So, this took a while. I had writer's block with Jynessa's POV but I imagined to overcome that… I think.

So, I cannot tell you how many times I welled up and almost cried writing this chapter. Maybe that's me just being a sap, maybe that's listening to Ramin Djawaldi as I wrote, but I think there's at least one of you that'll cry reading this.

Thanks for the influx of reviews – some of you haven't been reviewing or messaging me or giving any indication you're reading, so… I mean, I've figured out who I'm just not gonna accept characters from in the future (that sounds childish, I know, but you're a silly-face, so who cares?). So, to those of you who are still reading, let me know if you like these very long chapters, or if you'd prefer more frequent updates with just one POV – 4 chapters for every 1.

Oh, and, some of you have been hitting me with fan theories (I'm actually kind of amazed how many there are!) and that's awesome. Someone said they wanna write a fanfic about this fanfic, and that made me smile – the majority of you guys are just fantastic, so, thanks guys. The readers/creators really give me energy. I'm like a parasite in that sense. Or a vampire.

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

Myra

Myra Snow stood on the cobbled courtyard of Winterfell, her breath forming soft puffs of mist in the crisp afternoon air. She pulled her heavy woollen cloak closer around her narrow hips, its soft brown fabric enveloping her like a shield against the encroaching cold. Beneath it, her lithe frame was clad in a black leather doublet over her light blue gown.

The courtyard bustled with activity, the preparations for the journey south in full swing. Men-at-arms, clad in the grey and white of House Stark, moved with purpose as they loaded wagons and wheelhouses with supplies. The rounseys and palfreys, sturdy and well-bred, were being saddled by stableboys who worked quickly despite the chill in the air.

Myra fixed the saddle on her own new palfrey, Whitemane, a pale mare that was little more than a filly. She seemed uneasy around the mess of people, despite having been stabled in Winterfell for three years. Myra shushed her mount, rubbing down her face and clicking her tongue. The mare's ears turned to face her.

"Don't worry girl," Myra said in little more than a sigh, "you won't have to worry too much longer…"

The summer snowfall was unexpected: Delicate flakes drifted from the sky, their pristine whiteness contrasting with the stone walls of Winterfell. Myra could feel the cool touch of the snowflakes as they settled on her cheeks, a fleeting caress.

Despite the warmth of her fur-lined gloves, Myra's hands still felt clammy with anticipation. The longest journey she had made was to the outskirts of the Wolfswood with Jonos Cassel. Back when the two of them talked, more than a year ago.

Winterfell's towering stone walls, weathered and formidable, loomed overhead, their ancient presence a symbol of Stark resilience. The castle's spires and turrets, dusted with a light layer of summer snow, added an ethereal quality to the scene, as if the very walls of Winterfell were adorned for a solemn occasion.

The horses, magnificent creatures bred for the harsh northern climate, were a source of strength and grace. Their breath steamed in the cold air, and their powerful bodies exuded an air of determination. Myra's gaze lingered on the white-maned palfrey that would carry her northward.

The wheelhouses, sturdy and practical, were packed with supplies and comforts for the journey. Myra knew that her uncle, the Tallbran, had meticulously planned every detail of this journey, ensuring the safety and well-being of his family and retinue.

The sound of men-at-arms and stableboys echoed through the courtyard, their voices carrying a sense of purpose and camaraderie. The clinking of armour, the creaking of saddle leather, and the soft whinnies of horses filled the air with the familiar sounds of preparation. Myra's heart swelled at the sight of the Stark banner, the direwolf emblazoned on a field of grey, waving proudly in the breeze. The banner of her cousins, her uncle, her mother.

As she looked out over the courtyard, the swirling summer snowflakes danced. Myra knew her journey held promises – perhaps of adventure, perhaps of family… But it also carried with it the weight of responsibility and the uncertainty of the future. She knew she had no right to remain, but she still felt a weight in her heart as she laid her dark grey eyes on the familiar walls of Winterfell that had sheltered her since her girlhood.

She turned to her left, and found Torrha there, dressed in her beautiful pastel-green dress and a silver-grey cloak with a white-fur mantle. Her family were all lined up outside the keep. Gwyn was busy holding her daughter's face, brushing the snow from Torrha's plaited hair and rubbing her cheek.

"…and if you're not happy there, you jump in that wheelhouse and come right back here," Gwyn ordered her. Torrha gave a small sob of a laugh. Myra saw her cousin's lip quiver, and Gwyn leant forwards to embrace her daughter in a fierce hug. The thought drifted into her head – if Myra's own mother was there, might she have received such a farewell? Would her mother be telling her she could return home at any time? That she would be loved, no matter where she went?

Myra swallowed the thought and tried not to watch Corwyn stare at his sister, his face cold and harsh as he looked down at his feet with a long sigh. "Be well, sister," he murmured. Still, Myra did not know what had happened between the two; Corwyn had no friends, he was not much for talking and warmth, but Torrha was family. Even now, at the moment of farewell, Corwyn still remained as unmoving and unforgiving as ice. Torrha gave a small nod. She had taken little more than a step when Cayden wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her in for a deep hug.

"Best visit soon," he said to her, "Corwyn won't let a fucking Tyrell up here when he's Lord of Winterfell."

"Cayden!" Gwyn hissed, pulling a hand around the Smallbran. Even Myra found herself smiling at Cayden and his stupid lopsided smile. The Tallbran shot Cayden a look before turning back to his wife and continuing his instructions.

"Remember, Torri," Cayden continued on, "you're a Stark. I don't care what fancy silk gowns you wear, or what fancy southron twat you wed."

"Cayden, that's enough," the Tallbran said curtly. Cayden rolled his eyes and broke apart from Torrha, resting his wrist on the ironwood handle of his dirk.

The Tallbran, meanwhile, stepped towards Corwyn, looking his son up and down.

"I'll be south for some months," he said stiffly, "your mother will oversee the castle, and you will listen to our people, and protect them."

"Yes, Father." Corwyn nodded.

"Winterfell is yours, son." The Tallbran turned to look at Cayden, who stared back up at him with those flint-grey eyes. No words were spoken between them, no exchanges of duty nor love. The Tallbran simply pulled on his gloves and turned to speak to the Smallbran.

As Torrha began to talk with the rest of the household, namely her handmaid, Alyna, Gwyn approached Myra, leaving the Smallbran with his brother, Cayden.

"Packed everything?" Gwyn asked.

"Yes, my Lady," Myra said, checking the saddlebag that held a few leaf-pointed arrowheads and iron casts.

Gwyn nodded, rubbing down the bright coat of Whiteman. Myra wanted to say something, but words were not her strongest quality. It wouldn't be proper – Gwyn was not her mother and Myra was not a Stark. Out of everyone in her uncle's family, Gwyn was the one she shared no blood with.

"Well… I'll write you," Gwyn said softly.

It was a rather sad thing, Myra thought, to have had something – someone close to a mother. Perhaps it would have been easier to leave if Gwyn had despised her – if all the Starks loathed her. She thought about her own mother again, about all the rumours of her and…

"Myra, it's-"

"Was it true?" Myra asked, unable to confine the question to her head. "Did my mother drink the moon tea? Because of…" She trailed off. She still had a hard time admitting it to herself – about who he had been. What he had done. "Did she not want me?"

Gwyn licked her lips. That moment of hesitation gave her all the answers she needed. It was true – it was all true – why else would Gwyn frown as such. "I cannot answer these questions anymore than you can…"

"Right…" Myra tried to steel herself. She wouldn't cry or sob in front of others – she was not a Stark, but she had noble blood. Such moments of weakness were reserved for private, not in front of two hundred men-at-arms and two-dozen stableboys and servants.

"You were always so quiet," Gwyn began, her eyes on her niece, "even as a babe. No kicking or crying. The day you were born, I held you, look down into your dark little eyes, and you held my finger with your whole fist…" Myra turned to see Gwyn smiling, "and I promised on Torri, still in my belly, that I would never let you alone. Even if you felt scared or unloved, it would not be so, because I would always love you, no matter what."

Myra felt herself smile, and her body acted of its own accord. She rushed forwards and wrapped her long arms around her aunt, burying her face in the woman's ashen hair. Her aunt placed a hand upon the back of her head and embraced back, her arms squeezing her so tightly that Myra thought it would be impossible to break away.

"Thank you, Aunt Gwyn,"

The two parted moments before Alyna Forrester approached, dressed in her black travelling cloak as well, a small piece of folded parchment in her hands, bearing the white seal of House Forrester.

"Be well, Myra," Gwyn said, stroking a thumb over her cheek before turning to depart. Alyna paused for a moment to curtsy and bow her head as Gwyn passed, before looking to Myra.

"I do not think we'll have a moment once on the road," she explained. It puzzled Myra – she never thought the two of them had been close enough to warrant a goodbye or a letter.

"No," Myra agreed.

"You are passing through the Wolfswood, I take it?"

"Aye, to Deepwood Motte."

Alyna nodded and handed her the letter. "Would you take this to Ironrath, for me?" She asked. "To my family?"

Myra paused, not because she would not agree, but because she realised the two still were not friends – it was simply a favour being asked of her. "Of course, my Lady."

Alyna smiled as Myra took the letter from her. She rubbed her gloved hands and licked her lips. "If you… if you could tell my father that I miss him so, and that I wish I could see him, I'd be in your debt. And my brothers… tell them to practice playing Quarryboard, as they're both something terrible at it."

Myra nodded. "I shall."

Alyna gave a polite smile before squeezing Myra on the arm as some form of gratitude or fondness before climbing into the wheelhouse. Beside the keep, Torrha approached her youngest brother, Smallbran, who had remained quiet the entire time. Torrha smoothed down her dress and crouched down, trying to meet the boy's eyes, but he stared determinedly at the ground, one arm around his mother's leg.

"I'll be back soon, Bran," Torrah promised him, "and when you're older, you can visit me all the time." Smallbran continued to stare at the ground, his brow stitched together in anger, his lips pouted. A moment passed and he stuffed his face into Gwyn's skirts.

"Brandon, say farewell to your sister," Gwyn ordered him, but Smallbran did not respond. "You'll feel better…"

Smallbran looked out from his mother's skirts and looked, not at Torrha, but at Myra. He licked his lips and let go of his mother, running as fast as his little legs would carry him until he had both arms wrapped around Myra's thighs.

"I don't want you to leave," He said, his cracked voice muffled by her skirts. Myra felt something in her chest break, but she did not know if it was the boy's sorrow, or Torrha's face. Myra felt as if she had betrayed her cousins in some way.

"I don't want to leave," Myra said as she knelt down to talk to her little cousin, "but there's more to the world than our wants."

Smallbran began to look at the ground once again, but Myra gently pressed her finger against his chin to meet his eyes. "I'll be back all the time," she assured him, "and Torri will be too. But she's scared as well. She needs you to be brave for her."

The boy's eyes grew tearful and he pressed his little hand against his red cheek. "You swear you'll come back?"

Myra smiled, placing the miniscule hands in hers, "By the old gods and the new." An idea came to her. She stood up and reached into the saddlebag, retrieving one of the small leaf-point arrowheads and bending down to Smallbran. "You can never lose this, ever," she told him, placing it in his hand. "But you need to say farewell to your sister."

The Smallbran eyed the arrowhead before turning back to look at his sister. His lip quivered and he gently shook his head. "I don't want to."

"Brandon…"
"I don't want to," he said more fiercely.

"It'll upset her if you-" Myra reached out to touch his shoulder, but the Smallbran shook her off and began running off from the stables and down beside the keep. Corwyn turned around, with a curse under his breath, began running after his little brother.

The Tallbran escorted Torrha to the wheelhouse, helping her climb in and closing the door. As Gwyn lingered by the door, saying some final words, the Tallbran walked over to pat down Whitemane and talk to Myra.

"I suppose we… won't have another chance once riding."

"You are heading South…" Myra nodded.

"Aye…" The Tallbran cleared his throat. "I know this is not what you wish. But none of us choose the roles we are cast in this world. We do what is required of us, Starks most of all."

Myra nodded. It was true – it was the way he had raised her. Though, Myra was a Snow. She was the Wolfsbane. She'd never be a Stark. No matter how much love Gwyn and Cayden and Torrha and the Smallbran showed her.

"Myra," the Tallbran stepped closer and laid a hand on her shoulder. She turned to look up at him, upon his weather-beaten brow and grey eyes. "From the moment you drew breath, whether anyone willed it or not, you were a Stark. Wherever you go, whatever you are called, that can never change."

It was something Myra had heard a hundred times over from Aunt Gwyn, but never from him. Perhaps that was why it felt true. His face seemed to collapse for a moment as he looked at her, his eyes searching hers for… something no-one could describe. Finally, he spoke up.

"You look like her," he said finally. Then, the Tallbran steeled himself and turned to walk towards his destrier.

Myra cleared her throat and took a long sigh, glancing after Tallbran. It gave her a warm feeling in her chest, hearing those words. She took a long look at the towering walls, the snow-dappled courtyard, the marketfolk that had stopped to witness Torrha Stark's escort southward, handing flowers to the men-at-arms.

Myra placed a foot in the stirrup and mounted up, fixing her gown and checking her new bow was secure. She waited on horseback for a few moments until the wheelhouse creaked and began to roll forwards. The smallfolk began to applaud and Torrha's arm stretched out to wave. Myra clicked her tongue and squeezed her legs and Whitemane began to amble forwards as she began on her departure.

They had barely left the gates when Myra heard shouting come from the castle gates.

"Torri! Torri!"

Myra turned around to see the little Smallbran racing down the mud road, his cloak billowing after him as he soared beneath the horses' legs. The escort halted and Smallbran continued running, his breath like plumes of white smoke. The door to the wheelhouse swung open and Torrha exited. The moment her foot was upon the floor, Smallbran had leapt to wrap his arms around her neck. Tears welled in her grey eyes as she wrapped her hands around his back, squeezing.

"I don't want everyone to leave," Smallbran said, loud enough for Myra to hear.

"It's not forever," Torrha assured him. "When you're older, you can come and visit me! And I'll be back before you know it. I'll have sons and daughters for you to meet and play with in no time."

Myra raised her eyebrows "By the Others…" she murmured.

Smallbran leant away and, with a look to his father, stepped away. Torrha returned to her wheelhouse and the party began to move once again, leaving Smallbran on the road until he was joined by his mother and brothers. The girls left with the Tallbran, and the boys stayed with Gwyn.

Jynessa

The Old Palace in Sunspear shimmered in the early evening light, its sandstone walls glowing like molten gold under the Dornish sun. The air was imbued with the heady scents of honey and lemon, and spices. Within the grand hall, known as the Hall of Hidden Truths, a revelera was in full swing, which Princess Jynessa Martell, the ruler of Dorne, presided over.

Dorne was a land of contrasts and contradictions, and the revelera was no exception: The banquet was a tapestry of colours, textures, and flavours. The low wooden tables were adorned with gold platters of succulent roasted goat, bathed in a delicate honey and lemon glaze that sent waves of sweetness and tartness across the senses. Grape leaves, mushrooms, raisins, onions, and the ever-infamous dragon peppers added to the array of tastes, a symphony of the exotic.

Guests, both noble and common-born, sat cross-legged on silk cushions, draped in vibrant gossamer veils, crimson silk, and sheer scarves cascaded from the slender shoulders of women, while men wore loose robes that hinted at their sinewy forms. Laughter and chatter filled the air as all indulged in the sumptuous spread before them.

Jynessa Martell, a woman of two-score years, reclined on a crimson cushion at the head of the revelera, her almond eyes shimmering with a quiet, unspoken melancholy. She watched her guests with a mixture of tenderness and detachment: To her right, Lord Alleras Allyrion fed Vallo Sand, a coy grin twisting on his lips. Figs and olives passed between them, lips lingering on the sweet, succulent flesh.

To her left, Loreza Gargalen and her brother, Trebor, both kissed the dark, slender neck of their shared paramour, Teora Jordayne. Jynessa was somewhat irked at this – they had hardly touched their wine.

The sultry evening air wrapped itself around the guests like a lover's embrace. Torches flickered, casting a warm, golden glow that danced on the faces of the guests. Musicians played haunting melodies on stringed instruments, their music weaving through the very fabric of the evening, setting the mood for the festivities.

Jynessa's fingers traced the rim of her goblet, her thoughts drifting like windblown sand. The revelera but a fleeting moment in the grand tapestry of Dornish history. She savoured the taste of honey and lemon on her tongue, the heady blend of spices and roasted meat. The air was heavy with the scents of incense, mingling with the aroma of the feast. Each bite, each sip, carried with it a trace of longing and nostalgia, a recognition of the ephemeral nature of existence.

Myria, Jynessa's eldest, had inherited their voluptuous form too, though her skin was fairer like her father, Nymor. While her sister wore a men's shirt and robe, Myria was clothed in red sheer silk Her dark hair was tied into a simple braid that fell across her shoulder, and her eyes were as dark and brown as Jynessa's herself. While Allyria eyed the dancer, Myria instead, drummed a finger along the table in tandem with the beating of the drum.

Jynessa's mind began to wander back to a similar feast she had attended. Many years ago, with her younger siblings – Gwyneth and Alleras and little Lewyn. She remembered watching them eat the grilled snake and honeyed locusts as she began to wonder where Dickon, her brother only but three minutes younger than her, had escaped to. She remembered the gentle cough of Lewyn, who always did indulge with food. How her younger brother, Qyle, had stolen through the golden silk curtains that hung at the archway to the Hall of Hidden Truths, bellowing for all to not touch the food.

Lewyn was the first to fall, clutching his throat. Then it was Alleras. Then Gwyneth, followed by half a dozen more guests. The hall was a mess with blood and urine and excrement, their prettiest silks and plushest velvets were stained with it all. And then Jynessa had understood why Dickon had not been there. Why he had stolen out of Sunspear before the revelera had begun. 'Find him, Qyle', she'd ordered with all the rage of a woman bereaved of her brothers and sister, 'and bury him beneath the sands.'

Qyle had carried out his mission. Somewhere below the dunes in the west, Dickon Martell had been swallowed by the land. Perhaps parts of him remained – perhaps nothing did after the snakes and scorpions and vultures had set upon him. It did not matter anymore. The kinslayer was slain by his own kin. It was a fitting punishment.

He had never been the same since then, either. He had always been the strangest of the Martell's of Sunspear – he did not take a woman to his bed, nor did he take a man. He did not indulge in drink and food. She had often thought it funny – that Arlan Baratheon had grown up at their court and conducted himself more like a Dornishman, whilst Qyle had carried himself with the stern face and thick beard like some northerner. It was hard to tell when Qyle grown dour, but after her twin's attempt at usurping her crown, Qyle had become severe.

"Ness?" Came the deep voice of her husband, Nymor. He was a handsome man – the spitting likeness of his grandfather, Ricasso, according to her own late father, Martyn. With beautiful, dark hair and dark violet eyes, Nymor brushed a hand across Jynessa's cheek. He had so frequently enjoyed playing with her hair, but… well, beneath her silken shawl, there was no hair for him to play with. No longer any dark curls to spill across his fingers.

"I wish to find Allyria…"

"I can seek her for-"

"I wish to walk," Jynessa insisted, her voice smooth and soft, yet commanding. Nymor bowed his head to her – before he had been her Prince Consort, he had also been her sworn protector. The greatest swordsman south of the Red Mountains at least – how could the Sword of the Morningnot make a fine protector? He was not only an artist with his blade, but he was also loyal, and obedient. Jynessa wondered whether all knights in Westeros were such as he.

She removed herself from her cushion and retreated across the Water Gardens. It often soothed her – strolling through the lush and serene environs, her steps light and graceful upon the sun-kissed pathways through a symphony of colours and scents.

As she walked, Jynessa's gaze wandered across the tranquil reflective pools and the emerald foliage that lined the paths. The soothing murmur of the fountains provided a melodic background to the vivid tapestry that was the Water Gardens. The fragrance of the blooming exotic flowers hung delicately in the air, a sweet smell that took her back to her youth, and to when Myria and Allyria would play in those gardens as children.

There was a pant – a moan. Jynessa turned the corner to see the sweeping long coat of golden sink spilling across the stone and into the dark water of the fountain, reflecting the constellations above. Within this golden silk was Allyria, her face buried into the neck of another woman – Teona Allyrion. She was ten years Allyria's senior, full-figured and copper-skinned. Her lips were parted ever-so-slightly as Allyria's hand slipped inside her dress to caress the woman's breast beneath kisses. Teona's brown eyes opened to see Jynessa approaching, and her mouth shut, her eyes dropping down to the floor. Though, she made no motion for Allyria to stop.

"My Lady," Jynessa said, glancing over to Allyria, "Daughter. You're missed at the feast."

"I had other appetites," Allyria responded, looking back to the woman beside her. She brushed the dark curls from her shoulder and planted a soft kiss on her skin.

"Lady Teona – your husband is looking for you," Jynessa informed the woman. Teona bit her lip before standing up, pulling at the neck of her dress and beginning to walk away, wiping her neck and shoulders, and leaving Allyria sat by the fountain, chewing her tongue and leaning down to pick up her jug of wine.

"Was that all?" Allyria asked.

"Are you upset?"

"Not at all," Allyria scarcely seemed to notice her mother sitting down beside her. Allyria had taken after Jynessa – she scarcely grew angry or upset – worries and woes seemed to glaze over her like sand over a snake. She was wearing a long gold coat over an ochre-orange linen shirt which parted at the navel to show she had inherited the darker skin of House Martell, as well as the round breasts Jynessa had, just as her mother before her. Though, she had inherited the violet eyes popular with House Dayne.

Though she looked like Jynessa, she had been different in the last few months – since her training with her spear had concluded. Of course, throughout her tutelage, she had grown less concerned with, well, anything. Nymor insisted she was finding her own way in life, but Jynessa blamed the man who had taught her daughter to wield a spear – Shidaz, the Ghiscari warrior. Allyria idolized him – more than her own father, the Sword of the Morning. And it wasn't until his training that she had become less and less preoccupied with being a Martell of Sunspear, and instead began spending her days whoring and drinking.

"Qyle told me you intend to serve as his Captain."

"He asked, I accepted."

"I thought you said there was little point to the war," Jynessa said as she tried to comb some of Allyria's stray hairs with her fingers.

"There's little point to any war," Allyria replied.

"Then why serve?"

"Why not?" Allyria said with a sigh – her voice was bored – cold, almost. "I'm good at killing, so why not kill?"

"Because you could die as well."

Both of Jynessa's daughters were warriors. Myria had her sword, and Allyria had her spear, but

"Valar Morghulis," Allyria said with a simple shrug.

A drunken fool may speak the truest words. Allyria was no fool, but the sentiment wrang true: All Men Must Die. Jynessa's hand slipped beneath the linen shawl wrapped around her head, and rubbed her smooth scalp: all hair was shorn every two nights at the instruction of her physicians, so as to not impede the leeching. A whole month, she'd been subject to this, assured that it was more effective than bleeding her again. But that was what they had said four months ago, when they suggested she breathe in 'good airs', and cleanse herself in the Mother Rhoyne's waters. All water was hers, it was true, but none provided any cure to her. Perhaps it was her time – perhaps, soon, her body would be given to the waters. The thought had not scared her (apart from when she and Qyle had watched the bodies of their younger brothers and sister be pushed out together on the raft), though Jynessa found, in the quiet moments with her daughters or Nymor, that she was scared. The thought of her daughters carrying on, in a time of war, and her not being there… it was enough to stop her heart.

"Let us hope it is not a long war," Jynessa said, more to herself than to Allyria, as she looked up at sun, burnt a dark orange, still light enough to see the rays of the sun and the rising of the moon.

Freya

King's Landing sprawled along the eastern coast of Westeros. It was a place of soaring towers, ancient stone walls, and a sea that stretched to the horizon. Freya Greyjoy stood at the bustling harbour, her eyes fixed on the horizon, where a distant ship approached with black sails. Lord Codd? No, Harlaw – the Harlaw's were a more prominent family… maybe? Freya couldn't remember – she'd never focused whenever the Iron Islands were mentioned in her education.

The taste of salt and brine hung in the air, carried by the warm sea breeze that played with her dark hair. The scents of fish and seaweed mingled with the more pungent aromas of the city, creating a unique olfactory tapestry that defined the coastal atmosphere.

The distant cries of gulls echoed in the sky, their white wings cutting through the azure expanse. Their raucous calls punctuated the rhythm of the harbour, a reminder of the endless cycle of life and sustenance that the sea provided. The soft lapping of the waves against the stone quays added a soothing counterpoint to the seagulls' cries.

The harbour was a place of constant activity and transience. Ships of various sizes and origins lined the docks, their masts swaying gently with the tide. Crews moved about with purpose, loading and unloading cargo, their voices carrying snippets of languages from across the known world.

As Freya observed the harbour, she felt the energy of King's Landing surrounding her. The city was alive with its own heartbeat, a rhythm that pulsed with the ebb and flow of trade, politics, and power. The clamour of voices, the clang of metal against wood, the shouts of dockworkers… Her eyes wandered over the people who moved about the docks, each with their own story and purpose. Merchants haggled over the price of goods, sailors shared tales of their voyages, and urchins weaved through the crowd, their nimble fingers searching for opportunities amidst the commotion.

The warm sunlight bathed the harbour in a soft golden glow, casting long shadows over the sandstone walls of the Red Keep, perched high above, a formidable guardian of history and grandeur.

A sudden gust of wind ruffled Freya's dark cloak and sent her hair swirling. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, savouring the mingling scents of the sea and the city. The sea breeze carried the promise of adventure – a call to home.

The distant horizon shimmered with the outline of the ships. Freya could even make out the gold kraken emblazoned upon them – of course she had her own ships, she was the Lady of the Iron Islands. When she returned, she'd most likely have a Lord Regent awaiting her, and other Lords might journey there to pay tribute to her as the first Lady Paramount of the Iron Islands. She'd learn about their ancient traditions.

Freya could almost taste the salt on her lips as she imagined the journey ahead, a return to her homeland and her people. The call of the Iron Islands, with their harsh beauty and untamed spirit… maybe that was why she never belonged in King's Landing…

Maelor Targaryen stood at her side, a hand on the slender handle of Dark Sister. He'd remained in King's Landing to watch over his nephew, Lucerys, and hand Freya over to her countrymen. He clearly felt annoyed at this, being denied an invitation to not just one marriage, but two.

As the ship pulled in and the lines were cast to dockworkers, who set about securing them to the bronzed cleats.

"Remember, Lady Greyjoy," Maelor said softly into her ear, "I burned your keep and your mother. I struck down your kinsmen. If you oppose the crown, you'll share the same fate."

Every muscle inside Freya contracted. Her thighs were quaking. Her neck was so stiff it began to ache. The gangplank shuddered against the stone floor and a group began to disembark.

There was a woman with long, sun-lightened tresses and a pointed face walked out, clad in a linen tunic under a byrnie and leather breastplate. Her blue eyes flickered from Maelor to the knights, and her hand rested on the steel leaf-pommel of her sword.

Next was a man in black, with a glove upon his right hand. He carried a blade at each side, and one side of his head was shorn of all hair. He took his place by the woman, a hand on the silver pommel of the knife at his belt.

Last came a man that looked to be younger than both. A man full-grown with a slender frame, in a woollen tunic and thick, steel-studded leathers. He wore an axe and a sword at his belt. His hair was the darkest, and he stood a little shorter than the man in black, but he had an air of authority to him. Standing in front, he rested a hand on his axe-head and cocked his head to the side, examining Freya with curiosity.

"Welcome, my Lords," Maelor said loudly, "quite the voyage, it would seem."

"It was," the man replied. "This her?"

Freya's ears burned – not from the man's words, but from Maelor's eyes. "This is Lady Freya of House Greyjoy. The rightful Lady Paramount of the Iron Islands."

The woman smirked, and the man in black let out a long laugh.

"Lady Freya…" The man in black said, smiling with amusement.

"You ought to tell your Lady your name," Maelor's voice was terse as he addressed the man in front.

"Rayn Greyjoy," the man replied, stifling a yawn and looking out across the horizon. Freya frowned – she'd heard she had a brother, Rayn. A brother that had sailed away when she was but a year old. A brother that had never returned, nor had any of his ships. In fact, none of them had ever been seen again. It wasn't as if she could recognise him. Though, he had a ship with Kraken sails.

"Greyjoy?" Maelor asked, looking to Freya. His hand wrapped around the slender handle of Dark Sister, and for a moment, Freya was certain he was going to draw his blade and ruin Rayn through. Or perhaps her? All of them, most likely. "It is customary to kneel when addressing royalty."

"Good thing I'm not royalty, then," Rayn replied, taking a step forwards. The knights around Freya and Maelor all stepped forwards, their hands on their longswords. Rayn gave a small wave to them. "I'm here to take back my sister."

"How did you hear she was leaving?"

"I didn't – I planned on killing every man in my way," Rayn said in little more than a whisper, grinning at Maelor. Freya's eyes widened, and before she could even fathom the stupidity of the man claiming to be her brother, she saw Maelor smirk.

"All the Greyjoys are dead," Maelor stated. "I should know – I killed most of them."

Rayn's black eyes searched Maelor's violet for a moment. "Lucerys, is it?"

Maelor's smirk twisted away and his nostrils flared. "That was my brother. Killed by your kin."

"It seems we've something in common, then." Freya saw Rayn's hand wrap around the hilt of his sword. She felt as though her legs may give – men with axes and swords and shields lined the longship, leaning on the taffrails and waiting, satisfied grins painted on their faces.

"We didn't know any other Greyjoys were alive," Freya said, clearing her throat. Rayn's eyes found her. Dark and round like hers. His skin was fair, his features soft, apart from his jaw. He looked quite similar to her, that much was true.

"Now you do," Rayn said, walking towards her. "I heard you had some trouble-"

"No trouble," Maelor stated, "Just six castles razed and a thousand ironmen cut down – all but your father, the coward took his own life before…"

"That was good of him, saving you the trouble," Rayn said almost cheerfully,

"Your islands are a ruin."

"Mine may be," Rayn nodded, looking back to Freya, his brow slightly furrowed. "A son comes before a daughter? The older before the younger? Or has the custom changed?"

Maelor looked back to Freya. "You were presumed to be dead."

Rayn looked down at his own body for a moment before cocking his head to the side. "No longer, I presume. We best be off, then – keeps to restore, islands to repopulate…"

"If you wish to claim your inheritance, you'll have to swear fealty to the Iron Throne," Maelor declared. He held out his arms wide, almost as if he were inviting Rayn to an embrace – or perhaps welcoming a dagger to his heart. "As the sole Targaryen in King's Landing, you may bend the knee to me."

Rayn turned to the two companions behind him, then back to the Prince. "And if I do not?"

"Then my dragon shall devour you."

"Let's find out, shall we?" Rayn licked his lips and let out a whistle. The men on the ship began to beat the metal boss of their round shields with axes and swords. Rayn shoulders raised as if he were a predator, waiting to pounce. He hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and Maelor responded in turn. The knights around him huddled closer together, each of them with hands on the hilts of their longswords.

"Perhaps we may forego bending the knee?" Freya suggested to Prince Maelor. "I've sworn oaths of fealty many times, Your Grace."

"It seems those oaths will not matter if you are supplanted," Maelor replied, his violet eyes unmoving from Rayn.

"Whether my brother swears a vow or bends the knee matters little: it is the Prince of Dragonstone's will that I return to the Iron Islands."

"The Prince of Dragonstone is not here. And there is no proof this man is who he says he is."

"Perhaps you might talk to my oarsmen," Rayn suggested, "we'll happily prove it to you."

Maelor's tongue flicked across his teeth before, eventually, his hand removed itself from Dark Sister's handle. "Safe travels, Greyjoy. I'm sure our paths will meet again."

"I look forward to it," Rayn replied curtly, a hand on the bearded axe at his side. Maelor shook his head, scoffing slightly at Rayn and muttering something under his breath before, finally, turning around and walking away with his shoulders rolled back and his head held high, the long cuts of velvet slapping against his legs as he left with his guard.

Freya was left on the stone pier with the ironmen, who turned their attention to her. Rayn gave a small sigh, looking her up and down before directing his attention to the woman.

"Take my sister to her cabin."

Ardan

As the hour of the nightingale approached, a gathering storm cast a heavy shadow over Storm's End. The first drops of rain began to fall from the ominous clouds, pattering softly against the sandstone walls and cobblestone courtyard. Ardan Storm stood at the far end of the courtyard, accompanied by a cadre of lesser servants and squires.

The coastline further south was ablaze with turmoil, an impending tempest fast approaching from the horizon. The once-cerulean sky had once again darkened to a moody, ominous grey, and the wind carried with it the salty tang of the roiling sea. The waves, once gentle and rhythmic, now crashed against the jagged cliffs with a fury, as if the Storm God were unleashing his wrath.

The keep loomed like an indomitable fortress against the backdrop of an approaching storm. Its massive, imposing walls of thick stone seemed unyielding as the tempestuous sea lashed at the cliffs.

Standing in front of their ancient seat, lined up to meet the wedding party, was the Baratheon family. Durran at the front, wearing a waxed-woollen cloak with wolf's fur. His dark hair was combed back to the nape of his neck, and a dark beard feathered his jaw. He was the tallest man there – with thick arms and shoulders, a longsword at his side.

Arrec stood by his side, wearing a sword at his hip. A sword he'd been given eight years ago on his name day – 'Stormbringer', their father had called it. Of course, Arrec had never once taken it out of its scabbard. It was a beautiful sword – a stag's head cast in bronze upon the pommel, the crowned stag in silver upon the rainguard, antlers that wrapped around the quillons – Arrec had wryly asked whether it was a blade or a hunting trophy. His scalp had been freshly shorn, his jaw as well, and the frilled collar of a gold shirt peered out from his velvet jerkin.

On the other side of Durran was his mother, Lady Cassandra. She had refused to so much as look at him – it was something Ardan thought he might have taken pleasure in – the two people that hated him most in the world were at odds with one another. But Ardan just felt more fear – as though either one might have been angry enough to banish him from his home.

Finally, there was little Oraella. Her hair a wild frenzy of ringlets and curls. Nothing like the straight hair of Durran or the cropped stubble of Arrec. Ardan could still make out the blue-green silk of her dress beneath her thick, black woollen cloak. He could see her small hand in Arrec's (most likely to keep her from running off), but little else: It was hard for him to see much so far back.

Ardan remained at the back of the household, lined up among the servants and low-born squires. In his youth, he may have stood behind his father, next to Maester Rickard or Lady Cassandra's handmaids, but that had not been the way for several months. Ardan accepted it with a stoic resolve – he would not give Lady Cassandra any satisfaction. His half-brother, Durran, would greet the Targaryens as Lord Regent on behalf of their father, while Ardan lingered in the periphery, a bastard with Baratheon blood, but forever an outsider. He'd assured Arrec he was happier back there, further away from Lady Cassandra and Lord Durran but, in truth, Ardan wanted to be further away from all the Baratheons – Arrec included: if he wasn't next to a Baratheon, no-one would look at him. He wouldn't have to be introduced as the Bastard of Storm's End.

The air was charged with anticipation and a sense of unease, as the soft rain turned into a faint drizzle. Ardan pulled his cloak closer around his body, trying not to think about the rain that began to drip from his dark hair down his back. The courtyard had fallen into hushed stillness, save for the distant rumble of thunder that resonated like a prelude to the coming storm.

Ardan watched as the dark clouds above swirled in turbulent patterns, their inky mass threatening to unleash a deluge upon the ancient fortress. The torches that lined the courtyard flickered and hissed in protest against the approaching tempest. The scent of rain-soaked earth mingled with the dampness of stone, filling the air with the earthy perfume of an impending storm. The courtyard itself was a vast expanse of weathered cobblestones, worn smooth by centuries of use.

The open gates of Storm's End loomed before them, towering and imposing, the sigil of House Baratheon emblazoned upon them, a symbol of power and tradition. The guards atop the walls were vigilant, their cloaks snapping in the wind as they strained to catch a glimpse of the approaching Targaryen wheelhouses.

Ardan could feel the palpable tension that had settled over the waiting party. The storm, with its distant flashes of lightning and low growls of thunder in the distance served as a reminder that they could not wait forever.

First came the guards, cantering upon their destriers up the bending road that led to the gates. Their coal-black helms were emblazoned with scarlet wings, the three-headed dragon emblazoned upon their breastplates. Everyone straightened up, and Ardan noticed the other squires and household knights release their cloaks to clasp their hands and bow their heads. Ardan reluctantly did the same.

The Targaryen wheelhouses approached the gates of Storm's End, their wheels churning through puddles and mud. Ardan's gaze followed the procession, his deep blue eyes fixed on the imposing gates that would soon admit the royal visitors.

The rain continued to fall, turning the courtyard into a glistening, wet expanse. The torchlight danced upon the slick cobblestones, creating shimmering reflections that added to the enchantment of the moment.

The sound of wheelhouse wheels on the cobblestone path resonated through the tumultuous air. The Targaryens were arriving, their wheelhouses drawn by strong, black steeds. Durran straightened up and began talking to his mother and brother (Arrec turned back to see Ardan and rolled his eyes dramatically, making his half-brother laugh), before raising a hand and signalling the trumpets to begin playing.

As the wheelhouses came to a halt, the tension in the courtyard heightened. Ardan could hear the muffled voices of the guards as they exchanged words with the Targaryen party, their hushed tones barely audible over the steady patter of rain.

He watched the kingsguard knights dismount, almost in awe as. Their white cloaks, the shining steel of their armour, the way they moved as one. He was watching heroes – living legends and blademasters.

All boys were taught their histories. Those noble-born (or bastards such as he) might be educated in learning the great battles: the Last Storm, the Field of Fire, the Wailing Willows, the Battle at the Crossroads. Ardan and Arrec and Durran and every other boy in Storm's End learned the tactics, the strategies – where to place one's cavalry, where to place siege engines, and the like. But when Ardan was younger, he used to pick up his wooden sword and imagine he was a knight of the kingsguard – noble and honourable and true and stalwart. He would pretend to be Ser Connas Corbray, the White Raven, who saved Alizabeth Mallister from the Black Horns mountain clan at the age of sixteen, all on his own. And there he was, not too far away from him – Ardan could make out the heart-shaped ruby set into the pommel – Lady Forlorn. One of the few blades forged from Valyrian Steel in Westeros.

Of course, Ardan knew almost everything about the knight – after all, Maester Rickard was Ser Connas' own brother.

The wheelhouse doors opened and out stepped a young man – around Durran's age. He was tall and lanky. A wisp of a figure that seemed to blow in the wind as easily as the long long strands of milk-white hair. His skin was so pale, he seemed to glow. Like Arrec, he walked with a cane. It must have been Aemon Targaryen – the Prince of Dragonstone. A man cursed with bones as weak as glass in one leg. Following him out of the wheelhouse was a woman and, for a moment, Ardan wondered if she was Durran's intended, but the two silver-haired boys that followed her out suggested otherwise – she must have been Prince Aemon's wife, Vaenys. The eldest of the two boys was likely the same age as Oraella, with silver-gold already falling to his shoulders.

A second wheelhouse opened and a younger man stepped out – someone Ardan remembered quite well: Short platinum hair, a face full of scars and deep violet eyes, Ardan watched Prince Jaeghar Targaryen step out of the wheelhouse and rest a hand on his longsword as he turned around, looking the keep up and down. He was still wearing a gambeson – quite unseemly for a feast. Ardan wondered whether his mother's handmaids, the ladies Swann and Selmy, would whisper about it at the feast, as they so often enjoyed doing. Ardan would have to hide himself at the feast – simply being in his presence felt like a taunt after the tourney at Bronzegate.

"I thought they rode dragons," one of the squires said.

"Shut up, Alyn," another muttered to him.

Before a final figure could exit the wheelhouse, Aemon approached Durran, and the entire household dropped down onto one knee. Ardan bowed his head with all the rest, peering up to watch the Glass Prince lean on his cane and gesture for Durran to stand once again.

"Rise."

Durran rose (as did the household) and met Aemon's eyes. "Storm's End, and the Stormlands, are yours, Your Grace."

Aemon smiled – it was not warm, nor familiar, but cold and polite. As though it were forced. He turned to the side to introduce his family.

"My wife, Vaenys."

"Your Grace," Durran bowed his head and kissed her ruby ring.

"My Lord," Vaenys gave a graceful curtsy.

"And my sons, Aerys and Maeghar," he gestured to his taller son and then the shorter.

"Strong swordsmen, they look to be."

"I believe you're familiar with my brother, Prince Jaeghar."

Ardan's eyes studied the mess on his cheeks – deep lacerations that had yet to heal sat on his face. In his youth, his Lord Father had always explained that women loved scars. Battle-wounds were trophies – proof of one's bravery. But the scars only made Jaeghar look more ugly, more frightening. There was no air of valour or glory to them.

"Your Grace," Durran bowed again.

"My Lord," Jaeghar replied with a bow – something surprisingly respectful. Ardan had never spoken to the boy – the only time he'd come close was when he had unhorsed him in the year prior.

There was a moment's pause as everyone waited, looking at the wheelhouse expectantly. Aemon cleared his throat and glanced to Jaeghar, jerking his head back to the wheelhouse. Jaeghar bowed his head and began to walk away, talking to the tall Kingsguard knight that stood outside, his helm tucked under one arm, exposing his shorn head and horrible, twisted flesh upon his cheek. Ardan tried to peer around the woman in front of him, examining the man's dark eyebrows when the knight in question turned to stare back at him with hazel eyes. His cheek, his jaw, from his brow to his neck, one side of his face was a disgusting, twisted mess of burnt skin that had not healed properly. Father had spoken to Ardan of him – he was Ser Lucan of Lannisport, the common-born knight of the Kingsguard, burned by dragonfire during the Storming of Pyke. That hadn't stopped him dismembering Red Ralf with his longsword.

"Perhaps you might introduce me to your family?" Aemon asked.

"Yes- of course, Your Grace," Durran cleared his throat. "My mother, Lady Cassandra of Storm's End."

"Your Grace," Cassandra dipped into a low curtsy, gently bowing her head – all poise and perfection.

"My Lady. I believe we last met on my first name day."

"Indeed, but I trust Your Grace may not remember."

"We shall make new memories, my Lady," Aemon replied with a polite smile before turning on to look at Arrec.

"My brother and heir, Lord Arrec."

"A man who needs no introduction," Aemon sighed and offered a hand. "I am very glad to see you walking, my Lord," he stated.

Arrec took the hand and bowed his head. "The honour is mine, Your Grace." Ardan hated hearing that – Arrec saying the words like a trained bird. He ought to have spat in the face of the man.

"Truly, my Lord. We shall speak more."

Arrec bowed his head and Durran was about to gesture to Oraella when another figure exited the wheelhouse.

Dressed in a vibrant red dress with long, black sleeves that draped from her shoulders to knees, was a woman no older than Arrec or Ardan. Her hair was platinum and long, falling to her waist. Her slightly wide-set eyes were a strong violet, just like the rest of the Targaryen's. Her face was scrunched up as she looked up at the rain, clearly unimpressed. Ardan bit his lip to stop himself grinning. Arrec turned around, clearly doing the same, but once he locked eyes with Ardan, he let out a snicker – had the girl stayed in the wheelhouse because she was scared of what the rain might do to her hair?

"Ah, Lord Durran, may I present my sister," Aemon said, gesturing to the approaching woman, whose arm was interlocked with Jaeghar's, "the Princess Rhaenerys of House Targaryen."

It was hard to see Durran's expression from behind, but Ardan imagined he may have been smiling. The girl had a pleasant face and pleasing form. Like her brothers and nephews, her skin seemed to glow. As though she were carved out of a star. Her delicate lips were twisted up into a frown as she grimaced at the keep and approaching storm. Or perhaps she was displeased with Durran? The idea made Ardan chuckle to himself.

"Your Grace," Durran bowed at the waist to the princess, "on behalf of my Lord Father, it is my highest of honours to serve you. The hospitality of-"

"Are we to stand out here all day?" Rhaenerys interjected, her voice harsh, cold, and loud. Aemon's eyes gently closed and he took a deep breath. "The rain is terrible."

Ardan shifted behind Ser Edwyn Wensington and bit his lip, trying hard not to laugh. It was truly going to be a highly amusing feast. Realizing he would miss what was said next, Ardan straightened up, breathing deeply and trying to calm himself (and ignore the scowling of Maester Rickard).

Durran finally found some words. "…hardly raining, Your Grace. No, this is a drizzle. Might I introduce you to my mother, Lady-"

"It's wet and miserable and I am going inside."

Rhaenerys pushed her way forwards through the crowd, which immediately parted. Ardan let out a loud snigger as she passed, bowing his head and trying to hope her glare was not meant for him. The thunder rumbled a lot closer – though, it was not thunder. Everyone froze and Ardan turned to see the beautiful Princess Rhaenerys smirk, looking up at the sky. Ardan turned to look up as well.

At first it was a shadow, falling out of the sun. Then wings unfurled – giant, colossal things that seemed to continue stretching. And the thunder grew into a ferocious roar as the beast came closer. Scales like plates of armour, each of them gleaming like beaten bronze as it swept down, letting out a deep roar that sent the servants scattering. Several knights (and Ardan) drew their swords, watching the beast sweep by, beating its wings and sending gusts across the courtyard that made everyone stumble. Ardan's cloak billowed and he almost fell onto his back. He looked up to see the gargantuan creature turn in the air and arc across the sky. The creature descended and landed upon the walls, each talon half the size of the gate house. The monster's wings unfurled to spread out and rest on the stone walls, shielding the sun and casting shadows across the stormlanders.

A long, deep roar thundered across the courtyard, and Ardan glimpsed one of the squires retreat into the keep. Looking back to the beast, Ardan saw a faint silhouette on its back – a man cloaked in black with shining silver hair. He dismounted, climbing down the dragon's neck as its head was lowered to the ground. It was thrice the size of the royal wheelhouses – at least. Each tooth might have been the size of its rider.

The man pulled off his black gloves and strode forwards, ignoring his younger brother, Jaeghar, and approaching Rhaenerys.

"Sister," Aerion pulled her close in an embrace, and Ardan glimpsed the first time the dour princess ever smiled. She wrapped her arms around her brother, seemingly unperturbed by the drizzle.

"I thought you were on Dragonstone."

"Gaelithox wanted to fly," Aerion explained as she took a step back. His dark violet eyes landed on Durran and his household, all stood with swords drawn. "If you don't sheathe your blades, I'll begin to think you mean me harm."

"Stow your blades," Durran ordered as he sheathed his own longsword.

"And it is customary to kneel before a Prince," Aerion said cooly.

Durran's jaw clenched, his steel blue eyes flitting to Arrec.

"That is not necessary," Aemon said, amethyst eyes hard and dark brow furrowed as he watched his younger brother swaggering towards Arrec. Ardan's hand closed around the hilt of his longsword as he watched. There was a deep hiss from the walls, and his blue eyes flitted up to see the titan of a creature eyeing him with a molten-gold eye.

"Erich, isn't it?" Aerion asked.

"Arrec, if it please Your Grace."

"It does," Aerion chortled, looking him up and down, his eyes falling on the cane Arrec leant on. "How's the leg?"

Through the crowd of stormlanders, Ardan saw Durran's hand clench into a fist. For one, blazing moment, Ardan was willing to follow Durran into a battle, then and there.

"Nothing a cup of wine cannot fix, Your Grace. Though, I may need to be excused from any dancing."

Ardan wanted to walk up and slap his brother on the back. Aerion's lips twisted into a smirk.

"Good man," Aerion looked to Rhaenerys and offered an arm. "Sister?"

Rhaenerys took his hand, giving a satisfied smirk to Aemon as she sauntered into the keep with Aerion, flanked by their Kingsguard, then the Baratheons, and then everyone else.

Ardan walked with the rest of the squires, a little behind Lady Jeyne Tully and her daughter, Glennys, who were speaking with Arrec about something quite engaging.

A series of large, spiral staircases were placed around the Round Hall, and everyone began to climb. Ardan trailed behind them all, a hand on the simple steel longsword he wore at his hip – it felt more like a dagger or a knife, barely reaching his knee. Finally, Ardan reached the top of staircase and found a quartet of Ladies outside – Brienne Selmy, Roelle Swann, Leira Trant and, of course, Lady Cassandra.

Ardan slowed as he walked, watching his father's wife lock her blue-green eyes on him with the focus of a cat upon a rat. He tried to keep his eyes on the ground and had almost reached the door when she called to him.

"Bastard."

Ardan closed his eyes – had she let him think he almost passed her by? Was she toying with him? He wouldn't let her see him squirm. He pushed his shoulders back and turned to face her, his hands clasped together behind his back.

"My Lady," he bowed his head.

"Do you mean to join us in feasting?"

"If it please my Lady."

"It does not," Lady Cassandra replied cooly as she and her handmaidens began to pass him by. "The stink of bastardy might ruin a royal appetite," she said, much to Lady Brienne's glee. "Eat with the dogs, Bastard."

Ardan's stomach was a pit. Was it because he had laughed at her son? No, Lady Cassandra didn't need a reason. He feigned a bow, when he was just trying to hide the tears pooling in his eyes.

"Yes, my Lady," he said, forcing his voice to be loud. If he spoke too softly, his voice might crack.

"Go."

Ardan turned around on the spot and began to walk, trying to hold in tears in his stinging eyes. She hated him; she always had. He'd never spoken against her, nor her son, Durran. In truth, when he was little, he had tried to befriend them both. It was until his wet-nurse, Gwin, had explained what a bastard was that he realised he was not a part of the family. Well, seven hells to the family: Lady Cassandra was a coward, waiting until his Lord Father was too ill to stop her.

A hot tear slid down his cheek. He hated her. He hated it at Storm's End. He just wanted to fade away into shadows and have everyone forget about him. He didn't even want Arrec to talk to him. He wouldn't understand – how could he? Arrec always had a choice. He never had to worry about the day he'd finally be escorted out of his home. As much as Ardan loved Arrec – and he did, more than anyone in the world, some small part of him still harboured resentment: Arrec was trueborn with a mother, and seemed to squander such a gift.

More tears slid from Ardan's eyes and his throat grew sore – Arrec was good and loyal and fierce, and Ardan still felt a pang of jealousy. After sixteen years, it still hadn't faded. He wanted to leave Arrec to go to war, he felt jealous of Arrec all the time – was it because he was a bastard? A creature born from lust and sin? Perhaps Lady Cassandra was right in hating him – he must have been a truly terrible brother.

'I'm not, really,' the thought floated into his head, 'a true brother. Only half of one.'

Finally, Ardan reached the armoury and found it happily deserted. His eyes drew towards the greatsword of his grandfather, Baldric. The man that was born a bastard, but overcame the nature to be named Lord of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. A great warrior that fought in the Dance of the Dragons – who slew the Vulture King in the Red Mountains. From a bastard to a Great Lord. In some small way, Ardan hoped the same might happen to him if he went south – he could earn glory and acclaim and be gifted lands of his own. He could pick a name for himself – found his own house. And never again could Lady Cassandra nor Durran nor anyone else name him 'Bastard' again.

Ardan drew his steel sword from his scabbard and approached the pells lined up on the wall. He took deep breathes and flourished the blade before quick-stepping forwards and slicing at the pells, hacking and thrusting, ducking imaginary swipes and parrying invisible blades. He imagined himself to be his grandfather at the Battle of the River: he was stepping over Armond Connington's body, and pointing the greatsword at he Vulture King, fending off Dornish rebels as he duelled against the outlaw king under the blazing hot sun…

His sword sliced at the pell, and a wooden arm clattered upon the ground. Ardan muttered a curse under his breath.

"Seven Hells, Ardan," came the deep, gravelly voice Ardan had not heard for months, "if anything, you'll make a fine carpenter."

An old man walking into the armoury. Ser Edric Bolling was a man of over seventy years of age, and it showed: wrinkles were set into his cheeks like deep crevices – too many to count. His hair was still thick and smart, pushed back from his red face, but it had grown silver long before Ardan had met him. His blue eyes were just as sharp as ever. Those of House Bolling claimed descent from the Durrandon's, just as the Baratheon's did. In some way, they were kin. The Blood of the Storm ran in their veins.

"Ser Edric," Ardan set down his blade and smiled, crossing the chamber to hug him. Ser Edric slapped him on the shoulder and shared a small chuckle. He took a step back and examined him.

"Look at you, getting bigger every day…" He gestured to the wooden arm on the floor, "and it's good to see you at the pell. I hope you've not neglected other studies."

"I wouldn't have my Lord Father hear of it," Ardan assured him.

Ser Edric's smile faltered. "Does he fare better?"

Ardan wouldn't know – he didn't talk to his father much – one of Lady Cassandra's handmaids was always in there, and he knew any words he spoke would travel back to her. More than that, drawing any attention to himself – he felt as though it may lead to him finally being dismissed. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad, if it wasn't for Arrec and little Ella…

"Some days."

"Don't you worry yourself," Ser Edric instructed him as he walked across the armoury to pick up the steel sword Ardan had been swinging. "Your father's always been one with a strong will – everyone is subject to it, even this sickness."

"Of course," Ardan bowed his head.

Ser Edric handed the sword to his squire. "Come, there's time for it later – let's to the feast…" He began to walk and, after moment, turned to see Ardan was not following him.

"I don't think that's wise, Ser."

"Why not?"

"Lady Cassandra said my bastardy might offend a royal appetite."

Ser Edric's face darkened as he gave a small sigh. "I see…"

"I'll remain at the pell, then, Ser." Ardan picked up the sword and swung again, hitting the old sack that had been thrown over the wood.

"It's not forever," Ser Edric told him.

"I know that."

"And you're- footwork, Ardan, don't twist at the waist!" Ser Edric pointed at him. "And many a bastard has suffered a worse fate."

"I know," Ardan paused to push his coal-black hair from his face. He was starting to sweat. "I shouldn't complain, Lady Cassandra has been very kind to me. Lord Durran too." He wasn't wholly lying – he should have been grateful. It was just hard with them. The truth was that glory and acclaim and knighthood was only part of the reason – Storm's End didn't feel like home any longer. He didn't have a place there anymore, so he had to find one.

"In time, we'll find you service. You're a fine young man, and you will find a place once knighted and-"

"Would you knight me now, then?" Ardan asked, panting. He knew the answer before Ser Edric could even cross his arms.

"We're not summer knights that go to tourneys with feathers in their helms, Storm knights are warriors. Not like those… pampered little brats in the west," Ser Edric said giving a wry smirk. "Being a knight ought to be something you earn, Ardan Storm. Or, it should be."

"Then take me with you when you ride south."

"And what will the Lord Regent say about that?"

"He will listen if you speak to him-"

"War is war, Ardan: do not be so eager for something that may readily be your end."

"I'm your squire. My place is with you, not with these… pampered little princes," Ardan said, half-laughing. He saw Ser Edric share his chuckle and for a moment, he was sure he would be riding by his side.

"Ardan…" Ser Edric said, voice soft and consoling.

"I swear, I won't let you down," Ardan promised eagerly, stepping away from the pell, "I've trained with lance, drilled with sword and axe and longbow, spear and hammer-"

"Ardan," Ser Edric pinched the bridge of his nose, urging him to stop, but he would not relent.

"I'm ready," Ardan promised him, their blue eyes transfixed on one another. Ser Edric had to believe him – he knew Ardan was the best squire in Storm's End. No-one else deserved it as much as he.

"There'll be other wars, Ardan," Ser Edric said. Ardan's heart sank in defeat. He knew he was ready – he was wasted at Storm's End. He didn't want to be yet another man claiming they fought in a war when they were stood a hundred leagues from the fighting. "There'll be other opportunities. In the meantime, speak to the nobles here. Find someone to pledge your sword to. Find a nice girl – enjoy the easy life…"

"I don't want the easy life!" Ardan snapped.

"Don't be so hasty to throw away something other men spend their lives yearning for," Ser Edric warned him.

Ardan felt guilty once again. It was just frustrating – he knew Durran didn't give a damn about whether Ardan lived or died – he was surely just trying to upset him.

"Come, let's… a cup of ale."

"Lady Cassandra said I should not feast with them," Ardan reminded him.

"What might she do? Send you away, hm?" Ser Edric asked. Ser Edric put a hand on Ardan's shoulder and led him towards the door. Ardan smiled – it were as though he were a boy again, being taken to his first sparring session. "Your father is Lord of Storm's End, not her."

Well, that's a beast of a chapter. As you can tell, Ardan's section is actually two combined into one. Man, Myra's section was actually the easiest to write – the whole Smallbran thing wasn't planned out, it just happened. Anyway, I'll get cracking with the next chapter at some point soon, but for now enjoy and get started with those reviews. I'm going to be on the wiki for the next few hours adding some new pages, so, feel free to check 'em out when you can. Oh, yeah, and there's another Greyjoy - that happened. At least one of you already knew this, due to some wiki mishaps, but yeah.

Oh, and, I won't continue the story until I get that Forrester heir, so if you've not submitted a character and want to try your hand, please do so soon!

R.