Feels like ages since I've done one of these chapters. I hit a bit of a rut 'cos I hadn't planned out a lot of this chapter, so, we're looking at a shorter chapter (which is still pretty damn long). Anyway, read, leave a review – and we've got the final chapter coming next, followed by an epilogue!

7th Day of the Seventh Moon, 152 A.C.

Alyna

Alyna had never been good with stitching. She was used to tasks that required deft hands and nimble fingers, but embroidery was never something she had excelled at. Torrha had always enjoyed talking about the newest tomes that had been reading together, or they would take in the air in the Godswood, or walk in the Winter Town and talk about how Myra and Jonos Cassel had spent much time together alone in the woods, or they would look across the distant hills and ponder where Cayden was.

Cayden was so very much unlike his family. The Stark's had ice in their blood, but Cayden was full of live and fury. Quick to act, quick to laugh, quick to fight. She would have enjoyed spending more time with him - though, she had to remind herself, he'd bedded ten common-born women. Likely, he'd try to bed her if he had half the chance. Lady Gwyn had told her to be wary of men that would seek to take a woman to bed and leave her unwed.

She turned her attention back to the black velvet cloak that lay across her lap, the red thread glistening in the light the rising sun. The Targaryen dragon was hard to embroider, its three heads and coiled tails too precise for Alyna to truly do justice. The cloak was too luxurious, far beyond anything she had worked with before, and the thread felt fragile, as if it might snap at any moment. Alyna's fingers ached from the effort, and she was relieved when Joyce walked over and continued the work while Alyna crossed the chamber to the door, trying not to look at the marred face of the Kingsguard knight, Ser Lucan, as she asked a servant to find more red silk thread.

Alyna Forrester stood in the dim light of Princess Rhaenerys' chambers, the early light of dawn just beginning to filter between the thick curtains. The chamber was large and richly adorned, with frescoes of Baratheon triumphs adorned upon the walls.

"How did they kill him?"

Alyna turned to look over to Princess Rhaenerys, who lay there in the bath, with one of her bathmaids lathering her arm. Her deep, violet eyes fixed on Alyna.

"My Lady?"

She pointed up to an older tapestry, depicting a black-haired man next to a silver-haired woman. In front of them were three black-haired boys. Beneath was the writing: Baldric of the House Baratheon, Elaena of House Targaryen, Durran, Erich, and Arlan.

"They murdered Erich, didn't they? The Stark's, I mean."

"The Stark's would never commit such a…" Alyna began, but Rhaenerys cut her off with a loud groan, slumping down beneath the water, causing it to splash out of the tub and onto the stone floor. She emerged, moments later pushing her wet, silver hair from her pale face.

"You're boring me. Pick out a dress."

Alyna chewed her tongue and clenched her jaw and approached the magnificent chest carved from dark oak and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

The gowns were all made from the Lysene silks, Tyroshi velvets, each with elaborate brocades. She picked out the one at the top, a cotte of yellow satin and walked to present it to Princess Rhaenerys, who simply turned up her nose.

"No gold."

"No gold…" Alyna muttered to herself as she returned to the chest. She picked up the next gown: made from pale blue silk with a modest neckline. She picked it up, but as she began to walk over, Joyce's emerald eyes caught her, and she gave a firm shake of the head.

As Princess Rhaenerys stepped up in the tub, the water pattering back into the tub as the maid wrapped her in linens, Joyce took the gown from Alyna and stowed it back in the chest, pulling out a gown of deep crimson silk to hand to took the gown, the fabric sliding over her fingers like liquid fire. She wasn't used to that: she was used to handling coarser woollens in the North.

Joyce bit her thin lip before rifling around to find pulling out a black velvet cotte, embroidered with delicate gold thread.

As Alyna and Joyce helped remove Princess Rhaenerys' shift and helped pull a linen kirtle over her body, before layering it with the crimson gown, and the dark cotte that fell to her forearms.

Joyce moved with practiced grace. She laced up the bodice, ensuring it fit snugly but comfortably, her fingers deftly working the fine threads. The dress had a long, flowing train and intricate detailing around the neckline, which Alyna adjusted to lie against the princess's pale skin.

The princess's silver-blonde tresses were a marvel, cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Alyna's own hair was rather plain in comparison.

She began by carefully brushing out the princess's hair, starting from the tips and working her way up to the roots. The brush was made of polished ivory, its bristles soft and gentle on the hair. Once the tangles were removed, the hair was dried with more linen, and Alyna began to section the hair into parts, her fingers deftly weaving it into a series of braids that would be coiled and pinned.

Since arriving, Alyna had learned that the southron Ladies enjoyed elaborate and regal fashions, but Alyna was used to styling Torrha's hair into a single braid. Instead, she watched Joyce twist and turn of the hair, and secure the braids with small pins, each adorned with tiny pearls.

"Do you think he has lice?" Princess Rhaenerys pondered. "Is that why he shaves his head?"

"Lord Arrec?" Alyna asked. "I… do not know."

"It looks ugly," Rhaenerys said. "He'll have to grow it out."

"I'm sure he'll do whatever Your Grace commands him," Joyce reassured her.

The final task was to fetch the jewellery for the princess. Alyna made her way to the small chest where the jewellery was kept. The necklaces, earrings, and bracelets were made of gold and silver, encrusted with gemstones of every colour. It was wealth beyond anything Alyna had ever imagined, and the responsibility of selecting the right pieces weighed heavily on her.

She chose a necklace of fine gold filigree, set with rubies that matched the Targaryen colours. The earrings were simple drops of the same deep red stones, and the bracelets were delicate smoky-grey chains.

Princess Rhaenerys received the jewellery without so much as a look towards Alyna. The necklace lay perfectly against the princess's collarbone, the earrings catching the light with every movement. The bracelets jingled softly as they slid onto her wrists, adding a musical note to the chamber.

The door knocked and opened as the servant came in, bowed his head, and placed the silk thread on one of the tables, before he bowed again and went to exit, but before the door could close, Princess Rhaenerys spoke again.

"Ser Lucan!"

The serving boy stepped back and backed away as Ser Lucan entered, his lips fixed into a stern line as he watched the boy squeeze around him through the doorway.

"Your Grace?" He still had a broad Westerlands accent, but his voice was noticeably gruff and crackling.

"You know I'm to be wedded tomorrow?"

"I do, Your Grace."

"And you're aware they'll try to have me bedded like the precious little septa?"

Ser Lucan paused as Joyce let out a small giggle and Princess Rhaenerys' lip curled. "I am, Your Grace."

"Well, if the cripple wishes to breed me, he'll have to try and carry me himself; if anyone else lays a hand on me, I command you to take their hand."

Ser Lucan's breath caught as his eyes flashed away from the princess for a moment. He gave a stiff nod. "As Your Grace commands."

"Good," she shooed him away with a flexing of the fingers and turned back to examine herself in the looking glass.

Jynessa

The Sun Hall of Sunspear was the heart of the ancestral home of House Nymeros Martell. The hall was a marvel of grandeur and Rhoynish beauty. It was a place of light and colour, where the sun's rays were captured and transformed into a shimmering display of art and architecture.

As Jynessa entered on the arm of her consort and protector, the first thing that struck her was the same thing that always did: the light. The Sun Hall was designed to capture the brilliance of the Dornish sun at every hour of the day. Tall, arched windows with intricate latticework allowed the sunlight to pour in, casting a golden glow over everything it touched.

The walls of the Sun Hall were a masterpiece of craftsmanship. They were adorned with intricate geometric patterns, a symphony of tiles in shades of blue, gold, and white. Each tile was hand-painted and glazed. The patterns were hypnotic, drawing the eye into their endless, repeating designs. It was as if the walls themselves were alive, dancing with the light that filled the room.

The floor was a mosaic of polished stone, cool and smooth underfoot. It depicted a vast sunburst, its rays stretching out in all directions. The stones were arranged in a gradient of colours, from deep reds at the centre to bright yellows and oranges at the edges, creating the illusion of a sun perpetually rising and setting. Walking across it, Jynessa could almost feel the warmth of the sun radiating up from the ground.

Above them, the ceiling was a marvel of Rhoynish engineering and Dornish artistry. It was vaulted and gilded, with delicate carvings forming a lattice that mirrored the patterns on the walls. The spaces between were filled with mirrors, carefully angled to reflect the light in dazzling patterns across the room. Hanging from the ceiling were numerous lanterns of coloured glass and wrought iron, each one a work of art in its own right. When lit, they would cast a warm, inviting glow, adding to the hall's enchanting atmosphere.

In the centre of the room stood a fountain, its water sparkling in the sunlight. The basin was carved from a single piece of marble, its surface covered in delicate carvings of flowers and vines. The water flowed gently over the edges, creating a soothing, melodic sound that filled the hall.

Lining the edges of the room were low, cushioned benches, covered in rich fabrics of deep red and gold. The cushions were embroidered with images of suns and spears. The fabric was soft and luxurious, inviting one to sit and take in the beauty of the surroundings. Small tables were scattered among the benches, set with delicate glass vases filled with fresh flowers. The air was filled with their sweet, heady scent, soothed by the cool, fresh fountain-water.

Jynessa moved with her husband: aa tall, lithe figure. Handsome and strong: the Sword of the Morning. Just as the moon shone with the sun's light, so too did Jynessa shine with his. The air was sweeter when he was with her.

Behind them walked their youngest daughter, Allyria, who was wrapped in a long cotte of golden silk, wrapped at her waist with an ochre-orange sash of satin. Her older sister, Myria, was with Qyle outside, presumably talking at length about the whisperers in their employ. But Jynessa had wanted another moment with her youngest daughter.

Jynessa and Nymor paused by one of the tall windows, looking out over the gardens of Sunspear. They were a riot of colour, with flowers of every hue blooming in the warm Dornish sun. Beyond the gardens, they could see the shimmering waters of the Summer Sea, its surface dotted with the sails of ships coming and going from the harbour. It was a breathtaking view, one that reminded Jynessa of the beauty and bounty of their homeland. The home her ancestors had found after being ousted by the Valyrians.

As they stood there, the light shifted, casting new patterns across the walls and floor. Light and life was ever-changing, something Nymor still struggled with. Jynessa did not have long left: a few years, if she was lucky, the Maesters had told her. The leeches that were placed upon her scalp seemed to do little in helping delay the inevitable, but she continued with it – for Nymor's peace of mind.

The sound of the fountain continued to play in the background, a gentle, soothing melody. The Sun Hall was not only a place of majesty and awe, but also one of respite and reflection, a sanctuary. Here, in the heart of Sunspear, the last true scions of the Rhoyne could find solace.

"You used to run around here, do you remember?" Jynessa asked her daughter. "You wanted to bring your pony in here."

"Did I?" Allyria yawned. Nymor frowned at this.

"You will not see the Sun Hall for some time, Daughter. You would not wish to gaze upon it once more?"

"I've gazed upon it for ten-and-seven years," Allyria replied. "I'm eager to wet my blade on Andal soldiers."

"The Baratheon's are not Andals," Jynessa reminded her, "they are mongrels: a mix of all men across Westeros."

"I'm eager to spill it all the same: if Durran is fool enough to face me."

Jynessa's stomach tightened at the thought. But she reminded herself: fate was a river, and all men and women were but fish: they could battle against it, or simply allow themselves to be carried onward to the sea.

"I would not be so sure; Arlan Baratheon was a formidable man," she told her daughter, "I once saw him kill a man with his bare hands at the age of ten-and-five."

She could see him now: already taller than most men, with a chest so broad that when his arms had wrapped around her, she had felt as though she were inside castle walls. Thick, black tresses of hair that stuck to his skin, bronzed by the Dornish sun.

"Barely…" Nymor mumbled. Jynessa could not stop smiling: he had not changed at all, he still bristled at her mentions of Arlan. He understood, of course, that it had not been love that had them share a bed sometimes in their youth; rather, Jynessa had thought it would be a sure way to an easy peace: between sex and war, one was a lovelier bedfellow. And Arlan had taken to the Rhoynish way of life: lust was not some sinful failing. Men laying together, women love another: the Rhoynar celebrated life and love in all its ways. But, he'd continued to hold on to their virtues extolled by the Faith: honour, loyalty, bravery. She'd never known him to break his word, even at their young age, and she'd never known him to shrink from a fight.

Regardless of why she had done it, their friendship had lasted long, and Dorne had enjoyed a stable peace with the Stormlands for quite some time. And now, the son of Arlan Strongarm wished to conquer where the dragons could not. A shame: she had hoped his son may yet learn from his father. But Qyle's spies had informed of how he was reared by the Reachmen. A bloodthirsty zealot. Perhaps that was simply their way. Perhaps, if Jynessa had birthed Arlan a bastard, they could have cemented an endless peace. She would not want to leave her daughter a country torn by war.

"The poppies are in bloom," Jynessa said, trying to tear away Nymor and Allyria's attention. "You should take some for Ariyana Yronwood."

"Poppies don't travel well," Allyria replied.

"Well, you ought to take something: you are their guest."

"Uncle Qyle says we'll be marching onto Skyreach," Allyria informed her mother, "that is where the Stormlanders will be marching. We'll hold the Prince's Pass."

'At least she will be behind castle walls,' Jynessa thought. She had hoped her daughter might talk more about the garden, and that it may yet deter her from leaving for war. But she was very much like her paternal grandfather: once her mind was set, it would not yield. She had the same copper skin as Jynessa and her family, but she had inherited her father's violet eyes. She was Nymor's daughter: a warrior.

"You'll listen to your uncle, won't you?" Jynessa asked her daughter.

"I always listen," Allyria rolled her eyes. It was hardly true – all knew it.

"Yes, but you will listen," Jynessa said. "Shidaz has taught you to fight, but waging war is another thing entirely."

Nymor stepped forwards, giving their daughter a kiss on the cheek and holding her cheek as he spoke to her.

"Remember, you represent our House. Keep your spear sharp, and do not dishonour yourself. The Baratheon's may wish to spill blood, but oftentimes, a breathing prisoner is more useful than a dead foe. If only for a measure of gold."

Allyria nodded. Jynessa looked at her daughter, and her arms wrapped around her, clasping her tight to her chest. It were as though Allyria was a little girl once more, wielding a stick and calling herself Nymeria. She had already lost one little girl, also called Nymeria, and here she was, bidding goodbye to another on the dawn of war. Likely, when Allyria returned, summer will have finally ended.

As the three Martell's moved to leave, the light shifted once more, casting a final, golden glow over the hall. The fleeting nature of a moment of beauty. To live was to cherish the moment as a butterfly landing in your hand: to gaze upon its wings and smile before watching it fly away. Or to close your hand tight and have to watch that beauty die.

Freya

Freya walked along the weathered walls of Pyke, her shoes thudding softly on the damp stone. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the isle. Workmen bustled around her, the calls and shouts of their voices mingled with the sounds of hammers striking stone and the creaking of wooden scaffolding. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and seaweed.

Beyond the walls, the sea stretched out to the horizon, a vast expanse of restless waves. The water was a deep, dark blue, reflecting the sky above. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and piercing. The wind tugged at Freya's hair, strands of brown locks blowing into her face.

The walls of Pyke, blackened and cracked from dragon fire, were being patched and reinforced. Stone blocks, quarried from nearby cliffs, were hoisted into place by cranes, while masons (or, rather, the low-born men that one of the Essosi thralls directed) carefully fitted them into the existing structure.

Freya looked over the edge of the wall to see Rayn precariously on a large stone block being hoisted by one of the cranes. He held onto the rope with one hand, the other arm dangling like a fishline as he leant out to look up at the rope that hoisted him above. He swayed back and forth with the stone, shouting at the thralls above to pull, pull, pull! It filled Freya with unease: what if they chose to drop him? Surely the fall would hurt him – if he hit his head, he might die. A serjeant in the gold cloaks had once fallen from the walls of King's Landing after drinking wine on his watch.

And then Freya remembered. She could remember Whalebane standing above him, the braids of her ashen hair slipping from behind her left ear. The metal chains woven into her hair glistening with saltwater. Her fingers closed around Rayn's bloodied face and they both disappeared beneath the water as her lips came closer to his…

Light faded from Rayn's dark, green eyes, and had returned moments later. He rose from the waters, without so much as a cough. Blood was washed away by the saltwater, but his wounds remained. He still looked the same, save the scar that ran the length of his face. He still had the same smile, but she couldn't help but wonder about him. Was he the same man who had returned to find her at King's Landing? Or had the Drowned God claimed some part of him in exchange for his life?

Freya slowed as she approached and leant against the wall, her fingers tracing the rough, cold stone. The air was thick with the smell of mortar and fresh lumber. She watched Rayn, her mind drifting back to the childhood that had been stolen from her when she was taken away. When he had chosen the sea over his home. She imagined him as a boy, running along these very walls, his laughter carried away by the wind. She supposed he must have always been so daring – the one who pushed the limits, and dared to do that which others feared.

The crane jerked slightly, and the rope slid down. Rayn's hand snatched at the rope and he swung around with a deft nimbleness. He shouted up at them in the same not-quite Valyrian tongue Whalebane had spoken in. He let out a long whistle and shouted across the top of the wall, waving over some of his crewmen, who joined the thralls in hoisting up the stone. She could imagine him on the deck of a longship, holding onto the lines as the prow cut through the waves. His hair, now streaked with the white of salt, blowing in the wind, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The image was so vivid, so real, that for a moment, she could almost hear the creak of the ship's timbers and the crash of the waves against the hull.

The crane operator called out, and the block was lowered gently into position. Rayn hopped off and began directing the workmen, clapping one of the crewmen, Ottar Blue-Mouth, on the shoulder. But he did not smile; he had not smiled quite as much in the days since the Bloodtide. She supposed it was natural, but then she had to remind herself – it was not natural. Nothing was – he had died. She'd seen it. Yet he walked around, colour in his sun-bronzed cheeks, giving orders.

Rayn walked past the thralls, taking time smack one of them across the crown of his head, before whistling at another thrall and issuing orders. He found Freya, though his eyes seemed to look straight through her, as if seeing something far beyond the present moment. He was covered in dust and sweat, his brown hair sticking to his forehead.

"What do you think?" he asked, gesturing to the newly placed stone.

"I think it's a… big stone."

"Aye, it seems Rorik Longnose's men had been eyeing this keep for some time: elsewise he's a very odd man: who keeps stone…"

"Rorik… Longnose?"

Rayn nodded, a half-smile of glee on his lips. "You like it?"

She remembered Rayn carving his nose from his face. "I think it's… rather cruel."

"Did the man not seek to make you a saltwife?" Rayn asked as he walked around her reaching out towards one of his crewmen, who handed him a wineskin. "This is against our laws."

It took Freya a moment – perhaps to consider whether he was testing her or not. "You don't care for the laws. You murdered Ironborn men."

"They insulted us," Rayn replied with a sigh as he sat in one of the crenels, his elbow resting on the merlon as he leant out to spit over the battlements.

"You kill men over insults?"

"I've done more for less," Rayn replied. "'Tis our way."

"The Old Way," Freya nodded, remembering what Blue-Mouth had told her the night the Fishfeeder had arrived. "To… rape and reave and pillage?"

Rayn paused to swallow a mouthful of wine. Freya half-expected it to slip out of the gash on his throat the peered out from behind his woollen gambeson.

"Aye." Rayn nodded, licking his lips.

"And you don't see any problem with this?"

"Should I?" Rayn's brow wrinkled. Freya's did too – but not out of confusion.

"It's barbaric, Rayn. It's foul, unholy, and- and you know the Seven will curse you…"

Rayn cut her off with a loud groan as he rose to his feet. "Can we talk about this 'New Gods' nonsense tomorrow?"

"You don't follow the Seven?"

"Of course not," Rayn laughed.

"But you believe in the Drowned God?"

"I believe in all the gods, Freya. I'd daresay that makes me holier than any other man in Westeros."

"No-one believes in all the gods…"

"Bakkalon the Sword and Boash the Blind, the Father of Waters and Goddess of the Wind. The Drowned God, the Horse God, the Storm God – I've heard about them all, and I believe in them all. I just do not follow any."

"You don't worship any god? Even after… something saved you?" She asked.

"No God saved me," Rayn told her, "I was brought back because I was meant to be. It could be the Red God's doing, or it could be the Drowned God's. I suppose I shall find out when I do pass from this world. But until then…"

Rayn lifted his wineskin and drank.

"Doesn't that make your life empty?" Freya asked.

"How can fewer gods make a life empty?"

"One only savours water when there is but a little in their cup," Freya parroted the passage from the Seven-Pointed Star.

"A man drinks mead 'til there is little left to drink," Rayn replied. He gave another slight smile – one that Freya may have found reassuring, but now she just felt uncertain. She saw a man, a brother she had never known, but something else. Something deeper, something unholy.

"But if you do not follow the Drowned God, why follow the Old Way? Why reave?"

He stared up at the sky for a moment, not as though he were lost in thought, but as if he was trying to remember something. Trying to recall a distant memory. Finally, he looked back to her and gave a slow shrug. Then turned and walked away.

The wind whipped around Freya, carrying the scent of the sea and the promise of storms to come.

"He is not being churlish."

Freya turned around to see Whalebane there, standing in her hauberk of mail under a leather jerkin. Her ashen hair had been tied back from her face in a knot of braids, her pale, bright blue eyes seemed even bluer out by the sea. The pale skin of her face made it hard to see, but the faded scars were still there, across her cheeks, her chin, her brow. So faint that Freya would not be able to seem them if she stepped away. She scratched her thumb as she looked out across Ironman's Bay.

"He truly finds it hard to remember."

"To remember why he's been reaving all his life?" Freya asked, wholly unconvinced.

"Death is losing who we are," Whalebane told her, "Our past, our sentiments. Rayn comes back, but never whole."

Freya looked the woman up and down. She was from Essos, a land full of strange people with stranger beliefs. Rayn had already mentioned their false gods. "What exactly did you do to him?"

Whalebane let out a small chuckle. "I'm not a witch, girl. Nor a sorceress, nor seer."

"You saved his life."

"No. He died – you saw that."

"I…" Freya knew what she had seen – she knew Rayn had returned from death. But that wasn't possible – thousands of years, histories had been kept and songs sung about dragons and giants, but not once did anyone talk about the dead rising. "I don't know what I saw."

Whalebane turned to cross her arms and lean against the merlon. "When I was first aboard the Leviathan, men tried to rape me," she explained. "But I had been taught from a young age how to pleasure a man. And so I was not roughed or bashed like the other women."

"You… just let them do it?" Freya asked. She couldn't imagine Whalebane being docile or subservient.

"I had been a temple bride from a young age," Whalebane explained. "I showed Saltaxe that a willing touch was warmer. He cut my bonds, and asked which towns he may raid, and cities he might sack. In time, he showed me to wield a sword. In time I was no longer a thrall nor a saltwife, but a battle-maid. After Ibben, I was given another name: Whalebane."

The question grew in Freya's head. "You don't like your old name?"

Whalebane's brow wrinkled before she spoke in her rolling tongue. "Haelanaerya of Volantis."

"Helanarr… Haela-" Freya tried to roll the 'r', just as Whalebane had.

"And so you see why they call me 'Whalebane'." She nodded, picking at her thumb again.

It was strange looking at her with that name. When Freya met her, she had assumed she had been Ironborn. She was, according to Otter Blue-Mouth. But she was Volantene. Essosi. Worshipping a false god. It must have been magic – the Seven-Pointed Star told that there were no other gods. But she had raised a man from the dead.

"But how did you bring him back?"

"I have never brought anyone else back. I was not trained as a priestess; I do not know all the rites, but I pressed my lips to his. To give him the last kiss and commend him to the Lord of Light. And my god returned him."

"Why?"

Whalebane's lips spread into a large smile as she chuckled. She looked much friendlier – pretty. Like one of the Lysene women that swanned about laughing at jokes and songs.

"Why is the sky blue? Why is water wet? It just... is. The wills of Gods is not for us to know. We simply play our part." Whalebane looked to Freya. "It does not matter if you do not believe in R'hllor. Or if Saltaxe does not. The Lord of Light believes in us: he guides us. Else, your brother would never have returned."

Ardan

It was the Hour of the Owl when Ardan had awoken: the waxing moon had turned to the first quarter: any longer, and the nights would not be quite as dark. So, as the moonlight trickled in through the arched springline windows at the head of his bed, Ardan sat up and slowly pulled on his breeches, then his warm arming-doublet and a waxed jerkin. For once, Lady Cassandra had aided him: all had been dyed black, helping him blend into the shadows.

He crossed the straps of his cloak across his chest: once he was outside, he would not have time to tarry. All it took was a moment's pause for someone to recognise him. He fastened his belt around his waist, clasping the buckle tightly. Stormbringer was not the most ideal weapon: a gilded pommel carved like a stag's head with antlers? It simply was not practical. But it was not Ardan's to leave: Arrec had given him that sword, and Ardan had promised he would bring it back. He was willing to leave his breastplate, his pauldrons and vambraces, but not Arrec's sword.

More to the point, it was the only weapon Ardan had. Oraella had his dagger. He hoped it would have been hidden away on her. But what if she had tried to use it to fight back? Could she have died already?

Ardan closed his eyes and steadied himself: he would not think like that. He'd remember her as she was: smiling without caring if anyone would see her crooked teeth, a messy bird's nest of dark hair sprouting from her scalp like wires. Her shining blue-green eyes glinting in the torchlight. How her cheeks seemed to bulge out when she was smiling and laughing, which had been most of the time: save for when she was performing her ladylike duties.

Oraella was alive, and soon, she'd be safe. He'd make sure of that, no matter the cost. Damn Blackhaven, damn Baldric Dondarrion, and damn the duty. This was more important. She was more important.

Ardan picked up his coinpurse and crept through the long chamber, careful not to trip over the boots or chamberpots of the other slumbering squires, snoring soundly in their beds, exhausted from a day of drills and training. He would flinch and freeze at the softest grumble, tossing in bed, at Robert Morrigen breaking wind (again). Finally, thankfully, Ardan was at the door. He lifted up the latch, holding it firmly with both hands and trying to hold the weight of the door up as he pulled it open, hoping it would not creak.

Ardan stepped around the door and closed it carefully. He fought the urge to listen for a disturbance inside the chamber – he promised himself he would not tarry. Instead, he turned right and pressed open the thick oaken door that led to the courtyard. He kept his hood down – that would only attract attention. There was no rain tonight. That was lucky – the guards would not be sequestered around the gatehouse, and would instead be upon the walls.

The stables were not far away. He was not worried the horses would fuss when he came over – he'd spent weeks attending to them – they knew him by now. He walked over and waited by the fence post until one of the guards on duty, Damon, walked over to him, a thumb tucked into his belt.

"Evening, milord Storm," Damon said softly. It irked Ardan – mentioning his name. He prayed someone would not overhear; he could hope to buy Damon's silence, but there was only so much silver he had. "Expected you earlier – all the pretty whores will have been sampled already," he chortled.

"How long?"

Damon's lips curled beneath his thick, black bristles. He reminded Ardan of a weasel – hungry and greedy.

"Well, Storm, I've been waiting for the best part of an hour now, I may have to persuade the new guards…"

"How much?" Ardan asked. The more Damon talked, the more Ardan wanted to hit him.

He paused, smacking his lips. "Ten groats."

Ardan dipped his hand into his coinpurse and handed the man five copper stars.

"Seems you've a bit more in there, eh?" Damon's dark eyes fixed on Ardan's coinpurse.

"You'll get more, when I next want to go into town."

"Presuming I'll let you tonight, are you?"

Ardan swallowed the urge to grab the man by the throat. But that would create a lot of noise, and end with Ardan in the stockade for a few days, and he'd be no closer to Oraella. 'There's more than one way to fight,' the words rang in his mind again. He had to be more like Arrec, else his plans would be shot before they were even carried out.

"What's the point of giving you all my silver if I won't have any to spend at the brothel?" Ardan asked. "Should I try my luck tomorrow? See if the next guard isn't happy with a copper star simply to let another soldier go whoring?"

Damon grimaced, looking down at the copper stars for a moment. He looked back up to Ardan and then, with a raise of the eyebrow, tossed the coins into the dirt.

"Best of luck to you, bastard," Damon said, turning around to walk away, his cloak swinging behind him as he made his way towards the gatehouse. Ardan cursed under his breath, his blue eyes remained on the open portcullis at Blackhaven, facing north. He could see it now: If he rode fast, made his way over the bridge before Damon or anyone else could see him, then, perhaps, maybe he would make it down the road before anyone was on him. Mayhaps he could fool them? Cut across country before reaching the town…

"Storm?"

Ardan turned around to see Pate there, wrapped in a rough-spun blue cloak. He held a lit torch up high as he came closer, looking at Ardan. Beside him was Jack, wearing a much thinner brown cloak that had been patched thrice, with an arm out, grasping a lit torch. Both wore arming swords at their hips.

"What are you doing?" Pate asked. Ardan swallowed and turned to walk away. He found his saddle and walked back to Godsgrief, pulling it over his back (and ignoring Jack picking up Ardan's copper stars from the mud).

"Storm," Pate continued, "are you going somewhere?"

"I'm leaving," Ardan replied as he fastened the saddle-strap under Godsgrief's black belly. "I'm going to find my sister and take her back home."

"You can't do that," Jack said, walking into the stable to follow Ardan. "that's desertion."

As if Ardan didn't already know that. Ardan didn't respond – there was nothing to say. He walked back to grab his saddlebags.

"Storm, they'll hang you, or send you to the Wall…"

"I don't care."

"You're not thinking straight-"

"My little sister's out there on her own," Ardan said. There were no tears in his eyes this time: he wasn't going to be a mewling babe like he had been at Storm's End. He was going to find Ella and take her back home. And then… then he would take the black, if he had to. It was a small price to pay, and one he would accept gladly. Aside from the cold, it was far from the worst fate for bastards.

"It doesn't matter," Jack argued, "you're here now, same as the rest of us."

"That's not the-"

"Defenders of the Realm," Jack repeated Lord Ronard's words from their first day at Blackhaven, trying to grab onto Ardan's shoulder, "Sons of the Storm. We're your family, now, Storm-"

"You wouldn't be saying that if you had a real family," Ardan spat the words at him, giving him a firm shove that sent him back a few steps, almost dropping his torch. Ardan saw Jack's face stiffen for a moment before his brow furrowed and he turned to storm away.

'Let him,' A voice in the back of Ardan's head pushed down hard on the guilt he felt, 'what does he know? He doesn't have a sister to look after.'

Ardan didn't have time to worry about Jack. He turned his attention back to Godsgrief, slipping a bridle over his head when he heard Pate speak once again.

"I know you're worried, Storm…" Pate said slowly, and Ardan could not stop himself scoffing in response. "I understand…"

"No," Ardan frowned, turning to look at him, "no, you don't. No-one here does," Ardan swallowed the lump in his throat as he faced Pate. "I wanted to fight at the front. But I came here because I was told to. I didn't want to sit around and shovel shit with thieves and smallfolk, but I did. I've done everything asked of me, and now my sister is out there, alone. She could be dead tomorrow, for all I know, and people expect me to just… do nothing? Wait for that to happen? What does anyone here know about that?"

Pate took a step closer, so Ardan could make out his face some more: he was glaring at Ardan. The boy had never seemed anything more than drunk and happy or sober and quiet. But now he looked as though Ardan had smacked him in the face.

"I've got a brother," Pate said, sternly. "A little sister too. They're still in Crow's Nest – with bandits raiding along the Slayne, and I'm here; I was feeding Lord Morrigen's hounds when Ser Justin walks up to me and tells me I'm old enough to fight. They put a spear in one hand, a shield in the other, and told me to march south."

His blue eyes glistened as his voice cracked, but he continued on.

"I don't want to be here, I want to go home. But I didn't get any say in any of it, because my Father isn't some high-born. So now I'm here with pampered little pricks like you and Inkwell whinging about what a disgrace it is!"

"I'm not-" Ardan began.

"No, you think you're better than us. You have, since the day we got here. So, if you want to run off, then do it. I won't breathe a word. But don't try and tell me I don't know what it's like. You've any more reason to leave than the rest of us."

Ardan's hand clenched into a fist. He could've hit Pate square in the jaw, right then and there. His words seemed to have picked the scabs, and left Ardan feeling raw. Before Ardan could say anything more, Pate had walked away, leaving him in the darkened stable, looking at the gate.

Again, a massive thank-you to everyone reading this story – I'm so glad you're enjoying it, I'm really enjoying reading it. It's the same people that are reviewing, so, you guys are pretty – your hair looks good, your skin is immaculate, keep drinking water.

There's a Discord which is pretty fun, and that's gonna be the server for all my writing, not just this one, so hmu if you're into it, and, until next time, I'll see you on the flippity-flip.