Hey guys! Yet another update. This one took me a bit of time to write, but I'm introducing two new characters. I'm getting a tad tired of seeing all these characters that are 21. Come on, I don't want to focus on just one generation. So far I have only received two or three characters that aren't between 18-21.

I'd love to receive a Lady Stark, and I still need Rylon Baratheon's son, Evie's betrothed. I also need a Lord Bolton, and some of Lady Theadosia Bolton's handmaidens (Note: I feel like you'll love the idea I have for her handmaidens. I mean, you'll hate it, but you'll love to hate it).

Haylise Baratheon – King's Landing

King's Landing. A Nest of Vipers. It is said that a thousand rats live in the sewers. From what I've heard in father's letters, they have ascended from the sewers and dwell around the Red Keep. I could see it in the distance, a striking scarlet building that loomed across the city of a million people.

I began to wrinkle my nose. The smells of dung and rotting meat wafted up from one of the alleys. I raised my kercher to my nose, breathing in the scents of lavender instead.

"Apologies, M'lady," the carriage driver called to me from outside, "took a wrong turn. We'll be back on the Street of Seeds in a moment!"

I pulled back one of the lace curtains, examining what was outside. A couple of roads over, I could see small rickety houses, stacked and squeezed next to each other, with boys in rags and hoods sprinting around, lingering on rooftops, surveying the carriages and people like eagles.

"It seems the rats have made their way out of the sewers…" My handmaiden, Lyra, muttered from across me. She was the picture of a Lannister; golden curls plaited back behind her ears, shining virescent eyes. She was my ideal handmaiden, with the low cut of her bodice, and her eager attentiveness to my story. Most maidens blushed or began to gossip when I spoke about the man who took my maidenhead, but Lyra seemed hardly fazed. The large round eyes closed as she asked me to describe him. He had been tall, with short dark hair. His eyes, darker still. He was like every knight from the songs, sharp features and a knowing smile. I described everything; the smell of the tavern we stayed in, the heavy weight of his sword casting a looming shadow as it hung off the back of the chair. The warm fire that crackled. And the harsh storm that raged in the morning. Yet, I still could not bring myself to speak his name. Gods, I didn't even know if it was his real name. Yet the way he carried himself and spoke articulated a noble heritage.

Who else but a Lord would use a Lady like that?

"Will I stay here? Once I marry Viserys?"

Lyra glanced back to me, "I suppose, for a while. Though, Viserys is the second-born. His place is on Dragonstone."

"Tell me about him again." I leant forwards, grabbing her hand, and therefore her attention. Lyra let out a small laugh.

"You know so little about the man. Hasn't your father told you anything about him?"

"Father hasn't visited since I was thirteen…" I sighed. Seven years ago. I wondered how he had changed. And how he would react to my own change. My hair was longer, my girl's body had morphed into a woman's, and I had traded my modest and reserved gowns for a look more… in keeping with my reputation.

"You must know something."

"Only what you told me. He's some years younger than I, a picture of Aegon in his younger years, loved by his men. His skill with a sword is unmatched in the South."

"I never said it was unmatched," Lyra snickered, "He's often found with the Kingsguard. He earned a scar fighting an Ironborn raiding party. That long silver hair, piercing violet eyes."

"A true Targaryen." I nodded, unable to hide my smile.

"Not all Targaryens look like that," Lyra pointed out. "Aelyx the Valiant was brown of hair."

"Aelyx the Valiant was also half-Tyrell."

"But he was still a Targaryen." Lyra reminded me. "Wielding Blackfyre in one hand, Dark Sister in the other. He cast the Ironborn raiders out of the Westerlands!"

It was so inspiring to watch Lyra's eyes swell with excitement at the tales of great warriors. Of course, Rylon had voiced his concerns about her being a bad influence on me; in his eyes, a woman should be courteous, gentle and elegant. Imagine his surprise, when the infamous Lady Lyra arrived in Storm's End to serve as my handmaiden. The stories of Lannister feasts, featuring Lyra in breeches and a shirt, adorning a doublet like a man. She'd shown me the faded white scars, where she had been beaten for her antics. I still asked her every week if she would show me what she could do with a sword. I knew she couldn't wield one like a man, but I'd seen her eyes linger on the knights in the keep, studying every swing of a blade, every thrust and parry. It wasn't just a look of admiration, she was committing these movements to memory.

"Damn this fucking dress…" Lyra hissed, pulling at the seam of her scarlet gown.

"You'll tear it."

"Good!" She replied, trying to pull it again, to no avail. She sighed, slumping back into the seat. "Gods, how much farther…"

The carriage arrived to a halt, and the heavy footsteps and creaking around us told me that we had reached our destination. The carriage door opened, letting in the dazzling sunlight. I sat there, patiently awaiting for a hand to be offered for me. Lyra, however, immediately jumped out, still tugging at her dress slightly. I grinned, and accepted the gloved hand offered by a knightly man, stepping out.

The Red Keep was marvellous. Truly, a thing you would never fully comprehend until you stood before it. Long, ruby towers that reached towards the skies, a fortress of crimson that looked to have been built by giants.

"Lady Haylise," I looked to see a young man in front of me – clearly a Targaryen. His short silver hair that sat atop his pale, knifelike face. Those large violet eyes that pierced out of his hard face. He was attractive, face free of a beard and his black and crimson robes festooned with garnets and rubies. "I do hope we find you well today." He dipped his head into a bow, one hand resting casually on the dagger on his belt.

"You're too kind, Your Grace," I tried to hide my blushing cheeks. Well, there was no grisly scar on his face, no bold look about him. He seemed quite courteous and lordly, as if he was a decade older than his face said.

"And the Lady Lannister," He bowed once more, "The Lord Hand awaits for us in the Throne Room. If I may?" He offered his arm, which I took in an instant. We began walking up the steps, escorted by two of his famous Kingsguard, clad in silver armour, speckled with glimmering sunlight on the three-headed dragon emblazoned on their chests.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but the stories do not do you justice."

"No?" He raised an eyebrow.

"What I mean to say is, that your scar has healed remarkably."

"Scar?"

"From your encounter with the Ironborn?" He chuckled lightly in response. "I did not mean any offense, Your Grace..."

"And you have given none. I am afraid you have mistaken me: I am Aeron Targaryen. Viserys' brother."

I managed to cover my embarrassment, or so I thought. It seemed I was destined to repeat the past. I was drawn to trueborns. Not to say I felt anything deep or possessed any deep dreams of swaddling his children. I suppose it was just excitement muddied with my own assumptions.

The Prince Aeron Targaryen. A legitimized bastard. I'd only come across two bastards in my life, and the first was the one who I gave my maidenhead to. My father had told me, after the incident, that bastards were born of lust and envy, and their blood would tell. All bastards were traitors, in one form or another.

"Forgive me, Your Grace-" I began to apologize once more.

"That would be unnecessary," he assured me. "Come. My brother has been pestering the Lord Hand with questions of you."

"He has?" My stomach began to flutter. I knew what many called me. Haylise the Ruined, The Lady of Whores, Haylise the Harlot.

"Of course," We had entered the keep now, "as I am sure you have inquired as to his person."

"It is only natural, is it not?" Lyra questioned, stopping Aeron in his tracks. "For a woman to know what sort of man she is to spend the rest of her life with."

"The rest of her life?" Aeron raised an eyebrow. "If a woman spent her life laying with one man, widows would not exist."

"And many others would not be born." She muttered quietly. I heard this clearly, though, and that meant so did Aeron.

"Lyra!" I called. How dare she speak out like that – on the day I was to be presented to the throne. I saw Aeron's jaw clench for a moment, his arm tense. "Forgive us, we've had no other company but the soldiers on our journey from Storm's End…"

"It is true, I was a bastard." Aeron stated, "A stone. But, now I am a Targaryen. By royal decree."

Lyra's eyes flickered over to me. I knew she had behaved rashly, giving little thought to where her tongue moved. "My apologies, Your Grace," she bowed her head, "I fear that I find the absence of storm and rain disagreeable after so long in Storm's End."

And Aeron did what I did not expect him to. He laughed. A forced laugh, one I recognized. One where he had to laugh at himself, because everyone else would.

"This is a joyous day. I am gaining a sister," He smiled at me, "Come. Let us greet a Lady with her Lord."

Rylon Baratheon – The Red Keep, King's Landing

All the Great Lords and Ladies of Westeros had journeyed down to King's Landing to witness the wedding of Viserys Targaryen and my daughter, Haylise. Lord Oroville Tyrell had even hobbled down from Highgarden on his cane, accompanied by his beauty of a rose, Delyth. I still felt anxious – on edge. It had taken careful years of cultivating a relationship with Rhaegon to secure the match. True, it had been on Rhaegon's lips for years, but when Vysella came to me, asking when the ceremony would take place, she eagerly pushed for it to be as soon as possible.

Draegor was promised to his sister, Laena, as per Rhaegon's instruction, to be married on her eighteenth nameday. Sadly, with Draegor's blinding and Laena's burning… well, I saw no reason to impose marriage upon them until it was absolutely necessary for them to be provided with an heir.

Viserys, on the other hand, was stronger than his siblings. The true Dragon. They say that when a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin – madness on one side, and greatness on the other. Though I had been yet to come across a truly mad Targaryen, there was no truly great Targaryen besides Viserys. He was adored by the townsfolk, wise beyond his years, and had a gentle heart. I feared that this heart would only harden in years to come. But, my daughter Haylise was of the same sort. I suppose, one's heart can only be tender and light when it is unburdened with the weight of responsibility.

I sat in the Iron Throne, representing Rhaegon. To my right, sat Vysella. She was no great beauty, though there was a kindness in her that reflected in her face. Moreover, her long silver hair had been mounted up on her head, set firmly with intracite braids and plaits. I passed a look over to Laena, who sat left of Vysella. Her eyes kept flicking over to her mother's hair. Laena's own hair covered up the burn by her ear, though the scarring on her neck was still evident, despite the high collar she wore.

To my right, sat Draegor Targaryen, his frosted eyes downcast once more. He sat patiently in his own chair, hands resting gently on the arms as his head would turn in the direction of the odd comment. And, further right of Draegor, sat Viserys. He was wrapped in red and black, a short surcoat emblazoned with the three-headed dragon in scarlet.

Finally, the doors opened, and in walked my daughter. My beautiful little deer. Haylise. She had indeed grown since I had seen her last – my duties in King's Landing afforded me no time to travel home to the Stormlands. Her thick hair, shimmering like midnight, beneath a web of golden chain, as thin as strands of silk. She moved up a hand, pushing the hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear. Her eyes were a mirror of my own, twin icebergs. Though, she looked more like her mother, with those feline eyes that began to examine the room. Where she differed from every Baratheon, however, was in what she wore. I felt the eyes of all the young men in the room, roving over the cut of her dress, exposing her hips. A gold chain, entwined with amber and ebony gems plunged down towards her navel with the neckline of her gown, delicately clinging by her shoulders. I wanted to tear the white cloak off Ser Mikal Drake and drape it around her shoulders.

"My Lord Hand," Prince Aeron bowed, "allow me to introduce the Lady Haylise of House Baratheon."

"Dear Haylise," I stood up and bowing as I watch my daughter curtsy, "as Hand of the King, I may introduce you to your betrothed, Viserys of House Targaryen."

Viserys arose his chair, taking a few tentative steps towards her, indigo eyes wide as shields. He kept one hand on the golden hilt of Dark Sister, that slender blade at his side. As he approached, Haylise kept her eyes on the floor, and hands clasped behind her back, her chest peaking out. I smiled to myself – she would do well her time in King's Landing. A true player of the great game.

"My lady," Viserys stretched out a hand for her, which Haylise took, "your beauty is a thing a man can only but dream of." I looked over to Vysella, who had been mouthing the words along with him.

"My Dragon," Haylise's eyes gently cast up to his face, "I do hope to offer you nothing but happiness and children."

My little deer, all grown up. It was a wise decision to not call Viserys 'My Lord' or 'Your Grace', as per tradition. The calling of him as her Dragon caught him off-guard. I turned to Vysella, who couldn't help but smile at this. It must have reminded her of the formal engagement between her and Rhaegon. The room erupted into an applause, though I could make out evident distaste on the faces of the Ladies around the room, clearly aimed at my daughter. Though, no-one would speak out against the future Lady of Dragonstone.

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