So, sweeping aside a certain tear-stained review, thanks for the support you've all shown!

Only nine more chapters to go, and this instalment is done! I'm still doing a lot of work on the wiki, so, go ahead and visit that.

A constant thing I have to negotiate is how much time passes between chapters, so these time jumps are going to be sporadic and sometimes, barely noticeable. I mean, I did just write two chapters that take place over one day, so...

With no more ado, here's a chapter fairly shorter than the ones before, and a little bit of it is just fluff, but I like to think it's entertaining.

23rd Day of the Fifth Moon, 152 A.C.

Victor

The forest north of Horn Hill unfolded as a tapestry of verdant hues, where towering oak and elm trees intermingled with the foliage, creating a lush canopy above. Shafts of sunlight danced through the leaves, casting playful patterns on the forest floor. A blanket of mist hovered just above the woodland floor, ethereal wisps drifting between the ancient trees. The towering sentinels of beech and birch stood as simple obstacles to make a fox chase or stag hunt more interesting. Shafts of silvery moonlight filtered through the dense foliage, painting the forest in a luminescent glow.

The air was alive with a symphony of sounds - the gentle rustling of leaves swayed by the dawn's breeze, the occasional hoot of an owl echoing in the distance, and the soft murmuring of a nearby stream unseen but heard. The forest floor was a carpet of damp foliage, its undergrowth alive with the intricate tapestry of ferns, wildflowers, and mushrooms that thrived in the dim light.

Amidst the trees, the fauna stirred from their nocturnal slumber. The chirping of early birds joined the chorus, and woodland creatures rustled in the underbrush as they ventured forth. Deer grazed gracefully on dew-kissed grass, their movements silent and graceful amidst the tranquillity.

A soft hue began to emerge on the horizon, heralding the approach of dawn. The forest's rich tapestry of greens, browns, and greys slowly awoke, revealing the intricate details of bark patterns and the play of shadows across the forest floor. As the first light of day began to break through the treetops, the forest breathed with an enchanting aura, a haven of natural beauty that evoked a sense of peace and wonder.

A jovial atmosphere permeated the air, carrying the resonant sound of laughter and merriment. Knights and noble lords, their banners fluttering in the breeze, mingled amidst the lively gathering. The aroma of roasting meat wafted from the centre of the encampment, where a spit crackled with succulent venison, the pride of the day's hunt.

A grand tent, adorned with richly embroidered banners, stood at the heart of the festivities. It served as the focal point, hosting the King and high-born nobles. The tent's exterior shimmered in the sunlight, its fabric intricately woven with motifs depicting heraldic symbols of esteemed houses. Surrounding the tent, tables were arrayed with an extravagant feast - platters of smoked game, seasoned with herbs and spices, overflowed with abundance. Goblets brimmed with fine Arbor gold, their bouquets blending with the heady scent of wildflowers scattered across the tables.

A sense of camaraderie filled the air as knights boasted of their prowess, regaling each other with tales of past victories and the strength of their destriers. The courtyard echoed with the clinking of goblets raised in spirited toasts and the hearty laughter of companionship.

Amidst the revelry, Victor sat at the head of the table, engaging in light-hearted conversation with Prince Vaegon.

The sun had begun its ascent, casting an amber glow across the forest. The air grew warmer, and the festivities took on a more enchanting air as torches were extinguished, their flickering flames casting shadows that danced across the clearing.

In the growing light, the grand tent glowed like a beacon, a haven of opulence amidst the forest's natural splendour. The sound of lively banter and joyous celebration drifted into the day.

It had been in the Hour of the Owl when Victor had awoken, wine-sore from the feasting the night before. Soon enough, he and Rawen were joined by Prince Vaegon. Though, King Aeric had decided to stay abed. Alyssa, however, was wide awake and eager to get away from Highgarden – perhaps she feared the King finding her in her bedchambers when he finally woke.

It wasn't a prospect that excited Victor either. Though, a King could bed whomever he wanted – Targaryens bedded their own sisters! He knew their grandmother would push for Alyssa to take the man to bed if it meant office and honours for them. But Victor didn't care much for politics – he was Lord Paramount of the Mander and one of the richest men in Westeros. What did he care for sitting on the small council or staying in the capital? He was at home with a boar spear in one hand and a cup of wine in the other.

Prince

The grand tent had been risen and nestled close in the clearing of the forest as a sanctuary for the noble elite of the realm. Save those that had journeyed to Storm's End for Durran Baratheon's own marriage. Victor would have sooner been there, and not wholly to avoid his own bride-to-be. Durran was stern and severe and very hard to make laugh, but he had been a steadfast friend in his time at Highgarden. It felt as though Victor ought to have been there to see him take a wife.

He didn't suppose he would see Durran again, nor call him friend. It was a shame, to lose a man that had so loved Victor's father for a simple Stark girl who may or may not have had a beard.

As the morning light filtered through the tent's canvas, it cast a warm golden hue upon the sumptuously adorned interior. Within the opulent confines, nobles and knights convened, exuding an air of congeniality and refined etiquette. The scene was one of orchestrated amiability, where courteous nods and genteel smiles masked underlying motives and ambitions. The air buzzed with polite discourse, conversations that flowed with rehearsed charm and feigned interest.

The atmosphere was thick with the perfumed scent of fine incense, masking the underlying scent of earth and dampness from the forest outside. Gilded tapestries adorned the tent's walls, depicting noble deeds and victories of bygone eras, while candelabras cast flickering shadows upon the grass, still wet with morning dew.

Knights and ladies, draped in richly hued fabrics and ornate attire, engaged in well-rehearsed pleasantries. Compliments flowed freely, spoken with practiced eloquence, though often lacking genuine sentiment. The clinking of goblets punctuated the symphony of courteous laughter, concealing the subtle undercurrent of feigned cordiality.

Victor, though a part of this social game, moved amidst the gathering with poised grace. His interactions mirrored those around him - a mask of courtly decorum that he wore effortlessly. He exchanged polite pleasantries, offering gracious smiles and measured words, concealing any disinterest behind a veil of politeness.

The ambiance of feigned congeniality pervaded the space, each person playing their role in this orchestrated dance of social niceties. Behind the veneer of graciousness, the underlying currents of agendas and intrigues hummed silently, hidden beneath the surface of a polished and refined facade.

Victor had remained with Prince Vaegon, at his sister's advising, rather than joining Rawen on his hunt for 'something with vim'. If there was to be any Hightower at his wedding, he was glad it was Rawen. His father, Arthor, and his brother, Perceon, were dull as dirt. While they most likely would have spent the day in Highgarden flattering the King, Rawen had set his sights on claiming a pelt to gift to the Daelaena the Chaste. Victor could hardly blame him – her silver hair, glowing skin and ample curves had him half-forgetting the steps to the dance he shared with Denyse Redwyne.

"Excited for your marriage, Tyrell?" Vaegon asked as he lazily filled up his cup with golden wine.

"Quite," Victor recited his lines as well as a mummer, "House Stark is ancient and old, and Lady Torrha ought to be an excellent wife."

Victor responded with a heavy sigh. "Must be exhausting…" he murmured to himself as he leant back into his chair and began to sip the wine. Victor was amazed – the man had drank almost a barrel by himself the night before, and, apparently, had not stopped. He only barely slurred his words. His skin was shining with thin sweat and his cheeks were growing bright and rosy.

"I beg your pardon?" Victor asked, shifting in his seat and plastering on a polite smile to mask his bemusement.

"We all know this match is your grandmother's doing. Hers and the Manderly woman," he paused to stifle a belch, "our parents decree our marriages, and we play our parts like mummers. Of course, you seem do that already…" he said, sipping his wine.

"I'm no mummer, Your Grace," Victor stated. "I'm Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South – a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Yes, you have lots of money and ride a very pretty horse," Prince Vaegon said, rolling his eyes and looking around the tent for something (or, perhaps someone) more interesting.

"Were you a mummer when you married Jeyne Blackwood, Your Grace?" Victor asked cooly. Vaegon turned around, the colour draining from his face at the mention of his late Lady wife. Something panged inside Victor – that was not knightly of him. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I meant-"

"No…" Vaegon shook his head, deep in thought. Victor held his breath, waiting to see whether the quiet, wine-soaked prince would explode in anger. He drained his cup and began to refill it. "It's a fair point. It's a rare enough thing to like the woman you wed – rarer still to love her…" He gave a small chortle. "Jeyne was sweet and kind, and died before we could even have a little son or daughter. The Gods love their jokes. They write this farce and we be their mummers to play it out."

Victor had heard several different versions of Jeyne's death. Of course, he'd never met a Blackwood, though he had seen his own father at the lists with Ser Brynden Blackwood once. He shook off the thought quickly by helping himself to his first cup of wine that day.

"You heard that my brother, Aerion, killed her, I suppose?"

Victor choked on his wine. He had heard the rumour – all had. But he'd never speak of it. "I don't listen to rumours, Your Grace."

"You are a paragon of virtue, Lord Victor," Vaegon said, covering his mouth with the back of his hand for a moment before washing down his gullet with more wine. "By any measure, a lie: Aerion is quick to anger and relishes bloodshed, but he prizes our family above all else."

Victor's brown eyes danced across the tent to his sister, Alyssa, who was busy talking with the Princess Daelaena, complimenting her on her gown and slowly sipping at a cup of water and tasting a lemoncake. Most of their life, she would so readily make japes and trade barbs with him, but that was their way, and it was one of the most precious things to him.

"I understand," Victor said eventually, "blood is blood: we can torment one another, but the second someone else does…" he trailed off and Vaegon let out a chuckle and pointed at him with his half-empty cup, swirling with golden wine.

"Quite right," he nodded, clinking his cup against Victor's. The two drained their cups and Vaegon quickly began to refill them. Victor's mouth was sour from the night before, and it would take several more cups to salve his wounds. "I confess, I'm surprised Durran Baratheon is not here," Vaegon said, pausing to swallow, "I thought you and he were friends."

"We are. He grew up in Highgarden, a ward of my Lord Father."

"Condolences to that," Vaegon murmured, raising his now-full cup (so full that some wine spilled out across his fingers). Victor bowed his head and raised his own cup.

"He's a wedding of his own to attend."

"He does?" Vaegon frowned and, a moment later, he shook his head, casting a hand over his brow. "Oh, yes, Rhae! Seven Hells…" He chortled. Had he been so wine-drunk that he had forgotten his own sister's wedding?

Victor's eyes found his own sister again, and he remembered the conversation with their grandmother – how Durran was not to be her husband as they had hoped, and they would have to find her a new lord to wed. He turned back to the plain-speaking and wine-loving Prince.

"I suppose, as Lord of Highgarden, it falls to me to find a suitable husband for my sister."

"Well, I wouldn't advise one of my brothers," Vaegon said with a slight laugh, "my wife died less than a year ago. My father's wife, some years before that. Perhaps the Seven are angry with us for fucking our sisters and aunts."

Victor gave a genuine laugh, but tried to stay focused. "You would not give me any advice?"

Vaegon drank his wine and shook his head. "You're asking the wrong brother: Aemon is suited for politicking and kingship, Aerion for blood and warfare, and I for savouring and sampling wine of all vintages."

"What about Prince Jaeghar?" Victor asked, waiting to see what joke the Drunk Prince would make next.

"What about him? He spends all his days in a fucking forge…" He shook his head. "Brothers can be queer – allow them their flights of fancy and try to love them as best you can."

"I don't have any brothers," Victor informed him. Durran had been a good enough friend – and Rawen was closer than any other man. Victor liked to think they were as brothers to him, but he'd never really know, in truth.

"You're about to have several. And they're all wolves, Gods help you."

Victor laughed again as he watched Vaegon empty his cup yet again. "You ought to stay in Highgarden for a time after the wedding, Your Grace," Victor suggested. "I'm sure you'll find good company here – and even better wine."

"I would start a war for some more of that hippocras…" Vaegon admitted. "But, for now, I simply wish to find a tree to water…" he said, pushing out his chair and stumbling slightly. Victor immediately pushed out his chair to rise as he watched Vaegon careen through the tent, knocking into a Tarly knight and spilling his wine. Vaegon, without even missing a step, simply patted the man on the shoulder and continued his staggering out of the tent in search of a tree.

Myra

The Wolfswood stretched endlessly before Myra Snow as she rode on a winding path that cut through the ancient forest. Towering trees loomed overhead, their branches forming a dense canopy that filtered sunlight into scattered rays, painting the forest floor in dappled patterns. The air was alive with the earthy fragrance of damp moss, pine needles, and decaying leaves. The wood's canopy seemed to embrace the world in a veil of eternal greenery.

Shafts of golden sunlight filtered through the foliage, creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow on the moss-covered ground. The gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze echoed throughout the forest, accompanied by the distant calls of woodland creatures hidden among the foliage.

As she rode deeper into the heart of the Wolfswood, the trees seemed to close in around her, creating a natural tunnel that bathed the path in a cool, dim light. The moss-covered trunks of the ancient ironwood trees, their black barks marked with pine-green splotches, stood like sentinels guarding the secrets of the forest. Their myrtle leaves rustled gently in the breeze against the evergreen of the surrounding trees.

Birds of white, brown and blue flitted from branch to branch, their melodious songs creating a symphony that harmonized with the forest's tranquil ambiance. Squirrels scurried across the forest floor, pausing to examine Myra with curious eyes before darting away into the safety of the trees.

Little more than a year ago, it was in these woods where Myra Snow would hunt. She had still journeyed there from time to time, accompanied by her falcon, Swiftwing, who soared high above, looking for a mouse. Myra trotted along on her mare, Whitemane, escorted by two men-at-arms that carried the grey direwolf of House Stark upon their shields. As a long woman, perhaps the brigands of the forest might have set upon her, but not with those men-at-arms. None would meddle with the Starks in the North.

She felt enveloped by the sprawling expanse of ancient trees and untamed wilderness: Towering sentinels of the forest, the massive trees loomed high above, their branches interlocking to form a verdant canopy that shielded the forest floor from the harsh sunlight. Shafts of golden light filtered through the foliage, illuminating patches of moss-covered earth and creating a tapestry of shifting shadows.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the aromatic perfume of pine needles. A gentle breeze carried the whispers of the forest, the rustling of leaves and the soft murmurs of the woodland creatures that made the Wolfswood their home.

Myra found herself reflecting upon her many hunts into these woods, though never this far north. She remembered loosing an arrow into the white-tailed fox, the quarry she and Jonos Cassel had pursued for half a day. Remembering Jonos – his mess of dark hair, wide jaw and toothy grin – it made her sad. Her stomach was twisted with guilt and anger and sorrow. Yet another from Winterfell she'd likely not see again. If she had been born a man, perhaps she might have come and gone as she pleased, but as a woman – even a bastard woman, she was at her uncle's bidding. Just as she was soon to be at her grandfather's.

Eventually, as the path wound onwards, the woodland began to thin and Ironrath emerged on the horizon like a fortress carved out of the very heart of the Wolfswood. The castle lay nestled between two knolls of stone at the foot of the Northern Mountains, its tall walls and the impressive Great Hall all hewn from the very stone upon which it stood and fortified with strong ironwood.. The single walkway bridged over a moat, now dry and devoid of water, served as the sole access point, leading to the castle's dirt-laden courtyard.

Tall watchtowers rose above the wooden walls, offering vantage points that overlooked the dense forest. Guards clad in the colours of House Forrester stood vigil atop the walls, their sharp eyes scanning the surrounding woodlands for any signs of movement or intruders. The banners of House Forrester – a white ironwood tree on a black field – fluttered in the breeze, beating against the stone walls and marking Ironrath as the domain of this ancient noble house.

The scent of wood smoke wafted from within the walls, intermingling with the earthy fragrance of the forest. The air hummed with the sounds of labour and activity, a symphony of voices, hammering, and the clatter of daily life within the fortress.

"Halt!" A voice came from up on the walls, his voice melodic and warm, much like Alyna's had been. "Who approaches?"

"Myra Snow," Myra called up, "bound for Bear Island."

"Are you lost, bastard?" The guard asked, slightly bemused.

"I'm Myra Snow of Winterfell," Myra explained loudly, "Lord Brandon Stark's ward. I have word from your Lord's daughter."

"Word from Lady Alyna?" The guard replied with a frown. Myra reached into the saddlebag of her mare and produced the letter.

"Aye, at once, milady," one of the guards on the wall said quickly before rushing over. Myra rubbed her gloved hands together as the black iron portcullis began to creak and slowly rise, drawn upward by chains and gears. The heavy iron-bound wooden gates of Ironrath groaned as they parted, and Myra Snow rode steadily through the widening gap, leading her steed into the courtyard.

As she crossed over the narrow stone bridge, Myra spied her brown-and-white falcon, Swiftwing, settling on a skinny ledge of one of the stone knolls, picking apart a red squirrel with its yellow break. It was a good omen – Myra would find comfort here. Safety – security.

Myra rode through the threshold, passing beneath the raised portcullis into the shadow of the towering walls. The Great Hall, a sentinel atop the castle walls, loomed high, overlooking the courtyard from its elevated perch. The crunch of hooves against the dirt ground were lost in the rest of the noise; the courtyard of Ironrath bustled with activity. Merchants unloaded wagons laden with goods, while craftsmen laboured away at their tasks, their tools clinking and clanking against metal and wood, the scent of horses and hay and fresh-cut timber strong in the air.

The castle's stout stone walls rose high on either side of the courtyard, adorned with the banners of House Forrester flapping proudly in the breeze. The Forrester guards, clad in chainmail and bearing the sigil of the ironwood tree, stood vigilant, though their wandering, curious eyes flickered across to the latest arrivals.

Residents of Ironrath, adorned in a variety of attire, moved about their tasks with purpose. Some wore simple woollen garments, indicative of their daily toil, while others sported finer clothes, denoting their status within the household. Women worked on tapestries and embroidery under the shade of a nearby colonnade, their skilled hands weaving colourful threads into intricate patterns. Merchants busied themselves unloading crates of goods, while craftsmen, their clothes stained with the dust of their work, focused intently on their tasks.

Near the stables, stable boys hurried to tend to the needs of the horses, brushing down their coats and replenishing their water and feed. Dogs lazed in patches of sunlight, occasionally barking at a stray squirrel or bird that dared to venture too close.

Amidst the bustling courtyard, the atmosphere was one of organized chaos, a symphony of activity that showcased the livelihood and industry of Ironrath. As Myra dismounted from her horse, curious glances followed her arrival, and a few residents paused momentarily from their tasks to observe the newcomer.

The main courtyard of Ironrath was a hub of activity. Blacksmiths hammered away at iron, creating weapons and tools with practiced skill. The scent of hot metal mingled with the aroma of freshly baked bread from the nearby kitchens. Merchants and craftsmen bustled about, trading goods and sharing stories, while children played 'come into my castle'.

Ironrath's Great Hall stood tall above all else, save the trees. Its massive doors, adorned with intricate carvings depicting the sigil of House Forrester welcomed all who sought shelter within. Walking down the stone steps from the Great Hall was a man some years older than Myra, with brown stubble lining his jaw, and bright curls haphazardly pushed back from his wide brow. He was soft-featured, with a long face and grey eyes like her cousin, Corwyn. In fact, if Myra hadn't known any better, she'd think the man in front of her was her other uncle, Cayd. But she knew better – the man was First Builder as Castle Black.

"Lady Myra of Winterfell, milord," one of the guards said to the man.

"Lady Myra?" He frowned, a thumb dancing on the pommel of his longsword.

"Myra Snow," she corrected him, "I'm not a lady, my Lord. Simply travelling through."

The man nodded and, with a rub of his nose gestured to her. "You've word from Alyna?"

Myra nodded and handed him the letter. He turned it over to examine the black wax seal, unbroken, before his grey eyes found her again. "Come, it's warmer inside. And your guard might appreciate a hot meal with cool ale."

Myra didn't even need to look at the men behind her to know if they agreed. "Thank you, my Lord."

"Hal, Kol." He nodded his thanks to the Forrester men and turned to lead Myra and her escort up the stairs and into the Great Hall.

Even for a smaller house like Forrester, their Great Hall boasted a magnificent sight: no splendour or size like in Winterfell, with warm stone slabs. Wooden vaulted ceilings towered high above, supported by stout beams. The walls, constructed from solid stone, were adorned with tapestries that depicted the family of House Forrester: Thorris, young and strong, holding his greatsword, his brown hair falling to his shoulders, and Jeyne with her Glover-red hair. Then, there were three children – a boy and girl stood beside their parents – one with brown hair like their father, and the other with red like their mother. Alyna and her brother, she presumed.

A long, sturdy table stood atop the raised dais at the far end of the hall, flanked by six chairs on either side. The Lord's chair, more imposing than the rest, commanded attention at the head of the table, where the intricately carved ironwood seat awaited the presence of the lord of Ironrath.

In front of the lord's chair, a series of glass windows stretched across the wall, offering a breathtaking view of the godswood beyond. It was unlike the godswood at Winterfell, lacking the variety of trees. But the size of them! Tall Ironwood sentinels stood like sacred guardians, proud and solemn, their dark leaves whispering in the wind. The beauty of nature painted a serene backdrop against the solemnity of the Great Hall.

Wooden planks, worn and polished by years of use, composed the hall's floor. On the left side of the hall, a hearth crackled and glowed, casting flickering shadows upon the stone walls while providing warmth and comfort to the space.

One of the most notable features within the Great Hall was the ironwood tree that grew through the right side of the hall. Its gnarled and sturdy trunk ascended from the floor, reaching towards the vaulted ceilings.

"That was rather quick, Owen," came another lilted voice, and a man descended the small steps beside the hearth. His hair had greyed and skin began to sag. He was long-faced and grey-eyed, dressed in black leathers, just like the man beside her. In fact, he was exactly the same.

"We've a guest, Father," the man beside her responded, walking forwards to offer the older man the letter. It was turned over, and the father's eyes danced with life upon seeing the Forrester seal.

"Alyna?" He asked.

"Aye."

The man Myra deduced to be Thorris Forrester, Lord of Ironrath, cracked the seal and unfolded the letter. "Owen, bread and salt for…"

"Myra Snow, my Lord," she introduced herself.

Owen climbed up the steps beside the hearth and left Myra there, standing alone with the old man of the Wolfswood. She hid her hands in her skirts and began to pick at scrap the dirt out from under her fingernails.

"How came you by this?" Thorris asked, absent-mindedly.

"I'm from Winterfell, my Lord. I was Brandon Stark's ward."

Thorris set down the letter and gave a small frown. His face relaxed – he understood. "Snow. You're Kolfinn Mormont's bastard."

It was like a knife twisting in her gut. "I'm Mara Stark's bastard."

Thorris nodded. "Apologies. Was she in good health? Good humours?"

"She missed home, my Lord. And I'm sure she would be sad to leave Torrha – they were good friends."

Thorris nodded. "Every father wants what is best for their daughter."

'Every father but mine', Myra thought to herself. Owen Forrester re-entered, carrying a plate atop a bowl. He approached Myra and, taking the plate in his other hand, offered it to her.

Myra took one of the torn pieces of crusty brown bread and dabbed it in the salt and placed it in her mouth. A sharp tang prickled at her tongue and she chewed quickly to swallow faster. Once the bread was in her belly, she felt a sense of calm: guest right was sacred in all of the Seven Kingdoms, but nowhere else as much as the North: she was now a guest of House Forrester, under their protection.

"You've done us a kindness, Myra Snow. You may rest here with us, at least until these summer snows cease. I'll send a raven to Lord Colyn of Bear Island."

"My thanks, my Lord."

"My son, Owen, will show you to your chambers."

Owen nodded and turned to lead Myra towards the steps by the hearth he had emerged from.

Cassandra

Oraella's hands were bruised. A budding Baratheon with a crown of unruly dark curls, Oraella had been cloaked in a gold-and-teal gown like her mother, but her hands had begun to grow calloused, two of her nails chipped. Cassandra knew at once what it was – she'd been playing with those damned sparring swords again. It Arrec's fault, she was sure – the boy seemed to be of the opinion that anyone could do as they wished. Cassandra thanked the Seven that at least Durran was strong of will – even if he was something of a boor like his father.

The cobbled courtyard outside echoed with the clatter of hooves and the shouts of stable boys as a hunting party returned, drenched but triumphant, from the storm-laden woods. The courtyard was a tapestry of colors and sigils, each house proudly displaying its heraldry. Knights clad in armor adorned with the crowned stag of Baratheon. The scent of wet earth and rain-soaked stone permeated the air, at the window, creating an earthy perfume.

Cassandra Baratheon, resplendent in a gown of Wylde teal and Baratheon gold, stood at the heart of the bustling activity. Her auburn hair, touched by the rain, framed her sea-green eyes that followed the small fingers of her daughter, Oraella, who scowled at the uneven stitching of her embroidery.

Her attention shifted to the ladies' luncheon taking place in her apartments. The warmth of the hearth blanketed them from the chill of the air outside, providing a sanctuary for the women of noble houses to gather.

The apartment was adorned with ornate tapestries, transformed into a haven of femininity. Ladies in sumptuous gowns sat around elegantly set tables, exchanging gossip and laughter. Embroidery frames adorned the space, and the rhythmic clink of needles accompanied the bard's soulful singing – it was a soft, tender harp-song the young Glennys Tully had requested – something that made Jeyne Tully positively beam with pride. As young Glennys' needle danced across the fabric of her intricately crafted embroidery of the black Baratheon stag, Cassandra turned back to her own daughter, her face pulling a frown with her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she struggled to pierce the needle.

The bard, perched on a raised platform, sang of ancient legends and heroic deeds. His voice resonated through the hall, filling the space with tales of valour and love. The ladies, engrossed in their embroidery, occasionally looked up to appreciate the melodies that stirred their hearts.

Cassandra engaged in polite conversation with the ladies seated around her, their topics ranging from the latest fashions to the exploits of the hunting party. The air was alive with the delicate clinking of silver chalices and the murmur of conversations that ebbed and flowed like a gentle tide.

The luncheon was a respite from the well-wishes and politicking that often consumed noble gatherings. Here, in the heart of Storm's End, women from various houses shared in the simple pleasures of companionship and creativity.

As the rain outside continued its rhythmic dance, the Bard's song reached its crescendo, the ladies set aside their embroidery, momentarily enchanted by the haunting melody. Cassandra, ever the gracious hostess, raised her goblet in a silent toast to the bard and offered him a silver stag. One could never be seen to be stringent or miserly in the presence of royalty:

Princess Rhaenerys was sat on the other side of Cassandra, one leg crossed over the other as she slowly blinked as if she were about to sleep. She even yawned when Jeyne Tully recounted the story of her husband's sworn knight, Ser Grover Mooton, tilting against Arlan Baratheon and being unhorsed without even being able to land a blow against the man at a tourney some years ago. Of course, Cassandra didn't care for any stories of the dolt's joust – none there knew of his true nature. None knew of when he had struck here some six or seven years ago, his massive hand breaking her skin and sending her tumbling to the ground. But she knew her courtesies – she smiled and thanked Lady Jeyne for her kind words. Princess Rhaenerys, however, decided to stand up and walk away to look at the tapestries.

"Oraella, why don't you tell Her Grace of each of these tapestries, little fawn?"

"Her Grace is sure she already knows," Princess Rhaenerys replied, turning away from a massive hanging on the wall of Orys One-Hand fighting Argilac the Arrogant.

Cassandra would have no trouble with the Princess, she was sure: In her youth, Cassandra lived in the Red Keep of King's Landing with her late Lord Father, Rymund, who had served on King Aemond's small council as Master of Coin. She had even played a pivotal role at the age of ten-and-three to be betrothed to beautiful, fierce Maelor Targaryen. She could see him still, even after a score of years – long silver hair, twinkling amethyst eyes that glinted with charm. And her father ruined it all – women and their wits built the world, and men and their cocks destroyed it.

"My Lord Son, Durran, has instructed the dowry be used to build a dragonpit for your dragon, Aegorax, Your Grace," Cassandra said, deftly pronouncing the name with the lilt common in High Valyrian. The Princess turned around, crossing her arms and staring with her deep and regal, violet eyes.

"Will you feed him as well?"

"Of course, Your Grace."

"Anyone I tell you to?"

Some of the other ladies paused in their embroidery to look up at her. Some became even more focused on their stitching, determined not to draw attention to themselves. Cassandra took a moment and then smiled, gently pattering one hand against the other as she looked to the other women. "A joke, of course."

They immediately feigned laughter and clapped along with Cassandra. Rhaenerys plastered on a mocking smirk before walking back to her chair and placing a hand on the back of it. "Is there nothing else to do in this dreary little place?"

'Storm's End is older than your House,' Cassandra thought to herself. "I assure you, Your Grace, when it comes time for you to keep this castle for your Lord Husband, you shall want for nothing more than needlework by the fire."

"Spoken like a woman that's never been atop the world on a dragon's back…" Rhaenerys scoffed, looking down her nose. If this girl was to become the next Lady of Storm's End, she would have to learn to respect the place Cassandra had crafted into a home.

"How old were you when you flied on a dragon?" Oraella asked, cocking her head to the side.

"Flew, Oraella…" Cassandra corrected her daughter, stroking down her wild curls of dark hair.

"I was younger than you," Rhaenerys replied, "seven years old when Aegorax flied me upward," her violet eyes flickered to Cassandra. Oraella's eyes widened, her mind aflame with visions of dragons.

"Is she as big as Gaelithox?"

"He is not. Gaelithox is the largest dragon in the world," Rhaenerys boasted. "Perhaps I'll take you flying on dragonback, one day."

"Could you?" Oraella almost yelped in excitement.

"Perhaps when you're older," Cassandra said, her voice gentle and soothing.

"She's old enough to ride some Tully man's cock, but not a dragon?" Rhaenerys asked pointedly.

Cassandra looked up at the princess, her green eyes cold and unflinching. She didn't even look at Lady Jeyne Tully, who must have felt the same anger. "Please leave us, Ladies, I wish to talk to my Lord Husband's new charge."

The ladies all stood and curtsied, leaving their half-stitched works on their seats as they left the room. Cassandra paused to stroke a hand over Oraella's dark little ringlets and give her a kiss on the head before she was led out by Lady Roelle. The door to the chamber closed with a thud and Cassandra rose from her chair.

"It is apparent that you are not so pleased with this match, Princess," Cassandra said, trying to keep her voice soft and sweet. "Usually it is the mother who would talk to her daughter and teach her of such things, but…"

"There must be more than a hundred women in this keep better suited to such talks," Princess Rhaenerys scoffed, looking down at her nails.

Cassandra tried to swallow the urge to slap the girl. "You do not seem to understand what this marriage means, Your Grace."

"Please, educate me, my Lady," Princess Rhaenerys' voice poured out with scorn and mockery.

"When you wed my son you will be no longer be seen as a Targaryen. You'll take his name for yours, and the crowned stag for your banner."

"I thought you and he were obsessed with my banner. And my gold, and my dragon, and my pure Valyrian blood…"

"Being wife to a husband means you must serve them. Obey them."

"And I'm sure a good little wife like yourself does so," Princess Rhaenerys chortled. "But you're not a dragon. Why ought I listen to you?"

If she were less unruly and scornful, Cassandra might have told her soon-to-be daughter of the reality: that children listen more to their mothers, that it is the wife that acts as Lady of the keep in place of her husband. On occasion when Arlan had been found too sick by Maester Rickard some years ago, it was Cassandra that governed the Stormlands. Even with the stain her own father had put to her, Cassandra had still risen high to be the Lady of the Stormlands. Even with Durran's regency, it was still her that he had spoken to, sought the wisdom of. And all too soon had he proven to be just as stupid as his father. Still, he had not inherited the lechery of his father, or of hers. That, at least, Cassandra was thankful for: scorning a Targaryen princess by siring bastards on common whores would be insult enough to answer with blood.

"Because to defy such a thing is to defy the Gods themselves."

"Your gods, not mine," Princess Rhaenerys said boldly.

'Too bold', Cassandra thought to herself, 'the little brat will not last.'

"Do not think that mentioning the Seven will make me want your son inside me," Princess Rhaenerys continued, her voice hard and harsh.

"It would be sad, to resign yourself to hate your husband for life," Cassandra noted. "If you do not bear a child, the fault will be found in you."

"The dragon does not care for the clucking of hens."

Cassandra gently closed her eyes to try and salvage the remains of her composure. "It may be painful, and there may be blood…" She began, trying to remember how she had been educated, when the princess interrupted her.

"What if I want to take someone else into my bed?"

Rhaenerys was leant against the stone window, staring out of the glass window that slowly began to be flicked with soft-pattering raindrops. Her silver hair fell perfectly like threads of satin, reaching the small of her back where the red silks gently wrapped around her waist.

"I'm afraid I don't-"

"What if I want to fuck someone else?" Rhaenerys asked loudly.

The suggestion made Cassandra's stomach twist into a knot and her ears began to burn. "It would shame both our houses."

"You're saying no married woman has ever fucked another man?"

"Bearing a bastard is always shameful. They're foul creatures, born of lust and sin-"

"Who'd dare call my children bastards? How would they know?"

Cassandra kept her eyes on Rhaenerys' silver hair and violet eyes. It made her think of her husband's dark hair, his blue eyes. Every Baratheon ever born had had the same look.

"There are ways of telling."

"I'm clever," Rhaenerys stated.

"I do not doubt it, Your Grace, but… it is not the same as a man having a bastard. Such behaviour is accepted – expected, even. But women are to be as virtuous as the Maiden, and so… bearing a child from another man, it would be shameful – she would be divorced if not imprisoned-"

"Spare me your scared clucking, little hen," Rhaenerys rolled her eyes and straightened up, walking across the chamber to pull open the door. Upon pulling it open and finding the gaggle of women waiting there, still listening at the door, Rhaenerys smiled and turned back to Cassandra. "Your honourable lordly husband has a bastard, does he not?"

Cassandra could have kicked the little bitch down the stairs. Resentment and grief and hurt all began to bubble inside her. "He does, Your Grace."

"Well, it seems to me you should focus more on giving your own husband heirs. Perhaps he wouldn't start seeking out some whore's cunt." She flashed a dazzling smile and stormed of the chamber, leaving Cassandra alone in her chamber, cheeks flashing red as the other ladies all stared determinedly at the floor, and little Oraella looked back up at her mother, with dark black hair and blue-green eyes.

Freya

Freya stood at the prow of the ironman longship, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the hazy outline of Pyke's shore gradually took form. She clutched the weathered railing, feeling the rhythmic pulse of the ship coursing beneath her feet. Salt-laden winds tousled her dark hair, the scent of the sea filling her senses with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty.

The longship surged forward, slicing through the choppy waves with a relentless determination. Freya's heart quickened its pace in tandem with the vessel's rhythmic momentum. The Greyjoy sails, unfurled high above her, bore the emboldened kraken sigil, billowing proudly as if to announce their return.

As the ship drew further, the jagged cliffs of Pyke loomed into view, rising proudly from the sea. The familiar sight brought a surge of conflicting emotions within Freya - a sense of homecoming mingled with an unspoken unease. She wasn't the Lady of Pyke. She'd likely be sold off to some ironman – Goodbrother or Drumm. It was the way of things.

The ironman crew worked in unison, their hardened faces etched with determination. Freya watched their practiced movements, the sailors expertly navigating the longship through the treacherous currents that hugged the island's shores. The rhythmic sound of oars slicing through the waves and the groan of the ship's timber melded into a symphony of controlled chaos.

As the longship cut through the restless waves, the spray of the briny sea hung heavy in the air, peppering Freya's face with a salty mist. The wind tousled her hair, a wild dance of strands that billowed behind her in the salty breeze. Overhead, gulls wheeled and cried, their shrill calls echoing over the tumultuous sea.

The vessel surged forward, its prow cleaving through the water with a relentless determination. The creaking of the ship's timber and the groaning of the rigging harmonized with the slap of waves against the sturdy hull. Each cresting wave crashed against the bow, sending cascades of foam that sprayed against the deck, a testament to the ship's defiance of the churning sea.

The air was charged with anticipation and the invigorating scent of the open sea - a mix of salt and seaweed that permeated the surroundings. The rhythmic cadence of the rowers' oars, slicing through the water in perfect unison, melded with the symphony of natural sounds - the whistling wind and the ceaseless roar of the ocean - painting a vivid picture of their approach toward the waiting embrace of Lordsport's bay.

Freya's gaze wandered across the ship's deck, her attention drawn to a formidable figure striding with purposeful strides. That same brown-haired woman, her features etched with determination, paced the length of the deck, her voice ringing with authoritative commands. Clad in weather-beaten leathers and sporting a salt-streaked face that spoke of years spent at sea, she exuded an aura of unwavering confidence as she orchestrated the crew's actions with practiced precision.

The door to the cabin opened and Rayn exited, tucking the axe into the metal ring at his belt. He slapped the woman on the shoulder and greeted her as 'Whalebane', before his dark eyes found Freya at the slick, wooden taffrail. He walked over, hands resting on his axehead and sword-pommel. He leant back against the taffrail, a hand closing around a taught line and examining her mild fascination.

"You don't like sailing?" Rayn asked, looking at her face.

"I've never sailed before."

Rayn paused, staring at her slightly slack-jawed before swallowing and coming closer.

"You're short," he murmured, taking a hand off his sword to lift up her arm, "skinny, too."

"So?" Freya frowned at him. Was he already thinking about selling her off to someone?

"Did they not feed you?"

"They fed me," Freya assured him.

He pulled at a skin tied to his belt and took a sip, licking his lips. "Never thought I'd miss mead…" He offered the skin to her.

"What is it?"

"Rum: a wine made from rumberries."

Freya shook her head – a taste of rum might give flight to whatever was brewing in her belly. Rayn shrugged and took another sip, glancing around the ship. He had the same hair, the same sharp-sloped jaw and high cheekbones.

"Are you really my brother?" Freya asked.

"Are you really my sister?" He replied almost immediately, turning to look at her with a hard, stony expression. No love or recognition or warmth could be found in his features.

"Of course I am."

"You don't look it," Rayn murmured in little more than a whisper as he pushed himself up straight. Freya glanced down at her gown of soft silk beneath her thick, fox-fur-mantled cloak.

"Is that a problem?" She followed Rayn across the deck. "When did you leave?"

"A long time ago."

"Where do you go?"

"A long way away."

"Is it a secret or something?" Freya asked, unimpressed with the churlish nature of the man claiming to be her brother. He turned around to glance her up and down once again.

"Who's asking me, you or Maelor Targaryen?"

"You think I serve them? Why, because I dress like them?"

"Perhaps."

"It's been fifteen years," Freya said incredulously.

"It's been fifteen years, I don't dress like them."

"No, you just ran off to Gods know where."

Rayn paused at the stern of the longship and found Freya's eyes. "You worship the Seven?"

Freya remained quiet. How could she worship the Drowned God? A being that wished only for the raping of women and drowning of men? It was nothing short of heresy. "What if I do?"

He scoffed and shook his head. "You hate sailing, you don't worship the Drowned God, and you think you're a Greyjoy…"

"I am a Greyjoy," Freya said fiercely, a fire growing in her belly, "the last Greyjoy. After our family died. You might have known that if you had been here."

"Then I'd likely be dead too," Rayn shrugged, unfazed by the mention of their family and their deaths. "Perhaps they shouldn't have launched a rebellion. Harren the Black tried to fight the Dragons, and our father was no Harren the Black."

Freya felt her stomach twisting – Rayn seemed to have little love for her or their family. It seemed she would be trading one Maelor for another. A Targaryen who despised her for being a Greyjoy, and a brother who claimed she was no true Greyjoy.

"Where were you?" She asked. "Essos?"

"For a time," Rayn nodded.

The longship entered the sheltered bay of Lordsport, the tension that had gripped Freya began to ease. The waters grew calmer, and the sturdy wooden docks of Lordsport came into view, bustling with activity as other vessels lay anchored.

With each passing moment, the longship inched closer to the docks, and Freya could make out the figures of Ironborn folk preparing to receive their own. Men moved about, their gait purposeful yet worn, carrying axes and implements that spoke of a life forged by the sea and hard labour.

Freya felt a mixture of relief and trepidation as the longship neared the shore. Her senses were heightened - the crisp tang of sea salt, the briny aroma of seaweed carried on the breeze as the longship shuddered and bobbed against the stone pier. Some of the sailors leapt up onto the stone pier, like Rayn, the woman with two swords, and the man who had shorn the sides of his head (whom Freya had heard named 'Ironhand'). It was the woman, however, who took a step and held out a hand for Freya to grasp, hoisting her up onto stone with a single hand.

In her youth, Freya imagined great monuments and keeps fashioned out of stone mountains. Lordsport was to be a great and majestic port – similar to Braavos, absolutely teeming with noble warriors of ancient lineages from a land beyond the west. Instead, Freya found thatched roofs, worn and weather-beaten, adorned the modest structures scattered across the craggy landscape. The buildings, made of rough-hewn wood and stone, stood in various states of disrepair – humble dwellings clinging to the rocky terrain like with desperation against the unyielding waves.

The land devoid of the lushness that adorned other realms. Sparse patches of grass struggled to take root among the rocky outcrops, and the soil was thin and infertile. The landscape, painted in shades of grey and muted greens, lacked the vibrancy of verdant fields and blossoming meadows found in more fertile lands.

"No welcome party…" the Ironhand muttered.

"Whalebane, sell what you can, but no-one's to leave the boat before we get to Pyke," Rayn ordered quietly. She nodded and hopped back down onto the longship. Meanwhile, Rayn had meandred onwards to an old man lacking a leg that sat on a barrel, whittling a small wooden tankard.

"Why do you call her 'Whalebane'?" Freya asked.

"Names are lucky," Rayn replied simply before turning back to the man. "You've horses? I need to get to Pyke."

"You another one of those Wynch fuckers?" The man scoffed.

"Wynch?" Rayn frowned. "I said Pyke."

The man nodded, then returned to whittling the tankard. "I thought the Iron Holt was the seat of House Wynch," Freya frowned.

"It is…" Rayn replied. "Pyke's the seat of the Greyjoy."

"And where the fuck are they?"

"Haven't you seen the sails?" Freya began. "We're-" She was cut off by Rayn tightly grabbing her arm and carrying her away from the man.

"We'll find our own way," he called back to the man. Freya struggled and resisted until Rayn finally released her. She rubbed at her arm, where his fingers had dug into her muscles.

"What are you doing-"

"Ironhand! Horses!" Rayn called and the man in black nodded and raised a hand and began to look around the docks, stopping a woman with a barrel of fish to talk to her. "Go and get the horses with him," Rayn instructed Freya.

"Why don't-"

"Go and get the horses or stay on the ship," Rayn hissed, the voice low and menacing, he put a hand behind Freya's shoulder and nudged her. She stumbled forwards and shot a glare back at Rayn. She'd been told she'd return to the Iron Islands and rule – she'd imagined black banners being unfurled and a thousand people applauding her arrival. And there she was, being ordered about by the apparent true lord.

'Maybe Aemon will declare me Lady of Pyke', Freya thought to herself, 'I'm far better suited than a simple sailor is.'

Now, I'd love to get some more Whitehills – if only because Myra's doubtlessly going to hear about them. And, this story is rapidly expanding, so we may actually see some of them!

Also, only one person spoke about it, so, I'm going with them – I'm going to keep on with these infrequent-yet-long chapters. It also gives me time to reflect as a writer and really read through those reviews and wonder how I'm going to tackle certain things. I mean, you guys pick up on stuff I don't, so it helps make this story really immersive. You guys also wildly miss things on occasion, which is awesome, because what's asoiaf/game of thrones without some surprises?

Anyhoo, I'll see you all for the next chapter. Unless you cba to read, in which case, sayonara, sweetpea. This wiki has a staggering 170 pages to it now (special thanks to Lawrence Cartwright for helping update the site to keep up with the story and also proofing pretty much all the pages so far), if you want to get involved, feel free! There's a lot of artwork and a lot of content that outlines what exactly has transpired in the past 20-odd years to get us to this point.

R.