Hey guys! That Discord is fun – there's some polls for who to make character art of, some great fun theories, and even a lil map that shows where everyone is in Westeros! I'll continue sending out some links to those interested.
Not too many reviews on the last chapter, so I'm trying to do better with this one. I've updated the cast list to include some more roles – anyone that's interested, hit me up!
26th Sixth Moon, 152 A.C.
Torrha
The first rays of dawn painted the solar in a soft golden hue, casting shadows that danced across the polished marble floors. The air was alive with the sounds of morning, the clatter of silverware against porcelain mingling with the cheerful chatter of the servants as they bustled about, preparing the morning meal.
The table before her was a sight to behold, adorned with a feast fit for a king. Plates of fresh fruit overflowed with ripe berries and succulent grapes, their vibrant colors a stark contrast against the crisp white linen tablecloth. Platters of golden pastries and flaky croissants beckoned invitingly, their delicate aroma filling the air with the tantalizing scent of butter and sugar.
At the head of the table sat Torrha's Lord Husband, Victor Tyrell, in a deep green doublet woven from Myrish silk and adorned with intricate gold embroidery that shimmered in the morning light.
It had been some days since Torrha's wedding night. They had spent more nights together since, and Victor had behaved as well as she had expected the gallant knight to: he'd kissed her softly, brushed her hair back from her face and held her close. He'd been slow and delicate with her – though, it had not helped the pain, only prolonged it. She could not understand it – his face was pleasing, but she still did not feel safe beneath his sun-kissed arms. Twice had he failed to enter her, thus she began to wonder – what if no man could? What if the fault lay with her, what if she was unusually small?
Perhaps emboldened or pressured by the dozens of voices that shouted from outside the bedchamber, Victor had attempted a third time – it had felt as though a sword was being buried inside her. Would it feel like that every time? Surely it would get easier with time… she prayed that was the case.
Still, the pain paled in comparison to the teeming crowds that had cheered and applauded and shouted ribald suggestions. At least she was free of that again, but each night, she continued to look at the door, imagining them bursting through again…
Beside Victor sat his sister, Alyssa, her beauty a vision to behold as she laughed and chatted animatedly with one of her handmaidens. The table had been laid with delicate and shining gold plates, with glass chalices of golden smallwine that glimmered through the crystalline glass in the summer: as if someone had squeezed it from the sun.
Each day had greeted Torrha with a breathtaking view beyond the window. The lush gardens of Highgarden stretched out around her, a riot of colour and fragrance that spoke of the bounty of the land. Roses of every hue bloomed in profusion, their sweet scent wafting through the open windows and filling the room with their intoxicating perfume. Or perhaps that was just Alyssa Tyrell and her oils.
In the distance, the morning sun cast a warm glow over the castle grounds, illuminating the verdant landscape in a soft golden light that seemed to dance upon the breeze. As strange as it still felt to her, she had begun to enjoy the silken gowns gifted to her by her new sister, and the families of Reach nobility that had blessed her union.
The food had been served to prepare the Targaryen royals for a long ride east to Storm's End for the marriage of Durran Baratheon and Rhaenerys Targaryen. It still made her uneasy, seeing those wolf pelts lazily strewn across the chair in her chambers. If she had not seen her husband's grandmother, she might have believed it was a boorish and failed attempt at blessing the union.
Finally, Torrha's father walked through the open doors to the Gardener Hall, along with his men-at-arms. All were dressed in thick woollen cloaks with mantles of fur. Her own father was pulling on his riding gloves, the large hilt and saucer-shaped pommel.
"Lord Father," Victor said, each word crisply enunciated in his southron accent, "you don't mean to leave without breaking fast with us, do you?"
"Apologies, my Lord, but it's a long way to ride," Lord Stark replied in his warm, gruff accent typical of the Northmen. "Summer will end any day now."
"Of course, winter is… almost here, you might say?" Victor asked, raising an eyebrow. Lord Stark didn't return his coy smile and instead held a hand out to his side, and Cregard Karstark stepped forwards, holding a bundle of thick, folded wool, dyed dark with bear pelts sewn in as mantles.
"For when summer ends," Lord Stark stated. A serving boy took the cloaks and walked them down the length of the hall before bowing his head and presenting them to Victor, who rubbed them between his fingers, glancing over his grandmother, the Lady Elinor. Eventually, Victor stood up and walked down the table.
"I hope to see you again soon. Perhaps we might greet you with a grandchild."
"Perhaps."
"May the Seven watch over you," Victor held out a hand.
"Gods guide you," Lord Stark grabbed Victor's hand, gave a brusque shake and turned to leave. Torrha felt disappointed – was that it? No farewell to her? She watched Victor walk back to his place beside her at the table and before he could even sit down, Torrha was up on her feet and following her countrymen out of the door.
Trying to catch up to her father and his bannermen was hard – the lords and ladies of Highgarden kept wanting to stop and talk to her – compliment her kirtle or wish good health upon her, or ask how she found the air in the south. Torrha would mumble a reply but wouldn't stop walking, but still had to avoid the peacocks that would trot by her, flashing their fine plumage of feathers.
"Kind of you to see us off, my Lady," Alaric Poole said, upon seeing Torrha. He had led over her father to his brown palfrey, Whiteshoe, when he saw her. Lord Stark glanced over his shoulder at her for a moment before checking the straps of his saddle.
"Yes… Old Gods watch over you," she said politely to the young man.
"Not in these parts… still, we could handle some fucking Stags all the same. Make a fine souvenir, a pair of antlers – especially after…"
"Alaric," Lord Stark said, turning away from his horse.
"Apologies, my Lord. My Lady," Alaric bowed his head and left to join Cregard Karstark and Owen Cassel.
"You should be with your Lord Husband," Lord Stark said as he looked back to his horse.
Torrha was confused – her father had never been one for mincing words, nor for warmth and laughter, but he had never been quite so cold with her. It was as though she were saying farewell to Corwyn once again.
"I've just… I'm trying to do what you and Mother want me to…"
"And you have."
"Are you angry with me?"
Lord Stark turned around to face Torrha for a moment. He chewed his tongue and let out a low sigh.
"No, Torri," he said, his voice turning soft, "I'm not angry with you."
"You wanted to leave without saying farewell-"
"Your duty is here," Lord Stark explained, turning to face her and place one of his large hands on her shoulder. "Victor Tyrell is your husband, and Highgarden is your home, now."
"But, Father, I don't even know him," Torrha confessed in a whisper. Victor was hardly unpleasant to look at, but… those moments in bed together were always the hardest – when neither he nor her would know what exactly to say.
"And he doesn't know you," Lord Stark replied. "But you will, in time. And you'll learn to call this place home, just as your mother did in Winterfell. You will bear sons and daughters and love them. In time, you may even learn to love this castle the same, and you may feel yourself as true Tyrell."
"But what if I…" Torrha caught herself – everything her father was saying might have been true. But he were talking as though it was absolute – as if she was destined to become a Tyrell. It was true, she had dreamt of receiving a golden rose and feeling a warmth spread from her hands to her chest to her legs. She had thought it would have been sent from the Gods, to show she would have a blessed union with Victor, but… what if she had done something wrong? Or, worse, what if it was simply just a dream, and she'd been fool enough to think there was more to it?
Lord Stark's large hand moved to Torrha's sharp cheek.
"What are our words?"
"Winter is Coming," Torrha recited the words she'd known as long as she could remember.
"Winter is Coming," Lord Stark nodded. "The days where you will miss home are coming. The days you will yearn to return are coming. But these days do not last forever. Everything has an end – even winter."
"Cayden is a foolish braggart, but he is rarely wrong," Lord Stark continued as his dark grey eyes fixed on Torrha's, "You are a Stark of Winterfell, no matter who you have wed. And we will see each other again, Torri."
Torrha leant forwards and wrapped her arms around her father's chest. It were as though if she hugged him hard enough, he would not be able to leave her. And for the first time in her memory, she felt her father's arms wrap back around her, his hand gently stroking her brown braided hair.
Cassandra
Cassandra had combed her hair back from her face, just as the old queen, Rhaecaera Targaryen, used to. Most women tried to look like the queen did, back then, but Cassandra was the one who would comb and tie her hair – it meant that after Queen Rhaecaera, Cassandra was the most beautiful woman in the Red Keep.
Of course, she had known King Aeric quite while during her time as handmaid to the queen. Cassandra remembered those days spent in silk Valyrian gowns, combing the Queen's hair and excitedly talking about marrying her cousin, Maelor. She would have had children with silver hair and violet eyes, like him. They would have been dragonriders – gods that consorted up high with the sun. And Cassandra had been so beautiful – dainty and thin.
That had changed after birthing two sons of Arlan Baratheon. The boys in the House of Baratheon tended to be big and broad-shouldered, and the two births had left her no longer the thin and delicate girl she had once been.
Cassandra had been informed by the Princess of Dragonstone, Vaenys Celtigar, that the King would arrive today with his children. Or, rather, she had attempted to tell Cassandra before being called away to stop Maeghar from thumping his brother, Aerys, on the shoulder again. The two boys were pleasant and courtly, though, they missed home and their dragons which remained in the Dragonpit of King's Landing. It made her think back to Durran, when he was younger. The way he'd bombarded her and her husband with questions and questions and wanted to spend every hour of the day with them. How he'd slept in her bed with her and his new-born brother, Arrec, and hugged her when she'd wept. She'd always felt guilty for that – no son ought to see his mother cry.
Dragons were slowly becoming a familiar sight around Shipbreaker Bay, though that did not quell the fear and anxiety that arose at the sight of them. The gargantuan titan of a monster, Gaelithox the Gilded Prince, had been searching for her daughter, Oraella. Even the Princess Rhaenerys was searching for her. Her own dragon had arrived some days ago, landing in the courtyard and slapping its long, winged tail against the gravel of the courtyard, sweeping up the stones and tossing them through the sky like it had begun to hail. Princess Rhaenerys had mounted her dragon before letting it snarl and snap at the guards and snort out licks of golden fire with a smirk on her face before following the colossal bronze-scaled nightmare into the sky.
The bitch was nothing like her mother. Rhaecaera had been calm, gracious, and a very dear friend to Cassandra. What a shame her daughter was nothing like her – she had hoped Princess Daelaena may grow to be like her, but had heard the rumours: At the tourney of Duskendale, the Dornishman, Rymund of the Sapphires, had asked for the favour of the princess. The next day, after unseating Ser Garth Blackrivers, the Bastard of Harrenhal, Rymund rode to the Princess Daelaena and asked how many he must kill for her hand in marriage. Cassandra had been there, that day, and she remembered Daelaena's coy smile. She had enjoyed the Dornish peasant's brazen proposal. Thankfully, the Black Prince, Aerion, had risen from his chair and answered, 'at least one more, Dornishman.' It had been the last day the man ever saw.
The sun had begun its descent from its noon-place, and creeped towards the horizon when three dragons appeared in the sky: One was small and blue – the colour of summer skies, ahead of one that shimmered like the dark waters of Shipbreaker Bay, whilst another began to descend, its scales a dark and rich crimson that reminded Cassandra of rubies. She recognised the beast as Bloodfyre, the dragon ridden by the king himself.
The first dragon to land was the smallest – only slightly larger than a wheelhouse, with deep, violet eyes that scoured the courtyard and began to bound around. The Storm Knights, shaking in their yellow surcoats and shining steel, took steps back, huddling together and gripping their spears like canaries on a branch.
The two other monsters landed, with Bloodfyre letting out a long growl as it began to dig its clawed wings into the gravel and crawl towards Cassandra, its black eyes fixed on her. She couldn't have fled, despite how much her body screamed at her to. Its red head rolled to the side and it let out a snarl as its rider dismounted.
King Aeric was a plump man with a thick head of silver hair that flowed out beneath his circlet of Valyrian steel and square-cut rubies. His jerkin of Myrish silk, embroidered with black flowers, was dark and dampened by rain. He straightened up slapped a hand along his dragon's neck, chortling as the beast calmed, and his violet eyes fixed on Cassandra. She remained poised, with her hands clasped in front of her belly, the slightest of polite smiles on her lips. She would wait until he was closer before bending the knee. The rest of the guards did so, and King Aeric's thick, blotchy cheeks raised as his lips spread into a beaming smile.
"Cass!" He chortled, walking forwards with his arms outstretched. He had never been a follower of tradition, nor propriety. Cassandra quickly stretched out her arms and brought a warm smile to her lips, walking out from behind the guards to embrace her in a tight hug, his body pressed firmly against hers as he continued his throaty chuckles. He had hugged her the same way in her youth of King's Landing – ever since she had grown into a woman's body.
"Your Grace," Cassandra laughed, letting him squeeze her tightly.
"Seven Hells, Cass, you've grown, have you not?" He pulled away to examine her body. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders – just enough so that he could still make out the curves beneath her yellow surcoat and black kirtle of Myrish silk.
"As have we all, Your Grace," Cassandra replied. "Your grandsons are continuing their education here: Maester Rickard is instructing them in their histories, and our master-at-arms-"
"Aw, pish, we're not here for lessons," King Aeric laughed before turning back to gesture to his two children: Daelaena, in a Lyesni gown of thin pink lace beneath a velvet cloak of black, lined with red silk. Her violet eyes were locked on one of the guards at Cassandra's side, Ser Harrold Hasty. Her elder brother, Vaegon, was rubbing his head, his amethyst eyes fixed on nothing in particular as his sodden hair of spun silver stuck to his brow.
"Your Grace, Your Grace…" Cassandra curtsied to the King's children.
"Lady Baratheon," Daelaena bowed her head. "Where are my chambers?"
"I shall escort-" Cassandra began.
"No need. You," Daelaena took a step towards Ser Harrold. "You may escort me."
Ser Harrold frowned and looked to Cassandra. 'How fitting for Aeric's daughter to be a whore,' she thought to herself before smiling.
"Of course, Your Grace. My Prince, if you-"
"No need," Vaegon grunted, holding up a hand, "I'll find my own way. I presume the Strongarm has a store of strongwine somewhere here. It'll have to do – my head is starting to throb, and no-one will enjoy that. With any luck there may be some Arbor red…" Vaegon walked inside, oblivious to the servants and knights bowing before him as he ranted about the inadequacy of wine from the Stormlands.
"Maegor's Teats, it's been a while since I've set eyes on this hall," King Aeric muttered to himself as he walked alongside Cassandra, pulling off his riding gloves. "How is Arlan?"
"Sick, Your Grace," Cassandra answered. "Elsewise, he would have been here to receive Your Grace himself."
"I'll tell you," Aeric began to reminisce, holding up a finger, "he was the finest man I ever saw with a sword. At Pyke, he cut down a hundred men himself – a hundred men! He's the best swordsman I've ever laid eyes on – after myself, of course. Blackfyre has an edge like no other, ha!"
"Of course," Cassandra nodded; she had learnt it was best to humour him.
"Still, the man could not be struck down. Not in battle, not in tourneys, and how will he meet his end? Coughing in a sickbed like a man twice his years. Ah, the Seven are cruel," Aeric lamented.
"Indeed they are." Cassandra agreed. 'And rightly so.'
"But, not fit talk for a wedding, is it?" Aeric clapped his hands together. "Where's your boys? I'd like to see the little scamp that bears my name!"
To the rest of Westeros, Arrec was named for the King, as Baratheon and Targaryen had always been allies. To those in the Stormlands, he was named for his uncle, Erich, of whom Arlan had always been fond of. 'A quiet boy, he was,' Arlan had once sighed, 'but kind like no other.'
"My son, Lord Arrec, is serving as Regent in absence of his brother."
Aeric paused, his thick, dark brow furrowing. "Donal's not here?"
Cassandra chose to smile at this. "Durran," she corrected him.
"Where's he gone? Not run off at the sight of my daughter, has he?" He slapped her arm and snorted at his own joke.
It took all Cassandra had to continue smiling. She couldn't be panicked, she couldn't be sorrowful – she didn't have time for that. Jeyne Tully's words still rang out in her head, 'Your daughter would rather vanish into the night like a cutpurse than marry my son?' She was sure Oraella wouldn't do that – not without talking to Cassandra. She knew it was the Dornish, or the Northerners, or maybe the Black Prince – but she had to do whatever she could. Whatever would bring her daughter back to her. She would fast for the Seven, she would pray to the Old Gods, she would give up the castle of Storm's End and her own life if it would return her daughter to safety.
And if Oraella had truly left to escape a marriage, Cassandra would bring her home.
"My daughter is missing."
"Lost your daughter, have you?" Aeric let out a soft chuckle. "I've heard this happens when a Baratheon is about to marry… at least your other boy won't be able to run off, eh?"
"Baratheon's do not run, Your Grace," Cassandra firmly reminded him. "And my Lord Husband's brother was not lost. If I might remind Your Grace that Cregan and Corrin Stark-"
"Cregan and Corrin Stark are dead and in the ground. Most likely, so is Erich, and Ser Baldric, and all the rest of them. I tire of it – a pact was signed, a peace was made, let it rest."
It was wrong to press him – Aeric was a fool and would rather believe a happy lie than a hard truth. He hadn't sided with the wronged Baratheon's twenty years ago, and he wouldn't now.
"Apologies, Your Grace," Cassandra gathered herself, "I am just… distraught."
"Of course!" King Aeric wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close enough that her breast pressed against his. "Did you know, I once lost Bloodfyre once. It turns out, he had made a den for himself in a cave in the Vale! Stayed there for a whole moon!" He chortled. "It's just a spot of bother – I'm sure your daughter will turn up soon enough."
Cassandra wanted to smack the fat old fop. But she smiled and kept her mind on her task.
"In the meanwhile, my King, we have been proposed to by the Tully's to wed Durran to Lord Garrett's sister, Glennys."
"You're not about to ask my to permit your son to take two wives, are you?" Aeric asked, removing his arm from her. Cassandra shook her head – if that was his worry, he could be reassured – Durran was a godly man.
"We would never dishonour the Princess Rhaenerys, Your Grace."
"Good. Because if I cannot take two wives, the Seven knows I shall not let any other man!" He let out a loud, wheezing laugh once again. They continued walking again, turning down one of the corridors that Cassandra had ordered no servant to traipse down.
"If you remember, my late Lord Husband's brother, Durran, wed the Lady Elys Tully, but died before the two could birth a child."
King Aeric grunted, "Yes?"
Cassandra looped her arm through his, "and now my daughter has been taken against her will… perhaps we might revisit the arrangement…"
"You do not wish for an alliance with the crown?" Aeric asked.
"Of course, Your Grace."
"Then you just do not wish my daughter to be the Lady of Storm's End, one day?"
"Your daughter is a fine woman with her mother's beauty and her father's charm," she smiled. "Come, we've prepared your chambers, and there is much to rest for. And there is still a feast to be had two days hence-"
"A wedding feast without a wedding, from what you say." He crossed his arms. "Is that what you're saying?"
Cassandra pasted on a smile and loosened her cloak. "Come, Your Grace. Might we retire to your chambers to talk more on this matter?"
Aeric's violet eyes moved to Cassandra's bust: she had been careful to pick the right dress. Kings were simple – Aeric, most of all.
"What might I gain from talking on this matter?"
"Why, my love, Your Grace," Cassandra said innocently – she knew Aeric would lose interest if it was too easy for him.
"As your King, I have your love already."
"My love as a subject, Your Grace. As a Lady, not a woman."
Aeric smiled as his eyes lingered on her body once again. "I remember you from the capital, Cass. You were betrothed to my brother, Maelor, were you not?"
"I was," Cassandra nodded, taking a step towards him and laying a hand on his wide, soft chest, wrapped in plush black cotton.
"Well, then," Aeric laid his hand her hip, his fat fingers pressing in hard against her silk gown, "perhaps you were always fated for the bed of a dragon."
Freya
In many ways, Freya longed for King's Landing. She remembered how the setting sun was drench the sky a warm, lazy shade of pink, and clouds would streak out over the calm and gentle waves. Rays would glow on her bare arms and chest, and she'd be able to close her eyes and forget she was the Last Greyjoy, forget she was a hostage in all but name, and just be.
Warmth was scarce on the Iron Islands. Clouds stuffed the sky and clogged the rays of the setting sun, and the cold, wet rocks were all drenched in grey. The grass that would grow was not plentiful, healthy blades, but damp and soft like moss, that could be peeled off the ground to reveal nothing but more rock.
The view outside of the Great Keep of Pyke stretched out in a bleak panorama of grey and black, the rocky shores and barren cliffs shrouded in a perpetual mist that hung heavy in the air like a mourning veil.
The sea below churned and roiled with a menacing fury, its dark waters lashing against the craggy shoreline with relentless force. Waves crashed against the jagged rocks, sending plumes of spray shooting into the air before retreating into the depths with a mournful sigh. Seabirds circled overhead, their plaintive cries echoing through the damp and dismal air as they searched for sustenance amidst the desolation.
The sky above was a mass of brooding clouds, heavy with the threat of impending storm. The air was thick with the tang of salt and seaweed. There were no vibrant colours here, no signs of life or joy. Only the stark and unforgiving beauty of a land ravaged by the relentless onslaught of wind and wave. No bustling streets. No vibrant markets.
It was quiet; most of the ironborn that crewed the Leviathan had retired to bed. Only Dagon Botley, Freya herself, her brother, Rayn, and the axewife Whalebane, ever at his side. She found herself studying her brother's features, though she wasn't sure why – it was not as though she could remember what her mother or father looked like. They had the same hair, the same nose, but their similarities ended there.
While Freya and Rayn began to drink mead and talk quietly to one another, Freya looked over to Dagon, who carefully poured ale into his horn, taking care not to knock it over. Freya leant over to hold it steady and, with a nod of thanks, Dagon filled his horn.
Every night at Pyke had Freya asking questions to herself. She couldn't help but remember the day she had arrived, when Rayn had mutilated Aggar and handed her the knife. Was that how all Ironborn were? She'd heard stories in King's Landing, of course, but… well, Dagon didn't seem like that.
"What was Father like?" Freya asked.
Dagon frowned for a moment. "Well, you don't have his nose, thank the Drowned One."
Freya smiled at this and shook her head. "I meant…"
"I know what you meant," Dagon's brown eyes glinted in the candlelight, shining like amber, or honey in the sun. "He was… good at talking," Dagon said finally. "He said a thing, and you believed it. I think that was because he believed it himself. And he was… when Ragnor set his mind to something, you could not move him from it. He never changed his mind – for better or for worse."
"Like when he declared himself King?"
Dagon's face hardened slightly. "That wasn't just him. He claimed the Salt Throne, but we cheered his name. Goodbrother, Blacktyde, Drumm, Wynch, myself… he was the one we chose."
"No-one else wanted the throne?"
"Well… many others wanted it, but we wouldn't choose them."
Freya frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Why, the Kingsmoot," Dagon said with a shrug. It was a word Freya hadn't heard before. Dagon frowned. "Rayn hasn't told you?"
"Told me what?"
"A Kingsmoot is a… every captain comes together, and we discuss who the next King of the Iron Islands is."
"And you decide by… voting?" Freya frowned. It was an odd notion – she knew such a thing existed on the fringes of the realm, at the Night's Watch, but that was different. They did not sire heirs to inherit. "Well, what if the wrong Greyjoy is voted?"
"It was not always a Greyjoy," Dagon explained. "Any captain of any ship can become King."
"Without a claim?"
"That is how the greenlanders settle matters. You see, in the Age of Heroes, every island was a kingdom…" Dagon grabbed a chunk of bread and began tearing at it, "and each island was governed by a Rock King, and by a Salt King. The Rock King would dispense justice on the isle, craft laws and punish crimes. The Salt King, who was often the son, commanded the ships."
"So, you would choose a Rock King, and his son would-"
"No, we would choose both."
"How long would that take? What if every captain voted for themselves?"
"Well, that did happen…" Dagon admitted with a chuckle. "Eventually, we had a King of each island, who would be succeeded by his son." He placed the scraps of bread on the table, assembling them and pointing at each one. "The Drumm ruled Old Wyk, the Goodbrother on Great Wyk, the Blacktyde on Blacktyde, the Hoare of Orkmont, and the Harlaw on Harlaw."
"And Greyjoy on Pyke?" Freya asked, pointing at the scrap of bread closest to her, before pointing to the scrap nearby. "And the Saltcliffe on Saltcliffe, I presume?"
"You do," Dagon said, pleased by her knowledge. "And in choosing a High King of the Iron Islands, we would create a Kingsmoot amongst these families."
"So, the Harlaw's, the Drumm's, the Goodbrother's, the Blacktyde's- they all could have become King? Not just my father?"
Dagon let out a long breath and puffed out his cheeks. "Not quite. It's… it's difficult to explain."
"Try."
The old man rubbed the white stubble atop his head with his good hand before he bit his lip. Finally, with a swig of his mead he turned back to the map of bread.
"The Kingsmoot that chose your father was the old: every captain in the Iron Islands came to the shores of Pyke. But it was the families that were once kings that held the greatest influence. A captain from Old Wyk would never cheer a Goodbrother as King. A Blacktyde would never bend the knee to any man from Orkmont – the Harlaw's hated each other…"
Dagon's words were weaving the bread into a tapestry of feuds and politics. In a way, it was comforting and familiar: some things were not specific to King's Landing after all.
"So, my father was just a compromise?" She wasn't sure whether that made her feel better or worse.
"Your father united a hundred squabbling families and united them. I'd hardly call him a compromise."
"Why wouldn't Rayn tell me about this?"
"Rayn and your father…" Dagon chewed his tongue before running his thumb around the rim of his horn. "Things were not quite simple."
"How so?"
"I expect he would know better than I."
"Rayn doesn't talk to me, Dagon," Freya muttered darkly. She wasn't of value to him – perhaps she would have been if she was a boy instead. Doubtless, he probably intended to marry her off to an Ironborn raider in exchange for a few ships. 'The destiny of all highborn ladies,' Freya thought to herself.
The fate was grim, but another was grimmer – what would happen if Rayn lost the Bloodtide? Would she be taken as a saltwife? Would she be raped, made to squeeze out babies to give a raider a claim on Pyke? 'Not for a claim,' she answered her own question.
"Do you think Rayn's going to die?" Freya asked.
Dagon took a long sigh before handing her his horn of mead. She drank it – thicker than wine, and sweet and syrupy like honey. She licked it from her lips and had another sip.
"I don't know," Dagon answered eventually, "I've not seen your brother fight."
"I have," Freya muttered. She could still remember the flash of his axe and the spraying of blood. "He's killed men. Here and… wherever he was." She still wasn't sure if he had actually visited Asshai. Though, the way he talked of it, how his dark eyes seemed to glaze and search the ceiling… it were as though he was trying hard to remember something.
"It's true – weak men don't live long at sea. But Rorik survived the sea, and he survived war. He is devious and angry – that makes him dangerous. As much as I would gladly watch him die, I'd rather it's not offer your brother's neck we wager…"
Freya turned to Dagon with yet another question that had been stuck in her mind.
"Why do you hate him so much?"
"Because the Wynch raided my land. They killed my people and he betrayed your father."
There was more. Freya was absolutely certain of it – Dagon would not meet her gaze, and busied himself with another swig of mead. There was a beat of silence, save for a thud as Rayn threw his axe into one of the wooden doors. Freya turned to see him watching Whalebane take out a knife and throw it against the door before cursing – using a word she didn't understand.
"Is that it?" Freya turned back to Dagon.
"Is that not enough?"
"I grew up in King's Landing, Uncle, I know when someone's not telling the truth," Frea stated. Dagon's lip wrinkled and curled for a moment before he hung his head in deference.
"We were brothers, once," he admitted.
"You were friends?"
"No, we were brothers. He took my sister to wife."
Freya frowned; her mother had been Dagon's sister. If Rorik Wynch had married Dagon's sister too…
"He's my uncle too? His son… Aggar… they're our cousins?"
"Ironborn don't wed greenlanders," Dagon explained, wiping the mead from his lips with the back of his hand. "They don't like our god, and we don't like theirs."
"It's just one God," Freya explained. "The Seven are one…"
"I don't care," Dagon said simply. "You've a thousand cousins on these isles."
Freya nodded. "So, what happened?"
"She died. Rorik refused to defend Pyke. I lost Lordsport, I lost my hand… I lost more than that." Dagon said, not meeting her gaze again. This was not a lie, though, Freya could hear the mourning in his voice. There was no smile, and the honeyed amber of his eyes turned cold.
Freya didn't know what to say. Perhaps nothing would be best – what could she say? She didn't know what he was talking about. All she had ever heard was how the heathen barbarians had cowered and fallen upon their own blades out of fear of the wrath of dragons and Stormlanders and Westermen.
"I think I'm going to bed, now, Uncle…" Freya said quietly. She felt like sitting next to him was intruding. He gave a short nod, but did not rise from his seat, or even look up at her. He was away with whatever plagued his mind.
Freya crossed the hall and waited for Rayn and Whalebane to finish throwing their weapons before approaching the door.
"Where are you going?" Whalebane asked.
"To bed," Freya responded pointedly – what right did Whalebane have to talk to her?
"I'll escort you," Whalebane sheathed her knife.
"I don't need an escort to my chambers. I am perfectly fine, thank you."
"Not a request, Freya," Rayn responded, stowing his axe in the smoky-grey ring on his belt.
"You've ordered me a guard? Or a gaoler?"
"I've ordered you a friend," Rayn replied. "Lucky, aren't you?"
"Keep your friend for yourself," Freya scoffed. "I'm not scared of the dark."
"Maybe you should be," Rayn grunted as stretched before turning to walk over to Dagon, giving him a kick in the shin to get his attention before sitting down next to him. He glanced over his shoulder and said something – something that made Dagon frown, look over to Freya, and then back to Rayn before giving him a nod.
"Come on, girl." Whalebane was waiting at the doors, hoisting a lit torch out of a black iron sconce. Freya relented, and followed her through the dark, crumbling corridors of her family's fortress.
It was a long walk, made longer by avoiding the corridors that had crumbled or been obliterated by dragonfire all those years ago. However, most of the corridors had been cleaned of rubble, and Freya had spied unfamiliar faces setting down planks of dark wood to mend the shattered stone slabs. Servants, presumably.
Freya's dark eyes fell on Whalebane, her pale hair, stripped of all colour, tumbled down her shoulders. She wondered if it had ever been combed before. Though, she supposed that handmaids were not popular on the Iron Islands.
"Which island are you from?" Freya asked.
"Does it matter?" Whalebane responded.
"You don't answer many questions, do you?" Freya asked, only for Whalebane to answer with a shrug. "What is Rayn talking to Dagon about?"
"Something."
"My, aren't you mysterious?" Freya rolled her eyes. Whalebane would not react, and so… Freya would have to pry. "I've not heard of House Whalebane."
"Nor I."
"Is is your true name? Or is it similar to how you call Rayn 'Saltaxe'?"
"Similar," Whalebane nodded.
They passed by candlelight and Freya began to wonder if Whalebane's hair was truly that colour. Some women in the capital dyed their hair. The thought amused her – that secretly Whalebane would colour her hair, bathe in water scented with oils and flowers, and wrap herself in silks…
"That word you said back in there," Freya inquired, "what was it? You were angry when you said it."
"Bratsiot," Whalebane said, her accent shifting. It was similar to how the Targaryen's would converse, but… well, the accent sounded like a bad attempt. She rolled her 'r' and drawled far too much.
"Did you pick that up when you were with my brother?"
"Kessa," Whalebane said, turning back. "That means 'yes'."
"As I surmised," Freya grumbled.
They came to the door for Freya's chambers. Freya pressed on the iron ring to enter and quickly closed it behind her, leaving Whalebane outside – she'd rather not have her try and pull her gown off over her head again. She continued to look back to the door: at the bottom there was a slit between the heavy wood and the stone floor, bright and warm in the presence of Whalebane's torch.
Freya began to undress, just about managing to unlace her blue gown and pull it over her head with relative ease before combing her hair. She would not remove her shoes though – the floor was too cold for her to walk on barefoot. When Freya turned back to the door, she watched the stone slabs turn dark.
She would have to be quiet.
Freya crept over to the door and pressed her hands to the floor, crouching low and trying to peer under the door, but it was no good. Instead, she pressed her ear to the cold, thick door and listened. She couldn't hear anything, which was a good sign. She reached up to grasp the iron ring to pull the door open. Holding it firmly, Freya slowly opened the door and peeked out to see Whalebane turning a corner, returning to the hall, she supposed. Freya closed the door behind her and began to creep forwards. It reminded her of her youth in King's Landing.
Sometimes Freya had managed to escape her room after dark to meet Addam Waters, the cook's son. Being one of the smallfolk, she would have to creep out to meet her friend like one of the many cats in the Red Keep, and they could watch the ships sailing by on the Blackwater in the early hours of the morning. They would often try to play games – of which ship would the fastest, of which house each sigil belonged to… all that came to an end after Addam's accident: At the age of seven, Aerion had bashed in the boy's head with a rock in the training yard. Addam has supposedly spoken ill of the Glass Prince, Aemon Targaryen, and Aerion had seen to it that it would not happen again.
Freya shook off the memory as she continued on, stopping at every corner and spying anyone that might be walking down it. There were a few moments when she was pause upon hearing a scraping, but it would often lead to nothing. The sound of the howling wind outside masked her own footsteps.
Finally, Freya saw the ajar doors to the Great Hall, and could make out Whalebane inside, sat down, while Rayn lay down on one of the long tables, one arm limply hanging off the edge, clasping his silver-lipped drinking horn.
"…madness, Greyjoy. Order one of your men to fight as your champion."
Rayn made a load groan as he sat up. Freya crept towards the door and peered inside to see him finish drinking from his horn and point at their uncle with it.
"You think I'm going to lose," he accused Dagon.
Dagon was standing up, rubbing his brow as he paced in front of the Salt Throne that stood before them all, watching quietly. It made Freya uneasy.
"I've known… perhaps half a dozen Greyjoy that could have killed Rorik Wynch on this island, and they all died fifteen years ago – I will not add you to that list of dead men!"
"What is dead may never die," Rayn murmured, raising his horn. Dagon muttered it quickly, and Whalebane just lifted up her own drinking horn. "I've already died before, Botley."
"What?" Dagon frowned, confused.
"Down there, on that beach."
Freya was confused - she had no idea what he was talking about. Dagon, however, seemed to have some semblance.
"That was different, Rayn. A Drowned Man cannot give you the kiss of life if your throat has been opened."
"You thought me dead once before. You lost faith in me, and now, here I stand before you," Rayn said, standing up to step down from the table. "And I shall stand before you again after the Bloodtide. What is dead never dies, but rises again-"
"Don't ask me to send another member of my family below the waves," Dagon hissed, standing up to loom over Rayn. She saw Rayn look up to the old man and stand his ground, glaring up at him.
"Have you any faith in me?"
"I lost faith in everyone after the greenlanders landed on our shores."
Rayn nodded and began to climb the steps to look at the Salt Throne. He reached out and silently touched one of the dark, shadowy tentacles of the throne, arced up into the air as if it were beckoning him forwards.
"I've sailed through the worst storms imaginable. I have been struck by more swords and axes and arrows than any other man, yet I still remain. Because I have a purpose here, and it will be carried out."
"What purpose?" Dagon scowled.
Rayn turn around to lean on the arm of the Salt Throne, which did not even reflect the flickering torchlight.
"I learnt few languages in my time. And whenever I heard the common tongue, it caught my ear like cod on a hook. The further west I sailed, the more I heard it. I heard stories about the Rebellion, about the Riverlands, about my father." There was a long pause as Rayn's face turned as hard as stone, and his hand tightened around one of the tentacles of the throne. "I know how he died."
"Rayn…"
"He died like a craven. With his sæx buried into his own heart while he cowered behind these walls like a thrall. And what came of this? My family handed over to be roasted like mutton."
"Not all your family," Dagon reminded him.
Rayn sighed. "No… not all…"
Freya watched her brother intently. He let out a small scoff and shook his head before turning to look into the flames of a brazier that burned at the foot of the Salt Throne. Moments passed before he closed his eyes and nodded.
"I commended the bones of your mother and brothers to the sea," Dagon informed him. "They're in the hall of the Drowned One, now. We will see them again."
"Not all of them," Rayn replied brusquely. "I know Rorik Wynch refused to fight for my father after his defeat at Oldstones. I know he refused to fight when Roland Lannister raped Great Wyk. Rorik Wynch is a craven who values his life more than his honour."
"You hope he yields to you?"
"If I draw his blood first, I can end the Bloodtide," Rayn nodded.
"And that is your vengeance?"
"Vengeance has little to do with it. The Wynch did not lose his ships or his men at the Storming of Pyke, which means if he submits to me…"
"You'll have what? An army? A fleet?" Dagon asked, holding out his arms. "If you draw blood first, and if Rorik Wynch yields, do you truly think he would ever submit to you?"
"Yes," Rayn said simply. Dagon let out an audible laugh.
"Rorik Wynch has tasted the life of a standing man, now, and does not mean to kneel ever again."
"Men will do anything out of fear," Rayn said, his arm dangling off the arm of his throne and over the brazier of crackling flames at his feet. His fingers flickered back and forth above it, as if he were trying to play with each flame like the strings on a lute.
"If Rorik Wynch refuses to submit… I'll kill him. But he will not sink beneath the waves. His axe will not hang in his halls, his body will not pass to his God's halls… I will not even slit his throat as if he were a common thrall." Rayn retrieved his hand and examined his fingers before turning back up to look at Dagon, his dark green eyes burning with a fury ten-fold that of the worst storms.
"I will burn him. For that is the death that awaits traitors in my reign. To burn as my family did."
Ardan
Darkness had begun to nestle over Blackhaven when Ardan had finished training for the day. It had been somewhat more enjoyable – going riding. While some, like Arstan Connington and Robert Morrigen had struggled to know how to strike with a lance, Ardan found himself idle for most of the day – it was nothing new, as he had properly learned to couch a lance little over a year ago. Arrec had trouble with lances and swordplay, it was true, but he was still better than the boys they were with. And none of them had a ferocity like Ella.
Those were the thoughts that had plagued him for the day: Ardan wanted to see Ella try to heft their father's greatsword, or their grandfather's battleaxe. As happy as he was to be away from Lady Cassandra and her withering gaze, he also felt an ache whenever he looked north-east. If it weren't for the Red Mountains that surrounded them, Ardan may have been able to see his home.
He supposed Storm's End wasn't his home any longer. Perhaps it never was – bastards never remain in their father's seat for long. There were many days he recalled, more precious to him than pearls or gems: how he and Arrec stole Maester Rickard's robes whilst he was bathing (more than once), or when they convinced Ella that there was a horse in the stables that would talk upon drinking wine: their sister had poured three wineskins down their father's horse before the stablehand caught her. Seven Hells, she wouldn't talk to the pair of them for weeks.
Memories began flooding through Ardan's head: his first hunt with his father in the Kingswood, losing game after game of Fox and Geese to Arrec, who trumped even Maester Rickard, the man who had taught them the game!
Arrec, who was always cleverer than him. Arrec, who looked more like their father than him. Arrec, who was never scared of Lord Durran or Lady Cassandra. Arrec, who was a Baratheon. Jealousy seemed to fall and retreat like steady waves with Ardan – Arrec was his brother, and yet some part of Ardan (small as it was) still resented him. A name, a mother, a future, all offered to him so readily. And why? Because Ardan had been unlucky enough to have been born to… whoever his mother had been.
Some times, after enough ale had loosened his tongue, Ardan would try to confide this is in Arrec, but… he doubted he'd ever truly understood it. Still, it was in those dark moments Ardan would tell himself, 'I should be lucky: most trueborn sons loathe their natural brothers'. That just made him feel even more guilty.
Ardan had tried to swallow his shame and walk in the air: he could smell the thick, earthy scent that concluded a storm. There were a great many in his homeland, it was true, but never outside of autumn. It was queer, for so many to crash and attack before Summer had ended. But Ardan made his way out to the courtyard, where some footmen had gathered to drink ale and beer around the fire. Seven Hells, Ardan missed the ale at Old Tom's. Or, perhaps he just missed Briony…
He could make out others with the footmen: the dark, thick hair of Robert Morrigen, and the gold locks of Bryce Lonmouth, both squires that were happily drinking and laughing with the other footmen. Ardan had, at times, drank with the guards and footmen at Storm's End: when the Tyrell family had visited three years ago, Ardan had not been allowed to sit at the dais. Not that he minded – he took one look at the newly-knighted Victor Tyrell, with his long tawny brown curls and bright eyes: Reach men were all fanciful and soft. The late lord Garth Tyrell was renown at tourneys, but Ardan's father was a warrior. He'd been amongst the first Southerners to march up the Neck, he'd been the first through the breach at Pyke… Ardan hadn't wanted to talk to the girly-faced Tyrell.
Arrec had to sit at the Lord's table with their family. He would've sat with Ardan if he was allowed to, but instead, he was sat on the other side of Lady Alyssa Tyrell – a woman only a year older than Arrec and he, and already strikingly beautiful. Maybe that's why Arrec hadn't sat with him, Ardan had teased him later. Though, in truth, Ardan wasn't sure he would have been able to give up a seat next to her either…
So, that night at the feast, Ardan had drunk with the smallfolk, at the back of the hall. He'd heard the raucous jokes they'd told, the war stories from the North and the Iron Islands – some of the older men talked of battles they had seen during the Dance of the Dragons. One older man-at-arms named Borys had claimed to have marched with Ardan's grandfather, Baldric the Bold, against his half-brother Borros in the Fifth Dornish War. Ardan had quickly forgotten the sting of being placed at the back of the hall, and become enthralled at hearing Baldric travelling to fight the raids of Nightsong, at hearing the Battle of the pass, cutting down hordes of Dornish savages. How Casper Connington had fallen fighting Borros, and how his brother, Armond, had stepped in and slain the traitor. They'd all agreed to take him riding one day, and show him the Red Mountains, though, the promise was steeped in ale and forgotten with a night's sleep.
There was no such warmth at Blackhaven – none that Ardan was privy to. Most of the footmen were like Jack, and wanted nothing to do with him as he wanted nothing to do with them. The other squires didn't much want to talk to him, save the boy, Arstan Connington, though he was too young for drinking and ribaldry. Not to mention that he had stopped hounding Ardan to spar with him since Ardan had struck his hand in the last bout.
Ardan's ear was caught by a trio of footmen that gathered a little away from the campfire. Two were dressed in a quartered gambeson of black and purple – the colours of House Dondarrion, while the other wore the storm-green and black colours of House Morrigen. One Dondarrion footman was clearly ale-drunk and talking loudly to the Morrigen man.
"…in his chambers, at all times. Cannot be looked upon by the naked eye, else the evilness spread to you too!"
"Hold your tongue, Lun, else you'll find it cut out."
"Not likely – all know it! See- you see, it was him, not Lord Brus, who was supposed to marry the Hightower girl. But the Seven cursed him. Reckon they wasn't happy with him…"
"Why not?" The Morrigen footman asked.
"Maegor's teats," the other Dondarrion footman cursed, rolling his eyes, "you can't believe Lun the Clod – Lord Baldric's sick, not… cursed by the Seven."
"Oh, sick, is it, Ron? Tell us, then, have you ever seen him?"
"No…"
"Not once? Not in- how many years have you been here?" Lun asked. Ron sighed – a sign of defeat, and Lun continued on. "The man's cursed. And any who look upon him are cursed too – mark me."
It felt wrong, listening to this. After all, Ardan had heard some of the footmen talking about himself as well. The smallfolk were superstitious and prone to ridiculous rumours.
Ardan turned away from the carousing crowd around the fire and decided he would retire to the chamber that had been stacked with beds to be maid into a barracks for the squires when he was stopped by a sight: in the tallest tower of Blackhaven, the window had been closed, but the chequered purple curtains remained open. The chamber was illuminated by the warm glow of candlelight, but a distinctive figure remained at the window, shrouded in darkness. They held onto the curtains, looking down at the fire. Their head moved and Ardan felt his heart stutter and skip beats. He remembered what Lun the Clod had said and looked away – dragons were real, Harrenhal may have been cursed…
Any trepidation or fear was quickly squashed by a crushing wave inside Ardan when he heard the gruff Stormlander accent, absolutely dripping in snideness and spite.
"Lord Storm doesn't have the taste for our ale, does he? Most likely insults his oh-so-high self – he prefers wine." The vagrant, Jack, chortled.
Ardan turned around to see the scrawny, underfed thief that was pressed into service, with his dark brown hair sodden from the constant drizzle that had turned the dry dirt into a wet sludge. The eyes of the other footmen were upon Ardan, no doubt waiting to see how he would respond. Ardan licked his lips and shook his head.
"I bested you in a fight once, and yet you still bark like a wounded little pup."
"And where's your sword now, Bastard?" Jack stepped forwards, a hand on the arming sword that hung from his belt. Ardan was, indeed, without Stormbringer, as the longsword remained by his bed. Ardan didn't even have a dagger to fight with.
Jack's right hand closed around the hilt of his sword as his lip curled. Ardan could run to the armoury and grab a sword, but the ground was wet mud: he could easily slip. Ardan could try to ask one of the other men for a sword, but if they said no, and laughed…
Ardan would have to fight without one. He could do that – he could defeated Jack of Durran's Town.
To his surprise, Jack let out a long laugh and began to unbuckle his swordbelt. "How about it, Lord Storm? Unless you're afraid?"
Ser Connas had told Ardan that there was no honour in besting weaker opponents. He'd told him that soldiers were like brothers. And fighting another soldier, albeit one as lowborn and vile as Jack… it wouldn't look good. And it wouldn't make him look good.
"I don't have to prove anything to you," Ardan scoffed. He turned to walk away when he heard Jack make a loud coughing sound, barely disguising his words.
"Craven!" Jack's insult was met by a few snickers of the other footmen. Ardan's hand curled into a fist. He couldn't let the insult lie – if he did, others would truly think him craven. Seven Hells, it may actually make him craven.
"I've bested you once before with ease," Ardan said loudly, turning back to face him and shrugging, "I'd simply prefer the first man I kill to be a Dornishman, and not a drunkard."
"Bested me?" Jack laughed, walking forwards and rolling up the sleeve on his right arm. "You've been hiding behind highborn's like Inkwell and Bolling and whoever! No knights to cower behind now, whoreson. No lordly cripple to-"
Ardan shoved Jack backwards and advanced on him, wildly swinging a fist. The lad ducked the punch and smacked his palm against Ardan's ear. He staggered off, shaking his head – all the sound was muffled by a high ringing in one ear. He turned back to face Jack, only to stagger backwards again, his eye sore from the lad's fist. Ardan shook his head – he wasn't going to lose – not to this thief.
As Jack tried to punch again, Ardan grappled with him. It was no contest: he quickly stepped in and brought the boy to the ground. He grabbed his arm and began to twist.
"Yield, yield, yield!" Jack said quickly. Ardan released the boy's arm and slowly stood up. Jack turned around, panting, his face caked in mud, and kicked hard between Ardan's legs. He folded instantly, and there was a cold, wet slap on Ardan's face from where Jack had throw mud in his eyes. He was blind – he couldn't see anything more than blurs as he brought up his hands to his face. A hand gripped his hair and he was face-first in the wet mud. He couldn't breathe – he couldn't push away. He began to panic, feeling his chest swell as he tried to push against the ground, but his hands slipped everywhere…
Suddenly, the hand against his head was gone, and he was being pulled up to his feet. Ardan spluttered and gasped for air, then immediately coughed and spat out the mud and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his black doublet of waxed wool before trying to charge at Jack. He was being held by two men – one of them was Robert Morrigen, the other was Bryce Monmouth. Jack was being restrained by the golden-haired boy Ardan had sparred with the other day.
Between them was Lord Ronard Dondarrion, dressed in a black jerkin that bore the purple lightning bolt and white stars of his house. The man's blue eyes were hard and cold, narrowing as he looked between Ardan and Jack., his grey hair slowly dampening from the thin drizzle.
"What's this, then?" Lord Ronard asked. Jack shrugged and Ardan did not pull his arms from Robert or Bryce. "Speak!" Lord Ronard barked.
"Just a bit of sport," Jack said innocently. "Isn't that right, Lord Storm?"
Lord Ronard wandered over to Ardan looking him up and down. Ardan could feel the eyes of all on him.
"He called my brother a cripple."
"Is he not?" Lord Ronard asked. This time, Ardan did try to pull his arms from the two boys that held him. "Yes, you're a strong bastard with a good sword-arm, I'll give you that, but you're still a damned bastard all the same."
"My father is Arlan Baratheon-" Ardan began.
"And your name is Storm," Lord Ronard said, scoffing slightly. "This lad you've chosen to punch? He's a bastard too – lost his mother to a fire half a year back. But he's here – performing all duties issued to him."
Ardan glared at Jack, who met his gaze. No smile, not scoff, just a scowl from his green eyes.
"Robert Morrigen – heir to Crow's Nest, but he's here. He knows no task is beneath him when his homeland is at stake. Even that lad, Connington – he's the seventh-born son of Lord Andrew. His heart gave out trying to make the eighth." Lord Ronard paused while some of the footmen chuckled, but this was silence by a glowering of Lord Ronard's blue eyes. "There was barely land enough for the fifth lad, let alone the sixth, and so he's here."
Lord Ronard took a moment to look out amongst the footmen that watched him and raised his voice, "men and boys with impressive and noble lineages or none at all. Yet not one of them matches you in arrogance," Lord Ronard turned back to Ardan. "You wish to be a knight, Lord Storm? Act like one."
"You'd ask a knight to shovel shit and clean horses?" Ardan retorted. Lord Ronard was trying to conjure up a reason to dislike Ardan – the truth was that he just disliked bastards. Same as everyone else.
"I don't have any use for an up-jumped bastard such as yourself. Fall in line or desert, boy. But you know what we do to deserters, don't you?"
Ardan pulled his arms free of Robert Morrigen and Bryce Monmouth. He was toe-to-toe with Lord Ronard. He wanted to hit the man – beat him until he split his lip and the old fool couldn't smile again.
Lord Ronard held out a hand to stop the two squires from trying to hold Ardan again and, with a curl of his lip, he spoke quietly to Ardan, their blue eyes fixed on one another.
"Go on, Bastard. Give me a reason."
Ardan breathed heavily – Lord Ronard was goading him. Just like Jack had goaded him. His nails began to dig into his palms as he gave a slight shake of his head.
"I…" Ardan said slowly, trying to breathe slowly. "I… am better than all of this."
Lord Ronard gave a satisfied smirk for a moment before his eyes flitted over Ardan's shoulder. He immediately dropped down onto one knee, as did all the other footmen and squires and men-at-arms. Ardan turned around saw Prince Aemon Targaryen walking out, his black cane stabbing at the wet mud as he hobbled closer, with Ser Connas Corbray at his side. Ardan dropped onto one knee as well, bowing his head.
"Please, please, arise… we might save the kneeling when we're out of the mud," Prince Aemon said. There was a small, polite titter amongst the crowd and everyone arose. Ardan remained staring at the wet mud that his boots sank into – if he looked at Lord Roanrd, he may actually strike him.
"Lord Ronard, I wished to know what the disturbance was. I heard shouting…" Prince Aemon asked.
"Just a disagreement between two men."
There was a long pause. "So I see… it seems two of these men are in need of bathing: any man fighting for the Seven ought to look the part, wouldn't you agree?"
"I… of course, Your Grace."
"Good. Well, for his father's hospitality, I'll see Ardan Storm is given one. I find it does wonders for one's temperament."
A bath? A bath was not going to fix anything – striking the thief Jack, wiping that smug look off Lord Ronard's face – that was what would fix everything. But Aemon was the Prince of Dragonstone – he was a Targaryen, a son of the King. If Ardan did not say yes and thank him, Ser Connas may take offence on behalf of his charge.
"I thank you, Your Grace," Ardan said, walking up to the Dragon Prince and following him and Ser Connas across the courtyard.
Once inside the chamber given to Prince Aemon: a chamber twice the size of the one Ardan shared with the other squires, with a large bed and a wooden tub. A chambermaid had come in, knelt before Prince Aemon and began to boil water over his fire and set about filling up a tub of water. She had also been kind enough to provide a deep bowl of water and a fold of cloth to Ardan, who dunked his head, scratching his scalp and rubbing his brow. There was a refreshing coolness and feeling of being clean once again. He looked over to see Prince Aemon bidding goodbye to the maid, who curtsied and exited.
Prince Aemon had not talked to Ardan in the room, instead talking to the maid. He'd asked her name (which was Cassana) and inquired after her day, before thanking her for the bath and bidding her goodnight.
Ardan had stripped down to his smallclothes and given Cassana his doublet, boots and breeches before looking over the steaming water at his reflection. He did need to cut his hair – he should have had it sheared properly like Arrec…
The thought of his brother turned Ardan sour. Damn Cassandra, Damn Durran and damn himself! He'd been the stupidest of all men to even think he would be treated fairly. That life would be better than it had been in Storm's End. Arrec was wrong; Ardan wasn't a commander here. Dullards like Lord Ronard and Ser Idiot – fops who were lucky enough to be born on the right side of the blanket were always going to be commanders. Ardan should have left Storm's End and continued riding. The Seven enjoyed their cruel jokes. Ardan Storm cursed everyone who had ever existed under the Seven Heavens.
"Is something the matter with the water?" Prince Aemon asked, his clipped voice cutting through the silence.
"I- no, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace."
Prince Aemon glanced over to the window. "What was the nature of your… disagreement?"
Ardan remained quiet. He didn't want to say the word 'cripple' – least of all to Prince Aemon, who was… well… the man needed a cane. And Targaryen's could be mercurial in nature.
"Nothing a cutpurse says is worth remembering," Ardan replied stiffly.
"That cutpurse is now a soldier," Prince Aemon reminded him. Ardan couldn't stop himself from scoffing and, to his surprise, Aemon smiled. "What's wrong? Not so quite enthralled with the noble defenders of the Stormlands in this glorious war, Storm?"
It hadn't been what Ardan had expected, to say the least. Or rather… it was, but it wasn't where Ardan should have been. Regardless of whether he was a squire or not, regardless of whether he was better-trained – Ardan was the best swordsman, the best rider, and likely the best commander. He was wasted at Blackhaven.
"Well, I suppose all the actual knights are at the front…" Prince Aemon muttered to himself, looking back to the window.
"I should be there," Ardan said quietly.
"You think a lot of yourself for a bastard," Prince Aemon observed.
"Don't call me that," Ardan snapped.
"Are you not a bastard?" He raised an eyebrow.
Ardan regretted talking to the prince in such a way – he half-expected Ser Connas to bust open the door and draw his valyrian steel sword. "Apologies, Your Grace, I forget myself…"
"By all means, speak plainly and call me a cripple," Prince Aemon said. The way he spoke – no sorrow in his voice, no anger brimming within him. It were as though it were just any other word to him. Prince Aemon smiled. "It wouldn't be quite as satisfying, would it? Now that I've given you permission."
Ardan frowned, at an absolute loss as to why they were talking. Why the Prince of Dragonstone had taken an interest in him. Did he mean to appoint him to the Kingsguard? Knight him himself?
"What do you want?" Ardan asked slowly.
"Want?" Aemon frowned. "I want to walk, I want rule the Seven Kingdoms better than my father, I want to wipe a…. sullen, brooding brow from a bastard's face-"
"Stop it!" Ardan snapped, his voice raising slightly. He paused, his eyes settling on the door Ser Connas Corbray stood guard outside. Once he was sure it would remain shut, Ardan spoke again, "I spend my days with lowborn scum like him, dragged from a gaol, and Lord Ronard – another highborn who despises me! And I'm expected to live amongst them? To not defend my brother when someone calls him a…" Ardan caught himself again.
He thought back to his brother – to when they would place buckets of water atop doors held ajar, sneaking crude drawings of the courtiers into the books in the library… Ardan wished he'd never wasted a second envying Arrec's place. But, even now, Ardan still had some part of him that wanted it – to be a Baratheon, to have a mother… to have a place.
"Everyone hates me."
Prince Aemon nodded. "It can be lonely, as Prince of Dragonstone." Ardan looked up at the man, who smiled, but his violet eyes seemed sad. "I grew up with everyone telling me I was the most important person in Westeros, after my father. Being a ruler… it's a responsibility, Storm. Being Prince comes before being myself. And before this, everyone sees a Targaryen. And I learned very early on that absent my dragon, very little separates families like yours and mine. Because most men do not know me 'Aemon' or 'Targaryen' or 'the Prince of Dragonstone', they know me as 'the Glass Prince'. It does not matter I sit on the Small Council in place of my Father or the Hand, and it does not matter that I have a dragon, because all they see is the Glass Prince, the man who cannot run and ride."
"It's not the same," Ardan shook his head.
"Why not? I am a Prince, unhappy with my lot in life. You are a high-born bastard, unhappy with his lot in life. And out there are common-born footmen – how many of them are happy?" He had a point, Ardan supposed. "My troubles may not mean much to you, but nor do yours mean much to them. They dislike you, it's true, because you think you are better than them."
"No, they dislike me because I am better with them."
"Better at what? Better with a sword, certainly. A bow too, I'd wager. Riding, hunting, tactics and strategy… all things you've been taught for… ten years? Twelve? If this makes a man 'better', why is my father king, and Ser Connas a Kingsguard?"
It gave Ardan pause. He remembered what Ser Connas had told him. 'A knight is meant to protect those weaker than himself. Yet, you chose to humiliate them.'
"But, I'm…" Ardan was at a loss for words. "But I'm- My father is Arlan Baratheon-"
"And your mother was… who, exactly?" Aemon frowned, carefully crossing one leg over the other. "Not Lady Baratheon, that we are quite certain of."
Ardan still found it hard to admit. That he knew nothing of his mother, except that she had most likely been a whore somewhere north of the Stormlands.
"Take it from a cripple," Aemon said, grunting at he rose to his feet, leaning on his cane, "no-one will ever believe you to be more than a bastard. That's all they will see. Once you understand that – truly understand that… well, then you can decide whether or not to prove them wrong. And bleating about being better, rolling around in the mud, trying to win every argument with a swing of a sword…" Aemon paused to tut and shake his head. "Have you convinced anyone yet?"
Prince Aemon turned to walk away, and Ardan was seized by something inside him again. He took a step forwards and called across the chamber to him.
"It's easy to say that when you can't fight!"
Prince Aemon turned around, a slight smile on his lips.
"There's more than one way to fight, Ardan Storm."
The door clicked shut but Prince Aemon, and Ardan was left alone to disrobe his smallclothes and sit in the bath.
And there we go! This one took a while to churn out, but, special shout-out to A Terrific Acorn for posting a nice long review that got me really excited and sent me on a 4 hour writing binge, that was awesome!
Anyway, see you guys in the next chapter! Dropping a review is awesome, and it does have an impact. Anyway, check out your characters at the wiki - some people have sorta dropped off the radar, so, I'm wishing 'em well - sometimes life is hard and people need a break, so, I'm sending 'em all the best vibes.
Lastly, I'll start on the next chapter soon-ish... I think. I'd love to hear your thoughts!