A/N: The mid story guide is chapter 15 b/c of my OCD, so this is now chapter 16.

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Sixteen

Robb:

He did not doubt his uncle's skills. He had relied on them heavily since meeting his famous uncle, but this sounded too peculiar to be true. The other lords who made up his council thought the same, murmuring to one another, but Ser Brynden stood tall in the face of their dismay. "Is it only him?"

"Yes," Ser Brynden Tully confirmed, "The Imp is waiting for us in a tent." He gestured in the direction where he had just ridden from.

"A trick?" One of the lords muttered, Robb thought it might have been a Frey, but he didn't know which one. He had a few in his council, he'd need to ask Olyvar after this.

"A trap?" Lord Bolton's quiet voice seemed to slither in Robb's ear despite the Lord of the Dreadfort being several paces away from him.

"No," Ser Brynden answered quickly and confidently. "We've checked and looked." He swept his hard gaze around the tent, as if waiting for one of them to name him liar. None did.

An army, that was what he was expecting. Robb planned for an army to stand between them and the Rock. Instead, there was only a dwarf, he thought on this unexpected news while his lords dithered amongst themselves. They were still a few days from reaching the Lannister castle, and he could not put it past Lord Tyrion to use tricks to try to stymie their advance. Up until this point, Robb's campaign in the Westerlands had been one successful siege after another, capturing several castles, but he minimized the plundering of his lords and men. He may have entered the Westerlands as an enemy, but King Stannis would have them leave as allies.

Despite these victories, Robb did not allow himself to settle on this success. He remembered his father telling him of how Robert had won three battles in a single day, an impressive feat, successfully wrangling the Stormlords back under his banner. However, his father went on to say, to caution that in Robert's very next battle at Ashford, he was forced to quit the field. Making his men move north, out of the Stormlands which allowed the Tyrells to invade, unopposed and then besiege Storm's End.

My Ashford could be just up ahead, Robb thought, all my victories for naught if we're beaten back and defeated. King Stannis had put him in charge, his father trusted him, his men were counting on him. If he blundered here, but he stopped himself from pressing further with that thread of thought. Peace, that was what he was asked to give. "I will meet with him," He made sure his voice carried over the prattling of the others. The council stilled at his decision.

"Uncle, ride under the southern banner of peace to see what Lord Tyrion is requesting," Robb watched his uncle nod and then slip out. He could hear grumbling from some in his council, and he knew it was from some of the Riverlords who were not quite ready to consider peace, but he paid their dissatisfaction no heed. A low growl cut through the dissent as Grey Wind came towards him, large and fierce.

"Our orders are to handle the rebellious Westerlands and put them under King Stannis' banner," he told them, "If we can achieve that without further bloodshed then it is my duty to pursue it." He absentmindedly was petting Grey Wind. He was not the king here, nor even the Lord of Winterfell. Those were his orders and he intended to follow them.

"And if it comes to battle?" Lord Bracken asked, when no others could find their voice to protest his choice in the face of him and his direwolf.

"Then we will give the people of the West a new song."

"Ahh, Lord Robb," Tyrion greeted him with a wide smile, standing away from his chair. "Could you conjure a fiercer defender?" He asked, moving on stunted legs. He wasn't even in armor, but crimson finery.

"Lord Tyrion," Robb politely replied back. "It was Lannister cunning that got your family their castle, not some great duel or battle."

The Lannister tent was open, made from crimson canopy, but it had no walls, allowing them to be seen from all sides. The shade fell over Robb when he walked into it after another glance around. "Not to mention Myrcella always spoke of your sharp mind," But he regretted saying her name, not wanting the reminder of what he lost, and hoped his host did not see his small discomfort at his slip.

"She's traveled with me."

He had spotted it, but Robb didn't turn away from those mismatched eyes, even though he did not like how they studied him so intently. He didn't shift in his stance but gave a slight shrug before finding his seat. "My own uncle informed me that you wished to discuss terms."

Tyrion didn't move to take his. "That is true," he nodded, "I did not think the Westerlands could be so easily breached," He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "So, imagine my surprise when I learned that you not only got past a castle that was supposed to be quite challenging," He let out a slight clicking sound, "but was marching to my family's castle with an army after capturing every castle you've come across."

"Your father broke the king's peace when he invaded my grandfather's lands. His bannermen burned and pillaged their homes and their castles." Robb pointed out, "Your family is not the only one who pays their debts, Lord Tyrion."

"I thought those were bandits," Tyrion observed blandly, "I wasn't aware they were carrying Lannister banners."

Robb scoffed, wondering if it had been a mistake to meet with him. "Your family are traitors to the Crown, Lord Tyrion," he argued, "Your sister committed treason against her husband, her king with her brother," but it was another person he thought of that they hurt the most.

"They did." Tyrion finally took his seat. It was across from Robb with only a small desk between them.

"And they died for it," Robb finished, but a glance at the dwarf across from him made him realize this was news to him. "Forgive me, Lord Tyrion," He said, "I thought you knew." He felt a smidge of discomfort for having to be the one to bring such ill tidings. "We received word that King's Landing fell. It is in the hands of the false king, Renly Baratheon."

Tyrion's attention was on his glass, masking what he thought or felt upon hearing of his family's demise in the capital. "I see," he cleared his throat.

Robb hesitated whether to go forward with the negotiations or to give Lord Tyrion time. He moved to excuse himself but was stopped.

"Sit," Lord Tyrion said with a surprising amount of force which he tried to hide behind a wide smile, like it was said in jest, but his look was not endearing. "My uncle is marching an army through the Westerlands," he continued, "I came to you, because I do not see further battle as the best course for my family."

"I share that sentiment, Lord Tyrion," Robb sat back down. "King Stannis has invested in me the power to negotiate on the Crown's behalf," he went into his tunic for the parchment bearing the king's seal, but he was waved off.

"King Stannis," Tyrion said, pouring himself another glass of wine, "and he wishes to take the Iron Throne from his brother," The wine was a dark red, filling his cup to the brim, "And he wants Lannister swords to help him." The pitcher was gold and bespeckled with rubies that were engraved in the shape of a lion's head.

"He wants peace in the Seven Kingdoms-"

"Under his banner," Tyrion finished, "I must remind your king that his Iron Throne owes my family quite a bit of gold." He poured a glass for Robb despite him shaking his head.

The glass remained untouched. "That can be negotiated," He wanted to add by wiser men, despite the piece of parchment with the king's seal giving Robb this authority, he felt no comfort in haggling over debts. He was at a severe disadvantage in that regard, and he and Lord Tyrion, both knew it. "King Stannis is prepared to recognize your claim as Lord of Casterly Rock under the proper conditions."

"So not for free?" Tyrion looked up with another of his forced smiles, but it could not hide his interest at the notion that the coveted title of Lord of Casterly Rock was within his grasp. "And what of my niece and nephew?"

"They are not to be harmed," Robb ignored the small pang in his chest when he continued. "Tommen will be required to take vows as a septon or a member of the Night's Watch when he is older and will leave the Rock if you've agreed to our terms."

"Leave the Rock?" Tyrion frowned, "And go where?"

"He will go to Riverrun," Robb answered, "He'll foster there until he is of age. He will be away from this war and will be safe." He did not add that his mother was also there and could look after him given their recent history.

Tyrion nodded, not showing what he thought of these generous terms. "And Myrcella?"

"Myrcella," Robb repeated her name, feeling the slight flutter within, "She will be given to the Faith."

"I'd have your word that they will be safe?" Tyrion asked, "I will risk a siege if there is even a hint of any possible harm coming to either of them." His voice frayed slightly with the thought of his niece and nephew suffering. "Because I hear your king follows a new god, red and vengeful with other sorts of nasty traits that make the gods so bothersome." He waved his hand dismissively.

Robb didn't begrudge him for his suspicions. He had been around the followers of this new god, and they did not sit well with him. "If you do not yet trust King Stannis then trust my father's honor. The terms will be honored."

"Your father's honor," Tyrion repeated, with a chuckle, "Your father and King Stannis are sure to make a lively court back in King's Landing."

He ignored the jape to press his point. "My father made these terms plain when he spoke with King Stannis when he brought the north under his banner. They will not be harmed." He saw he didn't look fully convinced so he continued. "My father risked his life to warn your sister to leave the capital with them, before he even went to tell Robert. He told your sister because he could not stomach the thought of them dying," His father had told them of his plights in the capital when he reunited with them. "He did not regret it."

Lord Tyrion didn't reply, mulling over Robb's words, while watching him intently as if he'd unravel and reveal the real truth behind his message.

"We have a chance to bring an end to this conflict between our houses, Lord Tyrion," he hesitated before adding, "Which includes what my mother did to you, and for that you have my apologies." He saw the surprise flash across the dwarf's expression, but his glib response was just as quick.

"Your mother didn't scold me like a child, Lord Robb," he said coldly. "She unlawfully seized me and had me dragged to your aunt, who is more deserving of a loon than a falcon."

Robb didn't flinch at the expected reminder, but he wasn't as stoic as he intended.

"She did," he agreed, "And you have my family's apology for her recklessness."

Tyrion was neither mollified nor finished. "I was then put on trial for crimes I didn't commit!"

"And the gods saw fit to prove your innocence," Robb had heard the story, but it seemed Lord Tyrion wasn't done. "Enough," Robb interrupted angrily, realizing it was a mistake to mention his mother. "My family has wronged yours, and your family has wronged mine. On and on, it will go, for both our houses-"

"Like puppets," Lord Tyrion interrupted, Robb thought it was a jest at his expense but when he looked, he saw no mirth in his eyes, only a reflective hue. "We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us. And one day our own children will take up our strings and dance on in our steads."

"Yes," Robb said slowly, surprised by Tyrion's somber shift, "I'd see those strings cut."

"And your Riverlords?" Tyrion asked them, "Do they wish to see those cut?"

"They are not mine, but they and the north will follow their King's ruling," Robb insisted. "What of your new bannermen? Will the men of the West bend the knee to King Stannis?"

"Anything can be bought, Lord Robb," Tyrion flashed him a smile, "Including peace, it's just a matter of haggling."

Myrcella:

"We could-"

She didn't let him finish. "No, thank you."

Arys was not deterred. "I can have men clear one of the court-"

"No, thank you," She interrupted. She did not want to leave her chambers. This part of the castle was only for a select few. Myrcella did not want to risk being seen by the guests who were being hosted inside this castle.

Where is she? They'd ask amongst themselves. The bastard who thought she was a princess. They'd jeer and laugh, curse her, and she could not begrudge them their hate.

Her true parents had brought many within these walls nothing but anguish. Dragging the kingdoms into a civil war because of their recklessness, their selfishness. What would the final count be? She wondered, how many will perish because of them? A gauntleted fist seemed to enclose around her heart. Because of me?

"Princess," Arys began,

"Have you decided?"

He frowned. Whether at her interruption or at her question, he did not answer right away which made her believe it was the latter. She had caught him off guard.

"I do not know, princess," he replied, "I would serve you if I could-"

"But septas don't need sworn shields," she said wryly.

Here in front of her was another life ruined because of her parents' selfishness. Another dream that had turned to ash.

"My un," she stopped herself, "King Stannis would respect you. He would not begrudge your loyalty to me," She saw him shift uncomfortably, "You are one of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms. He should be honored to have you."

"Thank you, Princess," He replied, but he did not meet her eyes. "I do admit that I'm not sure I could take the cold winds of the north at the Wall."

There was a time where I dreamed of cold winters and the north, she thought sadly, of my betrothed, lying back down on her bed, He's in this very castle. Walking these very halls, but I stay far away. She stared up at the roaring lions embroidered in the canopy of her bed. These heralds of my doom, mocking me wherever I go, Laughing at me. She shifted on her bed, tired of looking at lions. She lay on her side, her back to her knight, staring at the one part of the wall beside her bed where no lions could be found.

Unlike her knight, there was no choice for Myrcella Waters. Her uncle had told her of her fate. She was to be given to the Faith. Her future hasn't settled in for her since she was far more worried about Tommen, and then saddened upon hearing of Uncle Kevan's death. She had cried all night and into the morning, thinking of her kind uncle. His wife and what was left of his family were here, Myrcella had not sought them out, because she knew she would not be welcomed.

My husband is dead because of you! She would say. My son is dead because of you!

She would be right. A cold prickling crept across her skin, she nearly shivered despite the warm sunlight coming in from her windows. She felt her face scrunch, and then the tears began to pool. Myrcella dared not sniffle, not wanting Arys to know. Neither his sword nor his shield can protect me from this. She wiped at them.

Uncle wanted me to wear it like armor, but I can't, wet splotches spread along her cheeks. The armor cannot stand against it. These needles of guilt stabbing her, borrowing into her flesh, spreading this cold misery that swept through her blood, her chest tightened, and her stomach heaved.

"Princess?" Arys called out carefully.

Myrcella's body shook on the bed despite her best efforts. "It is nothing," her voice did not contain a thread of her guilt, her grief. "I'd like to be alone, please." She didn't turn to face him. She could practically hear his hesitance in his stance, the stillness in the air, and after a beat where she thought he'd refuse her, a drop of relief touched her troubled heart when he spoke, his tone conveying his answer, and his resignation.

"Very well, princess," The door opened and his heavy footfalls could be heard, and then the door closed behind him.

She was alone, but she still didn't feel any better. She fell asleep with wet cheeks and a cold, throbbing in her chest.

"Did you know Riverrun can turn into an island when its being attacked?"

Myrcella smiled at her brother. It was not a pretend smile. She did not need to when she was with Tommen. It came quickly to her lips. He was one of the few who she would let see her. "Really?" She asked, already knowing the answer, that was how he had been beaten. She banished the thought away, not letting it sink her mood when she was with her brother.

Tommen made an affirmative noise while bobbing his head. He was sitting on the floor, his back to the bed, leaning against it. Myrcella lay atop her bed, her hand lazily hanging off the edge, from where she lay, she could see the top of his head.

"You can swim in the rivers too," Tommen went on excitedly, "Do you think they'll let me swim in them?"

"If you want to," she told him, one of the few comforts that came to her was learning that Tommen would not be killed because of them. She feared for her brother's life, terrified that mercy would fall on deaf ears. They'd see her little brother, but they wouldn't see a boy, but a threat. Looking forward she saw Tommen was looking back at her, but his head was removed, resting on the bed. His headless body lay against the bed, leaning back to show exposed blood and meat. The wound was red and weeping.

Myrcella sprung backwards; a noise of despair lodged in her throat. Fear burst in her stomach, cold and sharp. She hit her head against the headboard, pain blooming from where she struck the hard wood. Her pounding heart only began to calm when she saw Tommen was looking at her, healthy and whole.

"Myrcella?" His green eyes swimming with tears.

She held up a hand, wincing, as a fresh wave of pain gripped her. "It is nothing."

"Myrcella?" Her brother neared closer to her. His face etched in worry.

"Thank you, Tommen," She reached out for his hand, which he happily took, "can you keep going," she encouraged, "I want to know more about what you learned."

He nodded eagerly, sitting on the side of the bed while still holding her hand. "I only know so much because of Robb."

Myrcella's heart stilled at his name. "You've spoken to him?"

Tommen didn't seem to sense how taut her body suddenly went. "Every day," he answered her, "He's told me all about his grandfather's castle and of his uncle," he continued, "He wanted to make sure I wouldn't be afraid. That I would be well taken care of."

Of course, he did, she felt a pang in her chest. "D-did he treat you well?" Not daring to ask what question was really on her tongue. Did he look at you with pity? Speak to you, distant and cool. Disgusted at what we are. He did not have to speak cordially with her brother when telling him his future. She could hardly forget Lord Stark's chilly tone that had so perplexed her, fearing it was her family he disliked, but then she learned the truth. It was me.

"Oh yes," he answered in a tone that made her sound silly for even asking, "He's come to me almost every day. He's even supped with me and Uncle Tyrion in his solar. He doesn't often because of-"

Myrcella had stopped listening by then. Distracted by what she had learned, could it be? She didn't dare hope, she could not stomach the pain if she was wrong. The ache in her head was subsiding, but her brother's next words calmed her tangled thoughts and dulled the pain.

"He's asked after you."

Myrcella felt the breath in her chest dispel in a nervous flutter. "He has?"

"He wants to see you," Tommen said, "But I told him that he can't," her brother frowned, "He seemed sad, but-" her brother continued oblivious to what she was feeling, thinking, hoping, dreaming.

That empty feeling in her chest began to fill with warmth, soft and soothing. She lied back against her pillows, playing over her brother's words. And for the first time in a long time, she felt good.

Attached to Myrcella's room was a small alcove, to enter it she needed to open a pair of doors. The stained-glass doors had Lannister lions facing one another, but when she opened them, she couldn't see them anymore. Inside the alcove, it was open and airy with open windows, air that smelt of salt and of the sea swirled above her head. In the middle of the small alcove was a table where her cyvasse board was placed. A stone bench wrapped around the alcove. Atop the bench were embroidered crimson cushions, with another set across the back to make sure that no one would be discomforted by the hard stone.

The cyvasse board had been a gift from her uncle when they arrived at Casterly Rock. He was teaching her the game, but Uncle Tyrion was often needed elsewhere as the new Lord of Casterly Rock. She smiled, believing no one was more deserving of the honor than him. When his duties as lord didn't distract him than his obligations of host to the northern and riverlords kept him occupied. As well as his new bannermen. She did not fault him for that. She played with Joy and Arys at times, but the former was still learning the rules while the latter didn't show the interest in it that her uncle did.

Myrcella sat down in her seat, looking at the board. She and Uncle Tyrion had started a new game. Her pieces were white and his were black. He thought the game would be a good distraction for her. So, I not dwell on hard truths. She didn't begrudge his help. She took comfort in it, and she saw the wisdom in his gift.

The game was challenging. She picked up one of her trebuchets, examining the finely carved piece. It was hard to worry about other matters when all her concentration was needed on the board, to either fend off one of her uncle's attacks or to launch one of her own. Myrcella put down the trebuchet piece where she had placed it and moved her fingers across from where her king was. I must protect the king, she mused, that is why I do not picture it as Joffrey. Her finger hovered over the crown, otherwise I would let Uncle Tyrion march in and kill it. She didn't see the king as the man who she thought was her father either, or of her uncles who were not her uncles.

Joffrey was dead and she did not care. They were dead, but she could not find a whit of grief. Those that have cursed me with this life. She accidentally knocked the king piece over. It spun on its side for a second or more but didn't teeter off the table. Myrcella picked it back up and returned it to its place. It was the king piece, but it was not a king she thought of when it was time to play.

A noise from inside her room made her forget about her cyvasse board. "Joy?" She wasn't expecting her cousin to visit. She stepped outside of the alcove. "Oh."

It wasn't her cousin. His presence threatened to steal the breath from her lungs. His eyes blue as the Summer Sea were bright and kind, and on her. And then his lips curved upwards the moment their eyes touched, and in that fleeting second, she was happy, because it was him and her with no room for anyone or anything else. Heat kindled in her chest. How she wished she could grab this second, forge it into something she could hold onto, something to look at, to think on, whenever the cold tried to set in. Because she knew that this gaze between them would warm her in the heart of a blizzard.

"Myrcella." His timbre was warm and soothing. His northern brogue wrapped around her name like a silk ribbon.

"Yes?" The word seemed to flutter between them.

"Do not be crossed with your cousin," he said, "I insisted."

"I understand," What could her cousin do? She was a bastard, and he was the heir to Winterfell, the son of two great houses. If he asked her for something she would be wise to give it to him. With that something came into her mind, the temptation creeping in, ask me anything, it was a prayer, delirious and dangerous, but she did not care, and I'll grant it.

With how he was looking at her, she remembered Tommen's words, confirming the hope she had been nurturing. With that, with him all the hate, the fear, the grief, the guilt, they were rounded up and interred. Something else replaced it which wouldn't see her weak, but strong, emboldening her, igniting embers she thought extinguished forever. It was a familiar feeling she had, one that came to her when she had seen herself as his wife. In the evening when she was alone with her thoughts and her fingers. One that would make her feel wanton if she told her Septa, because she was a princess, and propriety demanded more of her.

Except I'm not a princess, and for the first time, the words didn't feel cutting, they felt freeing. She smiled, and he returned it. She felt the coil of heat curl inside her belly, of want, of need. It may as well have been strings with her as its puppet.

She moved with the confidence of a princess, but she knew it was right with how he was watching her. Myrcella saw surprise flicker over him, but his eyes darkened, darting between her eyes and her mouth. She rewarded his look with a growing smile. Then her mouth found his, gratefully, greedily. He stiffened, but his arms were not pushing her away, they were wrapping her closer to him. His mouth moved and she knew they would be words of protest trying to push past lips that she could kiss forever.

"Please," she tried to silence them with a kiss, "please," kissing along his jaw. Her fingers sliding into his hair while she felt his fingers curling around her, claiming her.

He shifted, but his eyes and fingers betrayed how he felt for her. At how he wanted her. "Myrcella," his voice was rough, sounding as if he had emerged after a deep plunge into the sea, "You deserve better than this."

She let out a bitter laugh, but it didn't smother the flames inside her. "I am a bastard."

"I can't dishonor you," but he made no move to untangle himself from her.

"Oh Robb," even now after everything she's been dragged through, he still cared for her, "I've already been dishonored," she found one of his hands on her waist. "My parents saw to that." She covered his hand with hers, "They took everything from me," gently she lifted his hand from where it rested and brought it up, "But don't take this," she placed his hand on her chest. She heard his intake of breath. His fingers were rough against the smooth red silk of her fabric. She shivered when his thumb brushed over her exposed skin, she saw his eyes, and knew he could feel her pulse beneath his touch. "But-" the words scraped their way up her throat, "If you do not want it, me, then-" her words were swallowed up by his mouth, and he was kissing her.

It was waiting in front of the looking glass on the small table when she stepped into the room. She would need to think of something to show her appreciation for her cousin, for both her discretion and resourcefulness. The cup was small but filled to the brim. Myrcella settled into the chair, a feeling of content washing over her that seemed warmer than the dapples of sunlight slipping into the room at this early hour. She turned to the looking glass to see her dazed smile, the glaze in her green eyes. She giggled at what she saw, and her reflection did too. Her hair was a mess of golden curls. She brushed some away, but she remembered his hands in her hair, on her body, and she shivered with pleasure at the memory of their night together.

My clever little sweetling, her mother's voice were nails against her heart, getting a wolf pup in your belly. She looked in the mirror, but it was not her reflection looking back at her. It was her mother's, prim and severe. The smile was thin and sharp.

Keep it, then his face appeared, a haughty smirk and glinting green eyes. The callow boy would marry you. Isn't that what you wanted?

Then their faces were swimming along the shimmering surface of the looking glass until settling one atop the other to form something else. It was her face staring back at her. Her stomach gave a violent heave, but it was the spike of anger that made her move, made her grab the discarded brush and with its handle, she smashed into the looking glass with all her might.

It shattered with a loud crack, breaking into dozens of pieces. She had enough foresight to grab the cup before any could fall in it. Myrcella then watched with mute fascination catching glints of light winking back at her from all the different pieces, seeing bits of her watching her through small fragments before they showered in a clatter of noise falling onto the desk and ground.

You're dead, she told their ghosts, and I'll never become you. She saw what their selfishness had wrought. All the bodies piled at their feet, because all they cared for was themselves, chasing their own pleasures, uncaring if the world burned as long as they burned together. Her fingers tightened around the cup; she steadied her breathing.

Myrcella knew what her mother would do at this moment. That was why she brought the cup to her lips, drinking the contents in only a few short sips. It was not as bitter as she expected. The taste was not sour on her tongue. It was not a pleasant aftertaste, but her stomach twisted all the same, because she knew what she had just given up. She put the cup back down, and left her room, because she knew what she had to do next.

A/N: Myrcella basically had a YOLO moment when she realized that Robb still cared for her. Gave into temptation and saw one of the freeing things about being a bastard and shot her shot with Robb. Triggering a cascading effect that led to my poorly written scene of passion/conflict. Sorry about that. And fortunate for Robb, he's not facing the same repercussions he would if this was Jeyne or Talisa. I like to think Myrcella's reasons for it are spelled out clearly in the chapter.

This will likely be Myrcella's last POV. She got her bittersweet resolution/ending with Robb and will soon be off to join the Faith. We may see her in a future Robb chapter, but with her going to the Faith, her story is veering away from the other threads. So, she gets to make her exit gracefully and gets to leave the story alive.

I'm sorry about the long wait between chapters, but I decided to focus on finishing my other two stories which took some time, but now they are thankfully both done, and also real life can get in the way.

I put a poll up on my profile asking you guys for your advice on what name to give Jon and Dacey. Right now, Seastark and Stark of Sea Dragon Point are the leading candidates for Jon and Dacey's house name. So don't forget to vote.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire