Chapter 52

The Peaceful Autumn

Obviously, the year of one hundred and thirty-nine after the Conquest was no year of peace.

Only a Green Maester would dare voicing such an absurdity.

Yes, I suppose that the multiple conflicts and rebellions their Southern Kingdom had found itself plunged into were over for a few seasons...thus justifying the choice of 'peace'.

It worked as long as you didn't watch too closely, of course. The Westerlands weren't going to be the same again after the War of Lions. Despite all the efforts of the Lannister and Crown patrols, tens of thousands of poor souls had been forced to flee their homes before Reyne raiders burned them, and now they erred from settlement to settlement, with predictable results.

Banditry, limited for as long as the main hosts were enforcing the victory with spear and shield, would become a plague by the end of the year one hundred and thirty-nine. The Sunset Coast was moderately safe, and so was everything north of Castamere. But south of the ruins of Sarsfield and north of what had been the lands of House Serrett, outlaws were preying upon the weak.

Winter was coming, and for all the flowery celebrations of the South, there were a lot of weapons forged. The law of the Green Throne had proven itself weaker than many thought, and many nobles of King's Landing and the lordships south of it would not forget for the next seasons.

But all of this unpleasantness remained at barely noticeable levels, and it is not surprising a Maester locked up in his Citadel missed it and immediately declared that since there was no war anywhere he knew and the season was autumn, then naturally the choice of 'Peaceful Autumn' was accurate.

But for the learned men and women living in a world where it was possible to meet with sailors, merchant, and all courageous souls, it was easy to recognise the storm of war on the horizon.

It was only the first storm of many, and they would shake both Westeros and Essos for decades...they continue to do so to this day, in fact.

Evidently, the Green Archmaesters would prefer it to forget about it altogether, for their short-lived intervention was not exactly the proudest moment of their patrons.

But the storm was brewing, and its wrath would destroy many certainties held since the Conqueror forged the Seven Kingdoms.

In time, it would be called the First War of Sea Supremacy.

But for most knights, seamen, and hired sellswords and sellsails which would shed blood during the ferocious fighting, it was the War of the Beard.

Extract from the War of the Beard: the First Narrow Sea War, by Historian-Librarian of the First Rank Elena Velaryon, original written at Fairmarket, 288AC.


Ser Roger Wydman, Third moon of 139AC, Gulltown

"You have to admit, Master Sergeant, it was boring!"

"Boring? Captain, the Black Queen came with her dragon to see her cousin sail away!"

Roger yawned.

"The poor dragon looked bored too."

"That's not true! The royal Moondancer was...err..."

"Busy admiring the cow that was going to be his dinner? Her dinner?" Ser Roger Wydman realised he didn't even know if the royal dragon was male or female. "Whatever. Moondancer was bored, like we all were. We were promised a big fleet, I counted seven carracks."

"But the Queen!" Bryan Woodhull insisted.

"The Queen is beautiful," Roger conceded before adding with a smirk, "and married, from what I heard. I prefer to dream about women I have a chance to court, Master Sergeant."

The Vale Knight didn't add he also wanted any woman he would ask the hand of to be less dangerous than the Black Queen. A true knight was supposed to be fearless, but dancing horizontally with a dragon was the kind of things that were mightily too dangerous for any reasonable man.

"Oh..."

"And honestly, I doubt this whole expedition will be successful." The Wydman Captain shrugged.

"At the risk of being presumptuous, Captain, you admitted yesterday in front of that ale mug you never left the Vale..."

"I didn't," Roger snorted. "But I listened to sailors who did. And the Narrow Sea is dangerous when it's autumn, Master Sergeant. It's even worse when it's winter. And even good Captains...they often lose one or two ships on a journey to Volantis. And the former Master of Ships isn't going to the city of the arrogant slavers. They are going far beyond the Jade Gates. No, I doubt they will be successful. If they had the old Sea Snake with them...but he's long dead. He's dead, and they have only a few carracks. One or two ships may return, but I doubt the commander and most of the carracks will."

"They have strange devices, that the Black Queen herself came to gave to Lord Velaryon..."

Roger Wydman snorted...again.

"Master Sergeant, this kind of mummer's device might one day be a good trick in the Myrish markets, but this is Gulltown, the greatest city of the East! This kind of foolishness will never spread around here!"

"Ah...I don't think..."

"The Black Queen must have thought this would bolster the sailors' spirits to have a few shiny trinkets, nothing more," Roger grunted, avoiding a collision with a servant girl carrying a few pitchers to a nearby tavern.

"Maybe you're right, Captain..."

"Of course I am!" Roger Wydman replied with another grunting sound as the flow of men and women in the great street as his patrol approached the Draper's Square. "And even if I'm wrong, I doubt I will lose more than a few copper coins I bet with this old fisherman two days ago. These carracks aren't mine, last time I checked."

"There will be a new Master of Ships, no?" Bryan asked. "Maybe it will be a sailor of Gulltown, now that the Lord of Driftmark is gone!"

"Possible..." Roger hesitated before shaking his head. "But I don't think so. Lord Grafton is already a member of the Small Council..."

This conversation rapidly ended, as the noises of the markets around them rose and rose again, leaving them no choice but to scream like a fish merchant or shut his mouth. The Velaryon carracks had left, the Black Queen and her dragon had disappeared into the grey sky, but the city continued its usual work. Scores of merchants were there to sell what they had purchased elsewhere, which might include things like Vale wool or Pentoshi oils.

It was as always, disorderly, and filled with thieves, with only some honest enough to rob your purse while you had your back turned. And for all the headaches it gave him, Ser Roger Wydman would not have it other way. It was Gulltown, and he was proud to be one of the Captain of its City Watch, Maiden be Praised!

"Shouldn't we buy cloaks of the same colour, Captain?"

Bryan asked him, as they stayed far away from a stall where a booming Riverlander claimed that his fish was fresh and as sweet as the ones sent to the Noble Houses' suppers...a claim that had to take some arrangements with the truth, clearly.

"Why by the Warrior's helmet, should we change our cloaks, Master Sergeant?"

"Err...it is blue? A dreadful shade of blue? And no offence, Captain, but the men won't follow you on this-"

"My cloak is perfect!" The third son of Wydman patriarch replied in an offended tone. "It is comfortable, and kept me warm during the Long Winter! Unlike some-"

This was when he was forced to stop, as suddenly a brawl began mere feet away from them.

As always, the Gulltown smallfolk were of no help; the moment the first blow was given, they cheered and began to exchange copper or silver coins while screaming their bets.

Naturally, Roger had to plunge into the melee and stop it. Fortunately, only one of the two was armed, and it was child's play to knock out the dagger out of the foreigner's hands.

"The laws of the Vale-"

The second foreigner screamed something in Valyrian that Roger of course didn't understand, but looking on the ground and the hirsute mess that had been a beard, he could make a few good guesses.

"By the laws of the city of Gulltown-"

The two men ignored him again, and shouted at each other. His subordinates had to help him separate them before they came to blows again.

Once it was done, it allowed him to confirm that the one with the dagger was a Pentoshi man; the bejewelled dagger was a good clue, no one else wasted so much metal on weapons that cost as much as a good sword yet would not be of use outside of a very narrow backstreet. The other...he was likely a Braavosi, the clothes and the ostentatious rapier were kind of hard to miss.

"Captain?"

Roger rolled his eyes as he studied the two lawbreakers. You didn't need to be a clever man to see that they were merchants, given the outrageously coloured clothes...and that both had had a few wine bottles too many before the fight began.

"One night in one of the Square Cells will do them a lot of good," the Gulltown Captain decided. "We will free them next morning, with a fine and a reminder to not disturb the peace of our fine city again. I suppose there was no harm done, so Old Jon will let them go..."

"No harm done save the beard," Bryan laughed, pointing a finger at the dyed 'blue fleece' that was abandoned in front of the stalls.

"No harm done save the beard," Roger acknowledged, and several of his men erupted in laughter as they led the two foreigners to the place where they would spend a very uncomfortable night.


Ser Richard Lydden, Third moon of 139AC, somewhere near Longtable

Since they were playing the role of humble knights having barely enough gold to enter the Tourney of Highgarden, Gregor and Richard stayed far away from the castle of Longtable.

It assumed a valiant knight was ready to call the home of House Merryweather a true castle, that is. Richard was not feeling valiant or particularly knowledgeable in castles, but he wasn't sure he could.

"I don't want to be the defender if this...this castle comes under siege, Ser," Gregor's words echoed perfectly his thoughts. "The walls are too small, and there are a lot of places to hide from archers on the towers. It is pretty, though."

"You have a point." Richard nodded. In fact, his companion had several good ones. "I suppose Lord Marq wanted to prove the golden horn of his House's heraldry is no accident."

The effort had been considerable and must have begun before the Dance and the troubled times it brought. While Longtable's castle looked like an oversized merchant mansion – with all the sculpted decorations one could expect of that – it was from the only stone structure the two Westerners could admire.

All over the eastern bank of the Mander, there were stone houses of importance, clearly belonging to the bannersmen and sworn families of House Merryweather. Longtable had never been a prestigious castle, but it had certainly a small town around it now.

All was not rose and sweet under the gaze of the Seven, it went without saying. The massive stone houses, the piers, the river ships, and many other expensive eye-catching things were close to the Mander, yet protected by well-maintained dykes. But once you looked carefully, you could see the hovels. Some were too close to the river, and would undoubtedly drown when the autumn rains really arrived over this lordship of the Reach. Others were so far away that having enough water for the day had to be a chore by itself.

"The road and the bridge helped," Gregor replied with a thin smile.

"We certain felt the difference between the miserable path we had to use for too long and this paved alley," the last man of House Lydden didn't disagree as they continued to ride away from Longtable. "I can only pray House Fossoway will have made the same effort to rebuild the Rose Road."

"Technically, Ser, we aren't on the Rose Road anymore..."

"I know, I know! Once we used the Bitter Bridge, we should have turned entirely west and went for the Sweet Gully," which in his opinion was a ridiculous name, and the 'Sweet Hills' behind that wasn't exactly better. "But the advice of the other...friends we met was correct. It is preferable to use the roads close to the Mander...if only to make sure we still have a backside once we will reach Highgarden."

"The Father Above wills it," Gregor Clegane stoically...and a bit comically, for the former Ambassador to the Iron Islands had never caught his companion reciting prayers of the Faith's sacred books.

Richard, therefore, grunted in derision.

"Call it my drinker's intuition or something, Gregor, but I don't think the fact one part of the road is in such a bad state and the other is in pristine condition had anything to do with the Gods. I think it had more to do with the willingness of certain Lords to rebuild the damn thing after everyone destroyed the old roads of the Conciliator."

The Western highborn stopped his recrimination there, of course.

He wasn't indispensable; this was not a secret, not as he made contact or reported in various way to over two scores of men and women travelling in the same direction as him for the Great Tourney of the Reach. His high birth combined to his absence of fortune made him the ideal candidate to speak with certain...disgruntled souls, but there were others like him. The Master of Whisperers would have no difficulty finding him a replacement if his performance was unacceptable. The same could be said about Gregor, though his lowborn companion would get more indulgence from his master, having never been involved in treacherous deeds.

Their armours supported this vision, yes, it was possible Gregor had received a brand-new armour because his huge size was an unprecedented challenge by itself, but Richard had received a set of plate of a far less skilled smith...and to make matters worse, the Lydden knight was half-sure this was a former Black armour that had been repainted after being taken on a battlefield, not something forged after the Dance.

"True. Let's see the silver light of the day: it stopped raining."

"Yes...it stopped raining."

The Seven only knew how many horse-towed contraptions had been thrown into a ditch as they rode south of the capital before turning west. And the Smith only knew how many wheels had been destroyed with them.

Not for the first time, Richard thought about the news of the Blacks building Valyrian roads from Riverrun to Gulltown. It had to be expensive, and many Lords must have grumbled, but as he had himself seen during the last days, when you hadn't a good road to ride upon, things were difficult on the move.

And yes, sailing upon the Mander was faster and allowed you to load up far more goods than any chariot would. But there was only one big river called the Mander, and its tributaries were not always navigable...

Oh, and the Blacks had the Forks too flowing everywhere in the Riverlands, so they didn't have a drawback there.

"Still intending to enter the melee, Gregor?" Richard returned to a subject he had come to despise with all his heart as his new riding and weapon training hurt a lot of muscles and things he had forgotten to use for a long, long time.

"You really hate jousting that badly, Ser?"

"I do," the former Castellan of Deep Den scowled, "I look ridiculous when I try to joust, and I have the bad feeling House Tyrell's Seneschal is going to pit against someone several orders better than me just to see the crowd burst into laughter at my misfortunes..."


Lady Cerelle Lannister, Fourth moon of 139AC, Highgarden

The day should have been perfect.

The sky was so blue it made you wonder if the maesters had not miscalculated somewhere and declared it was autumn instead of summer.

There was a minor breeze, enough to make the banners of all Noble Houses stand proudly over the wooden stands and decrease the warmth delivered by the sun.

The Great Tourney's fields and tents had been assembled before Highgarden itself, and the walls and everything nearby were covered in roses and magnificent flowers.

Everything was beautiful. Everything breathed elegance, flowery perfumes, and grace.

It was if the Seven had decided to transform that part of the Reach into a minuscule reproduction of the Seven Heavens.

Cerelle should have been serene.

But she wasn't.

Because there was one problem.

Lord Lyonel Tyrell, the young man her mother had told her would be her next husband, was here, less than a spear's away, while her brother and she sat at positions of honour to his right.

And the Warden of the South wasn't even looking at her.

"He's not looking at Ellyn Baratheon, sister, if it can reassure you."

"It does..." the young Westerner highborn twitched her lips for all her urge to keep a stony face. "And Victoria Blackbar?"

"The same," Loreon grinned. Immediately, Cerelle glared, and her Lord brother showed a sheepish expression after a few heartbeats. "I'm not inclined to listen to rumours-"

"Yes, you are, brother."

"You wound me! Terribly. Terribly, sister!"

Cerelle rolled her eyes.

"Yes, yes. What were you trying to say?"

"Have you considered that perhaps the problem is indeed that you're a woman? I mean, so many beauties there, and he's not even glanced at them since the trumpets called everyone to sit."

With the stupendous noise, there was no risk to being spied upon by their neighbours, but Cerelle whispered her answer just to be sure to not being overheard.

"You think he's a sword swallower?"

"Well, it's that or he has a thing for Targaryen maidens," Loreon raised his eyebrows suggestively. "There are the only beautiful flowers that are not here to show their beauty."

"How would he know what a Targaryen maiden look like in the first place?" the daughter of Casterly Rock asked her brother with a skeptical voice. "Neither the Black Queen nor her sister ever visited Highgarden, and all the children of our King are sons."

"Oh," Loreon was apologetic for a couple of heartbeats...and then once again had to prove he spoke faster than he tried to verify if his ideas were intelligent to say in public. "Well, maybe it's the incest which proved a temptation he couldn't resist and-"

"Loreon...brother..." Cerelle groaned. "Just...just stop with your ridiculous ideas. Please."

The Lord of Casterly Rock pouted.

"My ideas are excel-"

"Please don't finish this sentence, if you value your tongue...brother."

"I am devastated you think so little of me."

"And I will tell everything to cousin Tyland at the end of the day."

"Cruel," Loreon grimaced, "very cruel, sister. Oh, look. The Draconic Buffoon is here."

"Who?"

"Ser Richard Lydden!" Now that her brother had mentioned it, there was indeed a knight riding to place his horse and himself underneath the colours of the House which had lost Deep Den... "He went drunk to meet the King and behaved like a buffoon in front of the royal dragon. What is he doing here?"

"Trying to restore his House's fortune?" Cerelle raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "If his armour and his poor horse are any indication, he really needs the gold. I don't even know how low House Lydden has fallen truly these days, honestly. As most of their treasure chests and privileges were given to others, and the rest had already disappeared, this Ser must be barely above the Hedge Knights."

"Yes..." Loreon watched the grey-armoured Western knight for a few more heartbeats before shaking his head. "But if he really wants to win some gold, he should have chosen something easier. Wrestling, perhaps. Or the melee. Or archery. Jousting...the entire South is here to participate to this Great Tourney. There are many knights who are famed for their jousting skills. The idea this drunkard will manage to defeat anyone, much less reach the second day...I don't believe it, sister."

"Hmm..." for once, Loreon may very well be right.

Bah, it was a minor mystery, but Cerelle could live without knowing the secret behind it. It wasn't like House Lydden had a future in the Westerlands, after all.

There were more pressing problems, speaking of which...

The golden-haired young woman gave a careful glance to her left.

Lyonel Tyrell continued to ignore her.

Maiden, Mother, and Crone, what did she need to do to have his attention? Dye her hair and behave like a Targaryen dragonlady?


Lady Jasmine Tyrell, Fifth moon of 139AC, a cove near Highgarden

The crowd of smallfolk cheered as another Tyrell knight won his jousting bout. This time, it was Ser Bertrand, and the victory was made all the more sweeter by the fact his opponent was a Hightower.

Jasmine allowed a thin smile to form on her lips.

The smile didn't last long, not when her eyes returned to watching her son.

Lyonel was her flesh and blood, her legacy and greatest source of joy.

And since she had taken her place in the stands, if the former Regent of Highgarden was honest with herself, a considerable source of irritation.

Jasmine, obviously, was not going to grit her teeth in front of the better part of the southern chivalry. It would have been reckless and reeking of poor manners.

But the idea to show her anger had been there from the moment the first knights advanced to strike the shields, which, as per Highgarden traditions, confirmed their willingness to joust with their knightly rivals.

Lyonel had failed to follow any part of the plan she had made him recite by heart last night. He was ignoring the daughter of Lady Johanna after giving her a few shortest glances. And he was doing the same to Arwyn's daughter and the Baratheon sisters.

A couple of years ago, this wouldn't have been a problem, because Jasmine would have been already whispering a few commands in her son's ears. But they weren't a couple of years in the past. They were in the year one hundred and thirty-nine, and thanks to King Daeron's men-first policies, the former Regent had had to take a seat far away from him. Now that the War of the Lions was over, the last thing Highgarden could afford was a rebellion of its own bannersmen, and the hostilities would come sure as the sun rose from the east if the Hightowers and other would-be traitors believed her son weak and unable to make his own choices.

"He's going to hear what I think of his petulant behaviour soon enough," Jasmine told the Lady sitting by her side.

"Young men are young men," Lady Iris Rowan remarked while grinning. "Is it possible you don't know your son as well as you think you do?"

Jasmine scoffed at the charmingly subtle hint.

"Everything is always possible," she answered as a Stormlander...was it a Connington? Yes, it was a Connington, who managed to achieve a draw against one of the many Fossoways participating in the jousting competition. "But I can assure you I have kept a good eye on my son. I know he kissed many girls while he thought I wasn't looking."

In other words, she was near-certain Lyonel's preferences weren't going towards men.

Which was...a relief, to be honest.

With many septons preaching intolerant creed everywhere they could – so from the Marches to the frontier with the Riverlands – it was best for a Lord to be able to fulfil his husbandly duties without involving all sort of dangerous artifices.

"I trust you have an explanation why he failed to charm the young maidens waiting patiently next to his seat, then?" Iris Rowan's voice became very serious once more.

Jasmine...sighed.

"I do, unfortunately. There are many Ladies and women of high birth who arrived in the last seven days, and naturally, all of them insisted to present themselves to the Lord of Highgarden. I was able to be present for some...but not all. Clearly, Lyonel felt his heart beat faster for one of these beauties..."

She would discover the identity of the woman in question, of course. If not when her son was in her quarters tonight, when his eyes fell upon said beauty. Lyonel would not be able to hide the truth from her in that regard.

"Will it be that bad if he follows his passion?"

Jasmine gave a mocking glare.

"If his passion gave him a bride that could raise House Tyrell's standing as high as an union with House Lannister would, yes...but there are no such Houses."

"Not in the South." Iris raised both eyebrows suggestively.

"Not in the South," Jasmine repeated curtly, refusing to take the bait. Discussing it in the middle of a Tourney that crawled with agents of the Master of Whisperers was not prudent. Besides, there were no Black Ladies here. There were a few spies of Lady Frey, yes, of which Ser Erenford, playing the role of a mystery knight, was certainly the most prominent.

But the Blacks were not fools. They weren't going to let maidens and other defenceless souls come here, where it would be child's play for someone to seize them. Ser Erenford aside, there were no knights present, and the rest of the spies went from grooms to smugglers. Hardly the people that Lyonel would feel attracted to, even assuming Lyonel had hidden a devouring passion for men from her.

"LORD CHESTER AGAINST THE SWORD OF THE MORNING!" The tourney's herald announced the next joust.

"You invited Dornish?" Iris Rowan chuckled while clapping her hands.

The former Regent shrugged.

"It would be more accurate to say some invited themselves. They demanded permission to use the passes, and a few Marcher Lords approved. I don't think there were many who came...maybe a score all in all? Counting the squires and the servants, that is."

With her being busy fending so many other unfriendly agents and potential threats, Jasmine had to admit the threat of the Dornish had come rather low on her order of priorities for this moon. The spears of Sunspear had been burned and broken in the last war, House Wyl had perished, and from all inclinations, the Princess of Dorne seemed to have restored some order among her bannersmen.

"Well, the luck of the draw did not give the Dayne Knight an easy beginning," Iris continued, "Lord Chester is a bastard when he's drunk, but his talent with a spear is-"

BLAM!

CRASH!

The spectators were struck momentarily silent as in a near-perfect move, the purple and silver Dornish armoured lancer delivered a precise strike into Lord Chester's chest.

It was the kind of miraculous spear hits many of her knights dreamed to make once during their jousting performances...and this soul from Starfall had done it.

Naturally, poor Lord Chester had been dismounted onto the jousting field like a bag of flour, and his squires rushed to see if he wasn't too injured.

The Dayne victor saluted the crowd with his spear, and naturally, the entire crowd exploded in cheers and acclamations of various sort.

"I won't follow your bets if you decide to gamble with someone the name of this tourney's victor...just so you know," Jasmine chuckled.

"I don't understand," the Lady of Goldengrove frowned. "The rumours were saying the last Sword of the Morning was on his death bed, and I'm pretty sure his son is a mediocre jouster. Where-"

The silver helmet was removed, and for a brief series of heartbeats, Jasmine stared in incomprehension. The long black hair was not unexpected, and if she was closer, the Reacher Lady would say the typical lilac eyes of House Dayne were there.

But the face was clearly not a man, and now that they knew the truth, the jousting armour was far less bulky than even Dornish considered suitable for tourneys.

The Sword of the Morning was clearly a woman, and now that she had seen her, Jasmine could place a face with the name.

"Lady Ysolde Dayne of Starfall," Jasmine whispered. "I wasn't aware she had become the new Sword of the Morning."

The former Regent shook her head before turning towards the main seats where her son should-

Oh, no.

Jasmine knew this expression upon her son's face, for it was very similar to his father's...and his eyes were not leaving the sight of a certain Dornish Lady leaving the jousting field.

That was...a big problem.

"She's a fighter." Iris Rowan had followed her gaze. "You wouldn't have a problem when it comes to her defending herself..."

"She's Dornish." Jasmine hissed. "I see must really have this conversation again with my son about poisoned fruits, vipers, and women you should always be wary of..."


Lady Victoria Blackbar, Fifth moon of 139AC, Highgarden

The briar labyrinth of Highgarden, for all its beauty, was a place famous for the uncountable intrigues and schemes woven within its alleys.

For appearances if nothing else, Victoria had not thought she would visit it before the last day of the tourney.

Yet it was the first evening of the jousting competition, and here she was.

What had her mother said about control? That lacking it when trying to charm someone could bring get rewards? It had felt far more reasonable when the wisdom was delivered in a little garden of Bandallon than here.

"Do you think it was the plan of the Dornish Princess all along? Send the Sword of Morning to fill the head of Lord Lyonel Tyrell with lustful dreams?"

Victoria hesitated...before regretfully shaking her head.

"No, Lady Cerelle," she answered the golden-haired highborn, noting how the young woman was growing into a real beauty. Give it a few years, and the daughter of Lady Johanna would win the Flower Crown ten times out of ten...if the victors' taste went for golden-haired, green-eyed women.

Alas, this morning had proved a certain Lord Paramount's preferences were not going in this direction.

"No," the daughter of Bandallon repeated before addressing the questions, "there's no way anyone at Sunspear could plan for Lord Lyonel feeling smitten at the very sight of a Dayne woman. I'm confident they never met before her official presentation before this tourney, how could the Martells or anyone have anticipated it? It is likely House Dayne received Sunspear's approval to come here...just to see if the chivalry of the South could be humiliated in a jousting Tourney. As far as I know, the Lord of Highgarden saw her only thrice; when she was presented upon arrival, and when she won her first and second jousts."

Maybe the...powerful emotions felt by the young Lord could have diminished if Lady Ysolde Dayne had been humiliated quickly.

Sadly, the Dornish warrior had not received her title of Sword of Morning by accident. Maybe Ysolde Dayne was going to fail in the next jousts, but for now she rode her horse like she was born on it.

"And frankly, if she had been sent here to encourage Lord Lyonel to do...unwise things, then Ysolde Dayne had no need to participate in the tourney at all. While a warrior woman is a sure way to attract a lot of attention," how could it be otherwise, when the Sword of the Morning was the only female warrior to participate here, "this also ensures she spends most of her time jousting or preparing to fight for the next joust."

"True," Cerelle sniffed disdainfully, "and she doesn't seem to have noticed Lord Lyonel's...passion. Or if she noticed it, she didn't return it in an obvious manner."

This was indeed accurate. Unfortunately, it also made the problem worse. Because if it wasn't a Dornish plot, a scheme of the Master of Whisperers to build a wall between House Lannister and House Tyrell, or something else...then it was something that began and ended because the young Lord of Highgarden was thinking with the parts he had between his legs and not the intelligence his mother had given him.

Their walk in the garden continued until they paused under a lone apple tree. Judging by its age, the majestic trunk had been there before the Field of Fire and House Tyrell became the Warden of the South.

"That's makes it worse, not better." Some might have chosen it to interpret it as whining, but Cerelle's tone was calm. Too calm, maybe. "Do you still intend to try to seduce Lord Lyonel?"

Of all things she had intended to be questioned about today, Victoria was sure this one would not be mentioned. And especially not by the girl who in many aspects was her greatest rival to the title of Lady Tyrell.

"I don't know...Cerelle." The Blackbar daughter answered truthfully. "Lord Tyrell disappointed me greatly today."

"The Lords of the Mander are known to take many mistresses," the daughter of Casterly Rock pointed out not incorrectly.

"Yes," Victoria drawled sarcastically, "but I expected at least a modicum of good sense. I don't care if in twenty years the man I swear vows with will consider paying for a few high-priced whores somewhere. I however very much care if he has some common sense when lusting after the first pretty face. The fact that he lusted after a Dornish woman while not making a positive comment about our dresses, our hair, or our jewellery...it doesn't say any good things about what remains once he is...passionate with someone."

"He is the Lord Paramount of the Reach."

"As long as a Dornish woman doesn't poison him in his bed," Victoria replied bluntly.

Cerelle seemed surprised by her hostility.

"You weren't born from a Marcher House."

"Half of my blood has traded from the Bay of Ice to the Stepstones," something that hadn't been at all profitable when the kingdoms separated, but Victoria wasn't mention that ugly detail here. "We know what kind of treacherous vipers the Dornish are. If they don't like you, if you looked at them in a way they didn't like, if they happen to want to test a few drops of venom or steal your goods...these are Dornish. You can't trust them. The moment the Dornish realise the attraction Lord Lyonel might feel for Dornish women, they will send some to warm his bed. It might be Lady Ysolde, it might be other daughters of Sunspear, but I can guarantee you they will try to exploit it."

"Unless one of us finds a way to marry him and make sure he keeps his eyes on his new wife, and ignore the charms and magics proposed by would-be paramours of the sands."

Victoria didn't remark out loud that was a lot of 'and'.

"I hope this way doesn't include assassinating Ysolde Dayne," Victoria commented in a light tone. "Because I don't think King Daeron or anyone would thank us for starting a second war with Dorne so close after the previous one."

That was putting it mildly, in fact. Nobody would be very amused, both at Sunspear and King's Landing...that was the kind of 'exploit' that resulted in the destruction of a Noble House and all its privileges and possessions.

"Nothing so brutal...for now..." Cerelle promised, though there was a glint in her green eyes...there was no doubt she was the daughter of the woman who had kept the Ironborn from annihilating the West in the darkest days of the Dance. "But first, to have the greatest effect, I think we need to speak with someone else."

"Is the 'someone' Lady Jasmine Tyrell, per chance?"

"It might come to that, but I was thinking about Lady Baratheon first."

This time Victoria's eyes narrowed in incomprehension.


Queen Baela Targaryen, Fifth moon of 139AC, Stone Hedge

Daena Targaryen had not been at Stone Hedge for very long – many moons had been spent following her mother across the Riverlands – but one thing was sure, she had quickly become the little Queen of all children eager to do mischief from dawn to dusk.

"You forget the 'little King', your Majesty," Nettles replied when she told her thoughts out loud.

"Ah yes," the silver-haired sovereign smiled. "How could I forget the King?"

For if there was a party of energetic and joyful children dancing, running, and trying to play like all children of their age did...they weren't just led by Nettles' daughter. No, as always, one had to account for Trickster...the emerald-scaled dragon was a bad influence upon all these children...unless it was the contrary.

Daena's bonded was growing fast – he was already as big as a small pony – and the young draconic male had a gift to make imploring expressions to get away with all the mischief Daena and himself were doing on a daily basis.

"They will get more reasonable once they get older."

Baela made a grunt of disbelief.

"I seem to remember the same thing was said during summer."

Needless to say, her father's daughter hadn't been more 'reasonable' or decided to slow down on the mischief.

"She has made a lot of effort when it comes to her Valyrian lessons?"

"True enough..." Baela smirked, "though I think it was because your daughter was frustrated she couldn't speak with the merchants and the dignitaries visiting my castle."

Still, there was no denying little Daena had learned the foundations of High Valyrian extremely quickly.

"Motivation is half of the battle, as the saying says..."

"Yes," Baela shook her head. "But it can't be denied your daughter has a gift for tongues."

And for mischief, but that one was evident for anyone who had met her and seen a column of children scream in joy as they ran after Trickster and Daena to steal barrels and use them for their mayhem.

"When it comes to speaking them," Nettles amended, "I have real difficulty to keep her on a seat in front of a parchment. She doesn't like writing much...reading is better, especially if the book has nice illustrations." There was a pause. "When we stayed at Fairmarket, I think she could have convinced half of the Librarians to tear their hair in fury."

The Black Queen chuckled.

"Let's try to avoid that, shall we? I don't have that many replacement Orders to step into the maesters' shoes."

"Yes, your Majesty," the sarcastic answer was drawled, and Baela sighed.

"To return to the subject of tongues...encourage Daena to speak the dialects of the Narrow Sea. I'm told the younger you begin, the easier it is."

"You want to make her an emissary when she will reach adulthood...or something?"

"Or something," Baela nodded. Truthfully, right now, it was impossible to think of little Daena as someone who would be a good emissary. Except perhaps an emissary to the wildlings... "I will do the same for Laena, by the way. High Valyrian for the foundations, then the Myrish and Lysene dialects."

"Myrish and Lysene? Not Volantene?"

"Have you seen many of these arrogant elephants arriving at Saltpans or Gulltown lately?" The purple-eyed Queen asked rhetorically. "Because I certainly haven't."

"True," Nettles conceded, "and I'm told their dialect is the closest to High Valyrian anyway."

The two dragonriders stayed silent for a few turn of hourglasses...or many 'clock strikes', as this crazy Myrish craftsman would say.

It was peaceful, with only the shouts of children, the excited growls of a young dragon...and then the roar in the distance of Sheepstealer.

"Someone is hungry."

"Someone is eager for more sheep." Nettles winced. "I'm trying to convince Sheepstealer to replace some meals by goats, we have a lot of them around Hornvale...but so far, every time there's a sheep nearby, the goat 'offering' is refused."

"As long as there's sheep in the kingdom..." Baela rolled her eyes. "The smugglers aren't giving you headaches?"

"The smugglers aren't, but banditry on the other side of the frontier is back."

"Nothing I can do about that," the silver-haired Targaryen replied. "And I suspect, the Greens can't do a lot about it either. They can't exactly keep ten thousand men here all year, it would empty all the West's granaries in short order...and cost them a fortune even the Lannisters would be reluctant to pay."

And unlike them, the Greens had so far a single adult dragon. As long as it stayed true, they couldn't patrol over all their kingdoms. Their agents in the South confirmed that unlike in the North, they were Lordships who had yet to see a single dragonrider and dragon since the end of the Dance.

"How was Gulltown?" Nettles asked curiously.

"Wet," Baela grimaced, "fortunately, Alyn's departure should be my last autumn visit. As long as the fighting remains limited to the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands, our merchant ships can trade in peace and I really have no reason to show up with Moondancer."

In the distance, Sheepstealer roared again.

"Let's go feed a certain glutton before he decides to visit the kitchens by himself," the Black Queen commanded.


The Prince of Pentos, Fifth moon of 139AC, Pentos

Fosco Doriatis had been about to raise his golden cup to his lips so he could savour the two years-old amber-coloured wine.

But the last words had suddenly made his thirst entirely disappear.

"I'm sorry, cousin," the man who had been elected to the office of Prince of Pentos three years ago after his predecessor died during an orgy, "I swear I could have just heard you say we are soon going to be at war with Braavos!"

"Yes," Magister Colombano Doriatis replied with a flat voice. "That's exactly what I just said, cousin."

"But..." Fosco knew what a war was, of course. One had just to look at the Disputed Lands...or the Narrow Sea...to have the definition of bloodshed, chaos, and bloody battles. However, the idea it could come to Pentos was just...

"But why?" He asked in incomprehension.

"Because the Sealord is a dying man. In fact, he might already be dead as we speak. The knives are coming out, and the Braavosi lagoon is turning red with all the vendettas the key-holders are pursuing."

These were words like this which made Fosco remember why he, not Colombano had been elected Prince. His cousin was a far more astute man, prompt to watch over all competitors, real or imaginary, that might conspire against the Doriatis interests.

The thirty-nine other magisters, naturally, didn't want a strong Prince. This was why Fosco had been formally magister for a single moon: this was the price paid for all the Magisters to have a candidate that was not going to cause them problems.

"Braavosi politics," the Prince of Pentos cursed in his beard before frowning in suspicion,

"Politics," his cousin agreed with sympathy. Obviously, it wasn't him who was going to lose his head if Pentos lost a war...

"The new Sealord will need a reason to open the hostilities, though." Fosco knew he wasn't a skilled man in politics, but he knew that much. "Wars are terribly expensive affairs. Too terrible to be waged for no reason at all!"

"Two moons ago," Colombano began with a sadistic smile, "one of our ship captains, a drunkard of no importance, cut the beard of a Braavosi miscreant in the markets of Gulltown. That's going to be their reason...what in Old Valyria our predecessors would have called the casus belli."

This was so ridiculous Fosco gaped and stayed speechless for a while.

"Err...yes...cousin, when I said they needed a reason to go to war, what I meant...I strongly implied they needed a very important reason!"

"This is a very important reason, oh Prince." Colombano gave him a joyless smile. "According to the gondoliers I pay to give me the latest rumours and hearsay, the dastardly Pentoshi captain severed the beard of the noble Braavosi captain, before putting the object of his crime into a glass jar, and filled it with piss before laughing and throwing it back to his face!"

"What? But that's just nonsense!"

"Yes. But that hasn't stopped many Braavosi young men from spreading the word that it was by the word of the same Pentoshi that the poor misunderstood victim was thrown in a dark humid prison and abused for over a moon, while his ship and all his goods were seized by the barbarian thieves of the Sunset kingdoms, paid to be Pentos' bandits for this priceless opportunity!"

This was...this was just lie after lie. The two drunkards, the Pentoshi and the Braavosi, had been arrested together, and as far as Fosco knew, they had been released the morning after. The cells may have not been that comfortable, but no one had tortured them or abused them, unless you considered Sunset food a torture, for the lack of spice in it was simply a crime against gastronomy.

And no ship had been seized, nor had goods be stolen. Gulltown was not a harbour able to play in the same lofty heights as Pentos, but it was not a tiny fisher's village either, and trade was flourishing there for many reasons.

"Fine," the Prince of Pentos said darkly. "You've made your point clear. A Braavosi faction wants a war against us, and they're not exactly shy about it. I will nonetheless ask again: why? And don't give me that nonsense with the beard...please."

Colombano emptied his own cup before continuing.

"I think the roots of this anger towards our city come from the last terrible winter. The Sunset kingdoms suddenly bought all the food they could from us, no matter how high the price we asked for, or how many favours they had to repay during the spring which followed it. The Braavosi saw the power our large food granaries gave us...and they realised this was a weapon they didn't have."

Fosco sipped his wine, and for the first time, the beverage sounded remarkably bitter on his tongue.

So the Braavosi wanted to control who Pentos was selling to, eh? And no doubt they wanted a share of the great profits his Free City was enjoying year after year...

"When?" He asked simply.

"I expect an election on the ninth moon, as per the tradition. If the candidate I fear is elected Sealord, we will be at war less than two moons later." His cousin gave him a stone-like face. "And it is a war we will lose."

Fosco sighed and sipped more wine.

Much as he wanted to say his cousin was wrong, the Prince of Pentos couldn't.

If the political will was there – meaning the forty magisters united long enough to give him the funds needed to wage a war – the Free City of Pentos could likely arm between sixty and seventy galleys, which would be reinforced by twenty to thirty sellsail captains.

Braavos, in half a year, could build and arm something like one hundred and eighty galleys with their never-damned-enough Arsenal, not to mention all the corsairs they could and would pay to attack Pentoshi trade.

If it came to a war, Pentos was going to lose very badly. And one Prince Fosco Doriatis would offer his head to the Free City for not stopping the inevitable defeat from happening.

"Making sure the man is never elected Sealord would avoid a lot of trouble for years to come."

"My ability to influence Braavosi internal politics is limited, Fosco," his cousin admitted. "It doesn't help that I don't fully understand how the elections function when the ballots are sent to the Palace of Truth. The bastard daughter of Valyria has always been...very problematic in that regard."

"And to say I disliked the election which made me Prince of Pentos," Fosco tried to joke...and it fell flat. "The chances of victory of the faction which wants us humbled and defeated are high, then."

"Much like their reasons to go to war, they're not afraid to promise the impossible to the credulous Braavosi."

No wonder only Braavos of all the Free Cities used this 'republican' system, it was just madness. Asking the mobs and the canal urchins to give their opinion was trouble incarnate, and if you didn't fulfil your promises, your bloodthirsty 'allies' would stab you and throw your corpse at the bottom of a Braavosi canal.

"War, then." Fosco grimaced...again. "And Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr are too busy fighting each other to help us."

"The situation isn't as bad as you imply, cousin."

"That's the three strongest fleets of the Narrow Sea after Braavos, unless I've missed something."

"The other Free Cities may have changed sides the moment it was convenient for them. Remember what I said about the food incentive? We still have it, and winter is coming for the two Sunset kingdoms."

"The Sunset kingdoms? But their fleets are pathetic! And didn't some of their warships leave with their far eastern expedition before this lamentable beard-cutting of our least favourite drunkards?"

"Who cares about their fleets, oh Prince? The King and Queen on the other side of the Narrow Sea have dragons."


King Daeron Targaryen, Fifth moon of 139AC, King's Landing

This was going to be a good day.

Assuredly, Daeron had not any talent to predict how a day would go, bad or good. But he had a good feeling for this new day.

To begin with, the weather was beautiful today.

The northern wind had at last decided to honour them of its presence today, meaning the fog, the rains, and all the humidity that had been their lot for the last fortnight had suddenly disappeared.

Yes, the air was colder, but they were rid of all this humidity and disgusting moisture that never seemed to end.

At last, they had a blue sky and they could enjoy the warming caress of the sun upon their skin.

Once his morning duties were over, he would take Tessarion for a ride before noon. His Blue Queen needed to unfurl her wings and have some exercise anyway, something that had been impossible when the flight cover was so low and so heavy you didn't see further than your own nose.

The pleasant mood resonated in his head lasted until Lord Willam Stackspear arrived in the Council room with a large amount of parchments under his arm.

"The next figures of what the Treasury can afford for the next year?"

"No, your Grace..." the Westerner Lord grimaced. "There are the refusals of many of your bannersmen I've received in the last days. They are completely against the idea of building new roads, and the more ravens arrive, the more I have the impression many joined their forces before sending their answers."

The Green King did his best not to scowl.

Though sea travel remained a vital way to transport goods on large distances – a hundred horses simply couldn't tow what a middle-sized carrack's hull contained – there were so many Lordships away from navigable rivers and other large watery 'roads' that one could not rely on the merchant fleet of House Redwyne and other traders.

Highborn and smallfolk alike needed to travel, and they needed to do it in the best conditions Daeron could give them. Alas, so far, the condition of the roads very much depended on what gold a Lord was willing to spend upon them. Around Highgarden and Oldtown, the paved roads were excellent, as House Tyrell and Hightower had made a significant effort to rebuild them. But in other places, the former creations of King Jaehaerys had returned to a state that was barely above the mud path or the goat trail.

"And the reasons invoked for this disobedience are?" Daeron inquisitively wondered, staring at his Master of Coin.

"In seven cases out of ten, they say they are paying too many taxes already, your Grace" Willam grunted. "The others complain about failed harvests, men who departed for the wars and never came back...but the big excuse is that they think they are paying too many taxes already, and they think road rebuilding is among the Crown's duties."

"That's outrageous," Alan Redwyne's expression was really angry this fine morning.

"Unfortunately, the precedent made by King Jaehaerys tend to support these protestations," the Master of Laws began, "and there's also the actions in the Riverlands to consider. The Black-"

A glare from the Master of Ships interrupted Royce Caron before he finished explaining his reasoning. Not that Daeron really needed all the words, he had a good idea of where it was going.

Yes, by creating their new roads, the Blacks had continued the precedent of King Jaehaerys building the paved paths every land merchant used to go from one kingdom to another.

It was something which didn't lack salt, because the Conciliator was far from a favourite of the Black decrees these days.

"I see." The King on the Iron Throne replied with a smile. "And given your exhausted face, I suppose the Treasury can't exactly afford the expense of building new roads here and now?"

"Not with the rains of autumn causing so much flooding and winter soon at the gates, your Grace." Willam gave him an apologetic look. "I think, if the winter does not last more than a couple of years, that roads worthy of the Conciliator's memory can be built once the bad weather abates...but I don't think we can do it now. The Guilds of King's Landing simply don't want to release enough hands for the work to begin."

Ah yes, the Guilds. How could he have forgotten for a moment that thorn that caused scores of problems every fortnight?

"If it can't be done, it can't be done." The War of Lions had destroyed so many plans...whoever had said war was good business for a kingdom deserved the gallows. "What about-"

This was the moment his Hand chose to storm into the Council Room.

Lord Marq Merryweather was technically less than a turn of hourglass late, for a man so attached to punctuality, it had not been a good sign...though every man had slept too late once in his life.

But the worried expression on his face...

Daeron acknowledged he had been wrong.

It was not going to be a good day. Not at all.

"Terrible news, your Grace," the Lord of Longtable began, breathing loudly to catch his breath, making clear he had done his best to arrive here as fast as his feet could carry him, "the Faith has arrested Lord Adrian Baratheon!"

The very words seemed at first to be...complete nonsense.

"Lord Adrian? Lady Maris Baratheon's husband? Arrested by the Faith?"

"This can't be!" Alan Redwyne exploded. "I know the Stormlands and their Lords! The septons would never dare arresting someone in the lands where Storm's End rule is law!"

"Unfortunately, your Grace, my Lord," Marq fell on his chair, and pouring himself a drink, "the...the deed was not committed in the Stormlands, it happened on the southern bank of the Blackwater..."

Daeron had the sudden urge to strangle one or two septons.

"You are telling me," the dragonrider growled, "that the Faith dared arresting one of the most important Lords of the realm on the very doorstep of my capital!"

"Yes," Marq Merryweather grabbed the cup, but didn't raise it to his lips. "Yes, your Grace. That's exactly what happened."

Daeron shook his head, trying to leash his anger. He had known the Faith was going to bring him more headaches, but not one of this magnitude, and not so soon after the last one...

"I suppose, since you are a competent and loyal Hand, that you have ordered Lord Adrian to be released immediately. Unless the Faith has evidence Lord Adrian Baratheon conspired against my Crown?

If the husband of Lady Maris had indeed conspired with Black agents, that was indeed treason. But that raised the question in turn how a few septons had been able to manage to discover what his Master of Whisperers couldn't...

"The accusation was not against your Crown, your Grace. It was...against the laws of divine nature and men."

"What in the Seven Hells are you taking about?" Alan Redwyne roared.

It was Joffrey Cuy who answered.

"Lord Adrian's tastes are for his own sex, not women. Lord Marq, I presume the Faith stormed a certain whorehouse which handles the desires of certain highborn prestigious visitors in all discretion?"

"Yes," the Reacher confirmed. "I'm not surprised-"

"Wait a moment," Daeron hissed, "the new Lord Baratheon enjoys...fornicating with men, and you didn't inform me of it?"

"Err...your Grace..." Lord Joffrey swallowed before his stormy expression, "I thought...that is, Lady Maris informed you of it in her letters. Several times. Since she had so vigorously insisted, I thought there was no point repeating the obvious...the rumours are...err...common knowledge from Sunspear to King's Landing."

The son of Alicent Hightower felt like he had been slapped. Hard.

Because damn it, his Master of Whisperers was right.

Lady Maris Baratheon had tried to tell him the truth...except Daeron had not listened to her.

"You are certainly right, Lord Joffrey." The Targaryen King turned back his eyes towards his Hand. "Whether he loves men or women, Adrian Baratheon is a Lord of the Realm. I, and only I, do have the right to judge him. And if someone else has this right, this someone is certainly not the Faith!"

When faced with such a situation, it was easy to remember why Maegor the Cruel had been so...ruthless in his attempts to crush the Faith Militant.

"I agree your Grace, but...we can't ill afford beginning a conflict with the Faith at the moment..."

"Conflict?" Daeron bared his teeth. "There isn't going to be a conflict. I am going to ride Tessarion in front of several unruly septons. And I will remind them the reason why the Faith obeys the Crown, and not the contrary."


Author's note: And here comes the beginning of another important Arc!

Next chapter, we will likely go to Braavos, to see how a 'classic' Braavosi election is organised...

Oh, and a certain Lord Tyrell's attraction for Dornish women is completely canon, by the way. Oberyn Martell may have mentioned him once upon a time in passing, and how this passion led him to receive a few scorpions in his bed...

More links on the Dance is not Over:

P a treon: www. p a treon Antony444

Alternate History: www .alternatehistory forum /threads /asoiaf-the-dance-is-not-over.391415