Well, guys, I had to really wait to get some more reviews this time around – but a massive thank you to those who have – good or bad, praise or criticism, some of you sat down to tell me what you think and I really value that, so here you go!

I won't name names, but there are some people who've not left a review or a PM about their thoughts so, I'm just gonna be a lil' more picky in future with who I work with. I mean… I have a lot going on right now, but I still find time to write 10K word chapters, y'know? And there are some wonderful people like ZenoZen who don't have a character in this story, but show up and review all the time, so… excuses are excuses, y'know?

Anyway, this is dangerously close to becoming a rant so I'm gonna cut it off here – I was a lil' sick, so I took some extra time to just sleep and drink tea (us British rely on tea to recover from anything). This chapter hasn't been proof-read, but I think it's good enough to publish.

Also, it's not a typo – Martin tends to swap between 'ten-and-[number]' and '[number]-teen'.

22nd Day of the Fifth Moon, 152 A.C.

Freya

The royal sept was a grandiose chamber, aglow with the soft radiance of countless fragrant candles, their flames casting a warm, golden hue upon Freya Greyjoy's face. It was a day like no other, as hundreds of members of court were crammed inside like fish in a net, offering their fervent prayers for the health and well-being of Princess Rhaenerys as she began her journey south to the Stormlands.

Located across the yard from the stables and atop the serpentine steps, the royal sept was a marvel of architecture, with its tall graceful columns and delicate tracery windows, studded with crystals to turn the sunlight into rainbows that filtered through in intricate patterns. The vaulted ceiling soared overhead, adorned with depictions of the Seven.

Throughout the sept, statues and icons of the Seven glistened with offerings and tokens of faith. The Mother's statue, adorned with garlands of freshly picked flowers. The Father's figure, adorned with gleaming coins. Faithful supplicants had left small tokens at the feet of the Stranger, seeking to ward off any shadow of ill fortune.

Freya's dark eyes flickered with the flames from each of the faces of the devout worshipers on the rows of benches. The congregation was a diverse assembly of nobles and clergy, all joined together in their shared faith and hope. On the benches to the left sat Jeyne Tully, the dark-haired woman, long in years, whom had served as Mistress of laws to Freya's guardian, King Aeric. She was joined by her daughter, Glennys – only two years Freya's younger. She was auburn-haired like most of House Tully, and had taken to tying her thick waves of hair in a crown around her head. She was petite, fair and freckled, just like Freya. But her cheeks were also flushed or rosy and her brown doe eyes had been inherited by her mother.

On the other side of the sept sat Arthor Hightower, a man like in years to Mistress Jayne. He had served on the Small Council as Master of Coin after his predecessor, Reynard Reyne, had finally succumbed to his gout nearly five months ago. He was accompanied by the late Reyne's only daughter, Liane. A statuesque woman some years older, and far more beautiful. She was svelte and womanly, with hair like woven gold thread and eyes of brown, deep and rich like honey. There had been more than a few times Freya's eyes would find Liane's sleek jaw, her long neck and modest bust that gently slimmed down to her waist. There had been one or two women that attracted her eye like a bee to a flower, but none moreso than Liane Reyne.

The High Septon finished leading them in prayers, standing before the pale marble altar for the Mother, his voice still resonating through the sept. Freya blinked and bowed her head with the rest of the congregation before standing up and waiting patiently for the rest to filter out of the sept. It was a moment of freedom, a sanctuary she had sought. Not the sept itself, no, but that day. She had not been flanked by a member of the Kingsguard, nor had she had to endure embroidery with the other ladies of court – not that she found needlepoint difficult, she was actually quite skilled. The whispers of court about her family made her focus more, try to shut out their voices.

Jeyne Frey paused at the door, her eyes as daggers as Arthor Hightower stood opposite her. He bowed his head and held out a hand, to which she curtsied politely and then exited. Freya had never been into the Small Council chamber, though she had heard Prince Jaeghar talk to his brother, Prince Vaegon, on the occasions that the reclusive Targaryen would venture off Dragonstone.

"Arthor Hightower and Jeyne Frey," a cold voice softly crooned in Freya's ear, "fighting to suckle the same teat, are they?"

Freya turned around to see the King's brother, Prince Maelor, looming over her. His long silver hair fell like a silk curtain behind his head, behind the shoulders cloaked in a dark velvet surcoat.

"Your Grace," Freya curtsied to him.

"Praying for my niece, were you?" Maelor asked, glancing up to watch everyone file out, a hand resting on the dragon-leather hilt of his longsword, Dark Sister. One of the two Valyrian steel blades boasted by House Targaryen. Freya found herself wondering how many of her kinsmen were struck down by that very blade.

"Yes, Your Grace," she nodded, hoping her voice wouldn't break.

"Good…" Maelor nodded as he gestured to the now-empty archway that led to the staircase. Freya took a few tentative steps, trying to stop herself gasping and panting and desperately sucking down air as she heard the king's brother walk behind her. "Tell me more about them."

"Two years ago, Ser Grover Mooton tilted against Lord Garth Tyrell at Gulltown," Freya explained, "and unhorsed him."

"That's a pretty way of describing it, from what I hear," Maelor commented. Freya frowned – if he knew, why was he asking her? She began to descend down the red steps.

"Lord Garth was injured – the lance broke into his arm. Maester Leyton tried to remove it, but, he had already lost too much blood."

Maelor scoffed from behind her. "And I'm supposing my brother declared this an accident?" He asked.

"Was it not, Your Grace?"

"Two men tilt against one another, and then apologise and pray when they kill the other…"

"It was a tourney, Your Grace-"

"Yet Garth Tyrell still died."

They came out into the courtyard, framed by imposing stone walls, each carved with remarkable precision. The rough-hewn stone path, worn smooth by countless footsteps, ran through the centre. The stables were a constant bustling hub of activity. The scent of hay and horses mingled in the air, creating an earthy, familiar aroma. Stablehands moved about, tending to the majestic destriers, swift coursers and regal palfreys.

A small garden thrived nearby. Flowers of every colour bloomed in carefully tended beds. Their fragrances lingered in the air, creating a soothing and welcoming atmosphere for those that would enter the sept above. Statues of the faith were scattered throughout, watching over them. Unlike the nearby Godswood, which was more than twice the size, the courtyard was never quiet, never deserted.

Maelor crossed his arms and leant against the statue of the Crone, an elderly woman with a lantern raised. "Have you never return to the Iron Islands, my Lady?"

Freya felt her heart began to thump hard under her skin. "I'm to return on the morrow with my nameday." In truth, Freya was dreading her journey as much as she was excited. Somewhere she wouldn't be an outcast – where she might even be treated with respect. The Last Greyjoy – the sole claimant to Pyke, after her brothers were all lost to the waves or dragons. Tomorrow, she would be eighteen and govern the isles from her ancestral seat. It was a solemn responsibility – something she didn't know much about. She knew the shields and banners – the vairy green and black of House Blacktyde, the pale green, silver fish strewn palewise on Botley's shield. She knew the words of Houses Goodbrother and Harlaw, but she couldn't imagine the face of an ironman.

"I thought you'd be wed to Vaegon or Jaeghar…" Maelor glanced to the youngest Targaryen brother who had remained in the Red Keep while his siblings and father departed for Highgarden and Storm's End.

"His Grace, Prince Aemon, thought it would be best I wed a Lord of the Iron Islands."

"Quite astute for a boy with a palsy's walk…" Maelor nodded. "That may convince them you're an ironman… woman, whatever the nomenclature-"

"I am of the Iron Islands," Freya frowned.

"You were," Maelor nodded, "but I'd happily wager I remember your home better than you do." He scratched his jaw as he looked her up and down, raising an eyebrow. "I was one of the last who saw your mother alive."

Freya felt scared. She shouldn't have – she had no idea who her mother was. She knew her name and lineage, but she didn't remember her. How could she – Freya had been three years old when Pyke fell. "You performed your duty to the realm," Freya kept her voice even and measured.

"It was no duty," Maelor said, seemingly bored at her response. "Would you like to know if you look like her?" He asked her. Freya frowned, trying to discern what he meant, but before she could open her mouth, he continued.

"I mean… before I commanded my dragon set her aflame," Maelor's lip curled as he stared into her eyes. She swallowed. She wanted to glance across the courtyard for someone to walk over – remind him of how he must act with the Lady of Pyke. But she had no allies at court – no friends. None she was close to. Instead, so remained staring at Maelor's eyes, and did not feign a smile.

"My mother was a traitor, Your Grace," she said stiffly, "she died a traitor's death."

"And your father died a coward," Maelor said, his anger beginning to brim and spill out in his words. Seeing this helped calm Freya – it almost soothed her. She'd heard the stories about her father and could imagine him, panicking, clutching the arms of his Salt Throne and looking around his keep. She imagined it to be as big as the Iron Throne, towering above a grand hall, as tall as the Hightower, presiding over the archipelago of ironmen and the Drowned God.

"As you say, My Prince."

Maelor chewed his tongue and, for a moment, Freya thought she might have pushed him to screaming at her. But instead, he simply furrowed his brow, straightened up and walked away into the Godswood, his hand still resting on the hilt of his skinny blade. Had he been trying to goad her into a response? Perhaps he was upset at failing to do so. But, the Targaryen could be a strange creature – and Maelor most of all, it would seem.

Freya turned to walk the other way, her thoughts on her chambers near the royal apartments, though it would not be her chambers for long. After a single night, Freya Greyjoy would finally be returning home.

Alyna

Alyna sat on a moss-covered stone, silently observing of the grove of trees: ash, elm, hawthorn and oaks. There were even ironwood sentinels – the sigil of her house. The Forresters had long served the Glovers as Defenders of the Ironwood Groves – it was where she had spent her life – that was, until four years ago, when she had been sent to Winterfell to serve as handmaid to Torrha, the grandchild of her grandmother's brother.

Alyna could not look more less like her grandmother if she tried. No, she took after her mother, Jeyne, the sister of their liege lord, Gariss Glover. Her eyes were dark green – as dark as the leaves of the surrounding soldier pine. Like the Glovers, Alyna had a head of deep copper-coloured curls, fluttering in the wind against the milk-white bark of the weirwood heart tree that she sat against.

A spider crawled over her dress – usually, Alyna might kill it, but as she sat there, with towering sentinels of milky white and crimson standing as witness, she instead swept a hand against the creature, feeling one of its legs brush against her palm as it scuttled away.

She turned back to the heart tree in thought: the holiest of all the trees. Its gnarled roots twisted and wound their way into the earth, like a web of nature's embrace. Its eyes, two hollowed pools of red sap, gazed ahead with a serenity that only nature itself could possess. Carvings adorned the heart tree's trunk, stories in a language known only to the gods. It was the embodiment of the Old Gods, older than Winterfell itself. It had watched over the Starks for eighty centuries. Its weathered trunk bore countless scars and wrinkles, etchings of time and memory. The crimson leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, their whispers both a lullaby and a hymn. As Alyna gazed upon the weirwood, their carved faces seemed to watch her, eyes filled with wisdom.

Beneath the overarching canopy of the weirwood grove, the underbrush flourished. Ferns with emerald fronds carpeted the ground, while patches of vibrant moss clung to the tree roots. Wildflowers of delicate hues – violets, blues, and whites – bloomed in abundance, creating a patchwork of colour amid the sea of green.

Very few people bothered one another in the Godswood. It was so deep and so large that one could spend half a day in there without coming upon another. For the past hour, Alyna had only seen one other person – Owen Cerwyn, Winterfell's master-at-arms, who asked if she had seen Smallbran come that way. Usually, Alyna might have smiled and offered to help him look, but that day, she needed her solitude like a fox needed food.

A serene pool of water, its surface as smooth as glass, mirrored the beauty of the cloud-dappled sky above. Alyna could hear the soft melody of water trickling from a hidden source, nourishing the mossy banks.

Amid the boughs of oak, birds sang their melodious tunes, like a prayer to the gods. Black feathers contrasted with crimson leaves, a reminder of the harmony between the natural and the divine. Squirrels and rabbits, shy but inquisitive, ventured out from their hiding places, seeking sustenance in the sacred grove. Nature's creatures moved with an aura of reverence, as if they, too, understood the sanctity of this place.

Her father's words drifted back to her ears, as if the wind itself had carried them to her from Ironrath: 'The cold doesn't care if you're Lord or Lady, it'll kill you all the same,' he'd told her shortly after her tenth name day, 'so, be smart and make sure you live to see the sun.'

She found her hands clasping the ironwood pendant around her neck, carved with a weirwood tree. It made her think of her brother, back in Ironrath, assisting Thorris in the running of the keep, the cultivation of the Ironwood forests. And little Feron, over on Bear Island. The stabbing pain of worry when she'd heard of the ironman raids some months ago had been quickly washed away by waves of relief upon seeing her little brother, Feron, with his guardian, Colyn Mormont, the Great Bear. It had felt strange, laughing in relief – she was at their mother's funeral, after all.

The air in the Godswood was heavy with the scent of earth, moss, and the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers. The aroma was pure, untainted by the world beyond. Alyna closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, and felt the very essence the North envelope her. Home. It was a scent that grounded her.

Shafts of dappled sunlight filtered through the branches, creating a patchwork of light and shadow on the forest floor. Alyna watched as the shifting patterns danced around her, an ethereal spectacle. It was as if the gods themselves had gifted the grove with their divine touch, illuminating its sanctity for all who entered.

Above all, it was the silence that held the most profound reverence. In this sacred place, the hush of the gods was tangible. The wind whispered through the leaves, a hymn of nature's choir, while the occasional rustling of leaves served to remind of life's eternal dance. In the Godswood, silence was not an absence of sound but a profound presence, a connection to something greater.

Alyna, in her solitude in the embrace of the Godswood, was neither Forrester nor Glover nor Stark. She was a humble witness to the natural and divine wonders of this sacred grove. Here, the boundaries between the earthly and the celestial blurred, and it was in this moment that Alyna felt a profound connection to the gods and the world they had created.

She didn't want to leave the North. And she didn't want to leave Torrha.

"… It's beautiful…"

Alyna opened her eyes and found the Tallbran's bastard niece, Myra Snow, rounding one of the trees with her cousin, Cayden Stark. It had been three years since they'd seen each other – he'd been ten-and-six then, all pudgy and short and belligerent. But, after his travels, he had grown into a man's body – still very short, mind – he was the shortest Stark in Winterfell except Smallbran, but his leathers could barely contain his thick, sturdy arms.

Myra was holding a milk-white bow that curved out and in and out again, wrapped in warm, brown leather. She was actually smiling – something Alyna can't remember seeing for a time. Myra Snow was constantly quiet, eternally brooding and infinitely sad. She couldn't blame her – bastards did, after all, have no place in their world. If she'd been born a man, perhaps she'd have taken the black on her ten-and-sixth name day.

"Aye, traded a sword and ten silver moons for it," Cayden replied, admiring the bow.

"Cayden, I can't-"

"Don't fret – it was not my sword," Cayden assured her with a grin. Myra looked back down at the bow, running her hand along the grain before leaning down slightly to hug her ward's son.

"It's wonderful. Truly, thank you, Cayden."

Cayden waved off her words and began to dawdle a little closer to the water – they had not found Alyna there yet. She did not know what would be ruder, to speak up and interrupt, or to remain quiet and eavesdrop.

"So," Cayden said after a moment's pause, "you're to Bear Island?"

"I am."

Cayden licked his lips. "Is this what you want-"

"Your mother and father have been kind to me," Myra said, "I cannot refuse-"

"Of course you can refuse," Cayden laughed, genuinely amused.

"Your father said-"

"Oh, Father says a great many things," Cayden rolled his eyes, "he told me I ought to take the black." Corwyn respected the Tallbran, and Torrha, well… the Tallbran had little time for his daughters. Cayden, though? Cayden and he would bellow and argue about Cayden's growing love of dice, of Cayden taking serving girls to bed. Yet now, he did not seem to be as brash or hot-headed as before. His words were quiet and measured – thoughtful, even.

Myra even smiled – a fond, sad smile. "I have a duty."

"And you say you're not a Stark…" He murmured. Myra grabbed her own wrist, nervously. Alyna had known her four years, and every time someone made mention of her bastardy, she always retreated into herself.

"I'm not," she said softly, almost to herself, as Kolfinn wandered closer to the water, glancing down at his own reflection. If he turned around, he'd see her.

"I heard something in the north," he said, his voice loud and clear, "at Castle Black."

"Oh?"

"Kolfinn Mormont deserted."

"Oh…" Myra said after a long pause. Alyna wished she could retreat into the weirwood behind her. It was something she ought not to have been listening to. She picked up the ravenscroll from home and pretended she was not listening.

"If he's found, would you like-"

"I'd prefer not to think about that," Myra said, her voice clipped. It was unusual, to see her speak loudly, self-assuredly.

Something soft and silent brushed against Alyna's cheek, making her shriek and stand up, eyes open. She looked up to see a small falcon perched on Myra's gloved string-hand. The raptor had sleek, blue-grey feathers and a striking black mark on its head, almost as if it wore a helm. Its sharp, hooked beak opened and it cawed out to Alyna, taunting her almost. She'd always hated that bird. But just as Corwyn had his hound, Joramun, Myra had her falcon, Swiftwing. It continued cawing at her until Myra shushed him, stowing her bow over one shoulder and gently rubbing a curled finger along his neck.

"My Lord," Alyna said, somewhat sheepishly, bowing her head.

"Please, it's…" Cayden began, glancing over to watch Myra leave.

Alyna's stomach twisted in guilt, "Forgive me."

"Oh, sit down, there's nothing to forgive," Cayden said, waving a hand and walking closer to her. His dark eyes roved over the roll of paper in her hand. "News from home?"

Alyna nodded. "From Father."

"Is Lord… Thorris well?" Cayden asked as he walked closer to stand beside her, leaning against the tree. Alyna handed him the ravenscroll and let him read. "You're leaving?"

"Father says I'm to head south-"

"Storm's End?" Cayden's voice cracked like lightning. He scrunched up the ravenscroll and tossed it to the floor. "Storm's fucking End- Refuse," he ordered her.

Alyna needed a moment to maintain her composure. "It's a great honour-"

"Fuck honour – you'll stay here. Baratheon is a house of oathbreakers and cunts."

"I'd be handmaid to a Princess," Alyna said. It would have been the highest honour in her family since her father wed Jeyne Glover, the daughter of a Stark.

"Stay."

'And serve who?' Alyna wanted to say. Cayden slumped down against the tree beside her. "I'd hoped to go south to Highgarden, and watch Torrha wed…"

"What's stopping you?"

"I'm to go to Storm's-"

"Write to your father. Write to the Princess – write to the King. Tell him you're going to see your Lady marry."

Alyna's lips twisted up into a smile – Cayden spoke as if any and all were possible. As if the world could bend to one's whim. "I can't."

"Does it get tiring? Do what all ask of you?"

Cayden was smirking. He'd bedded no less than ten women – all of them common-born. Alyna found herself wondering whether any of them might have given birth – whether Cayden had a little child named 'Snow' running around somewhere. There had been times Alyna had felt urged – Torrha too. In fact, Torrha had come closer to sullying her virtue no less than a year ago. She'd held her, shushing her tears and stroking her hair as she assured her that she was still a woman of virtue – to focus on how nothing had happened, and no-one would know.

But Corwyn did not see it that way. He'd never looked at Torrha the same again – never so much as spoke to her. She couldn't change that – nor could Torrha. It was their weight to bear.

"That's a burden most of us have to live with."

There was a rustling through the trees and Alyna's head jerked over, expecting to see some mouse or squirrel running through. Instead, she found a more peculiar sight – Smallbran, his cheeks dirtied, twigs in his hair, clutching a small wooden sword.

"Bran," Alyna called over, "Master Cerwyn's been looking for you!"

Smallbran's lips curled into a mischievous grin, his eyes alight at the prospect of Owen Cerwyn traipsing through the Godswood after him.

"Now, here's a true warrior," Cayden said, climbing to his feet and walking over to the boy half his size. "Perhaps you can help me, I'm looking for my little brother, Brandon Stark." Smallbran took a step back, eying Cayden warily, but Cayden continued on, "No, not the big, sullen one with the angry eyebrows, but the little one. Have you seen him of late?"

Smallbran begin to smile slightly at Alyna. As if he knew the joke Cayden was perhaps too dull-minded to have. Or perhaps Smallbran himself had grown so tall, Cayden would scarce believe it!

Cayden glanced over to Alyna, then back to Smallbran, feigning a face of shock. "By all the Gods! You cannot be he! My brother is so little, I can hold him in the palm of my hand." He grabbed Smallbran by the waist and put on a very good show of trying to hoist him from the ground, groaning and wheezing and panting. Alyna found herself smiling and laughing softly, while Smallbran was cackling like a child possessed. "You must be a giant. Tell me, warrior that has bested me, what is your name?"

"Brandon," Smallbran managed to chuckle.

"What's that? Into my good ear…"

"Brandon Stark-"

"Louder, boy!"

"Brandon Stark!" Smallbran bellowed into his ear. Cayden fell over, clutching his ear.

"Well then, you must be my brother. And the gift I have brought must be for you."

"A gift?" Smallbran smiled.

"Aye – I cannot meet my brother without a gift… now, you will have to lead me, for I fear I do not know these trees as well as you, Brandon the Giant…" Cayden took Smallbran's hand and let him lead him back along the edge of the pond, back towards the castle. Cayden stopped suddenly, turning back to Alyna, who was still sat against the Heart Tree. "Coming, My Lady?"

Watching them, Cayden standing there as his younger brother tugged at his arm with both hands, Alyna began to yearn for home. She missed her own brother, Feron. She missed playing in the ironwood groves as a child. And she was being sent further south, further away. Where no weirwoods or ironwoods grew.

"I'll stay a moment longer, if it please you."

Cayden groaned and then pulled on Smallbran's arm. "Come, I think Lady Forrester wishes to join us."

"No, no, I-"

"Aly-na!" Smallbran shouted as he ran back along the pond, grabbing her hand and hoisting with all the strength a boy of six could possess.

She could not refuse – not only because Smallbran was the son of her liege, but because he was an excited child that reminded her of Feron, when he had been younger. Surrendering to the smile that fought its way onto her lips, Alyna pushed herself off the ground and allowed herself to be led by the determined Smallbran, who leant forwards and marched her towards the keep.

"You're an ass," Alyna murmured to Cayden.

"You're smiling," he replied. It was true – Alyna was smiling.

Ardan

Thunder rumbled outside of the Round Hall of Storm's End. The rain could be heard hammering against stone, pattering against the glass windows, illuminated by the cracked claps of lightning. The wind howled, wild and ferocious, and Storm's End remained standing, as it always had.

A resplendent display of the highborn had gathered until the hall was teeming with Stormlanders. The distant cousins of Houses Estermont and Connington, the entourage of handmaids that accompanied Oraella and Cassandra around the castle – the keep had never been as full as it was.

Durran Baratheon sat in the Storm Throne: a chair carved out of same stone as the dais it sat upon, decorated with furs and pelts, but still showing the intricate carvings of antlers, crowned with circlets of gilded lightning bolts. The single block of granite the throne had been chiselled from had turned smooth like a pebble, weathered down by the many rulers that ruled from it.

Low walls skirted the chamber, decorated with thin pillars that held burning braziers aloft. All the hearths had been lit to keep the chamber warm for the Stormlords that stood between them, each of them bedecked in the finery of their houses. The scarlet velvet of House Connington, the storm-green cashmere of House Morrigan, the purple silk of House Dondarrion. Jewels and gold adorned the nobility, their colours and sigils a vivid display of their proud allegiances and lineages. Bannermen from the farthest corners of the Stormlands had spilled out to the very edges of the chamber, their attention rapt and expressions expectant as they watched the eldest Baratheon son sit on the Storm Throne, the proud banner of the black crowned stag on a gold field draped from the towering stone walls.

Lady Cassandra was sat on a smaller chair of wood, carved with the likeness of fish-scales, sea-creatures and waves – Ardan's father had told him it had been a wedding gift to his own father, Baldric, from House Estermont. She looked particularly dour that day – to the point of which Ardan had chosen not to break fast, so as to not risk her wrath. By her side was her only daughter, the youngest of the Baratheons, Oraella.

Ten-and-two, Oraella had a head that dark curls sprouted out of, untamed and wild. She was tall for her age, but still stood more than a head shorter than Arrec and Ardan. She was a skinny girl, with long arms and slender legs – none of her dresses ever fitted her properly, no matter how hard Lady Cassandra tried. The girl had inherited her mother's blue-green eyes, and their father had said she looked very much like his cousins. Ardan could imagine the 'Four Storms' standing there, all with round, long faces with boxed jawlines and thin lips. Freckles peppered across their pale cheeks.

He'd found her in the armoury again, trying to hoist their father's battle-axe from the wall. 'Careful,' Ardan had warned her, 'you'll scare the Princess back to King's Landing if she sees.' Oraella had instead began to complain about how Lady Cassandra had found the wooden sparring sword he'd given her. With a promise of a new sparring sword (and a wooden battle-axe), he'd convinced Oraella to return to her chambers and dress in the gown Lady Cassandra had picked out for her.

She began to pull at the blue-green-and- gold brocade, frowning. Lady Cassandra grimaced – clearly unhappy with her daughter fidgeting while her eldest son spoke about their duty to the Seven Who are One, and the savage hordes of heathen Dornish to the south.

Ardan remained standing beside one of the low walls, leaning against a column and watching. His eyes swept over the halls occupants with an air of veiled indifference. His eyes were the same vibrant blue as their father. He'd always felt proud about that – even though Arrec looked more like him, Ardan was the one to have inherited the exact same hue. He had the same raven-black hair as Arrec, the same chiselled jawline as Durran.

It hadn't mattered, though - he had never been allowed to stand beside his family in public. Oh, he was allowed to hunt with his father, spar with his brother, but never was he allowed to stand beside them or tour with them – even when his father had been healthy. He'd come to enjoy the moments of solitude afforded to him – no-one expected much of a bastard. When his father's family had toured, he'd been able to walk the castles freely without fear of crossing Lady Cassandra or Lord Durran.

But in the last six months, his father had grown sicker, and Ser Edric had ridden for his home of Durran's Gate. So, aside from his lessons with Storm's End's master-at-arms, Ser Endrew Wensington, studying the wars of the Conquest. When Ser Endrew had business elsewhere in Storm's End, Ardan would retreat into more deserted areas of the castle – the armoury on a sunny day and the Godswood after a storm.

As the Lord Regent of Storm's End, Durran addressed the gathered assembly, Ardan's attention occasionally wandered. The grand speeches, the meticulously orchestrated ceremonies – they all seemed to blend into a tapestry of formalities that left him feeling somewhat detached.

Ardan saw Lady Cassandra lean out of her chair and pull at Oraella's arms, saying something quietly to her. He watched his younger half-sister roll her eyes and reluctantly obey, her aqua-blue eyes finding Ardan and, almost immediately, her face lit up. Perhaps it was her age – like Arrec, she'd never known a day where Ardan wasn't her half-brother.

"…yet, the Gods are good. The King Aeric of House Targaryen has decreed that we are to join our houses, as I shall wed his daughter, the Princess Rhaenerys, two weeks hence."

There was a flurry of murmurs followed by a wave of applause. Ardan's eyes found Arrec, who was sat on another chair to the other side of Durran, his black cane leant against one of his legs. He caught sight of Ardan and smirked slightly before picking up his cane and hobbling over, the loud knocking of wood against stone attracting a little too much attention. Ardan wanted to retreat into the shadows, but Arrec relished the opportunity to frustrate Durran, who was clearly displeased with his brother leaving his sided. He raised a hand to quiet the applause, and turned his attention back to his father's vassals.

"It is my honour to serve the realm as my father did in the war against the ironmen, and as his father did in the Dance of the Dragons, and his father in…"

"How long do you suppose it took him to learn this?" Arrec murmured as he leant against the low wall. He was dressed in a fine black jerkin, exposing the golden sleeves of his shirt beneath. His hair had been cropped short, his jaw shorn – he looked every part a Lord of Storm's End, just like Durran. Ardan suddenly felt self-conscious of his black gambeson and jerkin – in his youth, his father had allowed Ardan to wear the colours of the House, but no longer – he'd entered his chambers and found all his garments had been dyed black. Ardan had genuinely believed Lady Cassandra intended to send him to the Wall. Though Arrec had been outraged, all Ardan could feel was relief at finding out he was staying.

Since then, Arrec had favoured the colour black. Of course, there were occasions where, no matter how anyone felt, he had to represent his house, such as that day.

"And so, with this day, we may begin to celebrate the union of the Stag and the Dragon."

There was another applause, and everyone smiled. Oraella, however, had clearly not been paying attention, and began looking around in confusement before smiling and clapping along, looking around the chamber for someone to explain to her. Oraella only found the dour face of her mother – the one woman in the Round Hall that had omitted from applause.

"Lady Cassandra looks unhappy," Ardan commented.

"She argued with Durran earlier."

Ardan immediately wanted to know more – he knew Arrec would have told him, too. But it would be wrong of him to ask any more. He simply swallowed and remained quiet.

"You can ask," Arrec murmured, glancing over to him.

"It's nothing I ought to know."

"Apparently Ella is being married off to the trout."

"A Tully?"

Arrec nodded. "She seemed quite distressed at the idea."

It was no surprise; Oraella had always been Lady Cassandra's favourite. She could not have been happy to be confronted with the fact that her daughter would ride north in some years.

Ardan was not thrilled either; he'd always been fond of his half-sister. Some years ago, he had found her in the armoury, swinging around a morningstar, squealing with delight. Ser Edric Bolling, the master-at-arms, had wrestled it away from her and that night, when Ardan had returned to train in the dead of night, he'd found his half-sister there, trying to heave their grandfather's greatsword. He'd it out the axe for his old wooden sword he'd swung when he was eight, and it had been a regular occurrence – teaching Oraella how to properly swing and lunge.

Ardan and Arrec turned back to see an individual walk out of the crowd and approach the Storm Throne. A pudgy, bow-legged man with a beer-barrel of a gut. His grey hair was cropped shorn around his ears and fell to the back of his neck and a thick moustache sat upon his lip – it could have been a moustache, at least. It could have also been a squirrel's tail.

"My most gracious Lord Regent," he said loudly, plunging into a deep bow, "I humbly offer my services in your most holy war against the Dornish dogs!"

Ardan and Arrec immediately supressed their chuckles (with Arrec struggling more than Ardan). Even Durran's lip curled, but he bowed his head modestly. "I thank you, Lord Steffon. If we could-"

"It was some years ago that I had the good fortune to serve with your father, the Strong-Arm, in the war against those Ironmen reavers, yes…" He began pacing, recounting the battle that all in the hall already knew well enough about, "yes, and before that, I count myself amongst the brave few to have faced those savage wolves in the Causeway." He spat on the floor to enunciate his disgust. "I only wish I could have faced against Corrin Stark myself. I would have gladly suffered his sword to protect your own Lordly grandfather."

"Aye, that belly would've been hard to get the sword through…" Arrec murmured in his best impression of a northman. Ardan let out a small noise as he tried not to guffaw, and slipped his head behind the column, chortling silently out of view.

"I thank you for your kind words, my Lord," Ardan heard Durran say. "Let us all pray that the warrior lend his arm to us, so that we may defeat the threat to the south once and for all."

The crowds murmured their agreement and bowed their heads. Slowly, all began to file out and walk towards the stairwells that led up to the feasting halls. Ardan put a hand around Arrec's shoulder.

"Momentous, isn't it?" He said quietly, "Dragons wedding stags, stags wedding trout… How long until you've a lady wife of your own?"

"Why? Are you jealous?"

"No, it's just…" Ardan sighed and began to speak earnestly, "I passed by the stables and saw a rather lonely-looking mare, and swore I'd ask."

"Okay…" Arrec nodded, looking away with a grin on his face.

"Truly – she did seem a bit comely, but a bushel of apples ought to soften her towards you."

"I'll leave the riding of such horses to you," Arrec retorted. "But I thank you for your offer – I may even return it when you yearn for your own Lady wife."

Ardan shook his head. He knew he wouldn't wed any woman of noble birth; he had no inheritance, no name – wedding a high-born daughter to him would be a waste. Then again, a look at his sister, and Ardan supposed he might have been lucky – there was no-one to thrust a betrothal upon him.

"Unless King Aeric meets me and decides to name me Lord Commander of his Kingsguard," Ardan replied nonchalantly.

"Would you have me call you 'my Lord', Storm?"

"I would – you would also have to put on a dress and curtsy for me, Baratheon," Ardan chuckled. Arrec playfully shoved him off from his shoulder.

"Come – we ought to-"

"Bastard!"

They both turned around to see Durran was still sat in the Storm Throne. Though many had left, he remained. Ardan and Arrec's smiles faded and Ardan began to slowly walk back to the throne, his stomach filling with dread. Arrec reached for his shoulder to stop him.

"You don't-"

"It's okay," Ardan assured him, "You fetch a book – we'll meet in the armoury."

Arrec's brow creased and he gave a short nod, his eyes heavy on the back of the Storm Throne that Ardan approached.

Ardan ran a hand through his hair and straightened his back before walking around to face his older half-brother, wiping his face of any smile and trying to cast on a blank expression. Durran was usually stern and unsmiling around Ardan, but he seemed even more sour.

"My Lord," Ardan said, bowing his head.

"You ventured into the wrecks again."

Ardan swallowed – his palms began to sweat. "I did, my Lord."

"Why?" He asked, his thumb drumming against one of the arms of his throne. Ardan's mind began to race – he tried to think of something that Durran would not berate him for, something he could not be blamed for. Simply because that was what he and Arrec always did was not reason enough, simple curiosity was not- "Well?"

"I saw the sea to be calm, my Lord-"

"Look at me when you speak."

Ardan looked up to see Durran's cheek twitching, his nostrils flared and eyes bulging. "I saw the sea to be calm, my Lord." Ardan said again, louder this time.

"And you took my brother," Durran growled.

"I…" Ardan began, "He did not go-"

"You almost died when you were last in those wrecks," Durran hissed. "Arrec saved you. And if you had died again, how might Arrec have felt about this?" Ardan hadn't thought about it – they had played in the wrecks a hundred times in their childhood. "It was foolhardy."

"Apologies, my Lord."

"Arrec is not as he was," Durran said, still seething, "he could have slipped. He could have fallen. He could have died. My heir! You pulled him into your would-be misadventure, as you always have, and all you can say is 'apologies'?" His voice rose. Ardan dared not to correct him – he'd never say that Arrec had been the instigator of at least half of their escapades. That it had been Arrec that snuck one of the hounds into Maester Rickard's chambers. "What do you think I would have done if he had met any harm?"

Ardan didn't even think about what Durran would have done. Instead, he was just imagining Arrec falling down into Shipbreaker Bay. His heart thundered and throat tightened as he imagined his half-brother being taken by the waves.

"I don't know," Ardan said finally. His answer didn't please Durran, who immediately stood and took a step forwards, teeth bared like a hound.

"Is your head completely devoid of any fucking thought?" He snarled. "I thought you might have changed after your misdeeds at Bronzegate crippled my brother!" Ardan closed his eyes – that wasn't the truth of it. 'I'm as much to blame as you,' he thought to himself, 'but not as much as Aerion Targaryen.' He knew that there was nothing he could say that would not anger Durran further, so chose to bite his tongue, clench his fist and listen to his half-brother's words. "You are a bastard boy, unfit to serve at court, let alone in a war with Dorne!"

Ardan looked up to his brother's intense, steely-blue eyes. Had Arrec asked for him?

"That is what you would ask of me, is it not?"

Ardan nodded. "Yes, my Lord."

Durran returned to his throne, eyes heavy on him. "Then ask."

Ardan licked his lips. Durran had to be toying with him. But if he was not… Ardan would have to be gracious, he would have to be proper – he had to act as the knight Ser Edric was teaching him to be. "My Lord Durran, I would ask your blessing to ride south and fight with the Stormlands forces, as is my place as Ser Edric-"

"Your place?" Durran asked.

Ardan's mouth hung open for a moment as he scrambled to try and re-word his request. "I mean… I wish to do my duty as squire to Ser Edric Bolling, and to the Stormlands-"

"You would desert my brother in his hour of need?"

"I simply wish to serve the realm-"

"You wish to seek glory and acclaim," Durran scoffed. Ardan didn't see any point to arguing this – he was not wholly wrong. "And how could you achieve that, whoreson?" Ardan's fist tightened – he wanted to bite back. He couldn't be a whoreson – if Ardan didn't know his own mother, Durran certainly didn't. He wanted to shout back at Durran, remind him that their own grandfather had been bastard-born. But Durran was not likely to listen – his word was truth and law. If he said so, Ardan would be dismissed from the keep – their father would likely be too sick or too poppy-addled to even notice he was gone. "Go," Durran said brusquely, "and I'll hear no more talk about 'your place'."

"My Lord, I-"

"Did you not hear me, bastard?" Durran's voice cracked like the lightning outside. "I am Lord Regent of Storm's End, my word is law, my will is yours! I will not suffer grouse nor quibble – go!"

Ardan bit his tongue, bowed his head and began to make his way to the armoury. There had been several times Ardan wanted to cry, though he would not dare to outside of his chambers. This time, however, he felt the stinging in his eyes from pure, unbridled rage. It was unfair – no-one questioned a dolt like Ser Steffon Inkwell going to war. No-one thought twice about squires younger than him accompanying their knights into battle. Yet Ardan was being refused. He knew why – Durran had always despised him. Lady Cassandra too. He had half a mind to pack up and leave – take his courser, Godsgrief, and ride out with arms and armour. Though, he feared any reprisal from Durran and Lady Cassandra. Most of all, he knew the truth in Durran's words – he could not abandon Arrec. He was worried of what would happen to him without Ardan there. After all, Arrec had made a profession out of defending Ardan, being his partner in mischief and rescuing him from misery. If Ardan left, what else was there for Arrec to do? Though, one thought begot another: perhaps, if Ardan didn't leave, that's all Arrec would ever be. He was, after all, the smartest person he'd ever met. And Ardan's mere existence separated him from his family. His rage quietened into sorrow as he arrived at a final thought: perhaps it would be better for all if he wasn't there.

He finally arrived at the armoury, where Arrec was sat with his latest favourite tome. He said something loudly with a smile that Ardan didn't understand. Looking to the other side of the chamber (so Arrec could not see his eyes), Ardan picked up one of the wooden swords and swung it hard into the pell with a crack.

"What did he say?" Arrec asked slowly.

"Nothing," Ardan replied, with his back still to Arrec as he gripped the wooden sword and set about bashing the pell again.

Alyssa

Alyssa had never felt scared before.

She had felt great sadness many times in her life – the moments where she would realise she did not remember her mother, that she and her father would never truly talk and laugh like he so often had with Victor. She had felt horror, such as when she had watched Elyn Flowers' neck open from Ser Guy Guant's pink lance-point. She remembered watching beautiful and boisterous Elyn Flowers drop onto the ground, blood drenching her silver armour. That was all Alyssa remembered – she'd swooned at the sight and collapsed.

But as Alyssa stood there, watching the distant shapes of dragons beat their wings and soar closer, she began to feel terror brew in her belly. She glanced to her brother, who stood in the grand courtyard of Highgarden, bathed in the soft, golden light of a late summer afternoon. Its cobblestone path stretched between meticulously manicured gardens, an idyllic backdrop for the grand occasion. House Tyrell, the Lords and Ladies of Highgarden, had assembled in disciplined formation, lining up outside the great hall, their proud emblem of the golden rose fluttering in the breeze, and Victor stood in the centre of the frontmost line as Lord of the Mander.

One of his broad shoulders was adorned with a velvet green half-cloak, emblazoned with the Tyrell rose. His long hair fell in curls that tumbled down to his shoulders like burnished gold thread. On the other side of his chest, a shining golden brooch was pinned to the brocade of his jerkin. His mouth was ajar, and his hand closed around the gold rose-pommel of his longsword.

At the head of the line stood Lady Elinor Tyrell, the venerable matriarch of House Tyrell, an elegant green gable hood, adorned with delicate roses. Her presence commanded respect, and her eyes, gleaming with the wisdom of years, scanned the horizon, awaiting the arrival of their royal guests.

Alyssa stood on the other side of Victor, her brown tresses flowed like cascading silk, catching the dappled sunlight. Her brown eyes, deep pools of mystery and charm, held a spark of intelligence that belied her stunning appearance. Her complexion was a vision of porcelain perfection, her delicate features, framed by high cheekbones and a finely sculpted jawline. Her lips, a shade of blush pink, no longer held an alluring curve. It was when she had been changed from her pastel-blue dress that she had seen the blood on her shift. With a curse to the gods, old and new, Alyssa had been fitted with a thin belt beneath her shift with strips of cloth before being dressed into her silken dress of celadon-green with a gold brocade.

"Are they arriving before their party?" Alyssa asked, slightly confused.

"They're late," Victor replied.

"Thank the Gods – otherwise they would have found you abed with a cup of red wine…" Alyssa's brown eyes glanced to her handmaid, Denyse Redwyne, whose eyes quickly fixed on the cobblestones beneath her gown.

"And who would they have found you abed with?" Victor asked.

"No-one."

"Ah, my sister, as chaste as Princess Daelaena-" Victor whispered.

"And my brother, as clever as his horse."

"Greenhart is clever."

"My point," Alyssa shrugged. Victor turned to look at her, his brow slightly furrowed. "Only you would think that," she whispered.

"You're-"

"Oh, shut up, boy," Elinor said from the other side of Victor, "ignore her – her red flower is blooming."

"Oh, for…" Victor groaned and looked away. Alyssa tried to stifle a grin as she saw Victor look quite uncomfortable. It was quite the past-time for her. Ever since they were children, she'd delighted in such schemes.

"You're about to have a wife, Victor. You'll be seeing a fair bit of blood soon."

"Shut up, Alyssa…" Victor said tersely.

"Shut up both of you," Elinor hissed.

The courtyard had been prepared to perfection, adorned with banners and standards bearing the golden rose emblem. The polished cobblestone path gleamed in the sunlight, leading directly to the great hall.

A hushed anticipation permeated the air as the Tyrells awaited the arrival of King Aeric and his sons. The grandeur of Highgarden's architecture and the lush splendour of the surrounding gardens created quite the scene for such a meeting.

The creatures swept closer, beginning their descent. Alyssa frowned as she tried to make out which of them was Gaelithox – the largest of all the dragons in the world. One small, scarcely bigger than a horse, iridescent-blue dragon swept closer, and the long, silver hair of the rider danced in the wind, her bright silver cloak fluttering behind her. Alyssa saw her grandmother turn around and speak bark an order, too panicked to pretend to sound frail.

"Prepare chambers for the Princess," she instructed one of the servants, who bowed and half-ran across the courtyard.

Another blue beast swept down to land in the courtyard, this one the largest of the three. Except, it was less than half as large as Gaelithox was meant to have been. The scales were a dark midnight-blue. Alyssa cocked her head to the side as the rider dismounted with a stumble and fall, his velvet red cloak falling over his head. He lay there for a while before finally rolling over and climbing to his feet, letting out a long sigh before patting his dragon's jaw and saying something inaudible. Alyssa frowned – the man was wearing red – he could not have been Aerion. And his dragon was certainly not Gaelithox.

The next dragon to land was the smallest, and Princess Daelaena dismounted, fixing her dress. Alyssa saw the dress part from her neck to navel. If she had fallen like her brother, Alyssa would certainly have seen a princess' breasts for the first time.

The last dragon landed – a blood-red beast that landed with its head ten feet or so away from the household. Alyssa took several steps back, clutching onto Victor's arm. Her brother had retreated back as well, his hand instinctively closing around the leather hilt of his longsword.

Its head reared back and let out a steady stream of dragonfire into the air. Meanwhile, Vaegon staggered forwards, helped some by his sister, Daelaena. The dragon fell silent and all anyone could hear was the belly-laughter of King Aeric, who hopped off his dragon and shouted a command in High Valyrian. The dragon beat its powerful wings (Alyssa and her handmaidens had to hold down their gowns, which had begun to billow upwards at their knees), and swept upwards, its horned tail swinging around and nearly swinging into one of the spires.

Countless petals and leaves of countless flowers and trees began to fall in the breeze – the aftermath of a Targaryen arrival. Victor was the quickest to regain his composure, his tight grip on the hilt of his longsword relaxing. He turned to Alyssa, who still stood there in shock.

"Don't swoon, little sister."

It snapped her out of her awe – she was once again trading barbs with her brother. "You're the one who's scared of blood…" She replied with a smirk. She turned back to see King Aeric flanked by his son and daughter, approaching with a satisfied smile on his face. His silver hair had been cropped short to the nape of his neck. He wore no crown, but Blackfyre swung on his belt – it was as much a crown as the Conqueror's.

Victor bent the knee, followed by all beside and behind him. Alyssa peered up to see the king come closer – his jaw was shorn of any beard, his violet eyes tracing the dragons that began to circle Highgarden. He turned around and suddenly remembered something.

"Oh- rise, rise!" He chortled.

"Your Grace," Victor rose and spoke loudly, self-assuredly, yet with a softness. It was his knightly voice. "Highgarden is yours."

"Oh, come here, boy!" The King laughed and embraced Victor in a warm hug. Elinor frowned and Alyssa knew why – it was somewhat unseemly. The two had never met before – Father had barely ever met the King either. "Gods, you're tall, aren't you?" He slapped Victor on the shoulder. "Spitting likeness of Garse!"

Victor took a moment before smiling politely and bowing his head – Alyssa was a little proud of her brother – he'd idolized their father. Hearing his name be misspoke must have frustrated him deeply, yet he was able to smile.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"Yes – must have maidens over the realms sweating in their shifts," Aeric let out a deep laugh, which Victor, somewhat surprised, joined in with. "Oh, shouldn't talk like this in front of the women – not suitable, is it? No, no…"

Victor gestured to his left, where Elinor stood. "My Grandmother, Lady Elinor."

"Your Grace," Elinor curtsied perfectly.

"Elinor, Gods you've aged poorly," Aeric chortled again as he gave her a one-armed hug. Elinor patted his shoulder, giving a simpering smile – as if Aeric had just flattered her. "I jest, of course."

"You always were a funny one," Elinor crooned in her soft, frail voice, "even when you were a small one, and so handsome too!" She never ceased to amaze Alyssa. Elinor curtsied, and Victor turned to Alyssa.

"My-"

"You know, my own father, Aemond, spoke highly of you," Aeric continued on.

"Oh- a most high honour, Your Grace," Elinor patted his arm again. "Have you met my granddaughter? The heir to Highgarden?"

"Not for long, eh?" Aeric said, ruffling Victor's head of hair. "You old dog, you!"

Victor maintained his smile – even when his beautiful curls became frazzled and fell across his face like a disaster. Aeric approached Alyssa, who curtsied again.

"Your Grace," Alyssa made sure to speak softly, her words full of breath. Similar to how she had done around Durran Baratheon when he was fostered in Highgarden.

"Seven Hells…" Aeric laughed, "you're a beauty, aren't you?"

"Thank you, Your Grace." She could feel his violet eyes rove over her, from her neck down her bust and upon her corset. This was not the first time.

Some years ago, she had to her grandmother about wearing a gown with a cutout to expose her hips and the small of her back. She could remember it – a plunging neckline like Princess Daelaena's. She'd felt somewhat nervous about this, but Elinior had reminded her this could make her the Lady of Storm's End. With golden-thread vines that spread out across her bodice, a pendant of a gold rose hanging low on her chest, Alyssa had pushed her shoulders back, arched her back and learnt to smile – for all the good it had done her.

"The Rose of the Reach – I see why…" Aeric turned around to his son, Vaegon. "A great beauty – wouldn't you agree, Vaegon?"

"Her hair's almost as pretty as his," Vaegon replied, glancing around the courtyard. "I was hoping for an Arbor red. Or gold – I'm none too fussed."

"We've a feast prepared in your honour, Your Grace," Victor informed the Targaryens. "I've sent a guard to escort the rest of your party – I'm sure Prince Aerion will be here soon."

"No need, Aerion's not coming," Vaegon said.

Victor frowned and opened his mouth, but Alyssa spoke first. "My Lord brother hunted a stag himself in honour of your attendance."

"Oh, did he?" Aeric asked. "Bow or spear?"
"Spear, Your Grace."

"Ah, a real man…" Aeric nodded. "We'll go a-hunting tomorrow. See if we can't flush out something bigger!"

Alyssa wondered what exactly he thought lived in their woods. Mountain lions? Bears? Or perhaps he believed in mammoths and giants and direwolves.

"Spear another stag - your Stark girl will love you for it," Aeric continued on before turning to Alyssa and offering his arm. "My Lady, you'll dine at my side, I hope?" The King asked, holding out an arm. Alyssa gave the faintest of smiles as she curtsied again. She remembered her grandmother's words from her youth, 'smile as though you know a secret no-one else does.' She pushed her shoulders back, arched her back and smiled as she took his arm.

Well, that's this chapter done! The reason why these chapters are so long is because there's not going to be many chapters – I'm aiming for about 16 or 17 chapters in each instalment.

So, lemme know what you think – I'm gonna take a day and try to reply to some messages today and tomorrow. Also, I've heard some fun theories about what's going to happen, and they're all actually really good. I mean, they're all wrong, but I'd read a story that included them.