The Dance is not over Chapter 35: Silver Summer, an a song of ice and fire fanfic

Chapter 35

Silver Summer

Lord Marq Merryweather

Viewed from the top of the Red Keep's dungeon, King's Landing looked like a noble city, with most of the damage erased and uncountable men and women walking in the streets to their guilds, ships, or in the case of the farmers who had come to sell their vegetables and livestock, returning to their holdings outside the city's walls.

If only there wasn't this horrible smell.

The sky was pristine blue, but there was little wind today, and this meant King's Landing was stinking, and it was stinking hard. The smell could be felt, according to his men, before one was in sight of the walls.

Effort had been made to improve this state of affairs, but there were too little sewers, too many animals – which did what animals always do when stressed and unhappy – and too many regulations were ignored or laughed at. The fact so many of the merchants and highborn should have known better was not helping him sleep soundly at night. Not when the Goldcloaks' reforms were meeting setback after setback, and the measures imposed to prevent fires from engulfing the capital were so easily discarded when his overseers turned their back.

King's Landing had truly grown too fast, and with too little control of its masters over them. It was going to be the work of decades correcting these problems, assuming it could be done in the first place. And assuming his successors would prove as wilful to exert their authority to make the capital the shadow of glory of the other Westerosi cities.

The Hand of the King watched the banners flying over certain residences, more like small castle-manors given their size and the sums spent on them, and acknowledged it was going to be a pain finding someone sharing at least a fourth of his convictions when the time came to train his successor in a decade or two. King's Landing was breeding many breeds of men and women, but none which found grace in his eyes.

"So the Black Queen is pregnant," his King declared grimly, shaking off his thoughts as their eyes went from the Lion Gate to the gates of the Red Keep.

"The rumours have arrived to the ears of every merchant and agent in our pay," the Lord of Longtable said in a half-apologetic tone. "I think official confirmation will not be long in coming."

A fortnight at best, a moon at worse; from the Trident to the Crownlands, messengers could come quite rapidly, no matter how tight and secure the frontier between the two kingdoms was.

"And nine months to see if the Black line will be secure or not."

Marq didn't answer, because there wasn't anything to say, really. In his humble opinion though, the Black line was already secure. The Black Queen's twin had given birth to twins, and these newborn children were confirmed to be in good health and out of reach at Winterfell.

In the possible case the silver-haired wielder of Dark Sister died giving birth to the son or the daughter in her belly, there would be no question who would be acclaimed as the next Queen of the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North.

"There have already been whispers about how thin the...what do they call it? Ah yes. Certain Lords are whispering the 'moons of opportunity' won't last long."

Marq didn't like the sound of that at all.

"I presume, your Grace," the Reacher spoke prudently, "that these courtiers think the fact your children were born before those of your cousins' will translate into several moons of unopposed aerial domination when they are in age to ride?"

"Yes."

"Well, I can't say I share this view at all," Marq declared in all honesty, "first our enemies would still have three bigger dragons to guard their kingdom. Then when it comes down to it, we have little idea of the rules governing the growth of a dragon. For all we know, the Black hatchlings may reach adulthood faster than those your sons have bonded with."

"Good points," the King replied. "I will make sure the whispers cease. We don't need to create anger and loathing when Dorne is trying to find allies in the shadows."

"On that point I'm more confident the outcome will be favourable to you and your kingdom, your Grace," the Hand of the King smiled. "The Dornish have been taught in fire and blood their chances alone against your armies are insignificant if the Lords play it smart. And the Blacks and all other possible allies are rather reluctant to sign any treaty when it is obvious the Dornish aren't going to be able to assault Oldtown and our important granaries with their own levies. When it comes down to it, from spring to winter we can field far, far more infantry and horse than Dorne, and it will take years for the vipers to retake the lost ground, never mind go against Nightsong, Blackhaven, or Horn Hill."

"As long as we can pay the garrisons of these fortresses in time and hour, you mean," the legitimate sovereign of Westeros didn't return him the smile. "Did you see the latest report of the Master of Coin?"

"The one about how much of our gold and silver comes from the Westerlands?" the younger silver-haired man slowly nodded, and Marq was forced to return to a far more emotionless face. "I have. I don't see what we can really do to change the situation, unfortunately. Our new Tyroshi allies aren't really renowned for the depth of their gold mines."

There were a few gold mines in the Disputed Lands, but they rarely fell under Tyroshi control, being too far inland north and east of the Stepstones.

"The bigger problem, I'm afraid, is how low the silver supply has gotten in the last months. Many mines in the West have been emptied of all their ore and others have been drowned by the torrential spring rains."

Not everything could be paid in bronze or in gold, in the end. And the biggest silver mines were out of their reach.

"We still have the leverage we need to build a better Gold Road, your Grace." Marq assured him.

Unfortunately, since they hadn't the secrets of the 'absolutely-not-Valyrian' Black roads, how long they would stay good for trade without more taxes being raised was not a question he very much wanted to debate upon.

Lord Walder Reyne

When he was young, Lannisport had looked like the sun of the West, with its yellow roofs and guild halls, a symbol of the income and the power House Lannister was draining from the Noble Houses of the Westerlands.

These days were long over; the new Lannisport he was seeing from his horse shared the same name, but it was like comparing a whore to a Lady: the former was just too ugly to worry the latter.

"They built cheap," Tywald said, having evidently followed the same series of thoughts Walder did. "And they aren't half the gates the former Lannisport had!"

"Yes, but it's also far more defensible," the Lord of Castamere had not missed the scorpions and the ballista on every tower and the heavily defended ramparts. And sign which would have been unconceivable before the Dance, the men manning these defences wore leonine helmets and red cloaks. "The Regent of the West has also brought her Red Cloaks for the wall duties."

This didn't mean as much as it had once had, for many of the Lannister killers were lost in the Riverlands with the husband of the woman unable to understand her real place in this world. House Lannister didn't command as many swords and spears as it once had. But if a real attack came, it would mean the City's Watch would only fight once a breach had been made into the city; otherwise the real defence would be made by the Red Cloaks.

"Green boys and grey beards," Tywald said contemptuously.

"As long as they are on top of the walls and we are before them, green boys are all they need to hold. One man on the ramparts is worth ten below," an old military proverb this one, and one Walder didn't even know who had uttered it in the first place. But that it was remembered for centuries and decades proved how correct it was. "The harbour is also smaller and better thought in its conception. Lannisport won't fall the same way it did to the Ironborn as long as its defenders stand vigilant. It would need a proper siege to storm Lannisport, and it would cost tens of thousands deaths. Remember this, brother."

Truly, it was something Lannisport and Casterly Rock had in common. If you didn't have surprise, overwhelming numerical advantage and a flawless plan of attack, the whole thing was doomed to failure.

"Who needs proper sieges when there are dragons?"

There were days Walder was truly glad he had been born the eldest of the two, and today was definitely one of these occasions. Tywald was talented with all sorts of weapons, but the former Lord Lannister would have had his head not long after a Lordship's ascension for lese-majesty and other crimes including insults towards one's liege and other offenses.

"Even if we managed to buy the services of a dragonrider," something that for now had utterly failed, no Black emissary having taken the time to send a raven in his direction, never mind a real dragon, "I would never be so stupid to use it against Lannisport, thank you very much. Dragons burn everything they come across in times of war, and by the time the war ends, the act of rebuilding is so huge that victory feels hollow."

The Lannisters had certainly learned this lesson in blood and tears. Yes, the Ironborn were gone, but no miracle had suddenly raised new walls and an immaculate city from nothing.

"Enough for now about this," Walder murmured as the rest of his knights and servants caught up with them. Like he had thought, they made for a far more splendid sight, Reyne banners, chests of silver and exotic wood, white horses drawing magnificent carriages, making the delegation that House Brax had sent to the tourney seem gaudy and unworthy of its rank. His next words were spoken louder. "I suppose you intend to joust, brother?"

"Most certainly," Tywald smiled, and it was the expression of a predator having been informed the dinner was about to be delivered right in front of him. "I may be tempted to invite myself into the melee too, provided my list of defeated opponents is long enough."

"Unless you do not make a good showing in your jousts, avoid the melee," this kind of event may be extremely entertaining for all, but unless you were the Warrior reborn, luck and a distinct lack of brains were some of the greatest qualities a knight could ask for on this tourney-battlefield.

"Afraid to ransom back my armour?"

"Afraid a 'mystery knight' will knock you out and that when he will remove his helmet, we will find out he's a bastard of some isolated hamlet from the mountains."

Tywald scowled heavily. Good, Walder had almost believed he had forgotten the previous tourney of Lannisport.

Princess Aliandra Martell

Aliandra had to wake up before dawn to see her soldiers train on the shores of the Greenblood, but she didn't regret it at all.

The sight of hundreds of spearmen and swordsmen shouting, hacking, and sweating together was an extremely eye-catching event, only surpassed by a true battle...and so far, the Princess of Dorne had not seen the real bloodshed in person.

She might add 'fortunately' to this, because her 'loyal bannersmen' who had tried to fight such a battle were not alive anymore to boast about it.

"They are putting their hearts into this," the young woman voiced the compliment, since it was well-deserved.

"They are summer spears," her uncle was not so happy, "they need all the heart and the iron will they can get for the moons ahead. I expect of the thousand here, half will abandon the training in the next three moons. This may give us four hundred true recruits when the spies, the scum, and the rest of the troublemakers have been removed."

"If it's four hundred, it will be four hundred." Arianne sweetly answered. "As long as they are able to fight and their loyalty is unquestionable, I am content. Numbers can grow in time as the examples are made."

The 'examples', of course, were the sellswords and the deserters who had rushed down south after the calamitous defeat of Lord Wyl and his partners-in-betrayal.

It seemed the loudest voices screaming for war were sometimes the ones which abandoned their weapons and fled at the first reverse.

"Some Lords aren't going to like it," the Gargalen of Salt Shore warned her.

Before the war, these words would have worried her. Now? They were a toothless issue.

"I know. But I've thought long about this, uncle, and I've realised that where some of my warmongering bannersmen are concerned, there is nothing I can do that will attract their favour."

It wasn't totally true: beginning a new war against the green dragon was going to please them...for a few days. They would however be the first to panic and escape when the fire-breathing monster came straight at their fortresses and sworn swords.

"And since there is nothing you can do to make them happy, you might as well strike when they are weakened?" The wink and the tone of voice employed were slightly ironic by Dornish standards.

"Yes," Arianne admitted. "The creation of a Royal Army of Dorne, no matter its size, will always be opposed by the disloyal vultures and the venomous jackals who were listening to Wyl. But with the beating and the humiliation they received, it will take many years before they can properly rebuild their faction, and by then, we will have a proper army where their fangs haven't bitten into."

"I suppose it is true, but to properly harvest the fruits of this reform and cut down the criticism, you will need a war, niece. Maybe not tomorrow or in the next couple of years, but certainly this decade I think."

"I know, but where I am supposed to find a conflict where victory is half-attainable?" Aliandra wasn't whining, this would be a behaviour unbecoming of a Princess of Dorne. "Tyrosh has allied itself with King's Landing, but we couldn't have won against them anyway before that with our navy sunk or dispersed. The same is true for Lys and Myr."

A little truth many highborn Dornish and other Westerosi nobles tended to forget was that while the Free Cities had no standing army, relying on companies of sellswords to fight their disputes, from Volantis to Braavos the Essossi had superb navies.

And Dorne had no access to the timber and the wooden resources to challenge this superiority of the waves.

"Our greatest advantage before the Conqueror came to these shores was our unity," Aliandra said softly as the warriors stopped the training and began to drink and rest. The sun was rising and the warmth was getting more crushing. Breath after breath, physical exercise was getting more difficult, and there wasn't even a gentle breeze to provide some relief. "We don't have the terrain to imitate the agriculture of the Reach; therefore we will always be largely outnumbered as long as our enemies stay united. We don't have dragons to rain the fires of destruction down on our enemies. And we don't have the gold of the Lannisters to buy entire armies of sellswords."

"There is a way to compensate this, I believe," her uncle and chief advisor in one body proposed carefully.

"And what is this solution which will turn the tables on our enemies?"

"Marriage."

Aliandra rolled her eyes.

"The envoys I sent with the Blacks tried this trick. Unless they've been changes in the last days, it doesn't sound like a resounding success."

Aliandra knew her hand was valuable, but the problem was that there wasn't anyone in the Black Kingdom suitable. The Targaryen Queen and her twin were women and married, their children were babes or still unborn. Assuming she was willing to settle for someone of lesser rank, there wasn't any young man at the rank of Lord Paramount either.

"No, the Blacks or other candidates on Westeros won't work," Manfrey Gargalen agreed, his lips twisting like he was trying not to laugh. "But out of the Three Daughters, one remains unaffiliated. The Black Dragon's main partner in the Narrow Sea is Lys by default, while the Green's is Tyrosh. Why not try our chance with Myr?"

Aliandra shook her head. It was a fine idea as long as you kept it as an idle thought, but there was a major obstacle with it.

"Lys has the Black Swan and the Rogare Bank as major players of their Free City. Myr has not, and they have no King or Prince, or any sort of great ruler."

"Then why not use your influence to raise one?"

This was...this was a very dangerous idea. The rewards if it worked were certainly massive, but if it burned in their faces...

"Both Blacks and Greens are buying a lot of Myrish glass and guild-created objects." The former had re-started the trade the moment the swords were sheathed again, but with spring fading and replaced by summer, the latter were closing the gap, courtesy of having more shipbuilding capacity between the Reach and their Crownlands.

"I think it is an excellent reason to keep favour with one and increase the prices for the others."

Aliandra grimaced.

"Sooner or later, the dragons will come for us if we push them out of important markets."

"Indeed," Manfrey smiled as several children ran around the soldiers' camp, playing with a sort of small stuffed thing which was supposed to be a horrible Targaryen dragon, "but I seem to remember an argument we had to push our advantages while the opposition is weak..."

Aliandra chuckled for the form, but deep inside, she wondered how much Dornish blood this new proposal could shed in the sands west of Sunspear.

Ser Endrew Selmy

If this was a better world, being an agent of the Master of Whisperers would have guaranteed Endrew emerged the victor of the jousting tourney of Lannisport in the year one hundred and thirty-seven after the Conquest.

But this was definitely not a perfect kingdom for a knight-spy. Endrew had been thrown out of the joust contest by the youngest knight of House Brax, and his right arm was still lancing him from this defeat. The only girl he saw around him was the girl serving the meals in the tavern he was waiting for, and while she was pretty, the blonde didn't look at him with desire or lust.

Fair enough, Endrew had never considered himself a paragon of beauty. He was not a dragon-slayer. Maybe, if he improved a bit his stories, the agent of the Master of Whisperers could make his audience believe he was a war hero...but there were tens of thousands men who had fought against the Dornish all over the realm.

Without a notable deed to your name, the kind which granted you a knighthood, your life was unlikely to be sung by the bards and the poets. And Endrew had been a knight before the Dornish War.

Feeling the weight of his purse discreetly, Endrew tried to not sound too unhappy. Ransoming back his armour and his horse from his Brax tormentor had really been a hammer on his gold and silver resources. Talk about bad luck. Usually, his talent with a spear was sufficient to assure him three or four victories before the real joust winners entered the field, but this damned Westerner had deprived him of any chance to win a few purses of gold and a few moons of easy life. Now he was going to have to recoup his losses, or many mornings returning to the Marches would be slept under a starry sky with his poor stallion.

It could be worse, the Stormlander agent supposed; the season was summer, and the lightning storms were rare in the West as long as it wasn't autumn.

"You will never catch me!"

Endrew watched amused as a band of children ran in the street, brandishing fake swords and shields. Most of them were blonde, though they were a few black-haired kids as well.

"Pursue the Black Queen! Death to the monster!" shouted the bigger child, leading the group against a black-haired boy which had donned an ugly-looking mask. From where he was sitting, Endrew could acknowledge that between the gargoyles of certain castles and this 'art', he wasn't sure which was the most awful to his eyes.

"Death to the monster!" clamoured the little army, running and screaming improvised street battle-cries.

"I wonder where they all found these wooden toys," he said aloud as another blonde-haired man arrived by his table like so many had done in the last hours.

"The Guildmasters of the city gifted some of the aged stuff they used in their childhood," his interlocutor answered. "Many objects were salvaged from Old Lannisport and it wasn't like the new golden generation was going to play with it."

"Still, it is generous of them," Endrew remarked, before adding as the Westerner agent looked surprised. "Toys and masks aside, these children are in good health and don't wear tatters. I don't know what happens on the other side of the frontier, but I can tell you the orphans of Oldtown and King's Landing do not have this."

"Obviously," and for all the loyalty of the agents in the service of the Master of Whisperers, there was more than a shadow of haughtiness in the reply of the Lannisport man. "Lady Johanna's will was that no child would be forced to beg for bread in the streets or pick the pockets of the good citizens."

"This isn't just a question of will," Endrew replied, passing his right hand in his beard. He should really get around to shave it, it was getting less and less comfortable to keep it in summer. "It's also a question of coins."

"It is a question of will." The Westerner insisted, before coughing and calling the waitress of the tavern for some ale. "I've heard Lord Reyne sleeps on a mountain of treasure, but you won't see him help the refugees trying to build new houses around Castamere, will you?"

"He must have preferred spending a lot to decorate his new armours," the Marcher knight laughed, not giving any hint this was the real reason he had come to Lannisport, the tourney being a mere pretext. "When sunset came last night, I almost thought the knights would be able to continue to joust for a few turns of hourglass; he really was shining too much in his silver, gold, and ruby attire."

In all seriousness, there had to be some self-imposed limits to bad taste. That you ordered a helmet shaped like a lion, so be it, even if it really, really sounded like a taunt thrown in direction of House Lannister. But the weight of gold and gemstones which had to be used on the garments of Lord Walder Reyne and his brother had broken all traditional norms. And since one had participated and lost in the jousts, that meant they had to ransom back like every defeated knight their equipment...but Endrew was sure it had cost far more than one hundred gold dragons.

"Oh yes, the famous armour of Lord Reyne," the agent raised a toast, and half of the tavern followed with loud jokes. Only Endrew was close and attentive enough to listen to the whisper coming after it. "He's been mustering quite a few friends around him. Plenty of lesser Knight Houses, and he's courting the Lord of the Golden Tooth and the highborn of the lands which were ravaged by the Iron Fever."

"Interesting," Endrew said before sighing. "Do you think I must participate into a melee to pass him a message?"

Ser William Erenford

"Without the towers, the sky is...emptier, somehow."

William was ready to acknowledge the Tully knight who had spoken wasn't entirely wrong.

It was a strange thing to be there and not see the impossibly tall walls of Harrenhal dominate the landscape, their gloomy and dark aura giving a vibe of darkness and ruin.

"Good riddance," the Erenford knight told to one of the other Tully knights accompanying him, a middle-aged Riverlander answering to the name of Brynden. "These towers and these walls were useless before and during the Dance. The kingdom might as well use the stones for a good purpose."

The castle built by Harren the Black had been a prodigious and bloody monument to the glory of the Hoares, that much couldn't be denied.

Unfortunately for the hands owning it, it was also completely useless when the enemy had dragons.

By all rights, the dark castle which should have been as difficult to take as Casterly Rock had been captured again and again with desultory facility.

"Don't disagree with it," his knightly counterpart said, chewing on one of those herbs some Essossi merchants were selling at ruinous prices. "I'm told that a single tower was enough to build the castle of Blackstone on the road to the Trident, and find the materials for six more watch towers."

"But we destroyed a big castle in the bargain," protested a man bearing the colours of House Piper.

"The castle was already destroyed and in calamitous state," Brynden retorted hotly, barely keeping the word 'idiot' out of his proclamation. "It would have cost a king's ransom to put it back into order, and for what? Garrisoning an army into Harren's Folly is just asking for a dragon to come and burn walls and men again."

"And the Queen, praise her name, would have had to name a new Noble House," a Blackwood knight intervened. "After what happened to all the Lords who tried to claim it, I don't think there would have been many volunteers."

"Oh surely not," the Tully knights were really having fun at the expense of the loudmouth. "I mean, this is a castle impossible to hold unless you have ten thousand men to defend it, the costs of rebuilding and supply are high enough to make a Lannister cry, in winter you would need a massive forest worth of wood available to keep yourself warm...what's not to like in a castle like this?"

These were good points, and they didn't mention the enmity of the other Houses of the Trident nearby which had lost their lands to the Ironborn conquerors in the past. In the Riverlands, it didn't take more than a sheep being stolen to begin a grudge which would last ten thousand years, and the construction of Harrenhal had been a tad bit bigger in spoliation than the average act of thievery.

"Absolutely nothing," William spoke cheerfully. "But let's see the good side, even after all the demolitions of the towers and the walls, there is still plenty of stone for the builders of Her Grace to take."

The towers had been the first thing to go, along with all the metal and the precious things – those which had not been stolen during the Dance anyway – but in several places, the walls remained taller than the defences of Seagard.

"I'm told some might be used in a new road between Saltpans and the capital." Brynden said.

"I've heard of no such thing," the Erenford knight caressed the mane of his courser, "I wouldn't say no if offered, though. Once you have walked or ridden on the Black roads, everything else seems uneven and clumsily-assembled."

There were a lot of nods of approval, all coming from men who had travelled north of the Blue Fork like him or had been lucky enough to be assigned to the patrols between the Bloody Gate and Gulltown.

"Yes, you should have seen the faces of the savages of the clans when we were able to arrive twice faster on their heels and massacre them!" A hired blade who had recently left Arryn service barked in amusement.

The discussion rapidly devolved into blusters of military prowess and jabs between all the knights, with every party outrageously lying about the number of enemies they had killed in the past years, how many barrels had been emptied during tourney celebrations, and so on.

All the while their mountain column continued to ride, moving around the ruin which had been the fortress of arrogance of House Hoare, and finally coming into view of the God's Eye and the reason of their presence.

"Warrior and Father Above!" swore someone as they passed the last cove and the bones of Caraxes were revealed.

William didn't curse, he had seen once the dead dragon, but he didn't smile either. Even frozen in death and most of its scales and flesh dispersed to the four winds, the bones of the Blood Wyrm appeared unreal and directly come from the fantastic tales of the old times.

"Why are we here, again, William?"

"We are here because a lot of rumours have arrived to the ears of our Lords and Mistresses that dragon bones were stolen from Vhagar and Caraxes' corpses." And judging by the fact half of the tail and several parts of the leg were missing, the whispers and the rumours were clearly true. "We are going to mount guard until the other columns arrive and take back the bones to the capital. The Greens' smugglers will stop their desecration immediately...or we will make them stop."

William didn't see what good it could possibly do to them, but the Green bastards had always had weird priorities, didn't they? They swore oaths, and then abandoned them when it was convenient. They didn't want women on the throne, but they were making stupid sounds when their men were violating guests' rights and breaking plenty of important rights and customs.

No, there wasn't any point understanding the Southerners. The knight of the Northern Marches was glad he wasn't living south of the Blackwater.

Lord Royce Caron

Tourney melees were known across Westeros to be among the most violent events organised in times of peace.

This was no exaggeration or delusion from his mind.

The moment knights were trying to win an important prize, there was always a risk of death, but jousting or wrestling, as long as they were correctly organised and refused murderers in the selection process, rarely went beyond broken bones and resentful pride.

Melees were different. While they were more commonly fought on foot to avoid the terrible wounds a fall from a horse could cause, severe injuries were not rare at all, and there were plenty of tourneys in the past where at least a couple of knights had lost their lives, be it directly on the grounds or in the days after from blood loss or their bodies unable to recover.

Tourney melees were anything but peaceful. They were not organised in the goal of creating great feelings of comradery and friendship in the bannersmen of a Lord Paramount.

The melees were the next best thing the Seven Kingdoms had to a war, and the Lord of Nightsong felt foolish to have naively imagined that after the kingdom broke in half, the bloody event would be discarded and forgotten in some obscure tomes kept in the library of a decrepit maester.

Yes, in hindsight, it was really, really naive.

With the summer weather and the minor wind coming from the sea attracting spectators as far as Massey's Hook and the Redwyne Strait, the numbers of men, women, and children in the audience was easily in the tens of thousands. For all the size and the numbers of wooden stands erected by the Lannisport Guilds, there were thousands of smallfolk and wealthier subjects of His Majesty the King who had come to see the not-so-fake hammering Lords and Knights of the realm were about to unleash at each other.

And the crowd was enjoying this.

If there was one more evident proof that the descendants of the Andals had learned nothing from Bosworth Bridge, the Master of Laws had no idea which evidence it was.

This melee was a battle in all but name.

There were two sides – like on every tourney, it had been imagined to let fight the participants into uncountable factions, but like always, the sheer chaos it would create had convinced the tourney masters to abandon this stupidity days ago.

They were the great banners of the Noble Houses, though all those were made subservient to the great red-and-gold colours of Casterly Rock. Indomitable and defiant in spite of the terrible defeats suffered during the Dance, House Lannister's roaring lion was not on its death throes to be sure.

There was animosity and old feuds to be settled.

How else explaining that the brother of the Lord of Castamere, the infamous Tywald Reyne, was going to lead one of the two sides when steel sang and armours passed their trial of battle?

"His Grace has...not been very happy about certain affairs of House Reyne, lately."

"Enough to send the agents of the Clubfoot on my lands and inside House Lannister's most secure strongholds without my permission?" asked tartly Lady Johanna Lannister, Regent of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands, making Royce Caron nearly gape in astonishment.

No, Larys Strong wouldn't...oh, who was he kidding? The Master of Whisperers definitely would.

"As far as I am aware," the survivor of Bosworth Bridge affirmed carefully, "no mention of sending any spies or hired blades was made by King Daeron or his Hand in the Councils where I was present and allowed to express my opinion."

The situation was hardly serious enough to do more than observe, after all. Whether House Reyne was responsible for some of the unpleasantness of the last years, including some coin counterfeiting operations and remarked assassinations, the red lion had abandoned assassins and smugglers to return to its lair tail between the legs.

"In this case, why are there at least five knights in his employ participating in this melee?" the widow of the defunct Lord Jason Lannister wondered with black humour. After giving birth to children, losing her husband, and spending years of life keeping her lands in order, Lady Johanna had nonetheless managed to be crowned Queen of Beauty once more, though obviously the site of the tourney had surely played a part in this victory.

When her glare turned in his direction however, Royce was reminded of the proverb saying the most beautiful roses also possessing the sharpest thorns.

"Lord Larys is...maybe more paranoiac than the situation warrants. The Reynes have not the best reputation of your bannersmen."

"I am aware," the blonde-haired woman replied frostily. "And I also noticed that when I demand his help formally by raven, I never receive a positive answer."

Royce was not often sharing some of the extremist viewpoints of the Master of Coin, but in this instance, he felt a few points weren't misplaced. Larys Strong, aka the Clubfoot, aka the Master of Spies and Secrets, was becoming more of a problem than an asset in his quests to ferret out treason and plots against the Iron Throne.

"The moment this tourney ends, I will throw out all his spies outside my lands. If they happen to return without my permission again, it will be the axe or the rope for them."

Fortunately for him, the trumpet calling the participants of the melee to their positions sound high and clear, the crowd erupted in thunderous cheers, and any unsatisfactory answer he might have needed to utter were rendered unnecessary in this summer afternoon.

Author's note: Next up, the melee of the tourney of Lannisport, and other shenanigans in the Green Kingdom...we will also return north to see what Baela and the Blacks are doing, don't worry.