Wow, everyone really seemed to like that last chapter. I feel like I'm rushing through this story, but… that's because I'm basically writing four chapters at a time. Anyhoo, here's the new chapter!
But, before we get into that, one of the readers/creators told me they're starting their own story – now, I won't be spoiling anything about the setting, other than it's in the asoiaf universe and I've seen a couple of people attempt this, but no-one's seemed as knowledgeable or motivated about the content as they are.
So, check out Dragon of Valyria's story, 'Dragonstone: A Land of Outcasts and Kings' – if the characters you come up with for them are anywhere near as good as the ones in this story, it'll be a hell of a read – I'm submitting one myself, and can't wait to be on the other side of reviews!
So, this took a while to write because I kinda hit a lull. I mean, I'm also flying out to the US next month to see my brother, so, I've been doing a lot of planning for that, but I managed to squeeze in some time to write this chapter. It feels more like… a thematic chapter than an eventful one, personally. There's some set-up, some exposition, blah blah blah.
20th of the Sixth Moon, 152 A.C.
Victor
The summer air hung heavy with the scent of blooming roses and the distant murmur of flowing fountains as Victor reclined upon a bed swathed in sheets spun from Myrish silk, dyed a rich shade of deep emerald green. His chestnut brown curls cascaded in lazy tendrils across the pillows, each strand soft to the touch, as if woven from the very essence of luxury itself.
Around him, the chamber was adorned with furnishings crafted from rare woods imported from the Summer Isles, their polished surfaces gleaming in the warm sunlight that filtered through intricately wrought golden curtains. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of the Reach in full bloom, each thread meticulously woven from the wool of sheep raised on the fertile plains of House Tyrell's vast estates.
The heady aroma of rare perfumes hung in the air, mingling with the natural fragrance of the surrounding gardens to create an intoxicating bouquet that enveloped Victor like a silken cloak. A crystal decanter filled with sweet golden wine stood upon a nearby table, the remnants of its contents hinting at one of Victor's most favourite pastimes.
As Victor lay in repose, the warm rays of the summer sun sleeping through the tall windows and dancing across his cheeks, bathing him in a golden glow that seemed to emanate from within. Yet, he could not shake the sense of unease that gnawed at him like a persistent itch. The thought of wedding a Northern woman filled him with a deep sense of dread, as tales of the uncouth and superstitious nature of the Northmen haunted his thoughts like spectres in the night.
Rawen's jests and Denyse's mockery echoed in his ears, their laughter like a discordant melody in the midst of a symphony. They spoke of Northern women as ugly and coarse, their faces as weathered and rough as the lands they hailed from. The very idea of being bound to a filled him with a sense of foreboding that chilled him to the bone. The thought of wedding a woman from a land so steeped in superstition and barbarism filled him with a deep sense of regret and resentment. May the Seven curse Grandmother for sentencing him to such a fate. And damn her again for it being a Stark.
During his time of fosterage in Highgarden, Durran had often turned dark upon the mention of the Northern Lords. 'Traitors,' he would curse, his rage silent and cold. 'Traitors and oathbreakers. Murderers.' The wrongs of one quickly became the wrongs of the family. But Victor knew that – just as Durran prayed to the Seven to deliver justice upon the family that had slain his kin, Victor had prayed for justice too – to be visited upon the man that had killed his father, Ser Grover Mooton, and also for justice from those whom had shielded him from a proper punishment. Jeyne Tully, Garrett Tully – all of them.
Accidents happened in the joust, and Victor knew that the blame lay partly with his own late father, but the blame also lay with Victor himself. Perhaps, by bringing Ser Grover to justice and settling his father's honour, perhaps he could absolve himself of the part he played – armouring and arming his father at the tourney.
Victor found himself wanting Durran there – at least he would understand. He could talk to Durran – they'd both lost a father on the same day. Durran may have been a bit dry and never committed to revelry like Rawen, but he had been steadfast and loyal – and the challenge Victor found against Durran and his humungous mace was a rarity indeed.
A deep sadness took Victor as a realisation crept upon him. Durran most likely would not visit him again. He was taking a Stark to wife. If Durran took a Mooton, no doubt Victor would feel slighted too. After his father's passing, Durran had prayed at the statue of the Father, begging for Garth to be judged not as a horseman at a joust, but as an honourable knight and lord.
Perhaps if he was marrying Alyssa instead of the Princess, things might have been easier. He would have acquired two new brothers – and if the younger Baratheon brother was anything like Durran, he'd have found another friend in him. Though, then again, perhaps he'd spend all his time in prayer rather than drinking wine and seeking out merriment. Victor prayed, of course, but only on holy days. Only when he had to, in front of the other lords and ladies that grouped together in the Starry Sept.
Though, Victor had truly prayed in the past week. He'd thanked the Mother for her mercy in sparing the Baratheon's from the murderous Dornish cutthroats. To attack someone – in their own home! How long until they would try and do the same with Victor and his family? The swine… Victor was resolute – he'd ride south to join the fray, regardless of what his grandmother said. What did she care, anyway? All the love and care in that woman was reserved for his sister. She just thought he was an idiot – she'd never tried to talk to him like an equal – tried to educate him. She just criticised him every which way.
Victor had not even realised that the door had opened. Gliding between the flowing sheer curtains of gold at the door was his younger sister, Alyssa. Her porcelain skin immediately glowed in the soft light. She wore a gown of shimmering soft lavender, its bodice intricately embroidered with delicate patterns of silver vines and flowers.
The gown flowed in gentle waves around her slender frame, cascading to the floor in a cascade of soft folds and pleats. Her arms were bare and fair, from shoulder to wrist, and around her slender waist was cinched a belt of braided gold, studded with amethysts that caught the light and sparkled like stars in the night sky.
Her hair, the same chestnut-brown as his, was swept back from her face twirls and spirals like cuts of ribbon. A single strand of pearls encircled her slender neck, their lustrous sheen complementing the soft glow of her skin. She reminded him of those swans he would see gathering on the Mander. Her eyes, a shade of warm brown, were soft and kind as she approached – no glint of mischief or mockery.
"Still wallowing?"
"No," Victor replied tersely.
"My mistake…" Alyssa said as she walked around to pour a goblet of wine for herself. "That lecherous old king's been at my bedchamber every morning, waiting to pounce on me."
"Why not? You'll get a castle…" Victor said, his voice hollow.
"He's hardly my type."
"Not strong-jawed and dark-haired like Durran?" Victor asked. She gave a small smile – he wasn't sure if that was because he was very right or very wrong.
"The man's a buffoon."
"Are we still talking about His Grace?" Victor asked. Alyssa gave a small titter and lay down on the other side of the bed, holding the goblet up on her chest.
"If the King was trying to fuck you, would you let him?"
"That's different, I wouldn't let any man."
"Oh, it's not that different, Vic…" Alyssa rolled her eyes. "Say it was a queen then. Or, say it was the king and you were a woman."
"It would depend on the queen," Victor shrugged.
"So, you'd let her fuck you and just… get it over with?"
"All in the Seven Kingdoms are subject to a King's will," Victor said, sighing. "Why not acquiesce – let him do what he wants and reap your spoils. He'll give you a castle, a destrier – a befurred dog with large eyes and floppy ears…"
"Is that how Denyse Redwyne took you to bed?" Alyssa waited until Victor scoffed before sighing. "You know, it's obvious you're not friends with many women, Vic. Doing that would make me a whore – and everything hinges on finding a good husband. A husband doesn't want a whore as a wife."
"I'm sure one or two would," Victor replied. "I'm sure you could talk the doddering old fop into wedding you."
"Oh, yes – give birth to another… seven silver-haired princes and princesses…" Alyssa stopped to count on her fingers. "Even if I did, and I had a son, he'd be… well, seventh-in-line to the throne. And that's if the Glass Prince and his Princess Wife, Vaenys, don't have another son…"
Victor rolled his eyes and sat up, turning to look over at her. "You'd be Queen, Lys. You could… line all the walls with Hightower's, Tarly's, and Florent's. But that is not worth it because your child would not sit on the throne?"
"If I'm to have a child, why should that child not be the next King? Or, the next Lord of Storm's End, or of… Casterly Rock, or…"
"Of Winterfell?"
Alyssa let out a loud scoff. "A Stark as a sister will be bad enough…"
"Yet I'm supposed to marry one…" Victor lamented.
"It's only marriage, Vic."
"That is not what you said a moment ago-"
"Oh, Vic…" Alyssa sat up and turned back to him, "you're not a fool. A husband does not live like a wife. You can have a mistress- mistresses. Find pleasure and love and whatever it is you want with them, after you have given your wife a trueborn heir. Sons, ideally."
"Marriage is a sacred bond, and taking another into my bed would not only dishonour my wife, but dishonour myself as well."
"Oh, you spent too long with Father…"
"And you spent too long with Grandmother," Victor retorted.
"Grandmama is clever – and she has a few choice points you choose to overlook."
"Oh, do I?" Victor lay back down, ready to close his ears and ignore the same old lecture once again. "You are the last male Tyrell, Vic. That makes you more important than me or Grandmama."
"Yes, very important," Victor nodded, "that is why she praises you for keeping the sun in the sky and curses me from its rising to setting."
"She does try to talk to you, Vic, you're just not always easy to talk to."
"I'm- I'm not easy to talk to?" Victor asked, springing up from his bed.
"She said you ought to stop sleeping with Denyse Redwyne, and you ignored her. She said you ought to try and govern the reach as Lord of Highgarden, and you ignored her again – ran off to hunt with Rawen Hightower. She's the smartest woman in the Seven Kingdoms – why do you so wilfully ignore her? Is it out of pride?"
"I don't have pride," Victor scoffed. "The crone just prattled on about… foals growing into horses."
"She was trying to explain something you're apparently too block-headed to understand: this marriage will be cold and terrible if you continue to view it as such. But, if you put in some time and effort – as if you were rearing and training a foal… perhaps the marriage will not be quite so awful. It might even be pleasant."
Victor frowned. "Does my head look blocky?"
Alyssa rolled her eyes before pointing at his lopsided smile. "This is why Grandmama is impatient with you – you act the fool too readily."
"I don't act the fool, I just… did not quite… listen…" Perhaps he had been rash, but… but that didn't make it okay for her to criticise him every second of every day!
"As I said," Alyssa responded. "Stop wenching with Denyse Redwyne, wed and bed Torrha Stark, and preserve the Tyrell dynasty. Let others ride off to fight in Durran Baratheon's stupid war of faith."
"Oh, Lys, you don't-"
"It's not just your House." Alyssa grabbed Victor by the jaw and glared at him, her eyes focused and fierce – burning with determination. "Father's dead. I don't remember Mother. It's just us. If you're dead, I'm what's left. And it'll be much harder for me to have a son named 'Tyrell' than it will be for you. And you're willing to risk everything to fight in some stupid war about… what? What god to worship?"
She was earnest – it wasn't a usual thing to witness. And Victor could plainly see the fear that was festering in her eyes. But he had committed himself to the war. He'd said he'd fight. "I already told Durran I was committing men to his cause. What sort of knight am I if I don't ride alongside them?"
"A living one?" Alyssa asked. "I don't know, Vic, but you'll be here – you'll have sons and daughters, and the line continues."
Victor sighed. He wished she could understand, but… well, she wasn't a knight. She hadn't stood in the sept and sworn a vow before the Seven. "No-one's safe while this war continues. Durran and his family were almost murdered."
"So, that's why you want to join the war? To end it quicker, save lives?" Alyssa asked, raising a cynical eyebrow. "It's about glory, Vic. It's about… doing something so you don't have to hunt and drink to keep from being bored."
"You think that little of me?"
"Tell me I'm wrong."
Victor licked his lips. He paused – he knew it was a lie – of course it was a lie, he just enjoyed riding. And drinking. And hunting. It wasn't to distract from… well, that wasn't why he was going to war, it was to… it was to…
"You're wrong."
Alyssa's mouth bulged as her tongue rubbed her teeth, shaking her head in disbelief and managing the smallest of scoffs as her eyes roved around the chamber.
"Fine." She stood up and placed the goblet back beside his bed, walking towards the curtained door. She paused and looked back at him, opening her mouth and then closing it for a moment, taking a breath and trying to decide on something. At last, she spoke. "You're not a child anymore, Vic. Put away the toy swords and stop playing Florian the Fool."
Alyssa pulled the door open and standing on the other side was the high-born beauty, Denyse Redwyne. Had she been summoned there by Alyssa? Or come of her own accord? She looked especially comely – her face was framed by her bright orange curls, her high cheekbones and slender nose dotted with freckles. Her almond eyes were cast to the ground as she curtsied to her lady that exited the chamber. She entered Victor's bedchambers, closing the door behind her, lips gently curling into a subtle smile as the sun fell upon her face's rosy complexion.
She was slender and shapely, her lithe frame giving form to the airy blue silk she was cloaked in.
"I thought we could go riding," Denyse suggested. "Rawen wants a pelt for the Princess…"
"You ought not to keep him waiting, then…" Victor replied, trying to keep his voice proper. He made no move towards her, and she noticed.
"Are you upset?"
"No more than usual…" Victor drawled as he picked up the wine goblet to take a sip – hoping it would instil some courage.
"Have I done something wrong?"
Victor sighed – guilt festered inside him. "No, Denyse, you've not done something wrong…" he turned to face her, "I'm to marry soon."
"Ah, yes, Torrha Stark, the bearded beauty…"
"Don't…" Victor began, his voice small. He cleared his throat and looked up at her dark brown eyes. "Any children I have must be Tyrell's. I have to… preserve the line."
Denyse's brow wrinkled for a moment and, finally, she understood what he was about to say. Her face turned to stone and she looked out of the window, nodding slightly.
"I enjoyed our time together, and… I wouldn't want to keep you as a mistress – it wouldn't be fair to…"
Denyse scoffed loudly. "Don't pretend this is for my sake, Vic…"
He swallowed, deciding not to try that route again. "It would be wrong to continue bedding you, what with-"
"You didn't 'bed' me, Vic – it's not something you did to me, I'm not a child."
"I know," Victor nodded. "But… I'd like to find you a good husband. Someone with… land, who'll treat you well. Take you riding and…" He spoke softly, hoping she would… well, hoping she would not despise him.
"I suppose that's fair," Denyse nodded, her face a statue. "Well, I shan't keep Lord Rawen waiting any longer, then. My Lord…" Denyse curtsied and turned away to walk briskly away from him, gently closing the door behind her. Victor frowned – he had expected her to curse him. Perhaps that may have left him feeling better. But, regardless, he had done what Alyssa and Elinor had asked of him. Put his own happiness aside for the good of the House.
Colyn
The sky was overcast grey, laden with dark clouds and a thin veil of rain to the east, where the mainland lay. Inside the small keep, constructed from dark and thick timber and grey stone, hewn from both the stone shore of their small isle, but also from the harsh and jagged mountains across the bay.
Colyn was inside the Great Hall – first built by the Northmen. There was no magnificent throne or ancient seat, only a simple chair behind a wooden table, flanked by another on either side, both identical. Colyn and his forefathers had no wealth, and even if they had, they would not use it to build a lavish chair like a wastrel. No, the taxes paid by the smallfolk on the isle went to their liege lords. The rest was kept for grain, so as to prepare for the coming winter. Colyn had, in his youth, been foolish enough to hope to finish the watch towers that his grandfather had started to build.
"My Lord?" Came the soft, lilted voice from his left. Colyn turned to see the young, dark-haired boy, Feron, sat beside him. He was still very polite to everyone inside Colyn's keep – a sign that it was yet to be his home. He was still acting like a guest. Yet the lad spoke more – not just to Maester Arlac, but to Marna too. He wondered if she may finally warm to Jeoranne upon her return. And, more importantly, the woman that journeyed with her.
The old man wondered what she would look like. In his mind, he could see a younger Mara, with her brown hair falling around her ears, the fair skin of her long face, and those grey eyes that seemed to come alive upon seeing an old friend. The last time he had seen her, she had been playing with her nephew, Corwyn, pretending to be a giant that would chase the lad around the chamber. Colyn had then spoken to the Tallbran about taking his son into his service. Upon leaving, he'd watched Mara pretend she could not hoist Corwyn's wooden sword from the floor. That night had granted them warmth and respite from the cold snows – the Tallbran's younger brother, Cayd, had not been there – he had not given up his search for the missing Erich Baratheon.
The small sounds of feet scraping across the wooden floor caught Colyn's attention, and he turned back to see that of the que of peasants that awaited with their petitions, the next three had stepped forwards together – a young, short lad with dark hair, along with a little girl that clutched his hand, and a frail old crone behind, that kept a hand on the boy's shoulder, her eyes dark and unable to settle upon anyone.
"A-afternoon, m'lord," the boy bowed – his voice had yet to break. Colyn smiled – watching the boy act as a man. Most likely sent by his father. Or, perhaps his mother? There was a moment's pause as the boy looked around. "m'lord, m'lady…"
Marna gave a slight smile. It served to remind Colyn that, though she tried to hide it, the woman did possess a genuine affection for those that lived on their island. "Gods preserve you. What would you ask of your liege?"
"Beggin' yer pardon, m'lady, but, you're not my liege," he began stumbling over his words clutching his hands around the soft woollen coif he held between his fingers. "I come from Farstone, m'lord – 'tis Ryswell who's our liege."
"You've journeyed some way to us, goodman. Might I ask why?"
"Raiders, m'lady," the boy said, "came at dawn –
"Another raid in the North," Marna said, glancing down to Colyn. He met her dark eyes and gave a nod – ironmen. "How many did they kill?"
"They didn't kill, m'lady Mormont; they left no bodies to bury. They're gone – half the village. Mother, my sister, Bellanna. Took 'em to their boats. Grandmother hid, and by the time Father and I returned, the place was nigh-deserted."
"Step forwards, goodwoman," Colyn said, gesturing to the crone, who clutched onto her grandson's arm to steady herself. "Describe the raiders."
The crone spoke, but her voice was too hoarse and fragile for Colyn to understand anything. Colyn's brow furrowed and, a moment later, Feron leant up out of his seat to speak into his ear.
"They carried big round shields and axes."
"Did you notice a sigil on their shields?"
The old woman frowned and looked to her grandson, who repeated Colyn's question. She spoke once more, and Feron relayed the answer.
"White spindles… on brown." Colyn remembered the banner – he'd seen it on four of the ships that had fallen upon his island like a furious wave. It was the sigil of House Weaver of Needlefin.
"Did you see any other shields – with vairy green and black?" Marna asked. The crone frowned in response and said something. This time her grandson echoed her answer.
"There were men that wore green and black, aye, m'lady."
"Any of them young? Dark-haired? With a scar upon his face?" Marna asked, leaning forwards and drawing a line across her cheek and over her nose.
The crone nodded.
"Blacktyde bastard…" Marna hissed, her knuckles turning white as her large hand curled around a tin tankard of ale.
"We know of the men you speak," Colyn called out down the hall. "Ironmen raiders from Blacktyde. What would you ask of me?"
The boy's face fell into a frown at the question. "Help us, m'lord."
Colyn licked his lips. It was curious – the lad coming to see him. From Farstone…
"The ironmen are a menace that need to be put down – the Blacktyde's in particular." Marna said to him.
"You'll get no argument from me, Marna…" Colyn replied. But he remembered the dishonour his family had visited upon the North. He remembered the vows he had sworn before the weirwood – to keep honour and hold fast to the laws of the land.
"What did your liege, Lord Rickon, say when you told him of this?"
"He told me he would pray at a weirwood for them."
Marna let out a long, derisive scoff until Colyn shot her a look. "Even if we did have enough ships to sail southward, Lord Rickon Ryswell is your liege lord, not I. I would making war in his name, without his knowledge. I'm afraid there is little I can do, goodman."
The boy swallowed and took a step forward. "M'lord, I… they took my mother. My sister."
"Every man, woman and child here has lost someone to the Blacktyde's and their raiders," Colyn explained. "And we mourn them still. But this war, not matter how just it is, cannot be mine to declare."
The boy's brown eyes began to swim as he looked down, his hand balled into a fist like Marna's. He could feel his granddaughter's eyes burning upon him.
"If Lord Rickon declares against the Blacktyde's, I swear to stand beside him in memory of both our families, goodman. And I beseech you to tell him as such. And, perhaps, he may send word to Winterfell."
The boy nodded, still downtrodden and entirely defeated. The law was clear – it was Lord Rickon's responsibility to defend his people. Taking the smallfolk into his land, warring in his name – it would be a slight against House Ryswell. And House Mormont would not drown in dishonour. Colyn would make sure of that until his dying day.
Cassandra
In the solar of Storm's End, Lady Cassandra sat in a sombre silence, her fingers tracing the rough-hewn surface of the stone table as the howling wind outside battered the ancient fortress. The storm, born from the tumultuous seas of the Stepstones, raged with a ferocity that matched the turmoil within her own heart. Each gust a relentless assault that echoed through the shuttered windows.
The air was heavy with tension, thick with the scent of damp stone and the faint metallic tang of blood. Lady Cassandra's senses were heightened, every sound and sensation magnified in the wake of the failed attempt of murder that had left her shaken and reeling. Her pulse raced like a drumbeat in her ears, the rhythm of her heartbeat a steady reminder of the danger that lurked inside and out of their walls.
She rested a hand in Oraella's hair. Her daughter was a vision of youth and innocence with her dark ringlets cascading sprouting out and coiling around her shoulders. It grounded Cassandra in the midst of the storm that raged both outside and within.
Across the chamber, Durran sat stoically as Maester Rickard changed the silk bandages around her son's head. Dread had hollowed out Cassandra's belly, as she watched her son wince at the maester's fingers gently folding his ear forwards.
"…and the pain has not worsened?" Maester Rickard asked.
"No."
"There is no poison?" Cassandra asked. "I heard that the Dornish- they use poison."
"All use poison, my Lady Baratheon," Maester Rickard replied, his dark brown eyes remaining on Durran's ear. "But it does not seem there was any upon the blade. There is no discolouration… is there anything unusual, my Lord? Have you passed blood?"
"No," Durran replied, clearly quite frustrated with the questions.
"Nevertheless, I would advise we continue cleaning the wound with boiled wine and water."
"Yes, yes, very good," Durran hissed, moving the maester's hand away from his ear.
Cassandra's brow furrowed in pain and concern.
The solar itself was a refuge amidst the chaos that raged outside, its walls lined with shelves of ancient tomes and illuminated by the flickering light of torches. Yet even within its confines, Lady Cassandra could not escape the sense of unease that gnawed at her like a ravenous beast.
The door opened and Cassandra's hand wrapped around her daughter's shoulder. She looked up to see two men in steel armour, both with the emblazoned Baratheon stag, escorting a quartet of red-haired individuals whom Cassandra recognized instantly. Her elder brother, Eddard, had a fuller build than when she had last seen him, and flecks of grey had began to creep into his moustache. The pretty woman beside him was his Riverlander wife, Zhoe – a round-faced and fair-skinned, a good and godly woman. Behind them were two of their children. Erich – the eldest, and only a couple of years senior to his cousin Durran – was more handsome than his father, with a strong jaw lined with kempt ginger stubble, a plain steel arming sword swinging at his hip. Beside him was a young girl – Arrec's age. She was comely – grey-eyed, like her mother, but with the striking red hair all the Wylde's possessed since Shiera Connington had married into the family and birthed Eddard and Cassandra.
The girl had a slender jaw – a straight nose, and that red hair was worn in the fashion all the girls east of the Blueburn and south of the Wendwater did. It was the same way Cassandra had worn her hair – even over two decades ago, on her wedding day. Though the girl's face was sharper than Cassandra's softer features, there was a likeness there. Or, perhaps that was just in Cassandra's mind – the second-born child, the eldest daughter of House Wylde. Hopefully she would not marry an unfaithful, whoremongering brute raised by savage barbarians.
"Cassie," Eddard walked over and embraced his sister, the two of them squeezing tightly.
"Edd," Cassandra said softly.
"And D- my Lord," Eddard cleared his throat and bowed to Durran. "Your wounds are not too grave?"
"No," Durran replied with a sigh. Cassandra scowled at him – he ought to show his kin – the Wylde's – more respect.
"I wished to tell you that I intend on sending the men of the Rainwood south to join your cause. I sent a raven last night."
Durran seemed to respond to this and rose, reaching out to clasp his uncle's arm. "Thank you, my Lord Uncle. I intend to have the heads of the southern bastards on spikes by the year's end."
"A fine repayment," Eddard nodded. "You remember my son, Ser Erich?"
Eddard seemed to be absolutely bursting with pride as his son and heir stepped forwards. Straight-nosed like his sister, with a heavy brow and a chiselled jaw, Erich looked every part a Stormlander, clad in a fine woollen jerkin over a silken gold doublet. There was a power in names, it was true – named for the late Erich Baratheon, whom had died before he could become her brother-by-law. Her repugnant husband, before he had revealed his true nature, had spoken of him from time to time, his blue eyes filling with a deeply profound sadness and pain at the mention of his name. 'Durran was strong,' Arlan had told her, in their youth, when they had shared their marriage bed together, 'but Erich was good.' She had thought Arlan to be good as well. Perhaps none of them were? She shook off the thought.
"My Lord," Ser Erich bowed.
"The boy killed one of the cutthroats himself with a butter knife," Eddard boasted.
"Good man," Durran nodded.
"It is but the first drop of much Dornish blood I will spill for our family, my Lord."
"You will lead your men, yourself?"
"A Wylde ought to lead them on the field," Ser Erich explained.
Durran seem to bristle at these words. He hid it well, but Cassandra could see it well enough. He had inferred a veiled criticism from his words. She quickly cleared her throat before either of them could continue to talk.
"I'm sure you might not feel this way if the Seven had not blessed you with two strong sons."
Ser Erich frowned for a moment, but caught her meaning quickly enough. "Of course, my Lady. Two strong sons – Harys and Allard, after her family, to carry on our name."
Durran nodded. It gladdened Cassandra – moreso that neither of her brother's grandsons had been named after her lecherous father. 'Let the name Ryman die in our House,' she thought to herself.
"And, may I introduce my sister, Roelle?" Ser Erich asked. "I do not believe any have had the pleasure."
Roelle curtsied perfectly, her eyes glancing down to the stone floor as demure and as alluring as Cassandra did upon meeting Arlan all those years ago. "My Lord. My Ladies."
Cassandra had heard of Roelle, of course, though, she had never seen her before. Small and slender –Eddard had spoken of her in a letter some years ago – describing her love of songs, of poetry, and most of all, riding. She would be a very good match. And to think – when she had heard of Ser Erich marrying a daughter of old Orland Oakheart, she saw the girl as simply a way for another to join her family. It could well be possible that Roelle might be a suitable bride for a lord of a Great House, just as Cassandra once was.
Pasting on a smile, Cassandra reached over to put a hand on Oraella's shoulder, pulling her from her chair.
"Oraella, say 'hello' to your cousins."
"Hello," Oraella said quietly.
"We're all quite… shaken from what happened," Cassandra explained.
"Of course," Eddard nodded. "It is needless to say, myself and my family are at your disposal…"
Cassandra smiled – her brother had turned out well. Nothing like their own father – bedding highborn ladies and low-born whores the same, fathering bastards upon them both and shaming the family. He had become a good husband and a good father with good children. The thought rang out in Cassandra's mind: why had Durran so readily sold his own sister off to a bastard-bearer like Tristifer Tully? And why had Arrec sought out companionship with the Bastard of Storm's End? She felt uneasy – she didn't want to think about her husband's son any longer. She couldn't. She shut out the memory of the boy, stood in that corridor, tears swimming in his eyes and his lip beginning to tremble.
"And how is… how is…" Cassandra blinked and shifted her mind back to her brother. "Shyra?"
Zhoe gave a small titter. "Shyra is well – she has even begun to talk about seeking out a Lord."
"Oh?" Cassandra blinked. Shyra was younger than Oraella (if memory served her well).
"She thought Victor Tyrell could be a good match for her," Zhoe said, an amused smile on her lips.
"Victor Tyrell?" Cassandra found herself chuckling as well. A young knight, lord of the richest region of the realm, handsome, godly, chaste? If only Victor could have wed Oraella in some years…
"What's funny?" Oraella asked hesitantly.
"Nothing," Cassandra shook her head. "After all, a Wylde married a Baratheon not too long ago…" Cassandra reasoned aloud, pretending not to see Eddard beaming at her.
"Except Vic has taken leave of his senses to marry a Stark bitch," Durran said darkly. Cassandra licked her lips – he had guests in the chamber.
"Forgive my Lord Son," Cassandra said quietly, "the loss of his Uncle Erich is still felt greatly in Storm's End."
"And the Rain House as well," Eddard nodded.
A loud knocking came at the door. "Lord Arrec with guests," a guard outside announced.
"Enter," Durran called, and the door opened to show Arrec walking with a very plain wooden cane, absent of any ornamentation. Behind him were three figures with auburn hair. Cassandra recognized the aging Jeyne Tully, with her blue silk gown, wrapped to one side in a Valyrian fashion, accompanied by her daughter, Glennys, in her traditional green kirtle. The man behind was someone Cassandra hadn't seen in some years – since her wedding day with Arlan. He had aged, some – though his head of curls were still a bright auburn, and though his eyes were surrounded by encroaching wrinkles, he had not yet lost the brilliant blue of his eyes. He was well-proportioned and wide-browed, with a fine beard upon his jaw.
Durran clasped his hands, remembering his courtesies, and bowing before them. "My Lord. My Ladies."
"Lord Durran," Lady Jeyne curtsied. "May I introduce my son, Lord Garrett of Riverrun."
Cassandra thanked the Seven for giving the Tully's enough sense so as to know not to bring Garrett's sworn shield, Ser Grover of House Mooton, with them. After all, it was he that had slain Lord Garth of House Tyrell – the second father of Durran.
"My Lord," Garrett bowed.
"It seems I arrived a day late to tragedy."
"No tragedy, my Lord," Durran shook his head, "it was Dornish assassins who died. Godless heathens."
Garrett nodded. "Well, my Lady Mother and Sister are safe, and for that, I thank you."
"It's curious," Arrec murmured, "that this happened the day the Forrester girl arrives."
"I suppose it was too much to hope a Dornish blade would find a Wolf…" Durran grunted.
"Perhaps this might be discussed in private," Cassandra said, shooting Durran a glare.
"The Stark's hold little love for my family," Garret shook his head, "and what with marrying Elinor Hightower's grandson…"
"We ought to talk about the nature of this meeting," Jeyne said from the doorway. Cassandra frowned – she had supposed this way a simple greeting between the two Lords of Great Houses. Apparently there was more to it than that…
Durran nodded. "My brother and I could have died yesterday. I almost did…" he gestured to the ear bound in silk bandages. "Thus it is clear that… some matters need closing. Lord Garrett, might I introduce my sister, the Lady Oraella."
The blue eyes of the riverlord and his mother turned to the youngest girl in the solar, and Cassandra's blood began to churn and simmer inside her veins. She kept her hands tight on her daughter – afraid they may reach out to steal her right then and there. Oraella gave the clumsiest of curtsies – too quick, her back bent over, her head held up too high… perhaps that could sway them? It was a futile hope, but maybe…
"How old are you, my little Lady?" Garrett asked.
"Ten-and-two."
Garrett nodded. He opened his mouth, but it was the Lady Jeyne who spoke next.
"You've bled yet?"
Oraella looked up at Cassandra, frowning. It wasn't the most… eloquent way to ask the question, but… well, it was necessary. She contemplated lying – could she answer for Oraella? That may seem suspicious, and if Durran contradicted her…
Perhaps it would not be too late to write to Roland Lannister? Cassandra could forego the dowry – betroth Oraella to Cerion Lannister, or even have the two of them married by proxy within a fortnight. The heir to Casterly Rock was only some years older than her – and had no bastards. Though Roland had, himself…
Oraella turned back to Jeyne Tully and nodded.
"Perhaps we may forego the bedding ceremony," Garrett suggested. "I understand tradition is important, but… under the circumstances…"
"They would call the marriage a sham," Jeyne said bluntly. "Smallfolk talk often of omens. And a wedding with no bedding is no true wedding."
Cassandra wanted to gauge out the bitch's eyes. She'd smother her in the night – no-one would think to question it, not with every guard looking for Dornish cutthroats. She could smother the liver-eater in her sleep and toss her out of her chambers and into the bay below.
Garrett chewed his tongue, staring at Oraella before giving a nod. "By proxy, we consent."
Durran nodded, clasping the man's hand and exchanging a bow. Garrett bowed to Oraella and, with an exchange of curtsies, the Tully's left the solar, followed quickly by the Wylde's.
"Who was that?" Oraella asked Durran as the door closed.
"Garrett Tully of Riverrun," Arrec said. Cassandra looked over to see his lips clamped shut into a thin line, his hand wrapped around his cane so hard she thought he might wield it like a club once again. He stormed over to his brother. "Tell me it's Lucius or Emmon."
"Both the Tully boys are betrothed to Arryn's…" Durran began to explain.
"Proxy for who, Durran?"
There was a long pause as Durran met his brother's gaze, looming over him. Five years and a life of swinging a sword and tilting a lance had led to Durran being something of a giant compared to his younger brother – but Arrec did not shy away.
"I'm getting married?" Oraella moved forwards, blue-green eyes widening as she looked to the doorway. "To him?" Her voice came alive and rang out across the solar, bouncing around the stone walls – a melody to the cracking thunder and lightning outside.
"No, not to-" Durran began.
"He's old!"
"You're not betrothed to him. No, you're wedding his brother, Ser Tristifer."
"And how old is he?" Arrec asked.
"You are not helping," Durran hissed.
"Good," Arrec responded.
"I don't- how old is Tristifer?"
"Ser Tristifer turned thirty with the last moon."
"Thirty?" Oraella scowled. "He's more than twice my age!"
"Girls have taken older husbands," Durran reasoned.
"That doesn't make it okay," Arrec chimed in.
"Arrec!" Durran pointed a finger at him.
"I'm not marrying him," Oraella half-laughed, "call them back in – I'm not doing it."
"I'm not marrying Rhaenerys fucking Targaryen because I want to!" Durran pointed to Cassandra. "I was told to marry out of duty!"
"You're a man of twenty-and-one, Durran, it is not the same," Cassandra scoffed. "Cerion Lannister would have been a good match…"
"Who- I don't want to marry Cerion Lannister either!" Oraella whirled around on Cassandra. "I don't want to marry anyone!"
"I don't mean now, sweetdoe, I mean when you're older…"
Oraella turned away from Cassandra to face Durran again. "You can't make me-"
"I can, and I am," Durran responded. "This gives us an alliance with the Tully's – in case you've forgotten, they've been our strongest ally since Erich's War, and if we ever make war with the Stark's again…"
"You intend to start another war?" Arrec interjected.
"I can only talk to one person at a time…" Durran said, clenching a hand into a fist.
"Why am I getting married and not Arrec?" Oraella raised her voice, pointing to their brother.
"No, I don't want to marry Glennys Tully, Durran can do that – it's his 'duty'…" Arrec rolled his eyes.
There was a crack as Durran picked up the chair he had been sitting upon by the arm and hurled it across the solar, hitting the door and smashing apart. The wooden fragments clattered on the stone floor and Durran rounded on his brother.
"You've been burying your nose in books and drinking with our father's whoreson, while I have been keeping our home. If it wasn't for me, the Bastard would riding to death at the Prince's Pass, like Mother asked me. I sent him to Blackhaven to spare him for your sake, Arrec, not mine."
"And you," Durran turned to Cassandra, "I spent years ready to marry Alyssa Tyrell – the woman I've loved since I was thirteen – and I gave it up because you told me to. For what – the dowry? The chance for our House to have dragonriders? Have you seen the bitch I'm meant to wed? Her cunt of a brother that crippled mine? I did it anyway because it's my duty. But of course, duty counts for nothing. Not when it comes to your daughter – your precious fucking daughter…"
Durran finally shook his head and walked towards the door, kicking away the back of the chair and sending it skidding across the floor. He opened the heavy door and watched a pair of Cassandra's handmaids scurry away. He balled his hands up into fists and hung his head, breathing deeply, before turning back to Glennys, absolutely seething.
"You're marrying Ser Tristifer," he said, his voice once again steady and level, but no less firm. His blue eyes moved towards Arrec. "And you need to grow up."
Durran left, swinging the door shut behind him. It bounced against the stone frame, creaking back open and leaving Cassandra and her two children in the solar.
"It's okay, sweetdoe," Cassandra said softly to her daughter, "it's okay-" Oraella tugged free of her mother's arms and left through the same door, turning right and marching away from where Durran had gone.
Arrec slowly walked over to his mother, his cheek twitching and jaw clenched as his azure eyes burned with anger. "You wanted to send my brother to die?" He asked quietly.
Her son always said it like that to raise her ire – his 'brother'. "It's what the Bastard wanted," she responded.
He let out a small scoff and shook his head, looking towards the door before replying, "Bastard or no, he wouldn't do this to her."
Cassandra knew Arrec liked the Bastard to some degree, but he must have consorted with him to frustrate her. He knew how much it upset her, how it shamed them all – either he did not care or revelled in her sorrow, and she wasn't sure which was worse. "What did I do to deserve you?" She asked.
Arrec's eyes continued to burn, but she noticed them grow wide – a look of surprise and sadness flickering within him. He gave a small scoff and the hurt was replaced by an unbridled fury.
"I wish I knew."
And with that, Arrec left the solar, closing the door behind him and turning right, following after Oraella. Cassandra was left alone in the empty solar, the floor littered with splintered wood, as Maester Rickard remained quietly by her side. Was this to be her life? Once her daughter left for Riverrun in the north, she would be left to remain in Storm's End with her two Baratheon sons.
Aemon
The army halted for a brief respite on their march to Blackhaven when Aemon Targaryen felt the familiar ache deep within his bones. The storm that had been brewing along the coast, its fury directed northward, had left a lingering mist in its wake, casting a dreary pall over the rugged landscape. Though the worst of the tempest had passed them by, the air still hung heavy with moisture, the fine drizzle seeping into every crevice and seam.
Dismounting from his horse with a grimace, Aemon leaned heavily on his cane, his movements slow and deliberate. The throbbing pain in his joints was a constant companion. Beside him, Ser Connas Corbray of the Kingsguard, ever vigilant in his duty, hovered anxiously, ready to catch his charge if he fell. Twenty-six years old, and Aemon still had a wetnurse – the thought filled him with frustration. Damn his legs…
The Sea of Dorne stretched out to the south, its azure waters shimmering in the dim light of the overcast sky. Despite the discomfort that gnawed at his bones, Aemon could not help but feel a sense of awe at the beauty of the coastline, its rugged cliffs and sweeping beaches a testament to the untamed wilds of the Dornish Marches. The distant cries of seabirds mingled with the low rumble of waves crashing against the shore, creating a symphony of sound that echoed across the rugged terrain.
Around them, the army bustled with activity, soldiers and horses alike seeking shelter from the persistent drizzle. Twelve thousand men-at-arms, knights, and levied footmen moved with purpose, their armour gleaming dully in the muted light. Tents were hastily erected, their canvas flaps billowing in the breeze, while men gathered around makeshift fires, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames. The scent of wood smoke mingled with the earthy aroma of wet grass, creating a heady mixture that hung heavy in the damp air.
As Aemon sank wearily onto a nearby log, his weary bones protesting with every movement, he closed his eyes and let out a weary sigh. Despite the discomfort and pain that plagued him, there was a sense of peace in the simple act of resting, of being surrounded by comrades-in-arms and the rugged beauty of the land.
Beside him, Ser Connas stood watchful and alert, a silent sentinel in the midst of the rain. Despite the hardships they faced, there was a bond between them forged through years of service. And as they sat together in the gathering dusk, watching the last vestiges of daylight fade into darkness, Aemon knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together, as brothers-in-arms in service to their king and their kingdom.
The evening wore on, the drizzle relenting only slightly as night fell. Torches were lit along the perimeter of the camp, casting long shadows that danced upon the wet ground. The soldiers, weary from the day's march, settled in for the night, their voices hushed as they exchanged tales and shared what little comfort they could find.
Despite the chill in the air, there was a warmth to be found in the camaraderie of the men – the footmen that had been levied from the smallfolk, chatting together and pointing to the storm that raged on to the north-east.
Aemon had taken cover beneath one of the tall trees, sweeping back his long silver hair from his face. He pulled his woollen cloak closer around his body and began to mutter to himself.
"Damn the rain – damn the Stormlands. How could anyone live there?"
"It's only rain, my Prince," Ser Connas reminded him.
"I thought the closer to Dorne we went, the warmer it would be."
"Colder on the coasts, my Prince."
"I'm Prince of Dragonstone, Ser Connas, I'm well aware of that…" Aemon grumbled. "Will we be here long?"
"Just to rest the horses, my Prince. Stonehelm sits some hours away – we might spend the night there."
"Very good, very good…" Aemon could not wait to sleep in a feather-bed once again. His entire body ached from toes to teeth. "Be a good man – find whomever is in charge and ask them how long this interminable rain will last."
Ser Connas' lip curled. "Yes, my Prince." He gave a short bow and turned to walk out from under the cover of the tree, his steel armour glistening once he exited the shadows. Aemon remained there, rubbing his arms warm beneath his cloak when he heard voices from the other side of the tree.
"…won't let you down, I swear…"
"You've been given orders from your father," a second voice, much older, replied.
"My brother, you mean," the first voice muttered darkly.
"Most likely, but he is regent. We serve at his pleasure."
A brother of Durran Baratheon? Arrec had not stowed away with them…
"I'm your squire," the first man spoke again.
"You've never seen a battle."
"I'm a better swordsman and rider than-"
"It doesn't matter – you've not killed a man, Ardan." The realisation sank in as Aemon remembered the bastard that had unseated his brother at Bronzegate. He remembered hearing that Arlan Strong-Arm had acknowledged a bastard from… somewhere, and raised him in his keep. Quite unusual, indeed…
Aemon put a hand against the tree and peered around to see Ser Edric the Ancient, stood a head taller than the bastard before him. Ser Edric was old, with his face full of wrinkles and folds, his skin sagging like a well-used wineskin. Ardan, the bastard, was dressed in black, as if he intended to ride north to the Wall and swear the vows of the Night's Watch. His wet hair, black as coal, had begun to curl and hang upon his brow.
"It's not an easy thing," Ser Edric continued, "and I won't have time to watch over you."
"I'm not a child, Ser. I don't need a wetnurse to hold my hand…"
"Then prove it. Follow orders."
"I didn't come here to sit on the sidelines and let other-" Ardan began, but the moment Ser Edric spoke, he fell silent.
"You want to make something of yourself, Storm. I understand. You'll have your time, don't fret over that. But you're no use to me dead in those mountains."
"That wouldn't happen-"
"It would, twice over!" He put a hand on the boy's shoulder and met his eyes. "You're a good lad, Ardan Storm. But you're not one I need right now."
Ser Edric patted one of the large shoulders of his squire and walked away from him, a hand on the hilt of his longsword as he made his way towards the other knights and commanders. Aemon watched Ardan ball up his hand into a fist and thrust it into the tree, before giving a long hiss in pain.
Aemon took another step, and pain shot up his leg as his right foot twisted out underneath one of the gnarled roots. Ardan spun around to face him, his blue eyes flicking from the twisted foot to Aemon's silver hair before quickly falling to kneel.
"Your Grace," Ardan said quickly.
"Rise, boy, rise. The ground's too wet for kneeling…" Aemon said bitterly – he hated the land here. Though, the sea to the south made for a pretty enough view. They were obscured from the rest of the army by the colossal oak, thick and sturdy like a castle wall. There was no need for shows of subservience and fealty, with them removed from the thousands of Stormlanders.
"You're Arlan Baratheon's bastard, aren't you?" Aemon asked as the boy rose. His jaw clenched and he gave the smallest of nods. "A bastard Storm who wants to be a knight…" It was amusing. From how Ser Edric Bolling spoke, the boy must have used his sword like a babe with a rattle. He grinned – genuinely entertained by the thought – it was like watching a boy mount a broom and proclaim themselves the Conqueror astride the Black Dread, or when a crow would swoop down and clasp ram's horns and beat its wings as if it were an eagle.
"Bastards have become knights before, Your Grace," Ardan replied. "Ser Marston Waters, Ser Addison Hill…"
"Heroes of yours, I take it?" Aemon asked. Ardan gave a nod, a soft smile on his lips. "I used to want to be a knight as well," Aemon sighed. It wasn't good to dwell on his childhood – before his legs went weak.
"What happened?" Ardan asked. 'Is the bastard jesting?' Aemon wondered as he gestured to his legs.
"The Summer Sickness. I was eight. I survived, of course, but… my legs appear to have aged quicker than the rest of me." He looked at the boy – young, and strong. Aemon never had that opportunity. "I suppose you may know something of it – your brother is crippled too, after all."
"By your brother," Ardan replied, his voice suddenly cold. Aemon gave the smallest of smiles. He was right – Aerion had another side to him. One that gave Aemon pause from time to time. He had the dragon's fire in him, and that rage could burn the Seven Kingdoms if he was not careful.
"Yes, by my brother," Aemon nodded. "Is that why you're here, bastard? To win some glory?"
"I'm here because of my Lord Father's orders," Ardan replied stiffly.
"Yes, your father…" Aemon grinned. The boy didn't know he had overheard the conversation.
"Is that why you're here, Your Grace?" Ardan asked. The boy was bold – to be expected, Aemon supposed. Baratheon's had a reputation, and the boy's grandsire, most of all. It was clear he favoured his father's line over his mother's.
Aemon contemplated on how to answer – if the boy was as dull as his Lord Brother…
"What's my name?" Aemon asked.
Ardan frowned. "Ae- Prince Aemon Targaryen. Of Dragonstone."
It was flattering, in a way. It made Aemon smile. He knew full well of the name bestowed upon him by others, 'the Glass Prince'. Yet this boy apparently did not know it. Or perhaps he did, and did not wish to offend him.
"Aemon Targaryen," he nodded. "Named for my grandfather, Aemond the Unspoken, who won the throne from Aegon the Younger. Aemond who rode Gaelithox 'the Gilded Prince', the largest dragon in all the world. Aemond who brought about a golden age in less than a year of his reign…" Aemon shook his head. "And I struggle to walk. You are… eighteen?"
"Sixteen, Your Grace." 'Big for his age…' Aemon thought to himself.
"Sixteen…" He muttered. "Sixteen, and already more able to ride my dragon than I am."
"I can't ride a dragon," Ardan frowned. Aemon smiled – the boy did have something of a dull mind, like his brother.
"That wasn't quite my point. I'll never be a dreamer of what has been and what is yet to be like my brother, Vaegon. I'll never be a warrior like my brother, Aerion. So, I must be King. King from the frigid frozen wastes in the North to the Red Mountains in the south. That is why I am here, Ardan Storm. To see what – and who – I will be King of." Aemon licked his lips. "And if your brother's war proves fruitful, perhaps I will visit Sunspear as well."
"Targaryen's don't fare well there," Ardan commented. It irked Aemon – the bastard boy making a comment and his ancestor, Rhaenys, falling to her death there.
"Perhaps that is why I ought to go," he replied. Many had expected him to die when he was sick, but he had strived to create a new future for himself. That is what he would do again. He began to explain, "Understand, bastard, you and I are from awful families. And it's hard to rise above them with the weight of them clutching onto your shoulders."
The boy frowned and shook his head. "Apologies, Your Grace, I don't understand…"
Aemon chuckled. Bastards were full of sinful thoughts – if Aemon had grown angry at his brothers, the bastard certainly had as well. "No need for lies this far from Storm's End, bastard…"
"My family have been kind and gracious…"
"Oh, yes, yes, Lady Cassandra must be an image of the Mother – raising and loving you as if you weren't a whoreson. And your Lord Regent of a brother sent you here because he earnestly thought you would win glory and acclaim…" The bastard said something quietly, but Aemon could not hear it – the boy needed reminding of his own family before speaking about the Targaryen's. "Your other brother Arrec, well, it's no surprise he was a friend to you. After all, he'll bed a high-born wife, hold a keep like Castle Seaface, and bear sons with the name 'Baratheon.' Still, I suppose that doesn't matter – you don't have a name to carry on…"
Aemon was on the floor. The cane had been kicked out from under his grip and pain shot up from his ankle to his hip as his face fell into the wet grass. The boy was stood above him, hands balled into fists as he shouted.
"Shut up!"
There was a flash of steel and the dark, glistening blade of Ser Connas Corbray was held against the boy's neck. Ser Connas held his longsword, Lady Forlorn, out high, the heart-shaped pommel of a ruby glistening wet with rain. It looked as though blood was weeping from the hilt.
The words that Aemon had spoken seemed to ring out through the air, and the pain in his body fuelled Aemon's frustration – he was ready to curse the boy and have Ser Connas… He looked up at the boy, whose cheeks were wet as his blue eyes fell on the smoke-grey blade that pointed to his neck. He reminded him of Aerion, the day they had buried their mother. Both seemed too ashamed to cry in front of others. The anger and fury washed away from the prince as he sighed.
"Put up your blade, Ser Connas," Aemon raised a hand, "the fault is mine."
"Your Grace?" Ser Connas looked down to his charge.
"Put the blade away before someone notices," Aemon ordered. Ser Connas frowned and sheathed the dark blade before leaning down to help the prince to his feet. "Bastards cannot be expected to keep their manners, isn't that right, Storm?" Aemon asked the boy, who frowned, clearly not understanding what Aemon was truly saying. "It was not your fault, was it?"
Ardan glanced from Aemon to Ser Connas, to Lady Forlorn, then back to Aemon. He gave a shake of his head.
"Forgive me, Ardan Storm. It seems I so rarely speak my mind, my words might have gotten away from me." Aemon glanced to Ser Connas. "Did they say how long?"
"Before the Hour of the Nightingale," Ser Connas informed him.
"Then I expect we'll have quite a banquet awaiting us. You can leave us now, Ser Connas, I'm sure Ardan Storm has learnt his lesson."
Ser Connas' brown eyes flickered from Aemon to Ardan warily. "My Prince…"
"It's okay, Ser Connas," Aemon placed a hand on the steel pauldron of his sworn knight. "Truly."
Ser Connas licked his lips and bowed his head before departing with a glare to the young bastard.
The two of them looked at the force of men that would garrison Blackhaven. The young and elderly footmen levied from across the Stormlands. The drunkards and thieves and rapers offered a chance to atone for their actions in serving the Seven in a holy war.
"They sent me here as a punishment, didn't they?" Ardan asked, tears still swimming in his eyes. "Durran, Cassandra… even Arrec."
The way he spoke the last name – his voice trembled. Aemon frowned – bastards never warmed to their trueborn siblings. At any time, they were in competition for the inheritance. That was the way of it – even Ardan's bastard grandsire, Baldric, had overthrown and usurped his trueborn brother for Storm's End. Yet there seemed to be pain and sadness at the thought of at least one Baratheon sending him away.
"That sword. Your brother's?" Aemon asked. Ardan nodded. "I think that is telling of his fondness for you."
"But… the others. They sent me here like a dog with fleas…"
"Perhaps," Aemon nodded. "Would that mean you would ride off in the night? Return to Storm's End, or…"
Ardan shook his head, meeting Aemon's violet eyes. "No."
Aemon nodded. The boy had steel in his soul. "Good. No doubt you'll face worse in your life than harsh truths."
WHEW, DONE! Man, this took a while. Though, to be fair, it was only three days of writing, it was just the days between that took a while. Anyhoo, I hope you all enjoyed it – I'm sure there'll be days where I think "Oh, MAN! I could've included something else…" but that's the drawback with posting chapters. Either way, I'm uploading it now.
Check out the wiki – there's new portraits for Daelaena, an interactive MAP with images of the castles, as well as seas and so on. I might even create markers to show where the characters are on the map. That could be fun…
Don't forget to drop a review – I've noticed some people slacking. As I said earlier, I'm flying out to the US for two weeks next month, so there might be a lull or an increase in posting chapters – I never know myself.
The next chapter is also going to… well, I'm looking forward to the reviews already. I'll try and knock it out relatively quickly.
Check out Dragonstone: A Land of Outcasts and Kings and I'll see you guys for the next chapter!
R.