Andrew Dayne did not view himself as a violent man. Yes, he was a knight and a lord, both of which were professions that required him to, from time to time, sally forth and end the lives of his fellow men. But he'd never do so without due cause nor did he ever take pleasure in the act of killing.

On the whole, he disliked fighting. Others would often talk talk about the glory of battle, but he ever could never put the blood and suffering out of his mind. Good men, whom in another life would have been friends slaying each other with reckless abandon. Entire villages set to the torch for simply being on the wrong lands. Boys hardly men, screaming for their mothers as they died in agony. Womenhood violated. The innocent slain. Injustice perpetrated on as grand scale.

No. War wasn't glorious, it was horrific.

Sometimes he wondered if this made him craven. After all, while the minstrels sang of men without fear and the old stories told of unshakable conviction, he couldn't help but admit that in war he was driven by an cocktail of terrors. He was terrified of death, but he was frightened more so by the prospect of disappointing his men, men far braver than himself, to whom he owed a duty.

It was why he'd so readily stepped to the side when his brother had sought to be the Sword of Morning. He'd always held his brother in the highest esteem, maybe even with some unspoken awe, despite being the elder.

Lesser men would have been jealous of his younger brother's talents, courage, and innate nobility, but Andrew had long learned that The Seven had simply granted them the tools they needed to accomplish their duties.

Andrew liked to consider himself cautious, thoughtful, and dutiful. As a lord, this is what was required of him, for his every action shaped the fates of every man and women, not only of his house, but in the families under his care both great and small.

Arthur on the other hand was noble, courageous, and bold. His every word was truthful and measured. When in battle, he'd never flinch. And when faced with cruelty, he'd been the first to act.

His younger brother had been his hero.

And thus it cut him deeper than any knife to hear Lady Lyanna speak of what had become of him. That the hero he'd known in his youth had died long ago. The man that died in the Tower of Joy had been but a lingering shadow of the knight he'd once been.

Part of him wanted to hate her for it. To deny the harsh painful truth, but to do so would be to make light of all she'd been through. To do so would be a rejection of his own oaths as a knight.

She was a maiden fair who'd been stolen from her family and defiled in the most ungodly of manners. Yet despite it all, despite being forced to bare the bastard of an inbred monster, despite being driven half mad by the experience she still found it within herself to stand tall, to love her child, and to articulate the true nature of her brother's downfall rather than simply spew hatred and dishonor his memory.

It had been the Dragons. She'd said it herself. They'd taken the most noble soul in the realm and defiled it. They'd taken his brother and transformed him into the obedient, unthinking agent of a madman.

Facts undeniable, a disgrace rubbed in his face, those of his entire house, and not to mention many of his Banners due to the actions of that damndable idiot, Septon Ryan.

He had no idea what had possessed the fool to place that sort of pressure on a woman who was obviously exerting the full force of her will to keep from falling into admittedly well justified hysterics, but he had his suspicions. Maybe he was just being irrational, but the entire situation unsettled his bowels, like an over-spiced pheasant.

He needed to know the truth of the matter and thus...

He sighed and leaned back into his chair. It was not the great stone throne in the great hall, which in ages past had been the throne of the Kings of the Torrentine. No. It was the over stuffed seat in his solar which didn't made his arse fall asleep every time he bloody sat in it.

"Gods forgive me," he muttered to himself. He hoped the Septom had been up to some sort of skullduggery, for he'd done the unforgivable.

As a lord, he understood all too well the value of men with less... scruples than himself. For Andrew, that man was Rychard Starkey. Descendants of a Dayne bastard from ages long past, given name and title in honor of his unflinching loyalty, House Starkey took pride in their willingness to dirty their hands that the Daynes may keep theirs clean, and Rychard more than most.

Officially, Richard was simply his gaoler. In reality his role was closer to that as Spymaster, Interrogator, and all around doer of dirty deeds. He's sent the man to the Starless Hall to reflect on his actions. Then he'd sent Rychard to find out why.

He sighed once more and took a deep swing of a strong red.

In the Faith it was said that the man who spilled the blood of a Septon would be forsaken by the Gods.

Andrew knew better than most that there was much you could do to a man without spilling his blood.

His reflections were interrupted by a light rap on the door.

"Enter," he said with some reluctance.

Moments later the door opened and in the doorway stood Rychard. With his great nose, dopey eyes, and weak chin, he possessed an almost harmless appearance that belied his true cleverness.

"My lord," Rychard said bowing his head respectfully before entering with an unnerving silence.

"What did you discover?" Andrew asked calmly.

"He was a loyalist," he replied. "It seems our good Septon Ryan was born one Ryan Crabb..."

Rychard scowled. House Crabb of Crackclaw Point, staunch Targaryen loyalists going back to the days of the Conquest. "Go on."

"It seems our good Septon had decided that his loyalty to the Dragons was greater than his loyalty to the Gods, or his good sense for that matter. He'd heard that Lady Lyanna was in a fragile state, but was keeping her wits. He'd hoped to press her that she'd make a scene and damage relations between House Dayne and House Stark that you'd turn towards a more favorable outlook. Possibly even turn them over to Prince Doran to serve as hostages."

Andrew sneered as his neck turned red with silent fury. The fool had acted in hopes that he'd dishonor himself and violate guest right? Thought so little of his wits that he'd believed the instigated rantings of a tortured woman would cut deeper than his brother's dishonor?

Gods help him, he wanted nothing more than to decent into the dungeons and strangle the life out of the bloody cunt.

"A son too craven for a knight, and to dim for a Maester, send him to the faith and pray he does no harm," he muttered remembering a bitter old adage that seemed far too accurate considering the situation. "How badly did you injure him?"

"He'll heal," Starkey stated cooly.

"Good," Andrew replied, finding it difficult to care. "He'll remain your guest until he does. And when he is well enough to travel, have him clad in the robes of a begging brother and dropped off on our northern borders. He can find his way back to Old Town from there."

"Of course, my lord." Rychard paused. "Shall I have a Raven sent requesting a replacement?"

Andrew smiled first the first time in many an hour. Good man. "Yes, that would be wise. Have them told that that his services are no longer needed and his presence no longer... appropriate."

Rychard bowed and made his way to the door. He smiled. It was a cruel thing. "As you will, my lord."

Andrew sighed once more as he left, but this time it was in some mild relief. Good help was so hard to find, and he was blessed to have it. Now if he only didn't find himself even more indebted to the Starks due to his fool actions.

Andrew scowled. Was it too late to have him trip and fall from the battlements?

He shook his head. No. He would do no such thing. He was a better man than that.