So, this was gonna be the last chapter, but… there's more stuff that still needs to happen, so, you guys are getting a very special extra chapter, and then the prologue. So, this is the penultimate chapter.

Not many reviews coming in which is disappointing, but… okay – I've learnt who reviews without me asking, and who does, so… there's something valuable in that. Anyhoo, yeah, this chapter isn't as long as the usual, but it's longer than the last, so… that's something.

8th Day of the Seventh Moon, 152 A.C.

Ardan

The sun began its ascent over Blackhaven, chasing away the shadows and the cold with an embrace of soft, golden light. The first rays of the sun pierced through the eastern horizon, over Cape Wrath and the Sea of Dorne, casting a delicate, rosy hue over the black basalt walls of the castle. These walls, hewn from the dark stone that gave Blackhaven its name, seemed almost to drink in the light, the rough texture absorbing and reflecting the dawn in a muted glow. The crenellations atop the walls cast long shadows that stretched across the courtyard, gradually shrinking as the sun climbed higher.

The courtyard of Blackhaven, was usually quiet in the Hour of the Ghost. The air was crisp and cool, the remnants of the night's rain still evident in the small puddles scattered across the dirt. These puddles now shimmered with the first light of the day, like scattered pieces of sundrops, dancing in the morning's embrace. The dirt itself was a mix of dark, damp earth and lighter, drier patches, the scent of wet soil rising faintly as the ground began to warm.

The sky was a tapestry of colours: the deep blues of night to the warm oranges and pinks of dawn. Wisps of clouds caught the early light, painted in shades of coral and peach, drifting lazily across the heavens. Everything was awash in a dreamlike aura.

Sparrows flitted from the battlements to the trees lining the outer walls, their quick, darting movements bringing life to the stillness. In the distance, a lone crow cawed, its call echoing. Birdsong began to fill the air: a gentle chorus of melodies, welcoming the new day.

The sun rose higher, and the castle began to begrudgingly stir. The tables, rough-hewn from olive trees, were pulled out for the mean to break fast. Bowls of frumenty sat before each men. The first dozen bowls were always watery and runny, so the trick was to wait towards the back of the line. However, if you were too far back, you'd only get what was left (which was not much).

Ardan held out his wooden bowl, and watched the thick and lumpy gruel drop into it with a wet slap. Seven Hells, what he'd give for eggs and bread and bacon. Perhaps if he imagined the crumbs of a crackling, hot slice were mixed into his meal, he might actually be able to taste it?

He turned around and looked out across the tables, until he found Jack and Pate sat down next to each other, too tired to speak, and simply trying to eat before they spent the day sparring or were sent out south to dig more trenches. Their quiet was occasionally broken by the clattering of wooden spoons. Usually, the men would want to eat their food while it was still steaming and hot.

Ardan walked over and sat down opposite them, setting his bowl on the table and climbing in to sit down on the bench. Jack paid Ardan no mind, but Pate looked up to meet his eyes, if only for a moment, before scraping his spoon along the edge of his bowl, trying to scavenge what he could of his food.

"Thought you'd be gone," Pate remarked, his blue eyes flickering up to Ardan.

"Almost," Ardan replied. He looked up at the pair of them, and tried to steel himself to accept what Prince Aemon had called a 'harsh truth'.

"I've been acting like a… pampered prat. Like I'm better than you. But you two have less choice in being here than I do. And if you're still here, then so am I."

"Bully for you," Jack replied in a grumble. Ardan took a long breath.

"I'm sorry, I was worried for…" Ardan began, but he immediately felt his stomach twist. What excuse did Ardan have? Pate was worried about his own family, but he had not acted like Ardan. "I shouldn't have said what I did. I regret it. Would you forgive me?"

Jack chewed his tongue for a moment, before letting out a long, scornful scoff. Pate elbowed him in the ribs and gave the slightest nod of the head to Ardan. Jack grimaced.

"All's forgiven, Storm."

Ardan leant across to pick up the clay jug of smallbeer and poured himself a cup before he began eating. He couldn't even enjoy the moment where he felt like he belong – with Pate, a page who tended to the hounds, and Jack, an orphan thief.

"So, what is it today? Tending back to Baldric the Cursed?" Pate asked.

"Baldric the Evil-Eye?" Jack asked.

"Not evil enough for Storm," Pate said, pushing his empty bowl to the side and licking the spoon clean.

"Maybe he's just an ugly statue that scared a serving lady?" Jack suggested.

"Well, he will be at any rate," Pate shrugged. It was irking Ardan – he could remember overhearing similar jokes back at Storm's End, accompanied by giggles and glanced over at him. As if he were a fool to amuse them. And here he was, sat with the only two friends he had in the world, watching them make the same jokes.

"You shouldn't say that about him," Ardan said.

"What?"

"He wasn't cursed, he was sick," Ardan told them. "You shouldn't talk like that about him. You've not met him before."

"Just remind me not to share your beer, Storm…" Jack said. "I knew a blacksmith, once, Cristos, who prayed only to the Smith, never to the other six."

"Cursed him?" Pate asked.

"Cursed him. Made it so his steel was always brittle, and would warp or snap upon a strike."

"Perhaps he was just shit at smithing," Ardan suggested.

"Yes, but why?"

"Because he's shit at smithing."

Jack shook his head. "Because the Smith wasn't happy he was only praying to him. He thought Cristos ought to be praying to the other six gods as well. Which he does, now."

"The Smith mends broken things," Pate agreed.

"The Seven are the same god," Ardan explained, once again. His blue eyes flickered between the two of them. "And Baldric's no more cursed than the rest of us."

"I feel somewhat cursed listening to you harp on about it..." Jack scoffed. Pate gave the smallest grin and sipped his smallbeer.

"I mean it. I don't want to hear that anymore. If we're all sons of the storm, Baldric is too. It doesn't matter what anyone says about him."

Jack rolled his eyes and let out a loud scoff. "Figured you'd side with the highborn…"

"It's alright, Storm, we didn't mean it." Pate elbowed Jack again, his steely blue eyes casting him a stern look. "Did we, Jack?"

"Of course… not…" Jack muttered, befuddled by Pate.

Ardan stabbed at his frumenty. He thought back to his sister, her dark messy curls that coiled as he would ruffle her hair. How she would sometimes knock into furniture and doorways with her long, lanky limbs. He remembered seeing tears pool in her blue-green eyes as she said, 'do you not like us anymore?' He had not promised he would come back, and that was something he still regretted. He didn't know if Durran would let him. Likely not… perhaps Arrec would have a holdfast for brother. Ardan could perhaps find service with him, but… he did not want to be the bastard forever. And as long as he was with Arrec, that's all he would ever be. But that didn't make him miss his brother any less.

"My sister… half-sister…" he corrected himself: he had to be careful of how he spoke of his… his father's house. "She'll be found soon, won't she?"

"Any day now, most likely," Pate nodded.

"Half the Stormlands is out looking for her," Jack agreed.

"The last time a Baratheon went missing, they were never found."

"Lady Oraella hasn't been murdered, Storm-" Jack began. Pate quickly elbowed him in the ribs.

"Most likely she's already on her way back now with half a dozen storm knights."

Ardan nodded. He was sure they were right – with so many Stormlanders out looking for her, someone would find her. And if the Dornish had abducted her, they'd stop them at Blackhaven or Nightsong. Ardan could not leave because Pate and Jack would not. He was the same as them, as Ser Connas had told him, 'death shows no favour. 'Tis the great equaliser.' Ardan very much doubted they would face much death at Blackhaven, but it was just as much his duty as it was Jack's and Pate's. Even fops like Ser Idiot. And if they were not running, how could he? It was not a matter of birth or titles, it was, as Baldric had said, a matter of duty. If Ardan could not find glory in the war, he would at least find honour.

Qyle

The sun burned hot as the spearmen marched along west along the Scourge, the river rushing to the rhythmic beating of boots upon the dry, parched ground, the glare of the sun reflected like a serpentine mirror.

The air was thick with heat, shimmering waves rising from the ground, distorting the horizon. The sky above was an expanse of relentless blue, broken only by the occasional wisp of cloud that did nothing to temper the heat. The sun hung high as it slowly inched towards the west, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch back towards the Godsgrace.

Spearmen formed the bulk of the army, their ranks disciplined. In scale armour that glinted dully in the sunlight, each scale overlapping the next like the hide of a great desert lizard. It was well-suited to the harsh climate, though the heat still made the metal uncomfortable to the touch. The soldiers carried small, round shields made of boiled leather and reinforced with iron, each emblazoned with the sigils of their house – fields of yellow and red and orange.

Their spears, tipped with sharp iron, were held upright, swaying slightly with each step like a field of reeds. The sound of their marching was a constant drumbeat.

The amirs rode on horseback, moving up and down the lines, their eyes keen on the men. They wore light, silken surcoats over their armour, their faces wrapped in scarves that left only their eyes visible. The sand steeds beneath them trotted steadily, their hooves kicking up small clouds with each step.

At the head of the march was Qyle, with his helm resting on the horn of his saddle, so that he could see clearly. His black hair had been freshly shorn around his ears, and he felt the beads of sweat slide down to his shoulders.

Beside him was niece, and youngest amira, Allyria. She strong jaw and crooked nose glistened in the sunlight, her cuirass of copper-coloured disks shone bright in the sun, the gold silks tied with a red sash at her waist. Sheathed in her saddle was not just her scimitar, but also her longspear, oaken-shafted with a curved blade that protruded from a carved sun.

"How do you fare in the heat?" Qyle asked her.

"I am Dornish."

"As are we all, but the Scourge is not the Water Gardens."

Allyria turned to look around. "So you are right!"

The landscape around them was stark and unforgiving. On either side of the Scourge, the ground was cracked and dry, the earth a pale, ashen colour that seemed to drink in the sunlight. Sparse vegetation dotted the landscape – hardy shrubs with gnarled roots that clung stubbornly to life, and the occasional cluster of barbary fig. In the distance, jagged hills rose up, their peaks bleached white by the sun, standing sentinel over the arid plains.

The Scourge itself was a thin ribbon of green in this desert, its banks lined with reeds and the occasional stand of palm trees, their leaves drooping languidly in the heat. The water was a dull, muddy brown, sluggish and warm, but it was a vital resource in this parched land. Small birds flitted among the reeds, their calls a high, thin counterpoint to the low murmur of the river.

"The first march is always hard."

"I enjoy riding. I cannot imagine it will get easier."

"We have yet to reach the Wells. And the second march is the hardest. Tired, hungry, thirsty…" Qyle looked over his shoulder.

The soldiers' faces were grim and set, their eyes focused on the path ahead. The march was gruelling. Sweat poured from the bodies of the younger men, soaking into their tunics and making their armour chafe against their skin. Every now and then, a soldier would reach for the waterskin at his belt, taking a long, grateful draught before passing it along to the next man in line.

The heat became almost unbearable. The soldiers' movements grew slower, their steps more laboured. The amirs barked commands, urging men to keep pace, to stay focused. Qyle whistled and waved over another amir.

"Remind them of the distance to the Wells. Remind the stragglers of their brothers' thirst."

"Yes, my Prince." The amir galloped back to the rear.

"You see, Allyria, Skyreach and Yronwood are strategic stronholds: vital to defending against the Baratheon's. The whip works, but this has the men work together-" Qyle trailed off and looked over to see Allyria drinking from her wineskin. "Allyria."

"Uncle?" Allyria looked over at him.

"Use your ears."

"I find my mouth works better for wine."

"If you are here as amira, you listen to me," Qyle informed her softly.

The landscape began to change as they moved further west. The flat, cracked earth gave way to rolling dunes, the sand a deep, rich red that seemed to glow in the fading light of the afternoon. The air was filled with the scent of dry earth and the faint, metallic tang of the river. The sound of their marching feet was now accompanied by the soft whisper of sand shifting underfoot, the occasional clink of armour as soldiers adjusted their gear.

In the distance, the walls of Castle Wells began to rise against the horizon, a dark silhouette against the blazing sky. The castle was built from the same red stone as the surrounding landscape, its walls thick and imposing, designed to withstand both the harsh elements and the threat of attack. From this distance, it looked almost serene, a fortress of solitude in the midst of the desert, but the soldiers knew better. They could sense the tension in the air, the promise of battle that lay less than a month's march. The promise of shade and rest within the castles along the way spurred them on, a distant goal that seemed almost tantalizingly close.

Qyle finished explaining siege tactics: the importance of controlling the water sources, of using the sands to cover their tracks. He explained the advantage of making camp away from the castles, to ambush supply lines once the enemy had moved further inland. He explained how one should harry when the sun is high in the sky, so that the fleeing enemy would grow weary from thirst, and would soon falter.

"You've never fought the Baratheon's, have you?"

"No living man in Dorne has," Qyle replied. "The Strongarm bore no ill will to us."

"You knew him?"

"Once – when I was far younger than you. He lived in Sunspear after all, remember." Qyle could remember the young man, fierce-looking with his black hair cropped short. Even back then, at the age of five-and-ten, he had stood taller than many of those older than him. He'd laze about in the Sun Hall, drinking strongwine and eating plums and pomegranates. Jynessa had known him better – as had her husband, Nymor.

"I'd like to kill a Baratheon," Allyria mused.

"The storm lords are worth more alive," Qyle informed her. "We can ransom them. The rest, though…"

"What if they surrender? Do we have to keep all of them alive?"

"As I said," Qyle shrugged. "But we shan't be rude. Wage war as Dornishmen, not as a Targaryen dog."

"I'll wage war however I wish," Allyria said. "Perhaps I will take Durran Baratheon's head myself."

"I would not speak so readily: the Strongarm grew bigger and stronger than all men. His son will most likely be the same."

"If you wish to dissuade me, uncle, you are failing," Allyria said, her thin lips curling into a smile.

"It does not matters: Durran Baratheon remains in his keep."

"Your spies tell you this."

"Not mine – your sister's. They told me much of Durran Baratheon, and his brother, Arrec. His soon-to-be wife, the Princess Rhaenerys…"

"Perhaps they can deliver a gift," Allyria grinned, a knowing glint in her eye.

"I believe your sister already attempted this."

"And?"

"And Durran Baratheon is still attempting to conquer us."

"Perhaps he is not quite his father, then," Allyria said, leaning over to Qyle from her horse with her familiar smirk. "Perhaps there is hope I will spear a stag."

"Perhaps, Qyrina, perhaps…" Qyle couldn't help but chuckle. "But is that solely why you fight? To kill Stormlanders?"

"I suppose Reachmen would do just as well."

"So, you war to war?"

"I war because I wish to. And why should I not? Shidaz would tell me that one day we shall see the sun rise and never set. That day may be any, so all should be lived as the last."

"Yes, we may die any day. Is that the fabled wisdom your pit fighter brought across the Narrow Sea?"

"I did not know you already knew this, Uncle. Do you live each life as it might be your last? Do you drink wine, seek pleasure with women? Or men?"

"Each of us would spend our last day differently."

"Then I would spend mine savouring each drop of Stormlander blood I spilled."

Cassandra

Cassandra Baratheon stood in the Lord's Chambers of Storm's End, her red hair pulsing with the light that filtered through the narrow windows. Her storm-green eyes swept across the chambers thick tapestries and dark, age-worn stone walls. It felt like a prison. Each corner whispered of past glories and present sorrows.

Arlan lay in the canopied bed, his once imposing figure now frail and broken. The heavy velvet curtains embroidered with the Baratheon sigil in black and gold thread framed his gaunt face, casting shadows that made him look even more ghostly. His breath came in shallow, laboured gasps, and delirious mutterings. Words tumbled from his lips, half-formed names and fragmented dreams, as he lay dulled by the milk of the poppy that Maester Rickard had administered.

Cassandra's gaze lingered on the array of vials and bottles on the bedside table: a mix of tinctures and potions meant to ease Arlan's suffering. Maester Rickard hovered nearby, his face cold, masking his concern. The sickly sweet scent of the milk of the poppy hung in the air, mingling with the more pungent odors of sweat and sickness.

An ornate rug from Sunspear, a relic of better times, lay beneath the bed, its rich colours faded. A large hearth, carved with intricate designs of stags and thunderbolts, stood cold and empty, the ashes of the last fire a grey smudge against the blackened stone. The chamber was sparsely furnished with high-backed chairs and a writing desk cluttered with scrolls and parchments, many bearing the broken seals of letters from across the Stormlands.

Cassandra's eyes fell on the tapestry above the desk, of their family in happier times. She saw herself, slender and young and beautiful, full of hope. Beside her was the vigorous Arlan, standing a full foot taller than her. On Arlan's right were their two sons, both black-haired and tall. Beside Cassandra was her daughter, dark-haired and long-limbed. And finally, off to the far right, beside her youngest son, was the bastard. She had meant to have him removed from the portrait, but…

The memory felt like a lifetime ago, and the reality of the present moment weighed heavily on her heart.

Despite the grandeur of the room, it felt oppressive, the heavy stone walls closing in on her. The anticipation of Arrec's wedding only added to the tension. The preparations for a second wedding had transformed the castle into a hive of activity. Their stores were almost empty, and Houses Wensington and Bolling had been gracious enough to, on Cassandra's request, bring salted meats and barrels of wine. They had also helped lodge the lesser lords that had travelled from the Crownlands.

Baratheon men were cursed, Cassandra thought. Durran had yearned to wed Alyssa Tyrell, the Rose of the Reach – the most beautiful woman south of the Trident. But he had to content himself with the little septa, Glennys. Arlan had clearly preferred whatever whore he had found north of Storm's End, but had to content himself with Cassandra. Now it was Arrec forced to marry. Just as Durran had been forced to wed to keep the alliance with the Tully's, now it was Arrec that must marry, in order to preserve the alliance with the Crown.

Still, she felt sympathy for Rhaenerys Targaryen, just as she felt sympathy for Glennys Tully. There had been many a time when Cassandra had wondered why Arlan had loved his common-born whore more than her. Perhaps Glennys might wonder why Durran loved another more than her. And perhaps Rhaenerys may come to ponder the same thought in time. At least they were not Arlan: they never actually would sire bastards. And if they did, they would not be as foolhardy as to raise it in the castle walls.

Arrec worried Cassandra, though. He'd clearly been taken in by his father's Dornish views about bastards. But he despised Arlan almost as much as Durran did. He also seemed to despise her. It was a hard thing, Cassandra knew, for a mother to be disliked by her children. She had cared more about them than her father had. She had tried to be the mother she wished her mother would have been if she had lived. Yet, from the way they spoke to her, they would think she had never loved them a day in her life.

'Only fools have foolish thoughts,' Cassandra remembered the round face of her father, with storm-green eyes twinkling. His brown hair fell in sleek waved to his neck, where it curled out onto his ornate gold-thread jerkin.

She shook off the thought, and all that was left in her head was dread: Cassandra's youngest daughter, missing for over a week. The fear gnawed at her. It was the Dornish, Cassandra knew this, but there had been no demands. No sign of her beloved daughter. Sweet, wilful Oraella, with her dark hair and green eyes, was the perfect child of her mother and father.

Arlan's delirious mutterings brought her back to the present. His hand, once strong and commanding, now lay limp on the coverlet, fingers twitching occasionally in his fitful sleep. Cassandra felt something: a strange tangle of love and hatred, but a lingering sense of duty. She had once loved him fiercely, but that love had been eroded by betrayal and resentment. Arlan had not only fathered a bastard while she was in their keep, her belly swollen with their son, but he had chosen to raise the bastard within their home, a constant reminder of his infidelity. As if he was a trueborn son. What if he would one day supplant his brother, just as Baldric the Bold did?

Yet, despite her hatred, a small glimmer of love still flickered within her. It was a love born of shared children, of the kindness he had shown her, once. But the fire had been choked by a cold smog of bitterness over the years. He had struck her, he had ignored her, he had told her, in so many words, that his bastard came before her.

As she turned to leave, the soft rustle of her gown, a deep golden silk from Myr, whispered through the room, and a frail voice crowed from the bed.

"Mother?"

It stopped Cassandra in her tracks. Hearing that word again, in a voice so small and weak. Cassandra had never been able to refuse. She turned back to the bed, her lips pressed into a thin line as she looked down at her husband, his eyes rid and skin pale.

"Mother, is…"

"Lady Elaena passed some time ago," Cassandra reminded him, keeping her voice steady and stern. She could not allow herself to feel pity for him. He had never thought twice about her.

"My… is Erich back, yet?"

Cassandra glanced up to Maester Rickard, who kept his eyes down at the floor. He felt sorry for the man, she could see as much. She supposed the maester had been kept well in their service – she had not been kept well as a wife, though.

"Erich was murdered by the Stark's," Cassandra said, weary of the same old questions he would ask in the small hours of his sleep. "Durran died, too."

"Durran's… not…" Arlan winced as he shook his head. "I tried to do right by them…" he wheezed, "I tried…"

"Oraella is missing. Wouldn't you spare a thought to her, not at all?"

Cassandra's cheek began to twitch, her jaw clenched and she scowled at the man that was meant to be her lord and husband. There was not the slightest bit of recognition at her name on his face. She could tell him how much she detested him, how much he had failed her, and how little he would be missed when he finally did die. But she doubted he would even care. What was the point in telling him any of it?

Arlan's blue eyes finding hers. He lifted up a shaking hand to her cheek. She refused to feel, but her heart began to swell as his face softened as he began to smile. Such a smile that was so warm it could melt all ice in the world: a smile like the sun. He was that young man again that held her close in bed, his gargantuan arms around her, whispering poetry in her ears.

"Daisy," he said softly, "like the daisies in the meadows…"

Cassandra's heart turned to ash. It was the whore he was speaking about. Even on his deathbed, he would have the last laugh. Daisy. To say the common little cunt's name to her face? Or did he truly see her? What was it that had made him so in love with this woman? And why couldn't he feel the same to her? The woman that had stood by his side for years, in sickness and in health. Even now, she still remained at his bedside. She did not know if it was out of duty or guilt or some childish misplaced devotion, but she was still there.

Her hand grasped Arlan's wrist, tightening as hard as she could. He barely even felt it: her fingers would not meet around his limp hand. She wanted to spit at him, hit him, hurt him.

"Perhaps some rest for your Lord Husband, my Lady?" Maester Rickard suggested.

Cassandra dropped Arlan's hand onto the coverlet, glaring down at the man. What a punishment he had been to her. A fury sent by the Seven. And now, he taunted her. His face was so drawn and haggard… he would not be missed today. The corridors outside beckoned, filled with the preparations for the day's celebrations.

It was hard to know what exactly churned within her, a turbulent sea of regret, anger, and a longing for freedom from the man who had once dominated her life. The corridors of Storm's End were alive with activity, but Cassandra felt a profound sense of isolation. Her daughter's disappearance, her husband's illness, and the upcoming wedding all conspired within her. And for the first time, in a long time, she was haunted by a feeling she had tried to swallow.

Cassandra felt lonely.

She walked down the corridor, the sound of her footsteps echoing off the stone walls. She felt a chill in the air, the dampness seeping into her bones. The castle, her castle, now felt like a prison.

"Ah, Lady Baratheon," the clipped Crownlander accent of Prince Jaeghar bounced off the stone walls, and she turned to see the prince walking down the corridor, flanked by Ser Harwin Mooton. The sun beat through the windows against Ser Harwin's shining breastplate, and upon the side of Prince Jaeghar's face that was riddled with long, jagged scars. Cassandra thanked the Seven she had not let herself cry – the last thing she'd want is the dullest Targaryen prying into her family.

"Your Grace," Cassandra grasped her hands and curtsied, bowing her head.

"Your Lord Husband, he…"

"He is resting, Your Grace," Cassandra said, forcing herself to give a polite smile.

Jaeghar's violet eyes flickered across Cassandra's face for a moment before he licked his lips and cleared his throat.

"I believe there's a chamber that has been lent to accommodate any small council meetings. If my Lady would escort me there, I'd be most thankful," he offered her his arm.

This was the role Cassandra played best: the Lady of Storm's End. She plastered on her most polite smile and took his arm, guiding him down the corridor towards the stairs that curled around the Round Hall below.

"The storms have ceased," Jaeghar observed. "A happy omen for my sister's marriage."

The poor dollard did not even realise another storm would arrive in mere hours, as was always the way when summer ended.

"Yes, you'll be leaving today with a whole new family," Cassandra replied. "Perhaps not the brother you expected."

"It seems this has been quite the month for unexpected marriages," Jaeghar nodded. "Unexpected appointments, as well."

Cassandra picked up on that: the tone he had used. Anyone deaf, dumb and blind could tell he did not think Arrec was up to the task. But Cassandra could hear something else in his voice: the ripe stench of envy.

"You do not think he is ready?"

"I do not deny your son is quick-witted – I've never heard another take to speaking Valyrian with wine so quick."

"But?"

"But he is young. He has never left the Stormlands: I don't believe he has the ability to run the Seven Kingdoms." Cassandra kept her eyes fixed to his, unblinking. His gaze wavered and dropped to the floor. "Begging your pardon, my Lady."

"No need for that, Your Grace. You speak truly." She looked up to the door at the end of the corridor. "Perhaps you might stay at his side? Offer advice?"

"Well, I have served on the small council for some time now."

"As a cup-bearer, yes, I have heard. You ought to have learnt much in your time around the table." Cassandra was careful with her words: she was particular, as the young prince had never had a seat at that table. Prince Jaeghar grew quiet, and Cassandra knew she had successfully put him in his place.

They came to the door, which she opened, and inside lay the chamber that her son, Durran, had so often used with his own council. It was a relatively unremarkable chamber, made proper with tapestries of the Last Storm, with a large table carved with the Baratheon stag and draped with yellow silks. The silver bowl was filled with crabapples, apricots, and blackberries.

Sat at the table was Lady Jeyne Frey: a woman who was adorned with much gold finery and a Valyrian gown, her hair falling in a sleek sheet of auburn. At the end of the table was Lord Vaellyn Velaryon, his silver hair tied back as his crown of his head, his violet eyes cast down as he idly examined his nails. At the head of the table, opposite him, was Cassandra's younger son, Arrec. His black hair had been freshly shorn for his wedding later that same day. He already wore his black velvet jerkin with a brocade of golden thread. His blue eyes glanced up at his mother for a brief moment, though he said nothing. He didn't smile at her.

"My Prince," Lady Jeyne stood up, clasping her hands and giving a meek curtsy. Lord Vaellyn stood up and gave a short bow, his fingers still resting on the tabletop. Arrec planted a hand beside his goblet and pushed himself up, all his weight on the table as he bowed.

"Your Grace. Mother…" Arrec said curtly.

"I was just escorting the Prince here."

"How thoughtful. It's rather early in the day for wine," Lady Jeyne simpered. "And we have much to explain to our young Lord Hand."

"I thought I might sit as an advisor," Prince Jaeghar replied, walking forwards to take the seat at Arrec's right: the position for the Hand when the King joined his small council meetings. As Aeric was absent (likely still in his chambers with one of the serving girls, or highborn ladies of the court), Arrec was seated at the head of the table in his stead.

Lady Jeyne's brown eyes studied the prince as he sat down.

"Advise him on what, precisely, Your Grace?"

"On any matters I can."

Cassandra watched her son, waiting to see how he would react. The young prince clearly wanted an elevation from the rank of cupbearer. And offering him a place as an advisor would give him a voice, yet no actual power. The perfect way to placate a highborn clod who paraded around the castle in a gambeson – as if he thought that would make him ready for battle.

"I'd be honoured to hear your counsel. From this night on, we'll be brothers by marriage – and I always trust my family."

Quite the liar, Arrec could be. He'd never particularly liked any of his family. He avoided his father, he ignored his mother, and loathed Durran. He was fond of Oraella, yes, but it was impossible not to be. The only one he truly considered family was not a Baratheon. If the horrid little wretch had pushed to supplant Durran as the heir to Storm's End, Arrec may have been fool enough to support him. He'd lacked the spine that Durran had in abundance. Perhaps that was the reason.

"Well, I think we can…" Lady Jeyne began, settling into her seat when the door slammed open. Ser Harwin Mooton stood forwards, in front of Prince Jaeghar, his sword half-drawn.

Ser Arthor Hightower stood at the door, clasping a small ravenscroll in one hand, held aloft for all to see. His face was one of fury, his brown eyes locked upon Lady Jeyne.

"You harlot!" Ser Arthor shouted, slamming his hand down on the table. A goblet spilled at Lord Vaellyn's side, red wine splashing out across the table. "You witch!"

"Calm yourself, my Lord," Ser Harwin said, loud and clear.

"What is the meaning of this?" Arrec asked.

"Her wretched whoremonger of a son has seized Brandon Stark!"

Arrec's dark brow twitched and he unfurled the ravenscroll, his blue eyes flickering across the message.

"Lord Stark attacked our bannermen," Lady Jeyne replied, "anointed knights. We are within our rights to-"

"Demand her release him," Ser Arthor ordered Arrec. "She's confessed to the crime!"

"A crime has been committed, but we are not sure by whom…" Arrec began.

"Use your head, boy – you think Brandon Stark would attack Rivermen?"

"His father murdered Erich Baratheon," Lady Jeyne pointed out.

"Have him released," commanded Ser Arthor.

"You do not make demands of thecrown, Lord Hightower," Lady Jeyne said tersely.

"The Hand of the King is supposed to be impartial! To remain objective and not favour his family by law!"

"The King is the Hand's family by law, Ser."

"And how does the King answer abduction and unlawful imprisonment?"

"Lord Brandon is our guest, afforded every dignity a man of his birth deserves. Until the King's judgement is rendered."

"Oh, 'your guest', is he…" Ser Arthor scoffed. "Just as Lord Reed was? What offences do you consider dignities?"

"Perhaps you might ask us what your good cousin was thinking when he sought to join his family with the Stark's? Them that truly offended our Lord Hand?"

Cassandra's green eyes fell back to her son. He licked his lips, looking from side to side. He was lost – floundering in the sea at a storm.

"My Lady, why did Lord Brandon attack the Rivermen?"

"I confess I do not know, my Lord. Perhaps we may journey to Riverrun and ask him?"

"Have him released," Ser Arthor said. "This is an affront: to me, to my House, my Lord…"

"My Lord," Cassandra said, her voice strong and sure. Ser Arthor turned around to face her. "You will address my son as 'my Lord', as he now presides over matters as the King would."

"Then he-"

"And when you are in my Lord Husband's home, you will lower your voice, Ser, else you will find yourself on the Kingsroad before this meeting has concluded." Cassandra glared at the man. "You have a right to present your dispute to the Iron Throne. And you have done so. Now I would ask you to leave and rest, as you are clearly too tired to sit on the small council today."

"Excuse me?" Ser Arthor scowled at her, his cheek twitching in rage.

"Ser Harwin, would you please assist Ser Arthor Hightower in finding his way back to his chambers? It has been rather dangerous as of late, and he deserves no less than a Kingsguard to escort him."

Underneath Ser Harwin's shining steel helm, his honey-brown eyes flickered to the prince as he cleared his throat and spoke ever-so-politely.

"I beg your pardon, my Lady, but I am sworn-"

"Now, if you please, Ser."

Ser Harwin cleared his throat and gave a stiff nod, stepping forwards to Ser Arthor and gesturing to the door. Ser Arthor scoffed and pointed at Lady Jeyne for a moment, pondering on what he might say. He finally gave a grunt and turned to leave, storming away down the corridor.

Rhaenerys

Rhaenerys Targaryen lay beneath the light linen sheets, staring at the canopy above the bed. The bedchamber in Storm's End was oppressively trifling. No fireplums or golden finery. No grand tapestries that spanned the length of the wall. No Tyroshi carpets, no jewelled plates. The thick stone walls holding in the chill of the sea, even on the night of supposed 'celebration'.

The bed itself was enormous, its dark oak posts intricately carved with thunderclouds, lightning bolts, and antlers. The mattress, stuffed with the finest goose feathers, offered little comfort to Rhaenerys: The sheets, though soft and warming, felt like chains binding her to a future she had not chosen.

A single window, narrow and tall, was set deep into the thick walls, framed by heavy drapes that did little to keep out the draft. The glass was fogged by the night's damp, blurring the view of the restless sea beyond.

"Rain and thunder, pain and blunder," the fool had said – a drunken little dwarf in red-and-green motley – as he danced around the table. "She'll rage in bed, and bash his head, dragons don't like rain and thunder!"

Everyone had laughed at the table. Lady Cassandra, the old hag, had tittered quietly on the other side of the table.

But what was worse was that she had no-one at the table. The valonqar, Jaeghar, was there, of course, but he was dull-minded and preferred to hit hammers upon anvils and ride horses instead of dragons. Vaegon was already asleep, and had to be carried up to his chambers. Her father had disappeared into the teeming crowds and taken well to the younger daughters of an unnerved Lord Wensington. She couldn't care less if any of them had left the castle: she had only wanted one man there: Aerion. Her brother. Her lover. Her Aegon.

He'd disappeared. Left his bedchambers unoccupied and disappeared from Storm's End. Perhaps he had no wish to see her wed an Andal with but a single drop of Targaryen blood. Or perhaps he'd decided he had no use for her now.

She had walked through the sept in her gown ivory samite, cloaked with the red three-headed dragon on a black field: the sigil of her house. The cloak had been pulled from her shoulders, and the Baratheon boy had hobbled around on his cane, and slung the golden velvet around her shoulders. She thought Aerion may burn down the castle walls and rescue her, and they could fly away to Lys or Pentos together. But instead, she'd stood there, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes as she realised it: he wasn't going to save her. He wasn't going to marry her.

He never planned to.

Rhaenerystold herself she would not weep – she was the blood of the Dragon, and the Dragon did not wail. But it had not stifled her tears before the septon. He had not stopped – she had not even known if she wanted him to stop.

Arrec had pressed his lips against hers quickly: he had not tried to give her a deep kiss: she may have bitten him if he had. They'd quickly moved into the feast, where they were presented with their gifts: a pair of goblets, inlaid with rubies in the shape of a dragon on one, and onyx in the shape of a stag on the other – a gift from Lord Stokeworth. Several barrels of Arbor gold from Lord Cargyll, and a tiara set with a single sapphire from House Velaryon.

And soon enough, her father had returned to the table and called out for attention. Before he continued on, Lord Arrec had stood up and spoken quietly with him. Rhaenerys' violet eyes had narrowed as she watched her father give a sympathetic smile and pat the young man on the shoulder, giving him a light slap on the cheek.

"We'll forego the bedding, and simply wish my daughter, and my new son, a good night," her father had decreed. Everyone had raised their goblets and wished Rhaenerys and Arrec good health, then they had been escorted. Rhaenerys had felt safer – more sure of herself when Ser Lucan trailed behind her. But her father had called out Ser Lucan and demanded he cross blades with Ser Osric Royce before loudly wagering two hundred gold dragons on Ser Osric – a wager that Lady Jeyne Frey had taken eagerly.

Rhaenerys had stood in the bedchamber as some of the younger noblewomen of the Crownlands and Stormlands undressed her. She didn't have the fire inside her; she could hear Aegorax out there, somewhere, flying and calling out for Gaelithox, asking where he was. She didn't even have Ser Lucan with her. She didn't have anything or anyone.

As they'd removed her linen kirtle, she'd failed to hold back the tears again. She bowed her head as the tears slid from her eyes and sheepishly made her way into the bed, pulling the linen sheets up over her pert, round breasts. The women had curtsied and left, wordlessly, leaving her in the cold bed, her legs folded up as she stared at the canopy above her.

A candelabra on the table beside the bed cast flickering shadows, its flames dancing wildly, mocking her. The chamber was sparsely furnished, save for a massive chest of dark wood at the foot of the bed, a writing desk that bore parchment and a silver bowl of apples and medlars, and a high-backed chair near the hearth. The fire within struggled to warm the room, its embers glowing weakly.

Rhaenerys shivered, not just from the cold. Her thoughts drifted back to the wedding feast. The Round Hall of Storm's End had been filled with laughter and music, the tables laden with food. Roasted venison, served with baked garlic and fresh thyme, had taken centre stage, surrounded by platters of honeyed duck, buttered carrots, and a plethora of fruits from the Reach. Yet, amidst all the opulence, she had tasted nothing. Her appetite had vanished the moment she had sat next to Arrec.

Arrec Baratheon, with his sullen demeanour and brooding blue eyes, had barely looked at her throughout the evening. He had spoken only when necessary, his words curt and cold. They had not even tried to make conversation, the silence between them palpable and heavy. Rhaenerys had felt every second of it.

She had scanned the hall repeatedly, hoping to catch a glimpse of Aerion. Aerion, with his silver hair and lilac eyes, had captured her heart long before this marriage was arranged. They had shared stolen moments, secret kisses, and promises whispered in the dark. But tonight, he was absent, leaving her to face this alone.

The door to the chamber creaked open, and Rhaenerys' heart skipped a beat. Her heart fell into her stomach and she pulled the sheets tighter around her body, tensed with fear and resignation. Footsteps echoed in the room, slow and deliberate, marked by a sharp stab of the cane against the stone floor. She closed her eyes, wishing herself anywhere but here.

"Your Grace," Arrec said as he walked inside, waving off his attendants. He leant against the chair for a moment, staring into the flames. He was completely still – it were as though he were trying to see something in the fire. Then, he moved up his left hand and began to unlace his jerkin.

His jerkin, doublet, boots, and breeches were left by the chair as he walked over to her in naught but his brais. He pulled off his shirt, and Rhaenerys was surprised to see a smattering of hair sprouting on his chest and around his navel. She was not sure how she felt about that.

Arrec's presence filled the space, a looming shadow that brought no comfort. He did not speak as he approached the bed. The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge, his weight causing the bed to shift.

Rhaenerys did not want him to touch her. She had to make him not touch her.

"I-" He began.

"I'm not a maid," Rhaenerys informed him. She looked up at his blue eyes that were locked on her. He looked angry – or perhaps insulted. He was thinking about something – likely whether or not he would carry out his marital duty. She had to sway him further. "I've had a man inside me."

He licked his lips and glanced over to the closed door.

"You shouldn't say such things," Arrec murmured quietly. "They might be listen-"

"And?" Rhaenerys hoped her voice would not break. "I've had him inside me several times. And you cannot change that."

The firelight cast harsh shadows on Arrec's face, illuminating the tension in his jaw and the hardness in his eyes. There was no tenderness there, no hint of the way Aerion had looked at her.

He turned around and stood up, walking over to the writing desk and reached for the bowl of fruit, moving around the contents before giving a small sigh and pulling out a small knife.

Rhaenerys backed up in her bed as her eyes grew wide: what did he mean to do to her? "I'll scream," she threatened.

Arre responded by holding up the short, thin knife. "What exactly do you think I could do with this?"

"I don't care, you're not going to."

Arrec took a long breath and clenched his jaw before walking over and sitting down on the bed, the sheets growing taut from her knees to beneath his body. He reached out to grip the sheets with his other hand.

"Let go." Was he ordering her?

"I'll call Ser Lucan."

Arrec pulled back the bedsheets. She wanted to cover her pale breasts, the short silver hairs around her cunt. She wanted to curl up into a ball. But she would not show any more fear to him: not to a cripple. She glared at him, ready for him to try and use his fruit knife, to try and force himself upon her.

Arrec's hand flexed around the knife, but his eyes did not run over her body. Instead, he simply moved her legs and put his own lame leg up on the bed. He took the knife and carefully slit part of his thigh with a wince. Blood began to trickle down onto the bedsheets, bloodying them. Arrec's eyes softened for a fleeting moment, a crack in the armour of his indifference. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the cold mask he wore so well.

"What sort of fucking Andal tradition is-" Rhaenerys began.

"It's for your reputation." Arrec's blue eyes fixed on hers. "I do not with to lie with you, Your Grace. And you clearly do not wish to lie with me. So let us speak no more about it."

He stood up and limped over to the writing desk, sitting down and wrapping silk around his thigh, tying it tightly. He made his way back over to the bed quietly sat down on the other side.

Rhaenerys turned her head away, staring at the flickering flames in the hearth. She wished for the strength to speak, to voice her fears and desires, but the words would not come. Instead, she remained silent, trapped in a marriage that felt more like a prison. The sounds of Storm's End continued their relentless assault on her senses. The wind howled outside, the waves crashed, and somewhere in the distance, a raven called mournfully. Rhaenerys Targaryen lay beneath the heavy velvet sheets, dreading the dawn of a new day, and the life that awaited her.

A shriek and a scream pierced the silence outside. Arrec sprang from the bed and went to run for his cane, but instead leg buckled and he fell to the stone floor, groaning.

"Guards!" A voice called from outside. "Murder!"

"Ser Lucan!" Rhaenerys shouted, as she swung her legs out of bed, onto the cold stone floor. "Ser Lucan!"

Arrec was once again on his feet, his breeches half-on. He picked up his cane and hobbled towards the door. Shifting his weight onto the other leg, he swung the cane up high, as if he held a sword, and opened the door, peering outside. He glanced back to Rhaenerys.

"Stay here, lock the door."

The moment he was outside of the chamber, Rhaenerys threw her kirtle over her head and picked up a thick velvet robe, pulling it over her shoulders. She stepped towards the door and winced, looking down to see the fruit knife beneath her heel. She stooped down to pick it up and proceeded to the door, where the screams had quietened. Her hand pressed against the heavy door and she peered outside.

She followed the sounds of footsteps and barking orders to search the castle. As she came to first of the steps leading down to the lower floors, she looked down to see Arrec there beside Durran, flanked by Baratheon guards. Between them all, on the last step of the spiral staircase, was a body. A body of a beautiful woman, in gold jewellery and a once-blue gown. Now blood had soaked her Valyrian cotte scarlet. Her auburn hair stuck to the sodden silk.

The body of Lady Jeyne Tully lay at the bottom of the stairs, her head twisted around over her shoulder, her leg contorted, and a dining knife stuck into her back.

Well, that's all for now! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter – stuff has happened, so… I'd love to hear your reactions and thoughts!

This has been a long crazy ride, and I've already written the first POV of the last chapter, so, there shouldn't be too long of a wait. Maybe… two weeks? We'll see.

Okay, it's nearly 5am and I've not slept. Sayonara, sweethearts!

R.