A/N: Hey everyone. Been in online med school for two weeks. It's not as grueling as the movies make it seem but I'm mentally exhausted anyway.

I may be less in terms of update frequency but I shall be updating, as this shows. Hope you enjoy, and wish me luck.

Oh, and just to let everyone know, I found on youtube that my original GoT fic "Empire of Ice and Fire" has been turned into an Audiobook series! It's in progress by a creator called PJ's Reads. Be sure to check it out :D

Read and comment!

Chapter 27: Families

"The crisis is being overstated."

"I can assure you that it's not, Lord Reyne." Twin violet eyes narrowed at the ginger-bearded Lord of Castamere. Maegor had placed the man as Master of War to obtain support for becoming Hand of the King, but aside from that Tybolt Reyne's loyalty was with Aenys and not himself. Normally Maegor would not have a problem with this, but it caused headaches when they butted heads. "The raids are only increasing in number and severity."

"Wildling raids are part and parcel of living in the icy North, no?" As the Dragonpalace continued to grow in construction - so much so that the King had sold the manse and moved permanently into the holdfast north of the great hall - the young Prince Aegon's stature had grown as well within court.

So too, Maegor lamented, did his arrogance. "The North is frequently raised by the Free Folk tribes, aye, but they are largely isolated affairs. These are coordinated."

Unlike Aegon, who huffed and crossed his arms when challenged by his uncle, Rhaena was more open-minded. Willing to listen to counsel, a trait she got from her kepa. "Lord Snow, what is causing these more coordinated raids as my Uncle informs us?"

Brandon Snow, Master of Whisperers, maintained his characteristic icy scowl through the entire Small Council session. "The Crown's birds do not extend North of the Wall, but the whispers heard by the Night's Watch indicate the wildlings are eschewing usual tribal structure and forming into confederations."

"Have they named a King Beyond the Wall?" The question was posed by Lord Lucas Harroway - the new Master of Coin after the retirement of Lord Butterwell - voice curious.

"Not to my knowledge. More like a collection of petty Kings."

Seated at the head of the table, King Aenys was as well put together as a King could be - but it was clear that being King had aged him considerably. There were lines on his face that hadn't been there before, as well as eyes that were losing luster. Maegor resolved to advise him to seek a few weeks rest in Dragonstone after this. "Why are they massing? I see no reason for them to do this."

"Could be the Long Night?" Rhaena said innocently, having been told the tale by Jorelle and her brother the other night.

Biting back a snicker, Maegor was thankful that few south of the Neck knew that tale - lest Rhaena be mocked for it. A sentiment shared by a smirking Brandon Snow. "I feel that it's more mundane a reason that that, dear niece."

"Enlighten us then, brother," Aenys said.

"It seems that the Free Folk have been influenced by a sort of witch… a shaman as they call him or her." That was the best phonetic sounding of the word, which Maegor was told derived from the Mag Nuk speak of the giants. "They are banding together because they were told that destiny awaits them south of the Wall."

"What sort of destiny?" asked Septon Murmison, the consult of spiritual matters for the Crown. "Some sort of divine prophecy on part of whatever gods the savages worship?"

Brandon Snow's scowl deepened. "They worship the same gods as the North does, Septon."

Not wanting a spat within the Small Council instigated by his prickly mentor - he was already disliked by so many in King's Landing - Maegor jumped in. "These visions… as all prophecies innately end up being, are fickle and vague. If this is real, then they only know that they need to move South, not how or why."

"I am certain I know your source of information, goodbrother," Alyssa spoke. Maegor narrowed his eyes at his smirking goodsister, while noticing Rhaena sigh and cast him an apologetic look. "But in any case, what shall we do about it?"

"The Night's Watch was formed to deal with the savages," Aegon said dismissively. "Let them handle it."

Maegor shook his head. "Not that simple. They are at an ebb and flow at the moment due to the lack of recruits."

"Empty the jails then," declared the Queen. "Can you see it done, Lord Ronnel?"

"At once, your Grace," bowed the Master of Laws.

"If it may please his Grace," Maegor added, "Allow me to allocate gold to the chief of the White Foot clan. Kepa granted them lands south of the Wall for their services to the Realm, and they can use the gold to better influence the various confederations. Buy us time."

"Aye, do so," Aenys declared, not to be swayed. If the Hand noticed glares from many in the Small Council of sending coin to the father of his former mistress, he didn't give any indication. "Is there any other business that we can address?" He looked as if he were hoping for good news.

By the grace of the gods, Maegor was glad he could give some. "Lord Smallwood reports that discontent and banditry in the Riverlands has abated considerably since his arrival at Harrenhal."

A beaming, tired smile reached Aenys' face. "Gods, that is welcome news."

"The problem there remains Ser Gargon's insistence on taking the right of First Night," stated Brandon, earning winces and looks of anger from many. "I suggest he answer for these crimes."

"Such a right, though unseemly," stated Grand Maester Gawen, "Is part of tradition. To punish him for exercising it isn't something that the Lords would approve of."

"Some traditions need to be changed, Grand Maester," stated Rhaena, her eyes dark with anger. "Kepa, you need to take a stand."

Aenys nodded. "Aye, that's what I'll do. Send a letter to Lord Daeron and inform him that Gargon is to cease this at once and do whatever penance the local septon assigns him, or else Lord Smallwood is to bring him to face the King's Justice."

A middle of the road approach that appeased no one.

More mundane matters passed by without Rhaena paying much attention, instead focusing on looking at her uncle - her secret love. He put on a good front of the dutiful, dynamic Hand of the King and rider of Balerion, but she could see it in his eyes. In the ever so slight sag of the shoulders. He was still hurting. Six moons had passed since Ceryse's latest miscarriage and the wounds hadn't healed, only bandaged as best they could. Ceryse fled to Oldtown to recover, but Maegor didn't have that luxury.

Rhaena had to step in, much as her favorites apart from Tyanna dissuaded her from doing so. He may never be mine, but uncle needs me. She would be there for him no matter what.

The Small Council meeting finally ended and Rhaena found her kepa waving over to her. "Daughter, do come. Some marvelous new artworks have arrived from Braavos and I hope to show them to you."

While she would normally love to, Rhaena gazed back at Maegor, speaking to Lord Commander Gawen. "Before supper, kepa, we shall - but uncle and I are to visit the dragons and I cannot find a way around that."

Her muna frowned - whether it her denying her kepa or because it was uncle Maegor she was denying him for, Rhaena couldn't tell. "You'd reject an invitation from your father…"

"Alyssa, that's enough. I cannot deny my daughter the birthright of House Targaryen." Her kepa smiled warmly. "Go, I shall find something else to do in the meantime till you get back." Rhaena hugged him and kissed his cheek. She kissed Alyssa's cheek as well, though her muna gave her a look of half-anger and half-worry - a look Rhaena had been getting ever since she and Maegor started spending more time together.

Gods, it was starting to get tedious.

Her uncle was now alone, deep in thought. He jumped slightly when Rhaena looped her arm in his. "Shall we, uncle?" She looked up at him with innocent purple eyes.

That genuine smile of his, one that made Rhaena weak in the knees, formed on Maegor's face. "Of course, niece." Only she could bring that smile to his face these days, and of this Rhaena took the deepest pride.

As always, they talked about everything under the sun - simply enjoying each other's company. "How is the tribe of wildlings fairing south of the Wall?"

Maegor shrugged. "Lands are similar, if more fertile. They don't like farming but ranching of cattle and sheep are different. Ralla says that they've been in discussions with Lord Umber about financing an expedition to catch mammoth beyond the Wall and bring them south to raise." He chuckled. "The Umbers hate the Free Folk but the idea of mammoths among his bannermen must be too good to pass up."

"Oh? I heard that the Volentenes use elephants as war weapons - mammoths are larger I would assume."

"Aye. Could make for a rather powerful breakthrough weapon if used properly. Beasts are hard to tame."

Rhaena laughed. "I should send Alysanne's septas to the North. Those sour crones could break down anything without a dragon's strength." They shared a laugh before Rhaena noticed his expression grow worn again. Oh… to mention the Faith… "How is Aunt Ceryse doing?"

A sigh. "Better. Her letters are more frequent and she says she's coping." They hadn't had much time before she left, too hurt was Ceryse. 'Everytime I look at you, I see our child.' There had been a tight hug and a loving kiss as she boarded her ship to Oldtown, but it wasn't the same. "I offered to fly there on Belarion to see her, and she didn't say no."

"She should see you… you deserve love."

"You always think the best of me, dear niece." Maegor leaned down to cup her cheek and kiss her forehead. Followed by a hug… something both of them needed.

"I love you, uncle." Words that had double meaning.

"I love you too, Rhaena." Maegor found his own words… surreal. As if changing. He was scared to ask how.

A sight from the cliff where the dragons nested caught Rhaena's eye. "Seems we're not alone this time."

Giggling, Princess Alysanne pet Dreamfyre's scales. "Love you, Dreamfyre." She always felt a sense of peace around the dragons - kepa didn't take her here that often, so when Jaehaerys invited her to accompany him… it was an offer she couldn't refuse. "Jae, will my dragon be so well-behaved?"

Stroking Balerion's snout, Jaehaerys clicked his tongue. "You shouldn't want that. You should want a mighty beast that brings fire and blood upon your enemies." That's what Balerion did, after all.

"Nah, I want a pretty one with silver colors like my egg!"

"Girls…" Jae murmured, until a shadow caught his eye. "Ummm… uncle…"

Maegor shook his head. "You should know better than to approach another rider's dragons." He moved beside Jaehaerys. "It's a good thing Balerion's such a softie."

You're going to pay for that, valonqar. His dragon's annoyance made Maegor chuckle.

"Nuh unh! Balerion is the toughest beast there is. He brings fire and blood, not softness."

On second thought, my nephew can pet me whenever he wants… perhaps I should let him be my rider? Balerion's eyes twinkled. He certainly respects me more.

"Oh, shut it," Maegor replied in High Valyrian.

By Dreamfyre, Rhaena was a lot less teasing of her little sister, the two of them scratching under Dreamfyre's jaw and making her growl with pleasure. "What brings you two here, not that uncle and I mind?"

Alysanne let out a huff. "Our dragons won't hatch, and I just want to go riding."

Rhaena looked to her uncle, the two of them sharing a glance. "Want to go riding with us?"

Both younger Targaryens gaped. "Really?!" Alysanne was jumping with excitement.

"No way." Jaehaerys couldn't believe it.

"Should be alright if you sit in front of your sister and I." Maegor patted Jae's shoulder. "Just don't tell your muna."

For a ride on their uncle and sister's dragons, the two of them would share a blood oath in front of the heart tree.

Dearest wife,

I hope my words find you well. I cannot claim to be a poet with words, though being a poet with a blade as is my proper skill is nigh impossible, so do forgive me if I try and fail.

Skimming the plainly scrawled words, Ceryse found a giggle forcing itself out at reading what Maegor wrote. "He says he's not good with words - liar." Affection for her husband filled her eyes.

Troubling news from both the North and Dorne. In the former, the Free Folk are beginning to mass while in the latter, Princess Deria has passed. I'm hoping that the Night's Watch, properly reinforced, can play the Free Folk bands against each other and buy more time for the crisis to abate, but as for Dorne I fear the ascension of Prince Mors Martell. His hatred of us is well known.

Momentarily, Ceryse felt the greatest guilt for not being in King's Landing with her husband - helping Maegor navigate the crises of the Realm. Aenys would allow her onto the Small Council even though Alyssa disliked her.

But feeling her flat stomach… it brought everything into context. She couldn't be in the capitol… she had to be here in Oldtown, in the Hightower. In her childhood home where she last knew the semblance of safety and innocence.

Grief on her expression, she continued the letter.

Our family continues to thrive, especially my niece Alysanne and nephew Jaehaerys. They grow like weeds, Jae into a strapping man and Ally into a beautiful, graceful woman. Only the day before I write this did Rhaena and I take them for their first dragonride astride Dreamfyre and Balerion…

Groaning, Ceryse set down the letter, unable to read anymore. "Gods, that man…" When they first had their problems he sought the arms of his wildling lover, and now as she mourned for their miscarried child he ran to…

Ceryse shook her head, realizing her horrid thoughts. "She's his niece."

Targaryens marry their family.

"No… I love him. He's hurting like I am."

"Niece?" a voice called through the door. "Do you have company in there?"

Face a confusing panoply of emotion, Ceryse stood at the visitor and wiped her eyes - forcing a gentle smile on her face. "No, Aunt Patrice. All is well." She wouldn't dwell on these awful thoughts, not when she came here to heal. Composing herself, Ceryse went to the door and was greeted by the smiling face of her same-aged aunt. "Good evening."

Patrice Hightower, the late in life daughter of Addam Hightower, wrapped her niece in a hug. "Ceryse, you look more beautiful as the years go by."

She blushed at the praise. "I must've gotten the same blood that you did, aunt." Ceryse's age, unlike her Patrice never married, not yet at least, though there was still time. The rumors around the Hightower buzzed constantly about reasons, most common being that she was infertile or preferred women, ones that brought Lord Manfryd mortification but Patrice only laughter. "Are we to join father for dinner?"

Shaking her head, Patrice frowned. "He's dining with your elder brother at the palace of the High Septon."

"High Septon Hugor invited him? A high honor."

"High honor, bah." Patrice scoffed. "Those Gardeners are all the same. Arrogant prisses - we're not so much better, but I still hate it." They began to walk down the corridor, arm in arm. The two Flowers of Oldtown as was dubbed them in their youth. "Vivienne Tyrell is the best of the lot, but the Tyrells have rubbed off on her."

"The Tyrells were stewards while House Gardener was the noblest blood."

"Aye, stewards… when you're that low it either makes you covetous or humble. While old Harlan may have be a little of both, late Theo was the latter. It did well for Vivienne, trust me." She patted Ceryse's hand. "But enough on that. Let's go get you some dinner. You need to eat… you're like a skeleton."

"I eat fine, aunt Patrice." With her mother dead, aunt Patrice began to talk more like a mother to her - it was awkward considering they were the same age.

"Nonsense. You can't go back to your dragon husband looking like a corpse. Come on. We're going to eat and then go for a nice long ride. How about that?"

Her eyes lit up. "That sounds heavenly." Normally the picture of a proper Andal Lady, from her childhood Ceryse loved horses and riding. Her father indulged her in spite of grandfather's curt disapproval when he was alive, and she often went riding with her brothers - especially Morgan. Speaking of which… "Morgan, brother!"

They had just caught sight of him while passing through one of the larger hallways - windows letting in light to the spacious arched ceiling. Donning the rainbow cloak of the Warrior's Sons, Ser Morgan Hightower cut a dashing, handsome image. He looked just like the Andal heroes of the songs. Ceryse was so proud of him.

Now though, he looked like he was in a hurry somewhere… but he spared his dear sister some time. "Ceryse, my beautiful Princess." He kissed her on the cheek affectionately as he always did, making Ceryse smile. "How are you today? Doing better?"

"A little better every day," she replied back. "Not as dashing as in full armor, but you look like you could take on an army."

Morgan grinned. "Have to keep up two august reputations now. Aunt Patrice."

"Nephew," she replied - they never truly got along, but were family.

"Will you be joining me for a ride this evening, Morgan?" Ceryse asked her younger brother, the two of them always having been close during their youth.

But Morgan's sunny demeanor and mischievous spirit - while still there - had been hardened since he donned the rainbow cloak. "Forgive me, sister, but I must decline." He reacted not when her face fell and she pouted, another expression from their childhood. "Don't do that," Morgan warned. "I have places to be."

Blinking, Ceryse knew he had his duties as part of the Warrior's Sons - but why didn't he just say that? "What's more important than spending time with your dear sister?"

"Just shut up. I'll go where I want," he snapped back.

Ceryse flinched, causing their aunt Patrice to scowl. "Do not speak to your sister that way."

Morgan's sudden anger softened. "Apologies, sister," he said, genuinely by the hurt on his face. "But I really have places to be and cannot indulge your reliving of our childhood."

Sighing, Ceryse nodded. "Understood, brother. We've all grown from those times… it was selfish of me to assume it could be otherwise." Aye, they had all grown - herself most of all, forged by loss, pain, and marital discord. "Go, enjoy yourself." Morgan hugged her, lingering a little longer than Ceryse expected but she was fine with it. As he left, she noticed her aunt's stare. "What?"

Patrice just sighed. "You are far too forgiving of everyone, except your husband."

"What?"

"You blame him for your loss, don't you?"

She looked down. "I don't blame Maegor."

Her aunt draped an arm over her shoulder. "You don't wish to, but on some level you do… as well as yourself." Leaning over, she kissed her on the cheek. "But you're not going to get past it by brooding. Come on, let's have a nice evening." Without another word, the Flowers of Oldtown were off… though not as cheery as before they ran into the young knight.

Did the Seven who were One truly hate her?

Sometimes it seemed they did. Sometimes Jeyne Poore thought it was all a horrible nightmare, that in the moments she was stuck in a viewing port watching some ugly as sin merchant defile a nubile young woman within the client rooms she'd wake up after spending the night in Lady Rowan's chambers, sneaking a bottle of arbor gold and giggling about the gallant young knights that trained in the yard. By the gods, Jeyne wished to be back there.

"Tonight is a quiet night, thank the Seven," Floris Flowers remarked, leaning back in a gossamer gown and letting out a sigh. "Hopefully it will stay that way."

"Aye," Jeyne replied to the three-year experienced whore - her best friend since being placed in the brothel. One of the busiest in Oldtown, the proprietor being a personal friend of the High Septon. Barth counts on the discretion of the Faithful.

A snort. "Says you," one of the more experienced whores remarked. "Mistress only makes you suck off the clients. Lucky bitch." Jeyne wouldn't speak further on it, but in that she was glad. Barth had left no uncertain words that her maidenhead needed to be intact. That she was only here to learn the art of seduction and pleasure of men or women. For the glory of the Faith, though at the moment Jeyne didn't know what he was thinking of.

"Don't worry… just means she's being held for something special," another girl said, giggling.

Perhaps she wasn't lucky after all in that fact.

Their moment of peace was interrupted as the madam entered, followed by the proprietor… that was certainly a shock for Jeyne. The old man usually never left his solar, counting his gold or letting one of the whores service him. The ladies didn't truly mind she found out - unlike others in the business, he was mostly kind.

Mostly.

"Alright, everyone to the front," announced the madam - Sarai was her name, a mature beauty from Myr. "We have a special client."

"One that requires all of us?" Jeyne heard Sella ask. As one of the senior girls in the brothel, she had more leeway than the others to challenge Sarai or the proprietor.

Not that either had to follow her, anyways. "Does the son of the Lord of the Hightower count? I do believe it does," their proprietor remarked, drawing wide eyes. "Handle this Sarai. Am counting on you - if he is made happy, we could get more clients from both the Hightower and the Warrior's Sons."

Sarai kissed his cheek. "You can count on me, my dear." As she spent more time here, Jeyne was starting to suspect that the madam hadn't been a former whore, at least not for the owner. "Let's go!" she barked at the girls.

As they shambled out into the reception room dressed in their most alluring gowns, Jeyne leaned in to Floris. "Ser Martyn Hightower is here? Why would that benefit the Warrior's Sons' patronage?"

Floris shook her head. "He must mean the younger son, Martyn. He's a Warrior's Son."

Jeyne blinked. "But… he swore an oath of chastity."

Her friend looked at her with amusement. "Oh Jeyne, for a whore you're still like a blushing maiden almost."

Seems she still had a lot to learn of the human condition.

True enough, waiting was a young man - good looking with dark blonde hair and a warrior's build - wearing the rainbow cloak of the Warrior's Sons. "Ser Morgan, welcome to our humble establishment," curtsied Sarai, the only female in the brothel dressed in any sort of modesty. "Your patronage brings us great honor."

Ser Morgan looked disinterested. "The place I normally go to hasn't had any new girls for a while, so I'm expanding my horizons. Hopefully there are some to my liking."

"Rest assured, our girls come from across Westeros and beyond the Narrow Sea." She approached a dark-skinned girl from Naath - Jeyne didn't really know her, since she was quiet and kept to herself. Probably doesn't even speak the common tongue. "This one is a beautiful, exotic…"

"No darkies," Ser Morgan said firmly. "I'm a respectable knight from a great family."

And yet you're in a brothel.

Sarai took it in stride. "Of course, of course." She skipped to a pale girl from the Vale. "How about this mountain beauty? Slender and passionate."

"I suppose, I…" Suddenly Ser Morgan's eyes widened as they found a girl that truly peaked his interest. Jeyne. "Her."

Jeyne stiffened. "I'm sorry?" She heard Sarai say.

"I want that one." His gaze was lustful, lecherous. Jeyne would be flattered if there was some actual kindness behind it rather than base desire. "She is perfect."

Suddenly nervous, Sarai shook her head. "Forgive me, mi'Lord. She is not for sale…"

Eyes narrowing, Morgan glared at her. "Why the fuck not?"

"She is still a maiden…"

"Oooh, even better." He produced a coinpurse that he jingled in front of Sarai. "Fifty gold dragons for her maidenhead."

Many eyes went wide among the girls. Such was an almost unheard of sum, even for a girl's maidenhead, and the look on the knight's face showed he was willing to pay more just for Jeyne.

While Jeyne wished to run… run anywhere to avoid the fate of losing her maidenhead to someone not of her choosing, the bronzed skin of her madam went almost white as a sheet. Anyone would've simply taken the coin, unless… "No."

"What?"

"She's not for sale, I'm sorry." The wroth of a denied Ser Morgan paled at the prospect of whatever wroth Barth would inflict on her if Jeyne was spoiled.

"One hundred fifty gold dragons." Beside Jeyne, Floris gasped.

"Forgive me, mi'Lord. Lady Jeyne here only is to perform oral pleasure, or pleasing of ladies…"

"Done." Morgan looked eager to have her in any manner. "I'll take the Vale bitch and that one," he pointed to Floris. "Along with her."

Sarai accepted the payment. "One of my men will accompany you… just to make sure you don't take any liberties."

Morgan scoffed. "My word as a knight should be enough."

"Precautions." She added a shy smile to it… which made Morgan groan but nod.

Minutes later, they were all ensconced in a luxurious bedchamber of silks and satin - only used for the most illustrious of visitors. Morgan Hightower certainly applied, and he sat on the bed as the three girls were appraised by his eyes. "Never have I seen anyone as beautiful as you, Lady Jeyne," he spoke finally, voice dripping with desire.

"Thank you, good Ser," she replied, trying not to sound as disgusted as she felt.

"You sound like an educated woman," he remarked. "So you'll pretend to be a highborn, for me. Can you do that?" Jeyne nodded, not speaking again. "Good." Morgan pointed to the others. "You two, pleasure each other and make yourselves cum. I'll be partaking in you when I'm done with Lady Jeyne here."

"Do not touch her cunt," growled Drago Bardon, the massive guard that Sarai had watching over her.

"I got it, I got it," hissed Morgan, watching lecherously as Floris and the Vale girl began kissing each other. "Yes, enjoy your forbidden desires you whores."

Jeyne would feel bad for them, but she knew that her friends preferred each other's embrace to any of the clients - they actually cared for each other. She herself was in the horrible situation as Morgan took off his trousers and exposed his cock. It was decently big, but she felt no desire as she sunk to her knees. Before long, her eyes were closed and Jeyne was pleasuring him.

"Mmmmm…" Morgan gasped, clearly entranced by her. Hands weaving into her hair. "Yesss… take me deeper, Ceryse…"

Before she didn't think she could be any more disgusted… now, she truly was. Close your eyes and think of the Seven. It helped.

Perhaps it helped.

She hoped it helped.

Though weeks had passed since her grandmother had been laid to rest within the Sunspear crypt, not once since had Nymeria Sand's mind drifted from that day… nor the evening in which she had slipped away, blissfully asleep via milk of the poppy. There had been a time in which the Sand Snake was beset by rage and resentment against the Seven, Mother Rhoyne, and even the old gods of the First Men, of the First Men, but Nymeria had long since passed into simply being numb.

Deria Martell had guided Dorne out of the ashes of the Wroth and back into the thriving land of splendor it had been and more… she left a massive hole that only herself and her cousin Mors could fill.

Not even the sweet kisses of Clarisse Dayne upon her neck - nor the young guards she brought into their bed some nights - could coax her out of her fog. Sucking the bronzed skin in a spot she knew was sensitive, Clarisse frowned against her neck as all that could be voiced was a tiny hitch of her breath. "Anyone less confident in themselves would think they are simply bad at this."

Nymeria swallowed. "You're not bad at this, that's for sure."

"I know that, so the problem has to be you." Clarisse sighed and pulled back. They were both still dressed - albeit in the Dornish style, showing off plenty of skin - so there were less distractions. "You need to move on, Nym. It isn't healthy."

Nymeria handled her grief better than most. She ate, she slept, she trained… she saw to her duties, but that fog was still there. "It's hard to move on from this, Clari. She was my grandmother. I loved her."

Placing a hand on her knee, Clarisse smiled softly at her friend and lover. "No one says you cannot grieve, nor that you didn't love your grandmother." Nym sighed and let her head fall onto the Dayne's shoulder, which triggered a light embrace. "She was strong and intelligent, though - like you but in other ways. I doubt she'd want you to waste your life in her memory."

"That's an easy matter to say to yourself, quite another to put into practice."

"Well you're not alone, Nym… though you could stand to make more friends than just I."

Pulling back, Nymeria narrowed her eyes. "I do have friends."

Clarisse smirked. "Those you pay to have carnal relations with you or to lose to you in spars are not friends."

Before Nym could retort, a loud commotion came from outside within the outer keep and the town beyond. Rising, she reached for her scimitar on instinct. "Something's wrong," she spoke, gazing out the window to see almost a sea of torches all across the town. "Gods, there are troops everywhere."

"The Targaryens?" asked Clarisse, eyes wide with fright.

Squinting, Nymeria did her best to pick out details in the distance and low light of the Dornish evening. "No… they're ours. Spearmen and light horse." The only other Realm without traditional heavy knights in any formation was the North, and she knew these were not Northmen. "I can't pick out the banners though…"

An abrupt, brusque knock on the door was merely an announcement, not a request. Nym barely put a hand on the hilt of her blade and Clarisse grabbing her cloak when it opened. "Lady Sand." A man in the full plate and mail of a stony Dornish Lord entered. He removed his helm, revealing a handsome man with lighter skin and dark coloring. Nymeria recognized him as Lord Maron Fowler of Skyreach, grandson of the Lord Fowler killed in the last war. A friend of her cousin and a firebrand if there ever was one. "Ah, Lady Dayne, you are here as well."

Nymeria scowled at him, already plotting how she would behead him even through his thick armor. "What do you want, Lord Maron? You have no business being in this keep."

"I have no authority to divulge any matter," he replied evenly. "I have only been instructed to bring you to the Prince's Hall. It is urgent." No one moved. "My ladies, I would be breaking guest right if I harmed you in your own keep, nor do I wish to. You are perfectly safe." Complying against their better instincts, Nym led Clarisse out with the Valyrian steel blade still clipped to her side.

From the half-dozen guards bearing the Fowler falcon on their gorgets, she was glad she hung onto it.

Immediately after their grandmother's death did Mors move his things into the solar of the ruler of Dorne - dubbed the Prince's Hall since the original Mors preferred to see dignitaries there compared to the ornate throne room that Nymeria used. The tasteful painting and sculpture from Dorne's best artists were shunned in favor of displays of martial prowess - spears, shields, bows, and mounted heads of various exotic animals Mors had hunted. Nymeria was disgusted at how gauche it was, but her attention was elsewhere.

In the seat where her grandmother had so gracefully conducted her business - where her cousin so arrogantly lorded over all others - sat none other than the wrinkled yet still menacing visage of Lord Malcom Wyl. "Lady Sand, Lady Dayne, thank the Seven and Mother Rhoyne that you are safe from harm."

The insult was not lost on Lady Clarissa. House Dayne still followed the old gods, but she didn't speak of it, merely crossing her arms. "Why are you in the seat of the Prince of Sunspear."

Wyl of Wyl was nonplussed. "He allowed me to have it… terrible thing that happened, which is why I am so relieved as to your safety, Lady Sand." He sighed. "Your cousin was the victim of a poisoning attempt."

Nymeria's expression changed to one of fear and anger - though a small part of her was still skeptical. "Did we catch the perpetrator?"

"Sadly, no. Prince Mors had to be relocated for his own safety."

He's holding him hostage… no, my idiot cousin probably went along with it. "And why are you here then and not protecting him or finding who committed this act?"

A gentle smile, one that meant to say all was taken care of. Nymeria hated that smile, especially from the cunning, ruthless Lord Malcolm Wyl. "The whispers state that it is likely the Targaryens were behind this. Therefore, in order to better safeguard our home, Prince Mors has appointed me High Advisor to the crown of Nymeros Martell until the crisis has abated."

Both ladies were utterly stunned, though they were smart enough not to show it. Wyl hadn't sought absolute rule for himself, for the Wyls weren't even petty Kings back before Nymeria's War and had no right or authority. But through this… Gods only know what he promised my cousin to get this title. He was the true ruler of Dorne now.

And they could do nothing about it but simply accede to the new order. "I am glad the domain is under experienced hands," Nymeria finally said. "May I go see my cousin?"

Wyl nodded. "Aye, you will be escorted by a guard of loyal men to his location."

Loyal to whom was the question. Clarisse was right… she needed to make her own friends.

Just in case down the line, her interests and that of Lord Wyl's didn't see eye to eye. For now, she'd bide her time.

Hopefully Dorne would still exist by then.

A/N: So Rhaena and Maegor are growing closer, while Ceryse leaving for Oldtown doesn't take her away from the incest, lol.

Dorne gets a de facto military dictator.

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