AN: So! Long story short. Real life sucks. And what was supposed to be only a month-long hiatus for one of our stories devolved into a lot of personal drama and a spiral of various issues that had to be handled. So, I'm reiterating… real life sucks. But you know what doesn't? Writing! Which we are really glad to be getting back to.

AtW: Right now we're trying to get the commissions wrapped up, but I'll be heading out of town for a week. So consider this an asterisk attempting to begin ramping up our output again.

CW: Now then! Onto the reading!


Chapter 10 - The Show Must Go On!


Ophelia


Wood dug into her jaw, scraping and tearing as Ophelia felt her head snap up and to the side. Even as she tried to bring her shield up, the training weapon snapped down, smacking her collarbone, and then back up against her jaw. And, despite the training armor she wore, even that light tap was enough to send her reeling.

Stumbling backwards, the witch tripped over her own feet and fell backwards.

"Good attempt, my lady, but you lacked rapidity."

Ser Barristan strolled forward, sword out before him, a casual smile on the old man's face even as Obara lashed out with her spear.

Holding it with both hands, the Sand Snake brought the tip up and aimed straight at her opponent's throat, barrelling forward with the intent to do rather serious harm. That, of course, did little to disturb the swordsman.

Snapping his own wooden sword up, he smacked the haft off target, letting it skid across his pauldrons, and then brought his weapon down to wrap the blade against the eldest Snake's fingers. This, of course, only induced Obara to drop her spear and rush her opponent, trying to get inside his guard. Snarling as she drew a wooden dagger, the Dornish woman did everything she could to crowd the veteran warrior… who responded by stepping inside her guard, picking her up using his hip for leverage, and tossing her to the ground with enough force to wind her.

"Remember, my lady, you must not let me close to a grapple. A knife is only good if it strikes home."

Sarella, the third and last of the sisters, then leapt forward. Throwing a clod of mud right into the man's face - the wet splat making even Ophelia wince - she snatched up Obara's fallen spear and tossed it to their sister.

Knowing now was the moment to go, and despite both her spinning head and the blood she could taste, the once warlord rose to her feet. Taking up her shield and sword she advanced, covering her spear wielding sisters, and doing what she could to give the two of them a chance to get their breath back.

After all, Ser Barristan had absolutely pummeled her half Islander sister at the start of the fight, knocking her into the ground twice just to enrage Obara into over extending, leaving Ophelia isolated and without the advantage of a spear's reach.

That he did so on his own, with only a wooden sword spoke of how utterly outmatched they had been.

"Excellent ploy my lady. However, this does not taste particularly like just mud. So I do ask you to refrain from doing this again."

Having just finished scraping off the debris blocking his sight, the old knight parried Ophelia's thrust, then grunted when he blocked her shield strike with his arm. This was not what she had hoped would happen when she aimed the rim of her training shield at his throat.

"I could hear your footsteps, my lady."

And just like that, the man forced a blade lock, bringing all of his weight down on her arm. Grunting, Ophelia reinforced the lock, hoping to buy her sisters time to close and strike, but this was her undoing. As the two spearwomen approached, Ser Barristan gave her an apologetic smile, reared his head back, and brought his forehead down on her padded helmet.

Normally, that would have been a moderate thump, well cushioned and easy to ignore thanks to the layers of padded wool that made up her training armor.

Having already been struck in the head and still a bit dizzy, the blow caused the witch to stumble, losing what little leverage she had managed to preserve, and then found herself bodily picked up and thrown at Sarella.

Yelping, the young woman in question caught her taller, heavier sister, though both were still incredibly light compared to the grown man they were facing, and was knocked to the ground in a tangle of limbs and training weapons. This, finally, drew a snarl and a curse form Obara who replied by throwing her spear with all her might before scooping up Ophelia's dropped sword mid charge.

Ser Barristan simply turned slightly to the side, snatched the weapon out of mid air, and lashed out with it at Obara's ankles.

Leaping over the attack, and striking out with her own weapon, the Sand Snake's attack once more glanced off, the knight turning to the side so as to let the blow simply hit his own armor, and then, as the Flying Snake came down, smacked her in the ribs - winding her once again.

Obara, however, wasn't quite done, pulling another wooden knife and, turning a stumble into a roll, brought it up and angled the blade at the knight's crotch - theoretically at the point where his armor would not cover the inside of his thighs. But probably aiming straight at a spot a bit less polite to stab.

Laughing, he twisted his hips and snapped his legs together, trapping the thrust, and then conked the surprised young woman in the head with the pommel of his sword.

"You know, your daughter sure does spend a lot of time on her knees… my prince." Ser Jaimie chortled from the sidelines, drawing a laugh out of several of the other men watching the fight.

"Aye. Almost as much time as you do cleaning up the king's vomit from your hair. I must say, Ser Lannister, that you preen more than any woman I've ever met, including your sister."

Ophelia sighed at her father's response, because the raucous laughter from the spectating knights and squires told her that he and the Lannister Kingsguard would fighting again… and that meant that Ser Jaimie would probably be far too bruised to satisfy his sister for a few days. Again.

Still, she freed her arm from the straps of her shield and rolled off of Sarella.

"You ok sis?"

The middle sister had landed in the muck and was, even then, trying to scrape some of the mud out of her hair.

"I'll be better when your boney ass isn't crushing my stomach."

Snorting, the witch climbed to her feet, reasserting the passive control over her swarm she had surrendered for training purposes, and held out her hand.

"We lasted longer this time."

"That you did, my lady." Ser Barristan walked over, Obara, somewhat unsteady, stumbling as he helped her along. "All three of you are definitely improving and you, especially, are learning to rely on your own skills and not those of your powers. Lady Sarella, I do request that you… avoid any further projectiles in the future."

Somewhat sheepish, the young woman nodded.

"I do apologize, Ser, I mostly just acted. It isn't… too bad, is it?"

Smiling, the knight merely shook his head.

"Not so bad at all. Not nearly so bad as the knock I seem to have given your sister."

Obara grunted, making some kind of noise and almost fell over.

"Worry not, brave ser knight." Ophelia chuckled. "All you shall have to fear is for your chastity. It seems my sisters have quite the affection for refined men of great skill in combat."

That little jest earned her a clump of mud to the back of the head.

She knew it was coming, of course.

But she'd give her sister the benefit this time. If only to pay her back for the teasing.

"A valiant showing, my ladies."

Ser Jaime walked towards them with all the poised grace of an eager pup. Happy to bask in the sisters'... less than stellar performance. After all, he'd only known their unflappable sides. The ones they used to strike fear on people. It must have been a breath of fresh air to see them so readily handled by Ser Barristan.

Ophelia knew some of the other Royals though it was a riot - Robert's laughter having yet to have fully stopped. Cersei herself seemed content giving the trio a knowing smile and offering polite applause.

'I will see about relieving the King of my valuable services in the coming days.' Let the man feel his muscles tear and burn under Ser Barristan's tyrannic yoke! It served him right for making fun of her.

Speaking of which.

"Ser Jaimie, Prince Oberyn, now that this early challenge has been finished, perhaps the both of you would enjoy another match?"

Winking at the girls, he handed Obara over to her sisters as the two men who had just been trading insults froze.

"Just a bit of light sparring. I am sure that knights of your quality would enjoy the… test."

Ophelia raised an eyebrow when her father froze. And, sharing a grin with Sarella, whom she would get back for the mud in her hair later, the two spoke up as they held Obara between them.

"Indeed. Ser Jaimie, the queen has spoken at length of your prowess and skill."

Sarella spoke prettily and respectfully, looking down as she did so to hide her grin.

"Father, surely you are not afraid to do that which three little girls have done? Big, strong men such as yourselves should find it a simple enough task."

The crowd turned against them both, razzing the men and urging them to face Ser Barristan - who even then accepted a cloth and wiped the last of the mud from his skin. That he wasn't even winded, no matter his age, seemed far more intimidating than anything else about the man.

Ultimately, neither Sarella nor Ophelia lingered, instead making their way over to their other sisters as cheers went up from the makeshift arena behind them. It was as they sat down, Nymeria and Tyene looking over their injuries and tutting - the witch spitting out a mouthful of her own blood from a split lip - that they were joined by one Ser Arys Oakheart.

"My ladies did well. You actually gave him more of a workout than I did when I was first tested by him." Chortling, the knight continued. "Of course, I also didn't throw a mud pie in his face."

Sarella, blushing, looked away so it was the youngest of the Snakes present - Elia having remained behind at the makeshift training field to cheer on Ser Barristan at the top of her lungs - that responded to the man.

"I thought all the Kingsguard trained with Ser Barristan?"

The man smiled wryly.

"Not all of us have that honor, no. He tests each of us, of course. But if you fail said test… well, let's just say Ser Merryn Trant has to spend a good part of his time on chores."

Ophelia bit back a laugh.

So that was why that Kingsguard was helping set up the stables back in King's Landing.

She had wondered about it, but the Red Keep just hadn't seen a moment of peace between her arrival, the discovery of the fire traps, and then the Martells doing their level best to disrupt routine. Ophelia had - somehow - ended up assuming they'd been short on people for whatever reason and the man had offered to help.

'That certainly puts things into perspective.'

And did help allay her wounded pride over getting bonked on the head by a piece of wood.

All the silly knights made it seem so easy, too.

Well, it wasn't that Ophelia was above cheating. In a fight to the death, there was no place for honor and fair play. You fought with everything you had or died. And the witch was in no hurry to see if her miraculous rebirth would repeat itself.

However, now that a gap in the crowd had formed, the group could watch the unfolding duel.

Father and Ser Jaime were so much more impressive than three neophytes like the witch and her sisters.

Of course, the witch had always known her father was a fighter. A truly skilled warrior who wasn't above cheating like a vicious bastard if it would give him the slightest edge. Moreover, he was a trained knight, skilled in all the weapons he was expected to be. But the simple fact was that the Red Viper was a spearman.

It was the weapon he was most comfortable with, most familiar with, and, by far, the most skilled with. Now, wielding a sword just as wooden as Ser Barristans, he displayed a degree of ferocity that he'd only adopted since Ophelia's gift.

Yet, credit where credit was due, Ser Jaime kept up with him.

Better yet. He pushed him.

Their duo was raw, fresh, and they had only faced each other a few times in the past. Now, being suddenly forced to work together as Ser Barristan rained blows down on the both of them, they were hard pressed to so much as stay out of each other's way - never mind actively work together. And in their dance of twisting blows and violent slashes and precise thrusts, she had little doubt that Ser Jaimie was the better swordsman - though, perhaps, not the better warrior - between him and her father. Yet it was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard that dominated them both.

In movements as simple as a flick of the wrist, the man could bring his blad around, curving past a solid block or fluid parry, and strike at a man's guard. With every blow that struck out at the man, he turned, letting his body roll with every strike or simply slip past it. More than trusting his arms and armor, the veteran seemed to be intimately, impossibly familiar with the weapons as an extension of his body.

So there, on the muddy, torn up field that had been claimed by the knights and warriors of the royal procession, the three men struck out and dodged and parried and gave their utter all to defeating each other.

A roaring crowd surrounded them and called out, loud bets being exchanged and cries of success or defeat growing with each blocked slash or stunning blow.

Amongst the number of this crowd were, of course, some of the Kingsguard. But also Lord Dondarrion with his squire, the king's own squires, Darkstar, Robar Royce, Loras Tyrell, Thoros of Myr, dozens of minor lords, and fully a hundred hedge knights and sellswords and men at arms. Most of them people Ophelia simply didn't recognize, others she did but could not name. In the end, the crowd turned her thoughts to how the procession had slowly changed.

Their group parted, wounds suitably fussed over, and went to do as they normally did.

Sarella took up a bow, soreness never an excuse not to practice, Nymeria went to join Elia, Tyene attended the queen, and Ophelia herself indulged in a bit of people watching as she walked the camp.

Many things had changed since the arrival of the contingents from the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale. The Blackfish himself, Brynden Tully, had come leading a group of Vale knights and well wishes from Lysa Arryn herself. Allegedly. Ophelia privately suspected the letter was far less polite, but she hadn't been able to read it yet herself.

Still, he was only one of the men to show up. A group of Wester knights rode with Dravid Peyne, the current lord of House Payne and one of House Lannister's strongest supporters. So too did the Riverlands make a showing, under the command of Lord Jonos Bracken, a body of picked knights had joined the royal party as well. On the whole, there were possibly as many as four hundred knights and lords gathered together.

Though, by her reckoning, of them only forty, maybe less, were actually of any significant skill.

Her father belonged in the group of the best, of the ten men most unquestionably talented.

Ser Barristan was without peer, but between her father, Ser Loras, Ser Jaimie, Darkstar, and Sandor Clegane the second most skilled warrior was in great dispute. The king was quickly returning to his previous skill, but had yet to reach it so the title of second best was hotly contested day by day.

In her opinion, it was ultimately between the Hound - Clegane - and her father. Ophelia simply didn't think the rest of the men pragmatic enough to go to the lengths of those two and Darkstar and Loras both suffered from a particular lack of true experience in war.

The rest of the Kingsguard - Preston Greenfield, Meryn Trant, Mandone Moore, and Boros Blount - varied in quality from… disappointing to well within the realms of "fodder".

Lord Dondarrion and Ser Brynden were most wondrously skilled and, along with a peasant archer named Anguy, seemed to represent the best of those who did not quite stand on that level, though the peasant's own skills lay more in the area of archery and he had only some moderate skill with a spear. The witch still considered him important for the one reason he was able to reliably challenge Sarella, who was, without a doubt, the single most sublime archer the reincarnated woman had ever known.

Neither Sophia nor Lily could compare to her sister, with or without their powers.

Snorting, as the sister in question put an arrow through an apple, into a second, then a third, before pinning the cluster to a tree, the once heroine continued to push the limits of her ever shrinking range.

More than them, though, there were other men, knights and sellswords and men at arms alike, who had more or less skill with various weapons. One she had yet to be able to corner was Thoros of Myr, though she knew that was half her own fault. With the king and her father free to push the other to drink as they liked without consequence, they'd roped in half a dozen regular companions to over indulge.

In the end, she realized she'd made a full circuit of the grounds and that Ophelia actually had no pressing business.

So, figuring this moment was as good as any as to have another conversation she needed to, and still a bit worried about bothering Cersei too much, the young woman ceased her pointless meandering and turned towards where she knew Marwyn was.


Quentyn Martell


Swallowing, the son of Doran Martell shuffled slightly.

"Oh, quit being such a worrier Quentyn. If I wasn't sure that she was attending Uncle, then I might venture to say that you act like Nymeria when no one knows where Tyene is."

Glaring at his little brother and best friend, the young prince tried not to disturb his tunic.

"Quit it Cletus, you almost told your father despite the oath you gave!"

Snorting, the heir of House Yronwood simply shrugged.

"Aye. And what did your father say about telling me?"

"That my son will rule one day, so he must learn to judge men on his own."

Snapping up into a bow, the young knight rose from the plush chair he'd been waiting in.

"My prince."

"Father!"

"Father."

Cletus, Trystane, and Quentyn greeted the smiling man, far less impressively dressed now but still walking under his own power. The youth couldn't stop himself from shooting his younger brother an envious glance, the child's absolute confidence something he desperately wished he had himself.

"I would speak with my son, Ser Cletus, your father is waiting for you in the war room." His father's words were firm, but hardly unkind, though it was the significant look the man gave Trystane that disturbed the young man the most.

After all, if Trystane couldn't hear what they were about to speak about, there was no way this was going to be an easy conversation. Swallowing again, the youth desperately hoped he hadn't screwed up. Even more frustratingly, his younger brother paused long enough to give him a tight hug and a significant look, the kind that said it was the older sibling in dear need of support.

Quentyn was unsure whether to be mildly insulted or just glad the brat was there.

Tossling Trystane's mop of curly hair, the young knight shoved the youth away, giving him a light kick to the rump and sending him in the direction of a silently laughing Cletus.

"Cheeky brats."

Doran's bark of laughter told him that his father had heard his mutter.

"I do not think you have seen enough moons to be calling anyone that." The older man sighed, sitting down where in the unoccupied lounge chair and letting his robes fall open.

"Father, your fingers!"

Rushing to Doran's side, Quentyn was horrified to see how swollen and red and ugly his parent's fingers were.

"Gout, boy." The prince grunted in pain. "I pray to the gods Ophelia either cures it completely or you face a different doom."

"Her potions ran out?"

His question was soft, somewhat worried but ultimately resigned.

"The last was used for my little stunt the other day."

A deep sigh filled the cool afternoon air.

In that moment, the two men simply existed. Sandstone floors beneath them, gentle, sloping walls around them, and a large balcony before them. Looking out onto the sea, and enjoying a cool breeze that smelled of salt and adventure, the wide room was pleasant… peaceful. Something rare the world over.

"My prince." Areo Hotah stepped inside, inclining his head. "I have swept the area. You have your privacy."

Quentyn watched silently his father as he bid thanks to the guard who soon left them. Eyes unwavering as he watched the man lost to his own thoughts. Not that the young man could blame him. He'd been plagued by thoughts of his own.

But looking at his father now, he considered the weight of his worries.

How long had it been since he'd seen the full weight of that damned gout that plagued him? Some days he forgot how painful life was for the man. How painful the days where he'd run out of his cousin's brews were. They'd alleviated father's pain, kept Doran from being forced from his seat of power. Yet Quentyn felt the Prince was only at his best when that phantom loomed over him.

Like a sword hanging over his neck.

A reminder that they still had much to do. And so little time.

When Quentyn looked at the man, he saw something he couldn't be.

A man who was willing bet his own life on a chance at success.

Were his father in possession of a body hale and whole, then House Nymeros Martell would not be known as the Princes of the least of Seven Kingdoms. Dorne would not be sand and bitter tears, memories of glories long past and perfumed submission to dragon lords. If his father could will it, then his sister would not be raped and his niece and nephew dead. Rather, all of Westeros would burn before anyone would ever dare think of raising a hand to one of them again.

Yet now… faced with a reminder of father's condition and his own fears, Quentyn had reservations.

Only a mad man wouldn't.

With Uncle and his cousins away, it was up to them to act without their support. Doran had told him once that everything would only go according to plan if all pieces played their part.

Be it the Red Viper.

The Witch of Dorne.

And yes, even he himself would play a part.

Quentyn, however, wasn't sure if he was ready to play his.

"I will be remembered." a hiss escaped his lips as the waves crashed over the shore.

"Father?" He looked up, his sire's greying hair seeming to almost consume the black.

"What do you see, Quentyn?"

The question caught him by surprise.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

His father rasped a silent chuckle.

"When you look out this balcony, beyond the sea and shit, beyond the horizon and the sun. What do you see, Quentyn?"

What did he see?

There… wasn't much to see so far out there. He saw a few seagulls, he saw the ebb and flow of the waves. If he squinted just right he could see the shape of a small island near the coast. But nothing else.

He told his father as such. And earned himself another rasping laugh.

"Do you know what I see, Quentyn? I see an enemy beyond our border. I see vast foreign lands filled with strange wonders and treasures. I see fire, blood, and war. I see terror and death. I imagine you see many of those when you look out there too."

The younger Martell nodded in shame.

Yes. He saw fear and enemies. He saw the blood and war his father spoke off.

"Aren't you scared, Father?"

Quentyn was a man grown - fifteen, knighted by Daemon Sand - but he had only ever seen a few skirmishes. No true battles and certainly not a war. And now… he faced possibly ruining his entire nation, seeing thousands dead for neither gain nor glory.

"No. I am not." His surprise must have shown, because the older man chuckled. "Death is coming for me, my son. Soon I will be a cripple, trapped in a wheelchair and bound to my bed. When that time comes, you and Trystane must be ready. Because I am afraid I will be leaving you a rather terrible fate."

"Oh."

"Oh indeed." Chuckling again, Quentyn blushed slightly when he, surprised, told his father that he had only just now understood why Cletus and Trystane had been asked to leave. "So, tell me, how much have you guessed?"

"About the plan?"

His father nodded.

"Well, the thing with the Summer Islands are a feint, are they?"

Doran made a gesture to continue.

"Uh… Tyrosh is also part of the Stepstones."

"And?"

A raised eyebrow from his father prompted the teenager to forge on ahead.

"And if we want to secure the Stepstones, that city must fall. But by taking it, we would most certainly provoke a war with the other city states - Lys and Myr in particular - though all the Free Cities would likely oppose such a thing."

"Indeed. Well done my son, you have grasped much. But not all of our ploy is quite so simple." Adjusting his position, the prince gestured for his son to come closer and continued speaking. "I have been working for eight years now to establish these connections and alliances. I would say that, perhaps, nine tenths of my schemes are known to others, in bits and pieces, and that many suspect much. Firstly, I will tell you how I began with a question. Where have your cousins gone, the ones who are not my nieces and nephews."

Biting his lip, Quentyn wracked his brain for names and faces that were long since missing from Sunspear and the Shadow City.

"Cousin Manfrey's sons haven't been here for… four years. Didn't Jacen, his eldest, take up as a merchant? The captain of our silk ships, if I recall correctly."

Clearly pleased, Doran nodded.

"Indeed. Amongst many others, the increased trade of Dorne has allowed a great deal of goods and coin to flow and, with it, information. The work that was done on our docks was vital to that end and, even if it will be a decade still until the last stones are lain, when it's done we will be able to host five hundred trade ships at a time… and considering we have not had extra space there for two years now, I think we might need to be planning a secondary port town even now."

Making a noise of agreement, Quentyn mostly winced at the thick tomes of sums he had been required to learn, so that he might be able to grasp the primary source of income for his House. Trade, after all, was the lifeblood of their nation.

"To that end, we have allies and contacts across Essos, even a few in Southros, and, with Arianne's marriage to Willas, we are secured to our north. All that remains is to prosecute the war itself."

"But father, that's the hard part!" He couldn't help but protest. After all, they were at little risk when counting coppers. Butchering men was bloody work and it always had a cost. "If nothing else, raising so many men, never mind the mercenaries, is going to be ruinously expensive."

At this, the old prince shrugged.

"It would be, had the Braavosi not agreed to certain things. Including exclusive rights to certain colors of silk and certain weaves and sole right to buy it from our merchants in Essos." Here he seemed to hesitate for a moment before, at Quentyn's prompting, he continued. "I have also negotiated a number of loans with the Iron Bank. It is for a not insignificant sum. In collateral, I have offered a great number of weights of silk and also art and treasures. That which Ophelia recovered from King's Landing, once sorted through, will also go a great ways to soothing any concerns about coin."

"We are also paying many of the hedge knights and mercenaries in land and spoils, are we not?"

Quentyn's statement got a pleased grunt from his father.

"Of course. Those who would accept air for bloodshed are most welcome in our first wave."

Frowning, the young man couldn't help but suspect there was more to the story than that.

"What exactly are you planning, Father?"

He frowned.

"Bluntly, to trade gold for blood and soil." Here he shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "House Martell are not witches. Your cousin aside, to my knowledge it is my brother that is our greatest sorcerer and I strongly suspect her magical talent comes more from the combination of blood that runs in Ophelia's veins. We are men of the desert, not of blood and fire. And so we must prove ourselves in ways that are known to us. Bluntly, I plan to sacrifice the sellswords of Westeros in the taking of the Summer Islands, sending the greedy and the evil to their deaths, holding the loyal and dutiful in reserve, and only commit our house forces to battles we are sure of."

"I… Father, you speak of throwing away hundreds of lives! Thousands!"

"Tens of thousands." Doran corrected. "Having spoken to my advisors, we expect about forty thousands losses should the strategy of overwhelming force be applied to the conquest of the Summer Islands."

Horrified, the young man nearly recoiled.

"To what end could you possibly suggest something so cruel!"

With a sad smile, Doran brought up a swollen, gout ridden hand to cup his son's cheek.

"To deny them to our foes."

And then everything slotted into place.

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

As the Prince of Doran chuckled, his son finally realized what this gamble meant. Troops from House Martell's own lands and vassals would be deployed to the Stepstones, along with mercenaries and warriors from the Stormlands and the Reach, and that meant the southern nations were vulnerable.

Dornish houses would be gathered and rallied and follow in the second wave, as had been discussed, being used to crush and secure each island one by one and then would fortify and settle them.

Smallfolk, mercenaries, and volunteers from the southern nations would be judged and shipped to the islands to raise wooden keeps and establish docks and expand natural harbors. This would help them supply their forces in the field and also prevent pirates and slavers from creeping back. Obviously, raids and counter attacks were expected, but that would be why the second wave was so important.

"And that is what our third wave will consist of." Doran's voice had grown somber and a bit withdrawn. "Your uncle has been negotiating with every sellsword in Westeros and I shall put out a call for hedge knights, second sons, bastards, mercenaries, and every volunteer that I can negotiate leave for. Our extreme build up in the Stepstones will be explained away as part of the needed constructions for our assault on the Islands. This host will then have the wheat separated from the chaff, those men from the Westerlands, the Crownlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale, along with those mercenaries we mistrust or know to be greedy or savage will absorb these losses. But the Summer Islands will break and Jalabhar Xho will be made prince of them."

For a long time, Quentyn was silent. Unsure of how to handle this information. In the end, he simply gave up and bent his head.

"I strongly feel that, that is not the last of your plans for him, but I suppose that you are my father and my lord besides. I will trust in your judgement. What of Tyrosh then? What is our plan to take that city and, I suppose, deal with the others?"

This seemed to improve the prince's mood immensely, even drawing a small laugh at him.

"Do you remember that story your cousin told us, the one about Philip and Alexander?"

Frowning, the teenager nodded.

"Aye. How the former reformed his nation and the latter conquered the known world of his time. It was quite the fantastical tale, especially the idea of such a vast empire, however temporarily, being one."

"Ah, but how was it that Alexander won his lands?"

"By being a stubborn conqueror and excellent leader and killer of men?"

Doran reached over and lightly rapped his son's head.

"No, boy, remember the island siege? The use of flankers and the adoption of the pike and use of reserves? It was by cleverness! Come, help me up, we shall go to see your war party."

Like that, father and son walked out of the room, Doran leaning on Quentyn's shoulder - the younger helping the older make his way without a cane.

Quentyn's questions had been answered. But they still left him with a lingering trepidation. With so much at risk, could he even afford to give voice to his doubts? Father certainly had resolved himself to see his plan through.

Even if he couldn't trust himself, he could at least trust Father.

Such thoughts didn't make his stomach any less sickly, however, when they entered the room where the innermost circle of their confidence had gathered. All of them people he and his father had known for a long, long time… or were forced to accept as the cost of their alliances.. The new faces, foreigners he did not truly recognize, stood to the side.

"My Prince."

Quentyn stood by his Lord's side as he took his seat. Standing resolute as the others settled and the meeting started.

"Preparations are going smoothly. Gods allowing it, the fair weather will permit us safe passage soon. We should still have time to bring up more numbers until then. We can't be sure that our estimates of the pirate's forces are correct, so the more swords we can throw at them, the better."

"And the spoils?"

Quentyn heard his father's sigh.

"Concern yourself with the battle first, Ser Tyrell. The spoils will come later."

"I speak only in the spirit of fairness. All of us wish to have our fair share of the glory. It could be most… inconvenient to have our victory benefit only others."

He, of course, meant more than just the Martells themselves. Because, obviously, with their name plastered across this operation that meant they would be assuming the serpent's share of the expenses and the risk.

As such, a commensurate amount of reward must be waiting for them - should they succeed. But the simple fact that the Iron Bank saw fit to invest in this way meant that there was more than just a small fortune to be made. It meant that enough gold was expected to change hands that the balance of power would shift.

"Aye, good Ser." Quentyn spoke up. "That is why I have had our good Maestar draw up a contract. One that my father and I have both read over and added our own changes to. You can read and write?"

Nodding his head, the middle son of Mace Tyrell seemed more like this grand-dam than his sire.

"That it is in ink, I assume means you wish it to be bound in secrecy too?'

The second sons of a great many lords were neglected. Outfitting and raising one heir was expensive enough.

"Blood, young Ser."

And that's why Doran spoke this time. Quentyn's father had impressed upon him how it was truly Olenna Tyrell that had directed the Lords of Highgarden and that she had seen to all of her grandchildren's educations.

"Secrecy is only as thick as words. But the blood of the covenant is thicker than even the water of the womb." The aging prince inclined his head. "That is why my messengers approached your grandmother first."

"And that's why coin will be offered first, for those men whom are most skilled and those whom are most loyal." This time it was Lord Yronwood who spoke, clearly stepping forward. "All of the men of our own houses will be paid in coin - to them or their families - and we shall set aside more besides to care for the wounded and for orphans and widows. Specific rules of conduct and with regards to plunder will also be addressed. With particular focus on ensuring that shares are properly distributed."

As the other lords began to speak and ask questions, Quentyn let them turn to one another. His focus was on his foster father. On the man he'd spend so many years learning from.

Honestly, today's discussion was going to pale in comparison to how it was his own son who suggested they use one of the best men the young prince knew as a false lead in their plans. But, at the end of the day, he was the one person they could trust. Meaning he was also the one man who coild destroy all of their plans without even realizing it.


Ophelia


"I apologize lass, normally I make an effort to speak to pretty ladies who want my tongue."

Ophelia snorted, half amused by the old man's flattery, half impressed by how brazenly he employed innuendo. In truth, it had been too long since the alleged witch realized she needed to speak to the Red Priest and their ride to Harrenhal would be a most excellent opportunity.

She'd heard of the followers of the Lord of Light.

Had even seen some of them mingle with the group of magi and wise men while in Dorne. Orators, preachers, a smattering of mad men. Most seemed at least passingly wise, though she doubted any of them were truly Wise, and their powers were real enough. For a given value of real, at least. Universally, they had been… devout. Fanatical, as her father would say, and convinced that the grand indulgence of a bastard's curiosity was somehow important.

Quite simply, the Red Faith was sowing its embers in Dorne because of the men and women whom had answered the call of her questions, though the witch sincerely doubted that R'hllor would find many converts amongst her nation.

The sun was a much greater flame than any little pyromancer could conjur.

Thoros of Myr wasn't like them.

He was brash.

He was blunt.

It could be said he didn't represent what the worship of a god as prevalent as R'hllor was supposed to be. But of all followers Ophelia had observed from afar, Thoros seemed like the only one to hold a different air to others. His shaved pate, his white whiskers, and even his eyes, sharp and clear and unmuddled by wine for the moment, were no different than any other old man's.

The red robes sat over a gambeson and the heavy sword about his waist weren't even unique amongst his number, even if his use of wildfire in augmenting his skills seemed to be.

"Think nothing of it. We are both busy people so it's to be understandable that our paths had yet to cross."

The priest took her gracious comment like he did everything else, with a sack of wine and a mouthful of food. He was surprisingly genuine for someone who was a part of such a relatively secretive cult. Then again, she had heard of his words. Of how he joked about becoming a red priest so the color would hide wine stains.

"Busy is one way to call it." He took another sip of his drink. "Nothing compared to how you've stirred the hornet's nest. Haven't been King's Landing in a tizzy like that in a while."

She dipped her head, acknowledging the thrust, somewhat perversely amused at how easily he kept his horse straight with just his knees - all the better to eat and drink on the move.

"I'm glad you enjoyed the show." Her own mare didn't need guiding, though she still held the reins in one hand and kept her other on her hip. Trousers and impropriety aside, the Queen had made it clear how powerful a weapon even the appearance of nobility could be. And Taylor in particular had learned how important the advice of older women could be.

Ophelia merely wished that air conditioning had been invented by Braavos already.

"So, what would Dorne's prized witch come to see an old drunkard for?"

She gave thanks to the Seven he had finished chewing and swallowed before speaking. Somehow, the drunk priest had greater manners than the king, even if they indulged just as much!

"I suppose I am here for a sermon." The witch gavea wry grin, unsure how to actually express what it was she was precisely asking for.

"Done something to get scolded for? Then again, being called a Witch, that should come with the territory."

More bemused than engaged, the man finished his meal and wiped his hands clean on a rag, tucking the cloth away in one pocket or another.

"Only searching for wisdom. As a priest, I'm sure you must have some to spare."

"Not much wisdom to hand out, girly. Gotta keep my wits instead of sharing them." He snorted, taking another swig from his drink. "But I suppose I could tell you some of what I know. Only you might have already heard it from all the others. I'm sure at least one of them must have come knocking."

He was right, of course.

Any mention of 'miracles' was likely to get the attention of the Red Priests. Of course, her father had no interest in just handing over his own child.

"You know the words."

"Memorized some prayers. Surprising, I know. Can barely recite one after the seventh pint."

"Sounds like there's a story behind that."

"Enough to fill a fancy book with. But you aren't here for those stories, are you?"

"My father might be. Though I should warn you he is quite the drinker himself." She did not mean it as a challenge, but was sure that prince and priest and king already got on like a burning city and a Lannister.

"Aye, that he is!"

Ophelia wondered if her father had finally made friends with someone he didn't feel like killing half the time. There was a first for everything.

She'd leave the merry making for later.

"But as well traveled as he is, and as much as he himself knows of secrets and of mysteries, my father hasn't been able to tell me much of the Red Priests and their faith. At least not in any meaningful way."

There was a difference between knowing something… and knowing it.

"It's why I am here. I have questions, you have answers."

"Could'a chosen better, girl."

"A better priest wouldn't part with his secrets."

He snorted down his drink with a laugh.

"So what do you wanna learn, witch girl? Set something on fire? Maybe learn to get a glimpse of the future? Think you could bring back someone from death? I'm sure you heard enough stories."

Ophelia grimaced.

"I imagine it's better to leave matters of death aside." If there was one thing that her life as Taylor Hebert had taught her was that there was no such thing as a free lunch. Power, especially that kind of power, always came at a price. One she wasn't keen on paying to a foreign god.

"And what's in it for me?"

"Wine."

"What do you think I'm drinking, girl?"

"Try it."

Eyes narrowed, the priest held out his hand as, carefully, Ophelia extracted the bottle in question. It was smooth, dark glass, without a label or a maker's mark. Thoros felt the stopper for a moment, grunting as he broke the wax seal with a harsh twist. Taking a whiff of the beverage, his brow furrowed as he licked the stopper, grunting, before taking a sip.

Swallowing very, very slowly, he kept the vessel to his lips. Tilting it back, the priest closed his eyes, seeming to release every ounce of tension in his body as he drank as deeply as he could. Long moments passed and the witch reached out to the priest's horse, keeping it steady as he drained the bottle. Shivering in delight, with only a little of the wine slipping down the corners of his mouth, he let out a sigh of such utter, complete satisfaction she had to wonder if asking her father for help in this particular mission had been a fool's errand.

"It was to your satisfaction, I hope?"

The man didn't answer. Instead he was… he was… praying?

He was most definitely praying. Hands closed tightly around his drink with all the reverence of a man who'd found salvation at long last. To the point that she wondered whether someone was getting set on fire for it.

Could you even blaspheme in his religion?

She didn't want to know.

"Please try not to get smote while I'm riding beside you."

He paid no heed.

"Where is this from, witch girl? One of your brews?"

Now she rolled her eyes. Of course this was what grabbed his attention.

"Nothing so impressive. It's a special blend of dornish reds. Nothing magical about it… well… about the ingredients at least. You will find it nowhere else in the world aside from my homeland."

He eyed the glass hungrily.

Ironic, given how thirsty he looked.

He wasn't the first one to do so either. Ophelia was sure that more than one Dornish noble had made outrageous offers for the right to cultivate and produce the drink. Which of course, was granted sparingly and at great cost by her uncle. Of course the willy old man would use even someone else's drinking habits against them.

There wasn't much he wouldn't use.

So it didn't bother her to take a page out of his book.

"And you have more?"

"Not on my person, no. But I can arrange for more, if that is your wish. So long as you keep to your end of our bargain, you will find no shortage of it. Presuming you won't squander it like common ale."

Thoros of Myr had never seemed as affronted as he did in that moment.

Wasting drink? Of such good taste and quality?

She was sure nobody had ever accused him of that particular heresy.

"How much for a bottle?"

"I'm sure we can agree on a fair price."

"How. Much." He bit out, looking impatient, a war in his eyes as some great internal debate raged inside of him.

"As much as leaves you sober enough to tell me your order's secrets. As little as I need to give you. And every single drop it takes for you to tolerate my questions." The witch couldn't help but smile. She was finally taking a price. "I do warn you though… I have a great many."

His face turned many colors, as if he was physically ill, before he settled into a resigned slump - running his fingers across his smooth head the false priest gave a heaving sigh.

"You really are a witch." There was a look of such great surrender about him Ophelia almost felt shame. "I have whored and drunk and blasphemed and killed. I am envious and a liar and a false priest." He closed his eyes, a moment of utter sobriety washing away the sway from his body. "But for this I shall sell my order. Damn my weakness and damn you for destroying me."


Joffrey Baratheon


Crack!

A wooden sword smacked the prince's chin, snapping his head up and to the side. Unfortunately, he was exhausted and disoriented and the blow knocked him to the ground.

"Do you wish to continue, my prince?"

Ser Barristan, resplendent in his white scaled armor, looked down at him.

Joff could taste his own blood and he thought he might have bitten his tongue.

"Stop this madness! My boy is injured!"

Even over the roar of the crowd, he could hear his mother. Men, some knights, some lords, some common soldiers cheered and exchanged coins and others tried to slink off - only to be pulled back by their fellows and forced to pay up. Yet even then, this seemed to fade into a dull roar as his pounding heart filled the young royal's chest.

Already, tears stung at his eyes and the blonde cursed himself and the other squire. The low born lad for taunting him into agreeing to a match - with wooden swords at his father's insistence - and himself for not ever being good enough.

Turning to look at his father, the pre teen was desperately searching the royal pavilion and the king… wasn't there. Just his mother and her entourage.

Not his father. Not his uncle. Not even the Imp.

Sniffling, he opened his mouth, the words ugly and thick on his tongue. But he was bested. The other squire was older and bigger, by three years or so, and he wasn't actually all that spectacularly good at fighting anyways.

Just like he wasn't good at anything that wasn't making people angry.

"Off your ass boy, the fight isn't over yet!"

Suddenly looking up, he realized someone was swearing at him.

"A king isn't beaten so easily!"

Another Kingsguard stood next to that man.

"You're a lion with the strength of a stag, nephew, on your feet!"

His father and his uncles, even the Imp, had come to the side of the muddy ring and were cheering him on. Fear and shame and defeat washed through him. Nothing but failure and disgust heavy in his bones. And then, from within, came a deep, seething rage.

'I am Joffrey I Baratheon, King of all of Westeros! I will not be beaten by some jumped up peasant!'

Roaring, as loudly as a twelve year old could, half blinded by tears, and with his arms numb, face already purpling, and every part of his spirit wanting nothing more than to slink into a nice, hot bath… he stood up.

"It's not over yet!"

Snatching his sword up, he stomped back over to the ready position. Lifting shield and faux blade, he reset to the start position.

Ser Barristan's surprise only fueled the anger in his breast, but it was his rival's that he almost delighted again. What followed was an angry, aggressive exchange of blows. One where the older lad's longer reach, greater size, and superior experience meant Joffrey didn't manage to land a single attack on him.

In fact, he was knocked on his ass no less than three more times.

Once even hitting the ground so hard the world shook!

But each time he just got angrier and angrier. His heart simply pounded harder and harder, his hands gripped the blade and shield with greater force, and no matter how much mud and blood spattered him he shouted over Ser Barristan every time the old knight tried to call the match.

"Again! Again! Again!"

Something inside Joffrey was so heavy it hurt, so hot it burned, so taught he thought he must surely snap! But every time he fell and every time he rose, there was more strength in his hands, more speed in his feet, more surety in his footwork. His range drove him on and in his thoughts swore and cursed at the gods for not giving him his father's strength. And that's when it occurred to him.

He might not have his father's size… but he had his uncle's.

So, employing one of his most favorite of pastimes, he wracked his mind for how he'd seen the Kingslayer take on large men in battle.

Flicking his wrist, he tried to trap his foe's blade against his shield and then wrestle it from his opponent's grasp. This failed miserably, with the older boy more confused and surprised than anything else, merely tossing Joff back to free his weapon. Somehow, in the heat of the moment, their feet grew tangled and both lads fell in a ball of arms and legs and flying armaments. And for once, his opponent's greater weight worked against him, knocking the other lad into the muck with greater force.

That meant Joffrey had a moment, even with the wind knocked out of him, to act.

Grunting, he rolled over on top of the older boy, reached down to his belt, and drew his favorite name day gift.

His father had won a valyrian steel dagger from the Master of Coin on the tourney held for his name day. It was a gorgeous weapon, pure and simple in form and function and the smokey ripple of the blade had enthralled the boy-prince. He'd nearly cried when his father had given it to him with a gruff nod and a one armed hug.

Now, he raised the blade high, light glinting off the steel.

A cry went up amongst the men and even Ser Barristan leapt into action.

Joffrey brought it down into the muck, a good foot to the right of the other boy's head.

"Do you yield?"

"I, uh, y-yes my prince?" The stuttering reply came as a stunned crowd looked on.

"Good. I enjoyed the fight."

And just like that, the mud splattered prince gave a thick shake of his head, his eyes rolled back, and he promptly passed out - unconscious before he slumped over on top of his foe.


Ophelia


Massive was the word that came to mind.

Burnt was a close second.

Harrenhal loomed over them in the distance. The ancient fortress a stain of blackened stone in ruin as it stood, beyond common sense. Five shattered towers still reached up into the sky, all too much like burnt, twisted towers, and the massive castle was squat and heavy on its raised mound. Somehow the most massive fortification in Westeros, aside from the Wall itself, seemed to linger like a stain on the world itself.

Ophelia took in the view.

She'd read about Harrenhal.

How could she not? It had been one of the first bedtime stories she had been told as a wee little girl. Westeros's foremost cautionary tale. All who saw it knew the tragedy, knew what those burn marks stood for.

It was something else entirely to see it in person.

A burned out husk.

A corpse of what must have been once a feat of ambition and years of work all laid out over the course of a single battle. Nay. To call it a battle would be understating the sheer carnage which had befallen the land.

"Dreadful, is it not?"

Speaking without expecting an answer, it was only with the mildest of surprise she heard one of her companions respond.

"I wouldn't think so. There is a certain beauty to it."

Ophelia disagreed, not when she knew the horrors of choking to death on your own burning flesh. But she would acknowledge the fact that there was still a brooding, dark sense of majesty to it. It didn't stop her thoughts from being sarcastic.

'Leave it to the Darkstar to see something beautiful about this monument to death and fire.'

Her thoughts began to turn dark, dwelling on the sheer number of deaths and curses likely layered into the very stones of the place. Would this journey be like her meeting with the spirits of the Red Keep? Were there vengeful spectres waiting for her within the walls of Harrenhal? None too keen to see visitors, she wagered. The dead were often restless and rarely welcoming to travelers when their home was so dreadful.

"Do you feel anything, sister?"

The witch turned to her adventurous sister.

"The castle is ill kept. Much vermin dwells within its ruins, rats, bats, owls, and more. The birds whose eyes I borrowed see that and more. Those people that live within its walls are few and, while not unhealthy, they seem stooped. As if weighed down."

Sarella frowned.

"It is said that the place is cursed, that every family that has held it has seen the castle be their doom. Do you truly believe it could be cursed as such?"

Shrugging, the witch had no rebuttal to offer.

"Men often make their own curses." Noticing that the Darkstar was still listening - all of their group riding in a relatively close formation, but he only a horse length behind them - she still continued. "Greed, folly, rank ambition. These things can see a family destroyed as surely as anything else. And if the land is believed to be cursed, then any ill fortune or foolish lords will be seen as that curse claiming more victims. Even if it is more likely that it was their own ill laid plans that brought about their fate." Here she frowned at her own words. "But even I must admit there is a… feeling about the place."

"Black Harren was an Ironman. A reaver and a murderer. I have little doubt it was the blood of those he murdered and enslaved that first cursed the stones of this plack." The Darkstar's voice was soft, his words actually murdered. "Then all the envy of the Riverlords whom dwelt in the shadow of this place… then the dragon fire… and all the many dead children."

"Aye." Ophelia dipped her head. "Much death has happened here."

"The Mad Lady Lothston, from way back when, was a friend and ally of the Bloodraven's. Some say they were lovers." Marwyn had approached them, carefully picking his way to form up with the others. "Some say that she had a child by him, but it was stillborn and that was what drove her deeper into madness."

Sarella snorted.

"Hoares, Qoherys, Harroway, Towers, Strong, Lothston, now the Whents… it seems like this is where noble lines come to die."

Marwyn chuckled.

"Some say it was Harren the Black that first cursed it, that he had driven Lady Lothston mad and turned her to sorcery. Personally, I think she and the rest of her line were simply a bit too deep in the Higher Mysteries. Such things have ways of twisting the perspective of men.:

"Is it true she was a cannibal?" Ophelia's sister asked her question as they passed under a low hanging tree, their party on the final approach to the castle. "That she bathed in blood and held feasts of child flesh and worse?"

"Aye. And I heard that she would send out great black bats to snatch up children and carry them back to the castle." The little lord Dayne spoke up for the first time in front of the group, having previously been too shy or skittish to speak in front of Ophelia.

"I am afraid that my knowledge can not speak to the veracity of those particular claims. All I know for sure is that she was a skin changer and some say a shape changer as well, though those might well be the same thing. Much of what is known is rumor and is distorted by time and agenda - especially that which is recorded by the Citadel. After all, she was mad and it was just to slay her, was it not?"

Marwyn's final words came to pause as the whole of the party coalesced.

Lord Dondarrion and Lancel Lannister rode at the front, as they had for most of the journey, while Thoros of Myr brought up the rear of the group with the Darkstar. Lord Dayne and Marwyn were part of the middle of the group along with Ophelia and Sarella. So it was in this formation that they came to the final bend, instinctively tightening their formation, and found their vanguard staring at the rotting corpse of a fox - a large bat caught in its mouth - in the middle of the road.

Nothing but rotting guts spilled into dust and dirt, as flies buzzed about its empty eye sockets.

"Well now. That's ominous." Ophelia would have agreed if it hadn't been the Darkstar that spoke.