Maris I
The wheels of the wheelhouse creaked and groaned beneath them with every rotation, protesting against carrying its burden. The earth of the road had been molded into a thin line of packed earth that cut like a scar through the forest, and the lack of any recent storms meant that the passage of the army had raised a miasma of choking dust all about it. Above them, the vast and foreboding grey winter sky could be seen through the bare branches of trees that rose all around.
They had departed Storm's End with nearly eight thousand men; her father had painstakingly rallied both the levies and chivalry of the Stormlands for months following his declaration for the Greens. Despite their proximity to the capital, however, he spent valuable months tracking one of the perennial Vulture Kings in the Red Mountains, claiming that before the Stormlands could march, "they must needs secure their southern flank". Maris had watched his pronouncement silently then, guarding her tongue. Her father's knights had rallied around him, and after some time, they had produced the head of the supposed menace. His remaining features had looked Dornish enough, she had decided. Though the flesh had sloughed off the bone to the extent that it could have been a Connington and few would have been the wiser. Regardless, her father's showing had led to a marked decrease in raids within the mountains.
The predations of an outlaw with aspirations towards a bandit's crown meant little and less to Maris, however. Despite her supposedly less martial sex, she had followed the events of the war closely ever since the two Princes had appeared to beg her father's support. While her ability to gain access to information was somewhat limited, she managed to gather bits and pieces by listening in to the conversations between household knights and to the reports her mother received as they supped. The news, brought by rumor or wing, did little to encourage her, and she suspected that her father's excursion was only partially inspired by strategic necessities. The fact of the matter was that their allies, the Greens, had begun the war with fewer dragons and had managed to squander what few advantages they had over the course of the conflict. As her father dithered and pursued Dornishmen, the King's allies bled, and their armies, represented by so many pieces upon the maps, disappeared. The first to fall had been Lord Jason Lannister, and subsequent news had brought tidings of the near-total annihilation of his remaining forces near the God's Eye. Later, Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the King's Guard and Hand of the King, had been brought low by brigands and petty Riverlords as he marched to join the King's own kin in the Reach. Maris had initially thought these early defeats unfortunate but not decisive, as it seemed likely that the Riverlords had been bled dry during these early battles. When taken in conjunction with the regular news of victories in the Reach, it had seemed as though the tide was beginning to turn.
Her father had returned from his hunt only days after great tidings had arrived, borne on the wings of ravens. The castle Maester had eagerly informed her mother of a battle at Tumbleton as they broke their fast, telling tales of a Green victory, and the defection of two Black Dragon riders to the King's cause. The anticipation had been rife within her family's seat as her father was informed of the news. Barely a week had passed when additional information had arrived from the capitol, bearing both the Royal Seal and the sigil of House Strong. Supposedly King's Landing had fallen to the King's Supporters from within, orchestrated by the Lord of Harrenhal. Additionally, Lord Strong had been nearly euphoric in his prose as he wrote of a second great victory over Tumbleton, wherein the defectors and the Prince Daeron had triumphed over the Pretender's remaining bastard riders. Strong had begged Lord Baratheon to make for the capitol with all due haste, and to bring the Princess Jaehaera along with him in order to join her father, the King. Her father had roared for his Lords to attend him, and the night had been full of preparations for their impending departure. Her father had insisted that her mother remain at Storm's End, not wishing to endanger the child she carried. They wish for a son, Maris thought matter-of-factly.
Their host had made speedy progress, she had been told, for an army that numbered in the thousands. Many of those thousands were foot, representing the levied smallfolk and professional soldiery of the Stormlords. Keen-eyed archers from the Dornish Marches scouted ahead each day, reporting back to their lords with tidings of clear roads and clear skies. Her father had chosen to ride with his Lords and Knights, and their proud serried ranks numbered well over a thousand men, their heraldry streaming in the cold winds blowing from the North. A few days before, their long column had arrived at Bronzegate, and Lord Amos Buckler had most cordially hosted her father and his daughters. With each castle they passed, another Lord and his retinues joined their ranks, and their departure from Bronzegate had been no different. Lord Amos and his nephew Ser Ralph had joined her father's rowdy band. Most days, Maris found herself wishing to be anywhere but within the wheelhouse that had become her well-cushioned prison. The conversation of her sisters left much to be desired, and the Princess Jaehaera did little to alleviate her torment.
Such was the environment she currently found herself within. Their carriage, which had been designed to provide all the comforts possible for long journeys, was still unable to fully alleviate the aches and pains that accompanied long travels along bumpy roads. There was not enough space to lay down, or even to partially recline. Maris frowned, shifting her form so as to attempt to reduce the everpresent soreness in her posterior, but found the mission futile. Her unpleasant expression brought further woe, however, as Cassandra tutted her disapproval from the opposite side of their confinement.
"Such unpleasant faces are unbecoming of a Lady of your status, Maris. How do you ever intend to find a Lord-Husband with such an unwelcoming countenance?"
Cassandra, of course, was sitting as straight-backed as was possible, clearly attempting to accentuate her superior posture in what was quickly becoming an attempted lesson in etiquette. While her visage betrayed no mockery, her striking blue Baratheon eyes were sharp and harbored mocking smiles of their own. Maris made no effort to adjust either her posture or her frown. Instead, she let her infamous barbed tongue fly.
"Sweet sister, with all your nagging, how do you intend to find a husband? Floris will draw most of the suitors with her beauty, and Ellyn will draw the rest with her propensity for mothering. In you, all they will find is a future harridan."
Cassandra's eyes narrowed. "Mother really ought to have given you over to the Silent Sisters. At least they might have found a solution to your insufferable tongue." She paused, a cruel smile slowly spreading across her face. "Come to think of it, a veil would likely help with concealing that long face of yours as well. Perhaps then a Lord, or Prince, would think to bed you."
Maris' eyes narrowed, but as she began to devise her response, her riposte was interrupted by Ellyn's firm interjection.
"Will the both of you cease your prattling? You are upsetting the Princess."
It was only then that Maris and her feuding sister's attentions were drawn to the Princess, whose hands clutched the sides of her dress and whose wide lilac eyes were gazing from one Baratheon to the other, threatening tears. Ser Fell will be most displeased if we bring the Princess to tears again, she thought derisively. Her sister must have come to a similar conclusion, as she seemingly decided against continuing her attempts at mockery. What aggravated Maris the most was that Cassandra's words still stung. The Prince was a vain man, more interested in what lay between a woman's legs than what could be found between her ears. He most certainly did not wish to be counseled by one of the fairer sex. It had been easy enough to find a way to aggravate him. She had not considered the consequences of her actions, however. Her mother's wroth had been frightful indeed upon hearing the words Maris had spoken, and it had taken all of her considerable skill with words to attempt to avoid her permanent exile into the ranks of the Faith. Even then, it had only been a stern letter from her father, remarking on her value as a woman of "marrying age" that had forbidden her mother from sending her away. But while she had been spared such a humiliation, the mitigation of her sentence had done little to mend the rift with her mother, or to assuage the guilt that gnawed at her from within. For while Prince Aemond had been cold and cruel, Prince Lucerys had seemed a kinder sort, if a bit awkward. She could still recall the way that Aemond's jewel had glinted in the firelight when he'd informed her of his nephew's death.
Attempting to push those unpleasant thoughts away, she turned and pushed the heavy curtains aside, gazing through the Myrish glass at the world beyond. The grey winter sky still loomed, and the forest all about them lacked its overwhelming and comforting sense of green that it normally possessed during the stormy but vibrant Spring and Summer years. Such storms were violent, but also brought the surging and chaotic cycles of new growth that made her homeland's forests teem with life. Little of that vibrance remained, however, as the very trees themselves seemed to have withdrawn into themselves to ward off the increasing chill. As they progressed through the Kingswood, it seemed that each day brought them further from the light, allowing the winds of winter to bite a bit deeper.
Letting the curtain fall back to its original position, Maris cast her eyes about the enclosed space, once again studying the other occupants of the cabin like she had done so many times before. Cassandra, the eldest, gazed out the glass on the opposite side of the cabin. No doubt gawking at one of father's knights, or perhaps one of the Volantene sellswords she finds so "exotic". To her left sat the Princess Jaehaera, wedged snugly between the Baratheon she seemed to fear the most alongside the one she seemed the most partial to. Elyn, true to form, was currently attempting to read to the Princess, but it seemed she had little desire to retreat to a fanciful world of children's stories. To Maris' left sat Floris, who was struggling to embroider a kerchief. Maris had always considered her sister's name to be oddly prescient, as like a flower, she was quite pretty to look at but had little, if anything, of value to say. She could almost hear the scolding of their Septa in a hypothetical response to her cruel words.
The four of them comprised what the minstrels had dubbed 'The Four Storms', but Maris was convinced that if her father had been allowed to choose their title, they'd have been known instead as the 'Four Disappointments'. For years, he had desired a male heir, and each time he'd been gifted with a daughter, he had grown less enchanted with them. We only became useful once there was a war to fight, and swords to win. At this point, however, it seems more likely that we shall be used to mend the wounds that cut across the realm. A Baratheon was no small prize, and she had every expectation that even now her father intended for her and her sisters to be matched with influential men from across the Seven Kingdoms, winning her father the influence, prestige, and power he so desperately desired. The Velaryons have long stood as the unchallenged Second House of the Realm. Perhaps we can oust them with this war, reclaiming the power we possessed in the days of our great-grandsire Lord Rogar. There were problems with such a plan, however. Many of the most influential Houses had arrayed themselves against the King, and it seemed unlikely that her father intended to match her with one of the men he intended to defeat. Additionally, the Great Houses that had chosen the Greens had few eligible candidates. Lyonel Hightower remains unspoken for, to my knowledge, and the Tullys had several sons of marrying age. Lord Tyrell and the new Lord Lannister are but babes. Perhaps father is opting to wait for better opportunities, like he chose to do with the war itself. Regardless of her father's plans, Maris knew that she would have to forge her own path. Without the beauty of Floris or even that of Cassandra, she knew that if left to their own devices most Lords would only choose her if no other options remained. Instead, she knew she would have to make her own opportunities.
She had remained deeply in thought regarding the various possibilities that lay ahead of her until the wheelhouse had finally jolted to a stop, signalling their encampment for the evening. Since she and Cassandra had been hushed by their matronly sister, few words had been exchanged, and the shared knowledge that they would soon have to sup with their father and feign familial tranquility did not raise their spirits. The Princess remained characteristically silent, clutching a well-worn doll and gazing about with eyes that never quite relaxed. Her temperament is understandable, given her past. To watch her own twin murdered before her would be maddening, I would think. She had been told that the Princess suffered from frequent nightmares, and had to be woken from her terrors by her sworn sword. If the rumors are to be believed, her mother may be similarly afflicted. Maris thought it likely that her father was paying close attention to such murmurings. If the King decided to put his sister-wife aside due to her sufferings, she had little doubt that her father would be the first to encourage his remarriage to a nubile maiden from one of the Great Houses. He would not have to look far afield, for father would certainly have made sure to parade us about as he spoke such words.
A gauntleted hand rapped sharply upon the carriage door, pulling her sharply out of her ruminations. As the door was opened, she perceived the unmistakable grey-whiskered face of Ser Genrick Gower standing outside, awaiting his four charges. Ser Genrick was one of her father's oldest sworn swords, and had been a facet of life within Storm's End for Maris' entire life. Staunchly loyal, he had been entrusted with protecting the four Baratheon daughters after old age had withered his martial abilities away. Cassandra was the first to rise, smoothing her black and gold dress and exiting the carriage with her head held high. Maris followed, and afterwards Ellyn gingerly led the Princess out, with the ever-watchful eyes of Ser Willis Fell observing their departure. Lastly, Floris departed, her embroidering attempts seemingly forgotten. Ser Fell took the Princess' hand, and they departed without a word into the camp, white cloak and silver-white hair shining in the evening torchlight.
With their departure, Ser Genrick led them through the rows of tents that were rapidly sprouting like mushrooms after a spring rain. They moved quickly through the wide clearing that had been designated as their place of rest for the evening. The size of the road that they were traveling upon limited how many men could ride or march abreast, meaning that the knights who rode in the lead had already largely settled in for the night. In the meantime their servants, dressed in roadworn livery, scurried about fetching water or food or wine whilst their masters relaxed within their tents. The long column of foot still marched into the camp, covered in dust and sweat, their faces long and haggard from the many hours afoot. Thousands of spearpoints flashed in the firelight as the men streamed by, dressed in the colors of their lords and outfitted with whatever arms and armor could be provided from their armories. Our lands have been emptied for this war. Only the young and old have been left behind. Their journey took them to a grand tent that dominated the center of the clearing, adorned with crowned black stags that danced proudly along its cloth walls. Ser Genrick drew back the door covering, allowing them inside the dimly lit interior that was noticeably warmer than the winter air outside. Inside, torches burned brightly, their smoke wafting upwards and out of an opening at the top of the tent. Her father sat in his customary position at the center of the ornate lacquered table that he had ordered brought along from Storm's End, and several notable Lords stood around him. As Maris and her sisters curtseyed, she could not help but notice her father's black mood. Judging by the page that just left with an empty pitcher, he is already deep within his cups. The assembled knights and Lords paid them little mind, evidently focused on her father's words, which were spoken gravely but rumbled with a barely concealed rage.
"The cripple is either a fool or has deliberately deceived us. What was before a triumphant army that numbered nearly twenty thousand is a force but a fraction of that size, under the formidable leadership of that fat oaf of a Hightower. The King has named him his Hand, no less." Her father's huge hands gripped the corners of the table until his knuckles grew white. "I have no doubts that that scheming bitch arranged for that appointment. The Dowager Queen's biddings will be spoken from the fat fool's lips."
Ser Roland Connington ran a calloused hand through his fiery beard. "They have offered to name you Protector of the Realm, Borros. That would leave you as the unquestioned commander of the King's forces."
Her father stood suddenly, jabbing his finger into one of the Red Griffins affixed to Lord Connington's chest. "Don't you Borros me, Roland. That title isn't fit to wipe my arse with! All that offer does is confirm our worst fears that Aemond One-Eye is well and truly dead. The King would never offer me a position his own brother occupied." Returning to his seat, her father released a long and exasperated sigh. "If the rumors are true, they've already cremated one of the King's brothers, and the Pretender's defectors lie rotting in the Northern Reach. The King may yet have his Sunfyre, and the Queen her Dreamfyre, but that still leaves them outnumbered by that band of bastards running amok. The Princess is too young and too frightened to be counted upon as a rider."
"My Lord, the blood of Valyria may yet course within your frame. Why not march for the ruins of Tumbleton? It is said that the mighty Silverwing still crawls about its ruins, feasting upon the corpses of the slain. Your grandmother's blood might allow you to master it, as you are kin to its former rider?" Queried Lord Bryndemere of Tarth.
Maris' eyes narrowed. The Lord of Tarth opts for flattery, as is his wont. What might be his aims on the occasion? Before she could discern exactly what the silver-tongued Lord wanted, her father rumbled out a response.
"Aye, Lord Bryndemere, my sire's mother may have been mother to the Old King, but I would still need the King's permission to master one of the Royal Dragons." He scoffed. "Besides, if the Lord Protector flies off on a dragon, who will command the King's Armies? Certainly not the Strong cripple or the fat Hand. And I'll be damned if I let the grasping Lord of Starpike anywhere near my title."
A few of the assembled Lords snickered at the barb. Her father's thoughts on the supposedly flowery and pompous Reach Lords were well known, and even their Marcher Lords failed to live up to his martial expectations. Before the conversation could continue, a few of her father's servants entered, bearing platters of roast lamb. Maris' stomach grumbled at the herbal smell of the thyme and rosemary that encrusted the succulent meat. Her father dismissed his Lords for the evening with a wave, and they filed out of the tent. She and her sisters remained standing for the moment, watching their father drain the last dregs of red wine from his cup before motioning for them to sit around the table. He regarded each of them quietly for a moment, before grabbing a leg of lamb and tearing into it, as small bits of its herbal crusting fell from his lips and nestled within his great black beard.
"And how are my daughters this evening?" He finally asked, speaking between hearty bites.
"We are managing as best as we can, father." Cassandra spoke first, as was her habit. "Although the wheelhouse can at times be uncomfortable."
"I suppose the four of you cannot be blamed for being unsuited to the rigors of campaign." Their father chuckled. "For your sex leaves you predisposed towards the finer things in life. And you should not be blamed for such desires! They are your birthrights, as Baratheons! The Red Keep should provide for all those wants and more, my sweets."
He paused as the serving boy returned with a full pitcher of wine, its silver dotted with beads of perspiration betraying its coolness. Her father poured himself a full cup, before filling each of theirs with one part water and one part wine. He allowed them to take wine with their meals, but insisted that it be watered down to maintain their complexion. From beneath dark and bristly eyebrows he gazed at Ellyn.
"How fares the Princess Jaehaera? Have you ensured she remains comfortable?"
Ellyn shifted in her seat. "I've read to her during the days, but she remains uninterested in the books. When I ask her to read, she struggles to form the most basic of sentences. It is as though the words hold little to no meaning for her."
Borros scoffed. "The Maester informed me her bedsheets oft stink of piss. It seems she has inherited her mother's fragile temperament. I fear she will be of little use in war if it comes to it." He took a deep drink from his cup, pausing to refill it.
Father is drinking heavily. It seems the news he was delivered contained little in the way of encouragement. She adopted as innocent a smile as she could muster. "What news have you from the Capitol, father?"
Deep blue eyes settled upon her, bloodshot from the wine. "A raven arrived today. Lord Larys Strong has urged me to make with all haste to King's Landing. It seems… it seems that Prince Daeron fell on the field of battle. The victory at Tumbleton was not all it was made out to be… if it was indeed a victory at all." He spat in the rushes. Floris gasped at the news of the Prince's death, having seemingly not picked up on the information moments before. Her father eyed her before continuing. "It also seems likely that Prince Aemond has fallen. Meaning that all of you are once more unspoken for. I intend to find husbands for each of you."
From her father's temperament, Maris could tell he was deeply unsettled by the events he was describing. While he attempted to hide it beneath his wine-soaked bravado, it was clear that the news of so many fallen dragonriders weighed heavily upon him. He is behaving as he did in the past, when the fighting first began. Father fears dragons. She scoffed internally. He hides behind excuses about the King's permission, but Lord Bryndemere was correct. Father may indeed have the blood necessary from the Old Queen Alyssa to master Silverwing. Alysanne's old mount is proving to become more valuable with every passing moment. She clenched a fist under the table. And just like in the past, Father wastes valuable time prevaricating and avoiding his fears. If he will not act, who will? Who else would possess enough Valyrian blood to tame it? She allowed herself a brief moment to consider sneaking out of camp in the night, and returning weeks later triumphantly on dragonback. The first Baratheon dragon-tamer. Quickly pushing such girlish and preposterous thoughts aside, she scolded herself. I'd likely make it less than a day outside the camp before being set upon by brigands, hungry for ransom and rape.
"Have you any thoughts about potential suitors, Father?" Asked Cassandra, clearly attempting to steer their sire away from the foreboding thoughts that were so clearly evident upon his face. Maris grabbed a hunk of savory meat, sinking her teeth into it as she awaited his response.
Taking a deep draft from his goblet, her father cleared his throat. "Many of my Stormlords have already expressed interest in your hands. But I care little and less for the offers of my own vassals. You are Baratheons, not fit for some Estermont or Penrose. In times of peace, I'd have expected at least one of you to be a future Queen, and the rest to be married to Lords Paramount." He sighed, sending a wave of his wine-soaked breath across the table. "In times such as these, however, such matters will be more difficult. Only two Great Houses are currently loyal to the King. The Tyrells have fittingly chosen to sit out the war entirely. Lady Tyrell clearly would rather have a mewling babe at her teat than be forced to lead armies. Lord Lannister is even younger than Lord Tyrell… leaving few worthy of your hands, my sweets." Swirling his goblet, her father's eyes began to twinkle, ever so slightly. "The Queen, however, is rumored to be… quite indisposed since the death of her sons. If his Grace were to decide to allow his sister to live out her remaining days under the care of the faith, as some suggest, he will require a new Queen, capable of bearing him strong sons. If such an opportunity arises, I expect each of you to be at your best. Our family was denied our first chance to provide a Queen for the realm, and I have no intention of allowing that to happen again."
"Is the King as handsome as the singers claim, father?" Asked Floris, her eyes wide with anticipation.
Maris had to physically restrain herself from rolling her eyes, and for once she saw that her sister was in accordance with her thoughts. Cassandra appeared to be forcing herself to maintain a smile that did not reach her eyes. The mummers claimed King Viserys was a handsome man as well. When I saw him but a few years ago, he was as heavy as an aurochs and likely could have eaten an entire one as well.
"The King is a man grown, battle-tested and knighted. He wields Blackfyre, the sword of his forefathers, and rides Sunfyre, which is said to be the most beautiful living dragon. Few could prove a better match, my dear."
While her father attempted to stoke the flames of her sister's ardor, Maris thought through what else she knew of the King. Battle-tested, perhaps, but battle-scarred as well. The Princess Rhaenys ensured that. And if rumors can be trusted, he has a strong appetite for the finer things in life. Arbor Reds, hearty meals, and willing women. My father is correct about the prestige of a potential match, but the King would likely prove a less-than-ideal husband. If his own sister could not inspire love or loyalty, what hope could a mere political match have of success?
Taking a sip from her wine glass, Maris gazed around the tent. Her father's plate stood resolutely in the corner on its stand, polished to perfection and sporting several impressive battle scars. Torchlight reflected off of the armor, and a chill ran down her spine as she remembered the news of the battles over Tumbleton. The finest armor in the world proved to be useless against the flames of dragons. Eyeing the finely wrought golden antlers, Maris contemplated what they would look like as they streamed molten down the plate. Pushing those unpleasant thoughts aside, Maris swirled the remaining wine in her glass as she began to pay attention to the conversation between her father and her sisters once more. At one point or another, the topic of conversation had turned to tales of past hunts. As it always does. She considered attempting to change the topic of conversation, but the girl within her that loved her father despite his faults insisted that she allow him to revel in his happier memories. Having heard the story before, she could almost predict the exact way the story would end.
"And with that, the great big bugger ran right into my spear! His own weight and fury killed him in the end! The fellow was so enraged he couldn't even see straight, and blundered right into the trap before him! Ha!"
Finishing the dregs within his goblet, her father leaned back into his chair, blue eyes sparkling in triumph. "Boars are mighty foes, my darlings. But the stag remains King in the wood!"
Floris laughed and clapped, and Cassandra allowed herself a toothy grin. Ellyn looked as though she were half asleep, but managed a polite smile. Maris nodded, granting her father a small grin.
Standing as steadily as he could, her father motioned for them to retire. Without a word, Ser Genrick emerged from the shadowy boundaries of the tent to escort them to their own place of rest.
Maris had not realised how exhausted she was until she had undressed down to her shift and allowed herself to lay upon the bed that had been brought from Storm's End by cart. It's not as decent as my own bed, but at this point, almost anything would suffice. Darkness took her the moment she closed her eyes.
They had been awoken by their maidservants in the predawn hours in order to bathe, dress, and break their fast. Just as they had for the past several days, Maris and her sisters emerged as the sun just began to pierce the grey morning sky, making their way to their carriage quickly in order to escape the chill. Servants stood by, waiting to disassemble their tent and pack their baggage once they had embarked. Maris was surprised when Ser Genrick asked for a word, after having guided her siblings to join the Princess Jaehaera in the wheelhouse.
"My apologies, my Lady, for the intrusion. While you broke your fast, your father sent a messenger to inform me that Lord Bryndemere of Tarth had asked his permission to escort you this morning. He has prepared a horse for you should you accept. While this is most irregular, your father instructed me to allow you to ride with him should you choose to grant him this boon."
Father must have been overjoyed. Interest from the Evenstar? How could he refuse? Maris suspected Lord Bryndemere to have little interest in a marriage, as he had steadfastly maintained his bachelor status for many a year already. What could be his intent, then? Finding her curiosity piqued, Maris gave her assent to be led to the Lord of Tarth.
Ser Genrick handed her a heavy woolen riding cloak that had been dyed to show her House's colors before leading her to further ahead in the procession, past her former prison. Maris made certain to wink at Cassandra as they passed, and was pleased to see that she predictably flushed with anger. After a few moments, they reached the retinue of the Lord of Tarth, unmistakable by its rose and azure banners. Household knights stood mounted in serried ranks to either side of her as she was led to the front of those assembled, where Lord Bryndemere awaited her atop a proud white charger. To its left stood a palfrey, bedecked in the riding finery of House Tarth. A not so subtle gesture from the silver-tongued Lord. Ser Genrick helped her to mount the creature, before retreating a few paces to mount his own horse.
Maris was unsure of how or where to begin a conversation with Lord Bryndemere, as she knew little of him beyond what she had previously observed. She signed internally with relief when he broke the silence, his breath sending small gusts of mist in the cool morning air.
"Greetings, my Lady. I was most pleased when I was told you had agreed to join me today. I have long sought to make your acquaintance."
Certainly there have been opportunities to do so previously. She decided to opt for a touch of flattery as well. "I thank you for your invitation, my Lord. I too am honored to make your acquaintance."
Lord Bryndemere smiled ever so slightly, which caused the well-groomed corners of his brown mustache to curl.
"Have you been informed that we are within ten leagues of the Blackwater Rush itself? I fear that our little woodland stroll will soon be brought to an end."
Fifteen leagues? Father certainly forgot to mention such details. At the army's current pace, Maris estimated that they would easily reach the Blackwater's southern bank before night fell. "I… had not been informed of the news, my Lord. I must confess that I am eager to reach the capitol. It has been several years since I last visited, during the reign of the last King."
Maris decided it would be best to play the part of the fool girl until she had a better idea of Lord Bryndemere's intentions. In the distance, horns blared, announcing the beginning of the march. As both she and Lord Bryndemere urged their mounts forward, she noticed that Ser Genrick did so likewise, maintaining a close but respectable distance between them.
"I fear that you may not find the capitol in the same condition as it was when you last departed, my Lady. The King may have established his dominion over the city, but I have been informed that it suffered under the Pretender's predations and descended into a frightful bout of violence the night she was captured. War has the rather… troubling propensity to reduce beautiful things to ruins."
Maris nodded, intentionally widening her eyes in the manner that Floris did ever so often to feign shock. "That is most unfortunate, my Lord. I pray to the Mother above that the poor souls of the city were spared." She wondered internally if she sounded as ridiculous as she thought she did. Perhaps I am overplaying this.
A hushed response provided the answer to her question. "Lady Maris, such platitudes may satisfy your septa, but I suspect that you have a greater deal of perspective on the matter than you have chosen to share."
He certainly possesses some degree of insight. Maris tried to refrain from allowing a grin from overtaking her features. "Perhaps, my Lord. But such 'perspectives' are rarely shared with strangers. I know little of you, and cannot yet be certain your intentions are honorable."
Lord Bryndemere let out a ringing laugh. "Indeed, my Lady, you are to be praised for your reluctance to entertain the whims of rogues such as myself. If it helps to assuage your concerns, I can assure that my intentions are far from dishonorable. I simply seek out friends to keep company with before we arrive at the capitol. Royal Courts can be so dreadfully conspiratorial. Friendly eyes and ears can be worth more than their weight in gold in such settings."
Maris nodded, contemplating his words. He proposes something of great interest to me, but such a friendship could cut as easily as it could console. My loyalty must ultimately remain with my father, without a doubt. But there is much I could learn by fostering ties with the Lord of Tarth. Father certainly loathes granting me access to his counsels.
She sighed. "I suppose friends are invaluable, especially in such trying times. But true friends do things for one another."
As Maris spoke, she turned to face the Lord of Tarth, and found that he too, had turned to study her features. Where before his face had been relatively mirthful and uninterested, she found his eyes now glowed with a truly inquisitive light, intrigued by her proposal. He looks almost akin to a cat. I hope that does not make me a mouse.
"What sort of assistance could I render to you, in return for your friendship, I wonder?"
Maris smiled slightly. "My father does not often allow me to sit in on his counsels, which you happen to be a member of. I have heard much of the state of the war, and the strengths of the King's forces in relation to those of the Pretender's. I mislike much of what I hear. I would be most appreciative if you would keep me apprised of the war and any developments." She decided to add one further condition. "Additionally, I would ask that you at the very least insinuate that you are interested in a future courtship. That ought to buy me some time to establish myself in the King's city."
What had once been an inquisitive light upon Lord Bryndemere's features shone ever more brightly, and he grinned widely. "You are a most fascinating and intriguing young Lady. I think we might indeed make for good friends." He twirled a corner of his mustache with a free hand, thinking. "I could certainly keep you informed of the progress of the war, so long as you would agree to inform me of any interesting developments within the King's Household or the Royal Court. You already attend Princess Jaehaera, and you may yet be called upon to attend to her mother the Queen Helaena. If such events do transpire, I wish to know of anything of importance that occurs. There are places in the court that a man may not tread, and voices that will not speak for him. They may yet speak to you, however, and I wish to hear their thoughts, their gossip, and their rumors." Chuckling, he then added: "As for the prospective courtship, I wondered whether you might request such a boon. Consider myself an interested party for your hand, so long as we remain friends. If at some point you find an enticing opportunity, I'll raise no fuss, so long as you are willing to inform me of the Court's whisperings."
Maris was ecstatic. One of her greatest fears had been finding an interested party for her hand, so as to keep her mother from recalling her to Storm's End, destined for the Faith. Providing Lord Bryndemere with information is a small price to pay for my freedom, she thought triumphantly. She turned back, realising that he expected a response.
"I believe that I can agree to the terms of this arrangement, my Lord."
The Lord of Tarth grinned once more, his cat-like eyes sparkling. "I am most pleased. I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
Maris nodded. "It might indeed." Frowning, she decided to test just how willing the Lord of Tarth was to abide by their agreement. "Last evening, I overheard your discussion of the battle over Tumbleton. What do we actually know of what transpired?"
Lord Tarth's features sobered. "Lord Strong has been most unhelpful with his account of events thus far. I expect that someone managed to falsify the information he received in the aftermath of the battle. I fear that the Hightowers' host did rather poorly in the second battle, having been caught completely by surprise. Some other 'friends' of mine have confirmed that the two traitors and the Prince Daeron died in the clash. Some sources even insist that what transpired was akin to a second Field of Fire, with many thousands dead. It does not appear that any of the Pretender's remaining riders were slain."
It is little wonder that father is so troubled by word of dragons. If the Queen is truly incapable of riding, the King is the only line of defense we have against attacks from the air.
"What do we know of the Queen's remaining riders?" She asked.
"Little and less. Ser Addam Velaryon is supposedly one of Ser Laenor Velaryon's bastards. His grandfather has seemingly arranged for him and his younger brother to be instituted as his heirs. As for the others, it seems they both tamed wild dragons from the isle of Dragonstone, having answered the call of the Pretender's eldest son. There are whispers regarding their paternity, but none that I would trust as of yet. What I am certain of is that they are now truly battle-tested, having ridden in two major battles, emerging victorious on each occasion. Dangerous foes, to be sure."
Maris wondered what flying a dragon felt like. I imagine that it feels like pure, unadulterated freedom. "Three dragonriders is troubling indeed. I can see why you encouraged my father to seek out Silverwing." Perhaps he will share a bit more about that, as well.
Lord Bryndemere regarded her carefully. "I thought that your father's lineage could prove an advantage, but he was likely right to rebuff me. It was likely a foolish idea." Tapping his chin, Lord Bryndemere studied her. "What of Princess Jaehaera? How has she fared on this journey?"
Maris considered her response. I ought to repay him in kind for his information, yet there is no need to include any of my father's drunken speculations about her or the Queen's 'nature'. "The Princess is troubled. She shows little interest in reading, or being read to. She is brought to tears easily, and sleeps poorly. I… I am concerned for her health."
The Lord of Tarth nodded slowly. "I have heard that her condition was not ideal. I suppose it is to be expected from someone who has endured such horrors. It is troubling for the realm, however, to know that the King's only living child is of an unsturdy temperament."
He is prying for additional information. Maris nodded. "It is troubling indeed, my Lord. With time, however, she might reclaim what has been lost."
Her companion nodded, and she noticed that his eyes bore the slightest impression of respect. He can see that I have further speculations, but am unwilling to share them. It appeared that he would press her no more for the nonce.
Lord Bryndmere drew her attention to a collection of stones that stood haphazardly alongside the road as they passed. "Can you make out the carved insignia, my Lady?"
Maris urged her mount to proceed a bit more slowly, and studied the road marker. Moss had crept its way over most of the structure, but near the top, she could still make out a faded crowned stag.
"I can, my Lord. If my eyes do not deceive me, it bears my own family's sigil."
Lord Tarth nodded. "It does, in part. But as you know, we are well within the boundaries of the Royal demesne. Those stones bear the sigil of the Durrandons."
Maris nodded, contemplating the structure. My family still bears the heraldry and appearance of the Durrandons, if not the name. As she passed the stones, a cold chill ran down her spine. While her first impression of the structure had left her thinking that it had collapsed partially due to the rigors of time, she could now see that it had been partially melted. She could see where the molten stone had partially refused, runnels of heated rock still frozen beneath the obscuring greenery.
She saw Lord Tarth observing its features as well. Turning once more to face her, his eyes had grown cold and serious. "As I said before, my Lady, it always pays to have friends. Especially when dark wings and searing flames rule the skies."