I rolled the stem of the wineglass between my fingers and studied the gently rippling pinot something or other.

This particular vintage – whatever the hell it was called – was a touch fruitier than the others I'd tried, and no less sumptuous, with a heady aroma and little golden specks of sediment. Personally, I never really liked the stuff, but this body had a taste for it and, in my eyes, the circumstances reasonably entitled me to a drink or six.

So as the sounds of boots scuffing and armor clanking drew ever closer, I raised the glass and took a sip.

Radagon, sword sheathed at his belt, marched up the stairs into the bedchamber. His black enamel plate, engraved and embellished with gold leaf, shimmered in the candlelight, and his fiery red hair hung in a tight braid down to the middle of his back. A handful of knights with tall crested helmets and golden surcoats marched close behind him, their spears and shields held at the ready.

Planting himself in the center of the room, the knights loosely fanned around the archway, he fixed me with a suspicious glare, his brow furrowed and lips pressed flat. Maybe he expected a smoking black stain, or a collection of corpses, anything more dramatic than the sight of me reclining atop the rough stone slab that his wife dared to call a bed, surrounded by a couple dozen bottles of wine.

"Leave us."

Giving each other sideways glances, they nevertheless obeyed the Elden Lord's order. As the last of the knights shuffled from the bedchamber, Radagon waved his hand, and a shining golden barrier blocked the entryway – his way of ensuring our privacy.

"Thou art not Marika." It wasn't so much an accusation as a simple statement of fact.

I wasn't surprised he could tell, not really. They were the same person, after all, two minds and bodies sharing the same soul, and his quite literal other half's absence must have felt like a massive hole in the center of his being. Truth be told, I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the guy – however contentious their relationship was, she was still a part of him, and that sort of bond always sparks at least some small embers of affection.

"No, I'm not." I shifted a bit, very consciously ignoring the disconcerting emptiness between my legs. That I'd also gained an accent – some vaguely Welsh thing just as foreign as it was automatic – barely even phased me. "I'd introduce myself, but my name got lost in the move."

He narrowed his eyes and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I see. And how, pray tell, didst thee contrive to usurp my lady's form? Surely 'twas no small feat."

While by no means routine, this sort of thing was not unheard of in the Lands Between – quite the opposite, from primal glinstones to simple, brute-force possessions, transposing one's soul was practically an artform among those with more power than scruples. A rather distasteful art form, sure, but one that Radagon undoubtedly recognized when it stared him right in the face.

I scoffed, flashing him a bitter thing almost resembling a smirk, then swirled the glass and took another sip. "This wasn't my idea, it was hers. Entirely hers. Christ, she didn't even say hello. Just, well … " My free hand motioned towards the body I'd been shunted into.

Glower darkening to a scowl, his grip on the sword tightened. "Thine words do naught to assuage my incredulity."

I raked my too-slender fingers through my too-long hair and finished off the glass, resting it down on the slab. Rummaging through the sprawl of bottles, I found one that hadn't been opened yet, then popped out the cork with a quick flash of grace – my newfound divinity was good for something, at least. I motioned to pour it into the glass but hesitated just as the liquid within peeked over the lip, and instead, after a moment of deliberation, took a deep swig right from the bottle.

If Radagon wanted the full, unfiltered truth, then he could have it. What motive, frankly, did I have to lie? Not like there was much more I could lose at that point.

"Her Worshipfulness was kind enough to leave me a copy of her memories." Well, not exactly – more like she didn't bother to pack before tossing me the keys. "Her original plan was to shatter the Elden Ring. Literally, with a hammer."

The mere thought of it hit him like a truck, and he visibly staggered, eyes wide and mouth agape.

"What … ?"

"Yup." I mimed the appropriate hammer motions, complete with sound effects. "There'd be a civil war, of course, ambition and whatnot, and eventually someone would come along and burn the Erdtree, kill the Elden Beast, and … well, she wasn't picky about what came after, so long as it wasn't the Golden Order." A snort. "Didn't matter who'd win, only that they were worthy enough to win. Bit like Alexander, you know? 'To the strongest!'"

I chuckled, and Radagon stiffened, his face plastered with the sort of look specially reserved for when your entire life comes crashing down, and the whole world succumbs to madness.

"Anyways, she chickened out at the last second. Realized that the whole thing might get her killed, which wouldn't be a good look for a woman who calls herself eternal, you see. So she figured if she couldn't fight, she'd run, and make it someone else's problem." I took another mouthful. "Fucking bitch."

For a minute or so, he was like a statue, body stock-still as he digested what I'd said, but it wasn't long before his teeth grit and muscles clenched and abject horror gave way to incandescent rage. With an ear-splitting roar, he started to batter the solid limestone wall, chunks of masonry falling to the floor and clouds of dust choking the air.

The tantrum was, perhaps, a touch uncharacteristic – Radagon had always been by far the more intellectual of the two – but things being what they were, I couldn't really fault him for it.

His blows petered out, and he leaned and panted against the crumbling remains of the wall on a closed fist.

"Hey."

A dead-eyed stare wandered in my general direction, and I offered Radagon the bottle.

V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V

Let it not be said that I'm a good sailor.

However comfortable I might feel on the water, the finer details of booms and jibs and other silly words have always eluded me, consigned to foggy, half-forgotten memories of travel novels and summer camps.

Still, I like to think that I managed well enough, my sailboat puttering unmolested through the embattled harbor; and I considered it a victory when the bow smacked against an embankment, letting me clamber up onto a creaky wooden pier, all the resulting scraping and groaning buried under the cacophony of roaring fires and ringing bells.

For a moment, I looked back and contemplated mooring it, but the merchant galleys and warships burning at their anchors, smoke billowing up into the cloudless summer sky, told me that there wasn't much of a point in doing so. Besides, I didn't exactly have good reason to even want to protect it in the first place, pissy little dinghy that it was. So stepping over puddles of blood and patches of flame, I washed my hands of it and made my way off the pier and across the cobblestone wharf.

A tall brick warehouse then exploded, sending flaming splashes of whale oil raining down onto the pavement, and flattening the neighboring taverns and guildhalls. Cheers rose from the raiders who'd been tearing through the streets, gold and women hauled over their shoulders, while the terrified inhabitants who'd managed to survive fled deeper into the city.

It was just my luck, really, to make landfall right in the middle of a sack.

Honestly, if you're going to fight a war, do it cleanly, or at least hide your 'extracurriculars' behind a couple layers of bureaucracy – don't just rampage about like a bloody Gothic horde. Even Godfrey, barbarian that he was, understood that much.

"Oi! Blondie!"

Pausing beside a burnt-out stall, I raised my eyebrow and turned towards the shout.

One of the raiders, clad in a rusted ringmail shirt and moldy grey surcoat, pried his axe from a dockworker's skull and strode in my direction. With his beard all matted and yellow teeth bared in a grin, he appeared the consummate reaver, straight from central casting, and a handful of his equally savage associates had slowed their pillaging to see what the fuss was about.

I didn't have to acknowledge him. I could've – and probably should've – just kept walking, and hoped that he'd write me off.

"Yes?"

But some stupid, naive, first-world part of me clung to a belief in man's better angels, no matter how hard I tried to bludgeon and bury it.

His eyes roamed up and down my body. Being half again as tall as him, all statuesque and leggy, I made for a striking figure, and I imagine he liked what he saw. "Big bitch like you's gotta have a big cunt. Might not fit me, though." He grabbed at his crotch and turned to his buddies, who broke out into laughter. "Let's find out, eh? Strip. Or I'll gut you right here and have my fun anyways."

Charming.

Now, since being given the Tireseas treatment, I'd received no small amount of sideways glances and subtle stares, and – at least from the denizens of the Lands Between – a sort of incessant, obsequious praise of my 'radiant beauty.' The original, after all, had in her (admittedly justified) vanity declared herself an object of worship, and had no real qualms about showing it all off with high slits and plunging necklines. But such attention, however mortifying, was in the end harmless, and certainly nowhere near as blunt and colorful as this particular interaction. Truthfully, I'd until then been skeptical that people even talked like that outside of cliche fantasy stories, or tasteless pornography.

For all the undeniable novelty, I can't say I much enjoyed it.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

Licking his lips, he nodded. "Might even take you as a salt wife, if you, heh, manage to convince me. If not, well … " He chuckled some more and shook his axe at me. "C'mon then, let's see those – "

The raider stepped closer, a hand reached out to fondle my breasts, and I caught him by the wrist. He didn't immediately register this, drunk as he was on lust and plunder, but when he did, his brow furrowed and he tried to wrench his arm away from me.

I squeezed.

Bones splintering, he let out a shriek and collapsed onto his knees, his free arm beating desperately against my grip. His buddies recoiled, reaching for their weapons as his cries grew louder and struggling grew more frantic. I studied the vague mustard blob peeking through the grime on his surcoat before comparing it to the proud golden krakens on the sails of the longships bunched pell-mell in the harbor, then in turn the singed red and gold lion banners flailing atop the burning buildings.

By now, it seemed rather obvious where I'd ended up, but intuition isn't confirmation – and this seemed as good a time as any to get some.

I freed the raider's wrist and he scurried away from me, his injury cradled close to his stomach. Pivoting towards the leftmost raider of the group – a skinny little twig of a kid, no more than 16, wearing a beaten old cuirass – I (figuratively) pinned him in place with a look.

"You."

The 'you' in question blanched, his fellows inching away from him as he silently begged them for the slightest hint of assistance.

"Where are we?"

Swallowing, he forced himself to speak.

"We're – "

The first raider, by this point, had regained just enough composure to draw a knife from his belt and lunge at me with a strained, scratchy warcry. A second before the blade reached my torso, I punched his skull in, and his body twisted as it fell to the ground, little spurts of blood and air sputtering from the mangled pulp that was once his head.

Wisps of grace vaporized the bits of gore that had splattered onto me, and I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Go on."

The kid closed his eyes as if muttering a prayer, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.

"L-lannisport, m'lady. We're in Lannisport."

Horrendous violence has a wonderful way of loosening tongues.

"And who's the king?"

"Balon Greyjoy, m'lady."

If his flinch was any indication, the face I gave him in response was more than a little flat.

"The stormlord." Another swallow. "Robert."

So I stumbled from one grimdark Martin setting to another. Hardly ideal, but it could've been much, much worse. I wasn't trapped in some colorless, featureless space between spaces, nor was I in any real danger from a bunch of hairy men with pointed sticks, and Planetos(?) was, by all accounts, a hell of a lot nicer than Lordran and Yharnam and the like.

But that still left the question of what to do about it – and what to do about all these raiders in particular.

From what I remembered, the Iron Islands had made the baffling decision to rebel against the entirety of the continent about a decade before the start of the plot, and announced this to the world by sucker-punching Tywin Lannister, a man famous for violently murdering the families of those who spite him. For as much as the whole affair was informed by culture and tradition and wider political developments, it appeared, more than anything, an excuse to indulge in rape and pillage. The combined armies of Westeros would go on to quash it after only a couple of months, leaving the Ironborn somehow even more impoverished, reviled, and bitter.

In other words, the raiders were a losing bet, if ever was one – easy, acceptable targets who'd made quite a lot of enemies out of quite a lot of powerful men. And seeing as I'd already burst one's head like a watermelon, it only seemed appropriate to commit.

I gave the kid a nod.

"Thank you."

With a wave and a thought, a scattershot of golden bolts – shining, crackling things, as thick as an arm and as long as a spear – plunged into the group of raiders, piercing flesh and severing limbs.

They then kept going, peeling off from each other and streaking towards the rest of the Ironborn littered about the docks. Some tried to run, others stood their ground, but the bolts all hit their marks, and weaved through the mob like needles through a napkin. By the time they evaporated into little motes of light, the bolts had extracted quite a toll, and the wounded screamed as those survivors that could retreated back to their longships.

The light show, of course, hadn't escaped the notice of the Ironborn fleet clumped in the harbor. Deck crews sounded the alarms and scrambled to their posts as their respective captains shouted clashing orders – "Make for open water! Starboard to shore! Hold and ready artillery!" Crowded as the port was, it soon degenerated into a quagmire, and hulls raked against each other as oars dueled and sails entangled. The flagship rammed a friendly longship before getting wedged between the burning hulks of two Lannister dromonds – it promptly ignited, and the sailors on board were given the choice between burning and drowning. And amidst the confusion, some of the nearby vessels managed to fire their scorpions at me, heavy barbed arrows whistling past my head and skidding along the cobblestones.

I briefly considered walking away and letting them sink themselves, or giving them the time to slapdash a rout, but my sympathy only went so far.

Strolling down to the waterfront, I raised my arm and loosed a coruscating wave of gold. As it radiated outwards, water churning and steaming in its wake, it slammed through the longships, shattering them into splinters and nails, torn canvas and shredded rope. All the wreckage billowed and blended into something like an avalanche, which screened the shimmering grace as it scoured the harbor. Those few ships out past the edges, just beyond the wave's reach, were crushed by flying sterns and lanced by soaring masts and dragged underneath the roiling waters.

The golden wave blasted forth until it reached the open sea, and all that remained of the Iron Fleet were bobbing corpses and patches of debris.

It didn't take long for the leading elements of the Lannister household guard, with their red woolen cloaks and thick steel half-plate, to slowly, steadily, pour from the streets out onto the docks. For medieval men-at-arms, they had a certain polish about them, their fairly tight columns marching in passable lockstep, swords held firm and shields raised high. Having so far only encountered sporadic resistance from roving handfuls of raiders, they seemed, in a word, confident – perhaps overly so.

"Sir, look!"

"What happened?"

"Gods preserve us … "

But their courage quickly disappeared, advance stalling and lines crumbling, when they found the Ironborn horde sprawled on the ground dead and dying, and the harbor more flotsam than water.

I cleared my throat.

The footmen wavered as commands died on the serjeants' tongues. They kept their distance, gasps and whispers flitting across the no man's land, and in their disquietude dared not so much as sneeze at me.

Looming as I was over the desolation, my stature inhuman and eyes shining gold, unblinking and unbreathing (I'd long since transcended the need to do either), this reaction didn't come as much of a surprise – especially considering how much grace I'd been throwing around.

Magic, after all, doesn't just dissipate once a spell runs its course. Rather, it lingers, clinging and diffusing, and in sufficient quantities over time warps both the environment itself and the living beings within it. The power that I'd learned to call my own was a thing of awe and grandeur, strength and dominance – more Old Testament than New – and the air was practically heaving with the stuff.

To the soldiers, it must have felt like a mountain was pressing down on their very souls.

A troop of riders approached the thickest part of the crowd, and the guardsmen, genuflecting and saluting, parted like the Red Sea. Mounted atop a thick black destrier and attended by his staff and retinue, Tywin Lannister rode through the gap and planted himself at the fore. Between his bushy golden mutton chops and enameled crimson armor, he appeared the singular model of self-assured regality, and the lions festooned on every plate and ribbon left not a single doubt as to his allegiance (namely, himself) – combined, everything spoke to a chronic shortage of restraint.

Though his eyes conveyed a vindictive satisfaction that the raiders had been so thoroughly trounced, the way he stiffened and clutched at the reins betrayed his nervy unease.

With a genial smile, I rested my hands on my hips. "Lord Lannister, I presume?"

The murmurings ceased.

It took Tywin a moment to register that I'd addressed him. Lips pursed, he answered with noticeably affected composure. "Yes."

My smile brightened to show some teeth. "Just sailed in from" – I made a vague gesture towards the sea – "over there, and let me say it's wonderful to meet you. I am Marika, Sovereign Eternal of the Lands Between, God-Queen of Leyndell, et cetera, et cetera." Hand on my waist, I stared down at my feet in thought, before turning back up and tilting my head in acquiescence. "Well, Sovereign Emeritus, at least."

If nothing else, the whole 'divine royalty' angle would open a few doors, the Westerosi being as status-obsessed as they were.

His brow furrowed and he took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, but then he closed it, and fell back to his courtly training – it'd be better for his health, he likely surmised, to simply go along with it. "I welcome you to the Westerlands, Your Grace, and apologize for the … disturbance."

I'm sure that sounded just as lame to him, but it didn't seem polite to call him out on it. "Thank you." I surveyed my handiwork, a move I'll concede was mostly for show. "Wasn't too much trouble. Got most of them, I think. Is it always this exciting around here?"

From the look of it, his already wounded pride nearly took my question as an insult. "No."

"Unfortunate timing on my part, then." I chuckled, my smile sharpening to a smirk. "The joys of travel, eh?" A burning customs house collapsed in on itself as if to punctuate my observation.

Apparently, Tywin didn't find the humor in it.

Eyeing the huddled mass of guardsmen, I clapped my hands together. "Anyways, it seems you lot have quite a bit of work to do. Fires to douse, stragglers to catch, that sort of thing. Don't let me keep you."

His gaze fixed firmly on me – and more than willing to regain some semblance of control – Tywin gestured at the officers clustered around him, who, after a few moments of hesitation, rode out in front of the crowd. "Get moving!" one shouted, and the guardsmen shuffled onwards to strip the dead and execute the wounded and capture any surviving nobles for ransom – the usual drudgery of a victorious army.

Mind, that didn't stop them from 'forgetting' the bodies closest to me, or 'discovering' a pressing issue that required their immediate attention on the opposite side of the docks, or scrounging up some other excuse to ignore my existence, and assumably pray I'd evaporate into the aether or something.

The staredown between Tywin and I lasted until he squeezed his knees against his mount and closed a couple yards of the distance separating us – not much, at any rate, but enough to be noticeable. He was, it seems, made of sterner stuff than his subordinates (or better at pretending), and his stiff voice raised over the treading of their boots and the jangling of their kit. "Are you in need of accommodations, Your Grace? At the risk of presumption, you appear to be traveling rather lightly."

Probably the most polite way to be called a vagabond. Still, he had a point. "Looks that way. I take it you're offering?"

He offered a slow, respectful nod. "It would be my privilege to host you at Casterly Rock."

I couldn't exactly place his rationale for the offer. Was it a reward for solving his Ironborn problem? A move to ingratiate his house with a potential future player? An attempt to appease the strange wandering divinity before it started smiting people?

Maybe some muddled combination of all three.

"You are welcome to stay for as long as you wish, and will be afforded every hospitality."

Whatever the case, I figured there'd be no harm in humoring him – if worst came to worst, he was just as mortal as the Ironborn. Besides, it's not like I had anything better to do, and a man as rich as him was bound to have comfortable guestrooms.

"Sure, why not?"

A second, much firmer nod, and a slight, stilted bend that could almost be called a smile. "Allow me to escort you."

How very chivalrous – if he wasn't who he was, I'd have almost believed him a gentleman.

Tywin regarded his knightly bodyguards, faintly shaking his head, before motioning over a broad, bearded fellow in armor only a touch or two plainer than his own. "Ser Kevan, lend Her Grace your horse, and take command until I return."

Kevan gave an obedient bow, though not without a bit of a sigh. "My Lord."

As his foot left the stirrup, I waved them off, laughing good-naturedly. "No, no, there's no need for that. I have my own."

I put my hand to my lips and whistled into a delicate golden ring. A tall, snow-white horse with spiral horns materialized through swirling clouds of twinkling plasma, neighing and scraping a forehoof against the cobblestones. Given as a gift to the original by the Carian royals, his name was Typhoon, and I stroked his neck to calm him down before hopping up into the black leather saddle.

Both of the Lannisters – and the guardsmen whose curiosity trumped their apprehension – struggled to contain their astonishment. It was one thing, I suppose, to see the aftereffects of a force like magic, another thing entirely to glimpse firsthand its actual use.

Trotting towards my host, I overheard a stream of whimpers bubbling up from the pavement. With a quick tug on Typhoon's reins, I slowed to a halt and spotted the Ironborn kid from before, curled into a writhing, shivering ball. Compared to the rest of them, he'd gotten off lucky, the only new addition (well, subtraction) a cauterized stump where his left knee used to be. When his red-rimmed eyes landed on me, he choked and tightened, unable to run yet unwilling to die.

War is a messy, nasty business, and I'd long since learned that there's no use angsting about it – rather, if you steel yourself and fight that much harder, it'll end that much quicker. But seeing that kid was a bit like seeing a wounded puppy, and it just didn't seem right to leave him there. Besides, I had to pay him back for answering my questions somehow.

A teaspoon of magic – the floaty, purplish sort that Miquella liked to sprinkle around – was all it took for the kid to fall asleep. I levitated him up onto Typhoon and draped him right behind the saddle, before shooting Tywin another cheery grin. "Right then, lead on."

Glancing at the kid, then back at me, his expression teetered between an outward repose of dignified civility and a disdainful sneer; he eventually settled somewhere in the middle, on an unfortunate, inscrutable grimace. He turned around, pausing until I caught up next to him, then proceeded with me through the streets, shadowed by his twitchy bodyguards.

The tightly-packed rows of shops and houses had made for perfect tinder, and by now, nearly a third of the city was burning, the rest assaulted by choking torrents of smoke.

Watchmen and volunteers with buckets and hooks hurled water at the flames and demolished those structures too far gone in the vain hope of stemming the tide. Some of the braver ones, their clothes charred and tattered, would sprint inside and drag out survivors, but their numbers slowly dwindled as they were strangled by the fumes or pinned beneath falling debris. Of course, this didn't stop the opportunists from stealing away with pocketfuls of jewelry and coin (or entire chests, if they were ambitious enough).

In the middle of the soot-blackened road, meanwhile, women sobbed over lifeless infants and men grasped their few remaining possessions. Helpless children and infirm elderly crawled and hobbled as swiftly as they could, and a few who had lost everything simply let the fires take them. Two bodyguards rode ahead of us and took it upon themselves to clear the path forward – "Make way for Lord Tywin!" they shouted, and beat the despondent citizenry with the flats of their swords.

"Unfortunate timing, indeed." This wasn't the worst I'd seen – far from it – but it certainly couldn't be described as pleasant.

The expression on Tywin's face was, in a word, incensed – not so much at the destruction itself, mind, but that it was inflicted on his city. Without even an ounce of warning, those savages had given him a hell of a thrashing, and forever tarnished the image of the invincible, implacable 'Great Lion.'

And in plain view of visiting royalty, no less.

He steadied himself with a deep breath. "Your Grace, Lannisport has been burned before. Three times, in fact, and sacked two dozen more. Yet, it remains the wealthiest port on the Sunset Sea, comparable only to Oldtown."

I watched as a portly, well-dressed bloke tried his chances at jumping from a blazing townhouse; his feet snagged on the balcony, and he spun through the air before splattering his brains across the pavement. "Oh?"

Tywin continued with his boastings – something about trade routes and goldsmiths – and I nodded and hummed at the appropriate intervals as they blended into the background noise.

For a man as conceited as he was, the entire situation must have felt nothing short of torturous.

Before long, we departed through the city's northern gate, going past the desperate refugees littering the surrounding fields, and reached the castle's outer wall. The guardsmen manning the gatehouse – a five-story stack of heavy sandstone blocks – raised the portcullis and eyed us through the murder holes as we passed to the other side. Here, inside the walls, the road widened and sloped into a great, broad stairway, a pair of colossal bronze lions – ears perked and eyes wide – reclined on either side. And at the top loomed Casterly Rock itself, a limestone monolith that jutted from the rocks and waves, and cast tall shadows on the adjacent city.

We rode up the stairway to a gaping black maw in the rock face, stalactites hanging from the roof like fangs – the locals, with their odd penchant for heraldry metaphors, called it the 'Lion's Mouth.'

A massive cavern had been carved into the limestone, then gradually expanded over millennia of habitation. Illuminated by iron braziers and braced by granite columns, it was home to stockpiles and arsenals, farriers and smiths, and all the other logistical necessities of a seat the size of the Rock. Servants and soldiers and other such menials rushed about the place on urgent business, and off to the side, where the cave dipped to meet the sea, spread a complex of jetties and drydocks, packed with the handful of Lannister warships that had escaped the inferno.

The party approached the stables, and pulled to a stop at the chiseled stone stalls reserved for the lord and his immediate household. Tywin dismounted, a stablehand taking control of the reins, then offered me his hand. With the height difference, it was almost comical, like a child playing at maturity, and I engulfed the limb in my own as I slid from the saddle.

Some flushed and harried Lannister cousin in red doublet (who I later learned was the castellan) panted over to greet us. He gawked for a moment when he caught sight of me, but shortly recovered what poise he had and met Tywin in the eyes. "My Lord, I – "

Said lord silenced him with a raised hand and started issuing orders, occasionally shifting to look in my direction.

Another stablehand came over to grab Typhoon's reins, but the animal took exception to that, and bit at his fingers when they drew near. He tried again, and Typhoon bit again, and before it devolved any further I let out a shrill whistle. "Stop that." I pointed towards the kid lolling on my horse's back. "Make yourself useful, get him off there."

It took a bit of grappling, but the stablehand managed to haul the kid to the ground, buckling and trembling as he labored to prop him up by the armpits. I rubbed Typhoon's ears, crooning a bit of baby talk nonsense, then let him dissolve back into starstuff. With a flick, the kid floated up a few feet, and the stablehand all but fainted as he bowed and scurried away.

"Good." Tywin marched back to his horse and motioned for a servant to fetch a stepstool. The fidgety castellan waited close behind him, dobbing his forehead with a handkerchief. "Ser Camryn will situate you, Your Grace, and attend to your needs. I myself must attend to the city."

Understandable, really. "By all means."

Perched on his steed, he slipped me one last lingering look, before flicking his reins and poking his spurs and cantering back out through the maw.

Camryn cleared his throat and gestured to the side. "Your Grace." Dodging the aforementioned menials – and very deliberately keeping his distance from the insensate kid hovering beside me – he led us towards a lift, which conveyed us through a lightless shaft into an elaborate atrium.

Marble reliefs lined the walls, interspersed with portraits and tapestries, and lacquered mahogany benches sat arrayed around fountains and statues, all of it liberally slathered in gold leaf and lions, and so on and so forth.

Frankly, it was all rather gaudy, but I suppose you can afford to be when you live in a gold mine.

The three of us hiked through the Rock's winding corridors and bustling halls until we reached a pair of tall, carved wooden doors. Camryn unlocked them and watched me survey the well-furnished apartment, before indicating towards a velvet cord dangling from a hole in the ceiling. "If you require anything, please ring the bell, and a maid will be here shortly." Then, he bowed and departed, shutting the doors behind him.

I dumped the kid onto a plush-looking chaise lounge and flopped bonelessly into an armchair.

After however many years, I'd all but forgotten the feeling of freedom – at that moment, unburdened as I now was, I had to admit I quite enjoyed it.