So, been a while, but, I was waiting until more reviews came in which took… a while. Quite a while, actually. But, here's the next chapter! It's always hard to write after doing a massive chapter because I need a break, but her here's the newest chapter!
Now, I've sorta… changed minor aspects, and that'll come up. For instance, whether it's called the Seastone Chair or the Salt Throne. It shouldn't impact the story, but… yeah. This chapter took *so* long, I didn't really proofread for typos and errors, and I went back and forth constantly adding and removing certain parts so… okay, I'll let you move on with the story.
13th Day of the Sixth Moon, 152 A.C.
Myra
Myra was flying again.
She wove between the branches of the towering trees in the heart of the Wolfswood. The crisp autumn air, laden with the scent of decaying leaves and earth, embraced her sleek form as she sliced through the cool currents. The forest, a labyrinth of ancient sentinels, unfolded beneath.
Her eyes were sharper than the keenest blade, detecting the smallest rustle in the underbrush. Upon seeing the smallest of movements, she descended, talons poised, and wings tucked close as she dived with a speed unparalleled. The air whistled through her nose as she saw the pigeon below beat its wings and begin to ascend from the forest floor. She continued in her dive and folded her wings out, catching the current to carry her over the pigeon, but not before burying four of her razor-sharp talons beneath one of its wings. She felt resistance and knew she'd made her kill.
She beat her wings and circled back, steadying herself, to find the pigeon flailing, plummeting towards the hard dirt and gnarled roots of trees, splattered with tufts of muddied moss.
The cold bite of autumn lingered in the air, and Myra landed with a delicate crunch on the dead leaves, beside the dead pigeon, its wing half-torn off. She examined the bird for a moment, and upon seeing its neck cracked open, she knew there was no threat. Her beak, sharpened like a dagger, began to dig and peck at the carcass, and the hot strings of meat slid down her gullet and into her belly. She had not hunted well for too long…
She ate again, her eyes scanning the shadows, watching a small mouse scarper beneath the dry, dead leaves. A moth's wings twitched in the tree above – its brown wings blotched with intricate white patterns.
She saw something – at the foot of the mountain, trees rustled. There was loud noises – not like any animal she knew. She glanced back to her pigeon and clasped it in one of her talons. She beat her wings again and snatched the carcass up. It was harder than she remembered – she hadn't carried a kill in a long time.
As she ascended, the Wolfswood unfolded beneath in a thick canopy, adorned with leaves ablaze in autumn hues, became a mosaic of colours against the clear sky. She weaved between the thick, black trunks, carried on the undercurrents and banking from one side to the other until she came towards the clearing with a handful of people at a camp. She began to hear a noise – as if it were coming from inside her own head – a rhythmic heartbeat, the gentle rustle of breathing, filtered through the trees. She swept down into the clearing, where a single green tent had been erected.
towards the bedroll of the sleeping figure – a lithe body in black leather beneath a blanket, with thick waves of dark hair rolling down her shoulders. She landed next to the girl, examining her long face, her eyes roving beneath their lids. A hulking beast of a woman crossed the camp, passing the fire and swung her foot at the sleeping girl.
Myra awoke to a sharp pain in her shin, where a streak of mud dirtied her blue gown. Jeoranne was standing there, her one eye resting on her expression.
"Ow!" Myra sat up and rubbed her shin beneath her blanket.
"You talk in your sleep."
"Did that offend you?"
"No, Snow, it is time to eat."
The autumn air, charged with the musky scent of earth and pine needles, was crisp and bracing, and she found herself longing for the warm airs within Winterfell, the thick, soft furs of Ironrath…
The clansmen of the Wolfswood prided themselves on being able to survive in their woods without the need of home or hearth. Myra supposed that she understood – Uncle Tallbran had explained how the Northmen were different to their southron counterparts: the cold made them hard and strong. Without the wintery snows, how could one appreciate the fire in their hearth? A Forrester guide named Asher had accompanied them from Ironrath, to better help them follow the roads north-west to Deepwood Motte.
It was four hundred miles from Winterfell to Bear Island, and Myra's travelling had been mired and stifled with delays – the summer snows, but also the dead wolves they'd found the other day, which had led to them on a winding road back to the south, lest they come upon a shadowcat.
Myra climbed out from beneath her blanket, and made her way to the campfire, where a near-empty pot of last night's stew hung. She reached down and picked up a wooden bowl and spooned in her breakfast with the ladle. She had thought Jeoranne might be disgusted by her, or continue to stare at her constantly, or badger her with questions. But, she had found Jeoranne paid little mind to her. She spoke very little to anyone, except the two Mormont men with them, Bennard and his son, Benfred.
"How much longer do we have to travel?" Myra asked.
"Two days," Asher said from the other side of the campsite.
Myra prodded at the chunks of soft carrot and diced turnips, along with a handful of grain and some wild onions and mushrooms in her stew. She had managed to hunt a jackrabbit the night before, but only two chunks remained in the stew, the bones protruding from the bottom of the pot like the masts of shipwrecked vessels.
"So, you're a Mormont as well."
"Aye."
"Colyn Mormont is your grandfather, too?"
"Aye." She did not even look up from her bowl of stew.
"Do you say anything other than 'aye'?"
"Aye," Jeoranne said, only for Myra to say it in unison. Jeoranne looked up from her stew for a moment, her cheek bulging out with a mouthful, her one good eye dark like Myra's.
"Have I done something?" Myra asked pointedly.
"You're stopping me from eating…"
"You kicked me."
"It woke you up," she shrugged.
Myra shook her head and began to pick at her food again. "I didn't ask you to escort me, you know."
"No, our grandfather did."
"A task you're thrilled about."
Jeoranne took a long breath and set down her bowl, leaning forwards to rest her arms on her knees. Her good eye stared out at Myra. A slight annoyance was plain to see, but more than anything else, she seemed to just be… waiting.
"What?" Myra asked.
"Speak."
"Speak what?"
"Whatever it is you want to ask."
Myra crossed her arms and shifted the weight to one foot. It was a trick – a way to start an argument or have Myra say the wrong thing. No, no, she wanted to intimidate her into silence – Myra wasn't going to fall prey to that.
"How did you lose your eye?"
"Ironmen. Cut it out during their raid of the island." Jeoranne said simply. "I took something in return," she slapped the steel blade of the axe at her hip.
Myra was surprised at how forthcoming the woman had been.
"Are Bennard and Benfred of House Mormont, as well?"
"We don't share blood, if that's what you mean," Jeoranne's dark eyes seemed to soften upon looking over to the two men. "But they're Mormont."
Myra bit her lip in thought. She understood what Jeoranne meant, but… it was still surprising. Perhaps they were Snows, like her? Perhaps they were of House Mormont the same way she was of House Stark.
"Do you dislike me?"
"No."
"You seem like you do."
"It's hard to look at you without…" Jeoranne trailed off, looking to their horses, who began to stamp and nicker. She gently rose to her feet, looking off towards the trees to the west of their clearing.
Myra frowned, turning to look amongst the clearing. The air hung heavy with an unusual stillness, a pregnant silence that betrayed the absence of the usual rustle and hum of the vibrant forest. No birds, no movement in the underbrush. Myra glanced over to Swiftwing, who had paused from his morning meal and began to look through the trees as well.
"Go on," Myra whispered. Jeoranne turned to her, perplexed, and saw Swiftwing rise up into the air and catch the breeze.
Myra Snow felt the eerie calm seeping through the ancient trees. The leaves, normally quivering in the gentle caress of the wind, remained motionless. The branches, usually alive with the chatter of birds and the scampering of unseen creatures, stood frozen in an unnatural quietude. Myra's sharp dark eyes found no sign of wildlife – an ominous hush that hinted at a disturbance in the natural order.
It wasn't the tranquil serenity of a forest at peace but rather the foreboding calm that precedes a storm. Myra knelt down, feeling the weight of the silence settling over her, an instinctual alertness that tingled in her veins.
With a fluid, deliberate motion, Myra's hand grazed the cool surface of her weirwood bow. The tension in the air urged caution, and her trained senses recognized the anomaly – a disturbance that echoed through the otherwise undisturbed harmony of the Wolfswood.
Swiftwing, surged upwards above the trees, his sharp eyes, twin orbs of precision, scanned the trees in tandem with Myra's gaze.
Myra's fingers tightened around the weirwood bow, her movements deliberate and unhurried. In the midst of the quiet, she awaited the subtle signs that would reveal the nature of the disturbance – be it the stealthy approach of a shadowcat or the calculated movements of a hidden figure. The forest, shrouded in an anticipatory hush, held its breath. Her dark grey eyes moved towards Jeoranne, who picked up her round shield, crouching behind it and gesturing to Bennard, Benfred, and Asher the forest guide behind them. Myra leant over and grasped the belt of her quiver, pulling it over and tugging out a quartet of grey-fletched arrows.
Clutching three in her left hand that wrapped around her bow, her other hand nocked the arrow, her fingers stroking back through the grey-feathered fletching. The quietude of the Wolfswood seemed to deepen. The profound stillness cloaked her in a tense anticipation…
Myra's senses heightened as the ancient trees seemed to lean in, their towering forms casting shadows that danced with the dappled light.
The air crackled as Swiftwing streaked across the trees like a brown arrow. A shout echoed, and a figure fell to the floor, clutching their neck. Their blade glinted in the sunlight. And Myra's instincts kicked in, the familiar weight of her weirwood bow a reassuring presence in her grasp. Time seemed to slow as she stood up, her back straight, as she drew the bowstring back until her fingers grazed her lips.
She barely felt the string slip by her fingers and the shaft of the arrow flow around her bow like water. She watched the arrow curve and flex through the air before finding its target and lodging itself in the figure's neck.
A shriek was heard, and multiple figures began to move through the trees, dressed in tattered, padded gambesons, thick furs and hides, armed with falchions, dirks, clubs and spears. They splintered off into pairs and began to advance from tree to tree.
"How many?" Jeoranne asked.
"I'm not sure," Myra took another arrow from her bow-hand and nocked it, pulling it back to half-draw. She watched as another man advanced closer before hiding behind a tree thick with leaves. She drew back the arrow. Could she hit him? Should she wait – no, she couldn't wait, she couldn't hold the arrow for too long, otherwise…
"Snow!" Jeoranne hissed.
Myra blinked and noticed a thick brown boot between the up-ended roots. She breathed out gently and watched the second arrow soar forth, dancing through the air and lodging itself between the roots. The man fell forwards, groaning, the arrow wobbling as he did so.
The horses whinnied and began to back away from the trees they were hitched to. Myra watched the rest of the men advancing. She tried to count as she drew another arrow, turning to try and pick a target. One, two, four, five, six-seven… "Seven more," Myra shouted to Jeoranne, drawing back her arrow and loosing it towards one that began to barrel towards her. She caught him in the shoulder, and though he stumbled, he continued his charge.
"Others take me…" Myra nocked the last arrow in her bow-hand and drew it back, loosing too early and watching the arrow streak and slice his hip before clattering to the dirt. He was shouting, dark-haired and bearded, with a madness to his brown eyes. He lifted up his heavy club…
Jeoranne rose up from the ground, swinging the crescent blade of her battle-axe upwards and into the man's belly. He keeled over in pain, dropping his club. Jeoranne wrenched her axe out of him and slashed the point of her dirk down across his spine. The man shuddered and fell to the ground, his hands clasping his club while his legs remained still and limp.
Myra grabbed the belt of her quiver and pulled it over her neck, rushing behind Jeoranne, who was now flanked by the two guards. She drew an arrow, her fingers shaking and fumbling. An arrow slipped from her fingers and she cursed. She stooped down to pick it up, and the long blade of a spear stabbed down, slicing shallowly into the back of her hand. She fell backwards, watching a man with red hair advance on her. The round steel lip of Benfred's green shield slammed into his neck and he fell sideways, his head cracking onto the jagged point of a rock. A steel-blue eye popped out of its socket, dangling from its bloodied, grisly optic nerve.
Myra crawled backwards, her arrows spilling out of her quiver. She rolled out of the way as two of the horses charged forwards, knocking into Benfred, who fell to the floor, a black bear emblazoned upon his woollen gambeson, and grey hair, now splattered with blood, spilled out from beneath his steel helm.
Her heart hammered. Breath would not stay inside her lungs. No thoughts rang through her head. She snatched up a handful of arrows in her bow hand and began to draw and loose. A man fell down, quickly stabbed with another Mormont sword. Another man rushed her, a dirk in one hand. She fired the arrow, watching it pass through the man's ribs, all the way up to the fletchings. He stumbled and slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. She could feel the prickling pine needles against the back of her knee, where her skirts had been tossed backwards. She reached down to her belt and pulled the small hunting knife from its wooden sheathe. She climbed atop the man, pinning down his right arm with her knee, and plunged the short blade into the man's throat, dragging it from side to side as his left hand tugged at her hair.
A yell left her throat as she drove the small knife into the man's brow, a tremor shaking up her wrist and to her elbow.
Hands wrapped around Myra, arms and chest, squeezing tightly as she was hoisted off the ground. She wrenched against his arms, digging into the man's wrists with her teeth. She shook her entire body, kicking wildly as the man began to drag her backwards. She couldn't break free of his grasp – she couldn't pry his arms from her…
She leant forwards and threw her head back, feeling a sharp pain at the base of her skull. Yet, she fell forwards, her short hunting knife in hand. She turned around and swept her arm out. The knife flashed through the air, but did little more than scratch the man's ankle. Before he could react, he fell backwards, as the forest guide, Asher, stuck his sword under the man's arm, grunting as he shoved the blade up behind the foe's collarbone.
Myra turned around, panting, scrambling for her bow. She grabbed an arrow and turned around, her grey eyes catching the silhouette of one foe, still at the tree, pulling an arrow from his ankle as he began to hobble away. Myra fully drew the arrow back, watching the man turn, and watch the arrow fly through the air, twisting and falling in a perfect arc before lodging itself in the man's neck. He fell to the floor, still and unmoving.
Jeoranne and the one living Mormont soldier were still standing, surrounded by dead and dying men. Jeoranne set about slitting the throats of men with her dirk while Bennard knelt beside the body of his father, his face pale and blank.
The Mormont woman leant down and began to wipe the blood from her dirk with a corpse's tabard. Watching the blood pick up twigs and stones as it pooled, carrying the debris as it began to slide down the hill, the same way fish are carried in a running river. She wanted to wretch.
"First taste?" Jeoranne asked, seemingly unfazed by the sight. "Of killing?"
"I've hunted before," Myra replied, breathlessly, her voice a tremor.
"Not the same, is it?" Jeoranne asked, kicking one of the bodies over onto its back and rifling through its clothes, picking up a short dagger and examining it for a moment before tossing it aside.
"No… not the same."
Jeoranne straightened up and sheathed her dirk. "We'll drink some ale at Deepwood Motte. Find a whore – nothing like it when your blood's up."
Myra frowned. Of course she wouldn't find a whore. Could men even be whores?
"I thought the Wolfswood Brotherhood had been dealt with," Myra muttered, looking over the bodies. 'Just like hunting,' she told herself as she placed a foot on the hip of one of the men and began to wrench her arrow free. She gave a tug and the shaft came loose – its broad-head dripping in blood.
"More bandits in these woods than the Brotherhood," Jeoranne stated.
"Are there many more?" Myra asked.
"In these woods? I'd wager some wildlings are somewhere in this forest – or they soon will be. As long as there's woods, there'll be scum to lurk in them."
"Lady Mormont," Benfred called across. Jeoranne looked back to the younger Mormont soldier and walked back to talk to him. Myra sighed and set about collecting the rest of the arrows. She approached the last man she'd killed, taking the arrow from his back. She tried to pull one from his foot, but it snapped down the spine, the broadhead protruding from his heel. Myra left it there, trying not to look at the man's beard, dark and rife with lice.
She returned to see Jeoranne lifting Benfred's body onto her horse like a fresh kill – the carcass of a deer she intended to take home to cook.
"What about the other horses?" Asher was asking Jeoranne. "We could turn back to Ironrath…"
"The Wolfswood is held by House Glover, not Forrester," Jeoranne shook her head, "we push on to Deepwood Motte. They'll no doubt have riders we'll happen upon."
As the two of them continued debating (though, it felt more like an argument), Myra wandered closer to her horse, Whitemane, and stepped upon the short blade Jeoranne had examined and tossed aside. Myra knelt down and picked it up – it was a crudely-made dirk of black iron, with crescent moon upon both sides of the pommel. She frowned, turning it over in her hands. It wasn't well-made, that was plain to see. She wondered if the blade had been stolen – or perhaps, if they were wildlings, it could have denoted their clan?
"Half the horses ran," Asher explained, "if we travel two to a horse, we'll need to rest more frequently. Walking or riding – it'll take twice as long-"
"Then we best start moving," Jeoranne shrugged, turning to Myra. "Taking your spoils?"
"Interesting adornment for weapons…" Myra noted.
"Either looted or stolen," Jeoranne replied.
"They don't seem well-made. Not worth stealing."
"Rats don't fuss over their food. If they can steal it, then it is worth it." She nodded to Whitemane. "Take anything of value and pack your horse."
Myra paused, looking back down to the black-iron dirk, its blade chipped, with flecks of blood across the crescent moon.
Freya
The corridor in Pyke was one of silence, a haunting echo of past glory and ruin, the only din the gulls cawing outside. The hall bore the scars of time and the brutal aftermath of looting. Overturned chairs, dislodged stone slabs, tapestries ripped from the walls. As the dim light filtered through gaps in the stone walls, it revealed a scene frozen in time – the day Freya had been taken.
The air within the hall held a damp chill, the scent of sea salt lingering. The stone floor was worn and uneven. The pillars, once adorned with seaweed and symbols of the Drowned God, now stood bare, dusty and decimated.
The Seastone Chair rested at the heart of the room an imposing structure hewn from the black stone that defined the Iron Islands. It had been shaped by the sea, as smooth as a slick oil. It was a shadow – not just black, but it seemed to drink in all the light that shone upon it. Only a short dais, the throne was shaped by eight large tentacles that twisted towards the vaulted ceiling, casting eight long shadows over the floor. A ninth was made by the mantle of a huge squid, which stretched from the back of the throne and up in front of the cracked and weather-beaten windows that allowed feeble rays of light to pierce the darkness, casting uneven patterns on the cold floor.
Freya was looking upon a kraken. A statue of one, rather, but it was as vast and colossal as one.
It did not strike fear or terror into her, such as when she had seen the late Hand of the King, Ser Malliard Celtigar, had been seated upon the Iron Throne – a monolith of conquest, authority and power absolute. A reminder that Targaryen's were closer to Gods than men, and when one faced them, they faced the victor of a thousand blades and Seven Kingdoms. No, what she felt slithered from somewhere inside the back of her head – an uneasy feeling. A sense of dread washing over her. Her skin was very cold as she approached, watching the narrow rays of sunlight be swallowed by the tentacles, which ebbed and seemed to twitch in the light.
Freya took a few tentative steps, her shoulders raised and arms crossed as she rose up on the dais. She noticed the stone beneath the throne bore the scars of attempts to pry the seat from its place. Despite the looting of soldiers and raiders, the Seastone Chair remained.
Around the throne, remnants of a once-proud court lay scattered. Broken fragments of long-forgotten feasts adorned the cold floor—splintered wood, shattered goblets, and tarnished silverware frozen in disarray. The hearth, its flames long extinguished, housed a layer of ash, a silent witness to the fires that once roared within.
The walls, once adorned with tapestries depicting the glory of seafaring victories, now stood bare. The hooks that once held the symbols of conquest were empty. All that remained was an absence – emptiness. Loss.
The rafters above groaned a haunting melody as the Seastone Chair, perched upon its dais, watched over the ruins as the youngest Greyjoy came closer. It was a silent guardian of their legacy. She wondered who had built it – a Hoare Lord, most likely. She could recite all the battles in which the blades were bequeathed to the Conqueror, the guilds of smiths. But this Seastone Chair?
"Greyjoy," Dagon's voice rang through the hall. Freya turned around, feeling as though she had been admonished, though the man seemed more interested in straightening the overturned chairs. Accompanying him were a handful of ironmen that quickly set about emptying the rotted and decayed food into pots and buckets.
"Lord Botley."
His lip twitched into a smile beneath his grey beard and his gaze dropped to the floor as he took a few steps forwards, lowering his voice.
"Just 'Botley'," he corrected her. He came closer to stand beside her, staring at the Seastone Chair. "I'd hoped the hall would be better prepared for when you first saw it."
"It wouldn't have mattered," Freya stared at the throne. Even if they had removed the remnants of debris that blocked the door or disposed of the rotted food, brushed away the cobwebs that blanketed the pillars… the throne still unsettled her. There were no dirt, no grime or cobwebs that clung to it. Perhaps the spiders had been too scared to approach it. Perhaps the dust had known to settle elsewhere.
"Do you know much about it?"
"Only that it is the Seastone Chair."
Dagon made a soft sound – a chuckle, almost. "Greenlanders call it the Seastone Chair. To us, it is the Salt Throne."
Freya wasn't perplexed or confused. Instead, she felt shameful – yet another reminder that she was not a true Greyjoy.
"Is it dragonglass?" She asked Dagon, who shook his head.
"In truth, I don't know. It was found on the shore of Old Wyk when our ancestors arrived here. Before the First Men, before… everyone."
That did surprise Freya. "Who left it, then?"
"Whoever was here," he said simply. "Greenlanders say they were men that sailed west of the Sunset Sea. But our Drowned Priests tell us that we are descended from the watery halls of the Drowned God himself. That we are the children of Merlings and Deep Ones."
Freya couldn't supress a scoff. It was as foolish as the stories of giants and ice dragons. Squishers and selkies. All stories told by peasants to keep their children from wandering away.
Dagon took a small sigh. "You don't believe me…"
"Seven Hells, my- Botley. Northerners talk about ghouls and grumpkins. I'm willing to wager that no-one has seen a… Deep One any more than one has seen a giant! Or an ice dragon or a snark…"
"There's a lot men haven't seen," came the voice from behind – not as guttural as Dagon's accent. Freya turned to see Rayn there, his dark hair cropped short, his stubble shorn from his jaw. He wore a dark green jerkin over a woollen doublet with a high collar, a belt fastened around his waist, from which hung his sword and axe.
"Greyjoy," Dagon gave him a stiff nod. Freya did not mimic his movement. How long had he been lingering? Listening?
"You've seen a Deep One? Or a merling?"
Rayn chewed his tongue and took a few steps. He walked with a quiet confidence – as if every stone had been laid for him to walk on. In a way, she supposed they had. He rested a hand on one of the tentacles without a care – it were as though the stone could come to life and swallow him whole and he would not bat an eye.
"The Hightower's built on stone like this," Dagon explained. "Another stronghold of the Deep Ones."
Freya rolled her eyes. "Harrenhal's stonework was blackened by Balerion. Blackhaven is built from basalt – this was most likely… shaped by the sea."
"Asshai is built from stone like this," Rayn stated. Both Dagon and Freya turned to look at him in bewilderment. Asshai was on the other side of the world – only one man had ever sailed there; Corlys Velaryon had been the greatest sailor of his age, yet even he lost half his crew in journeying there.
Freya had read the few texts in the Red Keep that spoke of Asshai and the Shadowlands. She had read the works of Lomas Longstrider, the man who had travelled to the edge of the world and back, and gazed upon all the wonders, mortal or otherwise, of the Known World. Yet, even he had not ventured there, and instead simply recorded the tales from tradesmen of Yi Ti.
Yet her brother, Rayn, claimed to have ventured there? And returned with a shipful of sailors?
"No ironborn has ever sailed there," Dagon stated, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
"Sixty of us did," Rayn replied. He turned settle his dark eyes on Freya's. "It drinks the light, doesn't it? You should see the waters there – as black as pitch in the day, and glowing green and luminous at night. It warps the fish – turns them blind. Only shadowbinders eat them."
"Shadowbinders?" Freya frowned. Before Rayn could reply, Dagon took a step forwards, clenching his jaw and swallowing hard.
"Do not speak of evil things, Rayn," he said, his voice loud and shaking. His one hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white. Freya found herself in wonderment – the man, who had always been so calm and collected, spoke with something more than rage – there was fear.
"Speaking of spellsingers and bloodmages does not summon them, Uncle," Rayn said coolly.
"You were in Asshai?" Freya asked, finally.
Rayn's eyes seemed to glaze and dull for a moment, as though he were trying to remember a forgotten dream. "For a time."
"Saltaxe." They looked to the doorway, where Whalebane entered. Even in the dim light, Freya could make out her blue eyes and sharp features, lightly dusted with dirt. Braids fell from her scalp and across her shoulders like serpents, across her ringmail and leathers. "Wynch is here."
Rayn nodded and, with the slightest of pauses, took his place upon the Salt Throne. There were no chairs for Freya to sit in, so, she simply remained at his side while Dagon crossed the dais.
"You invited the Wynch here?"
"I'm the Reaper of Pyke," Rayn replied, unbuckling his swordbelt.
"The man can't be reasoned with."
"I don't intend to reason with him," Rayn stated, hanging the belt on one of the black tentacles of his throne, the blade in its scabbard swinging from side to side like a pendulum as footsteps echoed down the corridor, through the darkness that battled against the torches at the door. Shapes emerged, and a retinue of men entered.
The man leading them might have been a ghoul: dull, greying skin clung to his bones, his hair milk-white and woven into a single braid that fell across one of his shoulders. The sides of his head had been shorn of all hair. His beard was twined and plaited at his chin, and his eyes – two orbs of white and blue, almost popping out of his eyes. The lights in the shadow of his face. He wore a brigandine of leather and steel above a shirt of maille and, beneath that, a purple tunic. He must have been into his fifth decade in this world.
Behind him was a man Freya recognised – a lumbering beast that eclipsed the rest of them, with a blackened, corroded mess of skin where one his ears used to be. As he swung his arms, Freya noticed the missing three fingers from his left hand. It was Aggar – the man who had been squatting in their keep.
Along with a retinue of men she didn't recognise, all with long-bladed knives hanging from the front of their belts, Freya wanted to take a step back, but she was very wary of even grazing one of the slick, oily tentacles of the Salt Throne. The men assembled before them, and Rayn's crewmen closed the doors – the numbers were in their favour – that made her feel anxious.
There was a palpable tension that permeated the silence in the hall. Rayn's hands rested on the arms of his throne, his dark eyes locked on the piercing, pale blue of the eldest Wynch. Freya glanced over to Botley, who remained silent, his left hand resting on the steel axe that hung on his belt.
"Wynch," Freya spoke, making sure not to address him as 'Lord', "thank you for journeying here. I hope the journey was comfortable."
He gave a small scoff as he looked around at Botley's servants that cleaned the chamber. His nose wrinkled and he spat on the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Though he still did not speak.
"I'm sure you're curious as to why you've been summoned here…"
"'Pay tribute'," he said, his eyes finding Rayn again. "That's what you said, wasn't it, pup? Before you murdered my kinsmen and mutilated my nephew?"
Dagon frowned, his eyes shifting over to Freya and her brother. The corner of Rayn's lip curled, but he did not speak.
"And you, Botley? Does a man just need to fly a gold kraken to make you bend over for him?"
"Watch your words, Wynch. This is not the Iron Holt."
"No…" Wynch shook his head. "But it's not quite Pyke, either, is it? At least, not how I remember it… See, whelp, I grew up here. When King Ragnor 'the Fearless' was known as 'Saltbeard'. He was as a brother to me. I took Seagard with Ulf Scythe-Lord in his name. I killed the Tully of Riverrun in his name. And I returned home with broken men and my brother's body."
"You surrendered Oldstones the moment you ordered the retreat," Dagon said bitterly, his voice hard and strong, his eyes burning with rage. "You cost us the war. Then you scurried back to Iron Holt and cowered when the Targaryen's came, Oathbreaker."
"Oathbreaker…" Wynch let the word ring out across the stone walls of the hall. "Is that meant to offend me, One-Hand? Would keeping my oath have saved the Fearless from his own blade?"
"You've raided my lands for the past decade. Slaughtered my people, stole our grain, what little of it was left. I watched as they starved in Lordsport, and I promised that I would find justice for each man, woman and child."
Wynch let out a small chuckle, rubbing his chin. "You? Dagon the Disarmed?" The Wynch men laughed behind him. "Come, let us settle this before the Drowned God."
"I would settle it before the Greyjoy."
"He is no Greyjoy," Wynch stated. "No son of the Fearless would shed Ironborn blood. No Reaper of Pyke would mutilate a Wynch."
"Are you calling me a liar?" Rayn spoke, at long last. Wynch turned to him, chewing his tongue. Freya noticed something in him – a change. It was the same change she had seen when Roland Reyne advised King Aeric to open the treasury to supplement the expected tax on grain trade throughout the kingdoms, so as to allow more of the smallfolk to store food for the coming winter. Aerion Targaryen had been present, and asked the man to repeat his question. She'd seen Roland stammer on his words, recant his suggestions and insist it was hypothetical. Though Wynch did not stutter or stammer, he shared the same look.
"You claim to be the son of Ragnor? Lost at sea for… twenty years?"
"I wasn't lost, Wynch," Rayn said. "While you were skulking about on this little island of shit and stone, squatting in my keep, I was raiding across the world. I've fought and killed a thousand men more fearsome than any on these isles. I've walked in the ashes of empires, sired salt sons upon empresses, sacked cities and burned a thousand ships."
Wynch moved across the hall to stand at the step right at the bottom of the dais, a few feet from Rayn. Dagon shifted to step in front of Rayn, and, out of the darkness that crept around the edges of the chamber, Whalebane appeared beside Freya, a hand on her shortsword.
"I was stood right here when Ragnor declared himself the King of the Iron Isles. And I will not hear one more lie pour out of that cunt you call a mouth. Speak the truth like a man – explain my murdered kinsmen. Explain my nephew's ear."
Rayn looked over to Aggar for a moment in thought, then back to Wynch. "It's true," he said, finally. "I killed them."
"Then by the laws of these islands, you ought to be staked to the shore for the tide to come in-"
Steel rang out across the hall as swords and axes were drawn. The Wynch's banded closer together, Whalebane shoved Freya back into the tentacle, drawing her swords. Ironhand drew his sæx and looked to Rayn. All were poised – ready to kill one another. Even Botley had drawn his axe with his left hand. The only two men that had yet to bear steel were her brother Rayn, and the old Wynch.
"You would call yourself son of the Fearless, and stay seated in that throne while cripples and women do your fighting for you? To escape your crimes against the Drowned God?"
"I think those cripples and women would give you some trouble, Oathbreaker," Rayn replied. "But I would sooner settle this in the Old Ways." He stood up from the Salt Throne and pulled on the leather hilt of his sword. The steel blade slid out of the sheathe, which continued to swing as he pointed it towards Wynch.
'Was this his plan?' Freya thought to herself. 'Did he intend on killing him all along?' Her stomach twisted – she couldn't watch men screaming and blood spurting again. Dagon's brow was furrowed, his face growing pale as his brown eyes swept upon Rayn's, almost pleading with him.
"I, Rayn the Greyjoy, son of the Fearless, Reaper of Pyke, call a bloodtide against the Oathbreaker, Rorik the Wynch."
"Rayn…" Dagon hissed.
"There's not been a bloodtide in a century…" Rorik chortled, shaking his head.
"Then refuse," Rayn shrugged. "Admit your accusations are false, and I will allow your lungs to filled with salt water, and your body commended to the halls of the Drowned God."
Rorik stopped chortling, his smile fading almost completely until, eventually, he drew the sæx from its sheath and spoke, "I accept."
Dagon muttered a curse to himself and looked away, rubbing his brow in frustration and anxiety. Freya glanced around, trying to gauge everyone's reactions. Most were surprised – stunned, even. Whalebane had a slightly amused smile on her lips. Was there to be a battle? She'd never heard of a bloodtide.
"With the new moon?" Rorik said simply.
"With the moon."
Rorik scoffed and shook his head. "I wager you'll lose your courage before then. Perhaps you will whimper like your saltwife here once I leave…" He gestured to Dagon. "After I cut out your heart, I'll take your keep. Maybe take my own saltwife, as well." His eyes flickered over to Whalebane, whose body blocked Freya's.
Rayn's eyes glinted for a moment. "I accept," he said, resting the point of his blade on the ground and clasping his hands around the pommel.
"What?" Rorik frowned.
"Your wager." Silence once again hung in the air as Freya stepped around Whalebane to look at her brother. "The Botley tells me you have a niece, Bryna."
"You-" Aggar went to take a step, but Rorik Wynch held out a hand, keeping the man behind him.
"A niece by law: She is Aggar's wife."
"Then in the new moon, he shall weep for me taking more than just his ear."
"You'll burn for this, wretch," Aggar spat the words, "I'll put you to ash and take the Salt Throne!"
"Speak up, One-Ear, I cannot hear you," Rayn replied, his fingers behind his ear. Whalebane smirked again, and the rest of Rayn's crew laughed loudly. Aggar's face turned red, and he tried to take another step, but Rorik shoved him back with a strength that surprised Freya – the man may have been near-twice Rayn's age, but he had not grown frail yet.
The Wynch's withdrew from the hall without a further word, with Aggar being continually shoved by Rorik, who would mutter underneath his breath. Rayn turned to the Salt Throne, threading his sword back into its sheath.
"Make sure they all leave, Ironhand," Rayn ordered. Freya saw the man nod and bark a command, followed out of the hall by a handful of ironborn warriors, all with axes drawn. Silence followed as Rayn took his place back upon his throne, his hand sliding over the black arm.
"Are you cracked, Rayn?" Dagon asked. "Calling a bloodtide against the Oathbreaker?" Rayn flexed his jaw in response.
"What is a bloodtide?" Freya asked, looking between them.
"Two men settle their grievances-" Rayn began.
"By trying to kill each other," Dagon finished, his gaze dark upon his nephew. "Rayn, the Oathbreaker is dangerous."
"He is an old man. He will concede the fight – just as he retreated at Oldstones."
"Ulf Harlaw did not take Seagard – Rorik Wynch was the one who took the walls. He is the one who took Oward Tully's head. He was only ever defeated once. You must name a champion to fight in your stead-" Dagon ceased his pleading as Rayn begin to laugh to himself. "Do not underestimate him."
"You don't think I can win?"
"The Fearless chose a battle he could not win. He did not listen to those that advised caution, and instead listened to those hungry for wealth and glory!"
"You are angry he did not listen to you?" Rayn asked pointedly.
"I am angry that he did. Your father was great man- a great man, but his arrogance almost destroyed his entire house – your house. And when I heard…" he turned to reach out to Freya with his right arm and his brown eyes found the stump on his wrist. He gingerly brought his hand back to his chest, brushing a hand over the blackened scar that spanned across it. He took a long breath to steady himself, his eyes gently closing. "I mourned my nephews once, Rayn. It took the past fifteen years to settle my grief and salve those wounds. Do not reopen them."
Rayn chewed his tongue and dropped his gaze to the floor. It was strange, hearing these stories. In King's Landing, all anyone spoke of was how her father was a bloodthirsty barbarian that became a coward and took his own life. But hearing Rorik speak, hearing Dagon speak – hearing him as 'the Fearless'… Freya couldn't help but feel small. The shadow of her father seemed to loom over her like the Salt Throne. And their brothers… Freya knew nothing about them. But Rayn had quietened and listened.
Tristifer
As the afternoon sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, casting a warm golden hue over the sprawling grounds of Riverrun, the master-at-arms, Ser Tristifer Tully stood upon the covered walkway that overlooked the training yard, watching with a keen eye as his charges honed their skill. The warm air had begun to bore the early crisp that promised autumn, a gentle breeze carrying the fallen leaves from the Godswood up into the air.
Ser Tristifer tied his auburn locks back, surveying the movements of his son, Tion, moving with deft grace and seemingly effortless precision. His wooden blade slipped around his cousin's, Emmon's, and slapped the boy's helm.
"Tion, let Emmon press!" Tristifer called down, leaning on the iron railing as he watched Tion shift to another guard, keeping his sword out wide. Tristifer thought about calling down to correct him, but words would not educate the boy as well as experience. He watched Emmon begin to attack, his blows blending and slowing. He left himself open for a strike to the face and hands before and after every swing. Though Emmon might have been faster than Tion throughout the first few bouts, his energy was sapped. Yet, there was a fire in the boy's eyes, a hunger to prove himself. Tristifer had seen the same look in many a man during the Ironborn Rebellion – he'd closed some of those eyes himself.
The two cousins circled each other, the wooden clacking of their swords ringing out like a challenge to the fading summer sun. The training yard was a flurry of motion and sound, the clash of steel against steel echoing off the stone walls of Riverrun.
Emmon and Tion, being only two years apart, were beginning to look less and less alike. They both had the same tousled auburn locks (save the streak of silver in Emmon's hair) and the same blue eyes, but Emmon bore a marked resemblance to his mother, the Lady Saera. His cheeks were sharp and his chin, pointed. Tion Rivers, however, was the spitting image of his Tristifer at that age. His movements were fluid and precise, proof of the hours spent squiring.
Soon enough, Tion seemed to grow tired waiting, and swept aside the wooden blade before holding his practice sword against Emmon's helm – a little too hard.
"Tion!" Tristifer called down.
Tion quickly moved over to Emmon, placing a hand on his shoulder and asking him something, looking concerned. The shorter (and younger) Emmon pulled off his steel helm and gave Tion a playful shove. All the worry that had begun to swell in his belly quickly was quickly quelled.
"Do you boys think you did well?" Tristifer called down to them.
Tion looked over to Emmon, waiting for him to respond first.
"Well enough," Emmon nodded.
"Tomorrow, after breaking fast, you're both to run to Pennytree and back in full plate."
"Oh, Seven Hells…" Emmon whined.
"Father…" Tion pleaded.
"You need to build up endurance, Emmon. And you, Tion – it's lucky Emmon was out of breath, otherwise that head of yours would be ringing like a bell."
"I blocked every blow."
"You did. But an iron gate guard is better used when moving forwards. When standing still, the boar's tooth serves better."
"But I still-" Tion began.
"I won't have my Lord Brother returning and seeing you both swing your swords like rattles," Tristifer said, his lip curling. "Go on – stow the wasters and bathe for supper."
The two boys took their wooden swords towards the armoury below and Tristifer turned back to see his daughter, Willow, sat upon one of the wooden benches beneath an archway. She had a book in her hands, though her blue eyes had drifted off to fall upon the stone floor of the walkway Tristifer traversed. Her eyes were glazed, her auburn hair gently blowing in the wind across her nose and lips.
"Willow," Tristifer called out to her. She didn't respond. "Willow?"
She blinked rapidly, looking up at him. "Hmm?"
"Quite the riveting read," he said, leaning against the archway and crossing his arms. Willow responded by closing the book and laying it in her lap, giving a polite smile to him. He frowned. "Is everything okay?"
"Of course."
It was unusual, seeing Willow be so… well, so polite and perhaps even meek. She had a fire that burned in her – a passion. In her youth, Septa Zia had once tried to teach her the harp, and Willow had instead charged out and sparred with Tion – thrice knocking him into the ground. The girl that sat before him was not the same. She ought to have missed Laena, he supposed – Garrett had taken his daughter with him south for the union of the Stag and the Dragon. Yet, there was another reason – to bring back the child that Tristifer would eventually wed. The Seven enjoyed their cruelty. 'The girl will be happy here,' he tried to convince himself, 'I won't hurt or dishonour her – perhaps it's better I wed her than another?' He still felt a knot in his stomach – a bad taste in his mouth. He ought not to try and convince himself – he was to wed a girl younger than his own daughter. He'd prayed the night before, seven times before the seven statues, begging each of the Seven Who are One to spare him of the duty.
"I suppose you miss Laena," Tristifer said, walking towards the bench.
"I do…" She nodded, though, it seemed as though Willow was more preoccupied with something else.
"Your Lady Aunt, Saera, is here," Tristifer said to her. For a woman born 'Velaryon', the woman remained in Riverrun with Tristifer as if she had been born a trout. It had been a great comfort to him – she'd kept his mind from wandering towards the dreaded bride that would soon arrive from the south. "Perhaps she would suggest another book. One more interesting than… the Nine Voyages. Well, the Seasnake was her grandsire, after all, perhaps you ought ask her about it?"
"I will."
He frowned – perhaps he ought to have given her a wooden sword and led her to the pell. He had a thought – he had wanted to wait until all things were assured, so as to not raise her hopes in vain, but… "Your Lord Uncle has written to your grandmother in the capital," he informed her, "and he's ridden south to Storm's End. We intend to beseech the king to legitimise you and Tion as Tully's of Riverrun."
Willow's brow creased slightly, leaning forwards, the smallest of smiles beginning to emerge on her lips. It made Tristifer feel good – he was doing something right. He ought to have done it years ago… blasted Seven Hells, why hadn't he done it years ago?
"Lyonel Hightower fathered bastards on Samantha Tarly," Willow said, "they were legitimised once the two were wed."
"Well, I'm glad to see you know your histories." Tristifer wasn't quite sure where she was leading him to with this story.
The girl tucked her strands of fire-red hair and tucked them behind her ear. "If legitimisation can be done with a bit of ink – if nature can be changed by a simple word of a King… why are Tion and I treated with scorn outside of these walls? We've just as much Tully blood as Laena or Emmon or Lucius."
It was something that had weigh on Tristifer for a time. She was right – more than she could ever know. There was little difference between Laena and Willow, between Emmon and Tion. The only differene was their mothers – Saera had bore the name 'Tully', and Lucynda had not. Thus, he began to speak the truth to her.
"It's not fair," he agreed with her. "But your mother said to me that… just because the world is not just, it does not mean that it cannot be so. Every man – and woman – makes a cause for themselves, Willow. What are the Tully words?"
"Family, duty, honour," Willow recited.
"Whether you're a Rivers today or a Tully tomorrow, don't forget how you feel right here and now. Make it your cause. Try and stop others from feeling it. Perhaps that is why the Seven bore you forth. And took your mother from both of us."
Willow's smile faded, but her eyes were no longer glazed. Instead, they were sharp and focused. She nodded, face full of determination. He slipped an arm around her shoulder and felt her head press against his chest, her head of Tully-auburn hair pressed beneath his chin.
Alyna
The wheelhouse rocked and rattled to a halt, finally. The humid air seemed to stifle Alyna's skin – strands of her red hair stuck to her neck and back. Everything was so lush and wet here – not like the marshland of the Neck, not soft, damp rain of the Riverlands. It was harsher – stronger.
Alyna climbed out of the wheelhouse, pulling up the hood of her grey, woollen cloak and looked up at the imposing fortress of Storm's End that loomed before her like a dark sentinel against the overcast sky of dark storm-clouds. The air was thick with tension, and all she could remember were the stories of Baratheon's. Full of rage and anger, fury and disloyalty. A peace had been reached by the efforts of Prince Maelor Targaryen, all those years ago, but peace was never absolute. The war had ended, but not before Starks and Baratheon's had both fell. The North remembered the lives lost when the southron army invaded their homeland. The Stormlands remembered the imagined slights of the Starks. A shiver ran down her spine as Alyna exited the wheelhouse and into heart of the Stormlands, a region marked by a history of war.
Alyna was no stranger to the frigid winds and towering pines of the North. She had been born and raised in the stronghold of Ironrath, her life had been shaped by the rugged landscapes and the fierce spirit of her people. Yet, here she was, a lone Northern soul in the southron bastion of Storm's End.
The long, black doors to the keep opened, and a dozen guards in black steel with the red three-headed dragon emblazoned upon their breastplate. They flanked a man – only some years older than her.
He wore a thick red gambeson of quilted wool, a sheathed arming sword swinging from his belt, and a dagger on the other hip. Perhaps, what was most interesting – more interesting than his short silver hair and his violet eyes, were the scars on one side of his face. From his brow to his chin, down to his neck – Alyna wanted to recoil in shock, but she understood who he was from a single look – he was a Targaryen. Not the Glass Prince, no, he was able-bodied enough. Perhaps he was the Black Prince? Or the drunkard, Vaegon?
At his side was a man in gleaming steel, a white cloak fastened to his shoulders. He was only some years older than the Prince, yet was notably more muscular and thick-armed. He cut an imposing figure against the Baratheon guardsmen and other knights in black steel. His dark hair was kept short and neat, falling in small waves to the nape of his neck. He was square-jawed and flat-chinned, a pair of black leather gloves tucked not his belt.
"Lady Alyna," the Prince descended the stone steps towards, resting a hand upon the hilt of his sword. "You are Lady Alyna, yes?"
"Of House Forrester, yes, Your Grace." Alyna performed a curtsy – making sure her back was straighter than ever before. He nodded and gestured towards the doors, offering an arm. Alyna took his arm and began to walk with him, trying not to look at the scars that cracked across his pale skin.
As the gates creaked shut behind them, Alyna couldn't escape the gaze of Baratheon knights and guardsmen that lined every inch of Storm's End. The Baratheon's and Stark's, once bound by service to the Iron Throne, and thought to be tied by blood between Erich Baratheon and Mara Stark. Erich vanished in the night like a spectre, and the boorish dolts that were the Baratheon's insisted on murder. If she were murdered in the night, would the Baratheon's insist she just disappeared? Each step brought her closer to a fate far worse than what she would have found back in Winterfell, or home in Ironrath – even in the Reach with her Lady and cousin, Torrha. She could have used her friend's endless optimism to steel her with courage. The very air seemed to crackle with the tension of a thousand hearts burning with fury.
The architecture of Storm's End was a stark departure from the sturdy keeps of the North. Towering walls adorned with Baratheon sigils rose above her, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch towards her like accusing fingers. Alyna's steps echoed in the cavernous halls, and the unfamiliar scent of saltwater hung in the air – a stark contrast to the crisp pine aroma of her homeland.
Alyna stepped into the grandeur of the Great Hall. The vast space, with its towering ceilings and grand tapestries, stretched out before her like a realm unto itself. The air hummed with anticipation, and the scent of exotic spices mingled with the warm aroma of roasting meats, signalling the extravagant feast that awaited.
The Great Hall was a tapestry of colours and sounds. Long tables adorned with intricate silverware stretched across the expanse, groaning under the weight of sumptuous dishes. Goblets of Arbor wine glittered in the candlelight, and the room echoed with the hum of conversation and laughter. Lords and ladies, bedecked in resplendent garments that boasted the heraldry of their houses, mingled in a display of opulence befitting a royal occasion.
As Alyna entered, her dark green eyes widened at the sight of the feast laid out before her. Platters of roasted fowl, exotic fruits, and delicate pastries adorned the tables like a banquet fit for the gods. Each dish a testament to the culinary prowess of the South. Spiced wines from the Arbor, exotic fruits from across the Narrow Sea, and succulent meats from the Riverlands adorned the tables, creating a mosaic of flavours that danced on the palate. Musicians played ethereal melodies on ornate harps and lutes, adding a layer of calmness.
The Prince that escorted Alyna cut an imposing figure at her side: it provided her with a certain reassurance against the grimaces and scornful chuckles as she walked between the tables. She caught the glimpses of the lords and ladies in attendance. Their opulent garments, rich with symbolism and house colours, spoke of the intricate social hierarchy that governed the southron courts.
It was unlike any of the feasts she had seen in Winterfell. She marvelled at the intricately threaded gold of silk gowns that the women wore, the blood-red velvets that wrapped around their shoulders.
They all wore their hair in the same fashion – tied up into a bun, wrapped around with a single braid. She suddenly felt quite underdressed – her gown was made of thick wool, and fell from her neck to her feet. Meanwhile, all the women her age dressed in ornate fabrics with intricate embroidery. More than that, they exposed their chests. Some exposed their arms and shoulders as well.
The dais, elevated above the sea of revelry, beckoned like a distant throne. Alyna's green eyes scanned the figures at the table. A man sat in the middle, his hand clenched into a fist as his eyes found her. His dark hair had been brushed back from his face, and a thick beard lined his jaw. He was a tall man – even while seated. Broad-shouldered and thick-bodied, dressed in a black velvet jerkin, emblazoned with gold antlers upon his shoulders. Durran Baratheon.
To his left was a woman her own age – skinny and slight, with a sheet of Targaryen silver hair falling over the bliaut of scarlet silk that seemed to shimmer with essence of dragonfire. Her violet eyes seemed to dully rest on the goblet of wine that she held with her slender, pale fingers. Princess Rhaenerys – it must have been.
On the right of Princess Rhaeneryrs was another brother of hers – with unkempt silver hair and a thick, milk-pale beard. He was adorned in black leather that seemed to look like the scales of a dragon. A high collar covered his neck, the lapels wrapped over each other. He looked utterly bored of the entire event, and would much rather be elsewhere. He was dressed entirely in black – could that have been the Black Prince? The Targaryen that rode the largest dragon in the world?
Alyna's princely escort climbed the steps to the dais and cleared his throat. She could feel the weight of curious eyes upon her, the whispers of courtly gossip dancing in the air like unseen spirits.
"My Lord Baratheon," he said, turning from the Lord Durran to Princess Rhaenerys, "Sister. May I present a wedding gift from our brother: the Lady Alyna of House Forrester."
The hall was silent, save the thin sound of flutes and a faint patter of a drum. Alyna kept her gaze respectfully averted to the floor. A bead of sweat formed on her brow. She stood in the heart of the enemy's territory, she couldn't shake the feeling of being a lone wolf in a lion's den. She felt the weight of every disapproving glance, every muttered comment about the uncouth northerner who dared tread on southern soil.
Alyna performed her curtsy again.
"What am I supposed to do with her, Jae?" Rhaenerys asked, her voice hushed.
"She's to be your handmaiden," the Prince, whom Alyna assumed to be Jaeghar Targaryen, stated.
Princess Rhaenerys rolled her eyes and sipped her wine, saying something that Alyna couldn't understand. A language that made the Black Prince chuckle loudly.
"I hope I serve you well, Your Grace," Alyna promised. If only her father could see her now… curtsying meekly in a southron keep. he'd curse all the Gods, old and new.
"If my betrothed does not wish for a northern handmaid, I would not insist," Lord Durran stated. "I've no want for wolves in my hall."
Princess Rhaenerys turned to look at him for a moment, chewing her tongue in thought before sipping her wine and setting down the goblet. "Come here, Forrester."
Alyna approached the Princess, trying not to feel the heavy, hateful eyes of Durran Baratheon upon her.
"Your Grace?"
"Do you know what a handmaid's duties are?"
"Yes, Your Grace. I served the Lady Torrha of House Stark for two years-"
The table fell quiet upon her mention of her liege lords. Every lord and lady, knight and handmaid of the Stormlands seemed to eye her like a cat eyes a rat, or a fox a chicken. She suddenly felt as if she may actually be torn apart.
Princess Rhaenerys' lips stretched into a wide, toothy smile. "Wonderful. You ought to meet my handmaid." She lifted a hand, and a woman – more a girl, really, approached from behind. She was wrapped in scarlet silk that hugged her body tightly – showing her tall and lithe frame, narrow hips and a jaw that was still soft and round. Her green eyes glinted in the candlelight, her curls of hair seeming to ebb and pulse like sunshine upon golden thread.
"My Lady," the handmaid curtsied to Alyna before clasping her hands in front of her waist.
"This is Joyce Goldemere."
"G- Goldemere?" Alyna tried to shift through all the names of southron houses she had heard of.
"Don't bother asking, she's Roland Lannister's bastard," Princess Rhaenerys stated. There was a pause as Alyna frowned. A bastard? As a handmaid to a Princess?
Joyce seemed to have misunderstood Alyna's confusion.
"A bastard is when…"
"I'm familiar. My Lady." Was she a Lady? She looked like one. Alyna supposed she was about as much a Lady as Myra was. Perhaps even moreso – Myra never seemed overly concerned with anything other than hunting.
She walked around the table and took her place by Joyce Goldemere, watching the dancing begin.
"Her Grace is to wed Lord Durran a week, tomorrow," Joyce whispered.
That was unusual – she would have supposed she'd arrived during the wedding feast itself. This must have been to mark the arrival of the wedding party. But, Alyna realised, she hadn't seen any other wheelhouses or carriages or horses on her way to Storm's End. It was the Hour of the Nightingale – perhaps she had simply arrived later than everyone else.
"Do southrons often take a week to wed?" Alyna asked. Joyce scoffed.
"Three weeks," Joyce corrected her, "and no. It was proposed by His Grace, Prince Aemon."
"What a waste…" She muttered to herself. For this feast alone, the Baratheon's must have spent a fortune. And for three weeks? Had they been feasting like this often? The money would have been better used by building more grainhouses, paying masons to come across the Narrow Sea and teach the smallfolk. They could've better clothed the lowborn on their lands – even hired a mercenary company to help them win this war they had started. Yet, instead, they chose to live as lavishly spendthrifts, unprepared for whenever winter would come. The days were growing shorter, and winter was coming.
Joyce had been studying Alyna, a slight smile on her lips.
"You're so very northern, aren't you?" She wielded the word like an insult.
The fool came out on the floor, dressed in a black-and-orange motley, waltzing down between the tables, leaning over and snatching a goblet of wine from a golden-haired beauty before spitting it through the candlelight, creating a fiery inferno of breath that swept up into the air. The woman clutched her chest and let out a long laugh, applauding the fool.
"Do you need me to introduce you to anyone?" Joyce asked.
Truthfully, there was no-one that Alyna particularly cared to meet. "I'm sure I'll meet them all soon enough."
Hopping on one leg, the fool approached a trio of red-haired girls, accompanying one child with a head of messy black curls. She looked to be around Feron's age. The Fool took the cup of wine and drank it in full (despite the red-haired girl protesting). He slammed it upside-down on the table, a quizzical frown painting across his face as he removed the cup to reveal an egg. The court applauded and laughed.
"Very lucky of you – being escorted by Prince Jaeghar and Ser Harwin," Joyce murmured.
"Serving Her Grace will be a higher honour, still," Alyna lied – there was no honour to be found in the Stormlands. Joyce's lip curled in approvement.
Alyna watched the fool juggling eggs before catching one and crushing it one hand. He made a confused face, frowning before opening his hands and letting a small dove fly out of his hands. The courtiers applauded the fool as the servants brought out jugs of wine.
"You ought to meet another bound in service to the Princess. Ser Lucan?"
A man came from behind a nearby column, and as he stepped into the torchlight, Alyna almost yelped – half the man's face was twisted and corroded – like parchment that had been doused in oil and tossed near a fire. There was no stubble – the skin was pink and grey and disgusting. The man's head had been completely shorn of hair – a far cry from the handsome Ser Harwin whom had greeted her earlier.
"Lady Alyna, this is Ser Lucan of Lannisport – a knight of the Kingsguard, and sworn shield to the Princess Rhaenerys."
"A pleasure, Ser." Alyna curtsied.
"Northerners don't do well this far south," he remarked, his hazel eyes flickering around on all the faces of the courtiers. Alyna found his words off-putting – moreso than his scarred face. Were they allowed to speak so frankly? Without having to line the words with false courtesies?
"And southrons do not fare well in the North, Ser," she replied.
Ser Lucan turned back to her, somewhat surprised at her response. He licked his lips and nodded. "True enough. Erich Baratheon died at Winterfell before he could marry a Stark, no?"
She bristled at the assumption – the lie that the Baratheon's had spread. "If Lord Erich did die, it was not at Winterfell."
Ser Lucan gave a small, derisive scoff. "Of course, perhaps a grumpkin spirited into his chambers, snatched the boy, hopped over the Wall, and he was feasted on by giant and ice spiders…"
Another southron, talking about the Wall and what lay beyond as if he had ever taken a step north of the Twins.
"There is more chance of that then a Stark breaking guestright," Alyna replied cooly.
"And we all live in castles in the sky, winter is but a memory and all dine on honeyed chicken each night…"
Was a Stark keeping their honour such a dream to him? Perhaps it was the way in the south – perhaps none understood honour. Of course, there were knights and septons, but they only spoke of honour. The Starks always kept their oaths. The laws in the North were older than the Andals – their Gods had existed long before the Seven. Perhaps the truth was tragically simpe – southrons could not understand honour.
Ser Lucan stopped looking around the hall, his hazel eyes locking upon someone. He began walking towards Ser Durran, placing a hand upon a full goblet of wine and calling across the hall.
"You, boy!" Ser Lucan barked.
Alyna turned to see a young man turning back to face the knight. He looked scared, his gaze held onto the floor. He was dressed in a simple black jerkin and a golden doublet. Fancy clothes for a servant, though, southrons loved to waste money.
"You're new. You've not been at any other feasts, have you?" Ser Lucan asked. The boy shook his head. "Is there a reason you cannot speak, boy?"
The hall was silent as the boy pointed towards his mouth, shaking his head. A man that was sat beside Lord Durran, a little shorter with his black hair shaved down to stubble, spoke.
"Do you oft cut out the tongues of your servants?"
"He's not our servant," Ser Lucan said, a hand on the hilt of his sword.
The serving boy threw the jug of wine forwards, which Ser Lucan instinctively caught. The boy surged forwards, a hand delving into his doublet and pulling on the hilt of something. He made his way up the dais and towards the table when screams pierced the room. The music stopped and there was a flurry of movement. A dagger, stained with blood, clattered off the table and landed by Alyna's feet. Goblets of wine rattled against the stone floor, with wine, gold and red, splashed and ran down the joints like small rivers or snakes.
"Fucking cutthroat," Lord Durran hissed.
"Bar the doors!" Prince Jaeghar ordered, drawing his sword and making his way towards the entrance. Lord Durran stepped away from the table with Ser Lucan of Lannisport, who led them and a full-bodied red-haired woman.
"Where's Oraella?" The woman shouted, looking around, anxiously. Alyna began to turn to leave with Joyce, only for a trio of ladies to knock into her. She barrelled onto the ground, her knee throbbing as it thudded against the stone slabs. She looked up to see the Fool pulling out a skinny blade from within his sleeve as he followed Lord Durran and Princess Rhaenerys. Alyna shouted out – no words, just a noise, pointing at the man. He turned around, the knife flashing in the light. The smiles and laughter was absent in his face. Instead, there was just the sharp mind of a man with an objective.
The look did not last long – it was soon replaced with one of shock. There was a flash of gold and a crack, and the man was stumbling forwards, losing his footing. The man with a shorn head had swung a cane like a club, cracking it across the man's chest so hard that it splintered in two.
"Who sent you?" Barked a man that walked from the table – the Black Prince.
The fool responded by taking out one of the eggs he had been juggling with, but the Prince's hand became a blur – he held his dinner knife and began to stab at the fool under his arm repeatedly, clutching him by the throat and thrusting the blade into his flesh, again and again.
"At a fucking feast…" The Black Prince grunted as he continued plunging his knife into the man.
Alyna looked up to see the man who had swung his cane grabbing a girl with a mess of black hair, pulling her by the arm. She was sobbing and crying, her eyes bloodshot and red. Blood was specked across her pretty silk gown, though Alyna could not find any wounds upon her.
She stood up, checking that a cutthroat was not lurking nearby with a blade. She finally found her feet and turned to see a series of bodies strewn across the floor of the Hall. Servants and guards alike – a handful of courtiers. At least a dozen of them. Had they all been cutthroats? Or were they killed by the assassins? What if they were innocent people, struck down by the murderers to convince them that they were safe?
The room seemed to still. Some Lords and Ladies had retreated into the corners of the rooms, bearing swords and dinner knives alike. Some hid under tables – notably the younger girls, with their silks dirtied and bloodied.
The Black Prince examined the corpse of the first cutthroat, left strewn across the high table, his throat slit and eyes still open.
"Dornish," the Black Prince muttered, spitting on the body.
Ser Harwin escorted Prince Jaeghar across the hall, both with their swords drawn, though Ser Harwin's was more bloodied, his armour dripping, and a thick, fresh scar upon his brow.
"One fled through a passage downstairs by the doors…"
"If it leads to the armoury, he can get to the bay," the limping man with a shaved head said, as the girl he led ran towards the red-haired woman, who immediately began shushing her. It was only then, when Alyna looked back to Lord Durran, she found blood pouring down his neck and upon his jerkin. The top of his ear had been cut clean off.
"Let the waves take him," Lord Durran said.
"A storm won't rob me of vengeance," the Black Prince scowled. "I'll take Gaelithox and set all of Dorne aflame, from Starfall to Sunspear." He began marching away, hands balled into fists. Prince Jaeghar tried to stop him and lay a hand on his brother, but the Black Prince waved him away.
"Aerion- Aerion," Prince Jaeghar's voice rose from a whisper to a shout, and he grabbed the Black Prince by the wrist, speaking to him in same strange tongue the Princess had spoken.
Aerion responded in like, tearing his hand free and shoving Prince Jaeghar back, pointing a finger at him and saying something further before making his way towards the doors at the end of the hall. He included a word that was becoming more and more familiar to Alyna's ears. Prince Jaeghar ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath, glaring at his brother.
"Ser Harwin," Prince Jaeghar said slowly, "stay and watch over my sister." He turned to begin exiting the hall when Princess Rhaenerys called over to him.
"I do not need a keeper…"
Prince Jaeghar replied to her in their strange language again – this time, she only recognised one word: 'Valonqar'.
The doors closed behind the two Targaryen Princes, and the room was left in silence – if only for a moment.
"My Lords, my Ladies," the young man with the shaved head spoke up, leaning on the table to steady himself, all his weight shifted to one leg. "The threat is dealt with, but we ought to cut this celebration shot. Retire to your chambers, and each shall have two of our Household guard to watch over you and your family until the threat is dealt with."
Slowly, the guests began to filter out of the great hall, being accompanied by guards in shining steel. The red-haired woman held her black-haired daughter, Oraella, running a hand over her hair and shushing her gently. It made Alyna thoroughly aware of the emptiness inside her. She remembered how her own mother, with her red hair, used to hold her as a child and shush her as she cried.
Alyna cursed the Gods for taking her mother from her. And she cursed them a second time for leading her here.
Well, that's this chapter done! I'll try to make sure that the next chapters come out a little quicker, but… well, longer chapters take longer. I'm excited to see what you all think. Don't forget to drop a review and check out the Wiki if you haven't already!
R.