"Your Grace, I would truly like to be of service, but I simply cannot accuse my loyal bannermen without proof."
Tywin Lannister was his slippery, evasive self regarding the handing over of Lorch and Clegane to justice, and Ned was having trouble keeping his own distaste from his face. Robert had summoned Lannister to his solar that morning, and Jon had laid out his request to the man, saying nothing of incentives, but appealing to the need for a quick peace.
Predictably, Lannister was not inclined to be of help.
"Lord Lannister, surely you must know who the precise killers of the princess and her children were. Surely your men who brought them to you are knowledgeable, if not the guilty ones."
"Lord Arryn, when I saw the bodies, the room was full of my men-at-arms. No one outright took credit. I truly cannot say which individuals did the deed, and I must admit, it is likely we will never know. An invasion is a rather messy, chaotic thing, especially as Lannister forces were at the vanguard."
Ned's jaw tightened, and not only at the man lying through his teeth, for he had garnered the names of Lorch and Clegane after a mere hour of inquiry in the Lannister camp. Tywin had purposefully outpaced Ned's own army, entered the city through treachery, raped and pillaged his way through the city, and now presented his deeds as valorous.
The man seemed more alley cat than lion.
Jon seemed to understand too that Lannister would not be moved by anything short of tangible benefit.
"Lord Tywin, surely you cannot deny that your son, Ser Jaime, a sworn member of the King's Guard, slit the throat of the mad king."
Lannister's pale eyes narrowed.
"He did what was necessary. Would you not say so, Your Grace?"
Robert made a gruff sound of assent. Jon only smiled placatingly, his greying beard and lined brow giving him a distinct look of harmless benevolence.
"That is all very good, Lord Tywin, but surely you must see that he broke his vows. Here in this solar, among friends, we can acknowledge that he did…not a bad thing. But to the rest of the realm, he is still an oathbreaker."
"Hah! And likely the first kingslayer," said Robert, chuckling. "I'll tell you this much, they'll be repeating stories of Ser Jaime for decades."
Even Ned could see that Tywin Lannister's face had darkened at Robert's interruption, and Jon hurried to continue.
"Of course, there is no precedent for this, but perhaps His Grace might find he simply cannot have Ser Jaime remain in the King's Guard. He might have no choice but to release him from his vows. Of course, we will have to consult the maesters and the law books…"
Here Jon let his voice die, and looked at Lannister's face as his words sank in. Lannister's face barely shifted, but there was a dark glint in his eyes now.
"I see." His murky green gaze shifted from Jon, to Robert, and even to Ned, and Ned could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck.
"I see. Well, Your Grace, perhaps my men might know more than I thought. I shall have to question my bannermen, but perhaps we can…bring the perpetrators to justice."
Robert smiled triumphantly. "Good man, Lord Tywin!"
"I do insist, however, that anyone I produce is given a fair and public trial, and not simply handed over to the Dornish. This endeavour is in the name of justice, is it not? Surely not a way for the Dornish to enact their own petty revenge."
It was Jon's turn to narrow his eyes, but in the end, he nodded.
"The Dornish will be here within the sennight," he said. "I am sure they will agree. As you say, it is in the name of justice that they come."
Robert had waved them from his solar with a conspiratorial grin at Ned before pouring himself a large goblet of wine. They were barely out of earshot of the chamber when Jon motioned Ned onto one of the palace loggias for "a quick word."
He took a breath, his heart was suddenly high in his throat. Jon had caught on to something. He usually did.
"Well, I must say, Ned, this plan of yours has worked out remarkably well thus far."
Ned only nodded, eyes fixed on his hands.
"I am most impressed. I had thought my lessons on politics had bounced off you and Robert like rain on a tin roof, but it seems I was wrong."
Ned braved a look up at the man who perhaps knew him better than his father had. One of his snow-white brows was raised in an amused sort of question, and Ned knew at once that there would be no hiding from Jon.
"I had some help. With this plan." An uneasy pause. "You're not wrong about the lessons."
"I see," said Jon, though he had likely already known. "I assume your trip to Starfall was more fruitful than you expected."
Ned felt his face flush, and he tried to pull an explanation from the words jumbling on his tongue.
"I want justice for those children and the princess," he insisted. Jon only pressed a hand to his shoulder.
"No need to say more, son," he sighed, his blue eyes kind. "I know you do. I would like the same. But I know too that your boy will need a mother. And, if Lady Ashara planned this negotiation from a single meeting with Robert and Tywin Lannister's reputation alone, it seems to me she would do you some good."
"I…uh…aye," he said rather stupidly. "I think she would."
"Well, then. I'm sure the Dornish will be right as rain soon." And Jon Arryn ambled away down the corridor, chucking under his breath.
O~O~O~O~O
The sun was too bright. Someone was surely beating war hammers against the inside of her skull, and Ashara had to muffle an agonised groan. Oberyn had brought his strongest sour wine into the ship cabin Ashara shared with Larra Blackmont the night before, and the three had drunk the whole casket in Elia's memory, remembering stories of her well into the small hours as the ship swayed beneath them.
It had felt good. For some fleeting hours, the warm glow of the wine had filled the ugly gaping hole where Elia had once lived.
Now she was paying for the indulgence. Despite the elaborate canopy on the boat sent to receive them from their ship, the light of late morning was still bright enough to pierce the backs of her eyes, and every sound seemed muffled against the constant throbbing in her temples.
Larra leaned over, resting her chin on Ashara's shoulder
"Puck up, Ash. It won't do to look weak before the rebels." Ashara could hear the teasing smile in her voice, and glared at her from the side of her eye. Larra had been the one to fill her goblet again and again the night before, and now here the woman was, bright-eyed and chipper as a rabbit, expecting Ashara to be the same.
"Careful with your words. Some would find such a term offensive." She groaned again, shying away from her friend. "And your perfume is making me ill."
Larra only laughed, boisterous and unreserved, turning a few heads their way.
"I speak only the truth. They are rebels—'tis only that they won. We have yet to swear them loyalty. And Ash, you wound me! This perfume was a gift from you."
"There was a reason I gave it to you," Ashara mumbled, and Larra laughed again.
At Jon Arryn's invitation, Doran had chosen five of his trusted bannermen—Larra among them—to accompany Oberyn and act as his envoys. Ashara was the sixth, and on the surface was to represent her brother. But when they had left Sunspear with three fully armed war galleys, Ashara knew that if all went to plan, she would not see Dorne again for years.
As their party was escorted into the Red Keep, Ashara could not help but wrinkle her nose in remembered distaste for the palace, no matter that the Mad King no longer roamed the halls like an injured beast. To one side, Larra seemed to stiffen for the same reason, while on the other, Ser Paten Dalt peered curiously at their faces.
"You both look as if you are heading to your execution," he said in that mild voice of his. Ashara felt her eyebrow rise.
"Has Dy told you nothing of our time here with Princess Elia?" Larra asked, for Dyanna Dalt was the meekest one of their little circle of friends, and the very air in the Red Keep had seemed to make her shrink like a startled bird.
"Not once," said Ser Paten, frowning. "I imagined it was no real burden on her." Did he even know his sister? Existence itself was always in danger of becoming too much a burden for Dy to bear.
"When you return home you must ask her about it," Larra said darkly. "This place still haunts my dreams at times."
"But do wait until she is better," said Ashara, for Ser Paten had informed them that their friend had taken ill of late. "She won't thank you for bringing up the Mad King while she is still frail." Or ever, but she decided not to contradict Larra's words.
Soon they came upon the throne room, and after a tense series of greetings during which Oberyn addressed the king as only "King Robert" and not "Your Grace," they were guided to the council chambers for negotiations.
As they entered the lavish council room, Ashara's eyes were drawn at once to the figure who rose to greet them. Ned looked his serious, staid self, though when their gazes met for a brief instant, his grey eyes softened, and Ashara hoped he saw in her own eyes her pleasure at the sight of him.
He gave her an almost imperceptible nod as they were motioned into chairs, as if to tell her things had played to their plans, and Ashara lowered her face to hide her smile. She had been worried he could not bring himself to lie, but however he had done it, she had not been wrong to place her faith in him.
Larra slipped into the seat beside her, and suddenly Ashara felt an icy grip on her knee. She turned her head then to see Larra's ashen face, and followed her gaze to the balding man who sat on the left of the king.
"Is that…" she whispered, and Larra gave a single nod.
"Tywin Lannister, in the flesh," she said under her breath, her feline's eyes narrowing. "They expect us to believe he did not order his men to kill Elia? Look at him. He would have murdered them with his own hands if he thought it would benefit him."
The man did indeed look as hard as granite, his countenance not helped by the stories they told of Castamere and Duskendale. Fleetingly, Ashara wondered if warm blood ran through his veins at all, or if he would only bleed cold Lannister gold when cut.
Did he truly order his men to rape and murder Elia? Ashara's hand tightened on one of the little throwing blades Oberyn had insisted she carry on her today. 'In case Robert Baratheon acted in bad faith,' he had said, though the notion had seemed absurd.
An unreasonable, coward's voice in Ashara's head did not wish to know if Tywin Lannister had given the orders. She would be lost if she knew for truth that he had. But Oberyn would find out. And once the viper set his eyes on his prey, there was no veering him off his path.
"Prince Oberyn, I must say, I did not expect we would be in discussion with your entire retinue," said the old lion, eyeing their party of seven. "Surely your vassals will trust in their liege lord to negotiate a fair peace."
A shiver down her spine prompted Ashara to reach for Larra's hand on her knee. His very voice was cold as a steel blade.
Oberyn, to his credit, looked entirely unfazed.
"They are not my vassals, Lord Tywin, but my brother's. We have all come to represent Doran, and the interests of our houses. We Martells celebrate our differences in Dorne, you see, and my lords and ladies here each have their own list of terms.
Oberyn did not say, naturally, that Doran had chosen these lords and ladies because the terms they would present were the very ones he wished to advance.
And so they set about their terms, and for this Ashara stayed mostly silent, for her purpose here was not to be a negotiator. Instead, she took her time observing the king, his Hand, and the old lion—Robert Baratheon's glazed eyes and constantly emptying goblet; Jon Arryn's shrewd gaze hidden by his amiable face; Tywin Lannister's near lifeless features and pale green eyes—though she found herself distracted constantly by Ned's solemn face in the periphery of her gaze.
It would not do to stare at him—there were more than a few pairs of sharp eyes around the table—but she could not help her wandering eye.
Dagos Manwoody laid out their desire to keep their lands intact and under the control of Kingsgrave. They and the Fowlers had struggled for as long as memory against the Carons of Nightsong, and surely the Stormland Carons would use this war as an excuse to gain Manwoody lands.
Lord Morson Toland wanted leave to find the bodies of his sons in the Riverlands, and Ser Paten Dalt of Lemonwood insisted that his bastard brother Ser Millen, captured after the Trident, be returned safely to Dorne along with all other prisoners. The king had looked intensely displeased at this request, demanding if Dalt understood the point of taking prisoners was to garner ransom, but Jon Arryn had managed to soothe the king back to reason.
"There must be changes in taxes," Arryn began, his tone circumspect. "If for nothing else, we find winter upon us once more, and Dorne is least affected by the cold winds and snows. Surely as one of these seven kingdoms, you would contribute a greater number than before, to help us all through this winter."
"Your Grace, we have deserts as far as the eye can see in Dorne," said Larra, and Ashara saw Lady Delonne Allyrion nod.
"Desert, or barren, rocky mountains. We are no Reachlands, my lord Hand. Your winter winds bring us drought, and our smallfolk are barely able to keep their bellies full. Would you have us take food from their mouths to feed others?"
Ashara wondered briefly when Larra had become so adept at twisting the truth, for the Blackmont lands were as fertile as the Yronwoods', and just as inaccessible.
And so the haggling over taxes began, and Ashara watched Tywin Lannister's icy disapproval grow ever colder until she realised he objected not to Larra's words, but to the fact of a young woman speaking as if she belonged across the table from the Hand of the King.
Belong she does, thought Ashara, and fought to keep the smirk off her face.
When at last Oberyn broached the issue of justice for Elia, Ashara could see that the new king was growing impatient. The king did not give Tywin Lannister a chance to play coy.
"You'll get your justice," the king bellowed, draining his goblet. "Lord Tywin's found the two men who supposedly killed them, and they'll be put on trial tomorrow and the next day. Good enough?"
Beside her, Larra made an indignant sound at the back of her throat, and she felt angry blood rise to her own face.
Oberyn looked mutinous, but he clenched his fist so tightly that Ashara could see his veins in his arms and nodded. She had made Oberyn understand they were not going to receive an apology from Robert Baratheon—what mattered, in the end, was the result itself. And though it made Ashara uneasy, a trial played straight into Oberyn's hand.
Robert took their silence as assent. With a clang, he set down his goblet.
"Well! Good! You'll jabber amongst yourselves and my Hand will tell me which of your terms are unreasonable. But uh, one last thing. Lord Stark here is in need of a wife. You—" he motioned at Ashara—"Lady Ashara Dayne, you aren't promised. If you're here for your brother, you're noble enough to marry Lord Stark. We'll have a wedding feast before week's end, and you Dornish can finally bend the bloody knee."
O~O~O~O~O
Ashara was surprised their entourage managed to maintain a semblance of composure the entire trip back to their ship. Hissing intakes of breath had risen all around her as King Robert had said those last words, and as soon as all were in the meeting cabin on the ship, Dagos Manwoody planted his fist into the table.
"Is Robert Baratheon out of his mind? Not even a word of regret for our princess! Even the Targaryens did not murder children!"
"Perhaps you ought to return to your histories, Lord Manwoody," said Lord Toland, his bald head glistening in the light. "Best not to remember the Targaryens too fondly just yet."
Lord Manwoody only glowered through his heavy beard.
"And the marriage?" he continued. "Baratheon has no right to command such a marriage, no right! Does he seek purposefully to insult? We all know Stark slew Arthur Dayne!"
"On the contrary," said Lord Toland, narrowing his eyes and sinking into a chair. "As a king, he has every right. Yet I am surprised Jon Arryn would allow him to be so crass. Lady Ashara has shown Eddard Stark courtesy at Starfall, but this marriage request is surely too much."
"Well, Oberyn?" demanded Lord Manwoody. "You will let all the insults stand? I say we leave now. I still have five hundred men, and Baratheon can stick his peace up his arse."
Oberyn's dark brow rose in a sharp arc like a gull's wing.
"Don't think I am not angry about his attitude towards Elia," he said darkly, his eyes hard. "But. We will have this trial, and that is what matters to me.
"As for the marriage request...Whatever insult you perceive, Lord Manwoody, it would be no insult to you or me. My lords, you seem to have forgotten Lady Ashara is standing right here. Let us ask what she makes of this insult."
All eyes turned to her then, and she could feel Larra's most piercing of all, fixed to her like a cat scenting prey on the wind. She could hear the pieces falling into place in Larra's mind, but her friend would not give away her game.
"My lords, my ladies," she began, standing up to curtsey to them all. "I thank you for your defence of me and the honour of my house." She took a breath then, digging her nails hard into the palm of her hand to keep her voice clear and staid.
"King Robert's words might shock, but they are no insult. The truth is, Lord Stark slew my brother in fair combat, then brought Dawn back to Starfall when a less honourable man would have kept it for himself. Tis the nature of war. Arthur, Princess Elia. Your sons, Lord Toland, and your cousin, Lord Manwoody." She looked around the room again, then offered a small, sad smile.
"You will forgive me when I say I wish only to see it end. If it means my marriage to the North, I make no objections, and neither will my lord brother."
"Are you mad, girl? You'd stomach bedding with the man who put a blade in Arthur Dayne, my nephew? You could live with your conscience?"
Ashara froze. It was Lady Delonne Allyrion of Godsgrace who spoke, and though Ashara had not met the woman until mere days ago, she could easily pick out her voice. Very slowly, she turned her head to face the woman whose hawkish features, Ashara was certain, looked nothing like her mother's had.
"I thank you for your concern, my lady," she said, frost lacing her words, "though it surprises me you remember you once had a sister, and that she bore children."
The woman's face was turning the shade of boiled crab, but Ashara did not care. She could remember little of her mother, but she still recalled how she had wept when Ashara had asked of her family.
"Insolence, girl! Were these the manners your mother—"
"My mother is dead. And my brother was a Dayne. As you have made it clear you wish nothing to do with my family, I should think my conscience needn't trouble you. My lady."
Even as she spoke she knew it was wrong to do so. It did no good to antagonise her estranged aunt, and even less to make such a scene before the other houses, but red was creeping up the edges of her vision.
How dare this woman speak up now, when she had spoken no word of condolence to Ashara when they had set out from Sunspear, and had never made any acknowledgement of her mother's passing all those years ago?
She felt Larra's hand on her arm, and bit hard on the inside of her cheek.
Around them the silence hung heavy like smoke, and the belligerent lords seemed subdued by the venomous exchange. Finally, it was Paten Dalt who broke in with his soft, calming voice.
"Well, if Prince Oberyn and Lady Ashara have no objection," he said placatingly, "I see no reason to object myself. Perhaps it would benefit us all to have Dornish blood up north. As Lady Ash says, I think we are all here because we wish to see war's end."
And so the oppressive tension of the room seemed to evaporate like mist at sunrise, though through the rest of the deliberations, Ashara could feel her aunt's soot-black gaze drilling into her skull.
O~O~O~O~O
Two Days Later
The canopied stands in the outer ward were already crowded when Ned slipped into his seat behind Jon Arryn. Despite the recent carnage in the city, smallfolk had come to crowd the walkways, steps and balconies, and it appeared every minor lord or knight had managed a place among the seats.
On one side of the makeshift arena, the squat Armory Lorch was being helped into his armour by a frightened-looking squire. The man's face was set in a sneer that had not left it since the trial the day before, when six Lannister men at arms had sat before their council of judges and recounted how Lorch had dragged Princess Rhaenys from under her bed and stabbed her eight and twenty times.
When Lorch himself had been brought into the witness stand, he had growled that he would have a trial by combat, then refused to answer any more questions. Ned wondered now how the man could be so confident in his fighting abilities. His opponent was clearly ten years his junior and looked lean and agile besides, but if the camp rumours were to be believed, Lorch was not terribly sharp, and had the tendency for blind pride and an overinflated ego.
Gregor Clegane's trial had proceeded much the same way, though the man certainly had more reason to demand combat. If trial by combat was justice from the gods, Clegane must have a kind, noble side no one had ever encountered. But they were in the south now, and from the faces of the Dorne party, the trials had played to their satisfaction thus far.
Absently, Ned scanned the crowds for Ashara's face, trying in vain to forget the accusations charged against Clegane still ringing in his head. There were many things Ned would like to forget about this day.
From the other side of Robert's canopy, Hoster Tully glared over at him. Ned did his best to keep his head pointed straight ahead, determined to ignore his goodfather's venomous gaze. The man had all but cornered Ned outside his chambers that morning, his face near purple with rage.
"You would marry again before my daughter is cold in the river? Does a wife mean so little to you Stark men then?"
Ned had tried to remain stoic at the nonsensical insult. The man was grieving his daughter, and it was human nature to hide behind rage like a wounded animal. But his words had escalated, made worse when Ned had insisted Robb be sent to Winterfell as soon as possible, until finally Ned too had lost his temper.
"I had great respect for Lady Catelyn, and I was glad to have her for my wife, but the gods were cruel to us both. Robb needs a mother, and Winterfell a lady. I do not answer to you regarding my son or my marriage."
Then he had turned on his heel and stalked down the corridor, Tully's bloodshot eyes burning into his back. Guilt mixed with his anger, swirling like a swamp in his stomach, and Ned pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping the nausea would subside.
On the opposite side of the arena, the knight who had been introduced as Ser Paten Dalt of Lemonwood was donning his own leather armour. The man looked about Ned's age with an overly youthful face, and his close-shorn hair gleamed black in the sunlight. His head was bent in close conversation with Prince Oberyn, who stood examining the knight's spear, his features sharp as a vulture's.
Ned had expected Prince Oberyn to take on both Lorch and Clegane—Princess Rhaenys had Martell blood after all—but at the trial it was Ser Paten who had stood unchallenged and announced in almost too mild a voice that he would take on Ser Armory Lorch.
His pronouncement had drawn sneers from some of the Lannister men at arms, but Ned did not think the Dornish party would allow this man to dole out justice for the little princess if they had no faith in his abilities.
The two men parted with mutual nods, the prince giving Ser Paten a hardy clap on the shoulder, and soon the High Septon was shuffling forward to offer his prayers.
Just before the fight began, Ned finally spotted Ashara's fair face amid the Dornish party, up high and tucked into a corner. Lady Larra Blackmont, another of Princess Elia's former ladies, sat beside her, their dark heads blending together as they spoke. Seeming to sense eyes on her, Ashara turned towards Ned, and for a moment she locked her eyes into his, the corner of her mouth lifting.
He smiled back, faint as he could, his heart easing and his body light. Beside Ashara, Lady Blackmont frowned and looked over at him too. Her eyebrows shot up for a moment, looking back and forth between Ashara, who had sunk her teeth into her crimson lip, and Ned, who was certain his face had flushed an ugly red.
Then the woman gave Ned a devious smile that could almost be described as lecherous, and leaned over to whisper in Ashara's ear. Ashara looked away and stubbornly refused to meet Ned's eye again. For just a flash, it was as if they had returned to the jousting stands at Harrenhal, but Ned soon remembered that the contest today was no game.
When the fight began, the two knights seemed evenly matched. For every jab of the spear that came too close to Lorch's weak points, Ser Paten too narrowly dodged swings of Lorch's arming sword. As minutes passed, however, it became clear that Lorch's movements had slowed, while Ser Paten was still fast as ever on his feet.
When Ser Paten drew first blood on Lorch's leg, the crowd around him had gasped in near unison, but Ned could see that it was no deep cut. Still, Lorch let out a wild sort of scream, and Ned could only assume the man was not used to injury.
And so the fight wore on, Lorch managing two cuts through Ser Paten's leather armour, but Ser Paten delivering jab after jab with his spear so that blood soon dripped about Lorch's feet. His pained grunts filled the air now, and Ned realised suddenly that Ser Paten seemed to aim specifically for those parts that would not prove fatal when cut.
Of their own accord, his eyes found Ashara again. She had turned pale as a sheet, her face a glaring contrast against the olive skin of Lady Blackmont, and when she met his eyes again she mouthed something before her lips pressed into a tight line.
Twenty-eight. It took Ned several breaths to make out the words, but when he did he was suddenly cold despite the sun and the crush of bodies. Lorch had stabbed Princess Rhaenys twenty eight times. It would seem Ser Paten intended to return the favour.
Lorch had fallen to one knee now, making low-pitched groans. Ser Paten stood over him. Quick as a viper, he drove his spear into him twice more, piercing his shoulder, then his hand.
"That is twenty-eight kisses of my spear, Ser Armory, for the twenty-eight times you put your dirty blade into Princess Elia's daughter."
The knight's voice was still cool and subdued, though it somehow lifted above the babble of the crowds. Ned heard more intakes of breath around him, and in front of him Robert turned to say something to Jon, his face flushed and his eyes wide.
Lorch had collapsed fully to the ground now, and his whole body shook as blood started to pool around his knees. His wails grew sharper still, and Ned felt his brows furrow. Perhaps his injuries were deeper than they appeared, for the man truly looked in agony.
Ser Paten should finish off his opponent. The honour-bound part of Ned was half horrified that the man was suffering thus, no matter his crimes, though the part that remembered the little princess on the marble floor was making no objections to this display.
Ser Paten was not finished speaking.
"Ser Armory, surely a knight like you would not have the audacity to murder a royal princess. Tell me, ser, who gave your orders?"
Murmurs rippled through the crowds at his words, and Ned felt his unease stir. Ser Paten made another circle around Lorch, his steps leisurely. When Lorch did not answer with words, Ser Paten leaned down, kicked his sword away, and appeared to whisper in his ear.
A cry as if from a butchered pig pierced the air, and Lorch launched himself at his opponent, who jumped away with ease. He reached for his sword, seeming to regain strength, but managed only two teetering steps before pitching forward to the ground once more. Again he screamed. Ned did not understand how this man ever managed to be knighted. Surely dying from loss of blood was not so acutely agonising. He had certainly seen enough such deaths these past years to know men died in silence and cold.
The crowd was thunderous, the smallfolk loudest of all, but Ser Paten's voice cut through the din.
"What will it be, ser? Will you tell us who gave your orders?"
Lorch screamed, his words incoherent, and Ser Paten appeared almost to leer.
"What was that, Ser Armory? I doubt anyone could understand you."
"Lord Tywin, damn you! Lord Tywin gave the fucking orders! End it, you fucking bastard, end it now!"
And Ser Paten complied with a final plunge of his spear.
A/N: I have no idea how to write fight scenes, so this was just a lot of jabbing and slicing at each other.
Thanks so much to Cmedina1 and Captain Fuckew McHugerage for being my new betas :)))) They have so many great ideas and I'm so excited for future storylines