So, I decided to update this because I got more characters and all excited. Plus, I notice no-one's interested in the Dornish characters and I'm guessing this is because a lot of people haven't read the books, just watched the show (no judgement – I've only just started the books), so I've decided to try and show you why the Dornish are so gosh-darn awesome.
Now, one big detail – I'm changing the time this is set to a couple of generations after the Dance of Dragons, but, with some changes: Dragons have not died out (obviously). The current King Aeric is Viserys I' great-grandson… and also grandson 'cos Targs. So, everything is canon until we get to Aegon III, which is when stuff gets a lil' screwy: Aegon III died before ever taking the throne, which instead passed to his son, Aeric in 131AC.
12th Day of the Fifth Moon, 152AC
Aemon
The Red Keep, King's Landing, the Crownlands
The Small Council chamber in King's Landing stood as a testament to both the intricate politics of the realm and the opulence of the ruling seat. Entered through grand doors, the chamber exuded an air of authority and gravitas.
Shelves and alcoves housed tomes and scrolls, a repository of knowledge and legal decrees, each a valuable tool wielded by the council members as they shaped the destiny of Westeros. Delicate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft radiance that danced across the polished floor.
At the centre lay a long rectangular table, crafted from rich wood. The table's surface bore subtle marks and etchings: proof of the countless discussions and decisions that had shaped the course of the Seven Kingdoms. Ornate, high-backed chairs surrounded the table, each meticulously carved with the sigils of respective families: Targaryen and Tully, Hightower and Velaryon, but others were emblazoned with not the sigil of noble houses, but with the badges of office: the white swords of the Kingsguard and the chains of the Grand Maester. All seats were filled, save one: the one with the golden hand on its back.
Aemon sat at the head of the table, where the King usually sat. Though, from how Ser Connas told him, good King Aeric had not been to a Small Council meeting since he mistakenly wandered in eight years ago while looking for baby Lucaerys.
The room resonated with the symphony of debate, punctuated by the occasional flourish of a quill against parchment or the splashing of wine. Advisors, lords, and esteemed members of the realm were gathered, their presence a testament to the weight of their responsibilities.
Like most days, Aemon was not the sole Targaryen in the room. Walking around, clutching a jug of wine was Jaeghar. Ten-and-eight, Jaeghar's face still bore the many scars of his smithing mishap. 'You're a prince,' Aemon had said to him, 'princes don't need to smith blades.' But Jaeghar had inherited their mother's stubbornness, and bore the scars to prove it. Covering most of the left of his face, from brow to chin to neck, Jaeghar would never lose his wounds. Aemon could only hope that meant his younger brother would not forget the hard lesson he had learnt.
As time marched forward and the echoes of decisions made within its walls reverberated through the ages, the Small Council chamber remained a quiet theatre of power. The future of the realm unfolded in a dance of words, ambition, and compromise. Tapestries of vibrant hues adorned the walls, their intricate designs weaving tales of valour against House Hoare, diplomacy in the Vale and conquest across all of Westeros. Almost all of Westeros.
"And the Lord Regent of Storm's End has declared war on Dorne," Grand Maester Toryn said, his voice frail and shaking. "He has sworn to bring them into the light of the Seven."
"He is a bold one, isn't he?" the Master of Coin, Arthor Hightower, chortled.
"Perhaps a bold hand is needed with the Dornish," the Mistress of Laws, Jeyne Tully responded. "Not a tourney rose."
Arthor's lips pressed together into a thin line. "Your Lord Husband was indeed bold with the Ironmen – how did that end, Lady Jeyne?"
"Peace, Lord Arthor…" Aemon said, rubbing his eye. "How would you proceed with Lord Durran?"
"We should send men. Call the banners and march them south." Arthor leant forwards. "My nephew would march south with the might of the Reach behind him-"
"You think your shiny armour is as good as dragons?" Jeyne frowned.
"I would not presume to ask the Prince of Dragonstone nor his family to risk their lives in a lesser conflict."
"Are you saying Queen Rhaenys died in a 'lesser conflict'?" Jeyne's lips twisted smugly as Arthor clenched his jaw.
"Peace," Aemon urged them. "It's no lesser conflict. Lord Arthor, dragons will not win us Dorne. Aegon could not achieve it with the Black Dread, and we would not – not even if we used all the dragons, claimed or otherwise." He turned to Jeyne, who was smiling victoriously. "But I would not order more men to this conflict." Aemon knew his histories – Dorne was the sole kingdom that had never been conquered. Aegon, nor Jaehaerys had managed to conquer the southern-most kingdom. Four wars, and still House Martell stood as Princes and Princesses of Dorne. Their words were true – they remained unbowed, unbent and unbroken.
"If you'll permit me, Your Grace," Grand Maester Toryn raised a shaking hand, "Dorne has long supported our enemies – fomented discord and sown discontent, would it not be safer for all in the realm if they were brought into the fold?"
Aemon sat there, stroking his chin. He could curse Durran Baratheon, he could curse his own father – he should not have been in this meeting. He should not have been sitting in his father's seat, making such decisions. Was he to be party in a war that the Lords and smallfolk of the realm would all curse him for?
He remembered the tales of how the Dornish fought Aegon. How they had sent men armed with blades to King's Landing. They murdered with poison and daggers and poisoned daggers. Formally supporting a vassal's war would be just as good as declaring it himself.
"Perhaps repositioning my own fleet to the Sea of Dorne would be enough?" The Master of Ships, Vaellyn Velaryon, spoke finally. All turned to look at him. "Lord Redwyne might station his own ships further east, below the Torrentine. It would deter any attack by the sea without putting the dragons at risk."
"It would be a show of strength…" Lady Jeyne nodded.
Aemon sighed. He'd wished he could just call an end to the senseless war. Durran had announced his wishes to bring the Martell's into the Light of the Seven, but Aemon knew better. The man was belligerent as his father before him.
"Very well," Aemon nodded solemnly. "Lord Vaellyn, send the ravens to Lord Redwyne and to your steward. We need our ships in place before the Dornish can mobilise."
"Very good, Your Grace."
"We could ask the Greyjoy girl to assemble her ships," Arthor chimed in quickly, "the Iron Fleet is a great-"
"The Iron Fleet is at the bottom of the Ironman's Bay," Jeyne snorted. "Why would we send her back?"
"Because the Iron Islands is part of the realm," Arthor retorted, "and there is no point to having a Greyjoy loyal to the crown if she is not in the that kingdom."
"Lady Freya will return to Pyke after her ten-and-eighth name day," Aemon said firmly, "and she will rule from Pyke."
"A woman has never ruled the Iron Islands," Jeyne pointed out.
"She is the last Greyjoy. By law, she is the only one who can rule."
"I do agree with the Lady Jeyne, Your Grace," Vaellyn said, "the Ironmen have not attacked out of fear of what may befall their Lady Greyjoy if-"
"The Ironmen have not attacked because there are scarce any left," Aemon interrupted his Master of Ships. The table fell silent. "Lady Jeyne said so herself, the Iron Fleet is at the bottom of the Sunset Sea, Pyke is a pile of rubble. Lady Freya may yet turn a pile of burnt stone and rabble of drunken, squabbling sailors into profitable lands for us. A trading capital!" He looked around to see which of the councillors would debate his point, and found them all silent. "We'll wed her to a Drumm or a Harlaw – whoever holds sway over the houses and take their firstborn to ward here in the Red Keep."
"Very good, Your Grace…"
"Very good, My Prince."
"If that is everything…" Aemon reached for his cane, but Jeyne stretched out a hand.
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but there is another matter."
"Matter?" Aemon asked.
"Concerning the position of Hand to the King," Arthor said quickly. "It has been a month now, and still no successor has been named."
"Such decisions lie with the King." Aemon moved to stand.
"In his stead, you may make such decisions," Jeyne said in a polite chuckle. Aemon rubbed his brow and forced himself to smile.
"Of course." He sank back into his father's chair. "I would hear council."
"I humbly put myself forwards for the position, Your Grace," Jeyne said, standing up and scraping her chair backwards. Aemon saw Arthor half-standing for a second before he yielded and sat down. "I have served as Mistress of Laws for eight years, and the realm has flourished in that time-"
"Your Grace," Arthor said loudly, standing up and pressing a hand to his chest as he bowed, "I may have only been in office for some months now, but in my time as Master of Coin, I have repaid all debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos. I have bolstered our trade with the help of the Redwyne Fleet. With the opportunities that come with Hand of the King, I am sure I could benefit the realm even more…"
"Four months in King's Landing, and you would say you are worthy for the Hand's office?" Jeyne scoffed, giving a sardonic glance down to Grand Maester Toryn, who did not return her smile, but simply examined Arthor.
"Grand Maester, what advice would you give me?"
"W-well, both are- indeed, both are true, loyal subjects with much wisdom and affection in their hearts…"
Aemon regretted the question almost immediately. At the end of the table, Vaellyn was drumming his fingers idly on the table.
"Lord Vaellyn," Aemon said loudly, cutting off Grand Maester Toryn's ramblings, "would you not put forth yourself for the office?"
"My knowledge is ships, Your Grace," Vaellyn responded with a shrug, "I would be as useful as a sail in a storm."
Aemon smirked at the remark and glanced to Ser Connas – he had to admire the man for not showing how bored he must have grown of such affairs. "The decision shall not be made today. I would hear my father's judgement."
"Of course, Your Grace-"
"The King is most wise…"
Aemon plastered on a cordial smile as he watched the councillors bow and talk of his father's shrewdness and intelligence and wisdom and, when they had finally ended, let out a long sigh and closed his eyes.
There was a sound of gentle sloshing as Jaeghar filled up his brother's cup with wine. Aemon smiled in response as he looked up to his younger brother. "Thank you, Jae," he said softly, taking a sip of the Arbor red.
Instead of leaving, as Aemon expected him to, Jaeghar placed the jug of wine down on the table and sat down in the Hand's seat. Aemon raised an eyebrow – was Jaeghar to recommend himself be Hand? There was so much wrong with that – the boy had no skills for stewardship and governing.
"Jae, I don't-"
"Vaellyn should be Hand," Jaeghar said.
Aemon blinked, surprised. He hadn't expected his brother to have an opinion on someone else. "Is that so?"
"He proved himself a capable commander in the Ironborn Rebellion and governed Driftmark. He speaks his mind and was the only one to offer advice in this chamber of roosters clucking about themselves."
Aemon grinned: Jaeghar was right, but also so wrong. "True…" he nodded. "It's a good quality – an advisor to not seek power for its own sake. And men like Vaellyn are important – I need men who know how to wage war."
Jaeghar smiled – it was something Aemon hadn't seen enough. "He shall be Hand, then?"
Aemon shook his head. "Our Maelor ended the Siege of Moat Cailin before Arlan Strongarm could loose a single bolt. He did not do that for his own pride, he did it to be the man who ended one of the bloodiest battles before it was ever fought, and became the youngest Hand in history."
"Why are we talking about Maelor?" Jaeghar spat the name.
"Because Maelor saved some fifty thousand men because of his own ambitions. He decided to execute the Greyjoy's and take Freya hostage, and now none of the Ironborn can ever oppose us again." Aemon leant forwards. "The world is full of schemers, Jae. We need the worst of them in this chamber."
Jaeghar's violet eyes fell to the jug of wine in thought. Aemon took another sip. "We're to war with Dorne, then?"
"Apparently so."
"Let me fight," Jaeghar said quickly. "I'm a knight, I can-"
"If a Targaryen is going to fight, it's going to be a dragonrider," Aemon said sternly.
"I have a dragon-"
"A dragon you cannot ride," Aemon responded. "You're still young, Jae. You can serve our house in other ways – take Freya to wife! Govern the Iron Islands for me, return here and serve as Master of Ships."
"Oh, a high honour for a Knight…" Jaeghar muttered.
"A high honour for a blacksmith," Aemon said as he scratched his brow. "You would have a most exquisite smithy."
"Shut up, Aemon," Jaeghar snapped.
Aemon crossed his arms as he began to think about the impending war. He began to think about his own sister, Rhaenerys, and her approaching marriage. He looked at Jaeghar – his brother, eager and thirsting for glory, just like Aerion, but at the same time, he was so different. Perhaps it was that he was still young – young enough to not be sucked into the dark, inky depths of self-adoration and pride.
"I would ask something of you, Jae, but I'm not asking as your brother. I'm asking as the Prince of Dragonstone."
"What does that mean?"
"It means no-one can know what I ask of you." Jaeghar nodded in response. "You have to swear."
Jaeghar's purple eyes fixed up to his brother, seeing the weight of something he was going to ask. There was no fond smile, just the thin line his lips were pressed into.
"I swear."
Vaegon
Dragonstone, the Crownlands
Twin beasts soared through the skies. Ahead was the smaller, blood-red dragon that swept down towards the azure waves, the talons on its wings skimming the water as sea sprayed onto its rider's face: Aeric was half-way into his sixth decade of life, though he still rode his dragon hard like a young man. He had his Bloodfyre low, feeling the spray of salt and seawater upon his face. Meanwhile, behind chased the vast Nightfyre, midnight blue wings stretched out wide, casting a shadow larger than a pair of war-galleys. Water frothed and rippled beneath the dragons' bellies, the spikes on their tails whipping around as the beasts surged forwards. Astride Nightfyre was Vaegon, the second-born son of House Targaryen. Usually, he was the brooding son. No, that particular claim was taken by another.
Within the formidable walls of castle on Dragonstone, the corridors wound like ancient stone serpents, carved from the very heart of the island itself. The air was cool and faintly damp, carrying whispers of history with each step: Aenar, Gaemon, Daemion, even the Conqueror himself.
The flames of torches danced in iron sconces shaped as dragons with coiled flickering light painted shifted shadows on the rough-hewn stone walls. The scent of salt lingered in the air, a reminder of the restless sea that surrounds this fortress.
The passageways were punctuated by heavy wooden doors, their surfaces etched with generations of use. Muffled echoes of distant footsteps resonated in the distance, as Aeric laughed, tugging off his black gloves and talking to the incredibly bored son that trailed behind him.
"Brought down that wall on Pyke like knocking over a stack of coins," Aeric laughed. They passed the tapestry of Aenar and his wives that adorned the wall, its faded threads depicting the founding of Dragonstone, a silent testament to the island's storied past.
"And Lucan of Lannisport? A face of fire and still cutting down those Botley bastards!" He guffawed at the memory. "Ser Lucan – we'll toast him tonight at dinner!"
Vaegon grunted a response. He was slender and lean, like most of his siblings, and had the same platinum silver hair as his father. His eyes were deep and purple like his father, but tired and blood-shot like an older man's, darting around for a servant with a cup of wine, if not a jug.
Arched doorways led the two to chambers both grand and intimate. Hushed voices and the rustling of papers occasionally escaped from behind closed doors. "But, I'll tell you, his finest hour- Maelor's finest hour, was in the North! I told you about the North?"
"The big cold place?" Vaegon asked dryly – he was dry, far too dry. He glanced down into the narrow alcoves that held intricate sculptures and forgotten relics upon pedestals – artifacts of eras long before, but still no wine.
"That's it- landed down on Bloodfyre between the Strongarm and Winterfell – stopped the siege before it even began! That was how I acted – no doddering about like a courtier – I ruled my kingdom from dragonback!"
"How did you manage to fit the throne up there?" Vaegon asked absent-mindedly as they continued on. They ventured deeper into Dragonstone's labyrinthine heart, the corridors taking on an almost surreal quality; the walls seemed to close in, the passageways becoming narrower, as if shaped by the very weight of the history they had bore witness to. It was an enigmatic journey through time and stone, a maze of mystery and memory waiting to be explored.
As Aeric continued to ramble on about his imaginary victories in battles he never fought in wars that had never happened, Vaegon eye flickered up to the tall, narrow windows sporadically dotted the corridors, offering fleeting glimpses of the restless sea or the play of sunlight on the waves. It was by one of the glass windows where Aerion sat, his knee curled up to his chest as his deep violet eyes stared out, forlorn across the waves. Back to the Red Keep. If it was a clear day, Vaegon wondered, they may have been able to see it.
Vaegon peeled off from his father, who had continued on to their dining hall, talking to the steward of Dragonstone, Aelyx Velaryon, about his longing to fly to Essos and battle in the fighting pits of Mereen, across the Narrow Sea.
Vaegon picked up the glass jug of wine and gave it a quick sniff. "Hippocras," he commented, taking a swig. It was not strong enough – watered down horribly. He had a quick shudder. "You know this is supposed to be warmed, don't you?"
Aerion didn't move. He continued staring out of the window, his jaw clenched. The two of them had never talked. Where Aerion raged, Vaegon drank. Where Aerion fought, Vaegon accepted defeat. There was never any point in trying to change anything – Vaegon had never been able to. He'd been plagued his entire life with dreams of what had been, what was to be. He'd been accursed with dragon dreams – he witnessed his mother dying twice, the first with closed eyes. He'd witnessed death – sometimes, he believed he even caused it. He gulped down a sweet wine to stave off the thought.
"Nice of Aemon to let you stay here."
"He can't make me leave," Aerion replied bitterly.
"Our older brother is a good heart and a willingness to please…" Vaegon said as he leant back against the window, "and many other things. He just lacks a spine."
"He's a worm," Aerion muttered. "Rhaenerys was to be mine. And we'd bless this family with children of true, pure Valyrian blood."
Vaegon had never had his brother's fire; he'd longed to have children with Jeyne. He hadn't wasted time on whether to name them in the light of the Seven, or beneath one of the weeping heart-trees to the north. He just longed for a family with her. A perfect person, as much his as hers. But his dreams had put an end to such hopes. He had put an end to such hopes.
"Perhaps this is why all in the realm despise the Targaryen," Vaegon mused, his voice flat and dull as he tried to swallow more cold, sweet wine, thick and soupy. He wanted to drown the thoughts in his head. "Because we're always trying to fuck ourselves."
"If you intend to play the fool, do it elsewhere," Aerion spat the words.
"I never imagined you the type to run away and cry," Vaegon retorted.
"I'm not crying," Aerion hissed.
"Maybe you ought to try," Vaegon idly looked down into the wine.
"Is that what you do, Vaegon?" Aerion asked, standing up the window. "Whinge? Whine? Cry?"
"A different kind of wining, little brother," Vaegon responded, enunciating his point with a sip of hippocras. "Did Rhae want to wed you?"
"Of course she does," Aerion snapped, his face scrunched up in confusion.
"No, I mean… is that just because she's marrying Durran Baratheon?" Vaegon asked. "She likes to raise the ire of Aemon. And Father. And anyone, generally… In fact, if Aemon bid her marry you, I would wager she would have run to Storm's End before he could even-"
Aerion shoved his brother back, hard. "You speak without thinking, Vaegon."
"Of course, apologies," Vaegon mumbled as he raised the jug of wine to his lips again. "I'm a drunken reprobate, ignore my ramblings."
His younger brother glared into his eyes, full of rage. His fists were balled so tightly they shook, but Aerion did not hit his brother. Instead, he did something worse. "Jeyne would hate you."
Vaegon was not hurt by the words, as it was a simple truth to him – his late Lady wife would hate him if she were still drawing breath. She would be right to – he was doubtlessly the worst of all his family. It wasn't right, that he was still there, annoying his little brother, and his wife was rotting in the ground. With a large mouthful of wine, Vaegon nodded and simply said, "most likely."
Aerion's cheek twitched and he smacked his hand against the jug of wine, spilling it all over Vaegon and shoving him back to the ground.
"You really are quite the cunt, aren't you?" Vaegon asked.
"I'm not the one all wet," Aerion responded.
"Very good," Vaegon said as he leant back to lie down on the stone floor and close his eyes. "Be a good brother and plant a dagger in my neck, now."
Aerion stared down at his brother and scoffed. "The bitch is dead, Vaegon. She was a Blackwood – throw a stone and you'll hit another Andal like her."
Vaegon couldn't even feel angry at how his brother talked of Jeyne. He couldn't feel upset. Truth be told, he couldn't feel anything anymore. Nothing but the cold weight of guilt and shame within him. One day he'd drink enough to drown the burdens or himself, and he didn't know which he would prefer.
"None were as her," Vaegon replied quietly. Aerion scoffed and stepped over his brother, walking away and leaving Vaegon there, without wine to steer away his memories.
Qyle
The Shadow City, Sunspear, Dorne
The Shadow City of Dorne was a labyrinth of mystery and intrigue, unfolding like a hidden tapestry within the embrace of Sunspear. A tangle of narrow alleyways and cobbled paths, the city grew out of the rocks, a seamless child of architecture and nature.
The buildings stood as silent sentinels, their walls of adobe glowing like burnished gold in the warm Dornish sun. Vines cascaded from white domed rooftops, weaving a verdant canopy that offered respite from the relentless sun. Here and there, vibrant banners fluttered from windowsills, adding bursts of colour to the earthy tones of the cityscape.
The alleys wound and twisted like a web, leading to hidden courtyards and concealed squares. Overhead, wooden balconies jutted out, adorned with intricately carved railings that seemed to tell tales of generations past. Within those labyrinthine passages, the scent of spices and the rhythmic beats of distant drums blended together into an intoxicating symphony.
Market stalls were littered across the city in clusters, their wares an eclectic blend of exotic fabrics, fruits, and trinkets from across the known world. Peddlers called out their wares, and the lively chatter of haggling mingled with laughter and snippets of songs from hidden corners.
Graceful archways and ornate doorways beckoned, promising glimpses of hidden oases where fountains murmured and fragrant gardens offered refuge from the city's bustle. Lanterns hung like stars from arches, casting dappled light that painted the cobblestones with patterns that shifted as the day progressed.
The city's secrets and whispers were carried on the wind, as couriers, traders, and lovers exchanged words and glances in quiet corners. The Shadow City guarded its mysteries closely, each shadowed passage offering a new enigma to unravel, a hidden gem to discover.
In the heart of the city stands the imposing Tower of the Sun, an emblem of House Nymeros Martell's power that rose above the labyrinthine alleys, casting its watchful gaze over the city of intrigue and allure. Within the Shadow City, life thrived, vibrant and tenacious, a testament to the enduring spirit of Dorne.
As the sun dipped lower to the horizon, the sun's rays cast a warm, golden hue over the twisting and turning streets, and a tall man navigated the narrow alleyways with a heavy, furrowed brow. His bow-shaped lips were hidden away behind the dark beard that bristled over his sculpted jaw. His ears jutted out from beneath the waves of his dark hair, which had been tied back from his deep-set, dark eyes.
His footsteps echoed softly against the cobblestones as he made his way to an establishment: the Stinger's Respite, known for its clandestine offerings. Red silks and pink linens were draped over the sandstone balconies, and vines of flowers grew over the walls.
Not bothering to look at the copper-skinned man that stood guard outside, Qyle stepped through the buttermilk stone archway, feeling the sheer silk brush over his face. The interior was dimly lit, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the subdued light. The air was thick with sweat, punctuated by hushed giggles and laughter, moans of ecstasy and joy.
Qyle ignore the woman that came to welcome him. She had seen the spear-pierced golden suns that sat upon the shoulders of his red robe, and simply bowed her head as he walked down the steps of the establishment, looking around at the men and women that embraced and kissed and drank at the low tables.
A woman began to approach him, the thin sheer of her ochre-orange gliding through the air as if it were water. "My Prince," she bowed to him, giving a demure smile.
"I'm here for the Princess," Qyle said clearly.
"She is otherwise engaged, but I can accompany you in waiting-"
"Where?" Qyle asked loudly, grabbing her wrist before her hand could sink into his britches.
Her smile evaporated and she glanced up to the large stone staircase adorned with flowers and a thick plush carpet of maroon and royal yellow. Qyle released her hand and made his way to ascend up the staircase, his red linen robe billowing after him until he reached the top, and made his way to the veil of pink sheer curtains that hung in the archway.
Upon entering, he found her in a tableau of pleasure and indulgence and revelry: In a mess of two dozen naked men and women, Allyria svelte frame was in the centre of all of them. Her legs were tangled up with another's, her olive face shining wet with sweat and wine, and her dark curls matted and wild, winding down the stomach of the woman behind her. Her slim stomach was a mess of small nicks and scars, none quite so large as the one upon her cheek. A woman was between her legs, indulging her with fervent attention, her tongue exploring every angle and curve of her form, while Allyria's lips parted to kiss paths of pleasure upon the bronzed breasts of another woman beside her.
Qyle walked forwards and picked up a jug of wine, giving it a firm sniff to decipher its grape. His expression soured and, as he came closer to the multiple-limbed beast before him, he tossed the cold wine, watching them all look up at him. Some were perplexed, others horrified – it was the latter that knew him. Finally, Allyria's purple eyes opened to find her uncle stood before her.
"Uncle Qyle?" Allyria asked. "You're interrupting a very good dream…"
"All of you, leave," Qyle barked – it was a voice he'd perfected over the years serving as Prince-Commander to his sister's army. Most of them did as commanded upon hearing his words and some hesitated, but none were left after a glare from his dark, burning eyes.
As all left, Allyria groaned and rolled over the bed, standing up and making her way to drape a silken scarlet shawl across her shoulders and pour herself a cup of wine. "It was a fine vintage you wasted," she sighed as she brought the cup to her mouth and drained it in one.
"Do you have need of the tea?" Qyle asked, trying to sort out smaller matters before they could arrive at the main.
"Not yet," Allyria responded. "I've yet to spy a stag with a prong I like."
"Speaking of stags," Qyle spoke quietly and thought about sitting down, but one look at the wet silk sheets was enough to deter him. "My own spies in the north have passed word to me."
"Is this why we whisper?" Allyria replied in a hushed voice.
"House Baratheon has declared war upon us."
"I thought the Strongarm was fond of Mother?"
"The Strongarm is not so strong. While he dies in his bed, his dolt of a son, Durran, rules. He claims he wishes to bring us 'into the Light of the Seven'."
Allyria looked up into the setting sun and smiled. "I prefer our own light." She turned back to look at her uncle – she shared his uncle's boxed jaw, but her lips were far thinner, her nose far more crooked. "Oh, drink some wine, Uncle. Your brooding is ruining a fine night."
"We march soon. Tomorrow, after our morn meal, we will send orders to our men in the Red Mountains."
"You interrupted me to tell me this?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I've sent word to all in Dorne – we will receive them from tonight onwards."
Allyria frowned and licked the wine (and other such sweetness) from her lips. "We?"
"You wanted to fight."
"And?"
"You do not wish to anymore?"
"The Targaryen's won't take Dorne," Allyria groaned as she walked back over to lie down in the sodden bed.
"I'm not talking about the Targaryen's – we've killed a dragon before, we can do so again. But thirty-thousand stags marching south…"
"Who can blame them? It must be very wet…"
"Put away your jibes and put some clothes on."
"I want to bathe."
"You can bathe at the palace."
Allyria rolled her eyes and walked over to pick up her flaxen britches, threading her legs through them and tying the drawstrings. "The Baratheon's intend to take Dorne, what of it?"
"Durran Baratheon is great friends with the new Tyrell Lord."
"Did you spies join them for dinner?"
"I do not need spies for that. Garth Tyrell raised the boy in Highgarden. The Baratheon was there when he fell at the joust."
"Is that thing with the sticks?" Allyria asked, a slightly bemused smile on her lips. Qyle found it hard not to return such a smile – it was a queer custom, to be sure.
"If the Reach marches with this 'Stag of Thorns', we cannot let them pass the Red Mountains."
"What if the Tyrell brings his sister?" Allyria asked. "I have heard she's quite the beauty."
Qyle took a moment to see if his niece was going to continue with her jokes. He could sit and listen to her all day, and he knew she didn't have enough remarks. "We're returning to Sunspear – Lords Dalt and Santagar, have arrived, and Ladies Allyrion and Gargalen shall soon-"
"Dorea Gargalen is a bore," Allyria groaned as she pulled her apricot-orange linen shirt over her slender bronzed skin before picking up her thick gold-silk tunic and slipping her hands into the sleeves.
"If you wish to serve as Princess-Captain, you need to be seen by our people."
Allyria frowned and turned back around, the scarlet sash still in one hand. "Princess-Captain?"
"You're ten-and-seven, Allyria – boys younger than you shall march to war."
"Are you telling me?" Allyria asked as she fastened the sash around her waist, pulling her hair out from beneath her tunic. Qyle smiled in response and walked over to his niece, pulling out the smaller strands of hair from beneath her robes.
"If you wish to fight, you shall fight. But it is a good head you have on your shoulders," he pointed to her temples, "it's of more use in my council than bloodied in the sand."
Allyria's lip pulled up into a smile. He knew she'd waited for an appointment such as this. So far, all she had to her name was wealth and a brothel named for her. "Very well."
Qyle gave her a stiff nod and led her away from the chamber, back through the depths of the city, its shadows deepening to envelop the two as the made their way to the Old Palace – to war.
Colyn
Mormont Keep, Bear Island, the North
Mormont Keep, nestled on the rugged shores of Bear Island, stood as a bastion of Northern resilience against the wild elements that surrounded it. Its walls of rough-hewn stone bore the weight of both history and honour, embodying the strength of House Mormont. At night, under the sweep of stars and the gentle light of the moon, the keep's silhouette stood as a sentinel against the darkness.
Amid the sombre whispers of wind through the pine trees, a funeral pyre had been erected on the shores of the island. The scent of burning wood mixed with the briny tang of the sea, a melancholic reminder of the journey that awaited the departed. The pyre's flames flickered and danced, casting long shadows that played upon the faces of those gathered.
The sea, forever a part of Bear Island's identity, murmured softly against the shoreline, a soothing backdrop to the solemn occasion. The night's cold embrace was tempered by the warmth of kinship and shared sorrow as those who had come to pay their respects stood in a hushed circle around the pyre. Torches held by mourners dotted the gathering, their flickering light offering both illumination and shadows that danced upon tear-streaked faces.
As the flames consumed the pyre and rose toward the stars, their orange glow painted an ephemeral path on the surface of the sea. The woman's life, like the wood and kindling, was transformed into ethereal memory. The air held a mixture of sorrow and reverence, each breath a shared reflection on the impermanence of life. She was in the air, and in the sea. Once her ashes were scattered, she would be one with the dirt.
Under the watchful gaze of the stars and the moon, the woman's funeral felt both poignant and resolute. A final farewell, a merging of fire and sea, of life and the beyond, a reminder that even in the darkest of nights, many still lived.
The pyre's crackling song filled the night air, its chorus a requiem for the departed. The flames danced with an ancient rhythm, their warmth an embrace that seemed to defy the chill of the night.
Colyn was old. Well into his eighth decade in the world, his face marred with as many scars as he had wrinkles. A chunk of his leg was missing, replaced with a wooden peg in place of where his foot would be. His once-black hair had faded and thinned into grey wisps, his dark eyes tired, his cheeks beset with the flickering shadows. He was draped in black, clutching a small sprig of herbs. He took a few limping steps, helped by his ward, the young Foren Forrester. He tossed the sprig upon the pyre and bowed his head. Others stepped forth and did the same, including young Foren – he had seen Sybelle as much a sister as Colyn had seen her a daughter.
With a voice strong and laden with emotion, Colyn began to speak. "Sybelle was a woman of Bear Island," he said loudly, "she died for her people. She died for her daughter…" He looked around for his granddaughter, but could not find her amongst the faces there. He swallowed hard and looked back down to the burning body, the scent of rosemary and thyme and smoke filling his nostrils.
"Sybelle Mormont beat back the Ironmen. None could fell her, no matter how many there were. Now we put her to rest, and swear to honour her sacrifice. Here we stand."
"Here we stand," they all echoed in broken unison,.
In the distance, the waves of the Frozen Shore whispered a mournful lament of their own, their rhythm a steady. Foren passed Colyn the horn cup of sweet mead, which was poured upon the pyre, and all in attendance broke into smaller groups, drinking cups of mead and ale. Colyn still searched for his granddaughter, but found Marna was not amongst any there.
The fire waned, its embers glowing like stars fallen to earth. The sea's lullaby continued. He stared out across the waters, to the mainland of the North. Where he had fought numerous battles for over half his life. Against the wildlings, bandits and southrons. The last of his children were dead. The last of the children that meant a damn to him. He dared not even think of his son's name – that man had cast a dark shadow over their house – one that Colyn had spent the last decade and a half trying to rid.
Down by the water, he could make her out – the silhouette of Marna, his granddaughter. She was stood by the water, completely still. The longer he looked, the more he wondered if it was not simple a shadow being cast. But, finally, he saw her head rove and turn to him. A moment passed, and then she turned, leaving to head into the forests.
Only three Mormont's remained, and Colyn knew he would not be long for the world. He let out a heavy sigh and stared over the Frozen Shore, to Winterfell.
Well, that's it for this chapter! I'm still waiting on some characters, so, I dunno when I'll update this. I'll be hard at work on the wiki (I have to change all the dates now), adding more pages and so on. Honestly, I'd recommend you guys check it out – you can even make an account! I'm literally packing these chapters with *tons* of detail and symbolism, so… if you look closely, you can actually figure out what's going to happen.
Anyway, I'll see y'all next time!
