A Song of Frost & Flame

by Chimaera1201

When Robert's Rebellion broke out, the ancient friend and ally of the Starks, House Tormont offered their oldest daughter to the Lords of the Corridor for their alliance. Powerful and respected, the Taugere family kept the way north safe and at peace for thousands of years. But a less known prophecy may declare if the world will freeze over again, or burn in the fires.

23. Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23 – THE SHIELD

Berin lay on the bedroll under the shelter, waiting for sleep but his mind was much too active to allow it. They'd stopped at Ramshorn the day before this, but with lord Rames's host still gathering he suggested that they continue on to Oakhilt where he would join them in another two days when the men he'd sent for arrived. It was hard to leave again, but not as harrowing as he'd expected it to be; and the sooner they got back the better their chances would be, and the sooner they could put an end to this. They travelled hard, setting out before the sun rose from the horizon and only stopping after it vanished again. The men he had with him weren't as skilled as the seasoned soldiers they'd taken when the war started, but they would have to better their skills as they went, and try not to die in the process. Then the thought occurred, they still hadn't heard anything from the units that remained behind to hold Harrenhal. He could have a message sent when he reached the next holdfast, asking that their men return to Riverrun. The night dragged and waned, but with sunlight touching the treetops they were mounted and moving once again with Berin leading the way in front of near to two thousand. But it made him feel sad. He wasn't a Taugere, despite growing up in the house of the liege. This wasn't his rightful place... But he will find him. Someone will find him, or offer his safe return for something. He wasn't dead, he wasn't so much as injured. And they must believe - far too valuable, besides. But where was he? Who had him? And why were they keeping silent? They should have heard something by now, didn't they? Or what were they doing, if they did not intend to ransom him? Suddenly his heels dug into the ribs of his horse painfully, lurching the poor creature forward as his hands tightened on the reins to a horrible thought that sickened him to the point of feeling his gut burn, and the soldiers followed. Were they torturing him? Were they trying to break him? Would he still be the same? Would he have his lord, his brother back? Oh, fuck no... Please, gods help me find him. Please, let him be al right...

"My lord?" someone called from behind him, desperately trying to keep up.

"Hurry! We have a long way to go!" he replied into the wind, keeping to the road that would cross the border, and for another day and a half all different manner of thoughts tore through his mind. Beyond noon the day following, they were crossing a wide field towards a hill, their unit meant to reach Oakhilt early the next day, when they happened upon a group of peasants, busy digging holes throughout the field. Large, deep pits... They weren't planting crops, unless it were trees. And there was a smell in the air, a familiar smell he couldn't place. A heavy, bitter-sour stench... Berin approached one of the men, busy loosening the earth with a shovel in his hands.

"You. What happened here?" he directed, and the man looked up. His face was hard, covered by a dark beard, his clothes torn and soiled, but his grey eyes clear.

"They came in the night, milord. Told us to flee, they did. If not, we'd be dead too. When we came back, we found 'em. Told my boys we ought to start burying the dead. Is the least we could do." he explained, as well as he could. But Berin's heart stopped, his body freezing over. That was the smell... the smell of death.

"The dead? What dead?" he asked shocked, and the man pointed to the south towards the hill. He urged his horse on, climbing the mound; and then stopped as thousands of stings assaulted him, and he could have gagged for the sight. Hundreds, maybe thousands of men lay dead on the grass, fallen horses scattered amidst them, swords and spears driven into the earth, here and there a lance with a tattered banner. The colours of enemies, and allies.

"Spread out! Search for survivors!" a battlefield was not foreign to him, and he all but missed the bolts of cloth displaying the Rooster, the Badger and the Boar, yet what caught his attention were the others. The dual Crescent Moons, the Ice Shard with a Dagger's Hilt, the Field of Sunflowers and the Black Cat... House Tormont and its vassals, and a good deal of what was left of their own people whom were not left at Harrenhal to hold it... Oh, fuck... No... This can't be... Carefully he moved his horse on through the devastation, calling out and listening to any that would answer and others combed through the bodies, and proceeded to bury their countrymen. Hours later, Edur was found under his fallen horse, his leg forced into an odd angle in the fall and a crossbow shaft lodged through his right eye, and nothing could be done. Another soldier called Berin over, after he had dismounted and given the order for one of the wagons to be cleared, and he moved off to find another familiar face. It was Gerald Tormont, already cold and grey with a broken arm, three arrows into his shoulders and a spear shoved through his stomach, making Berin's own churn that he might not have died quickly. Oh, fuck no... They were friends. They were family. What would he tell their lady this time? What would she do?

"Lord Berin?" a voice broke his train of thought, and he looked up scanning the field.

"Keep searching! Do not let up until we have seen each one of them!" he ordered, but the hope of finding someone alive was growing slimmer and slimmer with each moment the sun lowered to the horizon. Fuck! What happened here? He continued to move through the fallen, taking in each face that lay on the ground. Sunset was drawing near, and he looked up again at the world around him. The deceased and the living that examined them, run-down and sickened for this loathsome fortune. What happened..? They found Luitpold as well, a long gash opening the side of his neck, and his sword fallen not far from his hand, where Berin lowered to his knees next to him, laying his hand on the silent chest, fighting back the heat to his skin. No... Why? Why this? He looked up, searching desperately. Was there no one left alive? What happened?!

"My lord! My lord Berin!" a young soldier came running over, panting as he paused to catch his breath.

"Come... Quickly... Survivors... We've found..." he forced through ragged breaths as Berin came to his feet to follow. The boy led him back to the south-west edge of the field, where a silver haired man sat against the belly of his fallen grey destrier.

"My lord?" Berin called to him as he lowered next to him.

"Lord Willmon." he tried again; he was still breathing but his skin was severely pale from blood loss to a gaping wound opened in his side where his hand attempted to hold his skin together...

"Lord Willmon..." Berin's hand gently touched his arm, and his eyes opened to look up, and he smiled weakly.

"Berin... My boy..." he was smiling, and all other thoughts vanished.

"We have to get you back to Mount Ardor." Berin looked up.

"Bring the wagon! Hurry!" even from this distance they he could hear the heavy wheels struggling over the earth as he looked back.

"You'll be al right. Our maester will-" he started, but the cold hand wrapped around his.

"I won't... make it... to Mount Ardor..." Willmon breathed, and then looked at the sun above the ridge of the world.

"Let me... enjoy... my last sunset..." he asked, and every muscle in the Crimson Knight's body tensed.

"You can't give up! You can't! This is not over!" he urged.

"It's fine... I've lived... long enough, Berin." the younger man's fingers tightened, desperately.

"No. You can't mean it. You can't just accept it!" he tried again, but the smile remained.

"Don't worry... Won't you... sit with me... for a while?" he asked, so calmly it was maddening. But Berin took a seat next to him, heartbroken that he could clearly see the amount of pain the lord was in.

"Do you... have wine?" he asked, and Berin had to smile. I would give you a barrel of poppy milk if I had that... he looked back at the men behind him, waiting to move the injured gentleman to the wagon for transport.

"Jevan." Berin raised his hand, and the skinny man quickly delivered a wineskin into his hand, which he offered to lord Tormont after opening it, watching as he drank easily. And then he sighed, and told Berin everything. How they took flight from the wedding at the Twins, they made west to Broken Pass where they crossed the river, hoping they might cut off the legion that was making its way up to the Corridor. They were outnumbered three-to-one, but where they could they used the grounds to their advantage, the woods and the streams to slow the enemy and pick them off. But crossing the pass only saved them half a day, and creating the delays cost them time, so eventually the enemy caught up to them before they could reach a hold. The men they had fought bravely, and fiercely, but even so everyone was killed; what remained of the enemy retreated back south after the Grey Tom took the head of their commander, but the only way to do this was to sacrifice distance to a broad sword, which cut into his abdomen. And he recalled the words of the foe before he fell...

"You cannot go south... Berin, they will kill you... All of you... the moment you step across the border... There's been no word from the others... And I don't think there will be..." he warned, his icy hand closing over Berin's arm.

"You cannot go south... Please... You must return to Mount Ardor... See to its defences... to the protection of your people... To... To my daughter..." he pleaded, his fingers tightening with uncommon strength. Begging desperately for him to understand.

"Please... If Raeghun was taken by someone... as you believe... they will send their demands. But... he will come home... He will..." he said, and then slumped back as if the energy was pulled from him.

"Please..." he slowly reached to his side, and took the longsword from its place to present it to Berin.

"This... This is Talon... my family's arm... Will you... Will you see her safely home?" he asked, barely above a whisper as Berin took hold of the sheath.

"I will." he promised, finding the longsword heavier than regular swords. He pulled the blade slightly from its sheath. That was why - Talon was forged of tempered silver, glorious in the last of the sunlight. Only one other sword matched this beauty.

"What a beautiful sunset..." Willmon admired with a soft smile, and Berin noticed the world around them. It was all bathed in shades of rich copper to gold, half a scarlet sun resting on the rim of the world.

"It is." Berin agreed, sharing the peace this gave with the same easy smile. He'd seen thousands of sunsets, but oddly none like this one. Beautiful... but terrible.

"I must tell you... one other thing... Something that was... long unknown to the world... but to my family... to me... for my desperation..." Willmon told, his body slowly easing under the light.

"I don't know what it means... I never will... but someone might... someone may understand..." he continued, bringing a painful breath into his chest.

"The Breath of Winter... will meld with bright Fire... and dead Stone... and when winter comes again... it is the Atronach... that will stand in flames and snow..." he told, and then looked at Berin.

"I don't know what it means... But my daughter... my Claira... she is the Breath of Winter..." his hand tightened around Berin's wrist again, as a surge of pain raced through him.

"I don't know what it means... but I gave her to flame and stone... the day I begged the sage... for her life..." then he eased once more.

"Please... Please, Berin... Please help her..." he pleaded, and Berin's hand rested on his.

"I will do whatever I can for her." he assured, and found the silver-blue eyes smiling and at peace.

"That is... enough... Thank you..." he breathed out, his body easing completely against the stomach of his horse.

"No... regrets..." The Grey Tom whispered before a final deep breath expanded his chest, then he closed his eyes and he fell completely silent. Berin lowered his head, he wanted to scream. Wanted to tear his own guts out for simply allowing someone to die in front of him. He just sat here, doing nothing... The Breath of Winter? Bright Fire? Dead Stone? The Atronach?

"My lord?" he looked up at the soldiers surrounding him, and then stood.

"Move lord Tormont to the wagon, gently if you will." he ordered, and watched as three men moved forward to carefully lay the body on the wagon, next to his son.

"Lord Berin." another voice drew his attention, and he looked back.

"What?!" he sighed, trying to bring calmness to himself.

"What is it?" he tried again. This was becoming overwhelming, Raeghun was much better at this than he would ever be. But now that there was no other, he would try. All of these years, he refused to confess that he'd been jealous of him, but now he hated himself for even only just once wishing he had the same. Perhaps this was his doing, the gods frown upon those with envious hearts... But he never meant for this.

"We've found another survivor, milord." the young soldier reported, and Berin followed. It was Derric. Badly wounded, but alive.

Claira sat on the stone ledge of the gods altar in the sept of Garde's Post, at the feet of the father. It was a quiet day, she hadn't visited the village in months. Milla and the children came with her, but they promised to meet her at the general merchant's store. Then she looked up at the statues, barely longer than her arm, but carved with great care. The bearded Father holding a set of scales in his left hand with his regal face, who made her think of lord Willmon and lord Rychard, and the Mother holding a child in her arms with her loving expression which resembled ladies Alyssa and Madryde, were centred on the altar, the Crone holding a lamp in front of her and the Maiden with a flowing dress and flowers in her hair stood to the Mother's left, while the Warrior with his sword drawn and the Smith ready with his hammer were to the Father's right. The Stranger, however, seemed severely set apart from the others where he watched from his very own stone pedestal. Is it the loneliness, that made your heart so hard? She thought as she examined the features under the carved hood, the features of every face she'd ever seen, and none at all. Then she looked back at the Father, wondering. What do I say to you? Can I ask you to bring him back to me? To watch over my son for me? Honestly, she didn't know. These were the gods of her husband, not hers. Why would they listen to her?

"Good day, my lady." a soft voice called to her, and she glanced back to see the septon behind her. The same tiny little hunched over man that served Rychon's presentation. The one that was blind.

"Good day, septon." she greeted, and he slowly moved forward.

"Odd to see you here, my lady." he breathed as he sat down beside her, and she wondered how he could see at all.

"I came to ask for my family's safety... but I really don't know where to begin. These idols are not mine..." she told, trying to remember. Raeghun was not excessively religious, but he prayed for them occasionally. He would ask the Father for guidance, and the Mother for comfort. He would ask the Smith to strengthen and watch over their home, and the Warrior to strengthen the hearts of his men. The Crone for wisdom, and the Maiden to watch over and protect their children, but very very rarely to the Stranger. And then she saw the septon smile.

"The gods are not biased. When your words fail you, you may only open your heart to them." the septon mentioned.

"My heart?" she asked, confused for a moment.

"Yes, sweet lady. It may be hidden, but your heart speaks so much clearer and louder than any voice could." he assured as his white eyes went to the open door leading outside to the busy village centre, and she nodded. Somehow, that made her feel better.

"If you don't mind my asking, why did you come here?" he asked, and she looked back at the statues.

"I don't know. Perhaps, to find comfort. The weirwoods in the south have been cut down centuries ago, it's no use asking the old ones to watch where they can't... perhaps, one of these would watch over him. If only I could know, where my husband is... that he is treated kindly..." she decided, and he nodded.

"Your lord husband is uninjured, my lady. And no harm will come to him." he suddenly told her with an utmost surety, and her eyes came back to him, staring at him. How could he possibly know that? But the certainty in his words, made her hopeful.

"You sound so sure..." she breathed.

"Faith is a powerful thing, my lady. As long as you believe that, it will be a truth for you." he assured, and then looked her way.

"That is a beautiful pendant." her hand came up to the silver heart hanging from her neck, but the white eyes betrayed nothing.

"It... It's called the Heart of Hope." she told, and he smiled at her again.

"A fitting name. It suits you so well." then he stood.

"You are welcome to stay for as long as you like, sweet lady. These doors are always open." he called back as he sauntered off through one of the narrow doors into a different room, and she smiled. His kindness made her feel better, his words brought her hope. They would keep waiting for her reply. She remained there until the sky took on the orange of late noon, in the silent little sanctuary as the lives of the village passed unnoticed, the farmers and the merchants and the crafters while her sentinels stood watch at the doorway. And as the septon suggested she found it easier to talk to these entities with her heart while she sat at the Father's feet, than she would have when kneeling and beseeching them with words. Her family would be safe. They will all come home to her. Then she stood, smoothing down the front of her rich green dress before gathering the front of the gentle white knitted wool shawl that was draped across her shoulders and hanging to her knees, then lit one of the slender candles and departed the little sept to find her protectors outside where Wymon was talking with one of the passing women, and Falgon simply watched the activities of the village. On the corner next to the bakery, some people were gathered around two entertainers, watching as the taller slender man with dark brown hair tossed around small clubs and apples while a dwarf with light chestnut hair balanced himself on a rolling barrel. Three other guards had accompanied them as well, but were waiting closer to the general merchant's shop where Milla and the children were busy. She looked up at the massive fortress looming over them from the hill a short distance away. You could almost fit the entire Garde's Post into Mount Ardor's outer bailey. At least, should anything ever happen here, these people would have somewhere to go.

"Is everything in order, your grace?" her guardian's deep voice drew her attention back to where she was.

"Yes. We may go home, as soon as Milla is finished." she agreed, and he allowed her to pass him while Wymon led the way to the general dealer's store, waving to his mother who was a large woman standing in the doorway of the brewery where she worked. She listened to the heavy footsteps following hers, almost exactly. Falgon always let her walk in front of him, where he could watch over her. It was rare that he would walk next to her, and almost never in front of her. The Trentins departed the merchants after Milla turned back to thank them; in a basket resting on her arm was a selection of fabrics, embroidery and crochet threads, dyed wool and a pouch of beads for the basket in Claira's common room. Bella held a new doll in her hands, and Vaellion waved a maple wood flute in the air, excited for a chance to play it. Berterin attempted to conceal himself behind his mother as he cast the tall sentinel a fearful glance, and the moment he was free from the confines of the buildings gave his brother a quick shove forward.

"I'll race you home!" he challenged, not waiting for a reply before setting off on the pathway leading to the hold with Vaellion following while one of the guards trailed behind on a quick walk to keep an eye on them. Milla stared after them, perplexed before bringing her attention to Falgon.

"I'm so sorry, ser. I don't know what's wrong with him." she apologised sincerely. His behaviour was disturbing, but he refused to discuss anything. Berin had also not said anything following their discussion.

"It's al right. It will pass... in time." he hoped, watching the boys sprint the stretch of road leading to the bridge that connected the keep to the continent. But from Milla's side, Bella jeered at her brother.

"He's being rude. He should just get a hold of himself." she said as her mother's light eyes rested on her, the girl's expression not hiding her annoyance for the obvious ignorance. And she had to admit, she had become distinctly more sullen since Rychon left.

"Something truly frightened him, Bella." she tried to ease her, but the frustration remained.

"He should know better! Falgon would never hurt us. Ever." she reminded them all, looking at the sentinel, who never even raised his voice to them let alone a hand.

"Try not to be so hard on him, my lady. Things will improve before long." Wymon also tried, and she sighed.

"He's foolish, and bullheaded. He should apologise for this indecency." she determined, and then started forward to return to the castle as well, and Milla stared at her. Her daughter was headstrong, and not shy of her opinions even more so than her brothers. But her otherwise normal courtesy lessened. Then she breathed out, deciding that she'd try talking to both of them again later, then glanced at Claira.

"When you're ready, my lady." she indicated that they could leave, and Claira nodded. Unexpectedly, the dwarf on the barrel came rolling by, circling the ladies and pushing them together as he laughed, and forcing Wymon and the remaining two guardsmen to step back as to avoid him; but a moment later he was sitting on the ground with dust floating about him as the barrel careened down the lane. Rubbing his head, he looked up at Falgon.

"Why didn't you move?" he demanded, but the warrior simply shrugged.

"Sorry." he reached down, and picked the little man up before setting him gently on his feet.

"Are you al right?" Milla asked as the dwarf proceeded to brush the dust from his clothing.

"I'm fine. I've had worse landings than that." he assured, and then looked at the ladies with a smile, extending a hand.

"I'm Berry. My friend there's Joldewin." he introduced, and Milla accepted his gesture.

"I am lady Milla Trentin. And this is lady Claira Taugere of Mount Ardor." she gave their names, gesturing to her friend and the beady black eyes lit up like flares as they met Claira's.

"All my life, I've heard tales of your beauty." then he bowed low.

"But I never thought I would live to meet the Lady of Frost. No words could ever do you any justice, my lady." he praised before looking up at her again.

"I would die a happy man, for the honour of performing in your hall one evening." he continued, and then called his friend over to introduce him to the nobles where he too bowed low to them.

"Your loveliness has been severely understated, milady." he praised, but their courtesy left Claira feeling swept over; and she decided that the unnatural shade of her hair made her all the more alluring.

"Thank you both, for your laurels. I don't believe I've seen you before." she replied courteously.

"We're not from here, milady. We set out from Weeping Town five years ago, scouring the land as travelling entertainers. But the war has kept us north of the Riverlands, for now." Joldewin explained.

"And you've been able to support yourself here?" Milla asked, and Berry smiled modestly.

"It's been meagre, my lady. But we get by. Tavern lodging here don't cost half your limbs, but otherwise camping isn't so bad." he told, and Milla glanced at her friend.

"I have an offer for you, if you're interested." Claira said, and Berry's smile widened.

"Every breath you take has my interest, my lady." he returned eagerly.

"I will have you lodged in the Hawks for as long as you need before continuing your travels. A decent bed and a warm meal each day, on the condition that you share your talents with my villagers without cost, seeing as they enjoy you so much. Any additional tasks you take up for my people, may be for coin." she proposed, and they stared at her. For an instant, she thought them offended but then Joldewin started laughing happily, and Berry brought his hands together.

"This is more, than we hoped for. Thank you so much, wonderful lady." he replied, his voice a sudden squeak. She turned towards one of her sentinels.

"Wymon, would you be so kind as to negotiate my arrangements with Oswell? We'll meet you back at the keep." she asked, and he bowed.

"Yes, my lady." then he looked at the two entertainers.

"Come along, you two. The barkeep ought to know what you look like, at least." he herded them towards the tavern. Neither of them could have been older than three and twenty years. Then the ladies started back to the castle as well, the sky took on an increasing colour of copper under the setting sun. As they walked up the path nearing the hold, Claira thought of her hands, grateful that the wide sleeves of her dress were long enough to conceal her bandaged palms. There was no more discharge from the wounds, now only ugly deep red cuts. She hadn't even realized before Falgon had pointed it out to her.

"Your grace, you might consider adding to your order of sentinels?" Falgon mentioned from behind her, and she glanced back.

"My husband decides who has that right." she reminded him, and then heard him sigh.

"I know." then she stopped, turning to face him.

"Is something bothering you?" despite the caution behind his eyes, he gave her his gentle smile again.

"It's just me and Wymon left, your grace." he told, and she suddenly realised with a shock why her halls felt so empty. Everyone had gone... But she returned his smile, with more confidence than she knew she possessed.

"My fierce, gentle knight. Is there anyone in this country, in this world, that would best you?" she asked him, and he looked down.

"If there is, I haven't met him yet." he confessed, in his modest way.

"Then I don't need anyone else." she assured him, and they continued on towards the bridge, where a figure in grey hurried over the stones towards them, and her heart sank away.

"My ladies..." he breathed softly as he reached them, raising his hands.

"What's wrong?" Claira could already feel her stomach twist and coil as maester Adlyn's deep brown eyes settled on her.

"We've received word from the Riverlands. King Robb, and all of his men are dead. Murdered at the Twins during lord Edmure's wedding." he informed them, and suddenly she felt heavy with all of her limbs refusing to respond.

"My... my family... My father, and my brother? Where are they?" they were with him, but the maester's stare was uncertain.

"There was no mention of them, my lady." a warmth spread from her chest into her face, and the cuts to her palms were aflame. Then she felt Milla's hand on her arm.

"Claira... Berin is on his way back there..." she breathed, and she understood why her fingers trembled. He might not know. Suddenly she moved forward past the maester.

"Find our best rider! Have him take our fastest horse, and go after them!" she ordered, and moments later a young man with a knapsack slung over his shoulder astride a blood bay colt raced off the grounds, taking the same road that the mass of soldiers did almost a week past. It was a miserable night with little sleep, but rather wanting to keep the family together Milla and Falgon sat with Claira in her common room while the children slept on the benches, made comfortable with quilts, sheets and cushions. All except for Berterin, who chose to lock himself in his chamber. Time dragged by slowly, in spite of several attempts at a conversation; but the subject always turned to the questions: What happened? Where were they? But if there was no mention of them, perhaps they escaped? Would the rider make it in time? How long would it take? There was nothing to do, but to wait until the watchful dawn came. With Wymon watching over the children to wake on their own, Claira made her way down to the kitchens with Falgon in her shadow while Milla started on the feast hall. But instead of giving Jeody specific instructions, she allowed him to serve whatever he wished for this morning. She helped Milla in the garden to choose their flowers, before waiting in the southern hall where the children joined them. After breaking their fast on their cook's chosen savoury bread with sausages, tomatoes and tea they returned to the lord's wing to pray under the weirwood fountain as usual, begging for the safety of their loved ones. Or their return, at the very least. Claira looked up at the face in the column, recalling the septon's words. As long as you believe that, it will be a truth for you... And she wanted to make herself believe it. My husband is unharmed. My son is safe. My father and brother escaped. My family will return to me... She stood from the ground, brushing the yellowing leaves from her dress; and thought of sending a small token to the sept for the septon's kindness the day before.

"Milla, would you mind arranging a flower basket for me?" she asked turning to her friend, and she nodded.

"Of course. Shall I have it brought to your chamber?" she asked, and Claira shook her head.

"Not today, I want it sent to the sept. To thank the blind septon for his words." she told, and Milla nodded.

"I will have it sent at the soonest. Some of our girls are heading to the village." she agreed, and they left the wing from where Milla proceeded to the garden with her children, and Claira tended to the few matters that were brought to court. It was a slow morning, and every moment seemed a day. Claira noticed the three girls leaving through the great doors, carrying a basket filled with beautiful colourful flowers, and breathed in deeply.

"Well, what shall we do for the day, ser?" she turned towards her sentinel, and he chuckled.

"Whatever you may care to, your grace." he said, but she didn't know what she felt like doing, or if she cared to do anything at all. Maybe she hoped he would suggest something, but then recalled that she hadn't visited the maester yet.

"First, I believe that my hands require redressing." she mentioned, and then proceeded up to the maester's tower, where their healer undid the bandages before gently cleansing and salving the wounds.

"I can't believe how deep the blade cut, simply from holding it." the maester sighed as he bound clean linens around her hands.

"It's Valyrian steel, maester. It cuts through anything." she reminded him, and then he simply closed his hands around hers as he tied the bandage in place.

"It's taking longer than I would have liked, but it's healing well." he assured, and she nodded.

"Thank you, maester." he softly pet her hand as he smiled.

"Is there still pain?" he asked, and she thought for a moment.

"More stiffness than pain." she said, and he stood to rummage through his cabinet for a small bottle that he brought to her.

"One drop each morning. It should alleviate the discomfort." he advised, and she took it gratefully after thanking him once more, and then left to rejoin her sentinel at the base of the stairs from where they returned down the way to the Hall of Fire, mostly in silence until it felt like her mind would run away.

"Falgon, what do you suppose happened? Do you think the rider will make it?" she asked. She had to ask him, she had to ask someone.

"I can't say that I know, your grace. But the rider will reach them before they cross the border, I'm sure of it." he reassured her as they walked, and she wanted to believe that the rider would be faster alone. As long as you believe that, it will be a truth for you... And her family made it out. Somehow they did. But then the feeling was drowned as the sentry tower bells sang their dismal song, and absolute fear coursed through her body; yet on she forced herself until she stood on the front steps with her body blazing and every sense numb. In the bailey, the guards dispersed to return to their former routines while three soldiers were carrying a weak and wounded sentinel towards the barracks infirmary; Berin stood with his wife in his arms and a familiar sword tied to the saddle of his horse while the children were sitting on the last step. A little further away a wagon waited, covered with a thick textile. It was holding something... And she knew what. A voice sounded behind her, but there were no words... or she didn't care for the words as she moved forward. Berin looked up, his deep green eyes meeting hers the moment he moved forward to block her way, gently taking hold of her shoulders to stop her.

"Claira, maybe you shouldn't." She couldn't feel anything, except the burn. Get out of my way!

"This is my family." She pushed past him, unconscious steps taking her to the wagon where she took the canvas and drew it back to reveal their faces, and the scent of death that was heavy, but not unbearable. Uncounted tears flowed down her flaming cheeks as she lay her hands on them. Her father, and her brother. The skin was hard, cold and leathery to the touch. The hair brittle and wiry, but they seemed so peaceful, and every memory was a flash in front of her... She lowered herself between them, resting on the straw and held them. Pressing their grey brows against her skin, its chill only slightly easing the torturous heat. And then she screamed again as something pressed down gently on her back. Screamed that she wanted to die. Screamed until her lungs would no longer accept any air, and the world faded away into a deep silent darkness. She woke to the wood cap of her common room where she lay on a bench, surrounded with pillows and it felt that the smith was hammering away at her head. A sudden painful wave of nausea made her turn, and her hand pressed over her mouth hard, struggling against the sour bile in her throat, but it was of little aid as the bitterness still clung to her and it was a battle she lost. Moments later, feeling relieved but still sick she forced a deep breath into her lungs, before a hand to her back startled her and she looked up. And she hated herself. Get away from me!

"You... You shouldn't see me like this..." she whimpered, pressing her face into the pillow under her as he knelt next to her, his hand still resting on her back.

"I don't mind." he soothed as her muscles eased slightly.

"But still..." he brought a goblet of water from the small table, holding it for her.

"I've seen worse, I promise." he assured, and she took the goblet before glancing out the window, at a noon sky.

"What happened..." she realized that she couldn't remember anything, and he slightly drew back staring at her.

"You held them, for a little while. Then you ordered the bodies burnt, and the ashes returned to Pale Haven. Berin and maester Adlyn are tending to the preparations." he explained, as she took a small taste of the water before lying down and pressing her bandaged palm against her brow. The water was sweet, possibly mixed with honey or some other sugary substance.

"Was... Was I screaming?" she asked softly, and for a moment he stared at her in silence while she dreaded the answer.

"No, your grace. You were very calm." he finally said, and she breathed out. How she got here was also unknown, but it really didn't matter. She tried raising herself, but he gently held her to the bench.

"Please, don't try to get up just yet. This was an immense shock to all of you." he advised, and indeed she felt powerless against the onslaught to her skull.

"Where is Milla, and the children?" she asked, bringing both hands to her face after setting the goblet down.

"They are in the east wing, your grace. The news has struck everyone very hard." Claira thought for a moment, and then felt another wave of nausea hit her as the urge to weep once more aggravated the angry smith in her head. Of course, Milla's father was the Grey Tom's bondsman. He would have been among them... He would have been with him...

"I didn't see lord Scharer..." she started.

"Berin had already sent a small group of men off to return his body to Citrine Arch." Falgon told, and she curled up on the bench, holding herself. He could have had her family returned to Pale Haven as well without stopping here; and she would have been spared that ruin. But... that was her burden. Her responsibility.

"Falgon..." her arms constricted around her waist, her body writhing with the unseen agony.

"Yes, my queen?" he watched her, the light from the always burning hearth dancing in his eyes.

"I'm scared... I'm so scared... What will happen?" he breathed out, glancing away for just a moment.

"I don't know, your grace. I can't see the future, but if I could..." then he looked back at her.

"But whatever happens, I will never leave your side." he promised compassionately, this was the only comfort he could offer her in all of this. She grimaced as the smith refused to allow the tears; but she reached for him and he gently took her fingers, avoiding the wounded palms.

"My Falgon..." his powerful hands closed around hers.

"With your permission, I will deliver you to the lord's wing. Rest for a while longer. I will come for you this evening before the burning." It cut into her chest like a knife, but there was nothing left, and she nodded. So he gently slipped his arms under her and raised her from the bench, and walked back to the lord's wing with her resting against his chest. He understood the hurt, better than anyone else, and if he could he would suffer the same pain all over again if it meant she may be spared. But he couldn't do anything for her, and even his promise meant nothing now. The savageries that fate inflicted on the heart, was worse than any weapon could ever cause. He pushed into the lord's wing to find a chamber maid busy dusting the tables, and she cast him a surprised glance.

"Would you kindly see if you can find her grace's pain drops from her chamber?" he asked her, and she vanished up the steps while he set Claira down on the wide divan in front of the hearth.

"Thank you." she whispered as she eased into the fleecy pillows.

"I will return." he assured and then left in silence, once again scolding himself while he walked down the halls. Passing a serving girl, he asked that a charwoman be sent to the common room, and then made his way to the Hall of Fire, finding Berin, Wymon and Adlyn in front of the great hearth discussing this evening. The pyre will be built in the inner bailey, wide enough for both lords, and the wood oiled. The bodies had already been cleaned and bound in linen, awaiting their funeral.

"Thank you for the trouble, maester." Berin thanked, and maester Adlyn nodded before glancing at Falgon.

"I will see to the last of the arrangements, after I have tended our lady." he said, and then left back up to see Claira before he would return to his tower while the sentinels remained in the glow of the fire.

"How is your family?" Falgon asked, watching as his friend shook his head dolefully.

"Heartbroken, of course. But, they'll be al right in time." then he looked up.

"And Claira?" There were no words. The sight of her family, dead on that wagon, left her insentient. Her body moved appropriately enough to indicate life, but there was really nothing. She wasn't there any more. He'd guided her up the stairway, intending to deliver her to the lord's wing, but when she collapsed in the hallway in front of the Hollow, he decided to bring her to her common room where he could stay with her until she came back. He couldn't leave her, not when she was like a corpse herself.

"Not well, it grieves me to say." he confessed, and looked away. And I can't do anything...

"But she is stronger than we realize. I believe that with our support, and enough time she will find it." he tried to encourage before bringing his attention back.

"At the moment, we can't demand anything more." and Berin nodded.

"How about you?" Falgon asked as the deep green eyes went to the fire.

"I'll be fine..." he told. They'd already been on their way back to the castle when they met with lord Rames once more, sharing that they will not head south, instead giving them instruction to return to Ramshorn and see to their defences and their people. The rider found them the day after with the news from across the border, and it was easier to understand then. Maester Adlyn tended to Derric who was improving slowly, but it was said that he might never walk again for his wounds, and may need to be released from their order. Others – as much as they could – were returned to their families, nonetheless the smallfolk will expect a tribute at some point. Unfortunately nothing made what they had to suffer any easier, and they would have no choice but to wait. They parted with Falgon and Wymon returning to the barracks to oversee the preparations in the bailey, and Berin going back to their apartments in the east wing to give what he could to comfort his family whom were all distraught and broken, but too soon the only light in the world were those cast by the hearths and the torches while men gathered in the inner bailey around the wood altar, where the Tormonts were laid with great care. Wymon stood next to the pyre, holding a torch in his hand while the lord and lady Trentin with their children took positions on the other side, and maester Adlyn waited at the foot of the altar. Finally, the lady of the hold emerged with Falgon behind her, and took her place at the head, staring at the bodies. At the faces. She couldn't remember giving the order for them to be burnt, but it might be best. There was only one flaw with this, which unfortunately could not be helped... the absence of a heart tree. The custom in Pale Haven was to burn their deceased loved ones in the sight of the weirwood, so they may receive the blessing of the old ones, and a way to the sacred domain of peace... She hoped, that once their ashes were presented to the old ones in the gods grove, and given to the earth like so many before them, they would receive that gift of rest.

"They deserve so much better... They were kind and gentle men. And they were brave and loyal to a fault. They fought for justice, even though they lived for peace." she reflected, on everything. And she was granted one more tear for them, that shimmered in the light of the torch.

"They protected their family fiercely. And they loved, without restraint. Their absence will leave this world bare." She looked at Wymon, wondering if she should take the torch from him to set fire to the wood herself; but a moment later confessed in secret that she would never find it in her heart to do so. He waited patiently until she nodded, giving him permission to touch the flames of the torch to the wood, and the pyre took light in furious flames as they watched the bright fingers gently caress and finally close over them, lifting them into the skies upon tiny glowing embers. There where they could watch from among the stars. She felt arms around her, and when she looked up noticed Milla next to her, trying to comfort her. Trying to soothe the tears that would no longer come. Trying to ease the hurt she could no longer feel for all of her dull senses. Her hand came up, her cold fingers curling around the arm that held her.

"Thank you so much, for bearing this with me, my sweet friend..." Claira whispered, hoping she may quell the still furious smith that had only slightly calmed down before she came down from the lord's wing.

"They were wonderful people, Claira. Your family was robbed of so much, this crime will never be justified." she offered, and the numb fingers gently tightened.

"They were. As was your father, Milla." she turned towards her, meeting the reddened eyes.

"You have my deepest sympathy... although that might not value a great deal right now..." she sighed, hating herself. Cursing the deadness that lingered in her. Condemning herself for not being able to feel anything at this point.

"It's al right." Milla breathed, fixing a lock of hair over Claira's shoulder.

"You should go inside, have your supper and try to get some sleep. This has been a long, tragic day." Claira suggested, and the arms slowly came away from her.

"And you?" the court maiden asked as she looked back at the blazing pyre.

"I'll stay here a little bit longer..." she decided.

"Al right. But if you need anything-" Milla started.

"Don't worry about me now. Be with your family." she again urged, and Milla slowly nodded.

"Very well. Good night." she greeted, and they retreated back into the hold, along with most of the others who had gathered in the bailey for the burning, except for Claira, Falgon, Wymon, maester Adlyn and a handful of others until the flames waned and died, and the pyre was reduced to little more than a smouldering heap from where the ashes were meticulously gathered and stored in two delicate glass jars, and presented to the lady. She stared at the vessels in her broken hands, and then carefully held them to her chest as she looked up at Wymon.

"I'm sorry for sending you around so much. Will you have the carpenter's guild master come see me first thing in the morning?" she asked, but he bowed with a gentle smile.

"I live to serve you, my lady. I will head out with sunrise." he assured, and she returned his gesture.

"Thank you, Wymon." They returned back into the hold, and she made her way to the lord's wing where she lay the jars on two pillows arranged on the table before tending to her bath. She wished for sleep, but it seemed that sleep had no desire to meet with her again. The evening was spent recalling each memory, from what seemed to be ages ago until they arrived here with lord Stark almost two years ago, and the dawn when they left the burning mountain. Just like the one she stared at now... Somehow the night vanished like a butterfly on the wind, and before long a handmaiden entered to help her dress, also informing her that the carpenter's guild master awaited her, and would attend her at her leisure. But even so, she tried not to waste his time, quickly dressing in a dark gown of plum velvet, fastening the smoke grey laces over the front of the bodice while the handmaiden brushed out her long hair, binding it back with a jewelled pin.

"My token was given to the sept?" she asked, recalling that this was the girl that was carrying the basket of flowers the day before.

"It was, milady." she assured, and Claira glanced back tying the laces together.

"And my thanks given to the blind septon?" she enquired, followed by a short silence.

"Septon Costane insisted that there was no blind septon, milady. We asked several times." she told, and Claira looked back in front of her, feeling confused. He was there. He sat with her. She could still hear his voice, the sure words he gave her... Perhaps he was a wanderer? She'd heard that some of the septons travelled the country. She pulled on her wine red slippers and then left the chambers with the jars in her hands while the women proceeded with the chores of the wing, which had been greatly reduced with only one life in the whole of the northern part of the castle; and proceeded to the Hall of Fire with her sentinel keeping watch. The guild master was a short, sturdy man with thick brown curls, hazel eyes, and a cropped beard; earnest and proud but mild mannered. She displayed the jars to him, commissioning the creation of two small caskets, both interlined with cotton padding and emerald green velvet to hold the vials. Both lids were to display the sigil of house Tormont, yet only one would feature a sword as well to indicate her father. He accepted the task fervently, and returned to the guild with his order to start work on the crafts, promising that he would deliver the cases himself in a few days. Watching him leave, Claira glanced up at her protector.

"Falgon. I want you to let Avery go." she suddenly told him, but despite his reservation he acknowledged her.

"The conditions, your grace?" he asked, expecting that there will be terms for his release. But she sighed.

"No conditions. Just let him go..." she ordered, still feeling numb for the past few days. I will not destroy another family... she decided, and he bowed his head.

"As you bid, your grace." he agreed, and she spared a glance at the black arch leading into the earth beneath their keep.

"Now, if you'd please. You may find me after maester Adlyn has tended to my hands." she continued to urge, which he found momentarily strange.

"Very well." he made his way down the stairway to the domain beneath the great fortress, along deep hallways into the darkness of the vaults, the only place that smelt of sweat and shit and soot. The jailer grinned as Falgon entered the main chamber, where the tall skinny man received his 'patrons' as he preferred to call them. Whether they were visitors like Lilly, or prisoners were of little importance to him. Four torches were set on the walls of the wide room, which alternated between shades of black shadows and yellow light. Five deep gulleys ran water through the prison as effluent, and several ducts led to somewhere outside for airing. Manacles hung from the far wall, next to the arch leading to the cells. And beams with more chains hung from the ceiling near the back, where a table stood secluded with shining instruments laid out on the surface – a black leather bull whip among them. Falgon thought it fortunate that sound did not carry further than the second stairway from here. The jailer was renowned among the guards for his skill, although some of the older members would sooner name it barbarism, despite having certain whims and wants that would sooner not be debated. The soldiers that took the prisoners into the vaults, made a point to make their departure again quickly...

"Greetings, ser. What do you want?" he asked, and Falgon sighed. He was blunt, but at least he was friendly. Or he tried to be...

"You will release the runner." he told him, and eyes stared at him, the wide irises ringed with yellow and the black hair hiding most of his narrow, bony face.

"Oh, I will, will I? And since when do you give the orders here in my quarters?" he challenged, his pale skin drinking up the light from the few torches, making it seem to almost glow. He was named Eidolon, but most people knew him only as 'the jailer' and found him an odd and frightening man, but Falgon smiled.

"I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice. Her grace has commanded it." he told, and saw the jailer move back in immediate defeat. He'd always counted himself subject only to the lord of Mount Ardor, or alternatively the lady.

"Oh. Very well, then." he sounded almost disappointed, and then looked away.

"Without further delay, if you would not mind. Her grace was quite insistent." Falgon advised, bringing more disgruntlement to the jailer. Falgon passed him, and he was left to follow, mumbling to himself as they walked down the long passage where a number of prisoners scowled and taunted both the formidable jailer who would on occasion cast them a furious glance, and the tall sentinel whom paid them no mind; only one other prisoner sat in the corner of his cell, eerily silent as they passed while the keys jingled in the lonely darkness. Not much further down they stopped in front of the vault holding the disgraced scout, then Falgon faced the jailer a final time.

"Open the cell." he ordered, and the ringing of the keys mingled with the jailer's muffled complaints as the large key slid into the lock, and hauled the bolt back. Avery looked up to register the tall mass entering, and quickly came to his feet.

"Her grace has stayed your life, and today has ordered your freedom." he informed, and the youngster's face lit up in elated relief.

"Thank you, ser." he applauded him, but he still needed to understand.

"People do not deserve third chances, but they may be graced with a second. And even that is something very hard to get from me. I trust there will be no need to further explain your position." he calmly cautioned, but the perception of a threat was too clear in the light eyes staring back.

"No, ser. Never. I swear it." he promised truly, met with a satisfied smile.

"Good. Now go." Avery passed him, happily departing the dark confines of the castle dungeons to reunite with his beloved wife, and for a while the days in the castle were sullen and silent until the morning the guild master returned with two small maple wood boxes. Claira stared at the containers, which had obviously been painstakingly carved with great care. Each with a set of supports resembling cat's feet. Beautiful designs were carved into the sides, and the lids each displayed the leaping feline of house Tormont in dark ebony, inlaid on the surface. As asked, only one featured the sword, branded onto the light maple wood. The velvet lining the inside of the cases were not as light as expected, rather a deep forest green. But for the guilmaster's dedication to this project, it was beautiful. And he was rewarded with an additional silver stag for each of them. She thoughtfully placed the jars holding the ashes into the boxes, laying her brother and father in the soft velvet cushion of the caskets, and praying for peace over them before sealing the caskets with their lids. She wrapped both boxes in soft linen for their journey, which may start in another day as they waited for final preparations. She asked maester Adlyn to send a raven, to inform her family of the heartache that struck them, and that she would have the remains returned to them with a trusted member of their order. Berin had assumed the task of their safe return himself, for his promise to lord Willmon. Then she looked up, through the doors of the balcony overlooking the Goldfields from the lord's hall. It was a clear day, a white cloud or two drifting past. All seemed so peaceful, so bright, save for a black bird gliding on the wind in the distance. And in her secrecy, she hoped that their days would see improvement from here. Once Berin returned, their lives would continue... Then she left the lord's wing, leaving the small caskets wrapped on the wide round table next to the great doors; they would not be moved until the following morning at least. Falgon followed her down to the southern hall from the doorway, as always. Guardsmen made their way up and down the passages, one or two groups with a hound with them, on their way to their posts or from them; but still it will be a while before their force was near to where it was. She looked through the massive doors revealing the outside, their outer bailey, the strong gatehouse, and the endless fields beyond. It was a marvellous sight, but still now she could not feel much. This tragedy took her family from her, and the heartache might as well take her life as well... She proceeded to the southern hall, and found Milla and Berin in the doorway where she joined them in discussing the next few days. It was decided that he would lead the progress, and present Talon to the new lord Rhegard Tormont himself with five additional guards in attendance. A cart was prepared to hold their necessities, and a Silent Sister from the sept was consigned with the care of the caskets for the journey.

"We'll leave early tomorrow, and only stop to make camp during twilight. If the road still favours travellers, we will make it back in a fortnight." Berin mentioned, and Claira nodded. But then their attention was taken by a page, sent from maester Adlyn's tower.

"Lady Milla. A message has arrived for you." he announced, and she cast Berin a glance that was mixed of puzzlement and worry before following the boy up the steps, then Berin looked at Claira.

"I know it's not getting easier, but I am thankful that it seems you are feeling stronger." he mentioned softly, and she looked down at her hands. Maester Adlyn had still kept the wounds covered, to hide the ugliness. Long mahogany scabs stretched over her palms, lined with dead flaking skin. But he calculated that the wounds would be no more than pink scars in a few weeks, and mere white blemishes within half a year. Everything heals they say... but I still don't feel much... Nothing compared to the murderous sorrow.

"Yes. It will slowly get better, I think. We have to believe that." she breathed, and then looked up at him.

"And I am grateful to you, Berin. That you were with my father in the end. That he did not need to... to die alone..." she said softly, and he glanced away.

"The last thing he said, was that he had no regrets. He died at peace, Claira. Which is more than what most men have, in all of the circumstances. And all he wished for was his family's safety." he told, recalling that miserable dusk. More specifically, your safety... came the thought before he glanced at the sentinel shadowing their lady, deeply concious that in the total uncertainty of the chaotic whirl of their lives, this was the surest ease they had. The greatest warrior of their order, of their kingdom... in this world for all he knew, would dissolve into dust before he allowed anything to ever happen to her. She was everything to him, and each time his dark eyes rested on the delicate form he could see it so clear. And deny it as he might, that was the purest truth.

"Berin?" his attention went back to the blue eyes staring at him.

"My apologies." he pardoned quickly, and she managed a faint smile. She wasn't the only one capable of 'wandering'.

"Did he say anything else to you?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"Nothing of significant note, my lady. It was just idle conversation." he assured, mindful not to aggrieve her yet again, when she only recently seemed to find some stability. But the words he'd been given, the strange term of winter, fire, stone, and something called an Atronach, he shared with the smartest man he knew - their maester, who recorded it in ink precisely. Afterwards he promised to study it, and would reveal everything he could, in the event he found anything at all. This was unknown, he'd never heard it before, or anything resembling it. But Berin knew, like everything else, he would not stop trying until he found something, even if it took him years. Then he guided her into the southern hall as Falgon took his leave to return to the barracks, ensuring that the guards returned to their proper orders and the bailey was cleared so their members could resume their daily training. But rather than taking their usual places at the high table awaiting their morning serving, they made their way outside to the garden where the boys were playing, and Bella sat on the bench to the far back next to the fountain. The seat she always shared with her best friend, the heir of Mount Ardor... whose place was now empty. They continued their conversation, hoping to lighten the day in any way; those bound North to their homes would have reached them by now, and she walked looking over the blue of the Sunset Sea to where the pale of the horizon rested on its surface, wondering where the party sent to Oldtown might be by this time. They should have passed Lannisport at the very least. And Raeghun... Her Raeghun was unhurt. He must be... Rounding the garden route, they started back towards the hall where their serving girls should be placing the last of the morning feast ware. But even before reaching the great doors, rounding a rose quarts shrub, the court maiden made her startling appearance.

"Claira..." she was pale, her cheeks flushed and her eyes reddened from tears. She'd been crying; and again another shard of painful cold was driven into her heart, leaving her body light and her senses dull. It was the message.

"What's wrong?" was her only response, although she could barely feel the words while a stricken sentinel stood between them.

"The letter... It was from Carissa. She... She did not give details, beyond that Rod is indisposed and they are in trouble. She has begged for our help..." she explained through suppressed sobs, and Claira looked down. Smaller vassals, oft did not possess the opulence of great houses; and with three small children it was not entirely unexpected that they would reach out to family in distress. Milla and her husband, were their closest.

"I see." the world was greying, and even their lustrous garden seemed ashen.

"Are you sure about this?" Berin asked, deep set worry in his voice. Then she reached out to him, the rolled parchment still in her shaking hand. He took it, and opened the tiny scroll to read the words himself, and his gaunt face lost colour. Then he looked at Claira, perplexed and disoriented. But she seemed to be adrift herself.

"My lady..." But there was little worth saying.

"You'd best see to your preparations as well, then." she breathed softly, and then moved past them in silence, leaving them staring at one another. What more would be thrown at them? How many more sinister plots could fate devise against them? Then Berin moved forward as his wife dissolved into tears again, and held her tightly.

"Oh, my Milla. Everything will be al right, you'll see." he tried to comfort, feeling her shiver against him.

"I don't want to leave here, Berin. I'm worried about my mother, Rod and Carissa, and I'm worried about Claira. If we leave, she'll be completely alone, but my brother needs us. I... I don't know what to do." he held her.

"She'll be al right, and we'll come back as soon as we can." he reassured her. The remainder of the day was spent altering their arrangements, the cart was to be replaced with a larger, two-horse wagon that would hold the effects they needed. And by morning, they were ready to depart the burning mountain, while Milla held her best friend.

"I don't want to leave you, Claira..." she whispered, but the cold from her was so close to death she could hardly feel her breathe.

"I understand, Milla. Don't worry about me. I'll be al right..." she whispered back, feeling the gentle arms tighten around her, and Milla spared a glance at her husband, standing a few feet away with Falgon.

"I made a promise to her father, that I would help her in any way I can. But, I can't do it alone." Berin told softly, and then looked up at the dark eyes.

"You must help her, my friend. Watch over her, and keep her safe... Please, take care of her." he beseeched him, and he glanced away at the lady of their hold.

"I will. I give you my word." Falgon vowed truthfully.

"We'll come back as soon as we can. When all is settled again." he assured, watching their children descending the great stairway from the castle to greet their aunt before the boys made for their coursers followed by his daughter whom joined her mother and the Silent Sister with the caskets in her hands on the wagon, stacked with crates, chests, barrels and bags for the journey. Bella had been severely reluctant to leave, even going as far as locking herself in her room this morning. But after some persuasion from her father, she complied. Berterin on the other hand, mounted his gelding enthusiastically, seeming eager to get away.

"Farewell, my friend. Until we meet again." Berin greeted, forcing a smile; and they shook hands.

"And to you and your family, lord Berin. Stay safe." Falgon returned, then they approached Claira where her sentinel retook his place at her side, and the head of their sentinels gently embraced her.

"I will ensure that your brother receives the sword back, I promise." he told, and then drew back only seeing her nod.

"Good bye, Claira. We'll see you again, soon." he squeezed her cold hand, and she returned that simple gesture kindly.

"Good bye, Berin. Keep well." she watched as he moved away, mounting his waiting horse where Berterin and Vaellion took places behind him, followed by the wagon and four more guards in the rear. They passed under the great gatehouse, following the road past Garde's Post that would take them to the horizon and then away. The day was colourless, and still... was it because of the clouds?

Falgon sat in the guard's hall staring at the flames of the hearth, feeling chained and destitute, loath of the past week. There were the whispers of dark wings stirring in the east, a Targaryen girl with three dragons, said to be growing fast. If the tales were true, they would make for these lands before too long, just like the Conqueror did then... but that was not what bothered him. Not in the least. The greatest disturbance to him, was the darkness that had fallen over his queen since the wagon left through the gate, bearing what was left of her family. A heavy, black shadow that started to follow her footsteps, and cling to her like a leech to the living. She was distant, and would often shut herself away in the lord's wing without tending to much, and the only ones allowed inside were the chamber maids, a handmaiden to aid the lady and a serving girl from time to time, mostly exchanging pitchers. The healer had attempted to visit her, to advise her, but with no more fortune than the wind against these walls... Fortunate for the members of their hold, if the kitchen master was not given specific instructions he simply served whatever came to mind while master Austinus and maester Adlyn to the best of their abilities attempted to appease and keep further order. But with limited authority, many who came to court was left unsatisfied, and left the keep with meagre advises or the intent to return again at another time. The defence of the castle was his, which thus far had been kept solid, but he had no power over the lives of her people. A marked affair that was frequently brought to their attention was the tribute, now that war was pulling away from them. But until her grace had found her feet, it would unfortunately have to wait. And of course, Berry had come calling at the castle gates several times begging an audience, with little luck. But if anything, it was becoming worse... Wymon's shadow fell across the wall as he sat down on the chair next to Falgon with a heavy sigh.

"More and more people are becoming impatient, the old men can only do so much." he hinted.

"They will have to be patient for a while longer, still. She has suffered devastating blows four times within the span of two months." Falgon told, and Wymon looked away.

"I know... And I wish it didn't have to be this way. But..." he paused for a moment, as if hardening himself for the words.

"I am sorry to say this, Falgon. I know you love her, but the world waits for no one's grief. There are matters that only she can attend to, no one else has the authority." he explained, and Falgon's eyes met his. I do not love her... It was more than that. It was meaning. It was purpose. For him, this was life.

"True as your logic is, there is one thing that heals a wound. Not courtesies, not hands, not words. Time heals wounds, and the deepest wounds take the longest to mend. People must understand that." But these wounds, they weren't healing. They were festering, and no amount of boiling wine would cleanse this poison. No one had seen her since before noon, when she shut herself away again. Her morning routine to continue sharing the tables in the southern hall for their morning meal, seemed to be little more than proof that she was still alive.

"It's not just her isolation, the women say she spends her days standing in front of the hearth, mostly drinking." he told, and then leaned back against the chair.

"Not too long ago, if she took two glasses of rose wine a day, it was a lot." he recalled, and Falgon looked away at the flames. He could not deny that it was worrisome, that decanters were exchanged more frequently now.

"Give her some time, Wymon. I'm sure she'll improve soon." he tried to urge, but if this continued for much longer there might not be anything to return to...

"Al right, but I do hope it doesn't go on for much longer." Wymon breathed as he stood,

"Good night, ser." and started his way up into the barracks halls to retire for the night while Falgon remained where he was. It was already rather late, and he wondered if she could find any rest this night. Will you see her, please? Milla's voice suddenly slammed into him, the same desperate plea he had listened to just a few weeks ago, and he tensed harshly at the thought. She trusts you, Falgon... The voice begged and cried in his head and he grimaced, frustrated for his own ineptitude.

What?! What do you want me to do? He shouted back, with no one there to answer, and it seemed that the voice had disappeared into the dark stillness that hung in their halls. But then it returned, just a slight whisper like the breeze through the brush. I don't know... anything... He leaned forward slightly, his hand moving through his long thick hair, like he wanted to rake the thoughts from his mind. But they would not leave, and he spared a glance at the empty arch where the stairs led to the guards quarters. Wymon was right, if there was no change soon, they'd face more than impatient callers. Warily he brought himself to his feet and restored Summit in its place before slowly heading up into the dimly lit castle passages, damning himself with each step; and standing in front of the great dark wood doors he listened and wondered, was this the right thing to do? If you required a raging river to flow in a different direction, the only way to do it was to block it off and force it into another canal. He drew a deep breath, and knocked... met with silence. Once more, but nothing. Seeing no alternate options, and the dread increasing, he pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside where he was relieved to find her standing next to a table, dressed in a flowing gown of black silk with long gauzy sleeves and a dark wine red sash, her hair hanging in a jumble of two-colour locks down her back to her thighs. If she noticed him, she did not turn to meet him.

"Your grace..." he started, gently trying to gain her attention. She looked up, but not back as she took something off the table in front of her.

"Your grace, are you al right?" he asked as he took a step closer, and heard her scoff.

"Am I al right? What a morbid question, ser Falgon…" then she turned with a large chalice of deep red in her hand, her blue eyes bright and more than a gentle rose blush to her cheeks. She smiled.

"I'm fine. Won't you join me? I confess that the wine has a slightly bitter taste, but it will do." she invited, gesturing at the table where a silver pitcher and two more goblets awaited use. He moved forward carefully, shutting the heavy door behind him, the uneasiness increasing.

"I had believed that you did not enjoy the deep red." he mentioned, and she glanced at the pitcher on the table with a soft sigh.

"The sweet wines no longer appeased me, it just tastes like water." she defended as he stared at her.

"And you find the deep more satisfying?" generally, she would be much more partial to the sweeter, lighter wines, and only moderate amounts. He found himself wondering, how much she had.

"It's an acquired taste, but one you get used to... Does that bother you?" she asked as she walked away from him, towards the open balcony doors.

"No. But I will not deny that it worries me that you've been drinking more than you would allow yourself under normal circumstances." he confessed, and again she laughed.

"You sound like my father…" she mocked him, leaving a subtle sting. This was not the girl he met at the Wanderer's Tourney when he found his purpose. Not the woman he'd shadowed for years to keep her safe. This was not the same person that gave meaning to his existence, and the notion that his queen may be lost to this darkness was something suddenly alarming.

"This isn't like you." he told her while her eyes scanned the shadows outside.

"How would you know what I'm like?" she demanded turning back to face him rather ungracefully; the red spilling from the rim of the chalice over her pale hand, but her sparkling eyes hard, yet more desperate than enraged.

"I've spent many years with you, shadowing you. Watching you. I know enough." he replied calmly, hoping gentle words may settle her.

"You don't know! You don't know anything!" she yelled at him, mad misery more controlling of her mind than her once gentle nature.

"I know enough." he said again, still regarding her.

"You don't! You don't know what this feels like! You don't know what it's like to feel like you've lost everything!" she continued, and the subtle sting turned to a bitter one. That's not true...

"Do you honestly believe that? You think I've lost nothing?" he asked, still attempting to retain his tranquillity.

"You've always talked about having this happy life, where you had everything. And then you just left!" she accused him, and the bitterness enveloped him for a moment. That horrible, obscure dawn when his gaze turned to a red sunrise.

"Yes, I left. But I wasn't given a choice." he corrected her; had he been given one...

"You still left! Did it ever occur to you-" she started, and he hardened as he realized that the tenderness he'd hoped for had no effect. And it was not altogether dishonest to admit that the situation was growing vexatious.

"Stop it. You're drunk." he suddenly silenced her, and for a moment she stared at him in surprise. Perhaps taken aback by his uncharacteristic insolence, but turned away from him, trying to hide her abashment for both his words, and the truth behind them.

"So what? So what if I am? It's better than feeling this… this pain. This emptiness!" she justified as she looked at the glass in her hand.

"I am completely alone, everyone has left me. My husband is gone. Rychon's been taken from me. My father and my brother were murdered – butchered in some field like poached livestock. Even Berin and Milla left with the children… I'm alone… I have nothing! Just this infuriating heap of stone!" she cried out in despair, and his frustration lessened.

"You're not alone, your grace." Many were still left, maester Adlyn, cook Jeody, master Austinus...

"Get out!" she yelled at him, wishing to continue the pursuit this misery had left her.

"My queen, I gave my word." stricken as she was, he could not leave her. Would it be only the cruelty of fate that knew what this woman could do, when left to her own thoughts... and perhaps hands?

"I said get out!" she spun around, flinging the chalice towards him, and it shattered against the wall next to his head, crimson staining the stones of the wall and dark wood flooring. Inexplicably livid he moved forward suddenly, his strong hands taking hold of her wrists firmly as he glared down at her.

"Stop it!" he ordered, but the frigid blue eyes stared back, equally hard and furious.

"How dare you?" she demanded, struggling against him.

"This isn't you. It's not!" he told, his fingers tightening in his hold; demanding, desirous, desperate...

"Let go of me!" she tugged and writhed for release, but he gripped her tightly.

"This is not you!" he called, his fingers aflame around the cool skin of her wrists.

"Let me go, Falgon! Let me go or I will hit you, I swear!" she threatened, their eyes locked in the desperate struggle as much as their hands. She was lost in the toxic clouds, unafraid. And he pulled her closer to him.

"Then do it! Fucking hit me! Show me that you remember who you are! Show me that your name is not just something plastered onto you like your dress!" he challenged her as tiny spasms rattled down his spine, and her eyes hardened even more.

"You hound!" he released her wrist, and took hold of her neck, drawing her forward and pressing his mouth to hers, perhaps a little bit more forceful than he had intended. He expected the tightness to his chest, for the dizziness and stinging to assault him, for the breathlessness to overwhelm him. But there was nothing. Just her sweet scent as he breathed her in. Move… Hit me! Do something! Come back… Remember! And then she did, pulling away from him she balled her free hand into a fist and she slammed it into his jaw hard, hard enough that he could imagine the taste of blood as he staggered slightly of the force, and she pulled free from him.

"You arrogant, common bastard! I am Claira Taugere of the burning mountain, wife of the Phoenix! I am a lady of the noblest houses in the known world! I don't care what is thrown at me, this is my home, my domain, my people! Thousands may lay siege to these walls, while the rest of Westeros can burn in all the fires, but victory is the red in my blood! From the ashes I will rise. Stronger I will rise!" she screamed at him as he brought his hand to his mouth for but a moment, searching for the crimson that indicated a broken lip, but there was nothing and for an instant he hoped it would remain so. Her voice, and her words were strong. Solid. True and unchanging. For the first time, she was afraid of him. The fear drowning the drunkenness, and then flaming in fury when she hit him. He looked back at her, she was staring at him in both shock and rage.

"That's better." he sighed; what he had tried to evoke, however unplanned, had been successful. Then he bowed to her, gracefully... as if nothing happened.

"With your leave, your grace-" she flung herself forward, mad and distraught.

"You fool! You stubborn, stubborn fool!" she screamed at him, pounding furiously at his broad, powerful chest. But calmly he brought his hands up, and gently lay them on her back, just holding her as the rage melted, and she cried against him; the fist once hammering at him now clutching the neckline of his doublet, and the black ringmail underneath.

"You fool… Why? Why do you always do that? Why…" she whimpered dismally against him, but his hands continued their gentle touch, softly sliding up and down her back in soothing strokes.

"It's al right." he eased, but she looked up with reddened eyes, pulling at the garments.

"Tell me why…" she begged, desperate to understand. And he smiled at her, in his always gentle way as his eyes met the frigid blue of his queen.

"Because I belong to you." and again she dissolved, laying her head against his chest and crying, and a moment later he found them both sitting on the floor together as she clutched his clothing, and he simply held her in his arms, allowing her to weep for all of it all over again, until it passed. Summit had fallen from its clasps onto the carpet but he barely noticed, and all he could think of was her. It was hard. But he knew that pain, better than anyone else. Better than any living man could ever dream, he knew it so well.

"You're all I have... You're all I have left..." she finally whispered against him, calmed from releasing the pent up frustrations, fears, sorrows and rages; and his arms softly tightened around her. You are not alone...

"Your father and brother have found peace, and everyone else will return to you before long." he tried to reassure her, but she sat in silence without an answer. Whether she believed him or no, she would not say. Although he hoped for the initial. For yet a little while longer she sat still, closed in his strong arms and nestled against his chest, simply breathing and waiting for the tremors to end before suddenly looking up at him again.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry I struck you… You didn't deserve that…" she apologised, her eyes visibly searching the skin where her fist connected with his face.

"I did. I did deserve it." he acknowledged softly. He had entered her sanctuary impulsively, he'd spoken to her without regard, and then he kissed her without her consent. By every right she had, he should be executed. There was still a tingle to his lips, but not of the blow... yet he supposed that the touch did not last long enough to bring on the sickening sensations he'd experienced with others, like Aurelne and the few before her. Which he found himself subtly grateful for. Then he smiled at her once more.

"You're stronger than you look." he said as he gently wiped a few strands of black and white from her face, securing the hair behind her shoulder.

"Really?" and she managed to return the smile, hopeful for a little strength of her own.

"Yes. Don't ever let that strength leave you." he encouraged, and she leaned against him again with a calm, easy sigh.

"My dear knight... My sweet, silly Falgon…" he held her, happy for this turn, but resentful for the circumstances that forced this. He shouldn't have been here. You fool... you stubborn, senseless fool... Slowly she pulled back, wiping the tacky trails left by the tears from her cheeks.

"I think I need a bath. Stay right here, don't go anywhere." she told him as she stood, and then sauntered off to the bath chamber, disappearing behind the heavy crimson curtain while he remained, mulling over the night. He could hear the gentle rush of the water, spilling from somewhere. The motions of tiny ripples, and the soft splash as water was scooped and spilled; and it abruptly occurred that it would be well past midnight. Moments later she reappeared, dressed in a light green gown of soft chiffon layers, flowing down her figure as she walked while her hair hung freely down her back. A gold ribbon fastened the snug bodice around her neck. He watched as she made her way to the wide divan, and then collapsed onto the cushions, the remnants of the wine having returned. But fortunately, not as embroiled as before. Then she looked at him, drowsily waving him closer; so he stood and approached as she indicated the open seat above her, and he carefully sat down.

"Tell me one of your stories…" she whispered, and he thought for a moment. And then he remembered. It was long ago, shortly after leaving Westeros; he'd joined a starting group of mercenaries of no more than seven men. They were boisterous, gallant and confident, setting their sights on establishing an order large enough to rival even the Golden Company of Braavos. They were hired to accompany a party of maesters, on their way to the Ibben to study the land and its people. The first month was easy enough, while the maesters found that the island was rich in gold, iron, copper and amber; the forests abundant of timber and various animals for pelts; and the inhabitants of this northern island, preferring their own reclusion, for the most part left them to their own. They were short, stout people with disproportionate features but possessed immense strength and their own kind of cunning, and watching their great ships pass by the island coastline it was a clear thing they were master ship builders. But in time, these Ibbenese people grew more cautious of the foreign group than curious. One day, on their way back to camp they passed a group fishing in the shallows, where the youngest of their maesters, a compassionate but rash boy of almost seven and ten, approached a small boy sitting on the shore piling stones, offering him an apple. The mother must have misunderstood, and rushed up to defend him. One of the companions, equally false in his perception, slew her without a thought... It was a slaughter after that. Many died, on both sides. Dozens of Ibbenese, and their entire party save for the two eldest maesters, whom he somehow miraculously returned to the closest city before leaving on his own again. They were uninjured, but not entirely unshaken... Then he looked down, noticing her easy, even breaths. She was asleep, and he wondered what to do. He could keep watch over her for the night here where she slept, and leave with the morning. He could leave her to her sleep, and return with the morning. But then ultimately decided that she may feel most comfortable, and sleep best on her own bed. In silence he stood, removed the heavy cloak, the chest belt, the bracers, doublet and ringmail, leaving him the faded sleeveless tunic. Then he carefully slid his arms under her legs and back, lifting her from the divan she whimpered slightly as her head found a soft resting place against his chest, and he carried her up the steps to the highest room and lay her down on the great bed. Methodically, he folded the quilt three times by length, wrapped a tunic that lay discarded on a chest around it and positioned it next to her before covering her with a soft silken sheet, and after sparing a moment watching her arms wrap around the quilt even in her sleep, he left the lords wing with his effects, without another word, save for the wisdom his beloved had once given him. "A woman never fights so hard as she does, when protecting her heart..." and the many curses running through his head, which remained long after he'd returned to the guard's hall and the sun returned to the world.

When Claira woke, the horizon was already taking on the pink of dawn. She slept peacefully, not being tortured by the restless tossing and turning, and the headache that followed like on so many previous occasions. Languidly her hand slid down her face, the drying skin of the wounds harsh against her cheek, and vague visions of a far off land with distorted people; but when her cold fingers touched her lips she remembered a great dark mass holding her, and a sudden rough kiss... One she was more shocked, than frightened of. It may have been meant to be threatening, even violent. But it was her Falgon, and however unceremonious, he remained gentle. And it could not have been his first choice of action, but her behaviour must have left him little choice; as she'd been less than couth to everyone of late. But he made her see that there was strength left in her, there was hope for yet another sunrise and as long as he stood at her side, she had nothing to fear from anyone. And however hard it may be now, perhaps she might find solace and sedulity in him. "Departed, I'm afraid. I'm the only one left..." He whom had been alone, too... It will get better slowly, and she could face each day as it came to her. What was left to her now, was to thank him for his harshness, it was the irregularity she needed to show her the way again. And then to make amends and see to her people, starting with the tribute. She sat up as a soft knock sounded at the door, and she lowered her feet to the floor.

"Enter." the door slowly edged open, and a young girl with red hair and light grey eyes peered inside. It was her handmaiden Laurene.

"Good morning, milady. I am sorry if I woke you." she greeted as she stepped inside, followed by two chamber maids to start on the chores of the wing.

"You didn't. And I believe it is past time that I returned to my formal routines." she said as she stood, and the girl placed her hands together.

"Very well, milady. Any dress in particular you wish for today?" she asked, and Claira glanced at the wardrobe.

"Black, or at least dark. Our people are still in mourning for their families." she decided, and Laurene rummaged through the wardrobe as Claira waited, finally pulling a gown of black velvet with gold sequence over the bodice and wide sleeves, matched with a pearl and onyx girdle. After dressing, the girl brushed out her long hair and secured it in a long braid that was draped over her right shoulder before fitting her dark grey slippers, and then she departed the lord's wing where her sentinel waited for her, greeting her warmly.

"Good morning, Wymon. Shall we start our day?" she smiled, and he nodded.

"Of course, my lady." her first thought was to see maester Adlyn to tend her hands, and she made for his tower where he received her happily, and dressed the wounds. There was no further need of bandages, the cuts were now smaller. What remained was the damaged and drying skin of her palms, to which he applied a smooth green ointment before closing his hands around hers.

"These should be fully healed within the fortnight, my lady." he reported enthusiastically, and then looked up at her with his deep brown eyes seeming lighter than she remembered.

"Is there anything else you need?" he asked, and her fingers tightened in his.

"Not at the moment, thank you maester. And I'm sorry for being so feckless, I hope I may set things right." she said and he smiled petting her hand.

"It's al right, I'm sure everything will be fine." he comforted her, and then she stood.

"Well, I should leave you to your work. I'm sure there's a lot to be done. Until tomorrow, then." he nodded.

"I wish you a fruitful day, my lady." he returned, and she quickly descended the winding steps back to the passage where Wymon remained, and then they proceeded to the castle kitchens to discuss the morning meal with Jeody after she asked for his pardon as well, and to her surprise she met Lilly again. Great with child, but happily so. Regardless of her husband's release from Mount Ardor's vaults, she retained her assignments in the castle wash house, finding it more pleasant than the cows of the farmer; and maester Adlyn had advised that her child may enter this world near to or with the second full moon from now; which they looked forward to. Then she tended to the southern hall, which was indeed in need of a thorough cleaning, and she spared no effort to employ every charwoman, scullion and serving girl available to this task. The floors were swept and washed, the tables and benches scrubbed, the five hearths set throughout the feast hall cleared out, cleaned and restocked with firewood. The drapes were taken down and sent to the wash house, replaced with new ones and the phoenix hung above the Fervid Hearth anew, bright and ablaze as she stared at the vivid colours. In truth, I've missed this... Then she turned to Wymon, still at her side.

"Have you seen Falgon, by any chance?" she asked, and he glanced at the great doors connecting the feast hall and the Hall of Fire, the arch to the barracks far on the other side.

"I believe he is with master Austinus discussing the guardsmen routines, my lady. Some new boys were taken into service not too long ago." he mentioned, and she reflected for an instant. She hadn't realised their numbers did not cease, and even in her absence others tried to maintain order. I will try harder...

"Oh, and they're doing well?" she asked, again involved in the world that for so long passed her by heedlessly, perhaps unconsciously.

"Quite well, my lady. Master Austinus is not explicitly as stern as ser Falgon, but the boys are conforming well." he reported, and she smiled.

"Good to hear, I would like them to be happy here." she breathed, and he stared at her.

"It is good to see you like this again, as well. But I admit, this is a sudden turn." he mentioned, and she glanced away.

"I... I realised how much my people need me..." she told softly, but he remained staring at her. Wondering, searching for an explanation she did not give him. Then she faced him again.

"May I ask you one more favour?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Of course, my lady." he agreed.

"Might you ask Falgon to join me in the garden, once he has finished his venture?" he bowed, and then left for the outer bailey where Austinus and Falgon considered the rounds.

"One third of the guards will be set on the outer walls between midnight and dawn." Austinus indicated the walls spanning the stretch holding the front of the stronghold.

"Agreed. And we might consider a dozen patrolling the outer bailey with the hounds." he suggested, and Austinus took that into consideration.

"That sounds reasonable." he sided with the tall sentinel as Wymon joined them.

"I apologise for interrupting you." he interjected politely, and Austinus smiled.

"At ease, ser. We were done." he said and then looked up at Falgon.

"I will see to the times. If there is need of alterations, I will inform you." he said.

"Thank you, master." Falgon nodded, and the elderly gentleman left to tend to the guards.

"Lady Claira has asked for you." Wymon informed, but a strange hesitation flashed behind the dark eyes.

"As her grace commands..." he sighed, wondering if she recalled his violation the evening before.

"Are you al right?" Wymon suddenly asked, and he noticed the grey eyes searching him.

"I'm fine." he told easily, and then moved away to meet his bidding. Or is fate... He passed through the Hall of Fire with its resounding silence, and the feast hall where girls were placing flower bouquets and feast ware on the tables, then through the doors into the lush gardens searching for her. His path led him to the far back of the garden where she awaited him, seated on the stone bench next to the lovely fountain and he bowed respectfully.

"You summoned me, your grace?" he presented himself.

"I did." then she looked around, but the garden was largely deserted. Then she stood and approached him to face him evenly.

"Why did you kiss me?" she asked, and in that instant the frigid guilt enveloped him; cold and unforgiving. She would hate him, and she should. I had no right... But then he sighed, looking down from her.

"I don't know. I didn't know what else to do." he confessed, and then brought his eyes back to hers, at the blue that overwhelmed him. More curious than angry.

"Talking didn't help, and arguing would only have made it worse. I couldn't handle the situation like I would have done with another man, so what was left to me?" he asked, but did not attempt to justify his actions.

"You swore to protect me." she reminded him.

"I did. So tell me, what do you believe?" he asked her, and then she smiled at him.

"You will never hurt me." she said, absolutely immovable in that truth, something as sure as the sun and the moon in the sky, and he breathed out.

"No, I won't. But for just an instant, you doubted me. And it made you react. Thankfully, the way I hoped for." he explained, and she took a step closer to him.

"Thank you. And I'm sorry I made you do that." he stared at her, something between relief and the remains of guilt behind his striking eyes.

"You're not offended?" he asked, and she fought an urge to laugh.

"No. I know you had a good reason." she let it pass. There were always reasons to him, he was notoriously cautious. He always considered every possible outcome to every situation, and if he could he chose the most amicable way... So if the only choice left to him was to kiss her, it meant that there was no alternate for him.

"I'd like to go see the carpenters after the matters are tended to, and then we can go riding. I haven't been outside in days." she suggested, and he nodded with a happy laugh.

"Of course, your grace." and so the day passed, and their members assembled in the feast hall to break their fast, and it did indeed seem like a better day. With the serfs clearing the hall, most returned to their duties and Claira moved through the Hall of Fire with Falgon and Wymon in her company, intent on starting the day's matters when a group rushed in from outside calling to her and she looked up at them. They were villagers from Garde's Post, mostly women. As was their custom, her sentinels moved in front of her to shield her from the oncoming horde, but her hands gently lay on their arms.

"It's al right..." so they moved away. The first to meet her was an elderly full figured woman with greying hair, light blue eyes whom raised her hands.

"M'lady, please. My husband and my son left home, and I fear they'd not return. Please, the tribute..." she started as Claira accepted her pleading hands.

"Yes, of course." then she looked over them.

"I will see the carpenters myself today, the tribute will be served at dusk in two days. I'm sorry you had to wait this long." she apologised, and they breathed out in relief.

"Thank you, m'lady." the woman laughed, grateful that their people will be remembered properly; and then they left.

"We can have the rest allowed in, I'm sure there are quite a few waiting." Claira said looking at Wymon, and he smiled.

"That was the greatest topic brought to your hall, my lady. There shouldn't be a whole lot more." he mentioned. Then she glanced through the doors, at another group approaching with matters for her hearing.

"Very well. So, let us tend to them." she turned and made her way to the seat looming over the Hall of Fire, where her people brought their grievances and requests, which she all heard and settled to the best of her reasoning until noon came. Finally with the last of the callers gone and mitigated, she rose from the throne.

"Is there anyone left?" Claira asked as she scanned the great hall.

"I believe not, my lady." Wymon assured, hearing the lady sigh.

"Good... We should head out. Meet with the carpenters, and perhaps circle the fields." she proposed, and they headed outside to claim their steeds. Moments later they mounted, and departed the burning mountain, taking the little road down to the village where Claira entered the carpenter's guild. A large structure stowed with timber beams and littered with sawdust, the smell of the wood rich in the air. Several men were busy assembling benches and refining table surfaces, another was rolling a wagon wheel to the door.

"G'day, m'lady. What we do ya for?" A sudden foreign voice startled her, and she turned to meet the lean, narrow face of one of the crafters. He was bony, his hair a tangled mess of braids and a haggard beard covering his emaciated cheeks and jaw; his skin was dark as ebony and his eyes were deep black pools staring at her.

"Very big sorry. Me Qudo... new here." he quickly pardoned, noted of the small jerk when she turned.

"I came to see the guild master." Claira said and he smiled, displaying crooked teeth of pearl white.

"He in back. Me get 'im." he offered, and drifted off with a whistle. I've missed a lot...

"He's not from here." Claira noted.

"The tongue sounds southern." Falgon indicated and Wymon glanced at him.

"Dorne?" he tried to identify it, but Falgon smiled.

"Farther." he stressed, and Wymon looked back at the space where the stranger vanished.

"The Summer Isles?" he tried again.

"Sothoryos, perhaps." Falgon decided, and then the guild master appeared with the apprentice following.

"Good day, my lady." he greeted her heartily and then looked back at the ebony man behind him.

"My thanks. Now make sure those wagon wheels are ready, the farmer will come for them shortly." he instructed, and the dark man grinned.

"Aye, sa'." he vanished between the beams, like a skinny shadow.

"I see you've met my newest initiate." the master laughed, and Claira shared the humour.

"It seems I have quite a few new members of my village to meet." she blushed. More things had slipped by her conciousness than she'd realised.

"He's a good worker, although a bit slow. He struggles with the common tongue." he told.

"How will we be of service, my lady?" he asked, giving her his full attention.

"I believe you are aware that our people have been awaiting the tribute to our fallen for a while now. I'd like a pyre built in our eastern fields, ready by dusk in two days." she asked, and he nodded in acknowledgement of his request.

"It will be done so, my lady." he assured, after which she thanked him and returned outside, where Berry rushed to meet her.

"My lady! My lady!" he waved his arms frantically, as if trying desperately to ensure she saw him, but she smiled as he approached.

"Berry, how good to see you." she greeted him with a smile, which he eagerly returned.

"My lady, wondrous and frozen." he clasped his hands together.

"Will you grant me my dying wish? One evening. One evening is all I ask." he pleaded, and she could not help but laugh, taken with his eagerness.

"Of course. My people expect a tribute for our fallen, but once that has passed and all are at peace, I will be happy to receive you." she promised, and his eyes lit up like the sunrise.

"Thank you! Thank you, beautiful and enchanting lady." he praised, nearly jumping up and down of happiness; but then suddenly stopped.

"Oh, my apologies. I must be respectful." he realized, and then bowed low.

"I shall await your invitation, lovely lady." he assured, and then headed away again.

"Well then. Shall we proceed?" Claira asked, looking at her sentinels.

"As you will, your grace." Falgon agreed, and they mounted their steeds. But instead of taking the road back to Mount Ardor, they left the village for the quiet of the grasslands where she immersed herself in its freedom. The sounds of the farmers and animals around them, the gentle rushes of the wind, the rustling of the leaves in the trees, the movements of the muscles in each heavy step of the horses... and the wind on her skin when they spurred the horses to a gallop over the open pastures. Each time Wymon proposed to return to the keep, she thought of an excuse just to make this last a little bit longer. But before the sun disappeared over the ridge of the world, they found themselves back in the outer bailey, surrendering their horses to the stable boys for grooming and feeding, from where they spent what remained of the day in the garden where she sat on the bench near the fountain, just listening to the slow trickle of the water spilling over the edges as she recalled the afternoon. The freedom beyond the walls. Falgon stood off to one side watching the sunset while Wymon settled on the stone wall of the basin, inspecting the sharpness of his dagger. Everything was quiet, and she suspected that it would remain so; but couldn't help the burn to her cheeks as she thought of her family...

"Falgon." his attention came to her, and she forced a smile.

"They'll be al right, won't they?" she asked, and he regarded her with a gentle smile.

"Everyone will be just fine, your grace." he assured, and he meant it. Those far away, and those who remained, and she could breathe in relief. Together, they would wait for all of them to come home. Then she looked at Wymon, resting his head in the palm of his left hand, the elbow balanced on his knee while the hand holding the dagger lay over his thigh.

"Wymon, are you al right?" she asked, and he looked up with an uneasy smile.

"I... Yes, my lady. I... I feel a bit cold, that's all..." he told, but his brow was beaded with droplets of sweat, and his cheeks pale. She stood and approached him, laying her hand against his skin as he sat up, feeling the burn to the back of her hand. She gasped, shocked with guilt. That was why he was eager to return to the keep.

"Go see the maester, meet with Jeody for an early supper and go rest. You can rejoin me when you feel better." she instructed, but his light grey eyes stared at her.

"Are... Are you sure, my lady?" he asked, and she lay her hand on his shoulder.

"Yes. Off you go." she urged, and then he rose to his feet, bowing to her formally before leaving the gardens to meet with maester Adlyn. The burn of guilt spread through her, he was far too complaisant to complain, or tell her he was feeling sick.

"I'm so selfish..." she murmured, and then looked at Falgon, for an instant reflecting that apart from her husband, he was the only one of their members that never fell ill.

"I suppose we should head inside as well." she proposed, and they surrendered to the confines of the hold. Two days dragged past, the routines followed mostly like they always were. After meeting with the healer, Wymon was given medicine for fever and told to rest. But to all's relief, the illness vanished quickly and he returned to his lady's side by noon on the day of the tribute. The pyre was built in the eastern fields as asked, more than twice Claira's height. With the sun resting on the edge of the world, the members of Mount Ardor assembled around the pyre where the rest of their people joined them. Young and old, all those whose families followed their lord to war long ago. And she found herself trying to recall the words he had given the faces staring back, years before that when the realm was threatened by yet a different rebellion. Again, Wymon stood at her side with the burning torch in his hand when the sun made way to twilight, and the sky took on its shade of rich rose. She stared at them, at the mothers, sisters, daughters, grandfathers, little boys, lame, sickly all alike. They whom lost lives to the cruelty of men.

"Thank you all, for making this journey. And I apologise that it took this long to finalize the tribute." she said, but really couldn't think of anything as she looked down at her hands. Many did not come home, and they wouldn't. If what Berin had told her was true, every man from the Corridor that remained south of the Neck after what was now called "The Red Wedding" would have been put to death, and there was nothing she could give their families. No consolation which would ease their burdened hearts. She tried to recall that night, many years ago. What did her husband say? I can't do this... she looked up again, at the faces. I can't do this... But then she remembered. I am wife of the Phoenix! And she took a deep breath.

"I see each of your faces, so much like my own. Stricken by grief and loss while our hearts continue to bleed." she started, and thought back to that night. That night when their loved ones became the heroes of their history.

"But my wish for you, for all of us, is to remember them, not in sorrow and desolation. They left our homes in the golden shine of a sunrise to face a threat; they did this to protect us. To keep our lives safe." she said, and then looked up at the stars, starting to appear in the deepening purple sky.

"Each sunrise we see, belongs to them. It is a new sunrise they gave us all. Cherish it, while remembering why they gave this to us." then she looked back at them.

"I will not ask you to cast off your heavy hearts, for time above all heals these wounds. And I hope that you know, I grieve for all of you..." she paused, the spark of a flame in her chest.

"But, I will not grieve with you." some of the stares facing her passed to momentary confusion.

"My husband has not returned to me, it is true. But neither has he been proven dead, despite all the many whispers. And until I have surety either way, I will continue to hold these lands in his name. I will do whatever I can for you, within reason and without prejudice, all I ask in return is one kindness." she told, and then looked at Wymon who waited patiently.

"Remember why they donned their arms and armour. Remember that they loved us. Remember that all they did, was for us. And with that memory, strive for each day to be better than the last. Remember the sunrise they gave us, and in time when the sun sets, we will be with them again." she told, taking the torch from Wymon whom came forward and presented it to her. Then she turned and made her way to the great pyre, that seemed to reach the sky. To touch the many stars now shining down on them. Can I do this..? Can I be strong for them, as well..? Then her eyes met the dark stare watching her, calm and patient. Strong if yet peaceful. I am wife of the Phoenix...

"I will remember." she said as she touched the flames to the straw, waiting as the dry wood took light and then shoved the torch into the centre of the structure, watching it flame and burn. Then Wymon joined her, pushing his own staff into the blaze.

"I will remember." he promised, and then Falgon with the same words; and all the others that came to pledge their memory to this night. Claira, her sentinels and a great part of Mount Ardor's household members spent much of the evening in Garde's Post with their people, sharing memories and hopes for their future, to build forth their days on the remembrance of those who gave their lives back. Even Berry and Joldewin added their dreams, intent on staying in the village and become part of these people, to live out whatever they had left in the shadow of the great keep. Many people approached her, thanking her for her words. The night drew out, and started to grow colder when the lady and her house returned to the warmth of the burning mountain after midnight, and Falgon escorted her back to the lord's wing where she lingered in the heat of the great tiled bath before finally surrendering to her bed. Without knowing why she expected anything different, she lay under the sheets adrift in the many visions that altered between thoughts and vague dreams; but no sure sleep. No fulfilling slumber would ever share her bed again, she thought. And then her husband's face was in front of her, the burning eyes watching her as he smiled; but it was hard to stay the tears in spite of the happiness. She so wished she could touch him, just to feel his warmth against her skin and rid her of the chill in her lonely bed. Hold on to me, my Claira... he whispered, and she cried. I will... However long it takes, I will... She promised, and then his hands came to hers, soothing around hers, seeping into the broken skin of her palms as the warmth spread up her arms into her chest and cheeks. I love you, my Claira... he whispered as he stepped closer and his heat enveloped her. I love you, Raeghun... I love you... and then he was gone, vanished in the dead of the dark night, but his warmth remained. He will return to me. He will... alive or otherwise, he will return to me... and she slipped into one more peaceful slumber.

Yet another week slowly slipped by, each sunrise the same as the last; but life continued. The days remained relatively empty, but they saw betterment in small measures. The castle gates were reopened to the world, as the lands started to settle once more. But still they kept the memories, and hoped each day. Even alone, she continued to spend her mornings under the weirwood in prayer for their future, and watching the stars in the night waiting for the next while her regular routine returned to normal, visiting Jeody's kitchen, having the hall prepared for their people, prayer, attending her court, seeing their ill and wounded, inspections of her grounds, bartering with the village and others who came to call, riding, embroidery or crochet, and relaxing in her gardens before supper and finally retreating to the safety of her sanctuary; all with her sentinels in constant attendance. But Derric... Derric healed under maester Adlyn's care while Claira saw him each day. But his strength did not return, and one sunlit autumn morning Wymon and three more guards took him home to Hillfield. Claira watched with Falgon at her side while the cart pulled through the gate with her sentinel leading, and the others positioned around it where Derric was seated on the back with chests and bags holding his personal effects. He'd been with them for almost two decades, and like Hernaut he was severely reluctant to leave, pleading to stay. But to her gentle words, he listened; and he understood. She watched as the small wagon ambled over the stones of the bridge, and the dark haired sentinel smiled at her one last time, raising his hand and waving while the good memories tugged at her heart. Her circle continued to grow smaller, but she was grateful for those who remained. Then she remembered her promise to Berry, and turned to Falgon.

"Perhaps our hall might benefit from some revelry, bereft as it is." she suggested, and he nodded.

"That seems reasonable, your grace." he agreed, and she sighed.

"Would you-" stop calling me that? But, no. He wouldn't, and she knew it by this time.

"Would you care, to share the high table with me, ser?" she asked, bringing his gentle smile.

"The high table is reserved for the nobility of your hold, your grace." he reminded her, and she laughed.

"How many high-born linger within these walls but me, ser?" she gently challenged him, and he glanced up at the great doors. True, the nobility was meagre save for the few sent from the distances as orderlies.

"Not many, I confess." he relented, and noticed her staring at him giving in to the request.

"If that is your wish, your grace." he again agreed, and they returned to the safety of the keep where she asked a passing serf to bring her invitation to the entertainers currently residing at the village inn, should she find herself in Garde's Post this day. The day passed, as she tried to fill her time with something; when after noon the server returned with the reply that the entertainers will meet the pleasure of the lady's hall the following evening. And in time the darkness of twilight settled over their lands when the party of guards returned with the assurance that Derric was safely reunited with his family, and their people gathered for their evening meal, sharing stories and idle conversation. As agreed, Falgon was seated beside his queen but his serving left largely untouched despite the enticing presentation before returning to their chambers. He accompanied her to the door of the lord's wing where he left her in its safety, then made his way back to the guard's hall to his post, thinking over the days. Her garments remained dark of colour, but he was thankful that her temperament seemed to lighten, and she had not overindulged in the rich liquids of the cellars beyond her usual as it was before. She met with her people, those who came to resolve their minds and their hearts. Whatever they faced in the future, he would stand behind her. He would follow, wherever she led their people, he would carry her where she needed his strength, and he would continue to protect her against whichever threat that came to her. Until her family came home to her where they were meant to be, he would shield her and hold her safe however long it took... The night was deep and long, and he found himself wondering if she was sleeping in the calm darkness; but thought it unlikely. The shadows under her striking eyes were far too obvious, as she hadn't slept much since her husband left, and by accounts even less since suffering the harrowing losses; but there was so little he could offer for any amount of relief or comfort... And for some reason, he recalled the girl he once loved. Uncharacteristic as it was, he hadn't entertained these kinds of thoughts in a long time, but confessed that he wished he could recall her better. It was only the eyes now, the bright green of sunlit pastures... She was daring, once. Fierce, and as strong as a woman could be. But she was gone now. And nothing would ever return her, or his family to this world. All he had was this, and it was the last thing he could treasure. Then he let the thoughts go, fading into his past where they belonged, and he did not care to have them again while he rather gave his attention to the pages of an old book waiting on the table. Perhaps too soon, the sky lightened to the approaching dawn and he tended to his own morning routine to bathe and redress before making his way up to the lord's wing where he waited for her. The handmaidens passed him into the wing, only shadows in pale pink wisps, which he hardly noticed; and a short while later Claira departed the vast northern wing to join her people.

"Good morning, your grace." he greeted with a bow when her eyes met his.

"Good morning, ser." she returned, closing the great door behind her.

"I trust you had a peaceful evening." he hoped, watching her fold her hands in front of her, resting on the front of an elegant plum velvet gown with gold embroidering over the neckline and wide sleeves, her hips hugged by a gold and garnet girdle.

"It was as fair as I could have hoped for, yet it seems that a night of decent sleep is a far off memory, now." she breathed, and he felt for her. Among several other tiny items, he still had a small bottle of Nightshade essence, stashed away in the pouch on his belt; one he'd received many years ago from a herbalist in Lys. A medicine he'd never used, and all but forgotten.

"Perhaps some essence of Nightshade, might help to soothe you?" he proposed, and she sighed.

"I've asked our maester, but he won't allow more than two drops each evening. Other than that, I simply try to pass the time." she told, but somehow managed to smile.

"I might get used to it, after a while. For now, I'm just tired; but I'll manage." she said, and he nodded.

"Very well. At your leisure, your grace." he raised his hand, allowing her to pass him and followed her down the incline to the kitchens where she met with their cook, and arranged their morning meal of honeyed oatmeal with goat milk and fresh fruit. He remained in her company for the rest of the day, except for the time she claimed to return to the lord's garden to pray under her fountain after breaking their fast in the southern hall, and the day followed as much of those before, but with granted improvement. Several came to court with requests more than disputes, including the young man who'd asked her permission to enter courtship; which she now finally allowed in light of settling peace. She met with master Austinus on the state of the barracks, its members and their rounds, pleased that several of the young men had formed indisputable bonds with the hounds since altering the patrols to include them; and all seemed well. She visited Philpot as well, enquiring if he needed anything, and then sent a couple of squires to the forge in Garde's Post with his request for coal, steel ingots and some iron billets to continue maintaining the castle armoury. Then she escaped the keep for a little while with her sentinels on a short ride, reaching the border of the woodland before returning to the safety of the burning mountain, and passing what remained of the day in her common room with Falgon's music softly surrounding her and eventually watching the sun disappear into twilight from the sweetness of the garden after approving the evening banquet of stuffed goose with cauliflower, carrots, spinach and cheese; and preserve tartlets. She sat watching the last glow fade away, again longing for her family. This was the seat her son would share with his friend, and now they were both gone... The gardens were quiet, because the children were gone. The halls of Mount Ardor were quiet, because almost every familiar face she'd known in the past was gone. Her chamber was quiet, because her husband was gone. But perhaps the party sent south reached Hightower by now, and she hoped that things fared better there. With the garden torches being lit, she made her way inside to take her seat at the high table, waiting for their evening banquet, once again with her sentinel by her side; and shortly after her guests, Berry and Joldewin made their appearance, dressed in strikingly colourful garments. They made their way to her, bowing low before the dais from where the noble seats watched over their hall.

"Good evening, lovely lady. We serve at your pleasure." Berry presented them with a wide smile, and Claira nodded.

"Thank you for coming. Please settle in, my people will enjoy your talents." she returned, and they looked up; Joldewin's eyes bright and excited.

"We are truly honoured, to share in your hospitality tonight, milady." he said, and they moved away to enjoy some mead while awaiting the members of the hold to assemble before they would start their presentation; and for an instant Claira wondered what ever happened to Vernon. Accomplished as these two former wanderers were, he was truly exceptional. Perhaps he was pulling a bouquet of flowers from a maiden's golden locks, or summoning a white dove from his fingertips; or once again immersing people in one of his wondrous tales somewhere. Then she looked at Falgon at her side, watching the hall and the light reflected in his eyes; for the slightest of an instant seeing her husband's posture in him. Easy, confident... proud.

"Thank you, ser." his eyes came to her, and she smiled.

"For sharing this with me." she added, and he nodded. He would share everything with her until her world returned to her, however long it took. Every burden and every blessing, and she would never be alone. Whether it was days, weeks, months... or years...