Maris VI

Of all of those who had received the news of Addam Velaryon's death, there were only two that seemed to be competing for who could mourn the most intensely within King's Landing. Lord Corlys had taken to wearing the mourner's garb, presiding over court like the Stranger, speaking little and wearing a mask of melancholy. While the Lord of the Tides brooded, Lord Borros brayed. Her father had ruined many silver goblets, bashing them against stone wall and wooden table, always accentuating his furor and deep depression. The drink did nothing to soothe his tempers; it was as if the little lord Aegon Baratheon and the joy he had brought her father had ceased to exist.

Father's fortunes pass like fine sand through his fingers. The wedding of Ser Addam to her sister had been… politically contentious to say the least. Maris knew so not because of what others said to her- she knew because of what they did not say. Cautious greetings and conversations had become stony silences not long after Cassandra abandoned her Maiden's cloak, and Maris realized that their Houses' footing had become even more precarious. Before, we could at least count upon the begrudging ambivalence of our former comrades-in-arms, as father's six thousands swords could not be turned away. Lord Peake and his Reachmen had been willing to politely entertain father's entreaties before the marriage, but never after. Whilst the supporters of the Pretender had no love for us, they've now been joined by their former enemies in disgust. Ultimately, dear Cassie's wedding had been a gamble. Joining forces with the Velaryons had undoubted benefits; they were wealthy, they were politically ascendant, and they had dragons. Stormlander swords culled any remaining dissent. But Ser Addam's death had called everything into question. The Lord Hand no longer seemed to have the energy, nor the political influence to will his wishes into being.

The court was more divided than ever, and Maris' family had been forced kicking and screaming back into political irrelevancy, their only allies an exhausted old man and a revenge-maddened lad of seventeen namedays. Rumors abounded regarding Ser Alyn: it was said that he had burned his grandfather's command to return to court, instead ordering the Velaryon fleet to sail without delay from Stonehelm for Myr, or Tyrosh, intent on putting them to the sack and sword. Maris wasn't so sure that she believed the whispers, however. Ser Alyn has ships aplenty, but lacks the swords to take either city, with each possessing far more souls than King's Landing itself. Regardless, each day without word of Ser Alyn seemed to pain his grandfather ever more greatly. While some seemingly still harbored sympathy, far more in court had grown tired of King Corlys' reign.

With Maris' father's misfortunes, Lord Unwin Peake had taken up the torch of dissent. While he had originally taken up residence in an abandoned royal hunting lodge on the outskirts of King's Landing (originally built as a gift for Rego Draz, Bryndemere had told her), Lord Unwin was no longer willing to preach his words from afar. Now he stood tall in court, every day in which it was held, calling for answers from Lord Corlys and the Regency on what exactly they intended to do about this disaster. In his words, the capture and impressment of sailors had been an abhorrent stain upon the reputation of the Iron Throne, but the death of one of its Constables at the hands of another -in an apparent act of treason no less- demanded no less than immediate and overwhelming retaliation. While he so far had refrained from condemning the Lord Hand as incompetent, the insinuations were plain, and his words were beginning to take root.

A warm hand upon hers brought her out of her extended ruminations. Blinking, she gazed around the room, watching the fire dance in the hearth and the servants creep around cautiously, eager to refill the cups thrust at them but loathe to be caught by one sent hurtling by Lord Baratheon. About the great table, her father's principal bannermen sat gathered, discussing the recent events. Maris had been allowed to sit in, so long as she only spoke when spoken to, at Lord Bryndemere's request. Her betrothed gave her a gentle pat upon her hands folded in front of her, his cat-like eyes amused. He knows I have been wandering in my own mind.

Ser Roland Connington was currently in the midst of arguing with Lord Amos Buckler when she refocused her attention fully.

"There is nothing to suggest that these predations are anything but the ravenous scouring of the countryside by desperate smallfolk. The Crown has been receiving similar reports from throughout the realm. The Riverlands are practically in anarchy, with the writ and word of Lords holding sway only so far as their curtain walls. The northern Reach is barely better. I see no reason why the Kingswood would possess bandits of any greater threat than can be found in the rest of the realm."

Lord Buckler frowned, his brown eyes narrowing. "My kin say otherwise. At first, perhaps, I would have been inclined to agree with you, Ser Roland, but these crimes are growing out of hand. What began as poaching in the King's Wood has escalated rapidly. Most recently armored men drove fifty head of cattle back under the boughs- directly from my own lands, under the walls of Bronzegate itself! Allowing these acts to go unpunished will only serve to embolden these rabble, to say nothing of what havoc it wreaks upon the authority of the Crown!"

Lord Estermont's son, a boy of nineteen namedays, spoke up. "I will remind you all that very real threats do pose a great danger to our homes and families. My father writes that before they were driven from Greenstone, the men of the Three Daughters laid waste to our fields and butchered many of our livestock and smallfolk. Had Ser Addam and the Betrayer not arrived when they had, his garrison would not have been able to hold the castle! Our greatest valuables would have been lost to us!"

The Lord of Storm's End was currently gazing at the flames in a wine-soaked stupor, oblivious to all that was said around him. He paid no heed to the furtive glances that were cast in his direction, as many of those present waited for him to declare his intentions, for fear that they would be found to be in disagreement with their liege.

As the heated words began to subside, Lord Bryndemere spoke. "My liege, it would seem prudent to allow some of our forces to return to the Stormlands. Bronzegate and Estermont could certainly benefit from the return of their sworn swords and household knights, as could Blackhaven and Nightsong. There are rumors of yet another Vulture King calling swords to his withered banners, and it would be wise to preempt them."

Her father's eyes, bloodshot from the wine, turned to regard Lord Bryndemere. He began to nod in agreement, until the chamber doors groaned open, revealing Maester Hammish. The gray-robed man scurried to her father's side before whispering nervously in his ear. The Maester, like the servants, had developed agile reflexes, and like a trained dancer sprung backwards as yet another chalice was hurled to the side, narrowly dodged as well by a serving girl with a mouse-like squeak. Silver clanged and wine splashed, while the room sat in an anxious silence. Finally, the Lord of the Stormlands groaned, placing his head in his hands and sounding eerily akin to a wounded stag.

"Cassie says her moonblood has come."

A round of commiserating sighs and cries sounded around the table. Ser Roland Connington placed a huge red-haired hand atop her father's shoulders, acknowledging his friend's devastating defeat. Maris suspected that her sister's moonblood had long since come and gone, but that her pride, and fear of her father's wrath, had delayed her response. She wondered what had finally prompted her to speak on the matter. Without a little Lord of Driftmark growing within her, Cassandra was facing a situation most difficult. Mayhaps she will be forced to return to King's Landing by Ser Alyn. Maris suppressed a smirk. She will be able to take solace in the comforting presence of our Queen, at least. She loved her well.

Lord Bryndemere, his face cast in a sympathetic pout, spoke once more. "My Lord, words fail me in my attempt to offer my condolences for you and your eldest daughter. Know that I am most sorry to hear these tidings. But might I confirm your approval for the transfer of a portion of our forces south?"

Thick fingers parted so that Borros Baratheon could gaze at the Lord of Tarth. At first, it seemed as though a grumbling assent might be given. But then the bright blue eye, bloodshot as it was, narrowed. "I think not, Lord Bryndemere. The King may be unable to go without begging for my aid for much longer. If Corlys does stir from his unbecoming malaise, he will be forced to fully commit to the war that he has so far fought hard to avoid. And if war comes, the Crown will need every sword that it can muster. If I am to be given the command I deserve, I must make it inevitable by keeping every man under my command close." Rapping his knuckles upon the table, Lord Borros nodded, clearly convincing himself.

Ser Roland nodded alongside his liege. "That jackanape Peake cannot best our numbers as it is, but if we allow our numbers to be reduced garrisoning every castle in the Stormlands, we will soon be outnumbered. Lord Redwyne's party is said to be only a few weeks from King's Landing, and he brings with him three hundred swords. Lord Unwin's late son Titus and his daughter were both sired in his marriage to a Redwyne, so those men are as good as his."

Lord Dondarrion cleared his throat. "If Lord Bryndemere is correct about this new Vulture King, my liege, might I at least have your permission to send one of my kin to investigate? He can be quite effective at rooting out Dornishmen, wherever they might be found. He could also deal with the cattle thieves near Bronzegate on his way, to assist Lord Buckler."

Lord Grandison guffawed. "Are you speaking of Ser Patrek, my Lord? He trained my nephew. He's a bloodhound, through and through. I've never seen a boy return after squiring with such a talent for the song of steel as my nephew. The boy spends all his time in our forests, hunting for poachers. He catches quite a few these days, and makes them regret it. Sometimes you can hear them hollering from the walls!"

Borros chuckled. "Lord Dondarrion, your kinsman rode with me in our hunt for the last Vulture King. He is a goodly man, and a fine tracker. I'd be loathe to lose him if we are to be scouring the Stepstones soon enough. We will need men capable of ferreting out each and every corsair from those Godsforsaken rocks."

Lord Dondarrion nodded, but he wasn't completely successful in keeping the disappointment from his eyes. Lord Buckler eyed him sympathetically, keeping his fists clenched in his lap.

With that, Borros slapped his huge hands upon the table. "That will be all, my Lords! My daughter has her commitments to the Queen to honor, and her betrothed must attend to the Watch. It would be remiss of me to cause them to be late!"

Maris attempted to smile sweetly, but she suspected a hint of her disdain remained when Bryndemere smiled conspiratorially. What a joy it will be to attend our lovely Queen.

As it turned out, it was not a joy to attend the Queen. Mushroom had been summoned to entertain her, and he had embarked upon a routine that was equal parts tumbling and flatulence. Jaehaera would occasionally smile, looking up from her dolls, whilst Floris laughed enough for the both of them. Her sister constantly dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief, as tears had begun to flow between her hysterical cackling. Maris tried her best to remain at least somewhat engaged, but her time was primarily spent embroidering. The needlework gave her an opportunity to spend her time constructing something socially acceptable, whilst still giving her ample opportunity to allow her mind to wander. Of late she had been relieved to see that Jaehaera had allowed a few more ladies into her company; there were now several Celtigars and at least one Stokeworth relation amongst their party. More girls meant less time that Maris actually had to interact with those present, which ultimately was a productive and rewarding development.

So many new faces had initially been overwhelming for the Queen, but to her credit she had shyly learned to accommodate them with time. She still only spoke to Elyn, Ser Willis, or Lady Daenaera, and always with eyes averting contact, but she had learned to accommodate her routine to the many other ladies present, tolerating their play, whispering, or giggling. It was thus even more of a surprise when Ser Willis announced that a new guest had arrived to visit, with nearly twenty young faces turning to the chamber door expectantly. Maris' eyebrow raised in surprise when the brown-haired girl entered, with three black castles emblazoned upon her bodice and a shy smile upon her lips. After conducting a flawless curtsey and speaking a few words too quiet for her to hear to the Queen, the newcomer approached Maris.

"Would it be presumptuous to ask whether I might join you, my Lady?" The girl asked.

Maris grinned. "It would be presumptuous in the extreme, though if I raise my voice to condemn you I will likely be expelled from the chamber. So please join me, though with the knowledge that my animosities will remain, unspoken as they must be."

That brought a gapped tooth grin, which in turn sent a hand daintily upwards to obscure it. Feigning contriteness, the girl chose a chair near Maris. "You really must explain to me why the others seemingly avoid you. I would have thought with such a sunny disposition you'd have been the center of pleasant diversions in the Queen's company." As the girl spoke, a needle emerged with a flourish, alongside a kerchief, upon which was a half of a beautifully embroidered yarrow flower, often seen in the Dornish Marches.

Maris' laugh was so uncommon and so unexpected that it drew the Queen's own attention, violet eyes gazing cautiously across the chamber. "I really couldn't say. I am so amenable to company." Maris set aside her needle, for the moment. "So how does the daughter of Lord Peake find herself in the Queen's own chambers? Your father has made himself quite a reputation in court. The King himself is still said to hold him responsible for the letter that so disastrously ended his mother's reign."

Her companion looked up, doe-eyed. "I really couldn't say much about that, my Lady. My father said that he was beguiled by Ser Hobert Hightower's blind desire for vengeance, having recently observed Prince Daeron Targaryen's last breath. He said that Ser Hobert's speech to the conspirators was so passionate that there was no choice but to sign, the consequences be damned."

"Your father says that, does he? How does the King feel about that explanation?"

"Well, I really could not say, my Lady. All I know is that my father begged the King to consider him his man, though it took him longer to realize his mistakes. He cited Ser Tully, a member of the King's own Regency, only joined the cause after Prince Aemond had been cast down, having previously maintained steadfast neutrality. If none could now doubt his loyalty to the King, who could say that my father was not capable of having an epiphany of a similar magnitude?"

Maris regarded the girl amusedly. "A moving story and sentiment, to be sure. Might I have the honor of learning your name?"

The girl reddened. "How rude of me! I am called Myrielle, my Lady. Having only recently arrived at court I seem to have forgotten my most basic courtesies!"

Maris nodded sagely. "The magnificence of being in the presence of a trueborn Baratheon has been known to cause some to forget themselves. All is forgiven."

Myrielle smiled, careful to do so without showing her teeth. Her eyes twinkled, however. "That must be the cause of it, my Lady. You are forgiving indeed."

For a few moments, there was silence as they both took up their sewing. Mushroom finally finished his buffoonery, exiting the chamber with an unsurprisingly grandiose bow. A few moments later, one of the Celtigar girls excused herself to use the privy, only to return several minutes later, babbling excitedly about "a Constable arriving". Soon the entire chamber was awash with excitement, as it became clear that the Constable in question was Lord Maegor, returned from the Iron Isles. The girls, hushed to silence by Ser Willis, lest the Queen grow upset, beseeched the Queen quietly whether it might be possible for them to attend court to see what news the Constable had brung. After a moment, the Queen quietly nodded her head in assent, and surprisingly even agreed to come along, after Elyn asked if she would like to see the court for herself. She permitted Elyn to bundle her tightly in a cloak of ermine, before taking her hand (along with Ser Willis') and allowing herself to be led from her chambers. So it was that Maris and Myrielle were buffeted along by a tide of excitedly chattering young women, each undoubtedly curious about the happenings of court. In the span of ten minutes, they passed from Maegor's Holdfast to the Great Hall of the Red Keep, entering and making their way to the elevated gallery where the nobility had recently assembled. As was his custom, Lord Corlys stood at the foot of the Iron Throne upon its raised dais, leaning heavily upon his dragonbone cane. The seven regents sat in elaborate seats before the throne, a large table covered in missives, reports, and letters brought by raven scattered before them. In the great chamber in front of them stood Lord Maegor towering over most of the crowd gathered behind him.

An attending bailiff brought his staff heavily upon the floor in quick succession, signaling an end to the throng's murmuring and allowing the Hand to speak. Lord Corlys drew himself up to his full height before doing so. "Lord Maegor, it is well to see you again, arriving before us hale and hearty. Do you bring us equally fortuitous news of the Isles?"

The Constable knelt, bowing his head to the Lord Hand and the King seated far atop the mountain of warped steel. When he stood, he answered. "My Lord Hand, the Isles are firmly in our grasp…" a thunderous applause drowned him out, before being silenced once more by the bailiff, "... I left the Lord Regent and his commanders in full command of the Isles. With the surrender of Old Wyk, many of the Ironborn who had resolved to resist us finally capitulated, and while some argued that they should be put to death, the Ser Hightower in his capacities interceeded on their behalf and allowed several hundred of them to take the Black. When the Lady Nettles arrived after her reemergence, we agreed that she would take my place as Ser Hightower's dragonrider. I felt that given the circumstances in the capital my services might be required more sorely here."

Lord Corlys nodded gravely. "My grandson's death was a tragedy, and my kinsman's apparent betrayal is a blight upon our house. We rejoice at your return and the tidings you bring, Lord Maegor. I am certain that we will find you a means of serving the King, perhaps as Lord Confessor, or as…"

The dragonrider spoke up. "My Lord Hand, might I inquire about the City Watch? Upon my return I was informed that there were at least two Captaincies that remained unfilled."

The Master of Driftmark nodded slowly, and from the distance it was difficult to make his reaction, though Maris suspected he misliked being interrupted. He turned to Lord Bryndemere, standing in attendance as a Crown appointee. "My Lord of Tarth, do those captaincies indeed remain available? If memory serves, the Mudgate garrison desperately requires a commander after the unfortunate demise of the last one."

Lord Bryndemere stepped forward. "My Lord Hand, it does indeed. I would be honored to appoint Lord Maegor to the position, should he desire it."

All eyes turned to the towering Constable. His request was granted, thought Maris. But I suspect he desired the captaincy of the Red Keep instead. There is far more prestige and proximity to the King in that post. The Mudgate only offers proximity to sailors, fishermen, and dockside whores.

Maegor bowed deeply, after a moment. "Lord Tarth, I would be honored to accept that post." Applause rose again in the chamber, and Bryndemere motioned for two of his men to come forward, bearing a bright golden cloak to place around the dragonrider's shoulders. Recently dyed, it stood out starkly amidst the dark wardrobes of the winter-beset gentry surrounding him.

The Lord Hand called a recess for supper, before declaring he would hear petitions for two hours afterwards. Maris rose, following the Queen's party. She originally would have planned to depart for her father's manse at this hour, but she decided she would supp with the Queen as there would be an additional opportunity to observe the petitions afterwards. As the Queen was led through the throngs of departing servants and nobility (while royal household guards ensured she was given a wide berth) Maris and Myrielle came to lead the group with Jaehaera and Ser Willis close behind. Approaching the great bronzed doors, a now familiar giant crossed their path. Lord Maegor eyed them and the Queen, studying them for a moment before adopting a slight smile upon his approach. Upon being allowed to pass by the guards, paused before their group, the bright yellow cloak pooled at his feet.

"My Ladies, if you would, I have come to pay my respects to the Queen." He said with a kindly smile. Maris and Myrielle curtseyed, stepping aside to allow him passage. It was only then that Maris realized that Jaehaera had begun to shake beneath her furs. As the brown-haired giant approached and knelt before her, she began to wail, pointing at his cloak before burying her face in Ser Willis Fell's own stark white. Sensing the impending disaster, the Kingsguard knight scooped her into his arms and carried her, near running, to Maegor's Holdfast, after uttering a quiet apology to the Constable who looked both deeply perplexed and more than slightly hurt.

Blinking and standing up, the Constable turned to them. "Was something amiss? Did I err in some way?"

Maris looked at Myrielle. "I am not certain, my Lord. The Queen's temperaments are fragile."

Elyn approached from the now shocked and abandoned group of attendants. "The Queen only reacts accordingly when she has been sorely frightened. Perhaps your size frightened her unintentionally?"

Maegor's face darkened. Begging their leave, he turned on his heel, leaving the Great Hall and entering the courtyard, where a sudden nighttime snowfall obscured his departure. He seemed to be muttering to himself, but Maris only caught a brief turn of phrase. Turning to Myrielle, she asked: "I wonder what cause he would have to call himself a brute in a gold cloak?"

With the Queen having been rendered 'indisposed' by her encounter with the newly arrived Constable, Maris had been forced to adapt. She had sent a servant to Lord Bryndemere's quarters at the Red Keep's Gold Cloak garrison, inquiring whether she might join him for a supervised super. After receiving his response that he was more than amenable, she departed with Ser Genrick Gower for her betrothed. Finding Lord Bryndemere was easy; he was always surrounded by bustling attendants and underlings. After she had been seated, they were served a large bowl of herring stew, along with a tray of blood sausages and freshly baked bread. A bowl of freshly churned butter was provided as well, in addition to a small portion of salt for seasoning. As she sprinkled salt in her stew, Maris offered Lord Bryndemere a smile.

"So you've found yourself a new Captain of the Mud Gate, my Lord?"

Bryndemere grinned toothily in return. "It appears I have. I do wonder whether he intends to cloak that wyrm of his in gold as well. Perhaps he intends to appoint it as a serjeant."

Maris raised an eyebrow at the thought. "It would likely be far less liable to take bribes from the dockside gangs, and would have little and less use for their brothels."

Lord Bryndemere adopted a sage expression. "Indeed it would not. But any savings that would provide for its coin-purse would quickly be spent on mountains of fish. I've heard that the beast is said to have a strong taste for fish; strong enough that at least several barrels will need to be brought daily to the dragonpit." Slicing himself a piece of bread, The Evenstar absentmindedly began to spread butter over it. "What would you know of dockside whores, pray tell? Have you developed a fascination with them recently without informing me?"

Maris shrugged. "My father's knights claim the streets of the boroughs near the Mudgate are overrun with them, mostly widows and orphans from the war. Supposedly they and the fishermen without work have taken up working for the local gangs, each in their own manner."

Bryndemere cast a furtive gaze about, ensuring that they would not be overheard. A sly smile danced upon his lips as he observed Ser Genrick snoring quietly. "Your father's knights are correct. The entire city has struggled with lawlessness since the riots, but those districts in particular are nearly impossible to maintain true order within. The Fisherman's Guild hasn't opened its rolls to new members in years, and its current members are liable to continue to refuse to do so, with how much gold they've been pocketing by keeping supplies low. They've been charging twice what they ought to for their morning hauls. The sailors left unemployed by the Daughters' predations have taken what work they can find, mostly for local strongmen. The widows have done the same, just from on their backs."

Maris narrowed her eyes. "Not too long ago, Lord Maegor was no Lord at all, but a lowborn. Do you not think his new posting might incense him, given the pitiful state of the smallfolk?"

Lord Bryndemere's expression grew more serious. "I had little choice in the matter. Based upon Lord Corlys' eyes and ears, it was known that Lord Maegor desired a posting within the Gold Cloaks. I was commanded in no uncertain terms to grant him post, but to ensure that it was as far from the Red Keep as possible. Lord Corlys seems to believe that it will mollify the Constable without granting him too powerful a boon. There are many who fear the last remaining Seeds, given that the Crown itself has little in the way of dragons to resist them."

Maris nodded. "Does my memory fail me? Was not the last Captain of the Mudgate found within a winesink with a blade in his belly?"

Lord Bryndemere stared at her, blankly. "Your memory does not fail you. But I caution you from treading down that trail of thought much further. Lord Maegor has received his post. It now remains to be seen what he will make of it." The Lord of Tarth speared a bit of fish upon the tip of his knife before wolfing it down. "The number of those who ride dragons has dropped precipitously of late. I suspect there are more than a few lords who would see that number fall still, lest their rivals find a means of ensnaring the loyalties of those that remain."

Maris pondered his words, deciding to leave the matter be for the moment. Before she could speak again, the great bronze bells of the Red Keep tolled again, sounding the garrison to alert. Hiking her skirts, she rushed into the courtyard, where the recently fallen snow had begun to gather in drifts. The stars above shone brightly, when but for a moment they were blocked by a great shadow descending upon the Royal Seat. Wings blacker than the night sky buffeted those below as a great beast allowed itself to come to a rest in the lower yard. From the darkness, its eyes glowed like emeralds in the night.

Lord Bryndemere joined her alongside Ser Genrick, who draped her forgotten cloak about her shoulders. The Lord of Tarth tugged at his oiled beard. "The other Seed arrives. How timely."

Though the crowds within the Great Hall of the Red Keep had diminished since the earlier audience, there were still an impressive number of attendees that gathered to hear Lord Gaemon Waters' petition to the Lord Hand. Maris made her way once more to the gallery, watching as Lord Bryndemere joined the Crown's servants once more at the base of the Iron Throne's dais. She was intrigued to see that Lord Waters had not come alone; the Lady Rhaena Targaryen stood beside him, wrapped in a thick cloak of wool, dyed black. The snow still dotted their garments, though the fires of the braziers would melt it quickly. The Great Hall was mostly silent, though the great bronze doors slammed with an echoing retort as Lord Maegor entered, clearly having made his way quickly after being informed of his fellow Constable's arrival.

Lord Gaemon had adopted a neutral expression, hands folded before him, while his long red hair dripped snowmelt quietly from its braids. He turned his head to watch the crowd, before eyeing the dais once more as the Lord of the Tides mounted it, his dragonbone cane rapping against the carven stone.

The Constable spoke first. "My Lord Hand, by now I am certain you've received the grim news regarding your grandson, and the defection of your kinsman. I would like to offer my sincerest condolences for Ser Addam, with whom I fought alongside during the war. He was a truer knight than most, and a fine man. His passing cuts me most keenly."

Corlys Velaryon sagged slightly, before righting himself. Maris noticed at that moment that he held a piece of parchment in his hands, clutched so tightly that his knuckles were bone white. "You speak most kindly, Lord Gaemon. My grandson spoke highly of you during my conversations with him. He would be honored to know that you held him in high esteem."

The Lady Rhaena looked up at Lord Gaemon, before looking at her grandfather with eyes of regret. "I too was devastated by my cousin's death, grandfather. We of Velaryon blood have too few kinsmen that remain. Lord Malentine's betrayal was an accursed act, surely condemned by the Gods. I am certain you wish him punished, if he yet lives."
Corlys stared at her for a few moments. "According to the words of my captains, my kinslaying nephew is dead. Multiple accounts swear that he was struck by an arrow between gorget and helm, and that they saw his lifesblood pour forth as he dangled from the saddle. His mount may have escaped, but the rider surely perished."

Lord Gaemon nodded gravely. "It is for that reason that I have returned from my patrols along Massey's Hook, my Lord Hand. Lady Rhaena tells me that in the days of Jaehaerys a thief stole three dragon eggs in the night, spiriting them over the Narrow Sea to fund her own selfish schemes. The Old King considered that to be a threat so dire that he threatened war with Braavos over their return. Silverwing's escape is a threat many times greater than unhatched eggs. All of Essos will hunt her, eager to claim her; that Valyria might rise again in the East. We cannot allow for that to happen, or if she has already been claimed, for her rider to escape our grasp. I have come to beg your permission, along with that of the Regency's, to pursue the rogue beast. I alone command a dragon large enough to pose a true threat to Alysanne's pride. I alone must bring it home, breathing or otherwise."

Lord Corlys opened his mouth quickly, as though he meant to offer a retort. After a moment, he glanced once more at the paper in his grasp, and once more he seemed to shrink in stature, ever so slightly. "I grant you permission, Lord Gaemon. Go east, and ensure that Silverwing is dealt with, one way or another."

The assembled Regents murmured below him, seated at their table. In time, they nodded their assent. Lord Rowan turned so that he might face the Hand, his eyes grim. "My Lord Hand, what news have you in your hand? Grand Maester Orwyle states that a letter arrived from Dragonstone while in recess."

"Orwyle forgets himself!" snapped the Lord of the Tides.

The Grand Maester seated below visibly paled, turning to speak to Lord Corlys. "My Lord, I only thought that it might have brought additional word from across the Narrow Sea. I suspected that the Lady Baela might have received word from one of her mother's old acquaintances in Pentos regarding the whereabouts of the…"

"Silence! How dare you intrude upon my private correspondence! Your speculations are not welcome in this court, Orwyle!" The Lord of the Tides practically spat out the Grand Maester's name.

A voice rang out in the hall, causing the stunned onlookers to search out the speaker. "I believe that the Grand Maester has every right to inquire about the contents of your correspondence, should it concern the Crown or the Realm, my Lord Hand." Lord Unwin Peake spoke coldly, his voice echoing around the Great Hall. "We all serve at the King's pleasure, and uphold his interests, even at our own expense. Such is the pride, and the burden, of leal men." Lord Peake reached the base of the Regency's table, eyeing each of the members before him. "Lord Corlys has seemingly forgotten himself and his place, my Lords. He commands us to obey without question, but for months we have endured his dictats without the slightest to show for it! Whether he chooses to admit it or not, we are at WAR with perfumed slavers from the east. They slew his own blood, by bribing another. His private attempt at vengeance has failed. The Realm must now answer their challenge, united."

Ser Elmo Tully stood, fast enough that his engraven chair fell behind him. "That is enough, Lord Unwin! It is you that forgets yourself, to speak to the King's Hand in such a manner."

Lord Unwin eyed the assembled nobility of Westeros around him, and he evidently found them in his favor. "I speak in the interests of the Realm, Ser Elmo. The Lord Hand still refuses to share matters that might be vitally important to our victory. Once more I question whose interests he prioritizes."

Dragonbone met stone once more as Lord Corlys' cane slammed upon the dais. "My remaining grandson has been gravely burned, Lord Unwin. The Lady Baela writes that she awaited his return on Driftmark, but was forced to make haste to Dragonstone when the fleet arrived without him. He attempted to mount Sunfyre in the night, and failed in his attempt. Maester Podrick is not certain if he will live. Do you consider your queries satisfied?"

Cries of dismay and shock echoed through the hall, but Lord Unwin's face remained chiseled from stone. In an odd tone, he finally spoke. "From a father to a grandfather, you have my sympathies. I know what it means to lose those you love to senseless tragedy."

Lord Corlys eyed Lord Peake warily, as though he was not certain what to make of his words. Eyeing the Regency, he motioned for a bailiff to dismiss the court for the evening. The hall was filled with whispers, ranging in tones from shock to dismay to anger. The Lord of the Tides, leaning heavily on his cane, took a halting step forward, then another, before clutching at his chest and crying out. The Lady Rhaena bolted up the dais to his side, attempting to support him. The hall found itself once more in uproar. Stumbling, the Hand of the King cried out again, collapsing weakly to the stones below him. His chest rose weakly, and his eyelids fluttered. For the first time, Maris thought the man truly looked his age. The Sea Snake's chest rose and fell, evermore weakly. From the high seat of the Iron Throne, the King descended rapidly, his gangly form, tall for his age, careful not to slip. Both Constables rushed forward, attempting to assist the Royal Guardsmen in giving Lord Velaryon space. From her perch high above, Maris watched Corlys Velaryon shudder, his lips moving slowly. Oh Gods. The King reached the Hand as he fell still.