If you're reading this later or don't care about my update schedule, skip the following blurb.

So.

As of writing this, I've missed five updates, and the past few of them before that were late. Most of you probably didn't notice, since mine is but one fic of many, but for me, it has been all too acute. I am failing to maintain my update schedule.

Now, the amount of words I write per chapter is something that I can easily write every week. I do it for university, and in my free time as well. The volume is not the problem. The deadline is. The looming date at which I need to publish a chapter is hindering me, and creating a mental block in my head. I'm growing to perceive writing this fic as work, which is the exact opposite of what it's supposed to be.

From now on, things are going to change. I still will have an upload schedule, but it will be a lot laxer and varied. I will still be writing The Wind Our Steed, but instead of once per week, it will be once per month. I'll still update Crab Dance once a month as well, and will be releasing something else on an off week as well. That something else could be TWoS, CD, or another fic that's in the planning stages at the moment. If you're interested in what might be coming, check out my profile page on .

This change is going to mean a slight reduction in the chapters that I produce, but it will also mean that I'll likely be more passionate about my work, and therefore produce longer pieces. I don't foresee a visible decrease in overall output.

TLDR: From now on, I'm going to be updating TWoS 1/month, CD 1/month, and one other random thing 1/month.

Harrenhal - 44 AC

They dragged me up, up out of the dungeons, and into the castle's myriad dining halls. It was noon by the looks of it, and daylight shone in through cracks in the roof and walls. The scent of ale and urine wafted in the air, and evidence of revelry was all around. After the victory that was Battle Beneath the God's Eye, Maegor's forces had celebrated heartily, and now Harrenhal bore the fruit of their jubilation.

Where I'd once walked freely, amidst the bustling servants and soldiers of Harrenhal, I now walked alone, in chains, with only my guard for company. Waldon kept me at swordpoint and bore a gap-toothed grin. The Harroway men, on the other hand, were silent as the grave.

Outside the dungeons and the dining halls, Harrenhal was quiet and still. Candlelight emitted from many doors throughout the keep, and the men that stood in various hallways were silent as the grave. They were clustered in groups: Tully, Harroway, and Targaryen men sticking to themselves, avoiding each other like the plague. Servants were nowhere to be seen, and the hundreds of passageways were empty of traffic.

Something had gone on during my imprisonment.

Waldon marched with me up towards Widow's Tower, his massive shadow devouring mine, his inky black nails digging into my shoulders. He didn't press too hard, I was the child of a high lord, and he was but a sworn knight. He would become Lord of Harrenhal at some point in the future- not that he'd get to enjoy it, what with dying of his wounds.

The Widow's Tower had remained Maegor's domain, and the heat noticeably rose as we ascended. The Harroway guards with me were only allowed past a certain point, and banners turned from orange and black castles to the three-headed dragon. Knights in shining black plate were lined up along the walls, and twice as many torches burned than when I'd last passed through here. A dozen joined Waldon and me as the others were dismissed.

Looks like Maegor's paranoia is getting to him.

Four kingsguard were posted at his door in formation. Beneath helms of shining white, their eyes were half-lidded and bags rested beneath them. The knights leaned on the walls, getting what rest they could.

We stopped at his door, the kingsguard holding up a hand as we approached. One of them, a horse-faced man with long brown hair poking out from under his helm, turned and knocked. The knock was quick, with a pattern to it I couldn't place.

"Who is it?" a harsh voice demanded. The kingsguard gestured to my escort.

"Ser Waldon Towers, as it pleases your Grace," answered the future Lord of Harrenhal, his voice eager. "I've brought the prisoner Androw Farman, as you bid."

"Send him in."

The door ripped open to create about a foot of space, dismal light emitting from behind it. Walon sent me through with a rough shove, my shoulder clipping the doorframe on the way.

I landed, in pain and briefly forgetting the situation I was in. I tried to stand.

Only for a monstrous hand to push me back down.

"Boy."

I looked up at my captor, jaw clenched tight. "Your Grace," I snarled.

Maegor was in rough shape. His face was pale - sickly, even, and his skin was considerably tighter. Bags, bulging and dark, hung beneath his eyes, worried with divots and cracks. In contrast, the skin on his neck sagged, his adam's apple nigh-invisible.

Black plate mail with Targaryen rubies adorned him, covering from the base of his neck all the way to his ankles. Maegor wore a scarlet cloak down his back, and the conqueror's crown clung tightly to his skull.

"Have you enjoyed your time in my hospitality?" the king demanded, stepping away. "I trust it was to the standards of House Farman."

He knew who I was. Who my family was. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not from Fair Isle. I'm not of House Farman."

"Of course," Maegor smiled, too widely. "You wouldn't, would you? The news might have reached you, but it might not have, either."

What was he talking about?

Maegor's laugh was harsh. "You see, boy, the young Prince Aegon saw fit to confront me along the shores of the God's Eye. As evidenced by my still being here, his attempt went just as well as yours. Worse, actually."

I was silent.

"While you managed to get close enough to nick me, to poison me, the young prince - who they're now calling 'the Uncrowned' - lasted perhaps twenty seconds against me. My brother's dragon stood no chance against Balerion.

Of course, the armies who followed my brother broke after his death. He was their entire cause, the pillar they hung themselves on. Fifteen thousand men and they scattered like rats beneath me. Not that it did them any good. My liege lords; Peake, Caswell, Tully, Darry, even Harroway, all were primed for the rout and ran the cowards down from horseback.

A pounding on the door brought Maegor's story to a halt, and he whipped his head toward the sound. "Who goes there?"

"Ser Jon Tollett, as it pleases Your Grace," came the reply, deep yet tinny. "I come with Ser Symond and Ser Olyvar."

"Finally," Maegor smiled. "Enter."

The door creaked and a powerful man strode into the room, stocky and built like an ox. His face was mostly hidden beneath the kingsguard helmet, but a reddish-brown beard slunk down from his chin like a fox. Two more knights moved in behind him, dwarfed by Ser Jon but large all the same.

They carried bodies with them.

Flement's face was smashed in, a crater in the place of his nose, eyes, and teeth. The blood had caked and dried, and I couldn't have known it was him if it weren't for the sigils on his chest and the curl of his hair. My uncle hung like a doll in the kingsguard's arms, limp and lifeless.

My grandfather was in better shape. He'd been stabbed a half dozen times in the chest, and once or twice around his abdomen. The old ox had taken a lot to down.

I was so stupid.

My vision blurred. "Why…"

"Why what? This is Lord Humphrey Farman, and his heir, Ser Flement. I assume you don't know them, since you aren't from Fair Isle. For your information, they were traitors alongside Prince Aegon. Tell me, Ser Jon, how did they die?"

Dark laughter. "I killed the young one myself. The old man was brought in by his own men, hoping they could be spared."

I lunged, springing from the floor towards the kingsguard. My hands were clawed, grasping to tear out his throat.

And a hand wrapped around my collar.

I whirled, swinging and kicking, but Maegor held me like the child I was. He held me before him, sickly visage all I could see.

"What's wrong?"

I gripped his forearm, fingers tugging at the stubborn plate. Why wouldn't it move? My nails broke.

Maegor threw me, my back knocking against hard stone. The air punched from my lungs, and I slid to the floor.

"Uncle…"

"Uncle? Why, you said you weren't a Farman! It's a crime to lie to a king, you know."

I coughed. My cheeks were wet, but my throat was dry.

"My council and I have debated the punishment you'll receive for your numerous crimes. Many wanted you hanged, or burned. However. I am a lenient and merciful king. You will become my prisoner- my ward."

He had to die. There was no other option. I'd already wanted him dead, but this was different.

"Get up," Maegor demanded, suddenly bored. "You're my squire now, and I'll have no less than perfection. You'll be marching to King's Landing on the morrow, and there'll be punishment if you fall behind."

I glared up at him and spewed all the spit I could — no such luck. My mouth was drier than chalk, and all that came out was a whisper.

One of the kingsguard hit me across the cheek, pain blossoming at the source of the blow. The knight roared. "How dare you!"

The king laughed as I was hauled to my feet.

So, yeah.

Minor note about the kingsguard armor; it's the sets from House of the Dragon, rather than Game of Thrones. I feel like those are more book-accurate, plus generally cooler. Do what you will with that information.

As always, follow, favorite, and review as you see fit. I'll see you all next week for Crab Dance!