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Chapter 59: Ice and Fire
"No peace lasts forever…"
– Prince Willam Stark
The chill of winter encompassed all things in time, outstretched with cold fingers and pale blue eye, the seat of Storm Kings bore witness to the first snowfall in over ten years; returning with a frost to bite at bones. The Maester's of the Citadel had longed claimed that a great Summer would naturally call upon a greater Winter and it seemed – in this at least – the grey rats of the citadel were well versed, if none the less quiet of late. No white raven had come from the rats… oddly enough…
It was custom, as Maester's so loved to be relied upon, for white ravens to signal the changing of the seasons. No such raven had come to Storm's End.
Willam awoke early, as he'd often done; waking beside the sleeping form of Ashlyn nestled under great thick furs that coveted their sizeable bed. Storm's End was a castle warmed by raging fires against the cold winds of Shipbreaker Bay, violent and unyielding, these grey-black stone walls were cool to the touch – so unlike Dorne had been - so unlike home, as Winterhold was built atop hotsprings just as Brandon the Builder had once raised Winterfell. Willam had been in too many castles to count, truth be told, he wasn't sure if it was the dreary chill of this particular fortress that made him cling to Ashlyn's warmth, or if it was love, like, lust or a plain weariness.
His arm stayed in her vice-like grip whatever the case, he could not move without waking her even if he wished to; the woman that carried his child was sound asleep, clinging to him as if he were a feathered pillow. It was nice. He'd grown used to it, frightfully, not something he'd thought to boast of again in life... not since her...
Suko's sister had been loving once too after all, clingy and cuddly and affectionate until she abruptly wasn't. Nuwa Lóng had grown bored of him within a month. It was subtle at first – all the excused absences he'd ignored – more than once she'd awoken before him, leaving him to wake alone. He'd even caught her waking up and sneaking out once or twice, pretending to remain asleep just to sate a gnawing worry, to see her wake and leave his room without so much as a word of goodbye.
"She doesn't wish to wake me," he'd tell himself, shrugging off the doubts even as his mind scoffed, rolled its eyes to utter mockery and curses.
"She's bored with us," the doubts had scoffed so many times. "She doesn't love us, you know…""
She was a Princess. She'd known full well how difficult sleep came to him, with the nightmares and the flooding thoughts. She merely wished to let him rest, surely. He'd make all manner of excuses to avoid ugly truths, for those turned his stomach; twisting and biting and ripping at his chest like shark's teeth.
"We worry too much," he'd mutter, waking up alone night after night. "It's nothing..."
"It's everything, idiot," the arguments always came from his doubts then.
It wasn't until he found her abed with some noble's son that he'd known-
"Liar," his mind would conjure at the excuses. He'd believed her when she'd said it was a mistake – her tears seeming real enough – her story so heartbroken and desperate that the idea of it being false was unspeakable. Rape, she'd claimed, blackmail and endless words of comfort had filed his ears and filtered through his mind.
"Forgive me," she'd begged, weeping, holding him again; turning soft and loving just enough to melt his fool's heart. And he was a fool, for Nuwa soon grew bored or bold again. The men she cried rape upon were never punished... she'd begged for no bloodshed, to avoid the scandal, the shame of it all…
She feared her father's wrath. She feared disownment. Punishment. Blood. In hindsight it all sounded so gods damn ridiculous.
"I love you," she'd always said. It had long become hollow by the end of things. A dirty word of sorts, insulting, more curse than anything.
A love born of something so fragile as beauty was doomed to fade, he'd learnt that eventually, though far too damn slow for his liking.
"She doesn't love us," the voice would always say, haunting, taunting, wise yet so very young to him. "Why don't you listen to me?"
"You're a child," he'd tell the voice, dismissive, as a parent believed themselves wiser than their children.
"I'm you, idiot," it would argue, rolling eyes at his refusals. "You know that…"
He did. He'd always known that – or perhaps all mad men told themselves that by claiming to Know they were mad, it somehow negated the madness? Could a man be truly mad if he was sane enough to know it? An answer to that had yet to reveal itself, even though all the years that had passed him by now.
The girl in my mind looked like Elssa in many ways, or at least how he'd always pictured any daughter of theirs might've looked.
Snow-white hair, all Elssa's beauty coupled with all his Stark stubbornness. Their little princess. Their beloved daughter. Their ghost.
In the present, laying with Ashlyn a world away from home, the memory of it was foul. He'd not thought of her in what felt like an eternity. He'd not had time to, truly, not since the war and everything that followed. Now though? Reality had a funny way of jumping up from the grass like a pit viper to bite you in the ass; it seemed to him.
He'd not told anyone about doubts voice since Nuwa. He'd trusted her entirely, and she'd used it against him far more than the once. Never again.
The Princess had promised the world to him more than once to wash away his doubts, using all the right words to sway, he'd felt like the luckiest man alive when he was with her and the biggest fool as well. In hindsight – bitch that it was – Nuwa Lóng had played him like a harp and made a fool of him a hundred times.
"She's a witch," Suko had named his sister back when they'd first met.
He still gladly cursed her name. An illusion not dispelled was a whole reality of its own.
"She gives fools nothing – only takes, best you learn that quickly Stark, or she'll take everything."
He'd hated the man for some time, but that was her doing too; no doubt, it was easier to form a narrative with fewer views involved – the first and harshest lesson he'd learnt in court – coupled beside an arguably healthy paranoia, he'd learnt to see the webs being spun and struggled to avoid being caught by them.
Prince Suko had helped with that, even if out of pity at first. In the end the Imperial had become as much a brother to him as Aedan.
And now only Suko remained; his brother by choice and circumstances – their hatred of his sister and imperial politics binding them together.
Emperor Qing Lóng once taunt him that all men were victims of their first years – as they laid the foundations of the soul – anchoring mortal men to their pasts. The blows of later life struck randomly and without warning, as if to temper a sword, they echoed throughout every day to come for good or for worse.
Once a soul was forged, the Emperor claimed it could not be reforged without imperfections, but it could still hold an edge to cut despite those flaws.
Willam hadn't paid much mind to the old man at the time. He'd ran instead – the Emperor realised that long ago. It had taken many years and a whole bloody war of losses, yet precious little seemed to have changed… except for him… in some ways, but not in every way. Imperfections. The old man might've been onto something…
Frostfell, the Outlands, the Empire, then Home and Westeros had all forged him in their own little ways.
Using the name Frost as their ruse had been a mistake, he feared, it had dragged up old thoughts. Elssa, Nuwa, Ashlyn...
She was different though, wasn't she? Ashlyn. He believed so, even if he trusted it made him a fool once more. In the old days his doubts might've spoken.
It still did of course, but she was barely a whisper now – distant and muffled by the faintness of the crashing waves. Those whispers weren't always unpleasant.
Willam found himself stroking Amber locks as his thoughts wandered the past. She hated him touching her hair, as if she were a soft puppy of a sort to be petted, though what she didn't know wouldn't hurt him. And besides, she was more like a great red kitten... with bloody sharp claws...
"W-Will?" She stirred under the furs as she awoke, lazily swatting away his hand.
"Morning," Willam kissed her cheek gently, pushing aside his troublesome wayward thoughts.
"Morning," Ashlyn groaned, stretching, turning on her side to face the father of her soon-to-be child.
"You look beautiful you know..."
She stared at him. "What's wrong, Stark?"
Shit. "Nothing. Why would something be wro-"
"I know you," is all the explanation she gave. Too damn well.
The notion was a dangerous one, truly, as he'd often said; what one loved could be taken away.
Needs and wants made you weak, vulnerable, predictable, exploitable...
"I was just thinking Ash, is all..."
"Careful," Ashlyn frowned dramatically.
"You worry too much," he summoned a smile.
The woman blinked at him. "Raven, have you met my friend Crow?"
"I've not," Willam rolled his eyes and planted a kiss on her forehead.
She was the mother of his chid. Now there was a scary thought, that clearly showed.
"Something's wrong," Ashlyn scowled. "Out with it, Stark, this instant..."
"I-" He watched her leave the bed in search of her clothes, scattered about the room.
All else aside, his eyes lingered on her stomach with its barely noticeable bump – she turned and stared at him.
"Enjoying the show there Stark?"
"Huh?" Willam's eyes darted up immediately.
Ashlyn merely rolled her eyes and found her trousers.
He got up himself, finding his shirt and sparring glances.
A knock at the door came with "Prince" and further knocks.
"Aye?" Willam was at the door, opened a crack; he peered through to the sight of servant.
"P- Prince," the young girl looked nervous. "Your brother – that is, I mean his Grace-"
"Out with it," Willam growled impatiently.
"His Grace invites you to branch in his quarters…"
"Branch?" Willam squinted. "You mean brunch, girl?"
The servant's eyes widened. "I, yes! My apologies Prince…"
Not a word the andals used, Willam supposed, or Rodrik's andal was simply rather terrible.
"No harm done," he told the serving lass. "Tell him we'll be th-"
"I-" the girl's eyes darted away. "Well, his Grace said-"
She froze as the head of a great grey wolf poked around the door, eyeing her.
"S- s- said that you-"
This wasn't working…
"Away," Willam groaned, pushing the wolf back into the room.
"T- Thank you-"
"My brother said what, girl?"
"His Grace said… you were to come alone…"
Alone? Willam scowled deeply at that.
"We'll be there," he slammed the door shut.
Flash looked up at him questioningly, tail moving back and forth lazily.
"What is it?" Ashlyn scratched the wolf's ears.
"Rodrik invites us to breakfast – or brunch… what time is it anyway?"
"Late," she revealed. "We've slept in yet again, it seems."
"With a beautiful woman in my bed, who can blame me?"
"Flattery will get you nowhere Stark. We can't ignore him forever…"
"It was worth a shot," Willam sighed in defeat. "Into the wolf's den then Ash?"
Keeping the King of Winter waiting on them wasn't wise, kin or not, Rodrik had always taken more after their father than their mother.
Two Greycloaks fell in behind them like a shadow the moment they stepped out of their chambers with wolves at their heels, they wore solid grey plate with silvery engravings and adornments that marked them as the guard of the immediate royal family; silent sentinels of a fashion – soon joined by four more that stood vigil by the Kings chambers, second in size only to young Aegon's who had taken the Storm Kings chambers for himself as was the boy's right by conquest.
One of the Greycloaks opened the door for them, speaking "My Prince" devoid of any emotion as the man went about his duty.
Inside the room was as a crescent moon of a sort, longer than it was wide, it hugged the far western side of the Storm Drum to give them a view of the gathered armies out one of the great balconies. A great bed was situated to the far right of the room, with a great oaken table on the left; littered with enough chairs for near twenty guests.
The Starks were all sitting present. Cregan was downing his ale happily enough, raising it up in greeting – tipsy as he was – young Brandon smiled kindly over at the newcomers while Willam's eyes lingered on Lyarra who sat beside his nephew. She was impossible to read, this one, a book with no beginning nor end.
At the tables head sat King Rodrik Stark, his crown placed aside on the oak; eyes lifted to greet – only to narrow on Ashlyn.
He had not wished her presence, Willam knew, though he did not care. He'd never been one for rules. Why start now?
"This was to be a private family affair, little brother, did that andal not mention?"
"Ashlyn is family," Willam answered flawlessly. "I mean to marry her, big brother."
Cregan immediately spat out his drink, slamming his tankard of ale down onto the table.
"Oh," Willam pulled out a chair for Ashlyn. "She's with child as well…"
"F- Fuck," Cregan was choking on his ale. "You!? What the-"
"Pass the lamb would you," Willam asked his nephew innocently.
"Marriage?" Rodrik was wholly ignoring Cregan's outbursts.
"-fuck!" Cregan waved off his nephews attempt at aid.
"You alright old man?" Brandon was teasing from across the table.
It earned the boy a chicken leg thrown, though he dodged with ease.
Prince Brandon's wolf darted for the chicken happily, laying down and crunching bone.
Ashlyn had taken her seat awkwardly as the King sent glares her way.
"This is..." Rodrik made no attempt to hide his frown. "Unexpected…"
"Well," Willam took his seat beside her. "When a man and a woman get drunk…"
Ashlyn smacked his arm with a sharp "Stark!" and a warning snarl on her lips.
"When they like each other very much," he corrected wisely. "These things happen, you ought to know."
"I'm aware," Rodrik sighed, refilling his tankard of ale.
"Speaking of the deed, where are my other nephews?"
"Am I not good enough, Uncle?"
"Not nearly Bran," Willam smirked at the boy.
Brandon rolled his eyes, smiling across the table.
"Darion and Varin are in the North," he revealed. "Having the time of their lives I wager – there was word from them along with news of Robb Stark's declaration – among other things; they've been busy up at Winterfell… while we've been sitting on a rock for months…"
"Busy defeating the largest fleet in Westeros," Willam argued. "Not exciting enough for you Bran?"
"Not nearly Uncle," Brandon's smirk grew.
"Not nearly," Rodrik echoed.
They all looked to the King at that.
"What news brother," Willam pried, biting a cut of lamb.
Rodrik didn't nothing on a whim, he knew, there was some grand reasoning to this little meeting.
"Can we not celebrate your name-day among family, Willy?"
"We could," he eyed his sister warily. "If it were my name-day, and if this weren't our family…"
Lyarra Stark only grinned innocently, sipping at a glass of dornish red.
"It was in part-"
"And there it is…"
"In part," Rodrik ignored his brother. "It was to welcome you back, brother; we thought you dead…"
"Killed by that arrogant shit Lannister no less," Cregan added with a frown.
"Aye," Brandon hummed his agreement. "We thought-"
A thought shared by most. Rumours spread like fire.
"And she couldn't have told you otherwise?"
They all looked to Lyarra for answers.
She merely smiled sweetly and drank her wine.
"We were never certain," Rodrik argued. "It was feared, however…"
"I see," Willam pulled some lamb away from the bone with his fork. "Well, I'm quite alive; as you can see…"
"And to be married," Cregan huffed some laughter. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"Nor I," Willam admitted, only to be lazily wacked over the head by Ashlyn.
"What's that mean Stark?"
"Nothing dear," he rolled his eyes.
"Ha!" Cregan scoffed. "This might be good for you, Will…"
"Huh?" Willam frowned.
"Father tried to leash you for years, now look; all it took was an Amber."
"Never send a Stark to do an Amber's job," Ashlyn mocked playfully.
Brandon was chuckling at the notion, nearly spilling his ale.
"I'm not leashed," Willam snarled across the table.
"Yes dear," Ashlyn teased, smirking.
"I'd had another wife in mind…"
Willam eyed his brother immediately.
"What?" he raised a brow. "Who? Are you drunk, Roddy?"
"I've had talks with the Young Dragon and his pet Lord Griffin."
Talks. And here laid the true reason for this little gathering of theirs.
"And who, pray tell brother, did you mean to sell me off to exactly?"
"I would know as well," Ashlyn added boldly, pushing away her plate of food.
Rodrik eyed them for the briefest of moments, taking a bite of his chicken before answering.
"Daenerys Targaryen, of course…"
"Whonerys?" Willam asked, clueless.
He'd heard the name before naturally – some Targaryen girl, but she'd not seemed important.
"The boys aunt," Rodrik explained. "Half a world away at the moment, but she has dragons, I'm told…"
"And she's supposed to be quite the looker," Cregan added helpfully.
Ashlyn was glaring daggers at the bastard Prince and his King as well.
"Half the world away," Willam pointed out. "And this talk of Dragons? You believe that?"
"My sons encountered a Griffin in the mountains of Ibben," Rodrik began with an uncaring shrug. "Such beasts were meant to be legends, were they not? Our own sister has the sight, her talents cannot be ignored – nor should they – it would be foolish to deny these dragons when so many speak of their existence…"
"And having such creatures on our side," Cregan added on. "They could be great assets, or great threats Will…"
"Ice and Fire," Lyarra said with a sip of her blood-red wine.
"I'm to be married already," Willam argued. "If you believe for a second that-"
"I'm not father," Rodrik denied with a bite. "I did not know of Lady Amber when I made the suggestion."
"So then," Willam settled only somewhat. "What now then, Your Grace?"
"There are other Starks. Varin is not yet wed, nor is Brandon for that matter…"
It would be a better match in fact for Varin as Rodrik's son, more so than Brandon as his nephew.
Prince Brandon merely blushed and held his tongue on that matter.
"There's also the matter of Jon Snow…"
"Aye," Rodrik sighed. "Unexpected, but useful…"
"Snow?" Willam frowned. "Has something happened to the boy?"
They all shared glances, the knowers of some mummers farce unknown to him.
He'd not seen Jon Snow since the departure at Riverrun. No news had come of the boy at all, until now.
"A Targaryen under your nose little brother," Rodrik actually grinned at it. "Those courtly wiles of yours have failed you it seems – the boy is the product of the Young Dragon's father and one Lyanna Stark. Darion sent word to us, along with his opinion on the Robb Stark situation…"
Willam's mind had gone blank at the 'Targaryen' part in truth.
The boy wasn't Neds? That was-
"Nonsense," Willam denied. "Ned Stark was a shit liar…"
"Apparently not," Rodrik declared, appearing mildly amused.
"A lord Reed has provided all the evidence," Cregan revealed helpfully. "A written document of the marriage between Targaryen and Stark – supposedly fulfilling some ancient agreement Winterfell had during some dance the Targaryens had. A war, I think, bloody fancy name…"
"The Dance of Dragons," Willam had read about the conflict briefly during his more peaceful times at Winterfell.
At the start of the civil war, a Prince Jacaerys had flown to Winterfell to gain House Stark and the North for the cause of his mother, the Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. The accords varied, some speaking of how the Prince secretly married Lord Cregan Stark's bastard sister, Sara Snow, but that aside; all accounts agreed that the firstborn daughter of Prince Jacaerys was to marry Lord Cregan's son and heir, a young Rickon Stark. Prince Jacaerys would not live long enough to fulfil his oath, however.
The Triarchy sent a fleet of warships against the Prince and his fellow Dragonriders, until the dragon Vermax was dived too low – taking a crossbow bolt to the eye or being pulled down from the sky by a grapnel, the dragon crashed into a burning galley. Prince Jacaerys clung to the smoking wreckage until he was struck by Myrish crossbows.
Lord Cregan Stark would go on to lead an army of northmen to King's Landing to honor the pledge he'd made to the fallen Prince, but the pact was never fulfilled.
"Why are you so eager to tie us to these Targaryens," Willam pried, pushing away the Jon issue for now. Ned Staek had apparently been sneakier than anyone knew.
Rodrik took a long hard look before answering. "This has gone beyond searching for you little brother, I'm afraid, we've opened doors that cannot be shut behind us. These andals know of us now and aren't likely to forget it. We must get ahead of the tides if we're to take advantage of things…"
"Take advantage eh," Willam hummed absently.
"Trade, alliances," Cregan listed. "You know how it is, Will…"
"And our cousins in Winterfell," Brandon added, pouring himself another ale.
"An arrangement can be made for the boy," Rodrik said casually, thinking aloud. "If not the girl, he will serve."
"The boy has a name," Willam agured. "He's not likely to be sold off li-"
"His brother is to be King," Rodrik declared matter-of-factly. "He'll do his duty, as we all must."
"Taking digs now brother," Willam growled low.
"Stating facts, little brother," Rodrik bit right back.
"Ladies," Cregan budded in quickly. "Calm yourselves…"
"Your Grace," Ashlyn cut the tension in the air without a care.
Rodrik's eyes darted to her as if he'd forgotten she was never present.
"Lady Amber," he acknowledged her after a moment.
"It's decided then? We're to assist this Aegon boy?"
The King of Winter poured himself another tankard.
"Aye," Cregan answered for his kingly brother. "The final details are being worked out, but the overall agreement is sound – there will be a marriage – one way or another. Rodrik believes, and the lords agree, that aside from the removal of House Lannister that further compensation is required…"
"The Targaryen's did burn a Stark and strangle another after all," Brandon pointed out with a frown.
"Eddard Stark paid that debt," Rodrik said. "However, our aid will secure the boy his throne. He's to be in our debt."
"And debts must be paid," Willam mumbled, his thoughts swirling.
One couldn't imagine that Connington was happy about all this at all.
"I would have a Queen of our own for him," Rodrik admitted, frowning slightly.
"As would everyone else though," Cregan scoffed. "The boy is very popular, it appears."
Willam could imagine. Westeros and beyond would pull that dragon in every direction, throwing their daughters at his feet.
The Targaryen's of old once took multiple wives to bed, something they had in common with the Lóng Dynasty back in the Empire; it seemed that men with dragons on their cloth bolts liked to think themselves so high and far above those with lesser creatures. Then again, these Dragons weren't supposedly bolts of cloth…
He had his doubts – gods know he always did – yet Willam had seen too many strange things in life to dismiss the notion of giant fire breathing lizards.
Torrhen Stark had not bent the knee and surrendered his crown to mere mortal men, after all…
Willam pulled the last of the lamb from its bone, ignoring his brothers as they spoke politics.
"Martell has his fangs in the boy," Rodrik was saying absently, showing his annoyance. "They work against us – friends of Will's or not – the Princess is trying to seduce the dragon and the griffin lord's nearly come to blows with the viper on multiple accounts… it's quite the farce…"
"Greedy," Cregan hummed, frowning when his tankard was empty once more.
The Martell's already had blood ties, but it was no surprise they'd want a Queen as well.
What better way to dismiss any doubts about the boy's parentage than to ensure Dornish blood sat the throne?
"What about Shireen?" Brandon asked, earning a glance from his uncles.
Willam watched them all silently as they sparred back and forth.
"The girl is scarred," Rodrik dismissed.
"And without any strength to call on," Cregan added in agreement.
"She has the Stormlands," Brandon argued. "If not Storm's End, the Stormlords are-"
"Opportunistic dogs," Rodrik shook his head.
"Lord Fell especially," Cregan reached for a fresh tankard of ale.
He'd not been the only Stormlord to ease towards the Targaryen boy as opposed to serving a little girl whom many named damaged goods, infecting with a curse of greyscale, few lords would send their sons to wed such a girl; regardless of her blood.
"She's sweet enough," Brandon muttered.
They all stared blankly at him judgingly. Willam broke his silence.
"A little young for you Bran," he teased mercilessly.
"T- That's not what I meant Uncle!"
"If you say so," Willam sipped his ale.
"Not out of the question," Rodrik declared.
"Uncle!" Brandon all but jumped from his seat.
"If the girl was to be granted the Stormlands," the King ignored his nephew's outburst. "She would need a capable husband…"
"Here's to you Bran," Willam raised his ale with a shit-eating smirk on his lips.
"I-" Brandon stumbled over his words.
"Brandon Baratheon," Willam tested the name.
"It does have a ring to it," Ashlyn admitted quietly.
"Not the worst idea," Cregan agreed.
"Gods," Brandon sulked into his seat.
The Stark's only laughed at his expense, largely joking as they were.
All except for the King who seemed to be genuinely considering the idea.
"It's no matter," Rodrik ultimately decided. "She may be granted Storm's End if the girl swears fealty – that she doubtless will – but it stands to reason young Aegon will not see fit to grant her rule of the Stormlands after the Baratheon's rebellion. Another may take the reins…"
"Who?" Willam asked, curious enough.
"Fell," Cregan guessed half-heartedly.
"Connington," Rodrik wagered. "He's ambitious, that one…"
"His wings are clipped," Lyarra broke her silence, and they all listened.
"The fuck does that mean," Willam asked impatiently.
She only shrugged, smiling sweet as she did.
"I hate when you do that," he pointed his fork at her from across the table.
"It is rather annoying," Brandon mumbled agreement.
"Wouldn't kill you to speak normally Lya," Cregan said.
"What did you mean by that exactly, dear sister?"
"Roddy," she answered only him. "The Griffin will never fly so high."
"Fuck sake," Willam groaned. "Just answer the fucking qu-"
"It's fine brother," Rodrik dismissed uncaringly with a wave.
"Bloody ain't Roddy. If she ceased these riddles things would be-"
"Enough," the King declared loudly. "I trust her – as should you little brother – if she claims that Connington will not fly so high as to rule the Stormlands, then its no matter of concern; there are other candidates and other paths to tread. That's the end of it…"
Willam glared, pointing his ornate fork threateningly at the king.
"Yes father," he said spitefully, staring daggers across the table.
"Would that he was here," Rodrik glared steel of his own.
"He'd smack you both across the head," Cregan butted in.
The two of them broke their gazes at that, though Willam kept his edge.
"How'd the old man go?"
"Peacefully," Rodrik claimed.
Willam couldn't suppress the scoff of amusement.
"Such a plain end for the Bloody Wolf," he muttered aloud.
"He missed you," Rodrik claimed. "You know, he-"
"Don't," Willam waved him away.
"Will," Rodrik pried dangerously.
"I said don't," came the warning snarl.
Flash stirred at his feet and began to pace.
"Stubborn as always," Rodrik only shook his head in disappointment.
"Come on Ash," Willam was up in an instant, pushing back his chair and tossing his fork onto the table.
"We're not done here Willam," Rodrik argued, though not near quickly enough to stop the wayward Prince.
In an instant, his brother was gone from the room; dragging the Amber girl and the wolf with him.
"Well then…"
"Don't say it Snow…"
"That went well," Lyarra said it for him.
King Rodrik groaned, rubbing his forehead as a headache loomed on the horizon.
War was easy, politics was complicated, but family? Family was just bloody difficult.
The arrow missed its mark, landing with a thud just shy of the centre red mark as Suko muttered a curse in Imperial.
"You are too quick on the draw," the criticism came from a white-haired man with skin as dark as soot, wearing a lord's ransom in gold upon his person in way or earnings and arm rings, with a feathered cloak of green and orange which was truly magnificent to behold. "Here, I will show you again."
His bow was of golden wood, long and lean, engraved and beautiful – the man steadied his breath and drew on its golden string.
Knock. Draw. Loose.
It struck centre, dead straight on the red mark.
"Lucky shot," Suko huffed. "The sun was in my eyes…"
Knock. Draw. Loose.
The second arrow split Suko's in half.
"Bastard," he cursed. "How'd you do that Balaq?"
"No bow bests the goldenheart," Black Balaq boasted proudly.
"How much for it? I need one of those..."
Those in the know laughed at the request.
"It is not to be sold," Balaq frowned at such a notion.
"Come now," Suko argued. "All things have a price, and I-"
"You'd have better luck buying his own mother than that bow," Lorimas Mudd smirked like the devil.
"As cheap as she'd be," John Mudd added, having arrived the day before.
Black Balaq didn't so much as acknowledge the Mudd brothers for even a moment.
The yard was full of gold and red – Company and Targaryen – though in truth the latter were little different than the former, as young Aegon had sailed with the Company as his only force; those in Targaryen colours were largely for appearances more than anything in all honestly.
"Still as useless as ever I see," came a newcomer from the stairs that led down to their section of the grounds.
"Stark," Suko waved at him dismissively, pouting like a child.
Willam wandered over with the wolf at his heels and Ashlyn not far behind.
"You really never learnt to shoot a bow," Ashlyn pried, less a question and more plain disbelief.
"Never needed to," the Imperial shrugged in reply.
"Imperials," Willam rolled his eyes at his friend.
"Stark," it was young Lorimas to greet him first, head on, brash and brazen.
"Mudd, did you need something?"
"You and I," Lorimas insisted, drawing his steel from its scabbard.
The yard hushed and only Mudd's brother was heard by way of a groan.
"You will answer for your insult!"
"Insult?" Willam blinked. "I don't recall-"
"Your sister-"
"Not I then, but if you wish a lesson…"
"I've fought with the Company since I was a boy, Stark."
"And a boy you are still," Willam rested his hand lazily on Frostbite's pommel.
"My family are ancient and-"
"Dead, or soon will be with your attitude."
"Gentlemen," Suko wandered over, all smiles as he got between them.
Willam only put his hand on the Imperial's shoulder and pushed him aside.
"The boy wants a fight," he said lazily. "I'll take the excuse – happily so Suko…"
"By the dawn," Lóng mumbled. He knew that look.
All others had gathered, forming a loose circle around the two men.
"It's not too late you know boy," Suko looked to the Mudd with a tired glance.
"Will," Ashlyn touched his arm. "This is pointless. What will beating this fool prove?"
Lorimas, in his growing anger, leapt and attacked without warning hoping to seize the moment.
Willam barely made any effort to parry and avoided the lunge easily, swatting away blows with Frostbite's scabbard.
"House Mudd," he all but lectured as the Mudd boy swung. "It tried to marry into my own, did you know?"
"You talk too much Stark," Lorimas regained his footing, his face beet red.
Frostbite hadn't so much as left its weirwood scabbard.
"Draw your sword Stark! You craven!"
"It was called the Iron Wedding…"
Mudd swiped broadly, cutting through the air once more.
"A Princess for a Mudd King," Willam lazily ducked beneath one swing, stepping aside with a light feign to throw the fool off his rhythm.
"Never heard of it," Lorimas growled, his breath slightly haggard. "Your sword! NOW!"
"It ended poorly," he was ignored. "With the death of the Mudd's and the rape of a Princess."
Mudd cursed his denials and cut from the right, only to lose his balance for a moment – stumbling forward.
Willam allowed the boy to regain his footing. "Ironborn, led by a Hoare Prince, scaled Riverstone's walls."
"Oldstone!" Lorimas held tightly to his steel, insulted beyond measure.
"It was not always Old," Willam said, sword still sheathed. "Time makes fool of us all…"
Time and Andal influence had stripped away much of the past, especially the parts the Seven considered abhorrent.
When the boy made no move to attack, he continued the old tale. "At the wedding, the Hoare's scaled Riverstones walls, slaughtering the wedding guest; cutting down the Mudd's and taking their daughters as hostages; all except for King Tristifer V himself – who fled the castle; only to fall trying to retake it."
Lorimas Mudd only glared, his sword at his side – though the young man seemed conflicted.
"I've never heard this story," John Mudd's voice came instead of his brothers, stepping slightly forward from the crowd.
History only remembered Tristifer IV, the Hammer of Justice. It spoke little to less of the man's son and heir, Tristifer the Last.
"Winterhold's library is vast," Willam told the eldest Mudd brother. "The Shipwright loved his history, almost as much as he loved the sea."
"Our father only ever spoke of the fourth Tristifer," John Mudd frowned.
"The Fifth escaped, leaping over the battlements of Riverstone into the waters of the Trident."
"Nonsense," Lorimas argued, all but growling.
"Silence," John hushed his brother with a word.
Willam eyed the youngest with boredom, his skill lacking.
"The King washed up on the banks of the Trident not long after," he continued the tale as he knew it. "If I recall, the record is muddied, but it's said that Tristifer found shelter with some lowborn farmers who found him on the river – saving his life – the King would try and fail to repel the Hoare's Invasion."
In short order, like sharks smelling blood in the water, andal kingdoms swallowed up the Riverlands.
"And the captives? The Princess?" John wondered aloud, though he could've guessed the answer.
"Dead," Willam said bluntly. "The King in the North rode south to rescue his daughter, but he was too late."
"Fancy story," Lorimas huffed, his sword lowered.
All heads turned in an instant as Ser Rolly entered the yard.
He was a brawny man, with a shaggy beard and unkept orange hair; looking knightly in his white cloak and white-gold plate.
At the Kingsguard's back came the Young Dragon himself in his red-and-blacks.
"Please," Aegon smiled at them all. "Don't stop on my account…"
"We were done here," Willam told the boy.
"I wasn't done with Stark-"
"You were," John scolded his brother.
The youngest stormed away, leaving his eldest to bow before the King before departed as well.
Aegon hid his own frown poorly.
"Prince Willam," he looked up at the man.
"Your Grace," Willam answered. "How can I help you?"
"I-" Aegon's eyes darted around the courtyard.
"Alright lads," Ser Rolly declared aloud. "Move out, his Grace wishes privacy!"
There was a chorus of mumblings, complaints and "Your Graces" as the yard emptied.
"I'd never heard that story," Aegon began, once they were alone – besides Suko and Ashlyn at least.
"Shouldn't go believing every story Your Grace," Ser Rolly argued, hand resting on his pommel; the man looked proud in his freshly forged white-gold armour and snow-white cloak. "Those two, the Mudds, they're full of it – half the Company takes names for themselves. They ain't no drop of King's blood in em…"
That was the truth of it, really, as far as the histories were concerned all of the Mudd's were long dead.
"Perhaps not," Aegon said. "I know Duck, but they fight for me all the same… you shouldn't insult them so…"
Ser Rolly only hummed. "That they do, true enough; least the eldest ain't too bad with a sword."
"Not the youngest though," Willam observed, as if it wasn't obvious.
"Fuck no," Rolly scoffed. "Born into the Gold, those two; never earned it…"
"Fine archers though," Suko could admit, although his tone was quite reluctant.
Willam looked to the dragon, his eyes shifting, feet fidgeting; the boy was nervous about something.
"I-" Aegon sighed, steeling himself. "You know my brother, Prince Willam?"
Ah, the boy had naturally learnt of the news from Winterfell…
"Jon," Wilam paused. "A good lad, if not broody, he's a fine swordsman."
"I've-" Aegon hesitated, uncertainty clear as day.
He looked more a squire than a king in the moment.
"I've never had a brother," the dragon said quietly. "I hoped that you might tell me of him?"
"Why?" Willam asked, curious enough. There were many who would dismiss the notion of a secret brother hidden halfway across the world, unknown until now, although one supposed this hidden dragon could sympathise with another of its kind. Still, it was no secret that some had taken very loud issue with the supposed second son.
Varys had vouched for the reveal at least, but matters were made more complicated by this secret son declaring the North as Independent.
A Prince did not have the authority to declare such a thing, after all…
It would be a matter for Winterfell to decide in the end.
"He's my brother," Aegon said so very simply.
Willam could see no malice in those indigo eyes.
"You may live to regret it someday," he smirked at the boy,
"Why?" Aegon frowned deeply. "Griff said that-"
"Connington?" Willam scoffed. That man was dull.
"He does not believe it's true… he thinks it a trick…"
The whole castle may well have heard the Griffin Lord's anger at the news.
"And what do you think of this brother, Your Grace?"
Aegon thought for a moment, sighing, longing in his tone.
"I would see him," he declared. "To know him, if he is truly my brother…"
Willam shrugged. "Lord Reed has proof; you've been told as much, have you not?"
Rodrik had spoken often and at length with the Dragon.
Aegon gave a quiet nod. He'd heard it all before. "What's it like?"
Willam looked at him blankly, uncertain. "What's what like?"
"Having a brother," Aegon clarified. "You have many…"
"Don't remind me," Willam muttered.
"Is it so terrible as all that Prince Stark?"
"No," Willam supposed. "Yes. Maybe…"
"It depends on the brothers," Suko added helpfully.
"I see," Aegon hummed in thought.
"Aye," Willam agreed. "Suko is rarely right-"
"Harsh," the Imperial pouted dramatically.
"-but he has his moments. Very occasionally."
Aegon lingered in the quiet for a moment, the boy failing to mask his conflict.
"What would you do," the Young Dragon asked after a moment. "If you were me, Prince?"
If he were a dragon? "Fire and Blood," Willam said. "We're not so diffident as you might think…"
The boy looked at him as if he were wise, a foot shorter than the wolf and an ocean of naivety in indigo eyes.
If he were a dragon? He'd kill them all. Kill their mothers, kill their brothers, kill their children, kill their dog. Blood for Blood.
Tywin Lannister's greatest mistake, in Willam's view, was failing to finish what he'd started.
"Fire does not negotiate, Your Grace, nor does Winter."
"We're not our banners," Aegon argued.
"No," Willam allowed. "What is it you want?"
"I was asking you…"
"I answered, Your Grace."
The boy frowned, glancing a look to his knight.
Ser Rolly Duckfield stood patiently, watching the exchange; one hand on his pommel.
"What is it you want, Aegon Targaryen?" Willam looked at the young man – barely seven and ten at the look of him – dressed in his fine red-and-blacks with a black fur cloak to fight off the chilling Winter. "The thing you yearn for, deep in your gut, pushing you forward despite the odds."
"I-" Aegon's frown deepened. "I don't know…"
"We all yearn for something lad, even for the most dreadful of things."
Willam wasn't even sure why he was bothering with the dragon, in truth.
"What I wonder," he decided. "Is if your reasons are any more special than the next mans?"
"I want," the boy kept his head held up, to his credit. "I want to be a good king…"
"And?" There was more to it than all that.
The boy glanced to his Kingsguard before he spoke.
"I want to see my brother," Aegon declared. "I want to avenge my sister, and my mother…"
"You want justice," that was hardly special; though it did seem the boy was genuine about becoming a good ruler – whatever that meant.
"Yes," Aegon declared firmly.
"And is that all, Your Grace?"
"No," the Dragon found his fire. "I want to bring peace."
"Peace?" Willam smirked at the boy's sudden enthusiasm.
"Why is that funny…"
"Admirable goal," Ser Rolly said.
"No peace lasts forever," Willam told him.
Aegon scowled. "I will make it last," he declared.
Stark's smirk grew tenfold. The boy was eager at least.
"Might make a dragon of this one after all," Suko commented with a chuckle.
"His Grace is a dragon," Ser Rolly practically growled.
"As am I," Suko shrugged. "Apparently…"
"Imperial dragons aren't so mightily I fear Lóng."
"We're prettier though," Suko said proudly, smirking wide.
"That's highly debatable Lóng," Ashlyn argued from beside her Prince.
"Your Grace," Willam turned back to the boy. "Can you use that sword?"
The boy's pride shined through in an instant, burning away whatever doubts he'd harboured.
"Griff taught me to fight," he declare gladly. "Ser Rolly helped too – I even bested him once as well!"
"I see," Willam hummed, eyeing the knight. He'd never seen the man fight – truth be told – those white cloaks were supposed to be reserved for the best knights of Westeros and yet; he'd seen how utterly useless most of King Robert's guard had proven…
"The boy is a natural," Ser Rolly was quick to support his charge.
"Show me," Willam declared, hand resting on Frostbite's pommel.
Aegon beamed at the challenge, waving away his white knight's concerns; the boy drew steel from scabbard.
His sword was a grey so dark it almost appeared black, rippled with silvery waves – the magic-forged steel of Valyria. Willam had only seen its like in the sword Ice that now laid with Robb Stark. Blackfyre, was this one's name, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror – it's pommel and guard boasted great burning rubies.
"Will," Ashlyn moved to hand him her own sword.
A smile and a shake of his head dismissed the notion.
Frostbite shrieked from its runed weirwood scabbard in a flash.
The blade was crystalline, jagged, its blade, hilt, and handle appearing to be one whole piece; frozen together by winter – it emitted a glint of pale blue – unnatural in its sharpness; the sword of House Frost caught the eye of Ser Rolly and Aegon and all those who weren't used to its sight.
"What sort of steel is that?" Ser Rolly of the Kingsguard asked warily.
"Winter," the Stark answered him plainly, without further explanation.
Aegon's feet had shifted on instinct. The boy had practiced, at least, his stance was near perfection.
Blackfyre and Frostbite seemed to sing when they clashed. Willam found himself surprised as the dragon's steel roared against his own, unlike anything he'd felt before now, almost angrily – if swords could be such a thing – the weapon of Aegon the Conqueror raged against the wrath of winter.
Arianne watched the young king spar from the comfort of her window high above the courtyard below. She lingered on the Young Dragon – clashing with the Stark – he was performing better than she'd expected, though she'd never seen the Stark fight before, her uncle had vouched for the man's skill with a blade.
She watched as Stark parried the King's riposte and cut for the wrist, only to be parried; their blades locking. The King seemed to be having fun.
"The boy has talent," her Uncle observed, leaning to peer out the window.
"Stark is playing with him," Arianne frowned. She could see it plainly enough.
"Yes," Oberyn observed. Stark was leaving the boy openings, testing him, prying carefully.
And yet, the boy was accepting those opening gracefully enough – forcing Stark to focus at least.
"That sword," Arianne noted it.
"Frostbite," Oberyn named it with a look.
It was – from this far – so thin so that it almost seemed to vanish at moments.
Arianne forced her eyes away from the window.
"What are we going to do Uncle?"
"I've the boy's ear," her Uncle assured.
"That may not be enough," she countered with a scoff.
Young Aegon had a mind of his own, chivalrous as the boy was – his desire to prove himself was greater than most.
"Connington has been coddling him for too long," Oberyn huffed, rolling his dark eyes. "The boy wishes his freedoms, to prove he's more than just the Griffins puppet – to prove that he's Rhaegar's son – and Rhaegar for his many, many, many, many-"
"Uncle," Arianne sighed.
"-many faults, led from the front."
Aegon shifted uncomfortably under control.
"If he chooses another Queen…"
"He's still our blood," Oberyn frowned.
Was that enough? Would the Prince of Dorne be content, or even believe it?
"He likes you well enough niece, how could he not? You are a beauty Ari – the boy is no fool."
No fool. Oh yes, the boy liked her well enough – but the Griffin had warned him against her advances.
"He blushes like any boy," Arianne complained. In her low-cut dresses, she'd made the young dragon redder.
"You will marry him, or his aunt will marry Quentyn…"
"Not if the Starks have anything to say about it though, Uncle."
Rodrik Stark had been adamant in his talks of sealing a pack of Ice and Fire.
At that Oberyn frowned slightly. "They bring a great deal to the table; can't deny them that."
"And they know it," Arianne scoffed, turning her gaze back to the window.
Willam Stark had Frostbite to the Young Dragons neck, smirking like a madman.
"Stark wins, it seems," Oberyn observed.
His icy blade flashed away from the boy's throat.
And the young King was laughing at something he'd said.
"I don't like it," Arianne scowled. "They're getting too close…"
"He is Elia's son," Oberyn had convinced himself of that much.
"Nonetheless," his niece sighed.
Was it enough? Was he even truly Elia's?
"We'll have our vengeance Ari. They will all pay…"
That was the one thing Oberyn and Rodrik Stark had agreed on.
House Lannister was to be destroyed, root and stem, stripped of all lands and title.
Who would rule the Westerlands in their place was a matter of contention, but ultimately it would prove an inviting prospect to any potential turncloaks in the West that may stir against the rule of Casterly Rock now that Tywin was dead; the lure of becoming a Lord Paramount was no small thing to the ambitious.
Rodrik Stark had gone so far as to suggest that Jon Targaryen – their secret Northern son – be granted Casterly Rock. A final insult to House Lannister.
Lord Connignton had been furiously against it, though young Aegon seemed almost existed at the prospect of having a brother of his own blood. Oberyn had to admit, there was some poetic justice in granting Tywin's seat to a Targaryen Prince, but he'd voiced his discomfort with such an idea. The second son could prove a threat.
He'd thought, however briefly, on how they could remove the issue… though the Starks gave him some pause...
The way King Rodrik Stark spoke in the bastard dragon's defence made it clear that they'd support the second son.
"All the more of a threat," Oberyn thought. Willam Stark was a friend, but he'd not hesitate if he fought against Elia's son.
"The Starks can wed one of their own to the bastard," he decided bluntly.
"You think they'd be content with a second son?"
"No," Oberyn shrugged uncaringly. "Not at all, no…"
Arianne sighed once more, watching as Prince Willam sparred with Ser Rolly.
The Kingsguard fared worse than his charge, immediately losing ground to the Stark.
"I'd like Daemon in the Kingsguard," Arianne said suddenly. "If I'm to be his queen…"
"The boy would not take kindly to you bedding his guards, my dear. This is not Dorne."
"I'm not a fool Uncle, but the man is loyal – he would die for me; we need that."
"I'll suggest it," Oberyn decided after a moment.
There were far worst swords than Ser Daemon Sand.
Ser Rolly for example, his blade discarded, with Stark's own at his neck.
One trusted, hoped, that the boy's Kingsguard would be filled with better swords.
The day of reckoning was close upon them now, with the dawn had come the bulk of the Golden Company and with the dusk came Stormlords, with the tides the Stark and the lords of the Narrow Sea – they could ill afford to remain here, least their host devour the land barren – until no realm remained to save.
Targaryen, Martell, Stark, Velaryon, Celtigar, Sunglass, Massey, Fell, Connignton, Buckler, Errol, the Golden Company and all others.
"For Elia," Oberyn had vowed, even if his brother didn't send Yronwood and the others up from Dorne.
Tywin Lannister was merely the beginning. He would take his vengeance, with Fire and Blood.
Storm's End was an old place, its walls soaked with ancient magics that no shadow could pass through; even weak as it was now – she could hear the faint hum when her eyes were closed, like breath from a dying man's throat it hindered – she'd dreamt of a raging storm and waters black with blood, of fire red and black and green. The magic in this place was weak, dying, but it was a very recent thing, its blood still wet upon the ground. She'd found the source of it easily enough, blackened and fading…
It was an ill thing to burn a weirwood, but the Old Gods were not so easily cast aside. You could set them alight, to be sure, but such an act could not blind them.
Durran Godsgreif had done well. It was ancient, its roots stretching far; with a sad solemn face that had seen its caretakers fall from grace. What was once a weirwood to rival even Winterfell's had been charred black by Stannis Baratheon and his god of shadows. Lyarra doubted the man knew the weight of his actions. While fire alone could not fell a weirwood, the Godsgreif's had long spent much of its strength in defiance of the Storm God, even before its burning. Very little of that strength remained.
The fire had taken a sword to an old man's legs, hacking mercilessly, until he could no longer stand. The magic fled this place like blood from a wound.
In a generation, if not less, the Storm God would have his victory… all thanks to a fool and his shadow…
She would not – could not – allow such a foul thing to transpire. They would need blood.
Her little brother had protested somewhat, but his was a heart easy to read; try as he might to shelter it – she'd convinced him easily enough – the Old Gods would take no issue with the match here and now, leaves or no, burnt bark or white, the gods still had their eyes in this place… and their union would open them wide…
King Aegon had seen fit to accept his invitation amongst protest from Lord Connington in how attending a heretically wedding might send the wrong message. Few seemed to listen to that man however, that wisely of them. Lyarra could see the rot in his blood as clear as the sky, the stench of decay clinging to him like flies to a corpse.
Prince Oberyn and the Dornish were present as well, watching with ambitious eyes as the light snows drifted down from the shy above.
King Rodrik led the bride to her husband-to-be, one arm wrapped around hers – with the Crown of Winter atop his head.
"Isn't too late to run you know," Suko was whispering.
"You think?" Willam huffed, but that smile betrayed him.
Lyarra ignored their jesting, eyeing the Amber woman's approach.
"Who comes before the Gods?" she spoke the words, standing between the pair now.
"Prince Willam of House Stark," her brother declared with the grin of a fool.
"Lady Ashlyn of House Amber," the bride spoke, smiling herself, in her riding leathers.
More than a few andals turned their nose up at that, but she'd refused the yellow-gold dresses from the closets of Storm's End.
"The Gods see you," Lyarra said. "Do you come together here freely, of your own volition; as one heart and soul?"
"We do," Willam said.
"We do," Ashlyn echoed.
"Ashlyn Amber," Lyarra held her hand. "Do you swear in sight of the gods to remain true to Willam Stark, to bare his children and give him wise council and comfort, through good and ill; so long as you both draw breath?"
"Little late on the children part," Suko said, earning a half-hearted smack from the bride.
"I swear by my valour," Ashlyn declared.
The words varied bride to bride, husband to husband.
"And do you, Willam Stark, swear to remain true to Ashlyn Amber in sight of the gods; to give her hearth and home so long as you both draw breath?"
"I swear by Winter," Willam said, eyes locked on his wife-to-be.
Lyarra took her brothers hand to a bronze knife and moved it across Willam's palm in a shallow cut that drew a fine trickle of blood. "With this blood," she looked him in the eyes. "In sight of the gods and these witnesses; you do pledge your heart and soul together…"
She did the same with Ashlyn's hand, mixing their blood in a bowl of thick red weirwood sap.
"I bind you in sight of the gods," then she marked both their foreheads with the mixture, a rune-word of the Old Tongue.
The rune read differently for every union, but the Prince had chosen the word "Family" for his vow of union.
"The Gods have seen your hearts and heard your vow," Lyarra continued, taking her bronze knife and cutting deep into the bark of the charred weirwood; pouring the contents of the bowl – blood and sap both – onto the tree. "May they bless you and yours, as you have blessed them..."
Rodrik watched in quiet with the others, though he afforded his brother a rare smile – small yet genuine in its use.
Willam cupped his wife's face, kissing her ruby lips and holding her closer as the crowd of Northern and Stormlords and Dragons clapped and cheered for the couple's union as the winter snows drifted lazily upon them all. Lyarra watched with glee, her duty fulfilled, for the weirwood would sprout new life in time.
There were so many things in this world that she could not change, but in this she'd felt fulfilled. In this at least, her choice was her own.
My Note(s): I'm late again sadly – lots going on – focusing more on writing my book (very slowly, couldn't say what'll come of it if anything) and I've also started uploading stuff to Youtube again, coupled with RL hassles; this last week or two has been beyond hectic and I simply haven't found much type to write here. What spare time I've had to burn I've spent enjoying Elden Ring. That said, things should calm down within the next few weeks, so I'm confident I can manage maintaining updates.
There's always the chance I miss my deadlines :) but I'll do my best as usual. We're not too far away from the final stretch of Sunset Starks now, kinda… ish… I've a habit of pulling extra chapters out of thin air and a seemingly odd belief that any chapter under 10k words is to be considered "short" in a way; as this chapter is at 8/9k.
I shall continue to write to the best of my ability and if I'm late on occasion, just assume I'm very busy, or ask on discord. Link in the Disclaimer/My Youtube.
Dave: We've come a long way to be sure, this has been a concept of mine since 2015 and that feels like a lifetime ago, though the story underwent its rewrite in 2020 that's still a long time; the shit I've done and been through since we started is mindboggling. The end of the road isn't too far away now either, truth be told, we're getting there.
Hulkbuster97: You'll have had to check your inbox a lot of last weekend but here we are again, hopefully having not missed this weekend as I'm typing :)
TrentBttl: Shireen – despite her being the Last Baratheon – doesn't have a whole lot to offer Aegon by way of marriage, the girl doesn't have much in the way of support (not to mention the Greyscale that makes many shun her outright) compared to options like Daenerys or a Stark Princess or even Martell. He has better options. Baratheon's claim is based solely on the absence of the Targaryens after all, the best Shireen can hope for is getting Storm's End back someday. Maybe.
That said as Willam suggests, there's no rush to decide on marriage; though the carrot can he used to motivate the horse so to speak.