Today's the day! We've got a monster of a chapter today, with a bunch of new characters being introduced. So, enjoy it! Check out the wiki, submit a character if you're new and, erm… yeah, enjo (that's not a typo, I say 'enjo'. It's a choice.)

This chapter has some pretty strong language and adult themes (duh), so, erm... yeah, just bear that in mind.

Also, I've tried to do this chapter without the lil setting notes at the start because they seemed a little superfluous. Lemme know if you want 'em back!

16th Day of the Fifth Moon, 152 A.C.

Alyssa

As the golden sun arced gracefully across the sky, its warm rays bathed the ancient stone walls of Highgarden in a gentle, honeyed glow. The castle rose from the lush grass in tiers, a symbol of its storied history and the power it held as the heart of House Tyrell's dominion. Tall spires and towers crowned with verdant ivy reached skyward, their shadows elongated across manicured lawns and flowering meadows.

Highgarden, in all its springtime glory, stood as a living testament to the wealth and prosperity of House Tyrell, its beauty echoing the vibrant spirit of the Reach. As the afternoon sun continued its slow descent toward the horizon, it cast a gilded halo around the castle's towers, infusing every corner of the estate with a timeless radiance that captured the essence of spring's renewal.

The air was fragrant with the sweet perfume of myriad blossoms. The gardens of Highgarden a marvel to behold, a vibrant tapestry of colours that seemed to shift and shimmer with every breeze. Beds of roses — crimson, pale pink, ivory, and gold — dappled the landscape like scattered jewels. Among them, other blooms danced in harmony: delicate lilies, exuberant daffodils, and graceful irises with petals like fluttering butterfly wings. Birdsong filled the air as sparrows, finches, and warblers flitted from branch to branch, their melodies interweaving to create a symphony of nature's own composition. Bees buzzed busily around the blossoms, collecting nectar and bringing life to the gardens.

The castle's courtyards were alive with activity. Servants clad in the colours of House Tyrell moved with purpose, tending to their duties with a grace befitting their liege lords. Knights in gleaming armour, adorned with the golden rose of their House, engaged in training exercises, their swords clashing in controlled rhythm.

Within the castle's halls, sunlight filtered through arched windows, casting warm pools of light on tapestries that depicted the history of House Tyrell. Polished marble floors cooled the air, and the murmur of distant conversations drifted through open doorways. The scent of a sumptuous feast prepared for the evening wafted from the kitchens, promising a spread of delicacies to tantalize the senses.

Alyssa Tyrell was the epitome of youthful grace and noble bearing. She glided through the sunlit corridor with natural elegance. Her presence enticed attention, like a sunbeam breaking through the canopy to illuminate a hidden grove. Bathed in the soft, ethereal light dazzling through the arched windows, she moved with a regal poise only possessed by those of House Tyrell.

Her long tresses cascaded like strands of sun-kissed spools of brown, catching the light and shimmering with each step. They framed her delicate face, highlighting her high arched brows, prominent chin and small, rounded nose. Alyssa's eyes are like twin pools of deep brown, reflecting the many trees that populated their realm.

Her complexion was as flawless as porcelain, kissed by the sun's gentle touch. A faint blush graced her cheeks, like the first blush of dawn painting the sky. Lips, soft and inviting, curved into a smile that seems to capture the very essence of joy. Each movement she made was deliberate and graceful, as if she danced through life with the practiced steps of a seasoned performer.

Alyssa's attire reflected her noble heritage and the grandeur of her surroundings: she wore a gown of flowing silk in the Tyrell colours, a tapestry of greens and golds that seemed to meld seamlessly with her surroundings. The gown's intricate embroidery depicted vines, leaves, and roses—the sigil of House Tyrell—woven with delicate precision.

As she walked, a fragrance lingered in her wake, a subtle blend of floral notes that seemed to mirror the blossoms in Highgarden's famed gardens. Her fingers brushed lightly against the stone walls, as if drawing inspiration from the very castle that cradled generations of Tyrell history.

With each step, Alyssa Tyrell embodied the spirit of her house — beauty, grace, and an unwavering sense of pride. She was a living testament to the splendour of Highgarden and the legacy of House Tyrell, a figure that captivated the heart and imagination, much like the blooming gardens of her ancestral home.

She pressed open the door to find her grandmother sat at the writing desk in her chambers, her quill scratching against the parchment in her ledgers. "Captain Tyashi hasn't arrived yet," Elinor Tyrell informed her granddaughter, "we shall have to find another silversmith and spice merchant – tell Maester Franklyn to send ravens to Oldtown and Lannisport…"

"Of course, grandmother- you told me to tell you when Victor's returned?"

Elinor turned from her desk to Alyssa before planting a hand on the tabletop and pushing herself to her feet. Alyssa swept over to her side and offered her arm, which Elinor took.

The two women walked through the arches of the hallways, arm-in-arm, as grandmother and granddaughter. Elinor was an elderly crone of a woman, and her bones ached, but when it came to her mind, she was as sharp as any. Alyssa knew this – while most girls are taught by their mothers, Alyssa was taught by her grandmother, after her own Lady Mother had passed in her infancy. Alyssa had found Elinor more astute when it came to matters of stewardship and politicking than any maester.

"Off with his falcon again?" Elinor grumbled.

"No, they were stag-hunting, grandmama."

"Stag-hunting, boar-hunting… if that boy isn't stabbing something, he's stabbing someone…" Elinor complained as they passed a Squire that carried his master's shined longsword. The boy stopped to bow and Alyssa smiled, curtsying in response, though Elinor tutted and pulled her along.

"Please, grandmama, you can't say such things."

"I can, and I will," responded Elinor. "The 'Wild Rose', the 'Tourney Rose' – if he had his way, we'd replace every thorn on every rose-stem with a longsword."

"You don't give him enough credit, grandmama – Victor knows his responsibilities."

"He knows them, he just doesn't care for them," Elinor muttered as they arrived at the large oaken doors that the guards opened for them.

The tall windows overlooked the lush gardens that Higharden was known for, rendering the chamber suffused with natural sunlight. Sheer curtains fluttered faintly in the breeze, allowing glimpses of blossoms and leaves swaying in harmony with the wind. The golden rays of the sun cast intricate patterns on the floor, inviting those within to bask in its warmth.

A rich tapestry of House Tyrell's emblem, the golden rose, graced one wall, reminding all who gather here of the lineage and honour that bind them. The chamber's walls were panelled in polished wood, their honeyed hues adding warmth to the space.

Furnishings that blended elegance with comfort were thoughtfully arranged throughout the chamber. Plush couches and cushioned chairs invited lounging and conversation, their upholstery adorned with patterns inspired by the flora of the Reach. A low table stood nearby, upon which rested books of poetry, art, and history, beckoning to be explored during moments of leisure.

On another wall, a collection of family portraits spans generations, capturing the faces of ancestors who once walked the halls of Highgarden, from the Gardner Kings to Elinor's own son, Garth.

A sideboard held a selection of fine wines and refreshments – or, it had once. Now, all cups were running dry, with empty jugs dotted around the chamber. The air, already scented with the fragrant blooms of nearby gardens, was rich with wine and hippocras and salted meat.

A few of Alyssa's handmaids were chuckling, sharing a jug of Abror gold as they watched Rawen Hightower hold the wooden board of a mounted stag's head in front of his face and brush his foot against the floor, baying loudly. On the other side of the chamber was the young and beautiful Victor Tyrell. The cascading curls of tawny brown hair was still loosely tied back from his hunt, his brown eyes alive with laughter as he held a spear in one hand and wagged a finger on his other.

"No, no, he'd already started the charge…" He chortled as he flourished his spear and took up a stance, his bow-shaped lips curling for a moment. The white silken sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, showing the well-defined arms of a man who had tilted a lance near-everyday of his life. There had never been a prettier man to breathe the sun-baked air of the Reach. A golden rose, indeed, who had thrived in the adoration of his father's court.

The chamber had become a haven for his laughter and stories, wine-drinking and friendship, but had now been invaded by his younger sister and elderly grandmother. He lowered his spear as Rawen began his charge. His friend, only a year younger, lowered the trophy of the stag's head and frowned, pushing his auburn hair back from his face, "Come on, Vic, a hunt's not a hunt without a kill," he chuckled.

"No use in hunting that one," Elinor said, hobbling forwards, her back hunched over, "I do believe he's already dead."

The girls on the other side of the chamber set down the wine and curtsied meekly. "My Lady," they both said in broken unison.

"Grandmother," Victor cleared his throat, straightening up, stiff as a board. Rawen lowered the stag's head to the floor, grasping it by the antlers. "Care to welcome our guest?" Victor asked, gesturing to the trophy. The handmaids tittered.

Elinor smiled, hobbling over with Alyssa's help to one of the cushioned chairs. "Isn't he as handsome as his father?" She cooed to the handmaids. "Nine-and-ten, and already as gallant. Dears, would you mind so very much if I had a word with my grandson? I do so miss his father on beautiful days such as this one…"

"Of course, My Lady!" Denyse Redwyne said.

"Of course, My Lady," Victaria Ashford took Denyse's arms and, with a smirk and a curtsy to Victor Tyrell and Rawen Hightower, left the chamber, the door being shut behind them.

Elinor immediately stood up straight and released Alyssa's arm, her voice no longer frail or shaking. "Right then, off you trot, now, boy," Elinor said.

"Lady Elinor…" Rawen began, half-laughing with bemusement.

"Shut up and piss off, or I will spear you like a stag."

"Erm, excuse-"

"Oh, do in fact shut up and piss off, Rawen, there's a good man," Victor slapped Rawen on the shoulder.

Rawen stared from Victor to Elinor to Alyssa (who shrugged) before setting down the stag's head with a scoff. "Cousins…" He said quietly, walking away from the three Tyrell's.

"Quite a beast, eh?" Victor asked, leaning the spear against the wall. Elinor stared at her grandson, completely and utterly unimpressed. "What?"

"You've been riding off, hunting, hmm? Again?"

Victor clasped his hands behind his back and took a long look from the spear to the stag's head. "Obviously."

Elinor briskly walked towards the young man and smacked him around the head. "You are not a boy anymore! You are a Lord, and you must conduct yourself as one. You must be present to hear your people, their problems, their pleas-"

"But you're so much better at it than me…" Victor groaned. "Besides, I thought a good Lord knows his strengths and his weakness-"

"You must be seen doing it," she interrupted him before walking over to pick up a cup of wine and sniff it. "You are blessed with youth, beauty, good health and a good name…"

Alyssa saw her brother roll his eyes for a moment before he caught her watching him with a smile. She'd heard their grandmother lecture Victor time and again, and was almost as bored of the same old words as he was. Almost.

"…yet you decide to spend that time waving a stick around and stabbing boars."

"Spearing boars," Victor corrected her.

Elinor set down the cup of wine and turned back to her grandson. "Tomorrow, you will be up at the Hour of the Ghost, sober and dressed. You will announce the building of new granaries across the country before spring has ended."

"That'll cost a fair bit, won't it?" Victor asked.

"Well, we shall be able to afford it."

Victor chortled. "You lecture me on feasts thrown with our household, but building all these granaries before summer-"

"Feasts are best had with guests where all can see."

"But how often does that happen?"

"Well, it shall happen rather soon."

"And why is that, pray tell?"

"I think grandmama is saying we'll have guests from another kingdom," Alyssa chimed in.

"Oh, Seven Hells, not the Lannister's again…" Victor rolled his eyes and groaned, snatching up a cup of wine. "They're so frightfully dull…"

"It won't be that sort of feast."

"Do you ever tire of your own cryptics, Grandmother?"

"I do not, as I am not of slow mind." Elinor gave a fleeting look to Alyssa. Alyssa indulged herself a moment to grin, waiting to see how Victor would react. He looked between the two women and frowned.

"I am not so sure I'm quite fond of whatever that is…" He said, eyes narrowing in suspicion as he sipped the wine.

"This feast shall be a wedding feast," Elinor explained.

Victor let out a loud roar of laughter as he walked to drop into one of the cushioned chairs. "Who's the sad sap?" He asked, eyes glimmering with glee. "Oh, does Alyssa like him as much as her own hair?" He sipped the wine and Alyssa began to giggle, looking down at her feet. Victor's wide, toothy smile transformed as he stared over at her, confused.

"What?" He asked. Alyssa looked up, still smiling widely as Victor's brow slowly relaxed and he turned to look at his grandmother, who was still simpering. "Oh, fucking…"

"Now, Victor-"

"Seven Hells, Grandmother!"

"-you're ten-and-nine now…"

"No, no – I don't consent, not now, not ever-"

"…there's no sense in keeping your bed cold."

"I'm- it's not that cold," Victor jumped at the chance to trade a jibe.

"And you're not that subtle, Victor. Stop your wenching and take a wife for the Reach. Have sons – have grandsons. The second one is out of her belly, you can return to bedding horses and riding whores."

Victor cocked his head to the side, his bow-shaped lips pressing into a thin line of resentment. He cast a hand over his aquiline nose and cleft chin before sighing.

"Well, who is she?"

Myra

There were very few times when Myra Snow found herself lucky in Winterfell. True, she had been lucky enough to have been raised in the home of her uncle and his trueborn children, and she was lucky to have been shown as much love and compassion from those like Aunt Gwyn, with whom she shared no blood at all. But, on that day where there was no sun in the sky and the summer snows approached from the north, Myra was graced with the luck of finding the archery range empty.

A sharp whistle pierced the frosted air as the steel leaf-point thudded into the straw target. The air remained still within Winterfell, its ancient walls hewn from grey stone and weathered by centuries of wind and snow. They rose resolute against the sky, a steadfast bulwark against the barrenness beyond.

The snow-dappled ground stood in the shadow of the squat, round drum tower that was the old keep and the broken tower. A blaze caused by lightning had collapsed the top third half a century ago and left the burned tower standing as a refuge for the crows, who would often nest in the loose stones and ash that had once been mortar. The lichyard lay a ways back, filled with the countless graves of servants to House Stark, dating back to when they had reigned in the North as the Kings of Winter.

Another feather-fletched arrow was nocked against the ash bow before being drawn and then loosed forward, finding its mark in the target once again, nestled close to the first shaft. A golden wisp of straw was scattered to the wind, caught in a delicate dance before falling upon the frosted dirt.

A sentinel raven cawed from atop the broken tower, its ebony plumage stark against the white backdrop of the sky, watching the archery practice with a curious eye, and wondering whether any corn might spill from someone's leathers.

Myra was like a shadow against the backdrop – a slender, willowy figure clad in a leather jerkin over her gown. Her hair was darker than that of her cousins, her eyes as well. She drew another arrow back to her fair yet wind-stricken cheek and, with an exhale, felt the bowstring slip by her fingers and watched the arrow soar and hiss through the air until it buried itself between the other two shafts.

Usually, Myra would have journeyed to hunt in the Godswood, when the archery range was too occupied. It had happened less and less as she'd grown in Winterfell, but she could never focus on loosing an arrow when she heard some runt whispering 'Wolfsbane'.

She had retrieved her arrows from the target for the second time when she had been joined by her cousin, Brandon. 'Smallbran' he was known as, the youngest son of Brandon, or, the 'Tallbran'. He was a small little creature who'd wait patiently for Myra to fire her last arrow before sprinting down to the target and, with a foot on the target, would wrench the arrows out with both hands.

"Myra," he asked slowly, clearly enunciating the syllables of her name. 'My-ra'. No-one said her name as heavily as he did when he had a question. It made her smile.

"Yes?"

"Father said Cayden's coming home soon."

"Aye." Myra had never felt close to her cousin, Cayden. He was brash and loud and quick to fury. At least, he had been – it had been three years since he'd left through the gates of Winterfell and set on his travels to see the Wall. They'd receive a raven every several months from somewhere in the North; the Wolfswood, White Harbour – even as far off as the isle of Skagos. And, a mere day ago, they'd received another letter – one that had word of return to Winterfell.

"What's he like?"

"Very short," Myra said, giving the slightest of smiles to her young cousin. "But not quite as little as you." She nocked her last arrow.

"Myra…"

She smiled again at the sound of her name as she drew the bow. "Smallbran?" She mimicked his cadence.

"Why's your surname 'Snow'?"

Myra's fingers jumped from the bowline, and the arrow flung out wide, hitting the stone wall behind with a clatter. The steel leafpoint snapped off and landed in the snow. Myra took a quick breath as she glanced back to the littlest Stark, eyes full of curiosity, his head cocked to the side as he looked up at her.

"I'm…" Myra began. Her fingers wrapped tighter around the bow as she ran a hand over the limbs, her thumb gently flicking the bowline. "My mother… your Aunt Mara, she wasn't married to my…" Myra felt a sharp pain in her thumb and quickly looked down to see she'd caught her nail in the line. She let out a hiss and clenched her fingers around her thumb before looking back up at Smallbran. The boy looked a little confused and a little upset. "My parents weren't married."

"So?"

Myra wanted to smile. Of course Smallbran wouldn't understand – he was six. But, at the same time, she wanted to cry – he was six, and even he knew that she wasn't a Stark. And she'd never be a Mormont.

"It's hard to explain."

Smallbran nodded. "Why don't I remember Aunt Mara?"

A lump swelled in Myra's throat as she began to pick at her bow – it was too old for her to keep using, she'd need a new one… "She died before you were born."

"How?"

"Go get the arrows," Myra said softly, gently pushing him with the side of her bow-limb. "And less talking – watch and learn, Brandon."

"Aye, Myra!" Smallbran shouted back to her as he scarpered down to the target.

Mara glanced back down at her hand, watching her nail turn white like milk. It was impossible to get away from it – being a Snow. Being the one that had killed her mother. She wasn't just a murdering bastard, she was also the daughter of a criminal.

"Myra," came a soft voice. Myra looked up to find her Aunt Gwyn there. A short, corpulent woman with ashen hair – hair that had not been passed on to any of her children. Myra smiled upon seeing her and threaded an arm through her bow, carrying it on one shoulder.

"Lady Stark."

"I should've known the little one would be here," Gwyn said, glancing off to her young son as he returned with four arrows that could barely fit in his hands, so he had resorted to carrying them in his arms. "Is Myra teaching you how to use a bow?" She asked with a wide smile. Smallbran returned it and nodded. "Are you learning?"

"He's talking…" Myra responded, taking the arrows and setting them back in the iron arrowstand.

"Brandon asked me here."

"No, I didn't!" Smallbran called back to her as he ran off to retrieve the rest of the arrows.

"His father," Gwyn explained to Myra.

"I supposed as much."

"He wants to talk to you."

Myra frowned, looking up at her aunt with a puzzled expression. "To me?"

"And Torrha – they're waiting in the great hall."

Myra nodded and looked back down to Smallbran, taking the broken arrow and the steel leafpoint from his hand before ruffling his hair and placing a hand on his back, gesturing for him to walk with her and Gwyn.

The two Starks and one Snow made their way around the curtain wall of grey stone and through the bustling market square. Traders and townsfolk bartered amid a colourful array of stalls, their voices a cacophony of commerce. The scent of fresh-baked bread mingled with the aroma of turnips and onions, creating a tapestry of earthy aromas that lingered in the crisp, Northern air.

Coins clinked, and bartering voices rose and fell like the tide as the trio left the market behind and passed through one of Winterfell's shorter gatehouses, where the towering wooden doors sat open. The stone walls frame the passageway to the heart of the castle, flanked by guards in Stark livery.

"May I ask what this is about, my Lady?" Myra asked.

"We've received news from the south."

"From the south?" Myra frowned as they traipsed across the dirt of the yard, with Smallbran trying to get the steel leafpoint from her hand (Myra was determined to make Smallbran work to open her fist).

Winterfell's walls towered above, encircling the space like protective arms, engulfing them into an embrace. There were times where Myra had felt safe in Winterfell, she supposed.

"And from… well, we'll get to that." Gwyn said, pursing her lips together and furrowing her brow. It seemed she was worried about something – Myra hadn't seen her worried before.

Finally, they entered the great hall; a cavernous expanse that seemed to stretch to the very sky itself. Its stone walls were adorned with the tattered remnants of once-vibrant banners, torches lined the walls, casting flickering shadows that danced upon the faces of those gathered.

Massive wooden trestle tables filled the hall, pushed up to the stone walls. Immediately, the warmth of the hot springs beneath the keep had bled through all the stones, and Myra felt it kiss her cheeks. She pulled at the strap of her fur-mantle and bundled her cloak under one arm as she approached the only occupied table, adorned with a maps of the North and the southron kingdoms at the end of the hall. She passed the long hearth, stretching across the length of the hall, and rested her eyes on the figure sat in the Lord's seat, a formidable oak chair adorned with the direwolf sigil.

Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, had begun to grey: a thick beard still muzzled his long face, but wrinkles had began to sit deeper upon his brow, crawling out from his eyes. Grey eyes roved over the ravenscroll before he passed it off to a younger man, one half his age and half a foot taller.

Corwyn was Brandon's eldest son – a single look and one could tell. Though he had the typical brown hair, grey eyes and long face that all the children had (Myra included), he was the only one to truly inherit their father's distinctive trait: he looked older than most his age. Wrinkles had begun to creep aboard his brow, a dark plumage sprouted across his jaw and his eyes were cold like ice. Always sad.

On the other side of the table, where Gwyn walked to, stood the two other women. The shorter (by an inch or so) was Torrha, the only daughter of House Stark. The prettiest of them all. Where Myra was all knees and elbows, Torrha was small, well-proportioned and slender. Myra's hair was dark and fell to her shoulders while Torrha had soft curls that she wore in a single braid over one shoulder. Even the strands that fell beside her cheek were pretty and shining. Torrha was the most beautiful girl in the North, Myra was assured of it. It wasn't that that made it hard to be around her sometimes. Rather, it was that when Torrha was around Gwyn, her aunt's eyes shine. Gwyn's voice would turn soft as she would ask about her daughter's health, her day, and share a light laugh and rub her arm.

The moon would never shine quite as bright as the sun.

Standing taller than all the women was Torrha's handmaid, Alyna Forrester. She'd been in Winterfell a year and had already ingratiated herself with her distant cousins. A head of copper curls and green almond-shaped eyes, Alyna was one of the most gorgeous women in Winterfell. She had breasts that Myra could not even hope to match, despite being some months older. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, her lips bow-shaped and plump. If Torrha was the most beautiful girl in the North, Alyna was the most comely woman. A single look at how her hips curved out from a thin waist, and Myra wanted to wrap herself back up in cloak, and cover the long and thin body, her small breasts and high hips.

"Myra!" Torrha's lips parted into a wide, toothy smile at seeing her cousin. She was like that with everyone – bringing more warmth to the great hall than any hearth or hot spring.

"Good morrow, Torri. Alyna, Corwyn."

"Cousin," Corwyn replied with a stiff nod before handing the curled ravenscroll back to the Tallbran.

"A raven came today from Highgarden," Tallbran explained in his soft voice, hoarse and crackling like a fire. "Asking for your hand, Torri."

All the grey eyes in the room fell upon Torrha, who stood up straight, glancing around her family before looking back to her mother in surprise. Gwyn gave a small nod.

"Oh…" Torrha swallowed and gently clasped her hands, thumbing her palm. "And… have you replied?"

Tallbran and Gwyn exchanged a look. "I'd hear your thoughts, first." He offered her the scroll, which Torrha ran her flint-grey eyes over.

"A good match," Gwyn said, "the Tyrell's are the richest family in Westeros, save for the Lannister's."

"The Tyrell's also have an alliance with the Baratheon's," Corwyn said, practically spitting the latter name. All in the room had heard the stories of Durran's war, where both Corrin Stark and Durran 'Ironheart' Baratheon had been felled in the Battle of the Causeway. The first time in history that a southron army had marched north of the Riverlands. All had heard the stories except the Tallbran – he had been at Moat Cailin when the war ended. Two-and-twenty years had passed, but they would never forget when the Baratheon's marched North. Unlike the southron, Northerners were not so quick to forgive those that had wronged them. They would always remember.

"What is Lord Victor like?" Torrha asked, looking up from the ravenscroll.

"Noble and fair-minded, a man of nine-and-ten and a champion of many a tourney according to Lady Elinor," Gwyn said. Of course she was the one who had arranged it. She may have taken the Stark name, but she was still a Manderly – she still praised the Seven and consorted with southrons.

Torrha nodded in thought, her eyes still on the ravenscroll. Myra removed her bow from her shoulder and set it down on the table, trying to be as quiet as possible while her cousin thought. Finally, Torrha spoke.

"Have you…. looked… at him?"

Myra licked her lips and stifled a grin, glancing over the table to Corwyn. He caught her eye and gave a smile in return, but she could tell it was out of politeness. In the rare occasions that Corwyn smiled at all, there was never any laughter in his eyes. All the joy was sapped from him. Ice ran in his veins – there was no life to him anymore.

The Tallbran cleared his throat. "Take some time to think, Torri. Lady Alyna, you'll give counsel, I expect?"

"If you wish, Lord Stark."

The Tallbran gave a stiff nod and Torrha and Alyna turned to leave. They were doubtlessly returning to the Godswood – a sacred realm where ancient trees stretched their arms towards the heavens. Snowflakes would settle on their moss-covered branches, creating a serene tableau of nature's harmony.

Myra picked up her bow and turned, only to hear the Tallbran speak again.

"Not you, Myra."

She froze and frowned again, turning around and setting her bow back down. The Tallbran and Corwyn shared a look and, a moment later, Corwyn was making his way around the table to the Smallbran, who'd been wandering in circles, trying to balance as he walked along the cracks of the stone floor.

"Come, we'll go visit the kitchen," Corwyn said. Though he had tried to hide it, his voice was still as dull and lifeless as it had ever been. The Smallbran was still too young to notice it. He took his brother's hand and followed him out of the hall, turning back to give a wave to Myra.

The doors closed and Myra was left at the table with her aunt and uncle.

"Another raven came." The Tallbran reached on the table, moving aside a map and picking up another unfurled ravenscroll. He tossed it across the table to her. Myra frowned and picked up the parchment. Before she laid eyes on any of the words, she found the green sigil of the bear and her heart sank. "From Bear Island."

To Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

My daughter, Sybelle, and her husband, Eddard, have fallen in the most recent Ironborn attack. In the wake of dark times, I would ask, as a father and a grandsire, that you send Myra Snow north to Bear Island.

Colyn Mormont, Lord of Bear Island

Myra's heart began thumping. She'd sworn to never go to Bear Island. To never waste a second of her life thinking about her father or his house. Yet, she could not stop staring at the name: Colyn Mormont. She'd heard of the Great Bear before – his exploits against Wildlings across the Frozen Shore and Ironborn to the south were nothing short of famous. But never had she considered him her grandsire. His son may have been her father in the most literal sense, but that was it.

"What would you have me say?" the Tallbran asked?

"Whatever you will," Myra said softly, looking up to meet his eyes. She swallowed at the prospect of having to leave her home.

"You're welcome here, Myra," Gwyn said quickly, walking around the table to touch Myra's arm. "There is no need to leave unless you wish to." She looked over to the Tallbran. His eyes lay heavy on Myra and fell down to the ravenscroll. After a moment, he took a heavy sigh and looked down at the map before him in thought.

"The Great Bear is a good man. I do not believe I should deny an honest request."

Myra's heart stopped. It were as though her bowstring had snapped and an arrow had fallen to the ground. She swallowed and steeled herself, giving a stiff nod. She fought back the tears – she refused to show such indignity in front of the Tallbran and her Aunt Gwyn.

"When am I to leave?" Myra asked very loudly, hoping her voice could not crack at such volume.

"Bran…" Gwyn began.

The Tallbran furrowed his brow. "First night of the new moon," he said. "I'll write for an escort."

"Bran, don't do this…" Gwyn said quietly.

"I'm sending her to her family," he replied.

"We are her family."

"Am I to deny the request of this old man?" The Tallbran asked with a shaking voice, picking up the scroll. "Bereaved of two children, shamed by a third?"

Myra's heart hardened at hearing him talk of her father. Out of all the Mormont's that had died, she'd wished her father had been one of them. But that was not the way – the worst did not die.

"I'll do what's expected of me, Uncle Brandon," Myra assured him. "If you'll excuse me, I wish to bathe." She picked up her bow and made her way out of the great hall and through the stone corridors and stairs to return to her chambers. She hurried as each step seemed to strip her steel. She fell into a sprint to her door, almost tripping on her gown as she slammed the door shut behind her as hot tears began to race down her cheeks.

Myra Snow returning to the home of her father, Kolfinn Mormont; the man that raped Mara Stark.

Rhaenerys

The Red Keep stood as a formidable citadel, a symbol of power and majesty in the heart of King's Landing. The ancient fortress with crimson-hued stone walls that seemed to drink in the setting sun's last rays was a labyrinth of hidden corridors, magnificent chambers, and bustling courtyards. Deeper into its heart, the grandeur gave way to whispers of history and echoes of secrets, for the Red Keep was more than just a palace; it was a kingdom within a kingdom.

The grand entrance, guarded by the crimson-armoured knights, ushered visitors into a cavernous hall. Cold, unforgiving black and red flags adorned the towering stone pillars, bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. There, the clinking of armour and the murmur of hushed conversations painted the scene. Loyal servants in the livery of Houses Hightower, Tully and Velaryon scurried about, carrying trays of goblets, replenishing jugs of wine, and attending to the many nobles who gathered to pay homage to the ruling house.

Beyond the bustling hall lay the Red Keep's ornate galleries, each richly decorated with tapestries depicting legendary battles – the Field of Fire, the Last Storm, the Burning of Harrenhal – all scenes of House Targaryen's conquest and dominion over the kingdoms. The muted colours of these artworks, dimmed by time and dust, created a melancholic aura, where the deeds of warriors and heroes from ages past were preserved in fragile threads.

Passing through the art-laden galleries, up the towers and into the royal apartments, the scent of polished wood and beeswax-infused the corridors, a testament to the ceaseless labour of the castle's tireless servants. Maids in crisply pressed aprons glided gracefully down the sun-soaked corridors.

Outside, the soothing susurrus of leaves and the songs of exotic birds perched in the trees. The gardens were a sanctuary within the fortress, an oasis of serenity where nobility retreated to find solace and escape the relentless pace of courtly life.

Amidst the lush greenery, the melodious laughter of children at play would occasionally ripple through the air. Servants bustled about, tending to the vibrant flora and ensuring that the fountains danced with crystal-clear waters. The gardens bore witness to clandestine meetings and whispered conspiracies, their beauty a stark contrast to the political intrigues that unfolded within their midst.

The chambers within the royal apartments was filled with shouts and the resounding thud of a door as Rhaenerys strode into an intricately carved masterpiece of a chamber. With her flowing silver hair and piercing violet eyes, Rhaenerys stormed across the chamber, her face contorted with anger. The room, adorned with silks and velvets of crimson and gold, bore witness to her fury – along with her own sister and a young woman that played the harp.

Daelaena was a great beauty – far more than Rhaenerys could ever hope or want to be. Her platinum hair was worn in a thick braid over her shoulder, her round, pale-violet eyes lifted up from the harp and found her sister. Where Rhaenerys was slight and slender, Daelaena was curved and womanly. Her milk-white skin was supple and unblemished, and her face still looked quite child-like. She reminded Rhaenerys of the dolls little girls were given.

"Don't mind my sister, Lady Dyanna, I'm sure she just wanted to hear your harp-playing. Isn't she good, Rhae?"

"Precious," Rhaenerys spat the words as she began to pace in the room. "He's gone! Flown to Dragonstone!"

"You might have to come back another time, Lady Dyanna," Daelaena smiled. Lady Dyanna picked up her harp and, with a curtsy to both princesses, left the chamber.

Daelaena stood up, wincing and picked up one of the cushions before sitting back down on top of it. "Who are we talking about?"

"Aerion, who else?"

"Yes, I saw Gaelithox fly some days ago…"

"You've known for days?"

"I assumed we all did."

"He's just letting Aemon sell me off like a broodmare to Storm's End."

"I've heard Durran Baratheon is quite handsome."

"The Knight of a Baker's Dozen?" Rhaenerys scoffed. "He sounds like a fat hog."

"I've yet to meet a Baratheon that's a fat hog…"

"That's not the point, Dae…" Rhaenerys groaned. "Aerion said he'd marry me – he promised!"

"You should've had him take you to wife before performing a wife's duty," Daelaena shrugged. "Never want a man's seed more than he wants to spill into you."

It had not been such as that; Rhaenerys knew she had never just been a cunt for Aerion to fuck. She'd never taken him into her bed nor had he had her in any way a man could have a woman. Not even when she had watched him mount Gaelithox, the largest dragon in the world, and begun to wonder how he might ride her. He was her Aegon, and she his Visenya. Two Targaryen's, ruling over Westeros from atop their dragons.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Rhaenerys retorted.

"Yes, I do-"

"No, you don't."

"Mother told me," Daelaena insisted. "You wouldn't remember."

"Mother wouldn't have said anything of the like!" Rhaenerys' purple eyes began to swim with anger as she took a step forwards and pointed a finger at her older sister. "You don't know anything," Rhaenerys hissed. "You're just a stupid girl!"

"I'm not stupid," Daelaena responded loudly, face beginning to contort in anger.

"You are stupid! Everyone knows it-"

"This is why no-one likes you, Rhae."

"People don't like you, they just like your holes-"

"You can't say that to me!" Daelaena rose to her feet. "Leave my chambers!"

"Don't tell me what to do," Rhaenerys responded in a shriek.

"Ser Osric!" Daelaena called.

The door to her chambers opened and in walked the tall knight with blond hair pushed aside from his block-jawed face. His large mouth was pressed into a thinner line of discomfort as he looked between the two sisters.

"Your Grace," Ser Osric removed his helm and tucked it under one arm, bowing his head.

"Remove my sister," Daelaena ordered him.

"Oh, you are foul," Rhaenerys spat the words back at her sister. Merely three years her elder, but she acted like it was thirty. "A foul, dirty little-"

"Remove her!" Daelaena repeated herself, louder this time.

Ser Osric's mouth opened and closed. "I'm afraid, Your Grace, I cannot: I am your sworn protector."

"Protect me from her!"

The door was still ajar when a second Kingsguard knight entered. He wore the dazzling white armour, the perfect, unblemished white cloak, just the same as Ser Osric did, but Ser Lucan was not the same. While Ser Osric Royce was of noble birth from the Vale, trained to ride a horse with a straight back, Ser Lucan was a true killer. Rhaenerys' sworn protector, Ser Lucan was as befitting a knight could be – less than half of his face was marred from dragonfire, covering a cheek, part of his ear and a side of his neck, Ser Lucan was dour-faced and bald. One could see how muscular he was, even when he was hidden behind that polished steel armour. Aside from his eyes which shone like shards of amber, Ser Lucan looked less like a noble knight, and more like a storied warrior.

"Your Grace. My Princess," Ser Lucan bowed his head to both women before giving a stiff nod and a grunt to Ser Osric, "Septa Maia wishes to know which handmaids you'd take to accompany you to Storm's End."

Rhaenerys' teeth ground together. "None."

"I shall inform her."

An idea shifted into Rhaenerys' head. "Maybe I'll take Shaena," she smirked at her sister, whose face turned pale white.

"Shaena is my handmaid!"

"You've got so many," Rhaenerys said innocently, "and I'll need one in Storm's End."

"You can't have her!"

"We'll see. Aemon has to do something for me," Rhaenerys clasped her hands behind her back and sauntered out of the chamber. "Maybe I'll have her fuck Durran for me."

"You can't-"

"You best make sure she's prepared for a road lesser travelled to fewer heirs." Rhaenerys said loudly. She glanced over her shoulder to see her sister stand up, grab the cushion she had been sitting upon and hurl it across the chamber, missing her entirely. "Come, Ser Lucan."

Rhaenerys left with her sworn protector, who closed the doors mere seconds before Daelaena let out a long scream of fury – one that made Rhaenerys smile.

Cassandra

Storm's End stood as a formidable fortress, its imposing stone walls rising like ancient sentinels against the tumultuous sea. The day had found the castle in a waning storm, the lingering echoes of thunder fading to mere whispers in the breeze. Clouds, once heavy and tempestuous, now scattered across the sky like fragments of a passing dream. The relentless rain had transformed into a gentle mist that clung to the rugged coastline.

As the storm receded, the sun began its hesitant return, casting feeble rays that painted the castle's grey stone with a soft, diffused light. The ramparts glistened with rainwater, each droplet a diamond in the sun's tentative embrace. The tumultuous waves that had pounded the cliffs had retreated, leaving behind froths of white trails and the distant murmur of the sea's lament.

Within Storm's End, the Round Hall stood as the heart of this ancient stronghold. It was a chamber of grandeur and history, its towering walls adorned with banners that bore the proud black stag on a gold field. The hall's circular design imparted an aura of unity, with its high, domed ceiling giving the impression of a boundless sky.

Tapestries depicting the feats of House Baratheon's past adorn the walls, depicting the Last Storm, the battle that had proven them overlords of the Stormlands, the legendary figures such as Orys One-Hand, the man who had vanquished the last Storm King, Argilac the Arrogant, before taking his wife, Argella, to wife. The blood of the First Men survived through the Baratheon's. Through Durran, Arrec and Oraella. And through the Bastard, though it pained Durran to acknowledge.

Torches flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mimic the ebb and flow of the tides outside. The air was rich with the scent of polished wood, ancient stone, and the remnants of a meal shared by lords.

At the hall's centre, beneath the watchful gaze of the stately Baratheon throne, a sole pair stood.

As daylight leaked through the hall's narrow windows, the Round Hall was illuminated, catching the light of their proud, ancient banner – the legacy of Houses Durrandon and Baratheon were etched into every stone, every tapestry, and every whispered promise.

Durran was tall, towering above all else in the Stormlands. He was stocky and full-bodied, very much as his father had been in his youth, with thick dark hair that fell to the nape of his neck. Thick black hairs sprouted out of his jaw as well as on his wrists, creeping up onto his hands. His round, steely blue eyes flickered over the scrawled words on the ravenscroll that he held with his large, calloused hands.

His red-haired mother sat on the small wooden chair beside the throne, her blue-green eyes watching her first-born lift up his head from the ravenscroll and begin to pace.

"It is an offer," she informed him.

"I can read…" Durran replied darkly. He kept quiet as he began to pace – he did not wish to raise his voice to his mother, not to scare her by throwing a chair across the Round Hall. Instead, he clenched his fist and continued to pace.

"It is a better match than you will find with any woman in the Seven Kingdoms-"

"I don't want to marry Rhaenerys Targaryen," he said firmly.

"Her dowry alone is ten-and-a-half thousand gold dragons…"

"I don't want to marry Rhaenerys, I want to marry Alyssa!" Durran lamented, scrunching up the ravenscroll and lobbing it towards the throne. Cassandra's face fell into sad smile – he may have been a man of one-and-twenty, but she could still see the little boy she had raised at times.

"I know Alyssa is a very beautiful woman," Cassandra said as she rose to her feet, picking up the ravescroll and idly straightening it between her fingers. "By all accounts, so is Rhaenerys Targaryen…"

"I don't care about that," Durran insisted.

"… But beauty does not mean love, Durran. I know that the Lady Alyssa may seem important to you-"

"She is important to me."

Cassandra approached her sun and rubbed his shoulder. He looked so much like his father, but had none of his sin. She was more her son than his, thank the Seven. "I loved your father, once," she told him. "He was the most handsome man I'd ever laid eyes upon. And he promised to be kind to me and to protect me." Her hand fell from his shoulder, down his large arms and upon his hand. "Love does not last, Durran."

"I grew up with her, Mother. I know her. She's kind and sweet and would make a fine wife. A fine Lady of the Stormlands."

"I've no doubt, sweet boy," Cassandra sighed as she handed him the wrinkled ravenscroll. "But this is an offer from the King. If we refuse, the Targaryen's may take it as an affront. And after what Aerion did to Arrec…" She trailed off upon seeing her son's face harden. "It would be foolish to refuse such an offer."

Durran turned away from her, staring out at the window. He was more troubled than his father had been at such an age – it was a cruel joke, that such a fine man was to be pained so. A man that did not indulge in drink like the drunkard, a man who did not fuck like the whoremonger. While Dorne may have corrupted the Strongarm's once-pure heart, the Reach had only served to strengthen Durran's.

"Would you not want your children to be dragonriders?" Cassandra asked. "The first of all the Stormlords."

The idea of what that may mean to their legacy seemed to soften Durran to the idea. He eventually sighed and gave a short nod. "I consent to the marriage," he said quietly, his words heavy with disappointment.

Cassandra's face hardened as the next topic sat heavy in her head. Her voice turned hard as stone. "There's something else."

"Prince Jaeghar wishes to wed Oraella?" Durran asked, an eyebrow raised, but Cassandra did not so much as smile at the joke.

"I spoke to Arrec this morn."

"He's well?"

"You ought to see him, Durran."

Durran's face shifted as he looked down to his feet. He felt a pang of guilt, it was clear; Durran had been the one to insist Arrec joust at Bronzegate. Durran was still a sweet boy, as he had always been – he was not to blame. Cassandra knew exactly who was to blame.

"Is that all?" Durran asked, his eyes still on the floor.

Cassandra lifted up her son's chin so he looked at her. "It's the bastard."

He frowned – Cassandra had made a point to never talk about the bastard to Durran before. Merely mentioning him seemed to be surrendering to Arlan. "He intends to ask your permission to join the invasion."

"Who told you that?" Durran didn't wait for an answer - it didn't matter to him. He simple scoffed and shook his head as he walked back to the throne. "The bastard can ask as many times as he likes."

"You must accept."

He turned around to face Cassandra with a frown. "You'd have me leave Arrec without him?"

"Arrec has you. You are his brother."

"Arrec disagrees, as he's made painfully clear." Durran murmured. Cassandra had never understood her youngest son – he had a much Dornish way of looking at the bastard.

"The bastard taints him – it's only because of your father that he grew attached."

"Arrec and I barely talk as is – now you'd have me send the bastard off to die?"

"Gods willing," Cassandra responded. Every day since he'd been brought back to her keep, Cassandra had wished the bastard death. Prayed for it. "If he is so eager to die in the south, let us send him."

Durran crossed his arms. "Arrec needs someone."

"Then he may consort with Justin Lonmouth, or Harwood Bolling – good, holy, true young men."

"Mother…"

"He has to go," Cassandra voice trembled as she approached her son, clutching his arms as her eyes fell to his chest. Tears pooled in her seafoam green eyes as she looked up at her son. "The bastard cannot stay, Durran. For ten-and-six years, he's lived here. He's ruined your brother, and Oraella has begun to think of him as kin- I can't bear to…" Cassandra took a breath and gathered her strength. She steeled herself – her son would not see her in such a state. "Send him away, Durran. Send him to Dorne and let him die. Arrec would be happier for it, in time. Oraella may be spared."

Durran grimaced and held his mother's shoulders with his large, calloused hands, rubbing her back as he comforted her. "He's yet to even ask me," Durran said quietly. "If the bastard truly believes his want of war truer than my brother's love for him, then perhaps… but I cannot harm Arrec by letting him die in war."

Cassandra sighed. Durran was better than she – the most perfect Baratheon man that had ever lived. Her heart burned with as much pride as pain at his words. "Now, I have something to ask of you."

"What?" Cassandra pulled the kerchief

"Oraella. I believe I may have found her a match."

Well, that chapter's done. There's undoubtedly typo's in here somewhere but… I've not slept in a long time, so… this is what y'all're getting. I'm looking forward to reading the reviews and I'll see you guys for the next one!