The Sunset Starks

by SoulGamesInc

King Brandon the Shipwright sailed across the Sunset Sea, but never returned, his tomb in the crypts of Winterfell remaining empty. He made landfall on what would become the Sunset Islands and now generations later the youngest son of Brandon VII Stark attempts a return to Westeros. Winter is Coming.

57. Chapter 57: Beneath the Gold

Copyright Disclaimer: I obviously don't own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin (very obviously, duh) none of his creations are my own nor is any profit earned on my part, this is all purely a work of Fair Use for my own enjoyment, all free of charge, usually updated on Fridays. I heavily encourage reviews as they do wonders for my writing speed + you can join my Discord via invite/XBuK6tCAB7 or visit SoulGamesInc on Youtube

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Chapter 57: Beneath the Gold
"Winter's Wrath and Ruin."
– Prince Willam Stark

"You will remember me, I pray," the letter had begun. "I knew your sister well," then it claimed. "I was a leal servant of your good-brother and I grieve for them as you do. I did not die, no more than did your sister's son. To save his life we kept him hidden, but the time for hiding is done. A dragon has returned to Westeros to claim his birthright and seek vengeance for his father, and for the princess Elia too, his mother. In her name I turn to Dorne. Do not forsake us..."

It was signed by one Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin's Roost and Hand of the True King.

A dead man had called on them, it seemed; apparently far less dead than they'd originally thought.

Arianne had read the letter thrice, then rolled it up and tucked it back into her sleeve. "A dragon has returned to Westeros," she thought. "Not the dragon my father was expecting though." Nowhere in the letter was there mention of Daenerys Stormborn… nor mention of Prince Quentyn, her brother, who had been sent to seek the dragon queen. The princess remembered how her father had pressed the onyx cyvasse piece into her palm, his voice hoarse and low as he confessed his plan.

A long and perilous voyage, with an uncertain welcome at its end, he had said. Quentyn had gone away to bring them back their heart's desire.

Vengeance. Justice. Fire and Blood. Fire and blood was what Jon Connington was offering as well if it was truly the man they knew. Was it though?

"He comes with sellswords, but no dragons," Prince Doran had told her. "The Golden Company is the best and largest of the free companies, but ten thousand mercenaries cannot hope to win the Seven Kingdoms. Elia's son… I would weep for joy if some part of my sister had survived, but what proof do we have that this is Aegon?" His voice broke when he said that. "Where are the dragons?" he asked. "Where is Daenerys?" and Arianne knew that he was really saying, "Where is my son?"

"I'll know," her uncle Oberyn had scoffed at the doubts, as if he had some gods given power to tell blood at sight. "If he's truly her son, I'll know…"

He'd spoken of Elia's nose and her cheeks and her everything as if he'd seen his sister mere days ago. Arianne doubted in private, not willing to challenge her uncle.

She thought of the two dornish hosts that were massed in the Boneway and Prince's Pass, sharpening their spears, polishing their armour, dicing, drinking, quarrelling, their numbers dwindling by the day, waiting, waiting, waiting for the Prince of Dorne to loose them on the enemies of House Martell. Waiting for the dragons. For fire and for blood. "For me," some part of her whispered; that longed to rule Dorne. She was the eldest and it was her right. Her father had loftier plans for her though…

Dragon. If the boy was true, then one word from the Viper and Dorne would march. If instead the word was War, then Yronwood and Fowler would remain.

The Prince of Dorne was nothing if not subtle; here War meant Wait. Let the enemy come, as the dragons once had, let them stumble and die in the sands of Dorne.

Dorne was their home and their strength. Her uncle had made it clear enough, if the word was Wait then they'd hold the mountain passes; perhaps forever – for the North was not the only kingdom that could rid themselves of the Iron Throne if this Aegon proved false and if Quentyn were to fail in his mission with Daenerys.

"Not a life your people will relish I imagine," the Stark had argued with her on that, with his annoyingly blasé face.

"Dorne will remain Unbent and Unbroken," she'd answered sweetly on instinct alone. One caught more flies with honey.

That smirk of his had only grown tenfold though. The man had begun to infuriate her something fierce since they'd left Sunspear.

He never once glanced at her as most men did – as Ser Daemon so often did – she'd wondered if perhaps he fought for the other kingdom, so to speak; if not for the babe he'd put in the Amber woman. Her uncle Oberyn seemed to practically adore the northman as well, that was cause for further annoyance.

She had ultimately decided that the famous Stark honor was more than just talk, only for him to dismiss that notion as well.

"Honor is for peace little Princess," he'd said simply. "I'm afraid I don't recall the last peace I've had."

She muttered "not little" with a scowl.

"What's that little Princess?"

"Nothing," she kicked her horse forward.

"I think she likes you Stark," she heard the Imperial Prince say behind.

Her uncle's laughter was loud and joyful as she rode ahead, away from the amber woman's glare.

Ahead were square towers that flew the banners of House Toland; a green dragon biting its own tail, upon a golden field. The sun-and-spear of House Martell streamed atop the great central keep, gold and red and orange, defiant. Ravens had flown ahead to warn Lady Toland of their coming, so the castle gates were open, and Nymella's eldest daughter rode forth with her steward to meet them near the bottom of the hill. She was tall, with a blaze of bright red hair tumbling about her shoulders.

"Princess," Valena Toland greeted her, the others riding up behind. "Come at last, have you? How slow are those horses of yours?"

Arianne's mood shifted and she smirked genuinely. "Swift enough to outrun yours to the castle gates Toland..."

"We will see about that." Valena had wheeled her big red around and put her heels into him, and the race was on, through the dusty lanes of the village at the bottom of the hill, as chickens and villagers alike scrambled out of their path. Arianne was three horse lengths behind by the time she got her mare up to a gallop but had closed to one halfway up the slope. The two of them were side-by-side as they thundered towards the gatehouse, but five yards from the gates Elia Sand came flying from the cloud of dust behind them to rush past on her black filly. "Are you half horse, child?" Valena asked, laughing, in the yard. "Princess, did you bring a stable girl?"

"Elia Sand," Prince Oberyn named his eldest daughter who bore his eyes and a black braid.

"Lady Lance," Elia Sand smirked, as proud as her father was dangerous.

"The girl jouster," Valena said. "I've heard of you. Since you were the first to the yard, you've won the honor of watering and bridling the horses."

"And after that find the bath house," said Oberyn. Elia was chalk and dust from heels to hair, smelling of horses as she often did – much to her mother's sorrow.

That night they supped with Lady Nymella Toland and her daughters in the great hall of the castle. Teora, the younger girl, had the same red hair as her sister, but elsewise could not have been more different. Short, plump, and so shy she might have passed for a mute, she displayed more interest in the spiced beef and honeyed duck than in the comely young men at the table and seemed content to let her lady mother and her sister speak for House Toland.

"We have heard the same tales here that you have heard at Sunspear," Lady Nymella told them as her serving man poured the wine. "Sellswords landing on Cape Wrath, castles under siege or being taken, crops seized or burned. Where these men come from and who they are, no one is certain..."

"Pirates and adventurers, we heard at first," said Valena. "Then it was Wolves, but lately men speak of the Golden Company and Jon Connington, the Mad King's Hand, come back from the grave to reclaim his birthright. Whoever it is, Griffin's Roost has fallen to them. Rain House, Crow's Nest, Mistwood, even Greenstone on its island."

"Who would want Greenstone?" Oberyn asked with a raised brow. "Was there a struggle?"

"Not as we have heard, My Prince, but all the tales are garbled from fishermen's tongues."

"Tarth has fallen too, those fisherfolk will tell you," added Valena helpfully between bites of her food.

"They hold half the Stormlands then," Prince Willam spoke for the first time, sitting beside his Princess and the Imperial.

"Most of Cape Wrath and half the Stepstones," came the reply. "And there is talk of elephants in the rainwood as well..."

"Elephants?" Arianne did not know what to think of that. "Are you certain? Not dragons?"

"We'd have seen the dragons I'd think," Oberyn offered with a hum, thinking of something.

"Elephants for sure," Lady Nymella said firmly. She was confident in that much at least it appeared.

"And krakens off the Broken Arm too, pulling under crippled galleys," said Valena. Who was to say the truth of that…

Willam had encountered worse than krakens if such tales were indeed true. Seas black with blood were bound to lure foul things.

"The blood draws them to the surface, our maester claims. There are bodies in the water. A few have washed up on our shores. And that's not half of it, since the Redwyne Fleet were sent in splinters to King's Landing, these waters have been crawling with strange sails all the way north of the Straiths of Tarth and Shipbreaker's Bay…"

"What of Dragonstone?" the Stark Prince pried, putting down his fork and pouring himself a cup of dornish red.

"We've heard nothing Stark," the Lady told him with a frown. "Not since your lot sent the Redwyne's packing – we've heard talk of Myrmen, Volantenes, Lyseni, and even reavers from the Iron Islands, but no wolves south of Tarth. We've found a good fast ship for you all though, as Prince Doran commanded, but still… ought to be careful..."

Arianne wanted to ask after her brother, but her father had urged her to watch every word. If these ships had not brought Quentyn home again with his dragon queen, then best not to mention him. Only her father and a few of his most trusted men knew about her brother's mission to Slaver's Bay. Lady Toland and her daughters were not amongst them. If it were Quentyn, he would have brought Daenerys back to Dorne, surely. Why would he risk a landing on Cape Wrath, amongst the Stormlords?

"Is Dorne at risk?" Lady Nymella asked. "I confess, Prince Oberyn, each time I see a strange sail my heart leaps to my throat. What if these ships turn south? The best part of the Toland strength is with Lord Yronwood in the Boneway. Who will defend Ghost Hill if these strangers land upon our shores? Should I call my men home?"

"Your men are needed where they are, my lady," the Red Viper assured her plainly. Arianne was quick to nod. Any other counsel could well lead to Lord Yronwood's host unravelling like an old tapestry as each man rushed home to defend his own lands against supposed enemies who might or might not ever come.

"Once we know the truth," Prince Oberyn offered the lady of the house. "Then we'll act my lady, one way or another; the waiting shall end."

"Dorne has been good to us," Prince Willam added suddenly, smiling charmingly. "My brother's fleet won't suffer pirates, my Lady, fear not."

"Well then," the Lady of Ghost Hill smirked, as did her daughter.

"Never thought we'd hear that from a Stark," Valena added, chewing her cut of pork.

"We are not of Westeros," the Stark offered plainly and took another sip of his dornish red.

"Though we'll miss it," Prince Suko was sly as always. "A beautiful country you have here Lady Toland."

It was then that pasty, pudgy Teora raised her eyes from the creamcakes on her plate. "There's dragons too!"

"Dragons?" said her mother. "Teora, don't be mad dear…."

"I'm not mad," she lowered her eyes and frowned. "They're coming…"

"How could you possibly know that?" her sister asked, with a note of scorn in her voice. "One of your little dreams?"

Teora gave a tiny nod, chin trembling. "They were dancing. In my dream. And everywhere the dragons danced the people died."

Arianne eyed the Stark woman sat beside her brother, grinning like a demon with emeralds for eyes. She didn't trust that one at all.

"Seven save us." Lady Nymella gave an exasperated sigh at her youngest antics.

"If you did not eat so many creamcakes you would not have such dreams. Rich foods are not for girls your age, Maester Toman says-"

"I hate Maester Toman," Teora said. Then she bolted from the table, leaving her lady mother to make apologies for her.

"Be gentle with her, my lady," Arianne said. "I remember when I was her age. My father despaired of me, I'm sure."

"I can attest to that." Ser Daemon took a sip of wine and said, "House Toland has a dragon on its banners."

"A dragon eating its own tail, aye," Valena said. "From the days of Aegon's Conquest. He did not conquer here. Elsewhere he burned his foes, him and his sisters, but here we melted away before them, leaving only stone and sand to burn. And round the dragons went, snapping at their tails for want of food, till they were tied in knots."

"Our forebears played their part in that," Lady Nymella said proudly. "Bold deeds were done, and brave men died. All of it was written down by the maesters who served us then. We have books if my princess would like to know more about it..."

"Some other time, perhaps," said Arianne.

"I'd like to read them Lady Toland," Prince Willam offered her kindly.

"So polite," the Lady smiled right back. "You read, Stark? Unexpected of a Northman…"

Stark sipped his wine before replying, "why have one weapon sharp when you can have two?"

As Ghost Hill slept that night, the princess donned a hooded cloak against the chill and and walked the castle battlements to clear her thoughts. Daemon Sand found her leaning on a parapet and gazing out to sea, where the moon was dancing on the water. "Princess," he said. "You ought to be abed."

"I could say the same of you." Arianne turned to gaze upon his face. A good face, she decided. The boy I knew has become a handsome man. His eyes were as blue as a desert sky, his hair the light brown of the sands they had just crossed. A close-cropped beard followed the thin of a strong jaw. The Bastard of Godsgrace was one of Dorne's finest swords as well, as might be expected from one who once served as Prince Oberyn's squire. Some said that he had been her uncle's lover too…

Arianne did not know the truth of that. He had been her lover, though. At fourteen she had given him her maidenhead.

Daemon had not been much older, so their couplings had been as clumsy as they were ardent. Still, it had been sweet enough.

Arianne gave him her most seductive smile. "We might share a bed together…"

Ser Daemon's face was stone. "Have you forgotten, princess? I am bastard born. If I am unworthy of this hand, how can I be worthy of your cunt?"

She snatched her hand away. "You deserve a slap for that…"

"My face is yours. Do what you will, Princess."

"What I will you will not, it seems. So be it. Talk with me instead. Could this truly be Prince Aegon?"

"Gregor Clegane ripped Aegon out of Elia's arms and smashed his head against a wall," Ser Daemon said. "If Lord Connington's prince has a crushed skull, I will believe that Aegon Targaryen has returned from the grave. Elsewise, no. This is some feigned boy, no more. A sellsword's ploy to win support."

Her father feared the same. "If not, though… if this truly is Jon Connington, if the boy is Rhaegar's son…"

"Are you hoping that he is, or that he's not?"

"I… it would give great joy to my father and uncle if Elia's son were still alive."

"It was you I asked about, Princess, not your kin…"

"I was seven when Elia died. They say I held her daughter Rhaenys when I was too young to remember. Aegon will be a stranger to me, whether true or false." The princess paused. "We looked for Rhaegar's sister, not his son." Her father had confided in Ser Daemon when he chose him as his daughter's shield; with him at least she could speak freely. "I would sooner it were Quentyn who'd returned instead of this stranger…"

"Or so you say," said Daemon Sand. "Good night, princess."

He bowed to her and left her standing there. What did he mean by that? Arianne watched him walk away.

"What sort of sister would I be," she thought. "If I did not want my little brother back?"

It was true, she had resented Quentyn for all those years that she had thought their father meant to name him as his heir in place of her, but that had turned out to be just a misunderstanding. She was the heir to Dorne, she had her father's word on that. Quentyn would have his dragon queen, Daenerys… unless…

In Sunspear hung a portrait of the Princess Daenerys who had come to Dorne to marry one of Arianne's forebears. In her younger days Arianne had spent hours gazing at it, back when she was just a pudgy flat-chested girl on the cusp of maidenhood who prayed every night for the gods to make her pretty. A hundred years ago, Daenerys Targaryen came to Dorne to make a peace. Now another comes to make a war, and my brother will be her king and consort. King Quentyn. Why did that sound so silly?

Almost as silly as Quentyn riding on a dragon. Her brother was an earnest boy, well-behaved and dutiful, but dull. And plain, so plain. The gods had given Arianne the beauty she had prayed for, but Quentyn must have prayed for something else. His head was overlarge and sort of square, his hair the colour of dried mud…

"I love my brother," said Arianne, though only the moon could hear her. Though if truth be told, she scarcely knew him really.

Quentyn had been fostered by Lord Anders of House Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, the son of Lord Ormond Yronwood and grandson of Lord Edgar. In his youth her uncle Oberyn had fought a duel with Edgar, had given him a wound that mortified and killed him. Afterward men called him 'the Red Viper,' and spoke of poison on his blade.

Her brother was given to Lord Anders to foster as a sign of trust. That helped to heal the breach between Sunspear and the Yronwoods, but it had opened new ones between Quentyn and the Sand Snakes… and Arianne had always been closer to her cousins than to her distant brother…

"We are still the same blood, though," she whispered. "Of course I want my brother home. I do…"

The wind off the sea was raising gooseprickles all up and down her arms. The night was unseasonably cool, even for autumn.

Daemon's words gnawed at her still though. "Or so you say," they tormented her thoughts. "Good night, princess…"

Arianne pulled her cloak about herself and went off to seek a distraction, muttering curses towards the bastard. She walked up the winding stairs of Ghost Hill, passing the lowered heads of guardsmen until she reached the guest quarters of House Toland. One knock, two, three, until the door opened.

The face that greeted her was handsome, olive skinned and smirking devilishly.

"Princess," Suko Lóng called her, leaning against the doorway.

She barged past him and entered his room.

"No dinner first dear Princess?"

"We ate earlier, did we not Prince?"

The straps of her dress fell from her shoulders.

"That we did," he admitted, shutting the door behind him.

Suko drank in the glories of her, the round ripe breasts with their huge dark nipples, the lush curves at waist and hip.

And then he was holding her, moving clumsily to the feathered bed. Her skin was smooth, as warm to the touch as sand baked by the sun. He raised her head and found her lips. Her mouth opened under his, and her breasts filled his hands. "Take me," she whispered in his ear, all the invitation he'd ever needed.

His hand slipped down her belly as she whimpered and drew him to the bed, her nails raking quickly against his back.

Arianne forgot all about Daemon Sand's words. If he was too craven, then so be it, she didn't care. She didn't care.

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They sailed upon the morning tide on a ship called the Peregrine. The gods were good and the sea was calm, although even with good winds the crossing took a day and a night. At dusk they spied a galley in the distance, her oars rising and falling against the evening stars, but she was moving away from them, and soon dwindled and was gone. Arianne played a game of cyvasse with Ser Daemon, and another one with Garibald Shells, and somehow managed to lose both. Ser Garibald was kind enough to say that she played a gallant game, but Daemon mocked her. "You have other pieces beside the dragon, princess. Try moving them sometime."

"I like the dragon." She wanted to slap the smile off his face. The man was as smug as he was comely.

"I heard," Daemon wore his stony mask well. "The whole castle heard…"

Why her father had sent him of all men to join them was beyond her. He knew of their history…

"And?" She shrugged the accusation off. "Are you jealous, Ser?"

Ser Daemon merely huffed and left their table, knocking over the game pieces.

She'd spent little time with the Imperial since that night, in truth, but Daemon sent no small number of glares the man's way.

That much made her smile – to see him flustered and jealous – for he was right in the end; no bastard son could ever hope to marry her…

Suko Lóng was no bastard though. He was a Prince, even far and foreign as he was, from what he'd shared he was the youngest son of a great Empire that sounded eerily similar to Yi Ti in nature; that as it turned out was no mere coincidence. Her father had already, briefly, broached the subject of the man's marital status.

"I'm married to the wind good Prince," the Imperial had jested in reply, stating after how a youngest son held the most freedom.

Uncle Oberyn had laughed aloud at that, sharing the man's spirited sentiments. She'd all but seen the wheels turning in her father's mind.

They sailed all along the south coast of Cape Wrath rose crumbling stone watchtowers, raised in ancient days to give warning of Dornish raiders stealing in across the sea. Villages had grown up about the towers. A few had flowered into towns. The Peregrine made port at the Weeping Town, where the corpse of the Young Dragon had once lingered for three days on its journey home from Dorne. The banners flapping from the town's stout wooden walls still displayed King Tommen's stag-and-lion, suggesting that here at least the writ of the Iron Throne might still hold sway. "Guard your tongues," Prince Oberyn warned as they disembarked.

It would go ill for Dorne if they were taken captive by some minor lordling before they ever had a chance to meet with the rebels.

They had no trouble buying horses, though the cost was five times what it would have been last year. "They're old, but sound," claimed the hostler. "you'll not find better this side of Storm's End. The griffin's men seize every horse and mule they come upon. Oxen too. Some will make a mark upon a paper if you ask for payment, but there's others who would just as soon cut your belly open and pay you with a handful of your own guts. If you come on any such, mind your tongues and give the horses up."

The town was large enough to support three inns, and all their common rooms were rife with rumours. Oberyn sent men into each of them, to hear what they might hear. In the Broken Shield, they spoke of how the great septry on the Holf of Men had been burned and looted by raiders from the sea, and a hundred young novices from the motherhouse on Maiden Isle carried off into slavery. In the Loon, they learned that half a hundred men and boys from the Weeping Town had set off north to join Jon Connington at Griffin's Roost, including young Ser Addam, old Lord Whitehead's son and heir. In the Drunken Dornishman, men muttering that the griffin had put Red Ronnet's brother to death and raped his maiden sister. Ronnet himself was said to be rushing south to avenge his brother's death and his sister's dishonour.

The next morning, they set out for Mistwood, as the first rays of the rising sun were slanting through the peaked roofs and crooked alleys of the Weeping Town. By midmorning a light rain began to fall, as they were making their way north through a land of green fields and little villages. As yet, they had seen no signs of fighting, but all the other travellers along the rutted road seemed to be going in the other direction, and the women in the villages they passed gazed at them with wary eyes and kept their children close. Further north, the fields gave way to rolling hills and thick groves of old forest, the road dwindled to a track, and villages became less common.

Dusk found them on the fringes of the rainwood, a wet green world where brooks and rivers ran through dark forests and the ground was made of mud and rotting leaves. Huge willows grew along the watercourses, larger than any tree that Arianne had ever seen, their great trunks as gnarled and twisted as an old man's face and festooned with beards of silvery moss. Trees pressed close on every side, shutting out the sun; hemlock and red cedars, white oaks, soldier pines that stood as tall and straight as towers, colossal sentinels, big-leaf maples, redwoods, wormtrees, even here and there a wild weirwood. Other trees were furred with moss, green or grey or red-tailed, and once a vivid purple. Lichens covered every rock and stone. Toadstools festered besides rotting logs. The very air seemed green.

Great storms would often ravage this land, forming down in the Summer Sea and moving north until they slammed into Cape Wrath.

For some strange reason the storms never seem to strike at Dorne, but then no dornishmen had ever stolen away the daughter of two gods. Durran Godsgrief, the first Storm King, had stolen the daughter of the sea god and the goddess of the wind and earned their eternal enmity; leading to the construction of Storm's End.

House Durrandon had ruled for centuries before Aegon Targaryen arrived on his dragons, and now another Aegon had come to bring the Stormlands low.

The going was much slower here than it had been in Dorne. Instead of proper roads, they rode down crookback slashes that snaked this way and that, through clefts in huge moss-covered rocks and down deep ravines choked with blackberry brambles. Sometimes the track petered out entirely, sinking into bogs or vanishing amongst the ferns, forcing them to find their own way amongst the silent trees. The rain still fell, soft and steady, the sound of moisture dripping off leaves all around them.

The wood was full of caves as well. That first night they took shelter in one of them, to get out of the wet. In Dorne they had often travelled after dark, when the moonlight turned the blowing sands to silver, but the rainwood was too full of bogs, ravines, and sinkholes, and black as pitch, where the moon was just a memory.

Elia Sand turned a stick and some dry moss into a torch and went off exploring deeper in the cave with the Stark Prince and his strange sister.

"See that you do not go too far," Arianne told them. "Some of these caves go very deep, it is easy to get lost…"

"I always come back little Princess," the Stark offered absently, taking a makeshift torch in hand from Elia Sand.

Beyond the stony mouth where they'd made their camp and hobbled their horses, a series of twisty passageways led down and down, far deeper than was expected; with black holes snaking off to either side. Further in, the walls opened up again, and the searchers found themselves in a vast limestone cavern, larger than the great hall of a castle. Their arrival disturbed a nest of bats, who flapped about them noisily, but only distant echoes shouted back.

A slow circuit of the hall revealed three further passages, one so small that it would have required them to proceed on hands and knees.

"What way now Sister?"

"Come," Lyarra said, no torch to light her way.

"How does she know," little Elia asked, prying curiously.

"The Gods little snake," came her answer. "The gods see all…"

"Creepy," Elia muttered, moving her torch about as they walked.

"Try living with her," Willam smirked in the flickering of their fires.

The passageway turned steep and wet within a hundred feet. The footing grew uncertain.

"Careful girl," Willam caught the sand snake when she slid and nearly fell.

"Thanks," Elia muttered, laughing off her clumsiness as it echoed down the passage.

"Your father would kill me if you died little snake…"

"In unspeakable ways," Elia hummed her agreement.

Ahead they found another cavern, five times as big as the last one, surrounded by a forest of stone columns.

Lyarra halted at one of the sides and Willam raised his torch. "See, little brother?"

The stone was shaped, along the column and walls all around them.

"Faces," said Willam. So many sad eyes, staring at them.

"This place belonged to the children of the forest," Elia mumbled in awe.

"A thousand years ago," Lyarra agreed. "Do you see now, Willy?"

"Don't call me that," Willam snarled, focusing on the markings even as the Sand girl giggled.

The stone carvings were faded but were clearly figures, too small beside those of men; children with spears gifting small triangles to the men – daggers perhaps, or tools – further along the wall, awash in the light of his torch, new figures appeared; painted pale and white with sapphire blue eyes.

"The Others?" Willam knew the old stories as well as the next Islander.

"Indeed," his sister hummed, tracing her hand across over of the markings.

At her palm were a group of men etched to be running, not away, but towards the Others. The men headed towards the carving of what seemed to be a great castle with thin spikes for towers, with one dog aside their leader; they fell one by one as the carving continued.

It faded as they walked. An area of the cave had crumbled, sealing away the story.

"The Last Hero," Lyarra said. "Although, that was not his name of course…"

"Why bring me here," Willam snarled. "How did you even know we'd pass by-"

"The go-"

"And don't say 'the gods' as if that's a fucking answer!"

She only smiled sweetly at him. "Your little snake has wandered away…"

"I-" Willam looked for the girl, but she was gone. "Shit…"

He moved from the carvings and headed back up the tunnels.

"…Elia… Elia… Elia…"

The echo greeted them first.

"Ser," Willam greeted Daemon.

"Where's the girl?" The Knight demanded.

"Yes," the Princess pushed past him. "Is she is hurt…"

They found her down another passage that led down to a still black pool.

Elia Sand was up to her waist in the water, catching blind white fish with her bare hands, her torch burning red and smoky where she had planted it.

"You could have died," Arianne scolded her, grabbing Elia by the arm and shaking. "If that torch had gone out you would have been alone in the dark and-"

"I caught two fish," said Elia Sand gleefully, all smirk and defiance.

"You could have died," her father interrupted. His words echoed off the cavern walls.

"…died …died …died…"

Elia's frown seemed genuine at least.

"Sweet girl," Oberyn had hugged his eldest.

"I- I'm sorry father…"

"Don't be sorry, be smarter." Oberyn scolded. "We are not in Dorne anymore Elia, this is not a game."

She'd nodded and steeled her features and that was that. Arianne had never seen her uncle quite so… fatherly…

They reached Mistwood late on the third day. Oberyn sent Joss Hood and Ser Daemon ahead to scout for them and learn who held the castle presently. "Twenty men walking the walls, maybe more," he reported on his return. "Lots of carts and wagons. Heavy laden going in, empty going out. Guards at every gate."

"Banners?" asked Oberyn warily.

"Gold, my Prince, on the gatehouse and the keep."

"What device did they bear," Arianne pried, curious.

"None that I could see Princess, but there was no wind. The banners hung limp from their staffs."

That was vexing. The Golden Company's banners were cloth-of-gold, devoid of arms and ornament… but the banners of House Baratheon were also gold, though theirs displayed the crowned stag of Storm's End. Limp golden banners could be either. "Were there other banners? Silver-grey?"

"All the ones that I saw were gold, princess…"

She nodded. Mistwood was the seat of House Mertyns, whose arms showed a great horned owl, white on grey. If their banners were not flying, likely the talk was true, and the castle had fallen into the hands of Jon Connington and his sellswords. "We must take the risk," she told her uncle. Her father's caution had served Dorne well, she had come to accept that, but this was a time for a Viper's boldness. "On to the castle…"

"Aye," Uncle Oberyn agreed with a smirk, nodding his approval.

"Shall we unfurl your banner, Princess?" asked Joss Hood.

"Not as yet," said Arianne. In most places, it served her well to play the princess, but there were some where it did not.

"You know the game Suko," she heard Stark mutter to her lover.

"Oh yes," Lóng chuckled. "Another day another mummery, Stark."

Half a mile from the castle gates, three men in studded leather jerkins and steel halfhelms stepped out of the trees to block their path. Two of them carried crossbows, wound and notched. The third was armed only with a nasty grin. "And where are you lot bound, my pretties?" he asked.

"To Mistfall, to see your master," answered Oberyn boldly.

"Good answer," said the grinner. "Come with us..."

Mistfall's new masters called themselves Young John Mudd and Chain, both knights, to hear them tell it.

Neither behaved like any knight that Arianne had ever met. Mudd wore brown from head to heel, the same shade as his skin, but a pair of golden coins dangled from his ears. The Mudds had been kings up by the Trident a thousand years ago, she knew, but there was nothing royal about this one. Nor was he particularly young, but it seemed his father had also served in the Golden Company, where he had been known as Old John Mudd.

Chain was half again Mudd's height, his broad chest crossed by a pair of rusted chains that ran from waist to shoulder.

They were hard men, brusque and brutal and not well spoken, with scars and weathered faces that spoke of long service in the free companies.

"Serjeants," Ser Daemon whispered when he saw them. "I have known their sort before Princess…"

Once her uncle had made their names and purpose known, the two serjeants proved hospitable enough. "You'll stay the night," said Mudd. "There's beds for all of you. In the morning you'll have fresh horses, and whatever provisions you might need. M'lady's maester can send a bird to Griffin's Roost to let them know you're coming."

"And who would them be?" asked Arianne. "Lord Connington?"

The sellswords exchanged a look. "The Halfmaester," said John Mudd. "It's him you'll find at the Roost."

"Griffin's marching," said Chain.

"Marching where?" Oberyn asked.

"Not for us to say," said Mudd. "Chain, hold your tongue…"

Chain gave a snort. "They're Dorne. Why shouldn't she know? Come down to join us, ain't they?"

That was yet to be determined, but it was best to not press that matter here or now.

At evenfall a fine supper was served to them in the solar, high in the Tower of Owls, where they were joined by the dowager Lady Mertyns and her maester. Though a captive in her own castle, the old woman seemed spry and cheerful. "My sons and grandsons went off when Lord Renly called his banners," she told them. "I have not seen them since, though from time to time they send a raven. One of my grandsons took a wound at the Blackwater, but he's since recovered. I expect they will return here soon enough to hang this lot of thieves." She waved a duck leg at Ser Mudd and Chain across the table.

"We are no thieves my lady," said Mudd. "We're foragers."

"Did you buy all that food down in the yard?"

"We foraged it," said Mudd. "The smallfolk can grow more. We serve your rightful king, old crone. You should learn to speak more courteous to knights."

"If you two are knights, I'm still a maiden," said Lady Mertyns. "And I'll speak as I please. What will you do, kill me? I have lived too long already."

Princess Arianne said, "Have you been treated well, my lady?"

"I have not been raped, if that is what you're asking. Some of the serving girls have been less fortunate..."

"No one's been doing any raping," insisted Young John Mudd. "Connington won't have that. We follow orders."

Chain nodded. "Some girls was persuaded, might be..."

"The same way our smallfolk were persuaded to give you all their crops. Melons or maidenheads, it's all the same to your sort. If you want it, you take it." Lady Mertyns turned to Oberyn. "Martell. If you should see this Lord Connington, you tell him that I knew his mother, and she would be ashamed."

The Red Viper chuckled. "Perhaps I shall," he told the old Lady.

"And you," her eyes fell on Stark. "I've seen your like before too… what's your name, eh boy?"

"Frost," Willam lied. "Willam Frost, m'lady."

"Liar," she scoffed, taking a bite of her duck in protest. She'd lived long enough. She knew those eyes anywhere.

Their stay at Mistfall was short enough. The road ahead ran through the green wet heart of the Rainwood, slow going at the best of times. It took them the better part of eight days, traveling to the music of steady lashing rains beating at the treetops above. Chain accompanied them for the first four days of their journey north, with a line of wagons and ten men of his own. Away from Mudd he proved more forthcoming, and Arianne was able to charm his life story out of him. His proudest boast was of a great grandsire who had fought with the Black Dragon on the Redgrass Field and crossed the narrow sea with Bittersteel. Chain himself had been born into the company, fathered on a camp follower by his sellsword father. Though he had been raised to speak the Common Tongue and think of himself as Westerosi…

In truth though he had never set foot in any part of the Seven Kingdoms till now, about as Westerosi as Stark was; when she thought on it.

Willam spoke at length with the sellsword as they rode. The two shared their sad tales. The Sellsword and the Prince spoke of their long list of places where they'd been, foes they'd faced and wounds they'd taken. Arianne listened to them talk, prompting the sellsword from time to time with a laugh, a touch, or a question.

She learned more than she would ever need to know about Mudd's skill with dice, or Two Swords and his fondness for red-haired women, or the time someone made off with Harry Strickland's favourite elephant, or of Little Pussy and his lucky cat, and the other feats and foibles of the men and officers of the Golden Company.

On the fourth day, in an unguarded moment, Chain let slip a simple, "Once we have Storm's End…"

The princess let that aside go without comment, though it gave her considerable pause. Storm's End.

This griffin was a bold one, it would seem. Or a fool. The seat of House Baratheon for three centuries, of the ancient Storm Kings for thousands of years before that, Storm's End was said by some to be impregnable. Arianne had heard men argue about which was the strongest castle in the realm. Some said Casterly Rock, some the Eyrie of the Arryns, some Winterfell in the frozen north, but Storm's End was always mentioned too.

Legend said it was raised by Brandon the Builder to withstand the fury of vengeful gods.

That night when she told her uncle what Chain had said, and the Red Viper seemed equal parts perplexed and impressed.

"He's got balls," Oberyn had jested. "Stannis is dead, his daughter a pet of the Starks; leaving Storm's End without a friend in the world."

"If they can somehow take one of the greatest strongholds of the realm," Arianne mused.

"The realm would have to take them seriously," Oberyn finished her thought. "If they can take it…"

Near dusk on the fourth day, they were met by a column of sellswords down from Griffin's Roost, led by the most exotic creature that the princess had ever laid her eyes on, with painted fingernails and gemstones sparkling in his ears.

Lysono Maar spoke the Common Tongue very well.

"I have the honor to be the eyes and ears of the Golden Company."

"You look…"

Arianne hesitated.

"…like a woman?" He laughed. "That I am not, Princess."

"…like a Targaryen," Arianne insisted. His eyes were a pale lilac, his hair a waterfall of white and gold. All the same, something about him made her skin crawl. Was this what Viserys looked like? She found herself wondering. If so, perhaps it was a good thing the man was dead…

"I am flattered. The women of House Targaryen are said to be without peer in all the world."

"And the men of House Targaryen?"

"Oh, even prettier," Oberyn interrupted with a scoff. "And arrogant too…"

"Truth be told Prince, I have only seen the one." Maar took Arianne's hand in his own and kissed her lightly on the wrist. "Mistwood sent word of your coming, friends. We will be honoured to escort you to the Roost, but I fear you have missed Lord Connington and our young prince..."

"Off at war?"

And off to Storm's End…

"Just so," Maar let nothing slip, perfecting his art of talking while saying nothing.

Griffin's Roost finally emerged from the mists, on a grey wet day as the rain fell thin and cold.

Lysono Maar raised a hand, a trumpet blast echoed off the crags, and the castle's gates yawned open before them. The rain-soaked flag that hung above the gatehouse was white and red, the princess saw, the colours of House Connington, but the golden banners of the company were in evidence as well. They rode in double column across the ridge known as the griffin's throat, with the waters of Shipbreaker Bay growling off the rocks to either side.

Within the castle proper, a dozen of the officers of the Golden Company had assembled to welcome them. One by one they took a knee before her and pressed their lips against the back of her hand, as Lysono Maar offered introductions. Most of the names fled her head almost as soon as she had heard them.

Chief amongst them was an older man with a lean, lined, clean-shaved face, who wore his long hair pulled back into a knot.

This one is no fighter, Arianne sensed. The Lyseni confirmed her judgment when he introduced the man as Haldon Halfmaester.

"We have rooms prepared for you and yours," this Halden said, when the introductions finally ran their course. "I trust that they will suit. I know you seek Lord Connington, and he desires words with you as well, most urgently. If it please you, on the morrow there will be a ship to take you to him."

"And where is the Griffin hiding?" Oberyn demanded.

Still chasing Rhaegar's ghostly skirts about the place, he wagered silently.

"Has no one told you?" Halden Halfmaester acted surprised. "Storm's End is ours, Prince Oberyn. The Hand awaits you there."

Daemon Sand stepped up. "Shipbreaker Bay can be perilous even on a fair summer's day. The safer way to Storm's End is overland, we can-"

"These rains have turned the roads to mud. The journey would take two days, perhaps three," denied Halden Halfmaester. "A ship will have the fair Princess and her company there in half a day or less. There is an army descending on Storm's End from King's Landing. You will want to be safe inside the walls before the battle."

"Will we now?" Oberyn frowned. "A battle, or a siege?"

He would not allow his kin to be trapped inside Storm's End.

"Battle," Halden said firmly. "Prince Aegon means to smash his enemies in the field."

Arianne exchanged a look with her uncle. "Will you be so good as to show us to our rooms? I would like to refresh myself and change into dry clothes."

Halden bowed. "At once, Princess…"

They were housed in the east tower, where the windows overlooked Shipbreaker Bay.

"My brother is not at Storm's End then," said Arianne, as soon as they were behind closed doors.

"Your nephew is," her uncle said, almost hopeful. "And his aunt is half a world away, no use to Dorne; without or without dragons."

"I must speak with Connington." Arianne undid the interlocked sun and spear that clasped her cloak and let the rain-soaked garment slip from her shoulders to puddle on the floor. "And I want to see this dragon prince. If he is truly… if he truly Elia's son…"

Her Uncle's features twisted at the doubts, that she knew he surely shared as well.

"My brother did not send you with me to fight in battles, my dear…"

She wasn't so sure of that. He'd send her brother away to court dragons with no less knights.

"If the Tyrells face Connington in open battle…"

Oberyn scoffed at that. "Mace Tyrell is the greatest fool I've ever known, sweet girl; my coin is on the Griffin."

Lord Connington knew his own strength, surely. If he meant to risk battle, he must've had some plan to win… mustn't he?

She had had the uneasy feeling that Haldon Halfmaester and Lysono Maar were going to put her on that ship come morning whether her uncle or she willed it not not. It was better not to test them. "Uncle, if you were in my shoes, what would you do? If this Aegon is truly…"

"If he is Elia's son," Oberyn paused and held his silent thought.

"I must go," Arianne decided fiercely.

"We," her uncle corrected. "We go together, Ari. Have no fear of that."

"Together," she released a breath she hadn't meant to hold, never gladder to have the Viper for an uncle.

If they were taken and the castle lost then the Iron Throne would take it as proof that Dorne had conspired with these sellswords and lent aid to their invasion, yet the throne had already declared her uncle a traitor and forced Dorne's hand one way or another. Her father had entrusted this task to her….

Come the morrow, she would sail from here for Storm's End to break bread with the dragon in its den.

---

Its curtain walls were the highest and strongest in all the Seven Kingdoms, forty to eighty feet in thickness. Its mighty windowless drum tower stood less than half as tall as the Hightower of Oldtown, but rose straight up in place of being stepped, with walls thrice as thick as those to be found in Oldtown. No siege tower was tall enough to reach Storm's End battlements; neither mangonel nor trebuchet could hope to breech its massive walls, try as they might; flinging pebbles at a giant.

If Storm's End was so impregnable, then how were mortal men to take it where gods had failed?

"By guile," the Griffin had declared days past, and by guile they'd have it.

"You have the right of it, my Lord." Aegon had said. "I want the attack to go ahead… with one change…"

He would lead it personally, as a King should, shining and glorious atop his horse at the head of his army; the skies were weeping when their force arrives under cover of night – from the shadow of the Stormwood they bore witness to a village of raised tents and had dozen mangonels flinging stones against massive walls, to no effect.

The Golden Company numbered around ten thousand, the best and largest of the free companies, with five hundred knights each with three horses and five hundred squires leading one mountain apiece and two dozen elephants; recall as Aegon did the sight of them grazing beside the waters of Essos, pulling up reeds with their trunks. There was, Griff taught him, not a warhorse in all of Westeros that could stand against them. It was a shame then, that near all of the beasts were uncounted for…

A thousand archers were commanded by Black Balaq, a third of them crossbows, another third with double-curved horn-and-sinew bows of the east. Better than these were the big yew longbows borne by the archers of Westerosi blood, and best of all were the great bows of goldenheart treasured by Black Balaq himself and his fifty Summer Islanders. Only a dragonbone bow could outrange one made of goldenheart. Whatever bow they carried, all of Balaq's men were sharp-eyed, seasoned veterans.

They'd proved their worth a thousand times before and proved it once again at Griffin's Roost, now set to prove it once more this very night as well no doubt.

Ten thousand men had sailed from Volon Therys, with all their weapons, horses, elephants. Not quite half that number had turned up thus far on Westeros, at or near their intended landing site, a deserted stretch of coast on the edge of the rainwood… lands that Jon Connington knew well, as they had once been his to rule…

The force that had taken Griffin's Roost represented a quarter of their available strength; while Ser Tristan Rivers had set off simultaneously for the seat of House Morrigen at Crow's Nest, and Laswell Peake for Rain House, the stronghold of the Wyldes, each with a force of comparable size. The rest of their men had remained in camp to guard their landing site and Aegon himself, under the command of the company's Volantene paymaster, Gorys Edoryen.

Their numbers would continue to swell, one hoped; more ships were straggling in every day.

"We still have too few horses," Griff had shared his concern in that.

"And no elephants," the Halfmaester had reminded him. Not one of the great cogs carrying the elephants had turned up yet. They had last seen them at Lys before the storm that had scattered half the fleet. "Horses can be found in Westeros. Elephants though-"

No matter. Once they'd taken Storm's End, banners would flock to their cause like a food of cloth.

Their own banners were cloth-of-gold limp in the heavy downpour beside those of Connington, Wylde and Morrigen; their horns sounded in the dark and hooves soon moved on the mud – horses brought with them and taken both – their warhorns howled in the dark and their hooves picked up pace towards the camp of flickering torches.

"Fire and Blood!" Aegon shouted as he rode, loud as he wished; though the rain and thunder muffled things far louder than his own voice could muster.

He'd reared his horse at the charge and thousands descended upon the Reachmen siege camp beyond the walls of Storm's End, riding atop his black stallion Aegon heard a faint scream as his horse trampled over a bedroll, no doubt killing or crippling the poor bastard laying inside. Aegon's eyes widened at the realization, but the moment was sharply cut as the swing of a great axe took out his stallion's legs, causing the beast to wail and fall; flinging him from its saddle.

"Proud In Virtue!" The axeman screamed as he charged, with a golden tree on his muddied silver-white tabard.

The rush, excitement, fear, all passed into Aegon's heart and out through every motion of his blade, but the moment he drew his sword deep into the chest of his first kill was the moment the reality of true battle revealed itself to him, replacing the rush with dread and the excitement with sorrow. He'd killed a man…

The golden tree was bloody now, the knight laid dead in the mud and the pooling rain.

In the mud beside him laid a cloth of gold, muddied and trampled; crowned and ruined.

"Aegon!" He didn't hear the voice amidst the chaos, his hands uneasy. "AEGON!"

Looking around, he saw tents trampled, knights fighting horse to horse, or man to man, gold against silver.

Their own gold was a mummery, their spears and skulls painted over; stags raised high upon their gallant charge.

Griff's call snapped him back into focus, removing his blade from a Reacher's chest. "Focus my boy! Focus now damn it!"

"I-" Aegon shook his head, socked and heavy silvery locks; freed of the blue dye that had once hidden him from the world.

The battle raged on around them as the initial shock wore away after the second, the third, the fourth, until he stopped counting; fighting man to man beside Griff and Ser Rolly in his snow-white cloak of his Kingsguard. Ser Rolly had taught him to fight, though putting those techniques into practice was something else entirely.

Another horn slashed against the night air, loud and defiant, Aegon's head snapped to the east; towards Storm's End and its mighty walls.

"They're sallying," he uttered aloud, smiling even as the rain poured, and thunder shook the heavens above their heads.

"We're not done yet," Griff nudged him hard, stern and serious and afraid. Not afraid for himself though. Never for himself.

The shouts of "Baratheon!" and "Storm's End!" and "Ours is the Fury!" came from the garrison as well as their own men.

By guile, Griff had told them, and by guile they'd have it. The armour they'd taken from the seized castles, alongside the banners; all Storm's End saw was Stormlords coming to their rescue. Having been under siege since before their own arrival, chances were the garrison was wholly unaware of their invasion.

Defeating the Tyrell camp itself was no challenge in truth, but taking Storm's End? It was impossible… unless they were invited inside…

"Quickly," he was handed a helm, good steel too, if not muddied and used.

Aegon covered his hair with the helm and Griff fell back behind Ser Rolly and the others.

Glancing about, one couldn't see the ground for the fallen; as the rain fell the mud seemed to swallow them up.

Near two hundred men in Baratheon gold had sallied out to aid them against the Reachmen, chanting and cheering, their leader had rushed so brazenly into the heart of the enemy camp that he'd beat them to capturing the enemy commander. "Friends," he'd called them, throwing the stout reachman down to the muddy ground.

"We came as soon as we could gather," Ser Rolly told them, his cloak near brown with muck. "Ser?"

"Gilbert Farring," the commander named himself. "And this is my second, Elwood Meadows…"

"I feared we'd be sieged for years Sers," Meadows revealed, a young man, green as reacher grass.

"How goes the war?" Farring asked. "We've heard nothing since those bastards arrived!"

"Is the Queen well?" Meadows asked them swiftly.

"All is well," Rolly assured them both with a smile. "Might we talk out of this accursed rain?"

"Aye," Farring sighed, glancing up at the sky as it drenched them all, the thunder loud and angry.

"Let's talk inside Gilbert," Meadows nudged. "I'm soaked down to my bones here for god's sake man!"

Farring gave a nod and shouted orders for the Tyrell commander – Mathis Rowan – to be hauled to the cells at Storm's End.

The garrison cheered for their saviours, for Baratheon, for Queen Shireen and for Farring's heroics. They cheered, until their throats were cut.

---

The Storm God was pissed. That was the general consensus at least as the heavens roared and threw rain at their heads like a volley of arrows from well-trained archers, the dark clouds acting as a great shield against the sun, the crackling flashes of lightning striking them like lances at a tourney; the God of Storms that had cast down Storm's End six times before hadn't been this furious since he'd been bested on the seventh, if the andal stories were to be believed... and given the sheer number of times things were done in seven days it seemed that any moderately intelligent fool ought to not believe them at all. At the least, such stories were coloured by the Faith.

Storm God or not they had nearly sunk in truth, with the winds throwing their ship this way and that like a damned child's toll tossed aside in some tantrum; for what were gods if not angry children throwing fits? It was thoughts like that, Willam wagered with a scowl, that doubtless got him into so much trouble with their like.

Gods loved to fuck with him, he'd always jokingly suspected as much, but now it seemed even the bloody Storm God wanted a shot at him as well.

"Move over old trees," he could imagine the bastard god of storms saying. "It's MY turn to play with the morals now!"

Thunder rolled across the sky, the rain fell in blinding sheets, and from time-to-time great bolts of blue-white lightning lit the world as bright as day.

The Wanderer had known storms as bad as this one though, true, but she was a god herself compared to the shoddy galley the half-maester put them on. You'd think the man would've cared more for their safety, but then how could've he known- oh wait, the place was called Shipbreaker Bay for god's sake... they'd been sent to die...

That was doubtful. He was probably being a tad dramatic, in truth, it was probably a coincidence. Probably. They'd laugh about it later. Probably.

Storm's End had no safe anchorage by the castle, its seaside wall boasting a hundred and fifty good drop below the wall and into the raging sea, with one pale grey stone curtain wall above that projected the castle's kitchens, stables and yard. There was only one tower, a colossal drum crowned with formidable battlements, making it look like a huge, spiked fist thrusting towards the sky from afar, so large that it contained the granary, barracks, armoury, feast hall and lord's chambers all at once.

Durran's Point laid ahead of them through the pouring rain, a high white cliff that overlooked the sea and housed Storm's End defiantly atop it.

The sails cracked and snapped with every shift of the wind until the crew pulled them down and made for the oars.

Willam had always loved water. As a boy, he'd slept many a time at sea, the rocking calmed the heart in his chest and the sighing of gentle winds on the rigging of his own ship was as sweet a sound as he'd ever heard before, like a bard's notes on a harp string; though this cursed sea brought no such comfort.

The shore ahead was a snarl of rocks with the low tide, it was said; but this high roaring tide invited them in sweetly to the cliffside.

It was welcoming, luring, like a siren calling to their ship. A call they rowed fiercely to ignore if they valued living.

Wood creaked and water splashed, so loudly a man might swear the castle above was sure to hear. The endless crash of wave on rock was the only sound that ever penetrated the massive seaward walls of Storm's End through, and that was ever but faintly. The fainter sound of oars was lost in the rhythm of the waves.

A mouth yawned in the pale white cliff ahead, and it was there that they headed. It led to a cavern under the castle, where the storm kings built their landing.

The passage was navigable only during high tide, and was never less than treacherous, but it was sailable to those who knew the waters. They threaded their way deftly between the jagged rocks until the cave mouth loomed up before them. The waves carried them inside. They crashed around, rocking the ship this way and that.

Then they were past the worst of it, engulfed in torchlight, and the waters smoothed as they galley stilled and the sound of the crews breathing echoed in the cavern.

Eyes looked down at them from murder holes in the ceiling. The portcullis laid ahead, and here they laid anchor beneath the fortress of Storm's End.

"That you Maar!?" A voice greeted them from the rocky shore of the cavern as a party of some twenty men awaited.

"Miss me Mudd?" Lysono was the first to reply, seemingly giddy at the sound of his own name.

The serjeant's look told them all otherwise.

"Come now," Lysono was the first down the plank. "I am wet and cold Mudd!"

"How's that my problem, whore?"

Maar's face etched a smile, wide and devilishly.

"Prince Oberyn," the Serjeant ignore Maar. "And this must be the Princess…"

"And your name is what, Sellsword?" Oberyn stalked down the plank and hopped onto the rocky shore.

"Mudd, as the whore put it," came the answer with a glare. "Ser Lorimas Mudd, a pleasure, His Grace was thrilled to learn of your arrival."

"We met another Mudd at Mistwood on our travels," Arianne provided with a kind smile, eyeing this new sellsword; younger than the other they'd met – bronze skinned and not quite handsome – his nose was too big for his face, she thought, scarred and weathered but younger than Young John had looked.

"My brother," Lorimas muttered. "Johns the eldest, forget the nickname; it's confusing Princess. You may call me Lor if you wish…"

"Lor," she said sweetly and touched his arm. "Would you be kind as to lead us inside? We are quite wet, as you can see."

The sellswords eyes had wandered more than once. It was a thing she was more than used to, her looks as sharp as any sword.

It didn't hurt that Ser Daemon was glaring daggers at the man as Stark and the others left the galley. Arianne gladly followed the youngest Mudd son past the portcullis and up to the castle proper, making sure to lock arms with the sellsword when he offered so kindly to guide her up the steps that were "slippery" by his own words.

"You've replaced me Mudd," Maar had complained loudly, earning a growl from the young man and a chuckle from Oberyn and the other sellswords.

The stairs were indeed slippery – that it appeared wasn't anything sly on Mudd's part, they were wet from the sea mist and crudely shaped from the stone.

It seemed to go on forever, the sound of the crashing waves below them growing fainter by the step, up and up and further still; her escort spoke awkwardly of his life as he tried to impress her with talk of his lineage and his own exploits. His father had been John Mudd as well, this much she'd learnt from the man's brother, but where Young John was tight lipped his little brother was anything but – speaking proudly of the ancient king's blood that ran through his veins.

Stark was the only one to bother questioning him, that caused the young sellsword to tighten his grip on her arm ever so slightly.

"My father has a banner," young Lorimas said. "The banner of Mudd Kings hasn't been seen in a thousand years; but my father and his father before him have carried it."

A golden crown on a field of brown. The legend – as Lorimas was all too thrilled to tell – spoke of how his great ancestor won the crown of Rivers and Hills by defeating the ruling king of the age, their name forgotten, the first Mudd picked up that kings crown from a muddy battlefield and declared himself King of the Rivers and Hills, taking the golden crown on a field of brown as his sigil; their name Mudd and their words "Sworn to Justice" for the great hammer named Justice that was bestowed upon them by the Old Gods themselves. It was an interesting tale, differing if only slightly from the popular telling of KingTristifer, the Hammer of Justice; a title Lorimas claimed proudly.

It was passed down from Mudd to Mudd, to hear him tell it. Young Lorimas beamed with pride as he spoke those words. Lyarra Stark only giggled like a maiden to hear it.

Lorimas glared at her when she'd burst into the fit of laughter atop the stairs, the normally passive and strange woman having burst alight.

"Such fanciful tales you tell Princeling," she said between giggles.

Arianne was surprised to see her expression change so suddenly, as if we'd slipped a mask.

"I-" Lorimas had turned red as a rose. "You dare-"

"Come now," Arainne quickly tried to calm him.

"What would you know of my kin, woman?!"

"Best not ask Mudd," Stark stood in an instant between the sellsword and his giggling sister.

His hand rested atop the pommel of that strange sword of his that he'd not once shown off in Sunspear.

"And who are you?!"

"I am-"

"You failed," Lyarra was smiling, her giggling ceased.

"-nobody." Willam sighed. "Frost," he lied. "My blood is old too, Mudd; my sister-"

"Your sister knows nothing Frost," Lorimas snarled.

"Old blood indeed," Lyarra smirked, toothy and mocking.

Lorimas huffed and all but dragged Adrianne away.

"The fuck was that about Lya..."

"The forsaken speak with pride," she scoffed, her smile gone; as if it hadn't ever existed. "His kin broke the-"

"Enough," Willam grabbed her arm.

The others had walked ahead of them now, only Suko and Ashlyn lingered.

"Save your ramblings for dark caves and dreams," he warned. "This place... we are not home Lya..."

"He's right Princess," Suko gave his peace, leaning up against the hallway wall.

"Yes," she said, earning a glance shared between the two Princes.

"Wait," Willam halted. "I'm right?"

"He's right?" Ashlyn looked dumbstruck.

"This has never happened before..."

"Shut it Lóng..."

"Is anyone writing this down?"

"About this place," Lyarra clarified,

"Oh thank the Dawn," Suko chuckled. "I was worried for a second..."

"Piss off," Willam ignored him. "What do you mean this time?"

"I-" She frowned, sad, lost suddenly...

"Princess?" Ashlyn put a stray hand on her shoulder.

"Frost," Oberyn had doubled back for them. "Is it considered polite where you're from to keep your hosts waiting?"

"Depends on the host," Suko quipped.

"We're coming," Willam walked to and past the Viper, with Ashlyn and Suko on his heels.

"Are you quite alright Princess?" Oberyn was ever a charmer for damsels in distress, and this wolf seemed lost and unlike her usual cheery self – at least from what little he knew of the woman in Dorne. "You mustn't let sellswords get under your skin my dear…"

The Mudd boy was insignificant.

"There's an odd foulness in the air..."

"Well," Oberyn took her arm. "The Golden Company are said to sleep with their elephants you know... perhaps that is the smell?"

She giggled at that, smiling, fake and hollow for Martells sake. It made the dornishman smile as if he had succeeded in something. Smiles were easy weapons.

"Perhaps," she lied. It was in the walls, in the air, whatever it was had walked the steps behind them and these halls as well.

It had left its mark, tainted, like ash and smoke on her tongue...

"Have you ever seen an elephant before, Princess?"

"Yes," she had. She'd seen many things with her eye.

"Majestic creatures," Oberyn walked with her, warm and as comforting as he pleased. "Also fierce, let loose against men; well – not a sight you'd like to see..."

"Is it not?" She asked, eyes like innocent emeralds.

In a flash, however brief, Oberyn felt... uneasy under her gaze...

"No," he could recall having seen men trampled by the beasts during his time in the Free Cities, heads crushed like ripe grapes beneath their feet.

It was not a memory even he cared to dwell on for long.

"Do you believe the boy is truly of your blood?"

Oberyn slowed his pace as they walked through the grey smooth-stones halls. "What have you heard of my sister, Princess?"

"Elia Martel," she spoke the name as if they'd been old friends. "She was born too soon, too kind and beautiful into a world that exploits both such things; a gentle soul, good and gracious, kind and cleaver, with a viper's wit. Warm as the sun even the darkest of hours. Brave, then bowed by her husband and broken by his-"

Oberyn released her arm.

"You dare speak of-"

"Am I wrong, Prince?"

He glared, coiled like a viper laid in ambush; waiting and ready to strike. Were she a man, doubtless he'd have done so already. His venom alone was famed and feared enough to put the fright in men. Not in her though. Her eyes were... somehow devoid... of anything at all. There was no reading this woman.

"She was my sister," Oberyn said low. "She was born sickly, that's true, but she was fierce too… and too good for this world..."

"And they killed her..."

"Yes," he practically growled. "And then I killed them..."

"And did that bring her back to you in the end, Prince Oberyn?"

No. That thought stung, but no. He knew it couldn't, even if he could strangle Tywin Lannister to death a thousand times only to bring him back from the strangers grasp for yet another thousand deaths, it would never fill the hole she'd left behind... but if the boy was true…

"Her son is back," he told her, all but hissing; equal parts angry at her and hopeful for his sister's son.

Oberyn expected a denial. He expected anything, truly, only for her to smile sweetly at him as if nothing was wrong with the world. Most would've cowered under his boiling anger – he'd never been good at hiding it for long – but this Stark woman revealed nothing to him.

He wondered if the sellsword hadn't been right to be as angry as he'd been...

"Shall we go and see for ourselves, Martell?"

"Yes," the Viper hissed. "We shall see Stark..."

He stormed off ahead of her and the others awaited them, crowded by a great thick oaken door reinforced by forged steel that stood shut.

"Princess," Suko called her over. "I think we're late…"

"What happened with-"

Oberyn barged past them all, entering through the doorway as four guardsmen pushed them open slowly.

"She reject him or something?"

"Shut it Long," Willam sighed.

"What?" He was left lingering behind.

"Do you ever take things seriously Suko," asked Ashlyn, one hand on her hip. "Honestly?"

"It's a valid question Princess..."

"I'm not a-"

"Shut up Lóng..."

"She's hot," Suko shrugged, hands held up in mock surrender. "Crazy, true, but I'm not afraid to admit it Stark!"

"You bloody well should be," Willam glared.

"Aren't you and the dornish girl an item Long?"

"She was good fun I'll admit Princess," Suko smirked, walking backwards through the doorway as he spoke. "A Lóng is never tied down to just one woman though, besides, Will slept with my bitch of a sister, it's only fair that I-"

"I will punch you again Lóng..."

"Oh fine," he laughed. "I'm only teasing!"

"Now is not the time Suko," Ashlyn groaned.

"Presenting His Grace," the herald announced, the doors closing shut slowly behind them – eerily reminding Willam of the throne room in the Red Keep of all places, though Storm's End boasted a smaller hall with grey stone pillars thick and strong – numerous hunting trophies were hung on the walls flanking banners and tapestries that depicted great battles and heroics. "King Aegon VI, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"

His Grace was surrounded by gold and retainers, the Griffin lord, one cloak of white, Maar and Mudd and numerous serjeants of the Golden Company.

The herald went on to name "Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell" as the Heir to Dorne and "Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell" as her esteemed uncle.

"No mention of us," Suko whispered quietly as they walked.

"Gods damn it, Lóng…"

"I'm insulted, is all I'm saying."

No mention was the whole damn point.

The Martell's had long stepped forward, looking at the boy before them with judging eyes.

He sat atop the Storm Throne of the mythic Durran Godsgrief within the Round Hall of his descendants. It was all thick grey stone carved with golden lightning bolts and antlers that acted as armrests, the boy atop it no more than eight-and-ten, with clear valyrian features; his eyes almost appeared blue in the dim light of torches.

"Uncle," he stood from atop his throne, eager in his youth; his eyes found the Princess. "Cousin…"

No reply came at first, with nought but the faint whisper of crashing waves heard.

"Boy," Oberyn finally broke the peace.

"He is the King, and you will-"

The boy held up a hand, that hushed the Griffin Lord.

Aegon steeled himself and began to step down from the throne.

"I-" He was shorter than the Viper. "I'm glad you've come, Uncle, I-"

Oberyn was glaring something fierce, scanning the boy, judging silently as his niece stood on edge.

Aegon's eyes glanced to his cousin, smiling weakly. "Princess, you're as beautiful as they told-"

"Do you remember them?" Oberyn asked, doubtful; the boy was a babe at the time after all.

"No," Aegon frowned at the admission. "Jon told me of my father, but-"

"I bet he did," Oberyn glared at the Griffin Knight.

"Mind your tongue Martell…"

"Mind your own," Oberyn snaped back.

"Please," Aegon stood between them. "I'd hoped that we'd-"

"Hoped for what boy?" Oberyn glanced him over once more. He could see nothing of her in him…

This boy was all Rhaegar, except for the eyes. Those were such a dark purple that they appeared as almost a dark blue, and Oberyn wondered then despite his doubts if perhaps that had been thanks to his sweet sister? Rhaegar's eyes had been a deep purple indigo in life, and Elia's had been as black as night.

"He could be hers," Oberyn thought, unsure if he truly believed it or if he merely wished to believe it. What if he wasn't? What if?

"Uncle," Arianne interfered his thoughts. "We're all tired, perhaps we should talk later? Over dinner perhaps, Your Grace?"

"Yes, of course," Aegon seemed genuine in this at least, even relieved, dimples appearing as he smiled.

"Very well then," Oberyn seemed to soften somewhat when the boy smiled at them. "Your Grace…"

Connington held a guarded look about him. "We have rooms prepared, for you and your guests Prince."

The Viper merely hummed, turning on his heels and leaving the Round Hall behind; followed by his niece and the others.

In the guest wing of the great Storm Drum that was Storm's End great tower fist, they were housed for the night; politely informed that the dinner between Viper and Dragon was meant for family only – that Oberyn's guests were not, their own quarters smaller and far more modest than those of the Prince and Princess.

"What do you think?" Ashlyn asked quickly enough, once they were alone.

"About the boy?" Willam didn't have much to say, in all honesty. "I don't care, really…"

She rolled her eyes. "If the Martells don't believe him…"

"He looks Targaryen enough, no? As far as I'm aware at least."

"I suppose," Ashlyn could only hum a reply, getting into the feathered bed and looking up at the grey stone.

"Oberyn didn't seem convinced," Willam added, frowning at the thought.

Then again, what did he expect? That the boy would look the spitting image of his mother? Now that would be convenient…

"How do you think the dinner went?"

"Full of questions tonight, Ash, aren't we?"

"We've done nothing but travel through forest and bogs for weeks, so humour me Stark…"

He rolled his eyes and sat on the bed beside her muttering "as you command m'lady" and ignored the half-hearted smack he earned.

"It really doesn't matter," Willam supposed after a moment. "The boy looks the part, at least from his father's side; he's all the right bits no doubt – the Martells may care for the truth of things, but I doubt they'll find it. The boy is either their blood, or he's not, but then… who benefits from lying about that exactly?"

"The Griffin," Ashlyn suggested, not quite believing it.

There was power in the name, to be sure, but it was no small name.

"You saw the way he leapt to defend the lad," Willam dismissed. "I doubt it, no…"

"Why not tell them who we are though?"

It had been by Oberyn's suggestion, in fact…

"His grandfather burnt several of us, did you know?"

"Ah," Ashlyn sighed wearily. "He sounds lovely…"

"Charming man I'm sure," Willam laid beside her and shut his eyes.

"There's an army coming for us here, isn't there Will?"

Indeed, there was apparently a great army headed this way…

Straight out of King's Landing looking to throw a dragon back into the sea.

"When isn't there some danger heading my way, Ash? Same old shit, no?"

She scoffed aloud at that. "True enough, but it's usually your fault Stark."

"Fair," he kept his eyes shut even as she leaned over and kissed his cheek.

This wasn't the first siege he'd partake in, and it wouldn't be his last. Maybe.

---

Come the dawn Willam stood leaning against the battlements upon the massive outer curtain wall of Storm's End while Suko sat above on the parapet, fiddling with his bowstring, and peering out into the gloom of morning. In the field that stretch out beyond these walls, crows and ravens picked at the ruins of men and horses left out in the mud and the grass; carrion for the winded beasts. The morning was a slow and quiet one, the rains passed, the storm a gnawing memory.

The host that was to march against them should've been here by now, according to Connington's apparent information.

Oberyn hadn't ceased mocking the man for that.

"Do you even know how to use that, Lóng?"

Suko looked aghast, a mock hand over his heart.

"I'll have you know Stark," he huffed, insulted. "I was the best bow in the Empire!"

Willam could only stare at him. "I have known you for years…"

"Don't remind me…"

"And not once have I seen you shoot a bow."

"You were too busy playing with my sweet sister to notice."

"And you're evading," Willam scoffed. "Truly, how shit are you?"

Suko's face scrunched. "This is why you don't have friends Stark."

"Then what are you doing here, eh Lóng?"

He chuckled at that. "Got me there Stark."

The sun was rising over the horizon, painting the muddied fields with a golden light.

"I reckon it's easy enough though, surely? Point and release, right?"

"Wait," Willam glanced at him, smirking. "You've never shot a bow?"

"I have too," came the denial, abashed and red as a rose. "Don't be foolish, Stark."

"For someone so skilled at mummery, you're a fucking shit liar sometimes, Lóng."

He huffed, rolling his eyes. "I wasn't even trying to-"

Suko hopped down from the parapet and squinted at the horizon.

"You'll go blind Lóng…"

"Shut it Stark," he dismissed. "Look there…"

Willam glanced, uncaring; until he saw it too. Shit…

They were afar, like a host of marching ants up and over the moors and closer still before the horns and trumpets sounded around Storm's End – announcing the arrival of the enemy – though Willam and Suko stayed put to watch. The ants came atop the horizon, banners too far out to see clearly.

"Looks like the Griffin was right," Suko said, eyes darting aside. There were a Lot of them. "Is it too late to stop being your friend Stark?"

The enemy was numerous – far beyond what Connington had promised; mounted and approaching steadily. Whoever was leading them wanted to be seen. They may as well have been holding signs reading "Hello There" in place of their flock of banners.

"I'm afraid so Lóng," Willam replied with a smirk. "Look at it this way though-"

"We're fucked, what other way is there to look at it?"

They did not know Aegon's plan, but…

"At least it's not boring, eh?"

Suko blinked, huffed, then laughed.

"Aye," he supposed. "True enough Stark…"

"Ash is pregnant," Willam blurted out suddenly, eyes never leaving the horizon.

Suko blinked. "Oh? Who's the farther?"

"Shut up Lóng. If I happen to stop being lucky…"

"When did you start exactly?"

"Look after her," Willam ignored his jest. "And the kid too…"

"I've never been much for kids, Stark, nor the girl for that matter…"

"She likes you well enough, sorta."

"Woman's liable to kill me, I'd say…"

"Then we'll both be dead," Willam shrugged.

"You'd miss me otherwise. It's for the best, no?"

And then Rodrik would burn Westeros to the ground.

"It's almost sad we'll miss my brother's reaction, eh Lóng?"

"Oh yes," Suko rolled his eyes. "Winter, Ruin and Wrath, wasn't it?"

"Winter's Wrath and Ruin," Willam corrected. An old title of sorts. "Close enough, same shit…"

The great enemy host halted some leagues away, atop the moors, they were close enough now to-

"Well then," Suko muttered. "Shall we hold off for now on the whole glorious death thing, Stark?"

"For now," Willam hummed. Wolves ran on ice with anchors, sharks, bears, crabs, seahorses and others.

A lone rider was approaching the camp beyond their walls, flying the direwolf upon an ice-white field above their heads.

Willam made for the stairs, down the battlements to find Oberyn and the others waiting and arguing with the Griffin Lord.

"It's a ploy Your Grace," he was telling the boy-king hotly.

"To what end?" Aegon scowled. "Uncle," the boy seemed more confident. "What say you?"

Oberyn had warmed to the boy at a glance.

"I don't fear one rider on a horse, Your Grace, nor should You."

"One rider with a man roped and bound behind," Willam pointed out on their approach.

"Frost," Oberyn eyed him with a glance. "Do you know anything about this? Your sister is absent…"

She was? Of course she fucking was, that sounded exactly like her come to think of it. She probably ran off in the night.

"Why would he know of this?" Connington pried, warily. "He's northern, that much is clear; why is he with you Martell?"

"I have many friends Connington," Oberyn shrugged. "You ought to try making some one of these days…"

"Enough!" Aegon demanded. "We open the gates, let them in and-"

"Aegon, it is not-"

"I want to hear them speak."

He did not, it seemed, wish to hear the Griffin.

The man himself looked none too pleased, clear worry etched onto that face of his.

In moments the portcullis was raised though, slow and steady, under it rode one rider; pulling a bound man behind them.

As the rider dismounted and threw back their cloak Willam audibly groaned.

Typical. Raven hair and emeralds greeted them.

"Lady Frost," Oberyn was the first to speak, terribly amused.

She curtsied like a proper lady. "Prince Oberyn, we meet again. Always a pleasure…"

"Sister," Willam stared daggers at her. "What… no, never mind – I don't want to know."

"What is the meaning of this Oberyn?" Connington was uneasy, his hand shifting to the pommel of his sword.

"For once I am as clueless as you Ser," is all the Viper offered, smirking at the man innocently. Implying the man was usually clueless.

"Lord Connington," Lyarra stepped forward, yanking the rope and her captive forward. "I bring gifts for His Grace."

"Explain yourself this insta-"

"My Lady," Aegon held up a hand, silencing the man beside him.

"Now that is a proper and civil response," Lyarra grinned at the boy. "House Stark sends its regards, Aegon Targaryen."

"Stark?" Aegon's warm demeanour shifted, looking to his courtiers for guidance.

"The Starks are no friends ours Your Grace…"

"These one's are friends of mine," Oberyn revealed, as if it wasn't anything of note.

"What?" Connington scowled furiously. "This is madness Oberyn, you cannot mean-"

"Peace," Aegon looked to the Griffin, eyes pleading for calm. The boy didn't look too shocked.

"Forgive the deception Your Grace," Willam said with a plastered smile. "We feared that-"

"The Starks are sworn enemies Your Grace, you cannot trust-"

"My Uncle told me about you," Aegon revealed, ignoring the Griffin and nodding to the Viper. The wolf sighed and took his que…

"Prince Willam Stark of Winterhold," he bowed, practiced and flamboyantly sarcastic in its style. "Son of the late King Brandon and brother to Rodrik Stark, the King of Winter who it appears has arrived outside your gates this morning Your Grace… doubtless my own doing I'm afraid…"

"Your doing," Connington did not keep his peace. "Aegon, you must listen to me in this and-"

Aegon looked to his surrogate father with a face that screamed 'I can handle this' almost pleadingly. The boy had been speaking to Oberyn, that much was clear.

"If I know my brother Your Grace," Willam feared that he did know the man, as he knew their father once. "He's brought the winds of winter to bare, damned be the consequences; he's here to act as our father once did – to bring me back across the Sunset Sea, kicking and screaming, if need be, I imagine…"

"If what you say is true," Aegon allowed, clearly with his doubts despite Oberyns apparent words. "Why has he come with an army?"

"To do his duty I fear, no more or less," Willam answered the boy.

"In part," Lyarra added. "Would you like to see his gift, Your Grace?"

Aegon looked to the man, bounded at the hands with a brown sack over his head.

At his word the strange Stark woman tore away the sack to reveal a gagged man, husky, with red hair and a long beard; glaring fiercely at them all.

"Remove his gag please My Lady," Aegon asked of her with all the politeness of a courtly King.

"King Rodrik gives this man to you, as a token of good will; he invites you for talks beyond these walls."

As she removed the rope from the prisoner's mouth, he lunged forward, falling to his knees wide-eyed.

"Your Grace," he said immediately. "I am Ser Ronnet Connington! Loyal subject-"

"Loyal?" Lyarra giggled at that notion. What nonsense…

"-of House Targaryen! I came to join you, but was set upon by-"

"Soundly defeated he means," Lyarra added casually, rolling her eyes playfully.

"-these savages!" Ronnet glared at his captor. "This woman is a witch Your Grace, you must-"

"His Grace must do nothing," Jon Connington interrupted, scowling. "He is your King."

"Cousin," Red Ronnet plastered a smile. "It is you, yes? You must believe me! I swear I am true!"

"The Spider informed us of his intent," Lyarra revealed. "Ser Ronnet was quite adamant that he be allowed to reclaim his home from… what was the word?"

"Don't listen to her," Ronnet begged. "She's a witch, her words are poison and bile and-"

The spider? The Griffin Lord scowled at that. What was Varys up to, and why weren't they informed?

"Gag him," he commanded and in an instant Ronnet was screaming defiantly against the rope once more.

"Usurper," Lyarra snapped her fingers, as if she had ever forgotten. That was the word.

Jon scowled at that. Griffin's Roost was His by rights. "What of this army? Where is it?"

"Gone, my Lord, shattered within the Kingswood under cover of night."

"Defeated?" Aegon said as the courtyard flooded with whispers.

"To the last man," Willam assumed. "Knowing my brother, Your Grace."

"That is good news, though it's hard to believe…"

"Aegon, listen to me," Oberyn said, earning the boy's attention immediately.

The use of his name in place of title seemed to visibly please the dragon, and no doubt Oberyn had meant for just that.

"This man," he pointed to Willam. "Killed the bastard Gregor Clegane and fed Amory Lorch to a bear – you remember what I said?"

"I do Uncle," Aegon looked determined by that. "You have my thanks, Prince Willam, for the role you've played…"

"None required Your Grace," Willam shrugged it away. "I confess – as your Uncle knows – it was not done for thanks."

"No," Aegon shook his head. "You have them regardless Ser, on behalf of House Targaryen. I thank you, for my mother and sister's sake..."

"This meeting," Connington jumped in quickly, annoyance hot on his breath; as if only He could council the boy.

He was Hand of the King for god's sake, he'd raised the boy; not the cursed dornish Viper!

"I shall accept them," Aegon insisted brazenly despite his council. "Lady Stark, you can tell-"

"Inside the castle," Jon Connington demanded. "I must insist Your Grace, for your own safety, I must…"

Aegon frowned. "Is that acceptable My Lady? There will be guest rights, of course, I vow it on my honor."

"I shall inform my brother," Lyarra smiled at the boy happily.

"And I would go with her Your Grace," Willam pushed. "If-"

"No," the Griffin refused immediately.

"Jon," Aegon frowned at the rudeness of it.

"You will stay Stark," Connington insisted. "If your kin come as friends, why the rush to leave?"

Oberyn scoffed. "Spoken like a man whose family despises him Connington…"

"He stays," the Griffin would not budge.

He was still Hand. He would not see Aegon harmed… ever…

"That is not necessary," the Dragon began with a frown.

"It is true enough Your Grace," Willam held to his smile.

Gods, he really wanted to punch the Griffin right about now. Bastard.

"I apologies for Lord Connington's brashness," Aegon said none the less. "He speaks out of care for me, you must understand…"

Oberyn scoffed back some laughter, muttering something along the lines of "I bet he does" that only Suko seemed to hear, sniggering to himself.

"No offence taken Your Grace," Willam felt like he was back at the Imperial Court, wearing fake smiles and fighting the bile that brewed in his stomach after too much fake sweetness; mixed with an uncertainty at seeing his brother again soon. "My sister will give my best to Rodrik, I'm sure; won't you Lya?"

"Of course Willy," she beamed, wide, innocent as you please.

Oberyn and Suko burst into laughter as Willam Stark sighed aloud.

The Storm God had his fun. What god was playing with him now, he did not know.

---

My Note(s): As I'm writing this I'm not certain I'll meet my Friday deadline (I won't :P) but hopefully I can finish up for Saturday now that I've the weekend free :) This chapter is pretty long, lots of stuff happening, I even included a short showing of Aegon's seizing of Storm's End that I do believe will play out more or less the same in canon as we've quite abit of foreshadowing around it being taken by 'Guile' and how the 'Company Gold' is similar to the 'Baratheon Gold' so it appears likely that Connington intends to trick Storm's End into opening their gates. What better way than to appear as heroes lifting the siege, only to turn on the garrison after?

It also further foreshadows the whole Red or Black question. They take Storm's End by guile, beneath the gold is steel, washed up and red with rust; the dragon is still a dragon. I'm in the Blackfyre camp personally – there's FAR too many hints throughout the books – but I don't expect we'll ever explicitly be told X or Y is true and it'll likely be left up to our own interpretation. I'm no fan of "dragons can tell if he's a Blackfyre" as that's just factually incorrect. We've had non-targaryen dragonriders plenty of times, so there's no reason any dragon would refuse a Blackfyre by sole virtue of them not being named Targaryen and I won't dignify the nonsense "fire immunity" test at all. Demon Blackfyre was the product of two Targaryens for god's sake; there's as much Valyrian blood in a Blackfyre as there is in a Targaryen. If not more. I don't intend to give you guys an explicit answer for if Aegon is Red or Black – there arguments on both sides – so come to your own conclusions on the matter. My coin is on Blackfyre.

I promised a reunion with Willam's brothers this chapter. It appears I kinda lied :D though not entirely or intentionally, this chapter underwent quite a big re-write and some big changes/improvements that I felt were necessary. I could've skipped ahead to the upcoming chapter honestly but there's a lot in this chapter that is better experienced than merely referenced with "btw this happened elsewhere" in a later chapter. I'd always rather give a PoV to show than meekly gloss over events.

Lastly, as always, I appreciate those taking the time to review/comment :) getting feedback is great and lets me know if people enjoyed a chapter, or didn't, etc.

---

Max207: I enjoyed exploring Harras as a character to the point that I have plans to use him in later chapter(s) and even in my Long and Sharp fanfic once I've finished writing Sunset Starks. House Harlaw is one of the more interesting Ironborn imo and it'll be interesting to write out the Readers grand scheme later on :) shenanigans…

246vili: Euron is out for Euron at the end of the day, the man doesn't care about the pawns that follow me; they're merely tools to be used and discarded. We've a hint of how Oldtown has gone for him via the rumours/news at Storm's End. The city has apparently fallen and the news is accompanied by some wild tall tales, true or otherwise.

Dave: Welcome back :P I'm glad some people at least enjoy the Empire stuff, it's interesting to me exploring the vague/unexplored areas of Gorges work.

Starwarslegendsmaster: I'm a great fan of Mark Lawrence's work and Highly recommend people buy his books; if it wasn't already very obvious that I'm a fan – then I point out this very fanfic has several of his quotes used and even a character named Jorg. Willam's whole character is heavily influenced by Mark's writing + my RL experiences.

Guest: I do like to keep us informed on events via the odd PoV rather than just mentioning "X happened at Y btw" without showing it, if that thing's important.