As always, these chapters are getting longer – and that's not intentional, it just happened. I'm sure I could've written parts of this chapter much better, but I've spent three weeks on the same document, and I'm getting sick of looking at it, so… for better or for worse, here you go!
So, this chapter took a while. I had a long hard think about whether or not I should write a certain part of it because, well, it's a lil' risqué. So, just be prepared for some explicit content. I don't think I'll do it often, but I like to emulate certain authors, so, like GRRM, I want you to get hungry when I describe food, horrified when horrified things happen and, well, a little hot under the collar with steamy scenes. So… yeah.
Freya
Freya's bedchamber was as desolated as the rest of the castle. What was once likely a grand chamber had been reduced to a barren, almost haunting emptiness. The room's stone walls, weathered and worn, were neglected and decayed. The remnants of shattered furniture lay scattered across the floor – a broken chair here, a splintered table there – testaments to the castle's troubled history.
Sparse beams of sunlight filtered through narrow windows, casting elongated shadows across the bare stone floor. Dust danced in the faint rays, swirling in the air, adding to the eerie atmosphere within the chamber. The air carried a dampness, a constant reminder of Pyke's proximity to the sea and the persistent salty tang that lingered within the castle's walls.
However, it was the view beyond the aged glass that truly captured Freya's attention. The window overlooked the tumultuous waters surrounding the Iron Islands. Waves crashed against the jagged rocks that encircled Pyke, the relentless sea spray painting a frothy spectacle against the dark, weather-beaten stone. The castle's precarious location atop its rocky islet provided an unobstructed panorama of the tempestuous sea.
Gulls soared overhead, their cries echoing faintly into the chamber, while the occasional silhouette of a fishing boat could be seen navigating the treacherous waters, a testament to the resilience of the ironmen who braved the unforgiving sea for survival.
The sky above was a canvas of shifting shades—ominous clouds swirling in an ever-changing display, painting the horizon with hues of grey and navy. The sea, a tumultuous expanse, stretched endlessly into the distance, its restless waves crashing against the cliffs.
Was this it? A squalid ruin on barren rocks? She'd heard of the ferocious and terrifying ironmen, the masters of the seas. Perhaps it was foolish to believe there would be a fleet of galleys awaiting her, with spices and rugs and tapestries. People from all the corners of the known world and beyond. Instead, she found starving fishermen and dirty drunkards. Most men had long hair, braided – they even braided their beards. There were no knights with longswords – only a handful of Rayn's crew, who had taken up residence in the ruined keep, carried swords – the hilts barely long enough for one hand to grasp. Most carried axes and hatchets. It was these men that had scarred hands, missing a finger or too, if not a chunk of their dorsal. They carried crudely forged long knives at the front of their belts, and would parrot phrases to each other often.
The door to her chambers opened, and Freya turned around to see the woman, Whalebane, stood at her door. She was unlike Freya in that she never wore a gown. Instead, she dressed like a man. Such a thing was to be shunned according to the Seven Pointed Star. But, Whalebane stood there, skinny like Freya, with a head of straw-coloured hair, tied back from her face haphazardly. She wore black clothes, all waxed and shining, beneath a dark-ringed hauberk and a leather jerkin.
"You've got a visitor."
"For me?" She asked, curiously.
"Rayn wants you there."
And there it was – she'd been fed a lie for her entire life. The Iron Islands were not hers – they were Rayn's. A stranger she hadn't known – who'd been off Gods-know-where for the last fifteen years while she was raised in King's Landing as little more than a hostage. She had been scared and alone as far back as she remembered, and the day she was meant to be free, Rayn arrived to snatch what should have been hers. How did he even know the exact day she was leaving?
"Well?" Whalebane asked, clearly somewhat frustrated as standing there. She should've known her place – Freya was a Greyjoy. A highborn Lady. Whalebane was a sailor – a woman who wanted to be a man. Though, Freya would never dare say such a thing to her; she could still remember the woman plunging her sword into a man's chest, hacking another's arm off at the elbow.
"I just need to dress, I-"
"Well, hurry up."
"I don't have any handmaids…" Freya complained – she'd only had one in King's Landing, but it was impossible to lace up the back of her gown by herself…
Whalebane let out a load groan and stormed over, snatching the green gown Freya had worn for the past two days in a row. She slapped at Freya's arms until she lifted them up high, at which point Whalebane pulled the gown down roughly. Freya's hands flailed trying to find the sleeves.
Once the green silk was on, Whalebane puled on the drawstrings at her back tightly, after a second of tying, she slapped Freya on the shoulder. "There. You're ready."
"I…" Freya frowned and placed a hand on the small of her back, snatching the long drawstrings that hung loosely behind her. "You've not tied it properly…"
"It'll stay tied," Whalebane shrugged as she walked out of the door. Freya cursed the Seven Hells and began to try and tuck the strings down the back of her dress as she followed Whalebane down the long dilapidated ruins. Chunks of stone lay in the hallways and rays of light broke through, along with splashes of rain, shining the stone slabs and turning them slick.
The woman appeared to have some semblance of direction, as she took the turns through the maze of corridors without hesitating. Freya quickly came to realise how – only some of the torches had been lit. She finally finished threading the drawstrings into her gown and straightened up. She then realized she hadn't brushed her hair. She quickly ran her fingers through it in an attempt to look presentable – if this were King's Landing, she'd have been greeted with even more looks than usual… But in the empty hallways of Pyke, Freya began to feel even more foolish – especially when she was stood next to Whalebane.
They finally came to a large chamber where one of the oak doors had fallen from its hinges. Inside was an austere and barren solar.
At the heart of the chamber stood a hearth, its stone mantle bearing a meticulously carved kraken—a proud emblem of House Greyjoy. The hearth exuded a faint warmth that barely managed to thaw the chill lingering within the stone walls. The flickering flames cast eerie shadows that danced along the chamber's charred tapestries, the kraken's intricately carved features seeming to writhe in the fire's glow.
The candelabras, standing tall and solemn, bore the weight of years gone by, their once-polished surfaces now coated in layers of dried wax, evidence of countless candles that had burned and flickered within this chamber. The flickering light they cast added an otherworldly aura, illuminating the room with an ethereal glow that danced across the scarred ancient stone floor.
The air carried a scent of age and dampness from the sea-laden air. The musky aroma mingled with the faint scent of freshly cut timber and mortar – Freya was yet to become comfortable with it, though she had seen men bringing in fresh planks every day. Yet, Rayn had always been absent, in some distant part of the castle from dawn until dusk.
Freya glanced at the distant sounds of hammering and the clatter of stone as she walked towards the small table that sat in the centre of the room. A large wooden chair was carved from dark wood, its back made to resemble a kraken, with tentacles that stretched out onto the arms. It was the only one that held such detail – it was the chair that her father would have sat in. It was the chair that her brother now sat in. It was the chair that she had been promised.
"We've a visitor."
Freya turned to the doorway that Whalebane still lingered in and saw Rayn entering, his brigandine unfastened, and swordbelt wrapped around the scabbard he carried in one hand. He tossed it on the table, making Freya jump, and slumped into the chair, kicking one foot up onto the table as he watched the rest of his crew enter – including Ironhand. They all began to take their seats around the table, leaving Freya to stand. It infuriated her.
A man entered the room, followed by a motley trio. He was dressed in an assortment of fraying waxed wools – green and faded silver. She frowned – she recognized the pattern of silver fish, but… well, the ironmen weren't an imaginative bunch – fish showed up on half of every banner – how could anyone remember them?
His hair was cropped shorter than any other man there. He was grey, his skin beginning to sag and wrinkle as if he were a much older man, and his brown eyes were almost lost in his the dark bags and circles that threatened to swallow the last bit of colour on his face. He must have been twice Freya's age and then some. Her dark eyes fell on the stump at the end of his right arm – she could make out the ugly, grotesque scar that peeked out from beneath the sleeve. It made her recoil, and she found his eyes on hers.
"Don't mind her, Botley," Rayn said, glancing out of the window, apparently already bored with the conversation, "she's still soft."
Freya frowned. She knew her mother, Helya, had been a Botley. This man, Lord Botley, was their kin. He turned his attention back to Rayn. He chewed his tongue and took a few steps forwards, only for Whalebane to move between them, a hand on the hilt of her sword.
"Don't mind Whalebane, she's just protective."
"Most ironborn don't give their women a blade," Lord Botley remarked.
"Aside from you and I, you mean?" Rayn asked, looking up at the trio.
Freya frowned and looked back to see that, though all wore men's britches and carried axes, there was, indeed, another woman there. Perhaps Freya's age, or near enough, with her strawberry blonde hair tied back from her face, similar to Whalebane.
"What happened to your axe-hand?"
Lord Botley glanced down and ran a hand through where his hand would have been before swallowing hard, his brown eyes lost in forlorn longing.
"We lost many things when the greenlanders came."
There was a moment's pause within the solar. There were the raiders of Rayn's crew, all of whom had been away from the Iron Islands for nearly the last two decades. Then, there were the three who had remained in that time and survived the fury of the dragonlords.
"Our mother was a Botley," Freya broke the silence. "Does that make you our kin?"
Dagon swallowed and took a long breath, looking her up and down again. "Dagon. Helya was my sister."
Freya took a step forwards – intent on taking his hand and curtsying, greeting him as her uncle. But, Rayn's hanging hand rose, two fingers held up to show pause. It felt like disrespect – treating her like some common dog, but she halted all the same. Rayn hoisted himself out of his chair and rested a hand on the pommel of his sword, the other on the head of his axe. He licked his lips and narrowed his eyes, looking at Dagon's face with suspicion and curiosity.
"You're too old to be our Uncle Dagon," Rayn determined.
"And you're too rude to be my nephew, Rayn."
Rayn rubbed his jaw and paced around Dagon to examine the girl behind him. "Your daughter?"
"My bastard, Kata."
"Greyjoy," Kata bowed her head stiffly. No curtsy? No 'my Lord'? Freya wondered how Rayn might react. Instead, he simply looked back to Dagon and placed his hands on his hips.
"What does Hilda think of that?" Rayn scoffed.
"Nothing," Dagon replied curtly, "Hylde died."
Rayn's self-satisfied smug died on his face, and he gently nodded, swallowing, before pressing a closed fist against his chest.
"I'm sorry. What is dead may never die," he said, immediately echoed by everyone else in the solar.
"What is dead may never die," Freya parroted him, a moment too late; Dagon turned back to face her, and this time, his attention did not waver.
"You don't look like you were tortured."
Freya frowned. "Well… I wasn't." Her voice seemed louder than usual – perhaps it was just the quiet of the ruined keep. "Aeric Targaryen raised me in the Red Keep…"
"So, you're a Targaryen, not a Greyjoy?" Dagon asked, his voice sad and disappointed.
"We're still figuring that one out…" Rayn murmured, his dark eyes flickering across to Freya for a moment.
"My blood is that or Ragnor, of Sigurd, of the Grey King-"
"You dress like a greenlander."
Freya wasn't too sure who the greenlanders were, exactly. "I didn't buy my own gowns."
"You look like a Crownlander," Kata remarked.
"You look like a man," Freya retorted. Ironhand let out a low chuckle.
"Kata," Dagon hissed.
"No, please, bastard," Rayn invited the girl, "it seems you're making my sister interesting for a change," he turned back to look at Freya fondly. She could've smacked him. But, well… she'd seen another side to him. The animal that lived to butcher others. She wasn't sure that animal would stay his blade.
"I've been serving as steward in your absence," Dagon continued, though Rayn didn't turn to look back at him, "I had hoped to be here when you arrived, but…"
"Apologies, Uncle, but why did you think I was coming back?" Rayn asked, turning back to him. "How did you know I was alive?"
"I didn't." There was no anger and wrath in Dagon's voice – he was just… empty. His words seemed to fall in the chamber like stones, ringing out with no passion or excitement. "I knew one Greyjoy was alive."
Rayn's smile had vanished from his face. He chewed his tongue and let out a long sigh for gesturing to the table. "You're here to pay tribute?"
"I'm here to educate you." He gestured to the table with his remaining hand, and the man behind him walked forwards, laying down a scroll of parchment and unfurling it across the wooden table. The ironmen sat at the table held the corners of the map as Dagon approached with Rayn, and Freya remained a few steps back, watching.
"You may be Lord of the Iron Islands, but that title is simply a relic. Goodbrother has subjugated the Drumm, and the Harlaw has claimed rights to Orkmont. Saltcliffe is little more than a ruin, with barely enough ships to maintain trade with Lordsport which brings me to the more… immediate problem."
"Problem?" Rayn asked.
Dagon pointed to the right side of the southern-most isle in the map. "I lost all but two ships since the Storming. Harlaw provided me with another three longships, but… they were soon burnt by Roderick Wynch."
"Wynch?" Freya asked, recognising the name from their arrival at the island.
"He was the only ironborn who did not answer the call when greenlanders landed at Lordsport," Dagon explained. "The craven remained at the Iron Holt with his men. After the Pyke fell, he was the most powerful man on the island. He didn't like bowing to a man that had lost his axe-hand, so he began raiding instead."
"Ironborn haven't raided one another in hundreds of years,"
"He would never dare shed blood – it's still forbidden by the Drowned God. Though, it hasn't stopped his threats…"
"It's forbidden to spill blood?" Freya asked, glancing to Rayn.
"Has something happened?"
"No," Rayn lied, "What about Blacktyde?"
"Roderick the Fishskin has contracted the Seascale Sickness – salt water turns his skin into something foul. As such, he has not left his isle in a decade, and has no sons to carry on his name."
"The Drowned One has cursed him. For surrendering to greenlanders?"
"It seems all of us that survived were cursed. He has a bastard who tried to raid Bear Island."
"Is he ambitious or a fool?"
"Neither… Both – it doesn't matter," Dagon shook his head, "the Pyke boy now captains the Iron Shroud. The Fishskin won't come to bend the knee, but I believe he'll send his son."
"A bastard Pyke does not represent his house," Rayn did not even glance to Kata, but Freya did – she saw her nostrils flare and brow tighten. "We'll sail north to Blacktyde after dealing with the Wynch."
"Deal with him how?" Freya asked, wary of the answer.
"He can bend the knee and submit, or he can die," Rayn said simply.
"Uncle Dagon just said we cannot shed blood…"
"Then I'll hold Rorik Wynch's head beneath the waves until his lungs are saltwater and mud," Rayn said, growing frustrated with her interruptions.
"I would advise against such an action, Greyjoy," Dagon began.
"Oh, would you, Uncle?"
"If you seek to reclaim control over the Iron Islands, murder will not help you in that regard."
"I never said I'd murder him," Rayn stated as he straightened up at the table. "Whalebane, go watch the Iron Holt. Ironhand, organise a guard on the Leviathan…"
"The Salt Throne," Dagon said suddenly, "it's still intact?"
"We're yet to clear the rubble to the throne room," Rayn answered.
"That must be done soon – if you're to call the ironborn here to pay homage, you must appear as the true Lord of the Iron Islands. The Seastone Chair will help in that regard."
Rayn glanced around at the men sat at his table before nodding to one of them. "Witch-Killer – see to it."
A man with long, blond braids groaned and rose to his feet, walking across the chamber and kicking the legs of a few other ironmen until they followed him.
"Rayn, where are you…" Freya began, but Rayn cut her off without even turning back to look at her.
"Botley, look after her." Rayn stepped over the collapsed door, leaving Freya in the ruined chamber that quickly became empty as the men began to file out after Rayn, Whalebane or Ironhand.
"Kata," Dagon spoke to his bastard daughter, "go with him. Help in any way you can."
"Yes, Father," Kata bowed her head to him before walking out with so much as a glance to Freya. It were as though she were a fucking commoner. It was just Freya in her creased silk gown and her Uncle Dagon, her awkwardly thumbed at the whalebone hilt of the long knife that hung at the front of his belt.
"It must feel strange to be back here," Dagon said quietly.
"I don't remember it."
"No, I… of course," Dagon took a heavy breath. "Well… perhaps I could… show you your home? You might find your-"
"This ruin is not mine," Freya lamented, scowling at the older man as she exited the solar, followed close behind by her uncle. "It's Rayn's. And it's little more than a pile of rocks at that – he ought to just finish the job and toss the rest of it into the sea…" she muttered darkly.
"Pyke has been the seat of the Greyjoy for over six thousand years," Dagon informed her, his voice as cold and unbetraying as ever. It was enough for her – another person telling her about her family. In the Crownlands, she was too much of an Ironman. Here, she was too much of a Crownlander. Even a damned bastard didn't respect her.
"Oh, why do you even care?" She snapped. "You're not a Grejoy…" She didn't even feel like a Greyjoy.
A large hand appeared on her shoulder, whirling her around, and she was met with those brown eyes again. This time, however, they were not quite as cold or hard. Instead, they seemed to ache as they cast across her face. His brow furrowed and with a deep breath, he spoke with the slightest of tremors to his voice.
"I care…" he said, taking a breath to steel himself, "because I was in these corridors when I heard my sister give birth to each and every one of your brothers. I promised to protect all of her children as if they were mine own."
Freya had heard the stories about what happened to five of her six brothers. She had heard how her eldest brother, Beron, was burnt alive by Maelor and his dragon, along with Harlan and Ygon. She'd heard of Uller being lanced by a Valeman at the Siege of the Twins, how Sigfryd was killed by the Kingsguard knight, Ser Connas Corbray.
"Well, you failed then, didn't you?" She said to her uncle, her voice turning sharp as steel. Something flickered within him and she thought the man might shout. Instead, his voice remained cool and calm as he nodded gently.
"All fail, Freya. Because that's what comes first."
Freya frowned at his words. "What do- first?" She shook her head. "What comes after?"
Dagon shrugged. "Perhaps you'll see, Greyjoy."
Alyna
The camp sprawled beneath the looming shadows of the Riverlands, nestled near the shores of the vast and brooding God's Eye. Tents of faded grey bore the direwolf sigil of House Stark, their fabric billowing in the breeze like ghostly whispers against the backdrop of Harrenhal's shattered towers in the distance.
Scents of damp earth and decaying leaves hung heavy in the air, intermingled with the smoky aroma of crackling campfires that cast a warm, flickering glow across the encampment. The sound of the soldiers' chatter and the clinking of armour resonated through the air, a stark contrast to the eerie silence that seemed to emanate from the cursed ruin of Harrenhal.
The Stark soldiers, their faces weathered by both the rigors of travel, went about their tasks with a solemn determination. Some tended to the coursers, while others sharpened their swords or practiced archery, the twang of bowstrings cutting through the hushed ambiance.
Amidst the controlled chaos of the camp, Alyna moved with a quiet grace beside her lady, and cousin, Torrha. She was adorned in a gown of Northern hues, woven with intricate patterns that danced in the dappled light filtering through the trees. She would not change into her wedding gown until she reached Highgarden.
The God's Eye, its placid waters shimmering with an enigmatic allure, reflected the muted colours of the dawn sky. The ancient trees that bordered the camp whispered secrets in the wind, their gnarled branches reaching out as if trying to touch the sorrowful history that lingered around Harrenhal.
As morning bled into midday, the camp became more alive. The men and companions seemed to find their cheer, and could begin cooking their hunted hare and caught fish.
Alyna Forrester and Torrha Stark strolled along the edge of the God's Eye, not too far away from the camp. Her gaze drifted toward the distant Isle of Faces. The ancient grove stood as a verdant sanctuary amidst the sombre waters of the God's Eye. From afar, the outlines of the weirwood trees, with their ghostly white bark and crimson leaves, punctuated the skyline like sentinels guarding secrets from time immemorial. The mystique surrounding the Isle held an enigmatic allure – a place steeped in mysticism and whispers of old magic that seemed to resonate through the gentle ripples of the lake.
Each tree on the Isle of Faces stood tall and solemn, their branches stretching skyward as if reaching out to the heavens. The rustling leaves, stirred by a whispering breeze, seemed to carry tales of ancient wisdom and silent contemplation. Alyna felt a pang of longing – a yearning for the tranquil solace she found in the godswood of Winterfell, each weirwood a silent witness to the passing of centuries. Alyna Forrester felt an ache deep within her soul—an ache for the comforting presence of the godswood nestled within Winterfell's walls. The weirwood at Winterfell stood tall and majestic, its gnarled branches reaching toward the sky, the crimson leaves dancing on the wind. Alyna yearned for the serene tranquillity found within that sacred space, the silent communion with the ancient gods ingrained in the heart of every Northerner.
She knew the stories of these southron lands. The silence of the gods seemed deafening in this unfamiliar land, far removed from the haunting beauty and solace of the heart tree at Winterfell. Memories of quiet moments spent in contemplation under the watchful gaze of the carved face lingered, a reminder of the peace she found amidst the enigmatic whispers of the old gods—a solace she sorely missed in these distant southern lands.
Alyna's heart longed for the embrace of the Ironwood groves near Ironrath – the sturdy sentinels that guarded her home in the North. The towering ironwood trees, with their unyielding strength and resilient presence. The memory of those mighty groves, each tree a towering guardian standing against the harsh northern winds, brought a pang of homesickness that lingered deep within her.
The absence of the ironwood left Alyna feeling exposed, vulnerable amidst the foreign landscapes of the Riverlands. She yearned for the comforting sight of those majestic trees, their solemn silhouettes a reminder of home and heritage. Their absence in this distant place made her long for the sturdy embrace and the unspoken reassurance they offered—a connection to her roots that felt distant and elusive in this unfamiliar land.
Her eyes, like polished emeralds, took in the haunting beauty of the surroundings, yet there lingered an unease within her as she strayed further south – further from their weirwood trees, and further from home.
"How big do you imagine it was?" Torrha asked – more to herself than to Alyna.
"What?"
"The Black Dread," Torrha said as her grey eyes turned towards the colossal ruin of Harrenhal that loomed so ominously on the shores of the God's Eye. A haunting testament to both the might and folly of ancient conquerors. Its towering blackened walls, once formidable and proud, now stood as broken sentinels. The ruin, a sprawling mass of twisted stone and charred remnants, seemed so full of evil spirits, they may leak out and blacken the grass and the waters surrounding it.
The enormous keep, a behemoth structure of immense scale and foreboding presence, bore the scars of dragonfire that had rendered it a haunted shell. The mighty walls, blackened and cracked, spoke of the ill-fated ambition of Harren the Black, who sought to construct the greatest castle the realm had ever seen, only to meet his tragic end at the jaws of Balerion the Black Dread.
"Too big for this world," Alyna said, finally.
The silence that enveloped the ruin seemed suffused with a mournful weight, a haunting reminder of the lives lost and the tragic fate that befell those who dared lay claim to its halls.
Nature itself seemed to shun the ruinous keep, as ivy and creeping vines clung tentatively to the edges of the shattered walls, their verdant embrace in stark contrast to the charred stone and desolation that surrounded Harrenhal. The echoing emptiness within its walls seemed to resonate with a palpable sense of melancholy, a grim testament to the folly of ambition and the unforgiving march of time upon this colossal, cursed edifice.
"The King's going to be at Highgarden," Torrha informed Alyna, "and the Prince, Vaegon, and Aerion Targaryen"
"I heard the Prince is right old drunkard."
"I suppose a wedding is the best place for a drunkard…" Torrha shrugged.
"What about the Black Prince? You aren't scared he'll try to kill your intended?" Alyna teased.
"Victor's a knight."
"Urgh, knights… my father always said southron knights are just rich idiots."
"Well, Mother says Victor's a true knight. That he's kind and chaste, gallant and brave – and has tilted a lance at several tourneys…" She trailed off. "She also said he's handsome…" she said, the smallest of smiles on her lips. Alyna was happy for her – or, rather, she was trying to be. But all she could think about was how she was going to be alone in Storm's End.
As though Torrha could hear her thoughts, she quickly shifted the topic. "And you'll see dragons as well. I mean, you'll be serving Princess Rhaenerys. She might even take you riding on her dragon!"
The notion was as exciting as it was terrifying for Alyna. She'd always wanted to see a dragon – she'd always wished she had been born a century ago so that she might have seen good Queen Alysanne rode on Silverwing. But there had not been a dragon in the North since Durran Marshblade's march North – where he had slain Cregan Stark and died in the Battle of Causeway. Then, Maelor, only a few years older than Alyna was, flew on his dragon and ended the war, thereafter becoming Hand of the King.
Alyna found herself suddenly worrying about what would happen when she, eventually, married. True, she'd hoped to be matched by the Tallbran to another Northern Lord – someone honourable and smart. But with Princess Rhaenerys, and therefore a Baratheon, in charge of finding her a marriage, she'd most likely die as a maid. She'd have no family of her own – she'd simply remain one of the two Northern women in the south.
"…and I was given a rose and felt this… this warmth. This feeling of love – do you think it was a dream sent by the Gods, or simply a-"
"You do know what to expect, don't you?" Alyna asked Torrha, not out of curiosity, but out of worry – mainly for Torrha's sake. "The wedding?"
"Of course," Torrha scoffed. "We say a vows – either in a Sept or before a Heart Tree, and promise to-"
"No, I mean… about… well, the bedding."
Torrha rolled her eyes. "I'm not as naïve as you think me, Lyna…"
"No, I don't think- I just want to know if you're ready."
"My mother has explained everything.
Alyna's own mother had passed before she could tell her what to expect on a wedding night, so Torrha had made do by seeking out Ros, the crone that used to work in the kitchen. She'd been betrothed three times and married twice, so, Alyna thought she ought to know better than most – that is, most of those who were not whores. The old crone had spared no detail in regaling her with tales of what a man could look like under his smallclothes, of the different ways he might want a woman, and the ways a woman might want a man. After a lot of giggling – on both their parts, Alyna walked away feeling some sense of worldliness.
"Your husband holds you gently," Torrha began, "and kisses your lips. You hold each other, feeling your skin touch, and something stirs within you. Your heart soars and breasts awaken. Between your legs moistens and quivers and, at last, he enters you. You become one – two halves of the same being, melding together. You leave your body and are carried, like leaves upon the wind, floating in the darkest of warm waters. Those waters wash over you with pleasure, ushering you back to your body. Finally, after yelps of ecstatic happiness, you both shatter like panes of glass, and lie together. He strokes your hair, and speaks sweet poetry to you of his love, and the gods bless your union with happy, healthy children."
It was a far cry from what Alyna had been told. Alyna began to wonder if Torrha had truly been told this by Gwyn, or whether she had read it in another book. She opened her mouth to correct her but thought better of it – after all, what did Alyna actually know? Torrha did know more than her, she reminded herself. Perhaps Ros was simply fibbing again.
As the daylight embraced the shores of the God's Eye, Alyna Forrester and Torrha Stark found themselves immersed in the allure of legends and dragon tales. The tranquil day was interrupted by the distant sound of hooves, drawing their attention to the approaching party.
Alyna had thought they might be Stark horsemen, come to tell them that they were to resume travelling, but, out of the light that crested the hill before Harrenhal emerged half a dozen riders, their silhouettes distinct against the canvas of dusk. The man in front was of mature years with a silvered mane, riding with a regal air upon a steed of midnight black. His attire, though showing signs of travel, bore the dignity of noble lineage, adorned with a deep purple cloak adorned with a silver bat—a sigil unknown to Alyna.
Riding beside the elder statesman was a younger nobleman, exuding an air of confidence atop a chestnut stallion. He boasted a dark doublet intricately embroidered with swirling patterns of red and gold. His dark eyes, lively and curious, swept the surroundings with a sense of adventure.
The third rider, mounted on a bay mare, carried himself with quiet grace. Clad in modest attire, his demeanour spoke of duty and responsibility. His sombre countenance observed the scene with a gaze hinting at experience and depth.
As the riders drew closer, the silver-haired nobleman took the lead. "Good evening, gentle ladies," he greeted with a soft tone. "I had heard of Northmen travelling down the Trident. I did not expect them to continue south…"
Alyna guarded herself, stepping closer to Torrha, ready to pull her if needs be – the last Northman to come to the Riverlands was Theo Reed, and he turned from ward to hostage in a moment when the Baratheons marched. Rivermen couldn't be trusted – Stormlanders couldn't be trusted. No southrons could be.
"Good day, Sers," Torrha said, her voice gentle and warm. "I am Torrha of House Stark. Might I know who I talk to?"
"Lord Gareth of House Whent," the elder man introduced himself. "Ser Bryce of House Darry, and Ser Harold of House Bracken."
"A beautiful day to chance upon such lovely company," Ser Harold greeted the two girls with a light-hearted tone, his black eyes dark and twinkling like onyx as they lingered on Torrha.
As quickly as the riders had come, a dozen Northern horsemen, led by the Tallbran, rode with spears and shields, the Direwolf banner fluttering in the wind as they came between the two girls and the Rivermen. Alyna had never seen the Tallbran look quite so ferocious or furious, with his greatsword, Ice, unsheathed, its dark steel glittering in the sunlight.
"What is this-" Ser Bryce began to pull his longsword from his scabbard, while Lord Gareth and Ser Harold raised their hands high.
"Cerwyn!" the Tallbran barked as he and his riders surrounded the Rivermen.
"Come, little Ladies," said Winterfell's master-at-arms, Owen Cerwyn, as he began to spirit away the girls, his hand on the hilt of his sword as he continually glanced back over his shoulder to the men on horseback. Alyna could hear them shout and squabble, and, by the time the girls were back in the camp, the horsemen returned, and the half-dozen rivermen rode north along the God's Eye, disappearing over the hill. The men-at-arms and companions immediately set about packing up the camp, with Owen Cerwyn and the Tallbran barking like they were ordering dogs. Not long after, the Stark party was on the road again, journeying further south along the Kingsroad. On step closer to King's Landing, where Alyna would continue on the Kingsroad towards Storm's End, and the Starks would turn on the Roseroad, towards Highgarden.
Rhaenerys
The air was a tapestry of fragrances in Storm's End – a medley of aromas that teased the nostrils and stirred the soul. The sweet and smoky scent of the roasted boar, glistening with a honeyed glaze, mingled with the heady aroma of blended spices indigenous to the Stormlands, tickling the senses with each breath. The succulent meat had been marinated in a concoction of crushed juniper berries, imparting a woody, pine-like aroma. It was then rubbed with a mixture of ground black pepper, cloves, and a touch of locally sourced honey, giving it a tantalizing balance of warmth and sweetness. Sprigs of fresh thyme and rosemary were scattered atop the boar as it roasted, infusing the air with their herbal essence.
The seafood, fresh from the coast, emitted a briny tang, invoking memories of the crashing waves upon the nearby shores. The herbal bouquet of freshly plucked thyme and rosemary infused the air, intermingling with the earthy warmth of baked bread that teased the taste buds before it even touched the lips.
Apart from the seafood harvested from the rough waters nearby, the feast also showcased venison, procured from the dense forests of the Kingswood and the Rainwood. The venison had been expertly prepared, the meat tenderized and infused with a marinade of red wine and juniper.
Platters of freshwater fish, such as mackerel and haddock, were also presented, reflecting the Stormlands' proximity to waterways and stone bays. These were meticulously seasoned with a blend of local herbs like dill and parsley, complemented by a hint of lemon, offering a delicate, fresh taste that invoked the essence of the region's streams and rocky shores.
Throughout the celebration, the nobility revelled in a plethora of imported delicacies. Wines from the Arbor flowed generously, alongside vintages from the Reach renowned for their quality and sophistication. Exotic spices from Essos adorned various dishes, enriching the flavours and adding a touch of mystique to the culinary experience, while rare fruits and nuts from distant lands adorned the tables as both garnishes and delicacies.
The hall echoed with laughter and conversation, the noble guests relishing not just the food and drink but the ambiance—a harmonious union of the Stormlands' bounty and the luxury befitting a royal gathering, crafting an evening that would linger in memory.
Princess Rhaenerys savoured the dishes, she found the boar's tender flesh yielding effortlessly to her fork, releasing a burst of savoury sweetness complemented by the subtle tang of the herbs. Each bite of the delicately seasoned pheasant was a harmonious blend of flavours that tantalized the palate. The crab and lobster, when cracked open, revealed succulent, tender meat that melted in the mouth, carrying the essence of the sea within its delicate fibres. The stew, a melange of root vegetables and leafy greens, offered a hearty warmth that comforted both body and soul.
Arbor gold, poured into her goblet, was a golden elixir that caressed her lips, its exquisite taste a symphony of fruity notes that danced across her tongue, leaving a lingering sweetness. The dark ale, rich and robust, carried the essence of grains and hops.
Amidst the feast, minstrels plucked their instruments, their melodies weaving through the air like silken threads. The melodic tunes of lutes and lyres resonated with the clinking of goblets and the gentle murmur of conversations, weaving intricate melodies that resonated through the hall. The soft strains of the harp accompanied these tunes, adding a celestial quality to the music. Occasionally, the melodic sounds of flutes and pipes would join in, enhancing the joyous atmosphere of the feast.
The grandeur of the occasion was not just in the visual spectacle of banners and opulent decor, but in the harmonious convergence of scents, tastes, sounds, and textures that wove together, creating an unforgettable feast that lingered not just in memory but in the very essence of the senses.
Ser Connas Corbray, the devoted knight of the Kingsguard, stood tall and vigilant by Prince Aemon Targaryen's side. His armor, polished to a gleaming shine, bore the pristine white cloak of the Kingsguard. Beside him, his younger brother, Rickard Corbray, the maester of Storm's End, stood in his grey robes, a smile on his face and a hand on his brother's shoulder. Unlike Ser Connas, Rickard inky-black curls had been cropped short. It was Ser Connas whose curls hung down to his shoulders.
The brothers engaged in a conversation that balanced the gravitas of their respective duties as Jeyne Tully and Cassandra Baratheon discussed matters of governance and courtly affairs. Liane Reyne, radiating charm and beauty, was an enchanting presence among the conversation, turning to give a small wave at the slack-jawed Jaeghar Targaryen. His pale, glowing cheeks quickly reddened, and he returned to his meal, while his sworn protector, Ser Harwin Mooton, stood behind with a faint smile, his pale steel armour ebbing with the dancing firelight.
Glennys Tully, displaying an air of maturity beyond her years, engaged in polite conversation with Oraella Baratheon, who, though younger, seemed to itch and stared longingly at the four Stormlander girls that ate together, giggling, at the tables below.
Princess Rhaenerys was sat on the dais, next to her brother, Aemon. Aerion had been moved further down the table, sat next to Jaeghar. He was so handsome – draped in a black doublet and a black silk shirt, the drawstrings unfastened so she could see his part of his chest in the dim lights. A thin layer of silver hair lined his jaw and his violet eyes were set on hers, the smallest of smirks dancing on his lips.
"I've heard much of Dragonstone, Your Grace," Durran said from two seats to her left. She glanced over to see him peering around Aemon at her. "Perhaps, once we are wed, we may journey there. After all, both our ancestors were born on that rock."
Rhaenerys let out a small titter – was he bragging about being descended from a bastard? Or, did he think that the spit of Valyrian blood in his lineage made him equal to them?
"Rhae…" Aemon began slowly.
"What?" She groaned, turning around and scowling at Aemon: He barely thought of himself as a Dragon – if Aerion had represented their father on the Small Council, Arthor Hightower and Jeyne Tully wouldn't squabble like brats. He wouldn't scrape and bow and apologise for crippling Arrec Baratheon. Certainly not by offering a marriage to one of the two Targaryen princesses.
"I believe my sister would enjoy that," Aemon nervously chuckled, "I'd welcome you both into my halls," Aemon said, not even glancing at Rhaenerys.
Aemon – always trying to cater to the whims of the lesser lords. Tully, Hightower, Baratheon – she didn't care for any of them. How many of them had seen the world from up on high, mounted on dragonback? How many of them had destroyed Tyroshi pirate galleys, as Aerion had atop Gaelithox? They were all peasants, paupers and pretenders. Aerion was right – there were only the Valyrians and those beneath them.
"No wonder you can bend over backwards for these Baratheons," Rhaenerys muttered as she climbed out of her seat, "you've no spine."
As she passed by the right side of the table, she made sure to brush her hand along Aerion's shoulder, glancing back to him with a slight smile, her eyes heavy on him with the smallest of nods, before continuing on.
Before she could descend from the dais, Rhaenerys halted by the insufferably zealous bore, Glennys Tully, and the skinny little Oraella Baratheon. She held the dark-haired girl's shoulder and whispered to her, "Your mother may be happy to send you off to fuck another man, but I won't share that fate."
Rhaenerys left the somewhat confused girl and walked down the stone steps of the dais, pausing at one of the small doors and making sure to glance back at Aerion.
She exited through the door and found her way to the privy – it was draughty, and smelt of rosemary. He was coming, she was sure of it. She could feel the excitement brimming within her, making her hands clammy and her thighs ache. Finally, the door behind her creaked, and Aerion stood there, handsome and slender, his silver hair shining in the torchlight.
He never said a word. Aerion simply walked inside, closing the door behind him as he pulled at her scarlet gown. She stepped back with him, pulling at the hemline of her silk gown as his lips began to brush against hers. She slipped a hand around his neck, her nails scraping against his shimmering scalp as his fingers began to graze her thighs. Her lips were crackling beneath his, as though a fire was raging between them.
She felt something rise against her – something hard. Her heart began to hammer harder as her lips pulled away from his for a moment to feel his warm, ragged breaths against her wet lips. It was nervousness and excitement – her fingers began to pull at the laces of his breeches, tugging down at the waistline. It was like she was riding her dragon, Aegorax, for the first time.
Her hand dipped inside his breeches and beneath his smallclothes. He let out a small, shuddering breath as her hands closed around manhood. She remembered the small bits of advice her sister, Daelaena, had given her – Lyseni ways to pleasure a man. She hadn't expected it to feel so warm. A soft groan slipped into their kiss as her soft hand stroked against him.
Rhaenerys didn't care if anyone knew , she didn't care if anyone heard – if they walked in and saw. They shared the blood of the Dragon. The two of them could burn the entire realm to ashes if they wished to. What could Durran Baratheon or Cassandra Wylde do to her? She'd lie with any man that she wished. And she chose Aerion. He was the bravest of all men – the most willing to take what was his, the most willing to kill. That was a man fit enough for a husband. Much moreso than a Baratheon – the spawn of a bastard with no more than half a drop of Valyrian blood.
She grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him to sit down in the privy. Their hips met in the narrow privy for a moment, and she thrust him down, wetting her lips and dropping to her knees as she yanked his breeches further down and felt the warmth slide over her tongue. His hips began to rock back and forth – she could feel his heartbeat – the blood coursing through his veins. It was as though she were controlling it – as if she were pumping his heart. Every time she felt the soft skin slide over her tongue, her cunt grew wetter.
If only she could marry him instead. This could be all they do every day. She had daydreamed in those days in bed about taking Aerion in every way a woman could – and now it was happening. She could feel something squirming inside her. She could feel him pulsing between her lips.
The crowd broke into a raucous applause, and Aerion's groan was lost in the noise. The two young Targaryen's remained in the shadows of the privy, the Black Prince slumping over the youngest Princess, panting as she wiped her mouth dry of her brother's seed.
Ardan
Nestled not far outside of Storm's End, Durran's Town stood quaint and rustic. The onset of dusk had cast a soft, golden hue over the cobbled streets, and a gentle drizzle brought a refreshing coolness to the air. The fading daylight filtered through the clouds, tinting the horizon with shades of amber and mauve.
A subdued chaos emerged in the evening's gloaming, awash in the onset of a gentle drizzle, cast a silvery hue over the rugged cobblestones that lined the town. The alehouse, the small sept and the smith's workshop had been built from locally quarried stone and sturdy timber. The thatched roofs were now worn thin, patched here and there with reeds and straw, and the shutters would rattle slightly against the brewing breeze.
Villagers were wrapped in thick cloaks to fend off the chill, staggering along the lanes, some of them reeling from the effects of the early evening's libations. The air carried the heavy aroma of brewing ale and the hearty scent of roasted meats from the nearby taverns.
The narrow streets echoed with the boisterous laughter of merrymakers and the clinking of tankards, a cacophony of mirthful inebriation that spilled out from the open doors of alehouses. Drunkards, their voices raised in jovial camaraderie, stumbled along the sodden pathways, their merriment painting a vivid portrait of the night's festivities.
Durran's Town was always full of many different types, but with the gathering of the Stormlander forces, the less notable had taken to lodging there in the taverns. There was ale and food and dicegames and whores – everything a soldier needed. But the Lords and their knights stayed in Storm's End or the nearby Castle Seaface.
Dimly lit lanterns, swaying in the evening breeze, cast fragmented shadows upon the rough-hewn walls. The rhythmic sounds of lively folk music seeped from within the taverns, accompanied by the joyous chorus of patrons raising their voices in song.
Stray dogs prowled the lanes, drawn by the scent of discarded food, while cats, more aloof, sought refuge from the dampness in the sheltered alcoves. The looming presence of Storm's End remained a distant sentinel – a reminder of what Arrec and Ardan would have to return to.
In the heart of Durran's Town, amid the festive revelry and the town's rustic charm, Ardan storm found himself with his half-brother, Arrec, caught in the throes of the night's exuberant revelry, the promise of a rowdy and spirited escapade beckoning them forth.
"What about the Tyrell girl?" Ardan suggested. "Alyssa, the Rose of the Reach."
"Durran would probably throttle me in my sleep if I ended up wed to her," Arrec replied.
"Mayhaps it'd be worth it – if only to see the look on his face." Ardan nudged his half-brother in the ribs. "Father was pushing for the match – this way, your Houses are still bound together."
"I don't think Durran is set on that any longer," Arrec said with a slight chuckle. Ardan frowned. "Victor Tyrell's wedding a Stark girl."
"Fucking Starks…" Ardan shook his head. He knew what fates befell his grandfather and uncles. And the wolves still howled about their honour, huddled away in their frozen hovels.
"As long as he knows he'll have to pay a woman to bathe her…" Arrec shrugged. "I don't believe Northmen have bathtubs."
Ardan agreed with a nod and a short laugh. The two boys stopped upon seeing a portly man with a long, red walrus-moustache walking with a small retinue of men-at-arms, laughing loudly with a hand on the handle of his longsword.
"Seems Ser Idiot fancies the tavern," Arrec murmured, rubbing his chin and staring at their favourite establishment. "Or, rather, he fancies the food."
"My fancy is in ale, Baratheon," Ardan said, making sure to whisper the name. "Come, let's find us a table inside." He took a few steps forwards towards the establishment, opening the door and pausing to let a one-armed man exit.
Ardan glanced back to see Arrec hadn't moved – he remained there, a hand on his cane and cloak covering the longsword at his waist, with the golden pommel of a stag's head – a sure sign of his lineage. It had only been in the last two years that they had begun to frequent the two taverns in Durran's Town. A year that they had favoured Old Jon's establishment, on account of a certain alemaid both the brothers had grown fond of. But, on night such as these, where both brothers intended on drinking until dawn and making fools of themselves, they often tried to hide themselves in cloaks and pretend they were sellswords from the Riverlands, or a noble knight and his bumbling squire.
One time Arrec had played the knight, and immediately grew nervous when one asked him to prove his sword-skill in the yard outside – a challenge Arrec quickly claimed to be too lowly for a noble knight such as he, but fitting enough for his foolish squire. Less than ten minutes later, they had won a bag of copper stars and bought cups of spiced honey-wine for Arrec, and tall tankards of black, brown and bitter ale for Ardan. Ardan let what little he remembered of that night slip to the back of his head.
"What if he recognizes us?" Arrec asked.
"Who?"
"Ser Idiot."
Ardan rolled his eyes and returned to his half-brother. "No-one's ever recognised us-"
"But, Ser Idiot-"
"You think he can see past that dead squirrel on his lip?" Ardan asked. He saw Arrec's lip curl slightly and tried to smile as reassuringly as he could. "It'll be fine."
"That's what you've always said."
"And it always is… mostly…" Ardan said, remembering the several misadventures he'd assured Arrec of. They were the fondest memories he had.
"I could not believe you less," Arrec said, shaking his head, "but… a fitting way to spend your last night here."
He walked with Ardan towards the door and walked in first. Ardan didn't like to think about that – his last night in Shipbreaker Bay. He was eager to leave, to be a commander – the youngest commander in history. To be like their grandsire, Baldric the Bold, who was born a bastard, and won glory and acclaim in Dorne. But Baldric never had a brother like Arrec or a sister like Ella to leave behind.
Ardan tried to shake off the thought – he did not wish to ruin his last night of merriment with Arrec. He quickly walked inside and felt the warmth of a hearth upon his cheeks. The old tavernmaster, Jon, was engaged in an argument with the drunken fool, Theo, who was trying to insist he had been given a short cup of ale.
Short tables hewn from the local hickory trees lined the interior of the tavern, with crowds of dice-players leant over their games, drunkards suckling from their tankards, the alewives, haggered and long in years hurried about to ply their patrons with more ale, whilst the younger, more comely whores tried each of the tables, enjoying the ale and wine. No goodwife or highborn daughter would ever enter a tavern alone – and most of the knights and lords in the Stormlands came to escape their wives.
A band of minstrels had struck up and began to play a tune in the corner – beating a drum, playing a jaunty melody on the wood-flute, vielle and lute. Arrec was already glancing around the tavern, his blue eyes searching the face of every woman with golden hair. He was looking for an oval-face, large and sparkling eyes, a straight nose and a slender face. Ardan knew the woman he was searching for – with full lips and a charming smile.
The two brothers short-stepped through the crowds until they found a table at the back, near the fire, where a couple of tankards sat, barely drained dry. Ardan and Arrec moved around, pulling their scabbards from their belts and leaning them against the wall. Ardan immediately checked his tankard and poured the last drop into his mouth before looking up to catch the eye of Briony.
She was a common-born alemaid from the Westerlands. In their previous visits, Arrec had grown tongue-tied and bashful around the girl – which was not like him. Ardan wasn't surprised when Briony always spoke to Arrec – girls always seemed to like the high-born Baratheon brother over the bastard.
He could remember sitting at the table with her, the tavern door locked and the alewives and tavernmaster slumbering in their bed above, when Briony had pulled at the cotton shirt from her shoulders and showed him her pale, splayed breasts. It was the first time Ardan had kissed a girl – the first time he'd seen a girl naked. But it quickly felt wrong – Ardan may have been a bastard, but Arrec was still his brother. Their father had told them both, once, that if they are too scared to say what they have done, perhaps they should not have done it. It was those words that rang in his head as he had pulled away from her, apologising – he'd be too scared to tell Arrec, and Ardan did not enjoy lies.
"Good afternoon, Sers," she said in her Wester accent. Not quite as refined as the Crownlander nobles or Stormlander lords, but vastly more proper than all the smallfolk in Shipbreaker Bay. "I thought you two might never come back," Briony's brown eyes flickered to Ardan.
"We were sure you'd run out of ale, last we were here," Arrec replied with a shrug, smiling and slowly blinking.
"For a night or two, you did," she patted him on the shoulder. "But we've still plenty of wine and mead and dark beer, of course…"
"Two cups of Lannisport honey wine," Arrec ordered, glancing to Ardan, who was already perplexed. "And for you?"
Ardan immediately bowed his head and chuckled. He heard Briony chuckle, and felt proud of Arrec. "A tankard of brown ale."
"It's your last night!" Arrec complained.
"A… flagon of brown ale?" Ardan shrugged.
"Two flagons," Arrec 'corrected' the order to Briony, "some warm bread, salted ham, and chicken."
"You two must have won in some tourney," Briony said, planting her hands on her hips. Ardan blinked, but Arrec didn't miss a beat.
"That's right – we were at a tourney recently, were we not?"
Ardan glanced to the playing minstrels, reflecting on the mix of pride and shame. He tried not to remember little Ella screaming, unable to believe Arrec could still be alive with all the blood at the lists. He'd tried to reassure her it was the horse's, but nothing could dissuade her until she'd cried herself to exhaustion and slept.
But, in that shame, was also a small stroke of pride – Ardan had unseated a Jaeghar Targaryen. A knight, a prince, and Ardan had still been a squire. People had actually referred to him by his name, and people even cheered for him. He still had dreams about that day – the rain clattering atop his helm, feeling his own breath turn his cheeks clammy and lips wet, the tightening of his stomach as his fingers curled around the reins of his courser… as terrible as the day was, he still remembered those precious moments of victory and triumph.
"…Isn't that so?"
Ardan blinked and looked back to Arrec, who gave him a quick wink. "It is so," Ardan said, trying to sound convincing. Briony gave a small smile and sat down at the table, next to Arrec.
"You're truly going to war?"
"I am," Ardan said – it felt like a lie. He was going to sit a hundred leagues away from the war and drill children on how to strike with spear and sword. He may as well have been riding north.
"Where else would he get his wages for such a night?" Arrec said.
"Remind me, which of you is the knight again?" Briony asked. Ardan and Arrec exchanged a glance. They immediately pointed at themselves, only to then point at each other.
"Both-" Arrec began.
"Both knights," Ardan agreed. "I was knighted first."
"Only because he's older – I was knighted younger."
"By me," Ardan fibbed. "I felt sorry for him," he whispered.
"He didn't feel sorry for me after that battle in… Pentos."
Ardan nodded. "That was a… bloody one," he nodded, failing (terribly) at stifling a grin.
"The bloodiest," Arrec agreed, letting a chortle escape the lips.
"I could've sworn you were training to be a maester when last we met," Briony asked Arrec. He frowned and shook his head.
"Couldn't have been me."
"Nigh on two dozen nights, the pair of you have walked through that door, and each time you give a different name and a different journey."
"We have trouble remembering," Arrec said innocently.
"In our defence, we do drink an awful lot," Ardan nodded.
"I drink an awful lot. You drink ale," Arrec replied. Ardan gave a very inauthentic laugh which made Arrec smirk.
"Might one of you tell me who the pair of you are? Truly?"
Arrec licked his lips and glanced up to Ardan, his blue eyes dancing and alive. "If you might not tell…" Ardan caught himself before he could say Arrec's name. "I'm actually Ardan Storm," he said, "squire to Ser Edric Bolling. And this is my lordly brother, Arrec of House Baratheon."
Ardan chewed his tongue and shook his head, but couldn't stop his smile – he never was one to waste an opportunity.
"That is Arrec Baratheon?" She asked him.
"You ought to address him as 'my Lord'."
Briony looked at Ardan for a small moment before dropping her gaze back down to the table and quickly standing up. "I ought to fetch those drinks for you…" she turned to walk away before spinning back around to give a terrible curtsy and a mumbled 'milord' before hurrying away.
"Baratheon…" Ardan began, scratching his brow.
"Play the Lord tonight, Storm," Arrec urged him, "let me be the Bastard."
Ardan shook his head. He wasn't quite sure how to say it, so he just said, "No."
"What do you- why not?"
"Because – you'll ruin my good name," Ardan said, shaking his head. It was a lie, but one Ardan was willing to tell. The truth was, Arrec didn't understand what it meant to be a bastard. He wouldn't wish a single night of his life upon his half-brother. "Besides, I don't wish to walk around with that fucking cane all night…"
Arrec gave a small grin as Briony returned (rather quickly) with a pair of flagons of nut-brown ale from Maidenpool, and a large jug of spiced Honeywine from Lannisport.
"He was just joking before," Ardan informed Briony. "We're not Lord Arlan's children."
She gave a small scowl and shook her head, before quickly grinning at Arrec. "You are awful."
"My apologies," Arrec put a hand to his chest.
"Are you sure you're not a bastard?" She asked. Ardan's cheeks burned as he began to gulp down mouthfuls of ale.
"Are any of us?" He responded, pouring wine from jug-to-cup. He turned back to Ardan. "What do we drink to? Another one of our nights in Durran's Town?"
Ardan couldn't fight the sad smile breaking on his face. "Not the last, though."
"Never the last, Storm."
They clinked the cup to flagon and began to drink. Hours passed, and more drinks followed – Ardan spilled ale down his doublet and though Briony tried to dry him with a cloth, he came to accept he would smell like ale for the remainder of the night. Briony assured him it was a pleasant smell – at which point Arrec began to try and urge Ardan to follow her across the tavern and talk to her.
Arrec had applauded the minstrels and sung along to Brother's Bane, a sad and slow song about their grandfather, Baldric, defeating his half-brother, Borros, in the Red Mountains of Dorne. Ardan still didn't know the words to it – he had sung along to Blind Billy Bryen,a rambunctious song about a blind knight, Bryen, that enters the tourney on a billy-goat.
They tore apart the chicken and bread that came to them, sliced the honey-roasted-ham and made sure to pay three silver stags – more than enough to afford them more honey wine and brown ale for the night.
After the second time Ardan had gone outside to piss, Ardan returned to the table and found a boy sat down in his seat. The boy was lean and green-eyed. A dark mess of knotted hair sat atop his head, flopping onto his brow and brushing against his bushy eyebrows. His clothes were roughspun and cheap – patched and sodden. A greyed shirt, far too big for him, spilled out from beneath the tanner's coat that hung from his shoulders.
"Just one," the boy insisted, "look – who even cares about black beer? It's what fucking wolves drink."
"Now, Jack, don't be bothering patrons," Briony said as she picked up an empty tankard, "you'll be paying in coin this time."
"What do you take me for, Bri?" Jack said, slightly offended. It was then that he caught sight of Ardan. "You're a big one, aren't you?"
"You're in my seat."
Jack licked his lips and looked around the tavern of diceplayers. "Plenty of them to choose from." Most of the tables had, indeed, emptied as some men had sloped off with the whores they had met. Some, however, were already returning. But Ardan knew, right then, that this boy wasn't a friend.
"Then choose," Ardan retorted.
Jack licked his lips and looked from Ardan to the table. "A flagon of your ale should help me stay on my feet."
"Then go and buy one," Ardan replied.
"Ardan, it's fine, we can buy another-" Arrec began.
"We're not giving this fool anything."
Jack blew out his wet, shallow cheeks. "No need for name-calling…" He murmured. "Perhaps you've had enough ale. Perhaps I'll be taking the rest of-"
Ardan had had enough – he grabbed the boy by the shoulder and pulled him around the table. Like his half-brothers, Ardan was big for age, and strong too. It was no trouble, and soon the boy was on the floor, and Ardan was settling into his seat, picking up a flagon and feeling quite pleased with himself.
The man grabbed onto the table to push himself up and mumbled an apology as he began to slope off. Arrec shook his head slightly, stifling a giggle at Ardan. Ardan returned the smile and before they could even clink their drinks together again, Jack spoke again.
"Is it real gold?"
They both turned to see him standing on the other side of the tavern, turning over a blackwood cane and examining the golden hilt. He was picking at it with his fingers before giving it a firm bite. Ardan and Arrec glanced around the table and found that Arrec's cane had, indeed, gone missing.
"That little…" Ardan began, but Arrec waved a hand and stood up, holding onto the table for balance.
"Give it back."
"Did you filch this from a lord?"
Ardan finished his flagon of ale and stood up, a hand on the pommel of his sword. "Give us back the cane."
Jack scoffed and looked around at the tavern. "Maybe this is my cane now. Little brat can afford a new one…"
"Ardan…" Arrec warned, quietly.
"I'm warning you," Ardan said, the ale making the fury brew in his veins.
"Are you?" Jack laughed. Ardan wanted to bloody his nose.
"Storm…" Arrec hissed – a little too loud.
"Storm?" Jack asked, eyes glinting with opportunity. Ardan could see Briony eye him with surprise. She'd put it together – and she wasn't the only one. "Well, well, well, a little lordling, and his bastard brother…" Jack gestured to them both with the cane, "or maybe… his bastard lover? What exactly do you use this cane for?" He grimaced down at the cane, earning a chortle from the patrons. Ardan could have drawn the sword and stuffed it through the rogue's throat.
"I'm in no mood for this…" Ardan growled as he began to march forwards, his hand balled up into a fist.
"Easy, easy, Lord Storm…" Jack chuckled and held the cane out with a loose grip. Either he was handing it back to Ardan or he intended to drop it. "I just wanted to look, that was all…" he insisted honestly.
Ardan clenched his jaw and, without taking his eyes from Jack's, brought his hand up to hold the cane. Jack, surprisingly, let go, and held his hands up innocently. Immediately feeling somewhat foolish, and acutely aware of how much he had drunk, Ardan tried to ignore the chuckles and the whispers and turned back to hand the cane to Arrec.
"Come, Storm, let's finish-" Arrec began.
"You could say 'thank you', milords?" Jack called from across the tavern. Ardan immediately straightened up, deaf to Arrec's advice.
"You keep talking, don't you?" Ardan asked..
"Until someone stops me, usually…" Jack grinned, picking up a forgotten flagon from one of the tables and taking a swig.
"Jack, I'd counsel you leave, now," Arrec called.
"Oh, counsel me?" Jack asked, his voice high and dainty, making many patrons laugh. "Counsel me- I'd counsel a cripple to mind his tongue if he wants to keep it in his head…" Jack finished his comment with a swig of the flagon, smacking his lips and frowning at its contents.
Ardan hadn't heard what Arrec had tried to say – he didn't know if it was to him or Jack. He just pulled on his longsword and held it out at Jack. Patrons immediately began to leave, as did some of the younger alemaids. Briony ran upstairs to find Old Tom.
"Say it again," Ardan dared the boy.
"No need for rudeness, Lord Storm!" Jack chortled, walking around to one of the now-empty tables and reaching beneath it to pull out an arming sword, still in its scabbard. "Bastards like us, you and me?" He gestured between them with the pommel of the sword, "we ought to stick together."
"You're a low-born thief," Ardan spat the words at him. Jack flicked his tongue across his teeth and glanced around the tavern with a puzzled expression.
"Were both your parents highborn?" He asked. "Or just the one? It's usually the way-"
"Storm, let the fool alone…" Arrec urged him.
"…Some pampered little lord and some… ugly fishwife…" Jack began to wonder openly.
"It's your last night, don't let this-"
"…or some common whore…"
Ardan immediately lunged. All the ale had been burned out of him – his pommel struck true with a thick crunch against Jack's nose. The boy fell backwards, the scabbard flying across the table as he swung the blade wildly, hitting the wooden beams that held up the floor above them.
The few that had remained in the tavern ducked beneath tables or tried to escape. Jack drew a long baselard dagger – a blade far longer and far broader than the arming dagger on Ardan's belt. He blocked a wide swipe and before Jack could lunge with his dagger, a cup of ale cracked across his cheek. A second pelted him in the neck – courtesy of Arrec.
Ardan took the opportunity to lurch forwards and grab Jack's off-hand, twisting it behind his back and hurling him towards the door. Jack barrelled out, crashing through the wooden door, and Ardan followed him outside.
The dirt had turned into soft and wet mud from the downpour, and Jack's shirt was immediately soaked through. His sword had flung from his grip, but a moment after seeing Ardan, he was on his feet again, the sword in his strong hand.
Jack charged forwards – no training, no composure. He was wild like a child with a little wooden toy sword. He swiped high and Ardan barely had to duck and step out of the way as he watched the boy stumble over his foot and go sliding across the mud again. He heard someone cheer and felt it again – that moment of victory. He was in the rain again, besting another in combat. And all would watch on and not think of him as the bastard.
Ardan flourished his blade as Jack was on his feet, charging again like an angry bull. His sword held out behind him for a wild swing. Ardan didn't even have to block – he just stepped forwards while Jack was still winding up to swing and slapped the flat of his longsword against the boy's ankle, pulling him off balance and watching him slide into the mud again.
Someone laughed again, and Ardan turned back to see Briony inside with Arrec. He turned back to Jack, who approached a third time, finally a little more cautious. His stance was terrible – his knees were locked, his guard too low – Ardan could have opened his throat in two swings. Jack gave a half-hearted swing with his sword (a feint if Ardan had ever seen one) before slicing at Ardan's face with his baselard. Ardan was taller, stronger, his blade was of better steel, lighter, sharper and longer – little Ella was more of a challenger.
Ardan couldn't hide his smirk as Jack held the blade high – intent on slicing Ardan in two, but Ardan simply grabbed his wrist, bashed the strong of his blade against the baselard and sending it into the mud. He then thrust his fist into the boy's chin and swept a foot behind his. The fight had lasted only a few moments, and Jack was on the floor, utterly disarmed, bleeding from the nose and from the mouth, covered in wet mud, and utterly winded. Ardan's left hand held the boy's wrist, and his right gripped the longsword, holding the point of it against Jack's cheek.
"Yield," he instructed.
Jack's face was contorted in rage and hatred. "Think a sword makes you a better fighter?" He spat the words.
Seeing him like that – it made Ardan smile. "Better than you."
"Throw it away and we'll see, bastard."
Ardan could've sunk the blade into the boy there – or at least hurt him just a bit. Then he heard a familiar, loud voice break through the cheers and shouts of advice of the townsfolk.
"In all the Seven Hells!" Ser Steffon Inkwell made his way through the crowd from down the street, flanked by his men-at-arms, who immediately drew their swords and began to advance. Ardan released Jack's wrist and took several steps back, wiping his sword dry on the inside of his doublet and stowing it in his scabbard. Jack rolled around, reaching for his dagger before one of Ser Steffon's men had him pinned to the ground, his hands behind his back. "You'd disrupt the King's Peace, you vagrants?"
"We were just playing," Jack insisted, his face still buried in the mud, "settling a dice game – isn't that so, Lord Storm?"
"Lor- Storm!" Ser Steffon scowled at Ardan, slurring his words. "You shame your father more – consorting with this ilk in such a… a… is that a whorehouse?" Ardan wasn't sure whether he was shocked or genuinely asking.
"I couldn't say, Ser," Ardan answered, emboldened by both his victory, and the ale, "you'd know better than I."
"I- I could have you- I ought to have both of you flogged-"
"No need for that, Ser Id-Inkwell…" Arrec walked from the doorway of the tavern, taking a few wide steps with his cane.
"Lord Arrec," Ser Steffon bowed his head, stuttering and overenunciating his words. "I… what are- I thought you would be in the castle…"
"I simply wished to celebrate my brother's bravery – and yours, of course – for volunteering to fight in the coming war," Arrec said, his voice suddenly sober and proper. It was a trick Ardan had never quite learned, so instead, remained quiet. "This… vagrant, as you so called him, insulted me. He stole my cane. My brother was simply defending my honour."
"What honour?" Jack asked, still muffled by the mud.
"I believe a gaol would suit him well. I doubt the boy has enough coin to pay for damage done to this establishment."
Ser Steffon opened his mouth and then closed it. He nodded. "Take him away."
"I'll find you, bastard-" Jack began, struggling against the man on top of him before a cudgel thudded against his skull and he slumped still. He was picked up by two men and dragged away down the street, towards the bailiff.
"Not to worry, my Lord," Ser Steffon hiccuped, "we'll hang the boy. Insults against your most noble house must be answered with the sword!" There was a long pause, broken by another hiccup. "Or the rope!"
"Perhaps just the gaol, Ser Steffon," Arrec suggested quietly, "men grow foolish when they drink. I'm sure he'll face enough of a punishmenet in the morning."
"Not to worry, Cousin," Ser Steffon chortled, "a week in the gaol, a fortnight in the pillory – he'll be begging your forgiveness and offering his firstborn!" He started wheezing with laughter which slowly (very slowly) died. He cleared his throat and, with a glare at Ardan, spoke quietly to Arrec – almost too quiet for him to hear. "With any luck, my prayers shall be answered, and the Seven shall send a better brother to wield your sword."
"Better they send a better sword for my brother. By the Father, he could use it…" Arrec responded, patting Ser Steffon on the shoulder. Ardan's chest swelled with pride. "I believe we can find our own way home, Ser. I shall see you on the morrow, and bid you luck in war."
"Indeed, my Lord Arrec," Ser Steffon plunged into a deep bow that sent him stumbling slightly. He didn't address Ardan at all – something Ardan did not particularly care about. Instead, he and Arrec began their long walk back to Storm's End – though it was made all the shorter by the laughter and jokes and retellings of the same story until they became a legend of Ardan disarming a giant with a single stare, drinking from his tankard of brown ale all the while.
It was the most fitting way Ardan Storm and Arrec Baratheon could spend his last evening on Shipbreaker Bay before riding south to the war.
Jesus, that was a long one to do. I've finally finished it and can just slump into my chair. I never thought I'd spend so long writing about some Targcest, but here we are! But, well, that chapter's out of the way. I'm gonna crack on with the next one immediately and get a jump on it – I'm not going to update until after the holidays, since I'm still waiting on some characters. In the meanwhile, feel free to check out the wiki – I've done some new art, and we can even see things like Jack's dagger from this chapter. I might even try my hand at doing some art for Durran's Town.
Now, I'm gonna harp on about reviews again – no pressure – you don't have to write a thesis (I'd love it if you did, but no pressure), and you can even just message me if that's easier – I just wanna know who's still reading. Also, I mean, let's grow this story and get more characters in! I'd love to know what you thought of this chapter – yes, there was a sex scene, they can come off real hammy,
Anyway, Happy Holidays and all that jazz – I'm going to be writing over the holidays, but I probably won't update until we hit the new year. I'm still waiting for some certain people to finish submitting their characters, but I'll go and message them privately.
So, I hope this was worth the wait! Enjoy and Happy New Year to all y'all!
R.