Clash of Crowns I: The Reign of Dragons

by Rougeification

SYOC. Set in an era of Targaryen rule, sometime after the Dance of Dragons, where dragons roam the skies above Westeros. A rift has formed between Houses Tully and Hightower, threatening to split the Red Keep in two. House Tyrell looks North for allies, and the Stormlands plan to conquer Dorne - once and for all.

12. Gifts

So, this one took a while, because a lot happened – it was Christmas, NYE, my birthday, my dad's birthday, and my brother moved to the US so, like… it's been crazy. But, here's a long chapter to treat yourselves to! There's been a lot of stopping and starting because I'm deviating from some original plans in favour of just… seeing where this story takes us.

Now, lemme tell you, this chapter is… crazy long. Like, I kinda feel bad for you guys to have to read all of this. But, yeah, go ahead and indulge yourselves. Quite a bit happens, and I ended up expanding on a bunch of stuff. It might be the longest chapter I've ever written… ever. So… I'm not expecting review to flow in quickly, but anyone who does review – you're a real one for sitting down to compile your thoughts!

Anyway, yeah. I've finally managed to sit down to write, and here we are! Oh, yeah, a massive thank you for your reviews. Winter's Warden had some fun theories that I absolutely love reading. Again, Lawrence Cartwright is doing fine work on the wiki, updating each character to keep it current with this story, so, on behalf of everyone, a massive thank you to him. We actually got a new writer, technically speaking, with BlueJay019 writing a page about King's Landing there, so, thanks Jay! And, with that… onto the chapter!

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1st Day of the Sixth Moon, 152 A.C.

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Myra

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The late morning sun cascaded over the imposing walls, casting elongated shadows that danced along the cobbled paths and encircled the stable where she readied her horse. The courtyard, an expanse bounded by the tall ramparts and the great keep of Ironrath, was already abuzz as the smallfolk filtered in to bring trade and goods.

Myra's gaze swept over the scene—the bustle of servants carrying out their tasks, the laughter of children playing in the distance, and the rhythmic clang of the smithy resonating in the air. Despite the activity, there lingered an aura of tranquillity that bespoke the stronghold's enduring peace.

Near the stables, Myra tended to her pale mare, Whitemane, with a sleek coat that gleamed in the morning light. Perched on a on a log where the thatching had come away was her falcon, Swiftwing, who was busy pecking at the innards of a mouse he'd caught. One of the two cats that prowled around the castle, this one named 'Ginger', sat there, her large green eyes fixed on the Swiftwing and his morning meal.

Myra's deft hands brushed the mare's mane with care. Around her, the scent of woodsmoke mingled with the sweet fragrance of blooming wildflowers, carried on the breeze that swept through the courtyard. Myra's gaze shifted to the sentinel ironwood trees, their massive trunks rising majestically around the stronghold.

As she saddled her horse, the atmosphere held a bittersweet tinge. Myra's stay had been a respite—a sanctuary from the clamour of the world beyond. From the journey away from her home. The warmth of the people, the camaraderie, and the solace she found within the stronghold had woven themselves into her heart. Most days in the month she had spent inside the castle walls. Though she was permitted to leave into the Wolfswood whenever she wished, and she had managed to catch some hare (with Swiftwing's help), but she had noticed no-one else hunting. Owen Forrester had told her that there were still bandits in the woods. It was something that sounded strange to her – after all, her cousin, Corwyn, had led a force of Glovers and their bannermen two years ago to wipe out the Wolfswood Brotherhood. She'd heard of what Corwyn had done – executed each of the brigands who had surrendered. Myra thought he might have sent them to the wall, but he hanged them as common murderers from the great weirwood tree nestled in the heart of the Wolfswood. That had never sat easy with her – her Uncle Brandon had always told his sons, 'the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword'. She couldn't imagine Corwyn had hanged each of the men by himself.

It was hard to believe that bandits still prowled in the forest after such a thing happened. Still, Owen was not the only one who spoke of the dangers, as her own escort had arrived the day before.

An elderly man named Bennard, who looked too frail to lift up his own sword, and his son, Benfred, a strapping young man that was fairly short, but hoisted his claymore with ease. He reminded her of Cayden, though, without his sense of humour. The third escort was a woman some years older – Jeoranne Mormont.

She was a giant of a woman: over six foot tall with thick shoulders and arms like tree trunks, almost bursting out of her dark green tunic. She was a queer sort – dressing in men's breeches and carrying a longsword at her hip. She had dark hair and dark eyes – just like Myra did, though her hair was cut to her shoulders, a wild mess sprouting from her scalp. There was a stark difference between them, aside from Myra's slender frame, shorter stature and prettier hair (it was nice to be the pretty one, for once): Myra still had both her eyes.

She assumed Jeoranne had lost one, as she wore a black leather patch over her right eye, with a scabbing red scar running from her brow to cheek. It was grisly and hard to look at. When Jeoranne had arrived, she had been cordial enough, bowing her head to Myra, kneeling to Thorris and Owen, and thanking them for the bread and salt.

Throughout the evening, however, she had kept her one remaining eye on Myra, but never approached her. Never said so much as a word. And the look she gave – pure disgust filled her eyes. It was a look she was well used to – she supposed most bastards were given similar looks. Though, perhaps, none quite so much as Myra Wolfsbane.

The sun had crested on the crenelations during its rise, now slick and damp from the puddles that had once been fluffy blankets of snow and slick sheets of ice. The cold winds had fallen, and Myra had no choice but to continue on her journey.

Her fingers lingered on the reins, reluctant to depart from this bastion of Northern tradition and unity. The courtyard, a microcosm of bustling life within Ironrath's protective embrace, whispered tales of kinship and fortitude—a sentiment that resonated within Myra as she prepared to bid farewell to a place that had become an unexpected haven in her journey.

"I trust you found Ironrath suitable?"

Myra heard Owen Forrester's distinctive Wolfswood lilt before she turned to see him walking up to her, dressed in his black jerkin, a furred mantle brushing against the thick brown stubble on his jaw. She'd found him pleasant, in the end. She'd thought he'd be booksmart and curious like his twin sister, Alyna, or perhaps arrogant and eager like so many young lordlings, but he seemed to have little interest for anything outside of Ironrath and maintaining the ironwood groves. He was quite self-serious at times, but had proven himself as loyal and honest – just qualities for any heir to a Northern keep.

"I thank you once again for your hospitality, Lord Owen," Myra said, remembering the words just as Gwyn had taught her in her youth.

"Ironrath is yours, Myra Snow – should you ever find yourself in need of home and hearth," he promised her. It was different from how she imagined southrons would speak – there was a genuineness to when one spoke. There was little sense in wasting one's warm air on lies and pointless courtesies.

Owen walked closer to rub down the milk-white mane of her mare before reaching into his cloak and producing a small, coin-sized pendant, which he held out to her. "I wished to thank you again, Snow – for standing beside us against the Whitehill's."

She knew better than to refuse a gift from her host. Myra picked up the pendant and turned it over: it was made of a wood as strong as iron. It was cold and smooth like a pebble, with a carved symbol, etched in black. She held it closer and found the Direwolf sigil of House Stark, fangs bared.

"I was hoping you might… accept it in some way of apologies. In case I offended you by naming you Wolfs… by naming you unfairly."

It was sweet, she supposed. But she could not help but feel as though the gift was not an apology. She reflected on the small stories he would tell, laughing, volunteering to take her riding or show her the crypts and towers of Ironrath… she'd been shown attention like that before, and could only thank the Gods that the summer snows had ceased in time for her to leave.

"I thank you, my Lord," she bowed her head.

"And, also…" he passed her a letter with a broken black seal of House Ironrath. She paused and, a moment later, realised it was the same letter she had delivered to them from Alyna. "Feron's our brother – he ought to hear word of his sister too."

She'd heard about Feron – the youngest Forrester child, currently warded at Mormont Keep. Alyna had made mention of him once – after their mother passed some months ago. All Myra knew was that the boy was thirteen or so.

"Of course, my Lord."

Owen took a deep breath and, failing to find anything else to say, gave a small (and somewhat awkward) nod.

The portcullis creaked and groaned and rose into the air, with beams of sunlight permeating the crisp northern fog of the morning. Myra rubbed her gloved hands together and looked over her shoulder to see the two Mormont men approaching in their green tunics and black cloaks, flanking either side of Jeoranne.

The woman was terrifying. Her chopped black hair grazed her wide jaw, shoulders broad and strong with arms like ironwood tree trunks, dressed in a shirt of maille beneath her tunic and leather jerkin. Her one good eye, as black as night, glowered at Myra as she rode onward, her black rounsey blew and grunted, sniffing at Myra's mare.

"Quite the shield you have with you," Owen said quietly, observing Jeoranne as well.

"More a sword than a shield – and an unfriendly one at that."

"Lady Jeoranne's a capable warrior," Owen replied, "and a good sword to have if the bandits do happen upon you."

Myra didn't need Owen to tell him that – the woman carried a shortsword on one hip, a short battleaxe on the other, and the hilt of a long bollock dagger peered out of her belt. A square shield of green and white hung from her saddle as she ambled on with her two guards. She was clearly a warrior – far more fearsome than Myra. Well, Myra could barely swing a sword. Her hand found the limb of her sheathed weirwood bow as she reflected…

"Safe travels, Myra Snow. Gods guide you."

"May the Gods watch over you," Myra bowed her head and turned back to amble onward, looking back down at the road ahead, stretching from the dirt path between the forge and the training yard, over the stone walkway and through the dirt and stone roads that wound through the ferns and gnarled roots of Ironwood sentinels and fir and pine. It was a long road, and would be the most fraught with peril. She would have been happy to remain in Ironrath – Swiftwing enjoyed the forest, and there was plenty of game for her to hunt. And the Whitehill's would never dare ride west from their mountains again. Yet, her uncle and Lord had told her to go to Bear Island, thus she would go. She would not be petulant or childish, she'd do what was expected of her, lest she shame her mother's family – lest she shame Aunt Gwyn.

Myra kicked at Whitemane, and began to canter on after Jeoranne and the two Mormont guards, leaving behind safety and guesthood amidst the Ironwood Groves for the forestry of shadowcats, wolves and bandits.

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Victor

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Since being the Lord of Highgarden, Victor had enjoyed the boons: he'd bought a new destrier with a lily-white coat that shimmer in the sunlight, whom he had named Greenhart. He'd paid for a Qartheen metalsmith to work with Lannister gold and set a new hilt to his blade, long enough for him to place both hands on. New armour had been forged for him – green with golden vines, the Tyrell rose set upon his breastplate. He wore velvet doublets, silk shirts, and drank more fine vintages of Arbor wine than any other man alive – except, perhaps, Vaegon the Dreamer.

It had been some time now, and Vaegon had still yet to speak about his dreams. It was knowledge to all in the realm – the second son of King Aeric was blessed with dreams of what was yet to be. Absolute hogwash, Victor was sure – like the stories of the Wall about grumpkins and snarks. Still, he had hoped Vaegon might entertain him with telling him his own fortune – Rawen's father, Arthor, claimed to have met an old crone that told him he was fated to drown in a river of ants.

It was a nice enough start to the day: he'd awoken with Denyse Redwyne (and hurried her out of his chambers before his sister or grandmother could rudely awaken them), then made his way down to his solar - a chamber steeped in opulence and adorned with the grandeur befitting the seat of House Tyrell—hints of debauchery lingered in the air like a subtle, heady perfume. The room, adorned with rich tapestries depicting the grandeur of the Reach, was now a tableau of aftermath from the revelry of the night prior.

There was still his father's writing desk, along with stacks of tomes that told of ancient histories of Houses Gardner and Tyrell, Florent and Footley and Fossoway. They'd remained closed since… well, Victor hadn't read them in a long time.

The late morning sunlight filtered through the ornate windows, casting golden beams that danced upon the elegant furnishings within the solar. Three daybeds, luxurious and draped with sumptuous fabrics in shades of verdant green and gold, occupied the centre of the room. Upon one, Rawen Hightower lay sprawled, his clothes dishevelled, evidence of a night of excess scattered around him. The other, Vaegon Targaryen, half-awake and mumbling nonsense under his breath.

Victor rubbed his forehead and slumped into the third daybed and let out a long sigh – his skin was still laden with sweat, and his shirt and hair had begun to stick to it, only making him feel warmer. Yet, at the same time, he felt so cold. At times he thought he might vomit, and at other times, he thought he needed to eat a suckling pig whole.

The solar, usually an epitome of refined elegance, now bore witness to the aftermath of revelry—subdued voices and the distant clatter of servants attending to their duties in the corridors outside. The scent of wine, stale yet lingering, mingled with the fragrance of burning candles, their flames flickering amidst pools of melted wax upon ornate candelabras that adorned the room.

Tapestries depicting Garth Greenhand and Ser Alestar Tyrell adorned the walls, their intricate details illuminated by the streaming rays of sunlight. The room held an air of grandeur, a contrast to the remnants of revelry that lingered—empty wine flagons and discarded garments hinting at the night's debaucheries.

Victor's hand shielded his eyes from the penetrating sunlight that filtered through the windows. The remnants of wine goblets and carafes lay strewn upon tables, and one clinked against the other, catching his attention.

"I thought you left," Rawen murmured, his voice hoarse.

"I did," Victor replied, shutting his eyes and slumping down, feeling the cool material of the daybed against his neck. He swept a hand and pulled out his long chestnut curls, letting them hang in front of his eyes. Seven Hells, he hoped he didn't vomit…

"With the… Denyse, again?"

"No," Victor lied, very conscious of how much Prince Vaegon might hear. "I escorted her to her chambers and retired to mine own."

"Of course," Rawen nodded, his voice not betraying how much he already knew.

They remained quiet for a moment, the stillness of the solar punctuated only by the occasional subdued murmur of Vaegon's slumber, still nursing the effects of a night of excessive revelry.

"It seems I missed some fine vintages," Victor said, and he could hear Rawen give the slightest of chuckles.

"And then something else," Rawen's smile was heavy in his voice.

"Lynessa Fossoway? Did you finally take her maidenhead?"

"Let's say I let the deer escape to pursue the boar."

"You're clearly itching to tell me about this boar…"

"Let's just say that two men in this chamber have ridden a dragon."

Victor sat up, absolutely gobsmacked as he looked across the man his own age, with a lopsided, toothy grin.

"You blackguard…" He said, honestly impressed. "Well done, Hightower… you're now a mistress. Of the King, I expect?"

"You're funnier than usual – we ought to feast every night."

"Wouldn't that be the dream?"

"And drink."

"I'd prefer not to think about drinking…" Victor said, scratching the sweat from his cheek. "I just want to remain here all day… forever…"

"Until your Lady wife gets here."

Victor let out a groan again. He knew nothing of the Starks, apart from their titles, their name and their history. They ought to have arrived already, though Victor was not too eager to greet them. Elinor and Alyssa were more excited than he was – it meant an end to his dalliances with Denyse. In truth, he ought to have ended them long ago – she was Rawen's cousin, after all. And she was of a marrying age – he'd ask his grandmother to wed her to one of their knights – someone who enjoyed riding and hunting, so she wouldn't be bored.

"Now that is something I can wait for…" Victor said, eyeing a barely-drunk crystal glass of Arbor gold. Would it help…?

"You know she probably can't read or write," Rawen teased him, "they just grunt and point."

"So ,I've heard."

"Eat their food raw as well. You may have to explain how a knife and fork works."

"She can't be worse than you," Victor replied. "Though… perhaps I'll give the kennels a clean, just in case…"

Rawen let out a subdued chuckle. The door creaked open and one of the pages, a Perwyn Rowan, a plump, doughy boy of nine, entered the solar.

"Begging your pardon, my lords, Your Gr-" He was cut off by a loud snore from Prince Vaegon. "The Lady Elinor has requested-"

"No…" Victor groaned. "I beg you, the sun's not up yet…"

"Yes, write down your message, Rowan, – we'll read it later," Rawen groaned in agreement.

"Beg pardon, my Lords, but it's urgent. Your Lady Grandmother and Lady Sister-"

"Urgh, fine…" Victor said, pushing himself up out of his daybed and tucking his silken shirt into his light woollen breeches, glancing around the solar to see Rawen still settling back to enjoy the last of his wine. "Hightower? Are you quite ready?"

"Not yet, Ser," Rawen said licking his lips and running a hand through the short golden curls atop his head, "Lady Elinor is not my grandmother…"

"Your Lord commands you so."

"Tell him I slumber," Rawen replied, sinking back into the daybed. Victor shook his head and ran a hand through his long, chestnut locks as he staggered after the boy. Gods, he needed a ride away from the castle – to lay in the grass and the cool sea breeze of the Sunset Sea at the Mouth of the Mander… He could have food taken to him there – flame-roasted venison with quail's eggs and milk and honey… or Arbor Gold mixed with lemon and honey…

By the time that the morning had unfurled with languid grace and embraced the ancient walls of the castle in a gentle caress, Victor arrived at the solar of his grandmother, Elinor. Sunlight filtered through the latticed windows, casting intricate patterns across the chamber's polished stone floors and bathing the room in a golden glow.

The air within the solar carried the fragrant whispers of freshly bloomed roses, their sweet scent intertwining with the scent of freshly-baked bread, the sweet and sticky scent of strawberries and cream and grapes and apples. The breeze that wafted through the open windows brought with it the warmth of the summer morning, carrying with it the promise of another warm and pleasant day in the Reach.

The chamber itself boasted furnishings of polished oak adorned with carvings that echoed the intricate beauty of nature—the delicate leaves and blossoms a tribute to the lush gardens that adorned Highgarden. Plush tapestries, woven in hues of emerald and gold, adorned the walls, depicting pastoral scenes of verdant fields and blossoming orchards.

Amidst the chamber, elegant teal divans and daybeds beckoned, adorned with cushions that bore the embroidered golden sigil of House Tyrell. A grand hearth, sculpted from white marble and adorned with vines and blooming flowers in bas-relief, sat dormant in the summer warmth, its stones exuding a cool and ancient calm.

As Victor stumbled into the solar, his head throbbing with the remnants of revelry, the chamber seemed to greet him with a soft embrace. His grandmother, Elinor, was sat regally at her desk – a piece of intricately carved mahogany – poring over parchments, her presence an embodiment of noble grace and quiet authority.

Victor soaked in the air of tranquillity, punctuated by the distant human of activity from the gardens below – the gentle whispers of wind rustling through the leaves, the soft murmur of servants that attended to their duties. Victor winced at the morning light that sliced through lattice, sending a splintering pain through his skull.

Drawing closer to his grandmother's desk, Victor noticed an exquisite box – a piece of carpentry he'd never seen before. It was adorned with intricate carvings in rich patterns and a script he did not recognize. Its surface, a fusion of exotic woods and mother-of-pearl inlays, glimmered softly in the sunlight.

As the golden rays danced upon its surface, Victor moved closer, wondering whether the box might whisper secrets of distant lands – or hold a tribute for the new Warden of the South. He reached out to touch it when Elinor spoke, her voice sweeping across the chamber like a breeze.

"Did you have fun last night?" Elinor asked, not looking up from her parchments.

"I think so," Victor replied, walking over to pick up a strawberry and taste it. It tasted… sharp. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not…

Elinor's quill scratched against the parchment for a moment. "And Denyse Redwyne?"

Victor gave a wide grin, remembering what he could of the night before. The feel of her skin against his, the soft moans, the kisses, the way her mouth moved over his. "I believe she did, yes…"

Elinor's hazel eyes were torn away from her writings to give Victor a stern look. "If you're to have a child, they'll be a Tyrell with your wife, not a Flowers with Denyse…"

"I don't believe one contradicts the other…" Victor shrugged. She opened her mouth and he quickly continued. "A jape, Grandmother, that was all."

"Words have weight, Victor."

"All things have weight…" he replied, tearing off part of the bread and eating it. He felt as though his stomach was being stretched… he tossed the bread back onto the silver plate and slumped down upon the divan.

Elinor set down her quill and stood up at her desk, holding her hip as she made her way around. "Your father, Garth…" she began, stretching out the words in the way that made him roll his eyes, "did not meet your mother until their wedding day. And Alys had only seen him once at his sixteenth name-day tourney."

"And they fell deeply in love with one another?" Victor asked. He felt restless at the mention of his parents – he could scarcely remember his mother, as he had only been eight years old when she passed.

Elinor sat down on the divan next to her grandson. "In time. You see, Garth…"

"I do not wish to hear about Father, Grandmother…" Victor said with all the effort he had in his wine-aching body. 'I never want to hear about him again', he thought.

"All things need time and care to grow. As if… you would not expect to ride a foal as you would a warhorse, would you? No, you would have to… rear and train and let the foal grow."

Victor nodded, rubbing his eye. "I think I would sooner just buy a warhorse..."

Elinor let out a long sigh. "Use your head, boy. Contrary to how you act, there is a brain in there."

"You're saying I ought to let Torrha grow into a mare before riding her off to war?" Victor asked, pointedly.

Elinor looked over at the boy and gave him a light slap on the cheek. He scowled at her and watched as she stood up and walked to the table in the centre of the room, picking up a grape and looking down at the box, her wrinkled face etched in worry.

"What's that?" Victor asked, pointing at it.

"That would be a box."

"And what, pray tell, would be inside-"

The door opened again and Alyssa entered, dressed in a teal kirtle that showed her fair-skinned arms, as well as the ruffles of her silken shift beneath. Her cheeks were slightly reddened, her chestnut curls falling down her shoulders in lazy curls. A slight, dainty smile on her round face as the doors shut behind her. Her round, brown eyes fell on Victor.

"I see you're alive."

"Unfortunately," Victor replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We were just talking about riding women, care to weigh in?"

"I wouldn't, actually."

"Hardly the largest loss," Victor said, closing his eyes.

"You forget, Vic, Denyse is my bedmaid. And the nights she peels herself from your bed, she sleeps in mine with Rosamund Ashford and Ellyn Beesbury. And she is very… descriptive. And critical."

Victor glared at her with narrowed eyes. She was goading him, surely… surely. Regardless, it made him sit up and examined her with something slightly more playful than contempt.

"Now that we're all awake…" Elinor said, walking over to the box in the centre of room. The latch was already open, and Victor pushed himself off the divan, waltzing over to stare as his grandmother pulled back on the lid that revealed the interior.

The box was lined with plush velvet of deep scarlet, with a burnt umber silk, stitched with patterns of golden spears – the colours of House Martell.

Nestled within this luxurious enclosure were not treasures or jewels, but a sight that sent a chill through the chamber. Victor covered his nose as a foul smell escaped into the room. Elinor produced a handkerchief and passed it over to Alyssa, who pressed it to her nose as she looked down into the box.

Two pairs of severed hands, their flesh desiccated and skin mummified to a leathery texture, were delicately clasped together within the box. The hands, displaying an eerie preservation despite their gruesome condition, held between their intertwined fingers was a scroll bearing the unbroken seal of the Tyrell Rose. Victor quickly recognised it – it was the letter he had sent to the Dornish over a week ago.

He had fought men before – in tourneys, though he had seen blood before. But never a severed hand. The worst had been when his father… Victor refused to think about that – he pushed the memory back to the back of his mind, where he would will it to remain buried.

"Hardly creatures of grace, are they?" Victor murmured as his grandmother pulled the letter from the hands and opened it up to read.

Moments passed as Alyssa wrinkled her nose and Victor placed his hands on his hips, licking his dry lips to wait and see what his grandmother would say. Eventually, she folded the letter back up, scoffing slightly.

"It's good that they didn't read it…" She said, walking to toss it back into the box.

Victor turned around to walk to the door, pressing it open and finding the boy, Perwyn, standing outside, with his hands clasped behind his back. "Rowan, boy, fetch Maester Harwin. Tell him to stop whatever he's doing and make his way here. Now."

Victor closed the door as the boy departed, and turned around to see his grandmother soaking her hands in the basin of water by her looking-glass and soak her hands.

"You sound like an oaf."

"Well, I'm glad you're focused on the pressing matters…"

"Don't try and be mocking, boy, you're not good at it."

"No, well, it can be hard to measure up to your usual high standards," Victor replied snidely before pointing at the box. "This is an act of war."

"Oh… war…" Elinor muttered darkly under her breath. "What do you know of war? You ride a pretty horse, hit men with a stick and give roses to maidens. Do you think that is war, hmm? If there is a war, it's one you're starting… you dolt."

"I sent an envoy to -"

"You sent armed men with a scroll that says 'leave my land or else'. How exactly did you expect them to respond?"

Victor was impatient from his grandmother's words, and from the wine-ache in his head. "If they mean to spill blood, I will respond in kind," he said fiercely.

The door opened, and in entered the young Maester Harwin, with flowing hair of pale gold and a thin moustache, wrapped in fine robes of silver wool.

"My Lord, my Ladies," Maester Harwin bowed his head, "I heard it was urgent…" his eyes fell on the open box of severed hands. "Gods be good…"

Alyssa closed the box quickly. "I'm sorry, the smell was…"

"Maester Harwin," Victor said, turning around to straighten up, "send a raven to Storm's End. Tell Ser Durran of what has happened, and tell him he can expect Reachmen to join his campaign. When the King awakes, I'll tell him that I intend to march my men south of the Red Mountains. We'll win the war Durran started, and remind King Aeric why House Tyrell bears the title, 'Defender of the Marches'."

"I…" Maester Harwin's blue eyes flickered over to Elinor. "I would advise you, my Lord, to discuss other…"

"Now, Maester Harwin," Victor ordered him.

Maester Harwin ground his teeth and gave a reluctant bow of his head. "Yes, my Lord."

Victor watched the maester leave the room, and the moment the doors closed behind him, Elinor spoke again.

"Well… I hope you feel very clever, now."

Victor turned around, perplexed by her. "What? I just showed strength and-"

"You showed you will run off to war just as quickly as you'll stick your cock into whomever is closest to you!"

"You're just…" Victor swept a hand up to his forehead. "You scold me like a child, saying I ought to act as a Lord, and when I do, you lecture me!"

"It's my duty to scold and lecture you as I see fit."

"I think you do it in place of having anything else to say," Victor retorted.

Elinor glared at him and walked over, clasping her wrinkled hands together. "Then listen here, boy, and listen well: your sister is not so foolish to flaunt her affairs, to jump on horses and wave around sticks. I know – you miss your father. You both miss him, but Alyssa is not running off to kill Dornishmen."

"Well, he was there, Grandmama…" Alyssa tried to speak up, but Elinor held up a finger.

"The day you lost a father, I lost a son. I have mourned him, but he was a stupid man who played stupid games with swords and lances. And with men like that, all you can do is guide them and hope they will not die young and for not very much." She scowled at him. "Yet you seem to yearn for a similar fate."

Victor clenched his jaw and flicked his tongue across his teeth before turned around his heel and storming away. The memories were flooding through this mind. The moment when cheers turned to screams, how his father hit the sand, with blood spilling out of his arm. The way Victor had run to vault over the tilt to grab his father – watching the man's face grow pale, his entire body shaking.

He shook his head and tried to think of something else – his night with Denyse Redwyne, his hunt with Rawen, drinking with Prince Vaegon – anything! But it did nothing to alleviate the rising sense of dread in his stomach. It did nothing to still the racing beat of his heart, how all breath seemed to escape his chest.

Victor tried to remain composed, giving hurried nods and bows to the courtiers and servants that he passed on his way back to his solar. It were as though he were running after Durran Baratheon, when he had scooped up his father from the bloodied sand and ran to the tent, shouting for a maester. Victor should have been finding a maester, or carrying his father – he should have been doing something. What sort of a son trailed after him?

Ascending the stairs, taking them two steps at a time, Victor burst into his solar, waking up Rawen.

"Seven Hells, Vic, what's-" Rawen groaned, and in a flash, Victor was draining the cups and glasses on the table of wines, red and gold. "Vic, what's-"

"Come, we're hunting," Victor stated, walking over to kick his cousin's ankle.

"Wha- where?"

"Anywhere. There's always game somewhere."

Rawen frowned, but he had grown up with Victor – he was, perhaps, closer than a friend, and more like a brother. As he always would, Rawen nodded and agreed, without fully understanding anything beyond Victor needing to hunt.

"I'll tell the Master of the-"

"No, that takes too long," Victor paused to drain another cup of wine. "We'll go fishing in the Mander. Now, come on."

Rawen picked up his teal jerkin from the night before. "Like this?"

"It doesn't matter," Victor replied, turning around and being followed out by a half-asleep Rawen Hightower, who winced at all lights and sounds, but followed his friend and Lord all the same.

---

Jynessa

---

In the stately citadel of Sunspear, on the upper floors and looking out of the Water Gardens, was the chamber of war: a chamber of strategy and intrigue steeped in opulence and the legacy of the sun-soaked land. The chamber bore striking semblances to the intricacies found in the noble dwellings of a bygone Rhoynish era: Arched doorways, intricately adorned with geometric patterns and embellished with delicate carvings, walls adorned with swirls of hues of amber, emerald and sapphire, interlocked ribbons of stone burnished gold by the scorching Dornish sun that filtered through the ornate windows, casting golden rays that played upon the walls and floor.

The chamber sprawled out in an elongated expanse, its floor adorned with intricately woven rugs and carpets – vivid tapestries of vibrant orange and gold and red, mesmerizing patterns that sprawled like intricate, living canvases. Low tables, and adorned with silvered embellishments, were nestled amidst plush cushions and divans – in Dorne, war was not an excuse for discomfort.

At the end of the chamber, next to another Rhoynish arch that opened out onto a balcony that looked out across the Summer Sea, was a table. A magnificent table, a masterpiece of artistry and craftsmanship: a mosaic portraying a map of the Dornish Principality: lands, towns, the strongholds in the Red Mountains, the archipelago of the Broken Arm and Stepstones beyond… It had always reminded Jynessa of Prince's Board.

Cushioned divans, draped in luxurious fabrics dyed in hues of saffron and crimson, filled the corners, where commanders and generals sit and debate strategy.

A soft breeze, carrying the fragrant notes of spices and the heady scent of citrus groves, wafted through the chamber, carried by tendrils of incense that coiled delicately in the corners and infused the space.

The air held the warmth of the Dornish climate, invigorating yet bearing the sultry embrace of the coastal winds. The faint echoes of distant music – a melodic blend of multiple lironda – seeped in from the courtyards and stirred the Rhoynish blood in Jynessa.

It was around the table that Jynessa saw her brother, Qyle, engaged in a discourse with the eldest of her daughters, Myria. Qyle wore a shirt of ochre-red silk, opened down to his abdomen, and showing his smooth, olive chest, marked with a thick scar from collar-bone to navel. He exuded a sense of quiet confidence, arms folded as his dark eyes flickered across the map, listening to Myria.

The eldest daughter was adorned in an air of poise and grace, her golden gown boasting a luxurious sheen that caught the light in mesmerising ways. She looked every part the proper Dornish woman. Her haladie dangled from her belt, a hand on the jeweled hilt of her steel shamshir, as she pointed across the map, towards the Sea of Dorne, and the Cape Wrath of the Stormlands beyond.

Conversely, Allyria, the younger of the two, reclined in the chamber, one hand holding a smoking stick of incense, the other grasping a glass chalice of scarlet strongwine. She wore gold too – a man's silken shirt that plunged daringly down towards her navel, fashioned in a rich, textured fabric that complimented the natural hue of her olive skin.

Myria's sharp focus and attentive stance mirrored her uncle's, and she would quickly fall silent when he began to explain his strategy, but would quickly chime in once intrigue was mentioned.

"… any day now," Qyle said with a shrug.

"It's been a fortnight," Myria nodded. Allyria let out a loud snore from the corner.

"I had hoped for a fight…"

"There will be plenty, Princess, do not worry," Qyle said across to her.

"With any luck, we'll only have to worry about one of the northern lords…"

"I wouldn't be so sure," Allyria sniffed the incense and swallowed the last of her wine. She uncrossed her legs and rose from the plush cushion she had been sat upon. "Northerners don't seem to forget their grudges."

"Nor do we," Qyle replied, his voice strong. He looked up to see Jynessa there, dressed in gold like her daughters. A soft white headscarf covering her bare scalp, and the lesions from the most recent leechings. "Princess."

"Princess," Myria quickly followed suit with her uncle, and bowed her head. Allyria, however, just raised the glass waited for the young boy to approach and pour another glass for her. How the girl stayed slender after drinking her weight in wine was nothing short of a mystery to Jynessa.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Jynessa said, walking closer. Myria ordered the boy to get her a chair, while Qyle's brown eyes lingered heavily on his elder sister, waiting to see what she would say next.

"The Princess has seen to the Tyrell boy – sent back a strong message," he said, his voice hard and impossible for most to gauge, but Jynessa could detect the slightest flicker of pride in his words. "And the Baratheon's begin their march today."

"Today, really?" Jynessa said, somewhat surprised. "It's too early, no?"

"He's eager," Qyle said, chuckling slightly. "The Princess' spies tell us he won't fight his own war – just stay in his castle with his new Dragon Princess."

"I trust you're practiced with a scorpion, Qyle?"

"Dragons have never taken Dorne," Qyle said confidently. "We can hold the Prince's Pass from the Stormlanders. They won't make it past Skyreach. And the Stone Way is… well…" Qyle scoffed. Jynessa knew the land as well as he: the Stone Way was a treacherous pass through the Red Mountains, full of stony slopes and narrow, twisting pathways with stone steps the Yronwoods had carved into the mountainside. If a Dornishman was wary of such a perilous path, the Stormlanders would be doubly so. And if they were not, then the Wyl's and Yronwood's would remind them why only fools tread that route.

"Skyreach, then?"

"I've already sent word to Lord Qoren," Qyle nodded, scratching at his beard. "He's to gather forces and march to Kingsgrave."

"Surely Perros Fowler can hold the Prince's Pass?" Myria frowned.

"The Prince's Pass is where the bulk of the northern forces will gather," Qyle explained.

"And Qoren Yronwood is a proud man. Too proud to be garrisoned with Lycia Wyl…" Jynessa continued. It was true, Qoren Yronwood had spoken at no short length of the deceit and treachery of House Wyl. An 'up-jumped gaggle of mountain bandits and thieves' he had called them.

"Qoren Yronwood is a bitter old man who has never forgotten his forebears once ruled Dorne," Qyle said with a wave of his hand, "he is always too proud to serve under any man. But the man knows war. And, like it or no, he commands the most men in Dorne. If any man can hold the Pass, it will be him."

"Unless he strikes a deal and turns cloak," Myria said. "Asks to serve the Baratheons as… Wardens of Dorne."

"The man is arrogant, not stupid," Qyle shook his head.

"Oh, is Ariyana here?" Allyria asked, straightening up, suddenly interested. It was no secret that Allyria had taken a shine to Qoren's true-born daughter a year ago – Qoren had taken issue with it and left in the night, taking his daughters with him. Clearly, the Yronwood's still resented losing Dorne to Nymeria, all those centuries ago.

"Well… it seems you have this well in hand," Jynessa said. "I presume you'll be marching soon?"

"If needed," Qyle nodded. "I'm sending the Princess to represent our House at Skyreach," he gestured to Allyria, who fluttered her fingers in a wave.

"And to keep an eye on the Yronwood," Myria nodded.

"And to win the war," Allyria stretched out her slender, toned arms high above her head with a slight groan as she flexed, like a cat waking up from a long nap. "I'd quite like to kill some Stormlanders… as they're there…"

"You'll do as your uncle bids, child," Jynessa said, clasping her hands together. "Now, have the cooks prepare food in the Water Gardens. I must talk to my brother."

"That's never good…" Qyle said in a slight murmur. "Could I not go with them, too?"

Jynessa watched Allyria walk with wide, swinging steps passing off her glass chalice to one of the boys. Myria, meanwhile, lay a gentle hand on her mother's and gave her a small smile as she exited the chamber. It felt so quiet – Jynessa and Qyle were the smallest part of the family. There had been ten members of the House of Nymeros Martell but some years ago. But, her youngest daughter, Nymeria, had never drawn breath. Gwyneth, Alleras, Lewyn – her youngest siblings, all murdered by her twin, Dickon. She had began to wonder whether she might have drunk something – something given to her by Dickon, that might have slain her daughter in her belly. In a single year, five family members had been committed to the waters – such was their way as, like their Rhoynish ancestors, Jynessa Martell and her brother and daughters all worshipped the Mother Rhoyne. The water that all life came from, and would thus be returned to. The water they carried with them from the moment their eyes opened, to when they closed for the last time. Though Nymeria had led her people from their river to the sandy shores of Dorne, they still praised those waters that sustained them – protected them from the dragonlords of Old Valyria. The waters had guided Nymeria to the southern lands that they had managed to conquer and unify. Life was elegant – not always peaceful, but they were not as barbarous as their northern enemies.

"You intend to meet them in battle?" Jynessa asked Qyle, once alone.

"If they're foolish enough to try and march down the Pass," Qyle nodded thoughtfully, his brown eyes rolling over the mosaic of red mountains, with the yellow road that wound through it.

"That is not how we defeated the Targaryen's," Jynessa reminded him. When Aegon I had invaded Dorne, he had found empty stronholds and castles (aside from their northern-most castle of Wyl). It was only once Aegon returned to his throne, confident he had won, that knives emerged from the shadowcity, like snakes from the sand, and struck in the night. Let the northern knights fight with steel, shining in the sun and atop heavy, loud horses. The Dornish fought with shadows, with poison, from the dark and the shadows.

"We are fighting stags, not dragons," Qyle said, folding his arms with the slightest of smiles twitching beneath his thick, black beard.

"Is one not the other?" Jynessa asked. "Myria tells me the Strongarm is betrothed to one of the Dragon Princesses."

"A betrothal is not a marriage," Qyle pointed out, "there is time for… issues to arise."

Jynessa scoffed. "Poisoned wine may unite our enemies against us."

"There are more precise ways," Qyle replied. "But if the Stormlanders wish to throw their dead bodies upon our castle walls, we shan't disappoint them."

"And Allyria?" Jynessa asked. "When were you planning on telling me you were sending my daughter away?"

"I did tell you."

"When I walked in on you and my other daughter talking tactics."

Qyle scratched his beard. "It was more strategy than tactics…"

"I'm her mother. And I am your Princess – if you send my daughter somewhere without telling me, it looks as though I cannot keep my own House in order…"

"I understand that, but Allyria has a sharp mind and a sharper spear," Qyle explained. "Both of which may rust if she remains here drinking wine and bedding women. The girl needs purpose."

"There are a dozen other castles she could be sent to."

"But only one where she will grow." Qyle swept a hand to the yellow tiles that made up the castle named 'Yronwood' on the map. "She will make a fine amira at the Pass."

"And how might the Bloodroyal react if he finds Allyria with her fingers inside his daughter again?"

"He will grumble and moan. Wed me to the girl, or Allyria to his son, Alleras – it would be no wound we could not salve," Qyle said. Jynessa frowned slightly at her brother – it was not just that he was unconcerned with what might happen – he was actually… impressed?

"You're proud of her, aren't you?" Jynessa asked, unable to stop herself from smiling at the peculiarity of the situation.

"Qoren Yronwood oft talks like a braggart of his House's ancient claims of dominion – and to hear him talk, you'd think he was the only man to journey beyond the Red Mountains!"

"He did enjoy his talks – but Nymor has said, things are different for the stone-"

"Oh, 'Nymor says, Nymor says…'" Qyle rolled his eyes and waved to one of the boys, who brought him a glass of red strongwine, dark like blood.

"Is Nymor the source of your ire, or Qoren?" Jynessa asked. Nymor was a stark contrast to Qyle. His skin fair where Qyle's was olive. His eyes violet where Qyle's were dark. His weapon, the glowing greatsword, Dawn, forged from a fallen star, and Qyle's was a long halberd, designed to hack a man's hand to pierce his heart. The gallant knight that had been born in the mountains and praised the Seven, and the kinslaying amir that spoke well enough of the Mother Rhoyne, but never with the same fervour as Jynessa or Myria. He seemed more detached and disinterested – not unlike his niece, Allyria.

"Nymor is a fine consort and a better protector," Qyle explained, "he even has a fine tongue for wining. But Salleo gave us the support of Braavos and the Free Cities."

It was Jynessa's turn to roll her eyes. Her first husband had been the second son of Orlos Antaryon – proud and arrogant and entitled like a northern prince. He had taken to Dornish life as well as a fish does to land. He had grown angry and insulted upon learning Jynessa had bedded Ser Nymor Dayne for some years, and intended to continue doing so. Hatred festered in his heart, though, it would not burn with wrath for long. Salleo was lost to the waves of the Narrow Sea over twenty years ago. Perhaps Tyroshi pirates happened upon him. Perhaps they sank his ship before they could board it. Who was to say? But Jynessa had married again – to her sworn sword and girlhood friend, Ser Nymor. Though, Orlos Antaryon, the Sealord of Braavos, had never sent word to Dorne again. He had never sent blades or poison or one of the Faceless Men, neither, but there had been no aid. Just trade – as before.

"Salleo was a soft and wet boor who wanted to carve his name on me," Jynessa stated. "I am Princess of Dorne, he was just… a Braavosi noble."

"It made us stronger. Unless you intend to wed Myria to a Stormlander? Allyria to that… Arrec Baratheon," he scoffed. "Or perhaps one of the Targaryen princes?"

"The Strongarm is the only Baratheon I care to talk of," Jynessa said, remembering the boy who had been some years younger than her. Now there was a man who ought to have been born Dornish. A man that loved to drink and laughed as he fought. A man who had dressed as a Dornishman, learnt their words and their histories, conversed openly with Sands. They had even shared much together – memories, stories, thoughts and lovers. She remembered the talks of possibly wedding one another – though, he had not thought it could happen. 'My Father killed Dornishmen, Princess, I can't imagine he would bid me wed one.'

His brother Erich had been murdered, and Arlan had returned to join his brother. It was not long afterwards when Jynessa had been betrothed to Salleo Antaryon, and Arlan had married some Stormlander woman. They had exchanged missives from time to time – Qyle Martell had even ventured into the Stormlands on occasion. But with Arlan's failing health, the peace had become fragile. Stonemen began venturing north, raiding. None of them sanctioned by Jynessa, but… well, perhaps Qoren Yronwood had done so? Perhaps there was a new Vulture King emerging in the Red Mountains? The Strongarm's sickness was the tinder, and the raids were the flame. Now, the blazing inferno of war was looming over them.

"You know how to rule Dorne as a Princess," Qyle stated, setting down his glass of wine on the orange tiles that made up Sunspear on the map. "You were born to sit the spear seat, and you do it well, but you have always had an amir to fight your battles. Allyria can be Myria's amira."

It was true. Nymor had been her protector and champion, but Qyle was the highest amir of Dorne. The man who governed the war, led soldiers and planned defences. It had been his idea to place scorpions on the walls of Sunspear once again as soon as he heard of Arlan Strongarm's failing health. It had been him who installed food tasters for himself and the rest of the family. She trusted him with her own life, as she had a hundred times before. But trusting him with her daughter's life was something she found very hard.

"And she will command?"

"I will not lie and say she will not fight, as I know her just as well as you," Qyle said, a faint smile on his lips once again. "But she will be there to learn from the Bloodroyal."

"And you trust him to protect her?"

"I trust him to not want to shame himself or his family. 'The Yronwood could not protect the Amira, Allyria Nymeros Martell?' He spoke in a very poor imitation of a Stoneman's accent. Jynessa chortled – he'd never managed to master any accent beyond his own.

"I just fear for her safety," Jynessa stated.

"We are Dornish. We cannot live our lives governed by fear," Qyle said simply. "It's a lesson she has taught me." He offered her his hand, and Jynessa took it, leaning on her younger brother as they began to walk back across the chamber.

"She is clever," Jynessa nodded. "Not like Myria, but… in her own way."

"Indeed. How did you do that?" Qyle responded. Jynessa gave the smallest (and weakest) of shoves.

"What about Myria? Is there anything I ought to know about that?"

Qyle shook his head, though he never said 'no'.

---

Ardan

---

Ardan was struggling to find his half-sister.

Most of Ella's friends were wary of him – Alyne Wylde and Jocelyn Tarth never wanted to say anything to him, but Shyra Swann, the youngest of them, had been helpful enough to say she'd not wanted to play 'Come into My Castle' that day. It was peculiar; usually, Ella loved games.

He'd began to sweat as he searched the castle – he was to depart with the rest of the Stormlands forces within the hour. The thought of leaving without saying farewell made him panic. He still had yet to talk to his father, and to Arrec.

Cursing the Seven Gods in their Seven Heavens for the aching in his head (a relic from the night before), Ardan pressed on one of the thick, iron-banded, oaken doors and found exited onto the battlements of Storm's End, overlooking Shipbreaker Bay, and the Rainwood to the south. The land that Lady Cassandra came from.

Standing there, without a woollen cloak, in one of her golden gowns, was little Ella. Her lanky body was plain to see, with sleeves that were just a little too short for her long arms. Her dark mess of curls were damp and sodden from the drizzle of the passing storm. She seemed to be pensive – deep in thought. She never stayed still, she was always running about like a feral animal. More fox than fawn.

"Ella," Ardan called out to her, "what are you doing? You'll catch a cold- come along…" He turned back to open the door, but found Ella had remained standing still, as if she were frozen solid. "Ella?"

"Are you really leaving?" She asked, her voice shaking and fearful. Ardan felt an ache inside his chest; he had hoped to tell her himself. He'd planned it out. But she turned to face him, her expression impossible to read. Her round sea-green eyes fixed on him, the smattering of freckles on her cheeks wet

Ardan licked his lips and dropped his gaze down to his feet. There was no running away from it.

"Yes."

Ella's face cracked apart, her lip trembled and tears pooled in her eyes. "Do you… not like us anymore?" She asked.

It was like being stabbed in the heart, seeing her like that.

"Of course I do…" he insisted, walking towards her.

"Then why are you leaving?" She asked, her voice shaking as she took a long sniff. "Is- is it Mother?"

"Ella…" Ardan couldn't even look at her – it made him so full of guilt he thought it might leak out of his ears.

"Father will let you stay- this is your home too!"

"It's not," he said without thinking. Ella's dark brow stitched itself together in confusion and, with a sigh, Ardan scrambled for words. "It's… it's not forever, Ella."

It wasn't a lie – not really. Who know what would happen in a few years? Ella looked down at her feet, and Ardan took a few steps closer until he could put a hand on her dark, frizzy curls and stare into her green eyes, just like her mother.

"We can't always stay in one place forever," Ardan tried to explain, "Sometimes it's better to leave when you still have a choice."

"So, you're… choosing to leave us?"

"It's…"

Ardan didn't know what to say. How could he explain it to her? That Lady Cassandra had hated him as far back as he could remember? That her mother and brother never called him by his name, only ever 'Bastard'? And then he would have to explain that he cannot inherit, and the moment their father died, Durran might decide Ardan could have a claim to Storm's End – just like their grandfather, Baldric the Bold. Bastards are deceitful creatures – it was common knowledge. Perhaps the Targaryen's might insist he take the black or join the citadel, and relinquish any future claim he might fabricate – he didn't know which was worse. Ardan just let out a long sigh and stared down at his younger half-sister.

"It's complicated," he said, at long last.

Ella didn't seem satisfied with that. She turned to walk along the wall, with Ardan walking beside her, a hand gently resting on her shoulder.

"People keep talking about me marrying," she said eventually.

"What people?"

"The Princess."

Ardan had barely seen the woman in the month or so that the Targaryen's had spent there. Aside from his siblings, the only nobles Ardan saw were the other knights and squires that had journeyed there. There had been times where he felt a pang of resentment, seeing Durran talk to Ser Connas Corbray, the greatest fighter in the Seven Kingdoms. But, this had also meant he had never had to talk to Ser Lucan of Lannisport – he'd never had to stand too close to the twisted, corroded skin that engulfed his face – never been close enough to touch the war-wound from dragonfire. Ser Connas was the finest swordsman in Westeros, but the way Ser Lucan eyed everyone, like a fox in a henhouse – he may have been the most deadly.

"Just ignore her," Ardan advised her. "Targaryen's think they're better than everyone else."

"They have dragons."

"Yes…" Ardan nodded. "But they're no more dragons than you are a stag. So, unless you're hiding your antlers in that bird's nest…" he began to search her curls and heard her a small chuckle. "No, you're just a skinny little girl."

She shoved her arm into his ribs, making him chuckle quietly as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, his thumb resting on the small heart-shaped mole on her neck.

"Can I give you your present?" Ardan asked, finally. "I don't want Maester Rickard to see and want one as well."

Ella's face brightened up for a moment. "A present?" She asked, her eyes alight with curiosity. It made Ardan smile.

He reached into his coin purse and rifled through until he found the square, iron coin, emblazoned with the pair of interlocked triangles, at the helm and sword on the other side. He pinched the coin and held it out until Ella took it, turning it over in her hands.

"It's from Essos," Ardan told her, "a Braavosi coin. Worth quite a bit this side of the Narrow Sea, I'd wager."

"How much?" Ella asked, eyes already glinting with possibilities.

"Too much to lose," he said, fastening his coinpurse closed. "There was a whole chest of them onboard a ship – down there in the bay. A galley, painted purple, was dashed upon the rocks, with maps of the entire world."

"Maester Rickard has maps of the entire world," Ella insisted.

"How would you know? You've never left Storm's End," Ardan teased her. "I found a monster beneath the deck – a sea-dragon, just like Nagga. I slew her with this," he pulled on the black hilt of his dagger, showing her the blade. Ella was gobsmacked, staring up at him with wide eyes. She had never grown beyond enjoying his stories. But, a moment later, sadness flickered over her again and she looked back down at the stone battlements beneath them.

"Mother took my sword again…" she lamented.

'Of course she did,' Ardan thought to himself, but was wise enough to keep such words inside his head.

"Arrec will find you another," he assured her, sheathing the dagger in its scabbard. Wooden swords were easy enough to find.

"She'll just take that one too…"

Ardan sighed. She needed something smaller than a longsword – a shortsword, perhaps? Though, he could imagine Cassandra taking that as well. She needed something small, and easy to hide. Ardan glanced back down to his belt, where his hand still sat upon the hilt of his dagger.

"If you promise to hide it…" he began, pulling the scabbard out from the belt.

"I promise-" Ella began, eagerly.

"Listen," Ardan chuckled. "If you promise to hide it- and to train with it… not play, train…" He looked at her nod with a wide, innocent smile before giving a long sigh. Knowing her, he might regret it, but… well, Arrec and Durran weren't the brothers to help her with swordplay. He felt useful. He placed the sheathed dagger in her small palm and watched her turn it over, both hands on the hilt.

"No, one hand, not two – it's not a greatsword…" Ardan instructed her, pulling her left hand away. "You only need one hand; you'll lunge further."

Ella frowned as she held it up one hand for a few moments before needing her left again. "It's heavy," she excused herself.

"It's steel, not wood. And you're just skinny," he gave a small smile before trying to look at her seriously – like their father had looked at him, like Ser Edric looked at him. "You have to practice. You might not be able to parry a sword or break a shield, but you can stab between the plate – especially if he doesn't see you."

"Okay."

"And you can't lose it."

"I know…"

"Not ever."

"I promise, Ardan."

Ardan smiled again, a small chuckle in his chest as Ella looked up at him, happy and hopeful. He needed another hour – just for her. He wanted to show her how to care for it, how to use a whetstone – maybe help her find somewhere to hide it. But he still had to say farewell to others.

"You can come to visit me, you know?" he spoke softly. "Whenever you like. And when the fighting's done, I'll come back – I'll bring blood oranges for you and Dornish strongwine for Arrec. You can even try some, if you're old enough." He began to wonder – how old would she be when he returned? What would she look like?

"Promise?" Ella asked him quickly, grabbing onto his wrist. "Promise you'll come back?"

Ardan smiled again. She was nothing like Lady Cassandra – she was sweet and kind and hopeful. Like Arrec, she'd never known a day without Ardan. Perhaps that was why they didn't loathe him like Durran did.

"I'm going to miss you," Ardan said. She wrapped her long, thing arms around his cloaked waist, nestling her head of curls against his stomach, and Ardan hugged her back, his hands on her little gold gown.

Not long after walking Ella to her chambers (and scaring away the spiders beneath her wardrobe so that she could hide her dagger there), Ardan had climbed the stone steps past Durran's bedchambers, and stood before the sturdy oaken door with the crowned stag emblazoned in black iron. It was the Lord's Chamber. Where his father had remained for months on end.

Ardan knocked on the door and took a deep breath. He hadn't seen his father in a week – and then, he couldn't even remember him. Instead, his father had spoken to him as if he was their uncle Erich – the uncle that had been murdered by the Starks in Winterfell. A guest that Cregan Stark claimed to have vanished so mysteriously. Ardan supposed that he might have looked like Erich – it made him swell with pride. Though, Maester Rickard had pointed out that their father drank the milk of the poppy. It dulled his mind and mixed dreams and sight.

"Enter," came a muffled voice Ardan had been dreading – Lady Cassandra's voice. He contemplated leaving – she wouldn't have known it was him. But, before Ardan could even move, he realised something – he was leaving. He might not ever come back. What more could Lady Cassandra do to him? She couldn't dismiss him from Storm's End, she couldn't force him to ride North and take the black – he was a member of the war party now. He could be free of her torment. She could no longer trouble him.

Ardan opened the door, bold and brave, and felt all the spirit fly from his body as he saw his father. He had been so strong in his childhood – so tall and able to lift up him and Arrec. He'd been Arlan Strongarm, the man that carried a greatsword in one hand! What lay in that bed was a man with greying hair and lips as blue as his eyes. His skin was pale, and he was thin – so thin! His eyes were sunken into his face, and he lay under furs, wheezing softly, sweat beading on his brow.

Sat beside him, with a writing desk and a scroll, flanked by Maester Rickard, was Lady Cassandra. Her red hair curled out onto her shoulders, and she looked so healthy and young – especially next to her husband. Ardan wondered if she was a witch – if she was sapping his father's health to keep herself young. The woman had no love for anyone beside her children – and even that could be questionable.

Her sea-green eyes found him, and a blink later, they were full of venom and contempt. Ardan immediately averted his eyes from her.

"Forgive me, my Lady, how is he?"

"Resting," she said, her voice sharp as a knife.

"I-"

"He is resting, Bastard."

Ardan swallowed and tried to steel himself – he'd sooner face the waves of Shipbreaker Bay once again than her. 'Less than an hour' he reminded himself.

"I just want to say farewell," he said, his voice trembling.

Cassandra scowled at him for a moment before her face relaxed, drifting down towards his feet. She took a breath and returned to her parchment. He took this is a grant of permission and walked around the chamber, giving her a wide berth, until he was on the other side of the bed, next to his father, who stared dully at the stone ceiling.

"Father," Ardan tried to be as quiet as he could, but he felt Lady Cassandra's eyes lay heavily upon him again. "Father," he was a little louder this time. He met Lady Cassandra's gaze – she was almost inviting him to try again – as if that would give her a reason to banish him from the chamber. 'Damn her,' Ardan thought, 'what more can she do to me?'

"Ardan…" wheezed his father, Lord Arlan, "is that you, son?"

Ardan's heart soared as his father's sapphire eyes found him. It were as though Lady Cassandra had been disarmed – she would not dare act in front of Father. And for Ardan to be called 'son' – in her presence… it felt good. It felt right.

"Yes, Father," Ardan said, sitting down on the bed.

"Ardan…" Arlan shook his head, smiling slightly as he stirred, "Seven Hells, you're big now… stay a while, would you?"

"You must rest, Husband…" Lady Cassandra said, her voice sweet and gentle.

"I've done precious fucking little but rest…" Arlan said as he tried to sit up in his bed. Ardan leant forwards and held his father by the shoulders, pulling the furs closer around him. Arlan smiled at seeing him and, with a groan of discomfort, patted Ardan's arm. His fingers held the woollen cloak that was draped from Ardan's shoulders.

"A cloak? Inside?" Arlan asked, perplexed. "Winter is not here yet, is it?"

"No, Father," Ardan shook his head and tried not to look at Cassandra. He wanted to tell his father the truth – he could undo this mess, surely. Send Ardan off to the real war. But… his father was not the man he used to be. It would be wrong to make these moments harder than they already were. Besides, it might give her satisfaction for him to beg his father to escape his duty. No, if Ardan was given orders, he'd see them through, because he was going to be a knight. A commander.

"I'm leaving today," Ardan said to his father, "I'm riding south with Ser Edric."

"Ah, eager for a fight, eh?" Arlan asked, chuckling. Ardan didn't reply – he wasn't going to be doing any fighting. "You remind me of me, nigh on twenty years ago…" Arlan reminisced. "No doubt you'll be cracking skulls and bedding alemaids, singing songs of your own victories!" Ardan's stomach twisted in guilt – saying nothing felt so much like lying. Arlan chortled until he began to cough, and Ardan fixed the furs around his shoulders. Cassandra rolled her eyes and placed the writing desk on the bed, standing up and marching out of the chamber, her shoes clicking against the stone slabs. The door slammed behind her.

Ardan would not be able to act like his father – if he fathered a bastard, what keep would he have to bring the child back to?

"Ignore her," Arlan said to Ardan, "it's when a woman wants to kill you – that's when you know it's love," he grinned. "So, you're leaving?"

"Soon."

"You've said your goodbyes?"

'Not to Durran,' Ardan thought. "Almost. I'm to see Arrec after."

Arlan nodded. "Good, good… try not to kill any Martell's if you can… there's already so many dull men alive, let's hope to keep some Dornish around."

It was something Ardan forgot so quickly: his Lord Father had grown up in Sunspear. He'd been raised Dornish. Perhaps that was why he never thought twice about raising Ardan in Storm's End. Why he'd insisted Ardan be raised the same as Arrec and Durran. And there Ardan was, wanting to ride off and kill the Dornish.

"Your son says they're all barbarians and heathens. Little more than southern wildlings," Ardan knew the phrases well enough – Durran was zealous enough to spout them often.

"Durran's a fool," Arlan said, waving a hand. "Very smart and sensible a lot of ways, yes, but he's about as foolish as his father in others!" He laughed and began coughing again. Ardan reached to pick up one of the cups and gave it a sniff, find it to be wine.

"I would not advise wine, my Lord…" Rickard began.

"Fuck advice, I'm not dead yet," Arlan complained, taking the cup from Ardan and sipping it. It was terrible – hearing those words. Ardan didn't want to go – he wanted to stay and ask his father all the questions he'd never asked before.

"Two sons that hate me," Arlan complained, "a daughter that cried whenever I would hold her, and a wife that wishes me dead…" he sighed. "Gods… if only I'd died in the Causeway. Durran was always better for this than I…" he sighed. Ardan had barely heard his father speak of his older brothers.

"Don't say that," Ardan frowned. "Arrec doesn't hate you, he-"

"I need the… milk of the…"

Ardan glanced around and picked up one of the cups. Maester Rickard gave a short nod and Ardan fed his father the milk of the poppy. Arlan sighed with relief and slumped back, his breathing turning easy.

A haunting realisation crept upon Ardan – soon, his father would be too dull to speak. He had moments to ask the questions he wished to be answered. The one question that had hung in his mind for years.

"Father, I wanted to ask…"

"I know you – I know I never talked about your mother…"

"I gave up wondering about her years ago," Ardan said firmly. It was a lie – he often found himself wondering what part of him looked like her.

"Good…" Arlan nodded, "because there's more to you than her."

Ardan glanced towards the door – he had the worry that Lady Cassandra was listening, and would burst in to scream at them both if he mentioned his mother. 'Less than an hour', he reminded himself. It could be his last chance to learn anything. "Is she alive?" He asked, finally. "Whoever- wherever she is?"

Arlan's face fell into a sad smile as he stared into the candlelight. "It's not important, lad."

That was all he needed to say – it was an answer Ardan had been dreading, the reason why he hadn't wanted to ask about her. If his mother had been alive, Arlan would have told him. If she were dead, Arlan would have told him years ago. That answer meant that he simply did not know. Ardan's mother had been a whore at worst, and at best, some peasant girl that probably swaddled him in hopes of riches. Those dreams he'd had of her being an Essossi princess or a highborn Lady in the Riverlands… they'd always stay dreams. No, not even that – they were just fantasies. Lies and lullabies and fairytales from his childhood like Nagga the Sea-Dragon. Another name he would give himself at the taverns in Durran's Town.

Arlan's blue eyes began to close.

"Father?" Ardan asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. Arlan jolted awake and his eyes found Ardan.

"The milk, it…" he waved a hand and grew sluggish.

'Less than an hour,' Ardan reminded himself. "Father, did you- did you ever think about writing to the King?" He asked, hoping his father would remain awake long enough to answer. "To ask if you could give me a true name?"

Arlan gave a small laugh, and his eyes opened to find Ardan's. He searched his eyes for a moment, and his hand closed around Ardan's. Tears began to pool in his eyes as he smiled at the boy.

"No," Arlan said finally. Ardan's heart sank, but Arlan's hand remained firmly grasped to his. "Names… names are noise and air. You are more than your mother's son. Name or no, we are bound by blood. My father's blood, and his before him, all the way back to the Godsgrief and the First Men and to Old Valyria. A King's word cannot give you that. And no-one can take it away from you."

Ardan gave a small nod. He was still laden with disappointment, but he felt warm again – he was heavy with regret, why hadn't he seen his father more? Why hadn't he been there?

His father's hand relaxed and he leant back into his bed, eyes closing as Maester Rickard began to move him back beneath the covers. Ardan helped, and then removed himself from the chamber. Upon opening the door, he found Lady Cassandra standing there, eyes narrowed and full of venom and malice while she stared at Ardan.

"You're finished?" She asked.

'Finished with you,' he wanted to say. "Yes, my Lady."

Lady Cassandra's eyes drifted back towards the bed and, for a moment, her face softened. She took a long breath and her eyes began to flicker from Arlan to Ardan. She glanced down at her hand and began to fix her rings.

"You were always his favourite…" she said softly. "That always made it… hard."

Ardan looked up at her. The first thing he felt was rage – did she expect him to feel sorry for her? Every damned day of his life was torment and suffering, and she was the reason for all of it. But she would stand there, and say he made life hard for her?

"I was still with child when he brought you back," she informed him. "He knew about my father and his bastards. He knew what it cost my family, and yet he…" she shook her head as her voice cracked, looking back down to her rings.

Ardan knew of the Wylde bastards in King's Landing – fathered on whores and highborn ladies alike. It had cost them their position at court. It had cost Lady Cassandra her match to Prince Maelor. In the smallest of ways, he could see why she might have… well, he could understand. It was the first time she wasn't speaking to him like a dog. She seemed to genuinely wish to explain some matters to him.

"I'm sorry," Ardan said, as simply as he could. Any more words, and he might have insulted her.

Lady Cassandra's green eyes found him again, no longer soft, but once again full of utter, pure hatred. "I don't want your apologies," she spat the words, "or his."

Ardan swallowed: he needed to leave. He had mere moments left, and she would not steal his farewell to Arrec. Ardan simply bowed his head and turned to leave. He had crossed half of the corridor towards the stairwell when Cassandra called out to him.

"Storm?"

Ardan halted at the sound of his name, a name she had never uttered in his entire life without the biting prefix 'Bastard'. Spoken in a tone that cut through the air like a whispered secret, the corridor outside his father's room seemed to narrow, the walls closing in on him. While Storm may have been his bastard name, it was still his name. What the Seven Gods knew him as. He pivoted on his heel to look at her and found her standing there, shoulders quivering and lips trembling as her red eyes found him, thin streaks of tears dripping down her cheeks.

"Yes, my Lady?"

She froze for a moment, the lines in her face softening. Her face, typically a fortress of composure, now bore the brushstrokes of raw feeling. Her green eyes, usually cold and distant, were now pooling with tears as they searched his. She looked mournful and haunting. He dared to think, for a moment, that she might apologise for her words. Wish him well, or even beg him to stay. There was no hatred in her eyes. She was another woman entirely. Was this who Arrec saw? Who Ella and Durran saw when he was not around?

For a fleeting moment, her utterance of his name had carried an unfamiliar weight, a nuance of warmth that dared to dance at the periphery of his heart. A fragile ember of hope ignited in the depths of his being – an ember that whispered of a longing unfulfilled, a silent plea for something that eluded him since birth.

She made a noise – somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and finally spoke.

"I hope you don't come back."

As quickly as the ember had flickered to life, Lady Cassandra's words extinguished it with an icy gust.

Ardan gave a firm nod as tears pooled in his eyes: Frustration crept in in him – not at Lady Cassandra, but at himself. He'd been fool enough to allow himself to hope for a change in the woman. He'd allowed that hope to take root inside him. He silently chided his naivete, berated the part of him that entertained the notion that, just for once, he might have glimpsed a trace of a mother in her.

He had to leave with some dignity about him, rather than being cast out like a stray dog or a beggar once his father did, eventually, die. And Arrec… Ardan felt like a leech around his brother. The thought often occurred to him – would he have loved his mother more if Ardan had not been raised there? Would Arrec and Cassandra and Durran and Ella – and Arlan, too – all be happier without him?

He'd never thought to ask his father about his mother – not knowing felt better. That way, he could daydream about her being a high-born beauty or princess from somewhere across the Narrow Sea that his father had fallen deeply in love with. If Arlan told him the truth, then Ardan could never change it – he could never believe he was anything more.

But now he knew – his mother was one of the smallfolk. Maybe a fishwife, or a farmer, an alewife, or a whore. All the rumours he'd heard his entire life were right – he was baseborn: half-common. A strange creature of mixed blood that made his black and sour.

The thoughts haunted Ardan as he paused by the entrance to the stables, leaning against the wall and trying to take some deep breaths to calm himself. He found himself rubbing his hands frantically, rolling a thumb across his knuckle. He felt a tear drip from his eyelash down upon his cheekbone and very quickly removed a hand to wipe it away. He gave the softest of sniffs and checked to see that no-one was watching him. His lip began to tremble and he looked back at the floor, watching another tear fall down to splash upon the dark slab of stone.

The wound he had – the wound of being a bastard… it was long scarred, but had never healed. Now it ached anew. The weight of thoughts that had plagued him since childhood like a spectre bore down on him once again with renewed force: Of course Lady Cassandra wasn't a mother to him – he didn't have one. He was a bastard: a stain on the family. Storm's End was not his home – it never had been, and it never could be, no matter how much he wished it were so. He was flawed – it was in his blood. He wasn't a part of any family. He wasn't highborn or lowborn. He was something that shouldn't have existed. Perhaps that was why the Seven cursed his father with his sickness.

He shook off the thought. 'Many men have bastards,' he reminded himself, 'it's not my fault.' He rubbed his hand again, trying to slow his breathing before wiping his eyes again. 'Knights don't cry,' he reminded himself, trying to steel his heart once again. He began to busy his mind: his armour was readied, carried by a strong sumpter along with Ser Edric's. Unlike a lot of squires, Ardan had been lucky enough to have been provided with plate armour, a shirt of maille, as well as a gambeson and chausses, gauntlets and greaves - the only thing standing between Ardan and his knighthood was the dubbing itself.

Not long after bidding his father farewell, Ardan was in the stables, where Arrec stood, brushing down Ardan's courser, Godsgrief. He was dressed in his golden woollen doublet beneath a black leather jerkin, the gold pommel of a stag's head catching the sunlight and shining bright. Ardan's longsword was shorter, and plain of any ornamentation.

"Hour's come, has it?" Arrec asked.

"Seems so," Ardan said, busying himself with the last of his preparations – taking his saddle from the nearby shelf and crossing the stables with it.

"You've said your goodbyes?" Arrec asked. "To Ella, to Father?"

"Yes, and yes," Ardan mounted the saddle on the back of Godsgrief, shushing him and rubbing down his neck as he began fastening the saddle-straps.

"All went well?"

"It did," Ardan made sure to pay attention to Godsgrief's legs as he reached underneath to buckle the strap. Even after it was secure, he kept his back to Arrec, hoping he wouldn't ask any more questions, but… well, Arrec knew him better.

"What of my mother?"

"I bid her farewell too," Ardan said, tossing a pair of saddlebags on the back of the horse, making sure to pat down Godsgrief for being patient. He hoped Arrec wouldn't ask any more questions. Clearly, Ardan had never taken to lying well.

"Did she say something?"Arrec asked, the beginnings of outrage in his voice.

"Nothing I can remember," Ardan lied, trying his best to sound reassuring and waving a lazy hand.

"Ardan…"

"It doesn't matter, Arrec," Ardan said, forcing himself to chuckle, "it's already forgotten. Truthfully." The chuckle seemed to assure Arrec, as he ceased his prying. "You'll send word, won't you? Of Father, and when…" Ardan trailed off. It was true, Arrec had never looked up to their father like Ardan had – regardless of everything, Lady Cassandra was still his mother. Ardan supposed he found it hard to look past his father's adultery.

"Of course," Arrec nodded solemnly. The two brothers stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say. What was there to say? Ardan was going to miss Arrec, and Arrec, him. He'd been excited to see Arrec before riding south, but now they were there, Ardan didn't want to say anything to start that goodbye. Yet, the sun was rising and soon would fall – their time was short.

"Good to see you're training again," Ardan said, gesturing to his brother's longsword. "Though, I'd wager Ella could give you a challenge."

"I'm not as bad as that," Arrec frowned, giving Ardan a small, yet playful, shove.

"You've never sparred against you."

Arrec shared the chuckle and stared down to his blade for a moment before clicking his tongue. "Better off in another's hands, then."

He pulled on the scabbard and removed it from his belt, holding it out with a finger wrapped over the crossguard, the golden pommel of the stag's head pointing out at Ardan. He was slack-jawed – it had been a present from Durran to Arrec, many years ago. A fine blade of castle-forged steel, and maybe one of Arrec's most valuable possessions. But, more than that, it was Durran's gift. It felt wrong.

"Arrec, I can't…"

"You can, and you are."

"It was a gift-"

"It is a gift," Arrec informed him, "from me to you."

Ardan reached out to take the blade – it was lighter than most swords he'd trained with. The leather on the hilt was still smooth and dry – Arrec had never actually swung a sword with an edge at another before, let alone a blade with such artistry and metalwork.

"You were always better with it," Arrec continued with a shrug, "and, of course, it wouldn't be fair for you to have a dull blade and brain…"

"A sharp tongue doesn't give you quick wits," Ardan replied.

"Ah, but quick wits give one a quick tongue," Arrec retorted. Ardan frowned – he wasn't quite sure what Arrec meant, and before he could say anything, Arrec was grinning. Words were always his forte.

"I won't pretend to know what that means…"

"Exactly," Arrec said with a clear of his throat.

Ardan pulled on the hilt and watched the dazzling steel shine in the firelight. A golden rainguard enscribed with the black stag sat beneath the gold quillons. It was, by far, a beautiful blade, and seemed to be made of better steel than the longsword Ardan had intended on taking with him.

"Storm… breaker?" Ardan asked, squinting back to Arrec.

"Bringer- Stormbringer," Arrec corrected him. "A dull name for a sharp blade, but Durran insisted."

"I'm sure," Ardan said, admiring the slither of the blade once more before stowing it back in the scabbard and placing it in his saddle. He took Godsgrief by the reins and began to lead his courser into the courtyard while Arrec walked slowly beside him, his cane stabbing at the ground with each step.

"I'm only lending it to you, mind. I want it back the second the war ends."

"Of course," Ardan chortled.

The courtyard was full of a hundred knights clad in doublets of their colours, the glint of polished steel shimmering under the radiant sun. Banners billowed in the breeze bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon, the hanged man of House Trant, the brass knuckles of House Buckler, and the quartered suns and moons of House Tarth. The haystack of House Errol, and crossed quills of Houses Penrose and Inkwell.

Each knight, mounted atop his spirited destrier, cut a striking figure against the backdrop of Storm's End. Their steel plate armour caught the sunlight in a dazzling array.

In the distance, a storm loomed—a tempest brewing on the horizon. The sky, once serene and azure, now transformed into a tapestry of tumultuous greys and purples. The approaching storm, born from the north-east of the Narrow Sea, advanced with a menacing intensity, its dark clouds swirling ominously, heralding an impending clash of elements that mirrored the impending conflict to the south.

"Apparently Aemon Targaryen is joining you," Arrec said in an attempt to fill their silence.

"The Glass Prince?" Ardan scoffed. "Riding off to war?"

"Of course not. Though, a dragonrider would be useful…"

"I rather think I've seen enough of dragons," Ardan replied, remembering when the dark, burnished wings of the colossal monster had eyed him with an orange orb almost as big as him. The way it's roar had deafened him, left a ringing in his ears for hours after. The way his entire body was shaking. How could the world hold a creature so big?

"Well, you'll see Ser Connas, at any rate – I can't imagine our future King would dare go anywhere without his sworn protector."

"Wouldn't dare go anywhere with spiders without Ser Connas and his pretty white cloak and Valyrian steel sword," Ardan chuckled along.

"He may even spar with you in Blackhaven!"

"I can't see Aemon Targaryen making it further than Griffin's Roost."

"Nor I – riding is hard with…" Arrec trailed off and glanced down to his cane. It was only for a moment, but Ardan noticed it.

"You're not made of glass," Ardan said, cutting through Arrec's thoughts, "I reckon we could saddle you up with a horse – see the Red Mountains together? Watch Ser Idiot struggle to figure out which way is south…"

Arrec couldn't fight the grin, but he still shook his head. "Someone has to be here to stop Oraella ruin Durran's wedding. Or just… drink wine and watch."

"Well, it is called Storm's End, and autumn has almost ended…" Ardan shrugged.

"True enough – Durran is doubtlessly due for more than few Storms with " Arrec laughed.

The first horn blew – the signal to mount up. Ardan swallowed – his heart dropped at the sound. He turned to look over to Arrec, who slapped him on the shoulder.

"Remember, Ser Commander Ardan… the second it's over, you're coming back," Arrec said with a wide smile and a slight tremor to his voice. Ardan felt his eyes mist as he smiled.

"As soon as the war's won," he promised.

Arrec's smile faltered. "I hope it's soon, Storm."

Ardan's eyes misted as a strange, sad smile grew on his lips. "As do I, Baratheon."

His throat lurched – as if he were to laugh, and their arms wrapped around each other, squeezing each other tightly. Ardan honestly thought he might cry – it would be the last time he would stand with his brother, hear his voice, see his face…

Ardan heard a sniffle and pulled away to see Arrec had tears in his eyes as well, that wide, sad smile sat on his face. Ardan gave him a grin and rubbed a hand all over the stubble on Arrec's head, like he always would when they were younger. As if he was pulling away from a part of himself, Ardan climbed upon his horse.

"About time you got that armour all scuffed up…" Arrec said, a slightly nervous chortle to his words. Ardan smiled as he looked back down at Arrec. He wouldn't be doing any real fighting, sadly. "It looked far too pretty."

"That's just because you always missed," Ardan retorted. The two shared another smile and, leaning down, they grasped each other's arms in a moment of farewell. "Look after Ella. Make sure your Lady Mother doesn't find her dagger."

"Her dagger?" Arrec asked, a bemused smile on his face. "I will-"

The horn blew again, and the ground trembled beneath the weight of their horses and hoofbeats against stone, the rhythmic beat of their movement a thunderous cadence that echoed throughout the vicinity of the fortress.

The clattering of hooves reverberated through the courtyard as the knights, mounted upon majestic destriers formed a disciplined column. Some of the women, such as Lady Cassandra and her handmaids, but also the young Lady Glennys Tully, stood by the gates, offering flowers to the horsemen.

"Storm!" A loud voice cracked over the hoofbeats, and Ardan turned to see Ser Edric mounted on his destrier, waving him over. Ardan looked back down to Arrec and, with all the strength it took, released his arm as he ambled Godsgrief onwards.

Ardan tried to look back at Arrec, but he needed to keep the formation at Ser Edric's side. He remained on the left, away from Lady Cassandra on the right of the gate. He was given rain lily: a pale pink flower bloomed in clusters in the autumn, following their storms. He made out some of her words:

"… May the Mother watch over and grant her mercy. May the Warrior grant strength to their sword-arms…"

Ardan didn't dare stop in the middle of the procession. He bowed his head and thanked the pretty girl, taking notice of her soft, delicate features and doe-brown eyes. He glanced back to her on his way out – hoping her blessings and prayers had been heard.

Beyond the castle's confines, on the long road down the coast, a vast assembly of men already marched – a formidable force numbering in the thousands. No less than twelve thousand soldiers, an array of footmen, archers, and cavalry, gathered in a march marked by the rhythmic sound of boots upon the earth.

The skies above, once serene and clear, began to churn with an ominous foreboding. From the north, across the Narrow Sea, dark clouds gathered, heralding the imminent arrival of a storm. The approaching tempest loomed on the horizon, its presence felt in the gusts of wind that carried whispers of the impending turmoil.

As Ardan Storm spurred his steed onward, a deep-seated ache settled within him, swirling amidst the tumult of emotions that surged through his heart. He urged Godsgrief to a brief halt on the side of the road, affording himself a lingering glance back at the mighty walls of Storm's End, the ancestral seat that held memories both cherished and bitter.

The silhouette of the fortress stood against the horizon, its formidable walls ancient and defiant, proud and enduring. Yet, for Ardan, the sight evoked a profound sense of melancholy and resentment—a complex blend of attachment to his home and the searing wounds left by his childhood.

As he gazed upon the towering stronghold, memories of his father's home crept in: when they were children, and Arrec would distract the cook so Ardan could steal the jam. When Arrec sprinkled lyre-strings into Leira Trant's food and watched her shriek in horror at the 'worms'. When they both convinced Ella she was being haunted by the hungry ghost in the crypts that liked to feast on little girls. As they grew older, and would venture into Durran's Town for merriment and misadventures.

The memories felt different now – painful. He remembered the stinging words, the cold glares of disgust – a shadow had been etched over his years within Storm's End. His whole life. Each memory grew tainted and tasted bitter with a woman's disdain. His father's wife, with her cold glances and stinging words… she infected each memory and story like a disease.

He could make out two figures on the walls. Standing there, with his woollen cloak, was Arrec, his arm around the little Ella peeking over the crenelations, her hair a dizzying mess of dark coals. He saw their hands raise up and, in an instant, he felt warm again. His eyes stung, and he hoped none of the passing men noticed.

He raised up a hand to them. There, amidst the walls that had once sheltered him, Ardan's gaze harboured a mournful ache – a lament. Storm's End stood as a symbol of both pride and estrangement, a place that echoed with echoes of both love and rejection.

"Storm!" Ser Edric called back. "Come you on, it's a long ride to Blackhaven!"

Ardan glanced back to his siblings, pausing to bow his head as the Glass Prince, Aemon Targaryen passed by on his black palfrey, accompanied by his royal guard of multiple knights, led by none other than Ser Connas Corbray, in his white plate armour and snow-white cloak.

With a heavy heart, Ardan turned from the sight of the fortress, his jaw set in determination, and spurred Godsgrief forward once more. The longing for home battled with the bitter memories, each hoofbeat carrying him farther away from the walls and his family.

The hour had passed, and it was time for war.

---

There's a couple of new characters at the bottom of the cast list, so, check 'em out. I'm also adding lots of new portraits and stuff to the wiki, and I plan on adding more as the story goes on. I'm gonna upload a new one of Myria today, so, y'all can check that out!

I'm also thinking about changing up my responses to some stuff – instead of doing a 'no comment', I'm just gonna tell you guys absolute lies about what's going to happen. These are going to be absolutely believable lies, so, even though I'm telling you they're 100% false, you're still gonna question it. I'm taking inspiration from the writers of GoT giving false scripts and even false costumes to the cast.