necessary precaution."

"A divided region," Aegon pointed out. "What does the Reach hope to accomplish as such?"

"What we fought for, Your Grace," Ser Allyn Oakheart interjected. "We did not spend years fighting against Robert Baratheon to see his line remain on a throne they've no right to."

"The Reach is in full agreement of your aims?" Elia questioned. "You come without two of your most powerful bannermen, Lord Willas."

"Lord Alester grasps for that which he believes he is owed and would see himself tied to traitors if it benefitted him," Lord Randyll spat.

"Harsh words for your goodfather, my lord," Oberyn drawled, a slight grin on his face.

"Is your heir not a hostage in King's Landing?" Elia asked, drawing his attention.

"My son would die honourably to restore the dragons, Your Grace," he answered, eyes resolute. "As would any Tarly."

"My brother Loras was hostage to the Baratheons, Your Grace, and recently returned with the promise of a betrothal to tie our House to the crown," Lord Willas interjected.

"To the Usurper's heir?" Rhaenys asked, leaning forward slightly.

"The boy is a Lannister in full," Lord Randyll sneered, the scar on his face stretching. He was the only man to give Robert Baratheon a loss – the only man to have driven Tywin Lannister back for near a year – and the loss of his heir only seemed to push him to see the two dead. "Had it not been for his colouring I would never have thought him his father's get."

"I'll not sell my sister to their like," Lord Willas continued, the knowledge that his father would consider it going unspoken.

"You mean to overthrow your father," Elia pressed.

"I mean to see my family well away from House Baratheon and Tywin Lannister dead at my feet," he answered coolly. "It was the dragons we bent the knee to, Your Grace, not the lions and stags. We've not spilt blood for years to yield so easily."

"How many of your bannermen are of a like mind?" Doran asked. "A divided Reach will not yield as many men as needed to hold back the Lannister army sitting at your border."

"We can raise some forty thousand men," Lord Mathis said quietly. "Without spilling more of our brother's blood, perhaps another twenty will join us. You misjudge how strongly Lord Tywin has alienated the Reach with his dog loose."

The rest of the Dornish contingent remained quiet, watching the unfolding of the Reach. Had this been several decades ago – even two, she knew – they would have joyed at the thought of their rivals falling into disarray.

What strange bedfellows war makes of us, she thought ruefully.

"The other regions?" Aegon asked, and Elia listened closely to see if they had knowledge Dorne had not gathered.

"There are loyalists everywhere but the North, Your Grace," Ser Allyn informed them. "Even the Stormlands. Not every lord has benefitted as handsomely as Tywin Lannister from having Robert on the throne, and what joy they took from his presence has soured more with Lord Stannis."

"The Mountain has raped the western Riverlands, and the Reach will not forget what he has done to us anytime soon," Lord Willas added.

"Blood will spill, Your Grace," Randyll Tarly said, cool blue eyes locked onto Aegon's. "Whether amongst those of us in the Reach, or the Riverlands or the Crownlands. This war has been coming since your father lost at the Trident and you three survived. We'll not remain on bended knee to the stag any longer."

"You will hold longer still, Lord Tarly," Aegon ordered.

"Several moons, at the least," Elia added. "Else we lose what advantage we hold."

Randyll Tarly shared a long look with his future liege, nodding at Aegon after a moment. "What does the crown require of us?"

"How many men have you brought with you?" Aegon asked.

"Three hundred," Ser Allyn answered. "And another hundred to man the ships."

They looked at Aegon in askance, and Doran gestured for his page to bring the map forward, spreading it across the table. They looked at it, a calculating look on Lord Rowan's face.

"You mean to take the Stepstones," he said.

"I mean to take Bloodstone, and the Stormlands soon after" Aegon corrected.

Elia watched as a slow smile grew on Randyll Tarly's face, satisfaction thrumming through him.