What an influx of reviews! Man, that's really made me so happy that I've sat down and immediately continued writing!

There's been some criticism which I'm actually really happy about – keep on sending them in! It's really informed a lot of my writing. While praise is always nice to hear, I do find criticism a lot more helpful because all of you are just fantastic – you're talking about character motivation, the logic to their actions and so on – it really is invaluable.

Now, you'll be pleased to know I've already written about 3K words of the next chapter, so... I'm gonna play some videogames, decompress, and get ready for your reviews - I actually have started making notes of certain comments and using those as like my bible for writing.


22nd Day of the Fifth Moon, 152 A.C.


Torrha


The white gown's design was a harmonious blend of North and South. The neckline was modest yet elegant, with a high collar popular throughout the North. Delicate snowflakes and constellations were intricately embroidered in silver thread along the collar and cuffs.

The bodice was fitted to perfection, accentuating Torrha's slender figure with seams that seemed to disappear into the velvet. The back of the gown featured a series of small buttons covered in the same white velvet, leading down to the edge of the silk chiffon train.

The chiffon skirt was designed to mimic the falling waters of the Mander River, with cascading layers that pooled gracefully at her feet. Each layer was adorned with meticulously embroidered vines and roses in varying shades of green and white, an homage to the Reach's flourishing gardens. The flowers seemed to grow from the fabric itself, their petals soft and lifelike to the touch.

Torrha couldn't resist running her fingertips along the dress's delicate chiffon layers, feeling the smoothness of the silk against her skin. She marvelled at the intricate embroidery, its texture a gentle contrast to the velvety bodice. As she touched the silver-threaded snowflakes, it was as if she could feel the cold kiss of winter itself.

The bodice embraced her with a comforting softness, the velvet yielding to her touch. She closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the sensation of the fabric against her palms. When she moved, the chiffon skirt rustled like a gentle breeze through a field of flowers.

Torrha's chambers in Winterfell were bathed in the soft, diffused light of a winter afternoon. The hearth crackled with a welcoming warmth, dispelling the chill of the northern air. Her family's direwolf sigil adorned the room's tapestries, their watchful eyes seeming to approve of the gown's design.

The looking-glass that was leant against the wall reflected her image from every angle, allowing her to appreciate the dress's intricate beauty from all perspectives. The room was filled with the gentle scent of lavender, a fragrant reminder of the North's delicate wildflowers and the Reach's abundant blooms.

"Isn't it a bit thin?" Torrha asked her mother, who had began pulling at her gown with Alyna, the two of them murmuring suggestions to each other.

"It has to be – it's warmer down there…"

"And this is what they all wear?" Torrha examined herself in the looking-glass. A hand slipped over the white velvet bodice once again. "Shouldn't it be green? Or gold?"

"He wants to marry a Stark," Alyna said. "What do you think, my Lady?"
"I think you look like a Queen of Winter," Gwyn said, tightly squeezing Torrha's arms and smiling at her reflection. Torrha couln't help but return the smile. She'd been named for one of the old kings. Perhaps it was right for her to wear a wedding gown, as white as snow. "What do you think, Myra?"

They turned to look at the girl in the corner. She had been quiet for the past hour – her bow had cracked the night before, meaning that instead of hunting or practicing her archery, she was instead condemned to join her cousins for the afternoon.

They'd never been close. Torrha enjoyed Myra, though, it had been, at times, hard to be around someone that so rarely smiled and so often preferred their own company to that of anything else. Not to mention that, at times, Myra seemed to think herself better than reading histories, singing songs, playing the lute and the harp, and, yes, admiring dresses. It was hard to be around someone like that and not feel bad about herself.

But like Gwyn had told her, when she was very young, Myra shared their blood. No matter who her father was, no matter what her name was, she was family. And so Torrha had seen her as family.

The lanky dark-haired girl nodded before saying softly, "You look very pretty, cousin."

"Thank you, Myra," Torrha smiled and turned back to Alyna, who was already talking about how she should wear her hair.

Torrha glanced back down to the dress, wondering how she'd be able to take it off. Well, she supposed her husband would have that job. Her eyes widened as the realization sank in: it wouldn't be him to undress her, it'd be all the men in the bedding ceremony. She imagined hundreds of men, tearing off her beautiful white gown, ripping apart her shift and smallclothes before bundling her into bed with… well, she couldn't imagine his face.

"Gods, Torri, how do youpiss in that?"

Torrha looked up to see a familiar face in the doorway. He was still on the shorter side, but he was not stout or portly. Where there had once been soft fat, now there was thick muscle – his face looked so different. A silver steel pommel of an ironwood hilt glinted in the light, clasped by one hand, while the other was tucked around a small wooden case.

"Cayden?" Torrha half-shouted in surprise. She immediately lurched forwards and flung her arms around her brother. "Gods, I thought you were away!"

"Aye, returned last night…" Cayden said, hugging her back before taking a step back at seeing Myra. "Goods be good, is that you, Snow?"

"Is that really you, Cayden?"

"Aye, marked myself so I don't lose me-self."

"Marked yourself?" Gwyn yelped, striding across the chamber. As she came closer she saw it; she grabbed Cayden's chin to look at his neck and Torrha saw it too: a pair of black tridents crossed beneath the head of a Direwolf. "Oh, Seven Hells, Cayden!" She exclaimed. "You look like a… ironman, or a… Essosi slave!"

"As long as it's not an ironman's slave," Cayden replied, removing his mother's hand and hugging her, "I've heard they have shite luck."

"What were you thinking?"

"Truth be told, I was drunk on ale at the time…"

"Oh, Cayden…" Gwyn whined.

"Oh, Mother," Cayden mimicked her tone. "At least I returned with both hands and my head…" He took second before glancing to Torrha and slapping a hand up to his forehead, as if to check it was still there. He breathed a sigh of relief. His flint grey eyes crept between his family and landed on Alyna, stood in her grey dress with the black Forrester tree stitched into her chest. A moment later, his eyes grew wide. "Alyna?"

"Welcome home, my Lord," Alyna said, somewhat nervously.

"Well, you're…" He looked her up and down. "You used to be a…" He was at a loss for words. "It's… well, it's good to see you again."

"And you as well," she nodded. "We heard of your travels north."

"Aye…" Cayden trailed off for a moment. "Torrha, I wanted to…" He held up the case to her.

Torrha frowned, taking the case from him with a slight frown. She walked over to her bed, setting the case down as Gwyn continued to mourn the once-unmarked skin of Cayden's neck. Torrha pulled down the latch and opened up the case, finding a selection of three objects: arrowheads, they seemed to be, but all of them black as onyx. She frowned, running a hand over them. They were too smooth for stone, too rough-hewn to be a metal…

"Just in case the Wall ever melts," Cayden joked.

Torrha's jaw dropped as she looked back down at the arrowheads. She'd bought one from a traveller before – paid two gold dragons for one before it had turned out to be a rock painted black. She picked up one of the arrow heads and turned it over in her hand. "Obsidian."

Cayden frowned. "What? No, it's dragonglass."

"That's what the maesters call it – obsidian."

The door opened and Maester Gawen entered – a young man who had shorn his head of hair. He bowed his head to each in the room before settling his dark eyes on Alyna.

"Forgive me, my Lady, but a raven came for you."

They all turned towards the Forrester girl, who frowned, slightly bemused. She picked up the ravenscroll and smiled at the black wax. "Word of home?" She asked.

"It has your father's seal, my Lady," Gawen nodded.

Alyna looked back down at the seal, and her smile began to fade.

"What is it?" Torrha asked.

"It's nothing, my Lady," Alyna said quietly, "forgive me, my Lady, Lady Stark…" Alyna quickly curtsied and exited the chambers, leaving all inside frowning.

"I should-" Torrha began, taking a step, but her mother already grabbed her hand.

"Not in your gown," she said, already beginning to unlace her bodice.

"What do you suppose happened?" Cayden asked, still looking at the open door.

"Perhaps her father's ill?" Gwyn murmured. "Myra, perhaps you can check on our cousin?"

"I will," Cayden volunteered himself quickly. "No need to drag Myra away from dresses."

Myra scowled as Cayden exited the chambers, and Torrha turned back to her reflection in the looking-glass. She examined her brown hair that had been pulled loose from its usual braid. According to her mother, Torrha was the spitting likeness of her aunt Mara. Though, she looked very little like her cousin Myra. Torrha studied her own round face, her small nose… Mara hadn't been loved by Kolfinn Mormont. Torrha hadn't been loved by… well, Torrha had not been loved by someone she thought may have.

"What if he doesn't like me?" Torrha murmured.

"Of course he will like you," Gwyn assured her, removing the bodice.

"Yes, but, what if he doesn't?"

"Then Victor Tyrell will be the biggest fool in the south, and probably doesn't like girls anyway," Myra muttered so quietly, she may not have even realized she'd said so. Torrha and Gwyn both looked up at Myra, surprised, but Myra seemed slightly puzzled as to what she had just said, unsure what had shocked her aunt and cousin.

"What?"


Victor


Highgarden basked in the glory of a summer's midday. The castle, nestled amid sprawling gardens and fields of golden wheat, appeared as if it had been painted by the skilled hand of a master artist. Its walls, a warm and welcoming shade of limestone, stood in stark contrast to the azure sky above.

Outside the Lord's chamber, vibrant blooms spilled from window boxes, their fragrant petals kissed by the gentle breeze. Bees hummed lazily among the blossoms, collecting nectar to create the famed honey of the Reach. A symphony of birdsong filled the air, their melodies weaving a tapestry of serenity and life.

The view from the window was a masterpiece of natural beauty. Rolling hills, lush and green, stretched out as far as the eye could see. Lines of ancient oaks and elm trees stood sentinel along the horizon, their branches swaying in harmony with the whispering winds.

In the distance, the Mander River wound its way through the landscape, a ribbon of shimmering blue cutting through the verdant fields. Small boats drifted lazily along its waters, bearing fishermen who cast their nets in search of the river's bounty.

The warm sunlight spilled through the chamber's leaded glass windows, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow upon the richly embroidered tapestries that adorned the walls. The room itself was a sanctuary of comfort and luxury.

A massive, four-poster bed dominated the space, its deep mahogany frame adorned with carvings of vines and roses. The bed's covers were thrown haphazardly to the side, revealing rumpled sheets and tousled pillows, evidence of a morning shared in languid repose.

At the centre of this bed, a couple lay entwined. Denyse Redwyne's red hair cascading like a waterfall of fire, rested her head upon Victor's chest. His strong arms enveloped her. The air was heavy with the scent of roses, the sweetest and most beloved of flowers in the Reach. Vases filled with freshly picked blossoms adorned every surface, their petals soft as the caress of a lover's hand.

On the bedside table, a tray held remnants of a shared supper — a scattering of crumbs from buttered biscuits, a carafe of chilled Arbor gold wine, and two empty crystal goblets.

As the chamber bathed in the golden light of midday, it became clear that this was not merely a room but a sanctuary of love and tranquillity. The unmade bed bore witness to stolen moments of passion, and the view beyond the window celebrated the enduring beauty of the Reach.

"Are you really going to marry her?" Denyse asked. Victor thought she had fallen asleep, but her voice was clear enough. "Torrha Stark," she spat the name out with disdain.

"Apparently," Victor muttered, closing his eyes. The last thing he wanted to think about was his intended. He felt Denyse's fingers slide around on his stomach, tracing shapes.

"You'll have to throw down a fur by the fire so she can curl up and sleep there," Denyse said. "I mean, do they even have beds in the North?"

"I do believe you're jealous," Victor responded, eyes still closed.

"Jealous? Of her?" Denyse scoffed.

"I've rather liked the idea of the North," Victor said, staring back out of the window. Over a thousand leagues away – he wondered if she was travelling there. He also wondered what she looked like. He'd heard one of his sisters handmaids, Victaria Ashford, say northern girls had beards just as much as the men. He was sure she had been joking, but… well, he'd never actually seen anyone from the North before.

"Oh, yes, Victor Tyrell, the Tourney Rose, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Warden of the South…" He stopped listening as she began listing his titles – they still made him think of his father. Before he could even begin to try and push against the thoughts, he could remember Ser Grover Mooton's lance lower and glance off his father's shield before landing in his arm. He remembered the spurt of blood, worry of what his father's head would look like as he slipped off his horse, his helm thudding against the dirt. How half a cheer escaped the throats of the rivermen, before falling silent. Victor remembered falling to his knees, trying to unbuckle his father's armour in a panic before being shoved away with the powerful hand of Durran Baratheon, who picked up his father and carried him away, shouting for a maester.

Victor's eyes snapped open, focusing on the golden roses that adorned the canopy above. He was in his chambers – he was not in Gulltown. He pushed the thought back out with all his might and placed a hand on the freckled shoulder of Denyse.

"Have you ever-" He barely finished his sentence before the doors opened, and his sister entered.

Alyssa had always been their grandmother's favourite. It had been like that for as long as Victor could remember. It didn't matter – Alyssa could join their grandmother in talks with silk import, wine export and the like. He didn't care about the numbers scrawled on a page – he didn't care who made what or where it went. Since he was a child, Victor had believed himself destined for a life of knighthood: saving fair damsels and slaying monsters. But he'd been born too late for the greatest of wars: The Dornish Wars, the Dance of the Dragons, Durran's War, the Ironborn Rebellion… he was a warrior with no wars to fight. Instead, he'd reclined into a life of fast horses and faster women.

His sister, however, well, she had always been well within her element. Balls and banquets were her battles and tourneys, and he'd never seen her lose. Sometimes, he would need her to remind him of which sigil belonged to which house, which seat was presided over by whom. The things that bored him came somewhat naturally to her. Even in the confines of his own chambers, she still carried herself with elegance and decorum. Her fair, dainty fingers gently held a small copy of theSeven-Pointed Star.

"Lady Denyse," Alyssa greeted her handmaid, flicking her hazel eyes over the girl's naked back, her small, pale breasts pressed against Victor's stomach. Denyse pulled her silk sheets up to cover herself, while Victor remained lying down, his brown eyes fixing on his sister.

"One should not open closed doors, sweet sister," Victor said.

"And one should bed maids when betrothed to another."

'She was not a maid when she entered my bed,' Victor thought to himself. "What is it?"

"Grandmama. She wants a word."

"About…?"

"Mayhaps go and see for yourself?" Alyssa crossed the room to pick up one of the sugared peach slices and placed it in her mouth, slowly chewing it. Alyssa always teased Victor when she knew more than him – such as when Victor had been informed of his own impending marriage. But here she was without a smirk – because she didn't know why their grandmother wanted to talk to him.

"She wants to tell me something, and not you?" Victor asked, smirking for once. "Is she angry with you?"

"Not nearly as much as she is with you." Alyssa smirked and Victor sighed. "Denyse, see to it my brother does not drink any more wine. And get dressed; we're to have guests soon."

Alyssa turned around and exited from the chambers. Victor let out a sigh – she always knew more than she let on… Denyse climbed out of bed, walking to pick up her smallclothes. Victor took one last look at the girl's body, her pale thighs disappearing into the white linen, her back veiled by her shift. Victor let out a soft groan of frustration, then left his bed to dress.

The castle's architecture was a blend of elegant design and practicality, with tall, narrow windows that allowed natural light to filter through. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries, each a masterpiece depicting scenes from the Reach's rich history. Some minutes later, Victor was walking deeper into the castle, he found himself in a wide, arched corridor. High, vaulted ceilings soared above him, supported by massive stone pillars adorned with carvings of vines and roses – the sigil of House Tyrell. The cool, tiled floor beneath his feet bore the faint remnants of a morning cleaning, its surface gleaming with a subtle sheen.

A series of narrow windows overlooked the castle's inner courtyard, where colourful lilies and peonies swayed in the gentle breeze. The fragrance of blooming roses, the pride of House Tyrell, wafted through the air, a testament to the castle's meticulous gardens.

Doorways led to various chambers, serving as the private domains of family members and trusted advisors. These chambers, like his own, were adorned with richly embroidered tapestries, plush carpets, and polished wooden furnishings.

The corridor branched off in several directions, but Victor knew his path well. He continued forward, passing a pair of tall, oaken doors that led to the castle's library. Its shelves were lined with countless tomes and scrolls, a treasure trove of knowledge that the Lords of Highgarden had amassed over centuries.

The corridor then curved to the right, leading him into a wider passage adorned with ornate sconces that held flickering candles. The soft, golden light created a warm and inviting ambiance as he walked beneath archways and along the echoing stone floor.

As Victor approached the central part of the castle, the corridor opened up into a grand antechamber. Its ceiling soared to dizzying heights, and the walls were adorned with frescoes depicting scenes from the Reach's history. A massive stone hearth stood against one wall, its roaring fire casting dancing shadows.

From the antechamber, Victor descended the wide staircase to the lower levels of the castle that housed the castle's kitchens, storerooms, and the vast cellars where the house's renowned wines were kept.

Emerging from the staircase, Victor continued through another corridor, this one narrower and dimmer. The torches that lined the walls cast long, flickering shadows. The air grew cooler and carried a faint earthy scent.

The corridor wound its way through the lower reaches of the castle until it opened into the grand courtyard: a lush oasis nestled within the castle's ancient walls, was a verdant sanctuary bursting with life and colour. It was a place where nature's splendour and the architectural grace of House Tyrell converged in perfect harmony.

At its heart lay a grand, centuries-old oak tree, its gnarled roots reaching deep into the earth like an anchor. The oaken bark, gleamed in the dappled sunlight filtering through the thick canopy of leaves overhead.

Surrounding the oak, vibrant flowerbeds burst forth with a riot of colours – deep purples, fiery reds, and the signature golden hues of the Reach. Roses, House Tyrell's emblem, were abundant, their fragrance drifting on the gentle breeze. Bees and butterflies flitted among the blossoms, carrying out their vital work.

Victor's boot crunched against the gravel pathway that swept around the fountain, embroidered with yet more roses, painted gold. The water rippled and softened until it reflected the vibrant flora that surrounded it. Water lilies floated around the edge like blooming petals. He paid no mind to the raked pattern his footprints began to marr, bowing his head to his oldest friend and cousin, Rawen Hightower, who was exchanging quiet words with the another of his sister's handmaids, Lynessa Fossoway, a comely woman four years his younger.

"Lord Rawen. My Lady Fossoway."

"My Lord," Lynessa stood up from the low stone bench nestled beside the pathway.

"Lord Victor," Rawen stood as well, bowing his head.

"Don't let me disturb a beautiful day," Victor made sure to smile. Victor's sport was beating Rawen in sparring-matches, in racing him to spear a boar first. Rawen, on the other hand, only knew of one type of sport – a type where his quarry had pretty hair and silken gowns.

Victor finally arrived on the other side of the courtyard, where a series of stone arches led to a covered colonnade. That stretched down to the ancient throne room. Vines of ivy and climbing roses embraced the pillars. Straightening the gold brooch on his silk doublet, Victor took a breath, squared his shoulders and then pushed open the door.

The old Gardner Throne Room, the heart of Highgarden's ancient power. Here, Victor's ancestors had ruled as Kings of the Reach before they bent the knee to House Targaryen.

They could look out over all the flats and hills of the Reach, the Mander in the north-east. The stone floor was worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, and the banners of House Tyrell hung proudly from the rafters.

Elinor Tyrell was an old, decrepit crone of a grandmother, but no matter her body, her mind was sharper than any. For every wrinkled crevice in her face, there was a lesson learned, a story to be told. While she struggled to walk without her cane or someone to take her arm, she could talk circles around any maester. Her old eyes fell on Victor and her lip curled slightly – she had the exact same smirk as Alyssa. Well, that was where she must have got it from.

"Finally," Elinor said, leaning on the old Gardner throne to face him, "in the hour of the eel…"

"I've been busy," Victor shrugged as he approached, glancing to his sister, Alyssa, who handed their grandmother back a small piece of paper. A ravenscroll, he'd wager.

"Save your seed for your wife, no rain or love can help a wilted rose grow strong."

Upon seeing Victor's frown, Alyssa spoke up. "You need to put a babe in Torrha Stark."

"You could have just said that," Victor replied as he came closer, resting a hand on the pommel of his longsword. "My nocturnal activities are none of your business."

"They're hardly nocturnal either," Alyssa said in little more than a sigh.

"Shall we discuss how you spend your nights, Alyssa?" Victor asked, cocking his head to the side, his lazy curls of brown falling down his cheek. "And with whom?"

"Oh, stop trying to sound clever – both of you," Elinor glanced over to Alyssa for a moment. "We have matters to discuss before our guests arrive."

"Oh, it's not the Starks yet, is it?" Victor groaned: he at least wanted another week or two of leisure – he and Rawen had organized a three-day hunt in the forests surrounding Honeyholt.

"Oh, stand up straight, boy, you're not a boor," Elinor snapped. "What's this I've heard of a message to Dorne?"

Victor felt like he was a boy again, having to inform his grandmother that he'd lost his father's horse in the forest. He bit his lip and walked across the hall to pour himself a goblet of wine. "As you said, Grandmother, I sent a message to Dorne."

"A ravenscroll, I'm sure?"

"I'm sure you know it was not," Victor scoffed, sipping his Arbor gold. "They had a vessel anchored aways off from Oldtown – I told them to leave."

"Told them or asked them?"

"I'm Warden of the South, now, Grandmother. Durran's declared war on Dorne, now a Dornish ship is moored in our waters?" He scoffed. "Should I have been asking?"

"Your father was Warden of the South," Elinor corrected him. "Aeric Targaryen has not named you as such."

"Fine, as Defender of the Marches, then." Victor shrugged.

"Why is it when men start growing hairs on their cocks, they start thinking they're men?" Elinor muttered to Alyssa.

"He's not likely to offer it to Arlan Baratheon, is he?" Victor crossed his arms. "As far as I hear it, the man cannot even leave his bed."

"You're not King, dear boy, you can't go running around, making demands willy-nilly."

"So?"

"So, do you not think they could have been merchants? Or perhaps they pretended to be such, to see if the 'Defender of the Marches' was going to join Durran Baratheon in his war?"

It was a very good trick, his grandmother could do: she could say the most outlandish things and make anyone feel like a fool for not seeing them as obvious. "Quite a leap of logic, there, Grandmother."

"No," Elinor sighed, "you clearly did not think…"

"I saw a foreign enemy by one of our cities, and I acted. Entertain yourself with matters of stewardship and administration as you like, but affairs of war are my domain."

"Oh, affairs of war…" Elinor rolled her eyes, "if only you were as passionate about your actual duties… what a man you would be."

"Before you ask me to send for the envoy-"

"Oh, you'll do no such thing," Elinor said, aghast. "You've made your bed, now you'll sleep in it. But don't you think you'll be running off to play 'knight' in any war."

"I swore vows, Grandmother. It's my duty as Lord of-" Victor was cut off by a loud groan.

"I've squirted out four mewling babes, boy, do not speak to me of duty. Now, you will wed Torrha Stark, sire children – ideally sons – and perhaps then we can revisit your want of war."

Victor rolled his eyes: it seemed his grandmother had decided his time of grief was at an end – no more freedom to make his own decisions. First a marriage, then hanging up his sword to rust – next would be sat in the old Gardner Throne and listening to lines and lines and lines of old noblemen offer their own hands to his sister. He'd prefer riding to war with a rose instead of a lance.

"And these guests?" He asked.

Elinor handed him the thin roll of paper.

To Lord Victor of the House Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander and Defender of the Marches

I wish to inform you that my father, King Aeric, First of His name, was delighted at the aspect of attending your impending marriage to Lady Torrha Stark. Though all of our family wish you long life and bless this union, only my King Father, Aeric, First of his name, and my Prince brothers, Vaegon and Aerion, will be able to attend, due to my sister, Princess Rhaenerys, and her impending marriage to Lord Regent Durran of Storm's End.

My father and brothers shall arrive on dragonback, a day hence, at the hour of the eel, so that we may acquaint ourselves with the new Lord of Highgarden.

Prince Aemon Targaryen of Dragonstone.

"Hour of…" Victor glanced up at them both. "The king is coming? Here? Now?"

"He's late," Elinor stated.

"Why wasn't I told?"

"You were busy."

"Doubtless, the king was also lying in bed with wine-ache." Alyssa said, sitting down on one of the wooden chairs that sat either side of the Gardner Throne. "I've already set servants to prepare chambers and the cooks, dinner – I thought it would be a nice gesture to offer them that Stag you speared."

"Yes…" Elinor nodded, "you'll toast the king, his health and his family – make mention of the princess' own wedding."

"Yes, yes, good, good…"

"Don't you 'yes, yes, good, good' me, boy," Elinor scowled, "you're going to be entertaining a king. The Targaryens are not coming here to see you wed Torrha Stark, they wish to weigh and measure you before affirming you as Warden of the South. If you are not to his liking, Durran Baratheon will likely be named-"

"Durran's welcome to it," Victor scoffed, "he always had more of a head for statecraft."

"Oh, Durran Baratheon is a boor in a suit of armour…"

"You two ought to have been fast friends, then," Victor replied cooly, sipping his wine again with a smile.

"Different type of 'bore', Vic," Alyssa said in a stage whisper, examining her nails.

"But if Durran Baratheon does, by some miracle, conquer Dorne for the Iron Throne, who do you think will preside as liege of this kingdom?" Elinor asked Victor. "He would have taken the last kingdom, his children will be dragonriders – who do you think Aeric will name as Warden in the South?"

"Father loved Durran, as if he was one of us," Victor said, his voice strong and assured, "I wouldn't begrudge him of-"

"Durran is Cassandra Baratheon's son. She'll see to it that he dies with more lands than he was born with. Which means we must shore up our position."

"By entertaining the Merry, the Drunk and the Black Prince?"

"And by entertaining them, we might make our own match," Elinor said, turning back to glance at Alyssa, who raised a hand to cup her own face, raising her eyebrows at Victor.

Victor sipped his wine again. "The drunken widow or the one that murdered the drunken widow's wife?"

"Neither, ideally…" Alyssa responded.

"Ideally, Aemon Targaryen would be unmarried and childless, but here we are," Elinor muttered. "Now, dress – wear one of your father's jerkins, Alyssa, arrange for send for more wine from the Arbor – we'll pay them a silver moon for each barrel we receive in three days – a gold dragon if it's sooner."

"Yes, Grandmama," Alyssa stood up and began walking.

"And, Victor?" Elinor turned back to him.

"Yes?"

"Stop fucking Denyse Redwyne."


Tristifer


The grand hall of Riverrun, with its towering stone walls and views of the rushing waters of the Red Fork, was known for grandness and opulence. However, on one particular evening, a sense of quiet intimacy prevailed as the members of House Tully gathered for a small family dinner. The grand hall's usual echoes were softened by heavy draperies and the gentle flicker of candlelight.

A long, polished oak table occupied the centre of the hall, its surface gleaming in the warm light of numerous candles placed in ornate holders. The table had been meticulously set with fine porcelain plates, polished silverware, and crystal goblets, each catching and reflecting the soft glow of the candles.

On one side sat Tristifer's niece, Laena, with violet eyes and silver hair, who was busy talking with Willow Rivers, Tristifer's own natural-born daughter. She was wrapped in a red gown like Laena. Both of Tristifer's children had been given permission to wear the colours of his house. After all, both might have been legitimised had her mother, Lucynda, lived.

Tristifer shifted his attention to the other side of the table, where his nephews and son sat.

Emmon, who looked every part a Tully with deep blue eyes and auburn curls, save a sole streak of silver. Lucius, who looked to be more Saera's child than Garret's – his hair was silver and eyes violet. He was also a lot more skinny than Emmon – a small, shy boy. Tion Rivers was the eldest of them all, being born only five minutes ahead of his sister, Laena. He wore a river-blue doublet, much like Tristifer did. He had been unusually quiet throughout the dinner, only engaging when Emmon asked him about matters such as which horse was the fastest, or which knight could unhorse Ser Connas Corbray or Ser Harwin Mooton.

Finally, at the end of the table, Tristifer sat opposite his sister-in-law, Saera. She had always been blessed with Valerian beauty: long silver hair, amethyst eyes. She had grown more beautiful with the years, going from a slender girl to a shapely woman, with wide hips and full breasts. But she was more than that – her years in King's Landing as handmaid to the late Queen Rhaecaera had sharpened her mind. She was very much like their own mother, Jeyne. Tristifer shook off the thought and decided it was something he most likely shouldn't say to his brother.

Garret was just as much Tully as Tristifer: though her lacked his brother's muscles, Garret's head was also covered in auburn curls, his skin just as fair, his brow just as wide. His eyes of piercing blue seem to dance with the candlelight as he listened to his son, Emmon, regale the table with a story of Florian the Fool – a song that Lucius was fond of.

There was, however, two Tully women missing. His mother, who was serving in King's Landing as the Mistress of Laws, and his younger sister. She ought to have been as old as Willow. He knew the two looked different – Glennys was dainty and freckled, and Willow was strong-legged and broad shouldered. It had been a shame – she'd left Riverrun with her mother eight years ago, when she was only six.

The scent of the evening's meal lingered in the air, a tantalizing mixture of roasted meats, fresh herbs, and hearty vegetables. A centrepiece of freshly-plucked wildflowers graced the table, their vibrant colours contrasting beautifully with the polished oak and the subtle shades of the hall's stone walls.

As the family members conversed, their voices were hushed, creating an atmosphere of warmth and familiarity. The children, wide-eyed and filled with curiosity, occasionally glanced at the shimmering river visible through the tall arched windows. Its waters flowed steadily beneath the castle's walls, and a soft breeze whispered through the partially opened windows, carrying with it the scent of the Red Fork. It played with the draperies, causing them to billow gently and casting playful shadows across the table. The occasional chirp of crickets outside added to the symphony of nature that accompanied the evening.

Candles in sconces along the walls added to the enchanting atmosphere, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows and creating an intimate, almost ethereal glow. The dishes served were a testament to the abundance of the Riverlands. Platters of flaky, buttery river trout, seasoned with herbs and lemon, graced the table. Roast duck, crispy and succulent, was accompanied by a sweet berry compote. Bowls of hearty, root vegetable stew simmered with savoury broth promised comfort and warmth. The meal was accompanied by a robust red wine from the capitol, its deep, velvety flavours complementing the richness of the dishes. Though, little Lucius still found the taste disgusting.

As the evening waned and the candles began to burn low, the children retired to bed. Saera kissed her daughter and natural-born niece goodnight, and the room was empty, save the three left.

"Have you responded yet?" Saera said finally, her voice solemn. Tristifer caught her eye and pulled at the red silk that tied his hair back. Waves of auburn hair fell to his shoulders, and he ran a hand through them before brushing it back from his face. He looked to Garret, who looked to be close to sleep.

"To whom?" Garret asked.

"Durran Baratheon."

Garret looked from Saera to Tristifer, who kept his eyes down in his wine. No matter how he felt about the match, it wasn't his decision. He knew his place, and it was behind his brother, not against him.

"No," Garret said eventually, his voice heavy in a sigh.

"Do you intend to?"

"Tristifer?"

He looked up to his brother. It was true, the faith dictated that no man could compel another to marry. But he remembered his words: Family, Duty, Honour. Each one dictated he would wed Oraella, if that was what Garret required of him.

"You are Lord of Riverrun," Tristifer said, "I'll do what is expected of me."

"But what do you think?"

Tristifer took a breath and let out a long sigh, glancing to Saera. He knew what she wanted him to say, but he was counselling his brother. He had to remain impartial. "It's a good match," he said finally. "Father often regretted not wedding Durran Marshblade to Elys…"

"Your father also lost the Battle at the Crossroads," Saera pointed out. Garret chewed his tongue and sighed – Tristifer had not been at the battle, but he had heard of the massacre. The bloodiest battle in the Riverlands since the Dance of the Dragons. Garret, however, had been there. He simply picked up his cup of wine and sipped it.

"I think we should betroth Emmon," Saera continued. Tristifer's ears perked up – he was excited at the prospect of not marrying a child. "The Baratheon's would surely not refuse wedding Oraella to the heir to Riverrun – I'm surprised they asked for Tristifer in the first place- meaning no offence, of course."

Tristifer's lip curled slightly and he turned to look at Garret, who was already shaking his head.

"Emmon is to wed Myranda Arryn," Garret said, darkly, "and Lucius to Ryella." Tristifer's heart sank as quickly as it had gladdened.

"What?" Saera asked quietly, her mouth falling into a frown.

"It was to be a surprise," Garret murmured.

"Both of them to Arryn girls?" Tristifer asked.

"Willum Arryn insisted," Garret replied, "it seems he's fixed on one of his daughters being the Lady of Riverrun…"

"Refuse him," Saera exclaimed, reaching across to clasp her husband's hand "you are Lord of Riverrun. He is as lucky as you to wed his daughter to our son." Garret smiled sadly – as did Tristifer. She didn't understand, she had been raised in House Velaryon. Proud and noble and ancient and rich, but a Tully was honourable. Their word was bond. Once it was given, it could never be broken. "If we wed Lucius to Ryella, we could betroth Emmon and Oraella – surely Willum Arryn will not reject the offer of such an alliance."

"You'd have me break my word?"

Saera paused, as if trying to find the right words. "I'd have you spare a little girl of serving as wife to a man full-grown," she said finally.

"There are worse fates," Garret said, sliding out of his chair and walking across to the open window, his cup of wine in hand.

"I'm sure many men have thought the same," Saera said curtly. "Very few of those have lay in bed with an older man."

Garret chortled, as if he was genuinely amused. He stretched out an arm and leant against the arched window before turning back to look at his wife and brother. "Do you remember the rebellion, Tristifer?"

Blood. Swords. Axes. Fire. Screaming. Shouting. 'Tully!' the man had cheered as they charged against the ironmen that bit their shields and whooped and slapped their chests. Tristifer remembered shouting louder than any other – it was all he could do to save himself from weeping. He had been ten-and-four in his first battle. "More than I would like," he said, voice suddenly cold.

"And you, goodwife, do you remember the rebellion?"

Of course she didn't – not truly. Little more than a story to someone from King's Landing. "What are you talking about?" Saera asked, her brow creased.

Tristifer sipped from his cup. "I was ten-and-six when the ironmen had declared themselves an independent people, and Ragnor Greyjoy claimed the Salt Throne." He explained. "They sought to invade us and re-establish the Kingdom of Isles and Rivers. First, they took Seagard and Oldstones, and our father chose not to attack. Very well: Oldstones is a ruin – we can't fight as an army there. It would be man-to-man, something the ironmen would favour. Now, Seagard… not impossible, but not very likely without a large force. A large force we had to call and rally."

Saera frowned and looked to Tristifer, but he could not look away from the burning candles. He looked down into his cup of red wine, remembering how much blood soaked his boots and hands and face in the Liberation of Seagard.

"Meanwhile, the Uller Greyjoy took the Cape of Eagles, Sigfryd Greyjoy besieged the Twins. Lodos Codd sacked Wendish Town, and Father finally chose to act. He'd march his men down to the Trident."

Tristifer had never heard his brother speak about what had happened at the Crossroads.

"You see, he didn't know which side the ironmen would land: so my father, in all his great wisdom, divided our forces. One stood on the east bank, another on the west. And by the time we saw those black sails, we let out such a thunderous cry: their paltry number of ships could not hope to match our numbers. We had them outnumbered two-to-one. And at the head of one of those ships, I saw a man stand up, holding an axe. He scratched his inked, shorn head with it and looked from east to west. From my father to me. He did not seem scared, just… confused. He smiled." Garret licked his lips and drained his cup fully.

"He chose the smaller force on the east. And all his ships beached themselves. They leapt down and slaughtered every man there." He frowned, as if he was still trying to reconcile something in his head. "But it wasn't… battle, for them, it was sport. They relished warfare and bloodshed." Garret returned to his seat. "We didn't just lose the battle, welost the war. Oh, we are still the Lords of the Riverlands, but that day we lost the war. A whole year I spent, hiding in the woods, setting ironman ships aflame, stealing their provisions – we couldn't dare to face them in an open field. Not until aid came."

"Aid from the Vale?" Saera asked.

"From the Vale," Tristifer nodded, solemnly raising a cup. He knew that he and Garret would both be as dead as their father if the Knights of the Vale had not ridden west. It was for that alone that, whenever called upon, Tristifer would lead his brother's forces east to assist in purging their mountains of the clansfolk. He owed them his life, and he would spend the rest of it repaying them if that was what it took.

"All of our forces united as one and smashed the ironborn at Seagard," Garret explained. Flashes of it came back to Tristifer, as real as Saera was before him. He could remember the weight of the steel sword in his hand, the din of shields splintering. The laughing of the ironman that charged him with two heavy axes. The feeling of the butt of an axe jabbing his helm and ringing his skull. The shaking of his blade as it bit the back of his foe's spine as he shoved his sword down his shoulder. That feeling of rage and hunger that overtook every man that day.

He could even still hear his guardian, Brynden Blackwood, shouting down the stairway of the Booming Tower to him, 'Keep up, Tully,' he'd said, grabbing the young Garret's hand and hoisting him to his feet, 'if your sword is too heavy, by all means, drop it!' The memory of the old man's voice made him want to cry.

"The valemen saved the Riverlands. All because Willum Old-Spear's son married Alizabeth Arryn." Garret finished his tale. "It was not the Baratheons, it was not the Tyrells, it was not the Targaryens: House Arryn saved us."

"And you think we need an alliance with them?"

"We need an alliance with everyone," Garret responded.

"Is that you talking, or your mother?" Saera asked. Garret's eyes narrowed and Tristifer felt as though he had stayed too long at the dinner table.

"Neither of you have heard about Victor Tyrell, have you?"

"Of course- the Tourney Rose," Tristifer nodded. They all knew of him – after all, it had been Tristifer's sworn protector, Ser Grover Mooton, that had tilted against the boy's father in the tourney at gulltown – the last tourney Garth Tyrell ever competed in.

"Do you know of his intended?"

Tristifer frowned and looked to Saera, who shared his expression. "His intended?" Saera asked.

"Victor Tyrell is to wed Torrha Stark," Garret informed them. "He has invited the King and his family to Highgarden to share in their festivities."

"And Mother told you?" Tristifer surmised. Garret nodded in response. Tristifer sat forwards and crossed his arms: the Starks hated the Tully's almost as much as the Tyrell's. Their father had not just aided Durran Marsh-blade in his war, he had betrayed House Reed. Turned their heir, Theo, from a ward into a hostage. Guestright was treasured everywhere, from the Stormlands to the Westerlands, but none kept to it as the northmen did – such an act was sacrilege to them. The gathering of enemies was a worrying thing.

"Emmon and Lucius will gain support from the east, and Tristifer from the south…"

"By fucking a child?"

"Saera…"

"Betroth them – wait until they are both of an age-"

Garret sighed, but did not continue speaking. Tristifer could not hope this time – he could not believe that there would be a way out of this – the more that he hoped, the less he could try to make his peace with his duty.

"If they do not wed for some years," Garret said slowly, "then we will not get her dowry for some years either."

"Her dowry?" Saera frowned.

"House Baratheon are about to become very rich. Mother's letter also spoke of a rather sizeable dowry. Which means House Baratheon will also be able to afford a dowry-"

"Are you really speaking about money, Garret?" Saera asked, eyes narrowed. For a moment, and only a moment, it looked as if she despised.

"It's something we have to think about…"

"She's a girl, not a damned horse, you imbecile!" Saera stood up, forgetting all her courtesies.

Garret closed his eyes in an attempt to remain calm, "I have a responsibility, Saera, I cannot-"

"Are you a whoremonger? If someone pays enough, you command your brother to fuck a child-"

Garret's hand slapped against the table, making wine jump from Tristifer's cup and the candles shudder. "I have a duty!" His voice erupted. "Wendish Town is a pile of ash. Still! Fifteen years, and Seagard is near a ruin! And we have no money left to…" Garret slumped back into his chair, rubbing his temples and trying to compose himself with slow, deep breaths. "We need money to rebuild. There are thousands who will not survive winter if we cannot rebuild what they lost." He looked up into his Tristifer's eyes. He looked worried – pleading, almost. "I know what I'm asking," he said softly, "But our duty is to our people. We need allies, and we need gold. Father once told me…" Saera muttered something and turned around, walking away from the table and towards the door. "Father once told me that being a Lord is as much a privilege as it is a duty." The door slammed in the distance. "You were always the soldier, Tristifer, I know that. And I know you have always been nothing less than a loyal knight and brother, but… we have other responsibilities."

Tristifer swallowed, sighed and nodded. "I would ask something of you," Tristifer said quietly. "If I do this, if I wed the girl, would you write to the King? Have him legitimize Tion and Willow?"

Garret licked his lips and sighed, before giving a nod. "I'll write to Mother. Have her ask the King."

"Then I consent to the marriage."


Cassandra


Within the ancient stone walls of Storm's End, the Round Chamber was abuzz with activity, preparing to welcome a gathering of vassals and lords from across the Stormlands. As the distant rumble of thunder heralded the approach of a storm, the castle's servants moved with a quiet, practiced efficiency.

The Round Chamber, with its towering walls and soaring dome ceiling, was an imposing, yet grand space. The stone floor bore the marks of centuries, smoothed by the countless footsteps of those who had gathered within its majestic confines. Tall windows encircled the chamber, their leaded glass panes allowing glimpses of the turbulent skies beyond.

Servants bustled about the chamber, their footsteps muffled by the thick tapestries that adorned the walls. Each tapestry bore the sigils of noble houses from the Stormlands, meticulously cleaned and hung with care, their vibrant colours brought to life by the flickering light of torches.

A hearth at one end of the chamber crackled and roared, sending tendrils of warmth into the space. A large tapestry depicting the Baratheon stag flanked the hearth, its eyes seeming to watch over the proceedings. Servants added logs to the fire, ensuring that the chamber would remain comfortable despite the brewing storm outside.

Beyond the tall windows, the skies had darkened, and the first fat raindrops splattered against the glass. The distant boom of thunder reverberated through the chamber, a reminder of the elemental power of the storm. The sound was met with a mixture of awe and reverence by those inside the castle, as if the tempest itself were a testament to the indomitable spirit of the Stormlands.

Outside, the wind whipped through the ancient battlements, carrying with it the salty tang of the sea. The waves crashed against the rocky shore, their fury a reflection of the region's fierce and unyielding nature. The rain fell in sheets, obscuring the view of the distant sea but adding to the sense of drama and anticipation.

The servants moved with a silent grace, their richly-coloured livery contrasting with the stark stone of the chamber. The castellan, Erich Estermont, oversaw the preparations with a keen eye, ensuring that every detail was attended to. He conferred with the maester, Rickard Corbay, who had been tasked with composing a welcoming speech for Lord Regent Durran, in lieu of Cassandra's ailing husband. If only he could hurry and die quicker – then she could spend less time in his chambers, and more handling her foolish sons.

As the storm outside raged on, the Round Chamber of Storm's End stood as a bastion of strength and unity. In the flickering candlelight, with the gentle pattering of rain, Cassandra sat from her carved chair beside the Storm Throne, watching her eldest son pace back and forth, examining the adornments.

"What do you think?" Durran asked.

"Does it matter?" She asked, her voice sharp and cold. He spun around to face her, brow furrowed. More than a day had passed, and he was still too foolish to have realized her anger.

"Have I wronged you?"

"Me? Not at all."

Durran rolled his eyes. "Mother, if I've upset you, would you just tell me what it is so that I may, at least, apologise?"

Cassandra's storm-blue eyes locked onto her son's. "Tristifer Tully."

Thunder rumbled in the distance and Durran frowned. "There's a problem?"

"The whoremongering trout already has two bastards-"

"By Lucynda Bracken," Durran replied, "a woman he was betrothed to wed. Hardly a whore-"

"He'll do the same to our Oraella. Clearly he's lacking in patience."

Durran began to walk back to the throne, planting a foot on the stone dais it sat upon. "She's bled, Mother. You yourself said we need to find betrothals-"

"Betrothals, yes, not weddings, you simpleton…" Cassandra spat the words at him. Durran's face hardened. "He's fifth-in-line!" Cassandra half-laughed.

"And the only Tully eligible to wed," Durran said, seemingly unphased. "Willum Arryn has one son, who's already married, Garret Tully's sons are to be betrothed to his daughters, and Victor Tyrell's grown tired of women and decided to wed the Stark bitch."

"If you're so clever, what about a richer house?" Cassandra asked, standing up. "Lyonel Reyne has a son, Roland Lannister has a nephew-"

"I'm well aware," Durran said, suddenly calm.

"Then why are you so foolish that you would offer Oraella to a second son with two bastard…" Cassandra trailed off as she saw Durran's lip curl. "This is not funny."

Durran licked his lips and looked back up at her. "Roland Lannister believes Oraella ought to have a higher dowry," he explained. "For a man that shits gold, you'd think he'd be sick of the stuff, but no – he insists on a higher bride price."

"When?"

"A month ago," Durran said, running a hand through his hair.

"So, you decide rather than spend more of the gold we have-"

"No, no, Mother, I decided to show Roland Lannister that we do not need him," Durran explained. "At best, we wed Oraella to the next Warden of the West. At worst… we enter into an alliance with the Tully's and the Arryn's." He allowed himself a second to smile at his mother, waiting for her to respond.

"You are…" She struggled to find the words. It was as though he were trying to emulate her – trying to think as her. Trying to use Tristifer Tully to leverage an offer from Roland Lannister… "You are a fucking imbecile, Durran."

His smile faded. "What?"

"You've insulted Roland Lannister. You enter negotiations with him, then turn to another once he asks for a higher dowry?" She hissed, taking a step towards him. "How much did he ask for her hand?"

"Five thousand gold dragons…"

Cassandra's hand balled into a fist. "Less than half of what the crown is paying to us."

"I hadn't-"

Cassandra's hand swept up and struck him in the face with a resounding smack. The Round Chamber fell quiet as all the servants froze, staring at the Lord Regent and the Lady of Storm's End. Thunder rumbled once again, and the rain grew heavier. "You've made a fool out of yourself. Out of all of us. If Garret Tully accepts, you cannot break this betrothal, else we be e'er known as oathbreakers. If Garret Tully accepts, we lose my daughter and gain… nothing." She took a step closer. "You're not selling my daughter," Cassandra growled, "she deserves better."

"Deserves?" Durran asked. "Did we speak of what I deserve when you told me to accept Rhaenerys' betrothal?"

"That's different."

"Why?"

"You're not a child."

"Neither is she," Durran snarled. He raised one of his colossal hands and balled it into a fist, with one finger pointing straight at her face. "If you raise a hand to me again, I'll have you confined to chambers."

He turned and stormed out of the Round Chamber, with servants sweeping aside from him.

Cassandra sank into her chair, clutching her belly, where she had once carried Durran, Arrec, and her little Oraella. Her sweet, sweet girl – her only girl. The only one that Cassandra knew was truly hers. Durran had grown into his father's arrogance and dim-witted pride. Arrec had outright refused to conduct himself as Lord, and preferred the company of a whoreson bastard over his own blood. But Oraella… Oraella was truly hers. She was strong-willed, and far cleverer than her Cassandra's boys. Oraella was the one that had yet to be sullied. And now, Durran was going to steal her away from him.

Cassandra steeled herself – there were servants everywhere. Like she had been taught, years ago, a Lady does not cry. A Lady is composed. She dared not to even take a breath. She simply stood up and clasped her hands, staring coldly across the servants that resumed their work. She glanced up to see, sat against one of the many archways on one of the corridors that looked out onto the chamber, her son, Arrec. He was already in his finest doublet of black leather doublet over a gold cotton shirt.

She didn't know what was in his eyes. Pity, perhaps? Or perhaps he was joyful at seeing this. She knew he must have despised her, in spite of all that she had done for him. Truly, she had tried to guide him, she had loved him no matter what he had done – how he'd been tainted and tried to push her away, she still cared for him.

But Arrec simply stood up and began to climb the stairs, not looking back to her. She was left alone, abandoned by her sons, her only daughter about to be ripped away from her. Wedded to a sinful beast that kept the company of whores, and raised their bastards as if they were trueborn, in their ancestral seats.

She'd not let that happen to Oraella. She would die before that would happen.


Well, that's this chapter done! So, guys, hit me with those reviews – please, don't hold back, I really wanna hear your thoughts because, guess what – we weren't gonna see that conversation between the Tully's or between Cassandra and Durran yet. Literally, you guys are keeping me on the straight and narrow.

Oh, and, I've got thick skin. If you think something is badly written, you pull me up on it, and that's how I get better. So, like… I guess I'm saying… hurt me, please? (Wow, maybe I should go to therapy… Nah, I'll just stick to writing messed-up stories)

So, I can write one more chapter before I need some more Dornish characters.