The Tartered Dragon - Aegon, Son of Baelon

by mootjeman7

An man from our world is reborn in the world of ASOIAF and decides to make the best out of it through adventure yet it never is that easy, even for a third prince. OC-SI - Overlaps with HOTD.

30. Chapter 29

romanomichael391 - Probably won't a Velaryon SI. If were to do another SI in ASOIAF, it'd be during the time of the Freehold. There is a Laenor SI but it's been inactive for more than a year I think.

zilla boi- If you have access to Alternate History forum, you can find a map there.

Tony McNucklz - The Summer Islanders won't exactly betray. Hard to betray those you fought with. The freed slaves aren't at fault, not really, and neither is the army. Grievances shouldn't exist to the point of sabotage for no gain. Lys will be fine ;). RE Viserys and Rhaenyra not being respected as designated heir, yes, he is a fool. he should have at least enshrined it in law but we all know he's only doing it because its Rhaenyra and not any other reason. It's honestly a bit crazy.

coldblue2015 - Re Johanna, yes, Johanna will have to be in top form to navigate out of the situation. This chapter shows that well ;). RE: Baelon. Yes, Daemon is being clever here whilst also shoring up his son's claim. Vermithor is only second to Vhagar. It also helps that he's loving breaking the Hightowers who he hates more than anything else. Question 1: Aegon has a plan for the Valyrian steel. Something like that. Question 2: Fascination and gossiping. But it doesn't really affect them. Not really.

Bio RL - nearly the size of Caraxes but not as skinny. Book Caraxes. Not the puny thing in the show.

Trado - Yes, Johanna realises that she needs to do a lot more to shore up everything. She starts that in this chap ;). Re Aegon: Aegon doesn't want to show up his men especially since he's got so much of the Valyrian Steel. It's bad form to do so, haha. He'll use a sword though much later. Re the Greens: Not a POV for a few chaps, im afraid but yes, you can understand their thinking. Viserys will be pissed but only shortly. He'll be happy for Rhaenyra, certainly. The Good Queen is a great epithet to imagine for his 'only child'.

LongingResider - Westeros is in a era of peace with children growing up. I like the dichotomy, honestly. Brutal war in Essos versus peaceful but growing tensions. By the time Aegon returns, it'll be interesting for everyone...lol. Baelon is a decent dude, for sure. Shame the shit he's got to deal with.

Everyone else, thank you for your reviews and comments, I always read them even if I don't respond to them. As always, please enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think.

Note: If you would like to read ahead, the next three chapters after this chapter are available on P. .^T.^R.^E.^O.^N./ Boombox117

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Late 112 AC – Tyrosh, The Palace of Trade Princes

Aeren Santhrys POV (A Tyroshi High Councillor of the Triarchy)

Through the velvet chiffon blinds of his palanquin, he saw they were making for the final stretch towards the Palace as they were carried onto Viothrys Way, the heart of all that was important in Tyrosh, the Palace's looming in the far distance.

"Hmm. The streets have yet to bloom as normal."

He turned his eyes towards the companion in his palanquin. Clad in loose garments braided with gold and silver in elaborate Tyroshi arch-like patterns, sat one of ten other Tyroshi High Councillors, Magister Brathelys.

He was a man in his forties, a touch of grey in his molten gold hair, clean-shaven that made the folds of tight skin on his face more prominent and more severe.

"Expected." Aeren said calmly and easily despite the gravity of all that transpired, his eyes veering to watch the Way move through the velvet blinds.

When the accursed rumours of the misdeeds of the Targaryen in Slaver's Bay reached the shores of Tyrosh, they had moved quick to ensure that any misguided thoughts were quelled and silenced, and, it had worked.

The captains of the fleets and the guards made example of criminal hundreds as words spread to remind all that the slaves held a debt, and until that debt was paid, like so many others in the past had achieved, they would be kept to their tasks.

They'd even freed a number of slaves to 'show' that freedom through hard work was possible and not a rumour – many of them sailors and guards – a reminder to all that Tyrosh was not cruel and unreasonable, and the bribing of priests and religious leaders of the major faiths had been successful, the centuries long relationship paying off for they quelled the fervour of the slaves with warnings of ill tidings and terrible bodings.

They also enforced the cheapening of prices to plays and luxury foods like honeyfingers and the like permitting slaves to partake in rare delicacies, with of course, a great deal encouragement of their good masters.

All of that had calmed the situation, and even when rumours – which they worked to deny and deny and mock and mock, largely successful – of the deceitful Braavosi supporting the misdeeds of the Targaryen found itself on their shores, it did nothing to relinquish the grip they held on Tyrosh.

The meetings they held as well, at the Palace, had been less torturous than usual, given the severity of the Targaryen impact not only on their trade, but on their very power. Tyrosh' success in dealing with the problem before it became a problem had won their side a great deal of esteem and influence, no doubt helped by Myr's rather more chaotic means to quell the dissension of this travesty.

And yet, for all of their success, they had failed to see what transpired in Lys coming, a disaster of grotesque proportion.

No, he thought to himself with a contemptuous tang to this thoughts, they should have seen it coming, for that Andal whore had worked her way up, for years, to usurp beyond that was which for her to usurp, the news of this liberation no more than an opportunity for her to sate her cavernous hunger that resembled the cunt a thousand men breached open.

The Lysene had entertained her, at the start, allowing her to grow her whorehouses after she'd purchased her freedom, watching on amused as she fought with respectable families for control – and winning – and years later, she was so ingrained into Lys that unseating her and her supporters was akin to fostering a brutal civil war.

It would have been better for Lys to have fallen like that, than the travesty of Lys' supposed slave rebellion championed by her – and there was no doubt that Aegon Targaryen had a hand in what was caused.

That news could not be stopped from entering Tyrosh, not when Lysene ships, given freedom to dock and without inspection, brought word of it and some of the few noble families that managed to escape, though most did not do so wholly with their families.

He should have had them all killed, the fools they were, along with the fools that passed for High Councillors from Lys.

Matters were precarious, a hundred fold more than before, and though they had the city under control, it would only take one damn instance, a martyr or a damn fool killing the wrong people, slave or noble or freeborn, and it could all descend into a bloodbath.

The religious leader and the priests were cooperating, their aid almost as important as the thousands of guards and sailors and captains that led them, in ensuring that this bloodbath would not happen.

For now, Tyrosh was continuing on, caught in this limbo of a kind, a limbo the High Council sought to destroy with definitive action against this aberration that was Lys.

This was what this meeting was for, now that it was largely agreed, finally, that for the sake of all, Lys had to be brought to heel, in whatever way possible.

The Lysene nobles and High Councillors that yet lived had accepted the terms in which Lys had to concede, terms that would see their legacies forever cursed by their successors, but it was that…or death and they'd simply install Myrrish and Tyroshi in Lys.

The only reason they had chosen that route, was because they, Myr and Tyrosh, would not allow either of them the chance to take Lys under their control, and neither wanted the Triarchy to break, not now, not at this point where things could truly go much worse for them, especially if Volantis managed to take advantage of this grotesque circumstance.

Damn Lysene…

Damn that Targaryen.

Curse that family.

It wasn't bad enough for Daemon Targaryen to threaten Tyrosh and its trade existentially, forcing them to pretend to agree to a treaty, but now the forgotten brother was threatening their very existence with his plots!

He'd not considered, truly, that the stories of Slaver's Bay may have been true, after all, word had spread too fast far too suspiciously and it came from Braavos, a place that was as far from Slaver's Bay as Slaver's Bay was from Yi-Ti.

He'd learned that it all stemmed from a delegation from the third Targaryen brother, and he considered then that it was all but a plot targeted against Myr and by extension against the Triarchy, in order to weaken Myr in this bloodfeud, and the deceitful Braavosi, the chief beneficiary of all that transpired – their seizing of the glass industry – were all too happy to sink Myr without lifting a single finger.

He - and the rest of the High Councillors – were wrong…incredibly wrong. They had taken the threat of this Aegon Targaryen too lightly, and now…they were paying for the price of their oversight.

'The Myrrish better ensure the blades they hired would find purchase in the neck of that bastard' he thought hatefully to himself.

Before the damn Targaryen brings an army of slaves to their gates.

"We must bring Lys to heel." He said, his resolve hard and unyielding. Lys was like a beacon of hope to the wastrels, and until it was extinguished, it would continue to light that beacon in the dark of the wastrels' hearts.

"If Iranys fails to convince them of the reassignment, it will a be hard task to gather a strong enough host to take Lys." Brathelys remarked harshly, the rings on his hand glimmering as he flicked them irritated.

Iranys was the most powerful High Councillor from Myr, with family ties to all but a few of the noble families in Myr. He was directly and indirectly the man who could steer Myr onto a path. It was only a shame that he was partly responsible for the mess that Myr got them all in.

The High Councillors of Myr were reluctant to part with the sellswords, not only because they feared leaving Myr undefended against Aegon Targaryen.

There was almost no talking to them, about this. No amount of rationalising that it would take many moons for Aegon's army to even march to Myr and there was also the fact that Volantis and its daughter-cities were in the way, who themselves would be existentially threatened by the Targaryen's misdeeds.

And Tyrosh could not recruit too many of the freeborn – thousands of young freeborn men already been recruited into the navy and guard duties – lest they be unable to quell rebellion at home.

A similar circumstance in Myr, where they were too outnumbered by the slave folk by three to one, which was they needed the sellswords to be the core of the invasion forces.

The Myrrish knew that too but the painted bastards were being difficult. Their arguments were hollow, even delivering an argument that the Volantene would cut a deal with the Targaryen for Myr was his most bitter enemy, so were they paranoid and self-centred that all of the events that were transpiring were linked to them and them alone.

"They will." They must. He eyed Brathelys. "The offer we've presented them cannot be denied." Tyrosh's relationships with Qohor and Norvos was friendly, far friendlier than that between them and Myr, who was oft belligerent with them.

They, the Tyroshi conclave, had sent a delegation to both Free Cities, to present a great offer to hire sellswords and soldiers from their cities, who would protect Myr's territory whilst the sellswords were away on Lysene business.

They had little doubt that both cities would agree, for there was no doubt they too would be greatly unhappy with the affairs that the Targaryen was stirring in Essos.

The destruction of Slaver's Bay was going to harm trade beyond measure, and the slave estates on the Disputed Lands would not be able to deal with demand that'd be necessary…and more importantly, the Dothraki could be stirred into becoming a great problem for everyone, with Slaver's Bay, their main buyers of captured peoples, were no more there to take their excess trophies in exchange for goods.

They may well decide to take goods from the rest of Essos with renewed fervour.

And the last time that happened, Kingdoms had fallen and Free Cities like Essaria were destroyed. Though they may be savages, they were savages that ought to be kept distracted and full.

And all of the Free Cities knew that.

"And Iranys knows that the dangers disagreement will bring to Myr." Aeren said coldly. Self-centred they may be, the Myrrish were almost at least a good deal amount responsible for the precarious situation they were all in.

An insinuation here about 'reconsidering the Triarchy', an insinuation there about 'coming to an agreement with the Targaryen', was all that was needed to make Iranys understand that they well end up alone to face the threat of Aegon Targaryen.

It would be what they deserve for their failure.

They could not resist provoking the Targaryen when he'd perched in the Summer Isles, and doing so with such a half-measure.

Had they managed to kill him for the damage the Braavosi and the Targaryen had done to Myr, all of this would have been avoided but no…they decided to such a fucking terrible job that not only left the Targaryen knowing their involvement, but also left him with years to plot, and it appeared the damn Myrrish unleashed a nightmare of an enemy.

They'd warn the Myrrish that it was a foolish gambit, when they'd approached Tyrosh for support.

Especially since at that point, they were at war with Daemon Targaryen and the Velaryons, backed by Braavosi gold, but they did not listen and look where they all were now.

There was serious debate about pulling Tyrosh out of the Triarchy and declare neutrality, keeping their control over Tyrosh with forces and navy intact, something that they believed they could do even if full-blown rebellion was to take place.

The only reason he did support this was because Myr was still useful and that there was too much luck involved in getting their ideal situation.

After all, they were not in the same precarious situation as Myr were likely to be in. Not even close.

If their assassination attempts failed, and Aegon Targaryen crossed the Rhoyne, Tyrosh would at that point pull out of the Triarchy and declare neutrality and make 'concessions', and remain patient until the dust settled and then mop up afterward.

With Lys weakened greatly, and Myr sacked, with the great possibility that Volantis may well have a fate like that was promised of Myr and Lys, they would be left unrivalled for decades to come…and likely, they could even take full control over the heel of Essos…mayhaps even Lys and Myr fully under their control.

Mayhaps even Volantis.

That was perhaps the greatest boon in all of this, that should the Targaryen and his army survive to pass over the Rhoyne and survive the Myrrish scorpions, Tyrosh had done nothing to earn the ire of the Targaryen.

He did not believe that the Targaryen was fighting a war against slavery nor did he believe the Targaryen was building an Empire.

His want of an alliance with Braavos was proof for the Braavosi were the last to suffer a Valyrian Empire reborn, and the reason why he believed the Targaryen did not believe in ending slavery was because of this Elamaerys, where the Targaryen had relocated the bulk of his people – and family much to Myr's disappointment – where no doubt he was to rule.

One man could not keep an empire so large and distant from one another.

Not even Old Valyria managed such a feat and from the rumours that come from Braavos, focused as it is on liberation and more importantly retribution for it seems the Slaver Cities had collaborated with Saan and Myr – he did not believe the denials of the Myrrish High Councillors – so it was clear where this Targaryen stood.

And with that in mind, they could come unscathed if they were smart about it all.

Staying in the Triarchy was the best course of action with the best possible gains…especially if they ensured that Myr…continued to make questionable decisions without cost to Tyrosh, reducing the element of luck.

And if the Targaryen perished at any point before he even reached the gates of Myr, they would have the Myrrish indebted to them and within their influence.

Yes, for the long and short term, it was better to stay in the Triarchy, and they would start their climb to ascendancy with burning out the hope in Lys.

Brathelys pursed his lips, his eyes veering away to look through the velvet blinds as he spoke "It's unusual to be so unaware on the day of the council meeting."

With how…fractious the High Council can be, self-interested with many plots against this or that or against everyone, there was always bound for information to leak through. Yet, today, there was nothing.

Brathelys eyed, a faint smirk seen dancing at the edge of his turned away face. "It seemed even your informants were purged amongst the Myrrish."

"I have no informants amongst the ranks of our allies, Brathelys. I wouldn't do such a thing." Aeren said easily and the faint smirk grew on Brathelys' face.

Truth be told, Iranys was…effective in getting his Councillors to form rank.

The old man could be wily and ruthless when he wanted to be, as shown in the purges he'd instigated in the days since the last meeting, accusations of collaborating with traitorous Lysene like that whore or her whore Rogare bankers or with the merchants that once worked under the Targaryen.

He had not heard, not exactly, the decision of the Myrrish, the only decision they could reasonably take without destroying the remains of the Triarchy, but he had heard enough that he knew that they would get what they'd want.

And that, Aeren thought, was enough for now.

They made it through the Way, arriving at the square in front of the Palace of Trade Princes, a marvel of artistry.

The Palace was a masterpiece of marble, made entirely of gleaming marble from the ancient Choraene mines at the western fringes of the Orange Shore.

Two and hundred spires, tall and short, peaked all throughout the Palace, and statuettes, of dragons and gryphons, whole and broken, all watched the many gardens that laced throughout the palace like golden threads weaved through the most exquisite clothing.

Stained glass windows, depicting the great Magisters of their age – those who managed to die in old age, die with their legacy intact and died without powerful enemies bloodthirsty enough to bleed out all reference and legacy out from Tyrosh – adorned the interior of the Great Chambers that guided one to the marbled steps to the Saffron Hall, where the High Council sat to deliberate.

The Palace had been an estate built by some Dragonlord, long, long ago, in the early centuries of Tyrosh' establishment, and had been used during the age of the Freehold, as a place for Dragonlords to reside when they came to the stronghold.

The many gardens that dotted all over the palace had once been stables and entrances to tunnels – which led to underground caverns but now, the deepest parts were part of the sewage system, and others where they kept brandies and wines aging – for their dragons, a reminder of the military outpost it had once been.

Soon he settled in his seat in the Saffron Hall, a hall that was a monument to affluence and power, for the marble walls were impregnated with gilded veins and etchings of crimson patterns amidst a sea of violet waves and silken scarfs that stretched all around the walls and across the domed surface of the ceiling.

The table, set at the centre of the Hall, was round and unblemished black granite, the centre hole, beyond the edges the several armlengths wide table from outside to inside, was the ruins of a map that once showed the image of all that was within the territory of the Freehold.

The story goes that in the days and weeks after the Doom happened, there had been several Dragonlords in Myr, and, when they gathered to decide a course of action, the gates to this Hall had been burst open and the Dragonlords slaughtered, with sword and fire, and it is said, that some of the reds that were on the ruins of the map, was that of dried Dragonlord blood.

His eyes were cold and uncaring as he traced them across the hard looks of the Myrrish Councillors and the self-important faces of the Lysene, and soon, the meeting began in earnest.

The Myrrish blustered and the Lysene howled and the Tyroshi jeered and provoked, the same always, the same performances, the same idiocies, but the meats of it all, beneath the skin, was addressed in the opening words of one of the Myrrish Councillors, one that all but confirmed that they accepted the ultimatum from Tyrosh.

After all of that blustering had ended, the conversation turned, the mummer play ended, and, it was during all of this discussion, that he felt rocked in his chair.

"What was that?!" one of the councillors said in cried alarm and then, when another quake occurred, one that sounded a lot nearer, felt nearer, did cries of alarm make way for concern shouts that they were under attack, and there was only kind of attack that could spell so much damage.

Dragon.

And, just after he thought that, he found himself out of his seat among crumbled stone and shattered wood, his eyes gleaming with emerald fire seen amidst glowing cracks, and the last thing he'd thought, he'd feared he'd ever think, was that he did not want to die, when he succumbed into blackness.

-Break-

Late 112 AC – Kings Landing

Rhaenyra POV

Her horse came a slowing gallop, slowing on the path towards the islands of pavilions and tents, makeshift blacksmiths nestled in between men of suit and men of hope, her grip tightening on the reins of her gentle black silken destrier.

"Is it just my eyes, good ser, or are there fewer fortune and glory seekers than the last my father threw a celebration for a brother mine?" she remarked as her eyes waded across the pavilions.

Though there were plenty of competitors, for there were scores upon scores of pavilions, it seemed…far less than the tourneys of years before. She remembered well, when her father threw a tournament in name of her yet-born brother, Aemon, when she could not see an end to the city of pavilions that'd been raised then.

Even the tourneys her father threw for Alicent's sons Aegon and Aemond, seemed as if it had twice the numbers today of Houses and knights in attendance.

Her eyes caught the heraldry of striking yellow with what looked red spots, House Ambrose of the Reach, three black stripes, no lances upon a field of rose, House Gaunt of the Crownlands. There were more such heraldries, that of Tarth, Wylde, Staunton, Reyne, three score more such Houses of repute, and many times that heraldries she could not care to list or remember.

The only ones worth noting, as they rode further into the pavilion grounds, was that of the golden lion flagging in the morning winds, and the golden rose of the Tyrells in the distance, the first time she'd noted it seen at one of these tourneys.

Still, far fewer than in the past.

Mayhaps the Lords were getting tired to come to another tourney called in celebration of a Hightower son, another son born from the cunt of Alicent. Probably deciding that they'd take part in the next one, she thought morosely.

"I couldn't say, my Princess." Ser Harrold Westerling said above the hubbub and noise that surrounded them as their party rode further into the pavilion grounds, amidst a sea of smells of food and ale tainted with a unhealthy dose of ordure.

Some of the knights and knights-to-be noticed her presence, calls of her name and the given name by the masses, ringing quietly. "My eyes rarely allow me to notice more than the backs and the surroundings of my Princess and the royal family."

The guards in front of her trotted slower and the guards behind her and at her sides, closed closer, warnings clear in their voices as the words 'Make way for the Crown Princess!' were bellowed.

She turned her head, smiling amused at the white-haired knight, who, despite not looking it, stoic of face, sweeping of eyes, no doubt said so his words with at least a morsel of dry humour. As he always tended to do.

"Ah, have no worry, good ser, I shall note such details, now and later when I reign, assured as I am in my safety with your eyes watching my back and my surroundings." She said as the old knight's horse trotted closer to hers.

"I fear my bones will long have called the earth home by then, my Princess."

"Perish the thought." Rhaenyra said with outward jest, keeping the middling dread from showing. Ser Westerling had always been around, since the first of her memories, always safeguarding her and her mother.

Ser Crabb and Ser Redwyne, two others she liked and always remembered ever-present in the fond times, had already died, their positions filled by the young Cargyll twins, and the thought of Ser Westerling, her most favourite, dying on her was not one she enjoyed, not at all.

"You'll always be around, good ser. Your Princess demands it of you."

She earned a short look from him, one thrice mixed, exasperation, amusement and mayhaps she wondered fondness, but the look faded as he spoke, lost completely by the time he finished. "You have my word I will try my damnedest."

They soon arrived at the pavilion that she had set out for, and, as the Royce guards bowed and one entered the pavilion, she eyed the heraldries. A heraldry of black iron studs on bronze stood proudly aside that of the red three-headed dragon on black. She half-thought he'd have the personal sigil on display the court thought he ought to have, the bronze dragon with Targaryen red flames on a field of black.

She landed on her feet as she unhorsed herself from atop her dear Midnight, and she, after stroking the glimmering silken coat of her destrier, she handed the reins over to one of the guards, and turned towards the pavilion, where now Baelon, clad in chainmail, stood alongside a man in armour the colours of House Royce, a man that seemed to be ten or a few more years older than Baelon, surrounded by a half a dozen of House guards, all bowing before her.

Baelon was tall, taller than she was, four years his elder, though not by much.

"Princess." It was Baelon who spoke up and the first of the men, his violet eyes, the same as that of her father's, that of Daemon's, to meet her gaze.

It wasn't the only feature that came from his father.

Though he looked to be on the cusp of manhood, there were signs still present of his boyishness in his cheeks, cheeks that bore the tangs of youth, they did little to hide who his father. Beyond the obvious of his eyes, his colouring, the mouth and the lips, even the smirk he'd shown two nights ago when Daemon told a story of accomplishment back in the Vale, was the same as that of his father.

That dark curls that hung below his jaw were some of the only markings that spoke of his Royce heritage…and she was not…overly disappointed when she first set eyes upon him, as much as she feared she might the day Daemon came with Baelon on his heels.

Comely, yes perhaps, she thought back on the description Laena had offered, but the promise of more was there when full grown…just as there was more to him personally with the feat that accomplished with Vermithor.

Kind and noble…mayhaps there was some great deals of daring in there too.

"We…I…did not expect for a visit from you, my Princess." Baelon said cautiously, his eyes a picture of wary curiosity.

Though Baelon has been here for four days, they admittedly did not spent much time together, some of it, of course, was partly due to her father's displeasure with Daemon with what transpired at the dragonpit.

The Hightower cunt was also greatly displeased, at least that was what she was hearing and from the frigidness and stiffness she'd seen from the women the one times they were made to suffer to dine since, she had little doubt that her father succumbed to the bitch's shrieks, arranging dining apart.

The other part, of course, was Baelon spending much time in the yards and with his newly bonded dragon, consigning their times together mostly when they were in the presence of their fathers, leaving little time for private conversation.

Still, she did not mind it at all, and, though her fears over Baelon's…suitability were lessened, they were still there, and mayhaps, even if his status as dragonrider was pleasing, privately she thought, it also made her more wary of him too.

She was to be Queen, and Baelon was meant to be her consort, but she could see the looks some gave Baelon, appraising looks, looks that she wondered if they were meant for more.

Was he still the kind and noble Baelon she knew of her letters? Or was he more of the daring in person, like he shown himself to be? Daring…dangerous?

There was some irony, she thought to herself, that she was hoping that he was of the simply good she once feared him to be, instead the likeness of his father.

"Of course you wouldn't" she offered with a charming smile "Otherwise it wouldn't be a surprise now would it?" she posed before she quickly moved on, gesturing to Ser Westerling "the Lord Commander has oft fought in melees, and I thought rather than merely give you my favour, I would also offer the advice of the good knight here, should you have want of it."

Baelon's brows upon high, his wide eyes moving away from hers, and towards his men, and then towards the other knights and Lords and heirs who took to spy upon them.

"Go on, cousin." The man in Royce colours said, an amused grin on his face.

"We all know you can use some good old advice. Mayhaps the Lord Commander can get you to stop pacing around like a-" the man came to a sudden halt and she raised an eyebrow when he glanced at her, wondering what foul words he had intended to use but he quickly on, speaking words that he felt were more suitable in the presence of a Princess. "-man possessed."

"Princess." The man in Royce colours bowed before he gestured towards the men "Come, I'm parched, I could do with a ale!"

"Please, come in, Princess, Lord Commander." Baelon said more as he led them in towards the pavilion.

"I'm surprised uncle Daemon isn't here." She mused aloud as she eyed the internals of the pavilion. It was bare, beyond a smattering of weapons, shields a few suits of armour, one that was black and bronze, doubtless she thought belonged to Baelon.

She didn't see the appeal, to stay here when Baelon could have stayed at the Red Keep but no, Baelon had requested he be permitted to stay with his cousin out here, at least for the day of his melee, and Daemon – and her father – had agreed.

"He said that fathers shouldn't be around their sons in the hours before a joust or melee." Baelon said in explanation as he leaned against the central post somewhat awkwardly, his eyes on her, a wryness on his face. "He gets like that sometimes."

She glanced at him, before she looked upon one of the bare swords that hung across some kind of stand. She'd seen some like this, in the training yards. Her finger traced across the hilt before she looked at him. "Standoffish?"

"Nervous." Baelon said, drawing her full attention.

"Nervous?"

"My father is many things, but he is still my father." He said with an awkward smile and a careless shrug "He just shows it in strange ways."

It made some sense, she supposed. Daemon had always shown that he cared for her, not just as the future wife to his son, but for herself.

"Why are you here Princess?" the question surprised her, jolting her out of her thoughts and she saw him staring at her intently.

"No offense, Lord Commander, but I doubt you are really here to offer me advice."

"Hmm. Mayhaps. Still, it is there, should you have want of it, my Prince." Ser Westerling said and Baelon offered the Lord Commander a grateful smile, a smile that she thought was a little strained.

Likely because of Ser Westerling mention of his royal title. For all that Daemon is consort to Rhea Royce, Ruler of Runestone, Baelon carried his father's name, until he chose to take up his mother's name, if he ever would at all.

"I think I am fine, for now at least. If you could watch and let me know of my failings, I would be most grateful."

"Of course, my Prince."

Baelon then turned to look at her expectantly and she found herself talking before she really knew it. "I thought it good that we speak a little."

Baelon frowned, a strange look on his face. "Princess, I am here for at least another moon, I should think. There'll be plenty of time for us to…speak" he said that word slowly, almost…uncertain?...he continued "should you show want of it." He paused before he eyed her. "Unless you don't think you would have the chance, for you think I am to fall today?"

"No!" she said, again, without much thought though she recovered "No, I…" she smirked a little, more put on than real "Given your father's boastings of your skill, I doubt any common squire can fell you." She paused for a moment as she saw him accept those words. "and it's Rhaenyra." She said with a look. "You stopped addressing me like that years ago in our letters, don't do it now we're speaking instead of writing."

He looked more like before, awkward and wary but he nodded nonetheless.

"Rhaenyra." He said, her name sounding uncertain from his lips. He paused for a moment, but she could there was more. "I was jesting." At her look he continued "when I talked about your thinking of my, uh, falling. A bad jest."

"Ah…" Again there was a lull of silence between them, growing more awkward every moment that passed, and some moments later, Baelon veered his eyes away from her, and fidgeting slightly with his hands.

She watched him a little, curious. What did his cousin, whose name she didn't know, talk about? Him pacing like a man possessed?

She withheld an amused smile as she eyed his clenching and unclenching fidgeting gauntleted hands at the thought that she making him as nervous as the moment before a melee, before a battle.

He really was just a boy still, wasn't he?

"Rhaenyra." Baelon's calling of her name drew her out, surprised as she was that he was the one to break the silence, and she was pleased for it. "Not that I am ungrateful for your…visit and your wanting to speak with me…but…?" he trailed off, unwilling to say it but she understood where he'd been going.

"I realise I have been…a…unaccommodating host to you." 'my betrothed' She said with some amount of restraint in her voice. "When I realised it, I was coming here before I really knew what I wished to speak of." She admitted. There was more to it, of course, her father being one, but mostly, it was rather the truth.

Much to surprise, Baelon laughed, almost a little relieved. "Alright, that makes sense." Baelon settled down looking at her a little cautiously "To be honest, I figured that you were embarrassed by me. You know…my being younger."

Her eyes widened and Baelon looked at her a little wryly.

"I have not been embarrassed that you are younger." Rhaenyra said, and it was mostly truthful too. Baelon did look older, at most two years younger than the four that he was. No, her wariness, most of it now, was about the wariness she held now of him. Though he may still be a boy, he won't always be one.

He eyed her with raised eyebrows.

"Really? In our letters, though we write one another, one gets such a sense that you do not like that I am younger." Baelon said matter-of-factly.

She bit her lip a little before she sighed. That was…true. In her defence though, they started writing when Baelon was no more than nine namedays and she three and ten, on the cusp of womanhood if not already there in some eyes. "Yes. I hadn't…warmed to the idea that you were younger." She kept it short, her explaining. It wasn't the full answer but she didn't think it'd help, explaining fully.

"I thought so." Baelon said with a nod before he shrugged "It has been why I have kept my distance when I have been able to." He met her gaze head-on. "For now at least. I won't always be looking younger after all." Baelon said with the kind of smirk that belonged to Daemon and to say she was surprised was putting it lightly.

Surprised that he dared, surprised that she liked it, even if she mayhaps shouldn't.

It earned him a smile of her own.

"If you earn yourself a few scars, I am sure you won't have to keep your distance for too long." She responded and Baelon laughed.

"That's a good idea. I quite like the idea of carrying scars, though I'd rather earn them against a hard-fought foe." Baelon said in answer.

"Is that one of your queer Vale traditions, that one must only earn scars against a worthy foe?"

"If it is, none of my household guards or my grandfather or my cousin ever told me of it." Baelon said with a shake of the head, a little smile on his face. "Mayhaps it is just one of the things that is hardborn in knights and those who wish to be knights." He added with a shrug.

"Would you agree, Ser Harrold?" Rhaenyra asked coyly, a glance sent to her trusted protector who stood silently near the entrance flaps.

"I can understand that Prince Baelon speaks of, my Princess, if that answer suffices." She narrowed her eyes at the diplomatic but evasive answer.

She decided against it, turning her eyes back at Baelon who seemed a little self-satisfied – she ignored the possibility that it might even a little bit of gratitude there in his face – and asked, her curiosity pulling at her about her mother's homeland.

"Speaking of the Vale…our cousin Laena told me a little of what she of the Vale, in the moon she stayed at the Eyrie before and after cousin Laenor wed the Lady Jeyne Arryn." 'also a cousin…she paused a little in her speaking. She hadn't really thought too much, even when Laena described, in detail, about the Vale, particularly the Eyrie...her mother's birthplace…where her cousin reigned.

She realised, now as she was looking at him, that she hadn't really thought of the Vale, the Arryns, not much at all, not since…

"After the melee" Baelon's voice cut through her thoughts and she eyed him with a look of surprise on her face. She saw him looking at him with a look that she thought could mean earnest. "I can tell you all about the Vale…if you wish." There was fondness in his voice, when he said the word 'Vale', a fondness she oddly liked.

She smiled, faintly, genuinely. The only tales and descriptions she knew of the Vale were that of old memories of her mother, a few tomes that focused far and little on the Vale itself, save for its histories and legends and Houses, and, of course, Daemon's words and thoughts on what he thought of the Vale.

She was a little embarrassed, thinking back now, the way she'd laughed or, when father was there, kept silent but yet felt amused. She resisted the urge to bite her lip. Would mother have been disappointed in her? If she'd seen how she'd kept silent of the mocking of her mother's homeland?

"I would like that." She said honestly, genuinely.

"Princess, shall we leave Prince Baelon to his preparation for the squire's melee?" Ser Westerling commented, reminding them that he was still there.

"Of course." She said without much thinking and she made to move but she halted, and moved to remove the silken black strip she'd tied to her left arm. "I didn't think a wreath would have been the best of favours to give." She said as she untied the knot of the silken strip and she walked towards him, strip in hand.

"Eh…aye. Mayhaps this is better." He said in a quieter tone of voice as he took the strip from her hand. "Thank you…Rhaenyra." She smiled at him.

"You have no need to thank me. Consider it a payment due when you dedicate your win the melee in my name." she said with a coy smile and Baelon smiled at her, more a grin than a smile to be truthful.

"I will honour you the best I can." Baelon said with solemnity and Rhaenyra nodded smilingly at that, turning away from within one fell swoop.

"I believe you." Rhaenyra said, a smile in her voice, a side glance over her shoulder, and though she thought Baelon may call after, he didn't, and she wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

By the time she mounted her Midnight, Baelon's cousin and guards returned, leaving her free to leave with her own.

By the time they made it out of the pavilion grounds, Ser Harrold riding next to her, she couldn't help but voice out to him what was kept on her mind.

"That went well, didn't it, Ser Harrold."

She thought he looked surprised at that admission, or mayhaps he was just surprised she said to him, but before she could think any further on it, his reaction, Ser Harrold spoke.

"Aye…aye it did, Princess." Ser Harrold said and he eyed her for a moment then looking away. "He seems a good lad." And that was all that Ser Harrold would say.

She didn't mind though. He said enough.

-Break-

Late 112 AC – Kings Landing

Corlys Velaryon POV

By the midday, they'd seen two score riders beckoned forth by the call of shrill and loud horns, each bout of joust cheered just as the one before was cheered on by the thousands of watchers on the stands, commonfolk and noble alike, doubtlessly uncaring whether or not the rider was a Florent, a Darry, a Mallister or from this or that House, or whether or not they were a knight for House or unattached.

They came for blood and sport and blood and sport they got. Each fall was cheered, the harsher the fall the louder the cheer, and there was no cheer like the cheer of a fallen knight or Lord or heir, harmed of body and of pride, that called for a contest of swords.

Almost half of the jousts descended into contests of swords, and half of those contests resulted in grave injury, even one death, and it almost promised to be as bloody as the tourney that had been thrown in celebration of the birth of his and Aemma's…

Viserys had called for all contests of swords to now be deathless. It was not a command, for knights should be given the rights to challenge other knights, and it was frowned upon for a king to stand in the way of settling honour.

For now, it seemed to be abided by. Whether or not it will by the end of day, will be a glimpse to see how much his authority was respected…

After a Stokeworth unseated a knight of House Tyrell, there was a momentary lull, a lull that he took to turn his gaze towards the front row of the Royal stands, looking to the right of Viserys, where Rhaenyra was seated next to a dark-haired youth, Baelon, looking as if they were deep in conversation, whispering like they had always known one another.

"They look comfortable, don't they?" he heard his wife say under her breath by his ear, just so that they weren't overheard. He glanced at her, and saw a knowing smile on her face, one that made clear that she'd seen him looking, and it was a smile she kept even as she looked back towards the front.

Corlys tilted his head slightly towards her, his eyes spying from side to side, a glance backwards, and he was content that none were too interested in overhearing them, he spoke "It's still early days." Moments later, the horns blew again.

His wife waited for the cheers to quieten. "Careful now, you sound jealous." His wife responded and she looked at him, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"I mean nothing by it." He said to her and she only raised a single eyebrow. "Truly." He added, his voice a little more defensive than he meant to show and it didn't seem to convince her. "All I'm saying, is that a few days ago they were rarely seen together, let alone talking."

"And what changed was that yesterday Baelon acquitted himself well in the squire's melee, whilst wearing her favour, it turns out." She returned to him. Baelon had not won the squire's melee but he did come third, having defeated a great many youths older than him but eventually falling in personal combat to the eventual winner, the four and ten old Lukas Dondarrion, the second son of Lord Dondarrion, who defeated the heir to Castamere, Rohan Reyne.

"Impressing, including, without doubt, the girl herself, even if he did not win."

"Yes, yes, a tale as old as time indeed." Corlys said and he would deny forever if one remarked that there was frustration in his voice.

It wasn't as if he did not wish the pair well, no, on the contrary, he wished them well and a fruitful union.

It was simply that he'd wished that the good signs of their union had come much later, and not now, not when all eyes were on the Royal family, courtesy, of course, by the roguest of all Targaryen men, ironically enough.

The boy's bonding with Vermithor had caused a great storm of speculation and rumouring, much of which he and his family were very much well attuned to, now that they were a more…neutral faction.

The rumours of Viserys' unhappiness with his brother and his nephew, compounded by the plaguing he was under by the wild stories and song and rumours about his youngest brother, Aegon Targaryen 'The Conqueror Reborn', 'Slaver's Bane', it left a great deal of tension in Kings Landing, a tension that was lessened greatly following the boy's performance in the squire's melee.

Now, all of a sudden, much of the unhappiness and plaguing was forgotten, replaced by conversation of the boy's talent that had been so displayed. He'd seen the squire's melee and though the boy did have moments of 'chivalry', all of it was exorbitantly overblown into great deeds of chivalry in the same league as folklore.

And, where once there were rumours that the boy was more Daemon the Rogue than he was Jaehaerys reborn, all of that was quelled, stifled, into a quiet death, now instead replaced with exalting commentary about the boy's honourable Vale upbringing.

And, no doubt, after this showing of smiles and silent conversation between themselves, there will be more rumours that relieved some of the pressure that was on Viserys. Not that he would even really understand that he was under scrutiny.

And amidst factions.

His wife tsked "Stop and just enjoy the lists. Leave your plotting" she whispered extra quiet, an exasperated smile dancing at the edges of her lips "for later, hmm?"

He glanced her and saw her looking at him with an expectant look and he sighed under his breath, before he smiled accommodatingly, earning himself a little tightening around the arm, and turned to the field.

They continued to watch the jousts, some remarks given here and there, like the impressive eight rounds a knight of House Connington went with heir of Harrenhal and son of the Hand Lord Strong, Harwin Strong, who had won at the end, or the swift victory of his wife's Lord Borros – which pleased her so – until the drums were played, the drums that excited and quieted all at the same time the crowd, eyes watching as the uninjured jousters were led back into the tourney ground.

"You'd think a man blooded in war would be find these…contests boresome."

He glanced at his wife before he looked towards the now assembled jousters.

"He isn't competing for sake of contest…in these jousts." Was his only answer, his eyes falling towards the silver-haired girl and the boy in dark-hair.

'No, he's entirely driven by seeing the enemy on their backs…and his eyes and joust was not aimed at the one riding towards him in that field'

"No…he isn't." his wife replied, no doubt understanding that this was a different kind of Daemon, one that drove his energies in a new direction, using new means.

And wasn't as terrifying as it was no doubt exciting to see unfold, without having a single skin in the game?

As the herald spoke of Daemon and the man strode in with his iconic black armour and winged helm, he couldn't help but remark, quietly "I wonder if he's sullen there's no Hightower to choose." which caused her to look him with a glint of amusement. "Or that Dornishman." He added as he glanced over his shoulder, towards where the common-born Christon Cole stood, next to the Kingsguard.

He'd impressed Ser Otto during the eventful tourney in 105 AC, when the knight had thrown off Daemon off of his horse and later defeated in personal combat.

Since then, he'd been employed, first as a knight in service of the Crown, then years later as the sworn protector of Alicent, and it was expected that he'd become a Kingsguard when a spot opened next, no doubt adding a well-trained creature of the Hightowers into the Kingsguard.

"For everyone's sake, that is the better."

He understood his wife's answer very well.

This time, with all that was transpiring, Aegon and his 'liberation' in Essos and all the consequences upon the royal family that comes from that, the divisions growing starker in Red Keep and the realm at large, Daemon acting on his impulses would be just the kind of thing that could cause something none of them want…or are ready for.

Excepting mayhaps Daemon himself.

It was perhaps to the mercy of them all that Daemon truly loved his brother…the elder brother.

He watched with a curious eye as Daemon selected the knight of Florent and he struggled to think what the reason may be. He found none, excepting that the Florents were of the Reach.

The Gods have mercy on them all if such a thing would be reason enough.

Daemon trotted towards the Royal stand, his lance high. "Brother!" Daemon shouted for all to hear and he saw Viserys gesture Daemon to continue.

Daemon lance moved until it settled squarely pointing at Alicent.

"He wouldn't." His wife's arm tightened around that of his and he didn't see her face to know that she was showing traces of disbelief in her face, or eyes.

Corlys struggled to keep the laughter in. 'Yes…yes he would.'

"Long ago, you offered me your favour, when you were yet still a maiden lady!" Daemon said loudly, for all to hear, and a cheer rang out from the commonfolk, less so from the nobles.

"Now you sit as my dear goodsister, fair still and cherished more!" This time Corlys couldn't help but let the snort out and his wife warned him to cease with the tightening of her hand.

Daemon continued. "In the absence of my fair wife, who would sure wish to have given me her favour, dear goodsister, will you grant me favour in her stead!?"

Corlys didn't have her face to see how much she would have wished to deny this request of Daemon. But that was impossibility.

Deny and she would be subject to scrutiny and rumour that would not be wanted. And importantly, it gave a strange victory to Daemon.

Accept, again, it gave some victory to Daemon but it also did little harm to her.

She stood up and collected her wreath before she let it slide down Daemon's lance, much to the joy of the commonfolk.

Corlys couldn't see Daemon's face but he could imagine it bore a smile as sharp as the rows of teeth of sharks.

Daemon won his bout against the Florent, a fair and clean bout much to surprise of many, no doubt, before he unexpectedly announced that he was withdrawing from the rest of the tourney, and left after a word of praise for his brother, which wrought a great cheer, the loudest cheer, that day.

"How…unexpected." Corlys remarked as he watched Daemon ride away. "I would have thought…"

"I can't say I thought otherwise." His wife commented. "It seems Daemon is capable of restraining himself further."

"He was always capable of restraint, wife, he just did not care to show it…most of the time." Corlys said. But when it mattered…he'd seen enough of the man during the war in the Stepstones, many times where he'd had the opportunity to act devastatingly against the Triarchy, yet never fully committed to them, knowing the consequence it bear, not only on the campaign but also on Viserys.

The attacks he did against the Tyroshi for example could have been far more severe, and he was restraining himself despite how angry and frustrated he'd been.

Turning up for one joust, just to ask, audaciously, the favour of the figurehead of the rival claimant, was a perfect act with the perfect amount of restraint, that did all of the important things he needed, wanted, to show, to remind.

"Hmm." His wife voiced out and he saw her looking at the front row, towards the two children before she looked towards the King's left, beyond the seat where the Hand sat, where Alicent sat. She sighed silently and he felt her loosen in her grip.

"What a mess." Came out as a whisper through his wife's teeth.

Corlys grunted his agreement. The boards were long set, he knew, but moments like this reminded them all that'd only get worse, most certainly, if Viserys continued to let himself be distracted by the actions of his youngest brother instead of focusing on preventing the factionalism grow…and grow beyond recovery.

'Are you watching, you Old bastard?' Corlys thought himself. 'Are you watching what's happening to your precious House?'

Corlys didn't like how the satisfaction felt stale instead of invigorating when he usually imagined the Old bastard lamenting of the state of his House.

…

Days later after Tourney's end, the Godswood of the Red Keep

He walked alongside his wife, taking joy of the fading warmth of the dusk sun as they took to stretch their legs, warmth that was lessened so now that a late winter was to come, speaking quietly about matters of home.

Laena and Daeron had returned for Driftmark before the Tourney begun.

Laena was in the last two moons of her pregnancy and grown so miserly that she'd begged for home mere days before the start of the tourney. His wife had gone twice to see Laena in the weeks since the tourney was ongoing, and she'd soon return home this night whilst he would remain, at the request of Viserys.

Presently, he was serving as an advisor, of a sort, to Viserys, doubtless until Viserys could think of a reason to relieve Lord Mootoon of his post as Master of Ships.

Speaking of the man…

Viserys was speaking with Lord Strong and a number of highborn nobles, amongst them the likes of Lord Tyrells and Lord Lannister, seemingly deep in conversation.

Most of the Lords had departed, like Lord Baratheon and the Stormlanders, but a few had remained for days still, and it had ended up causing Viserys to call a small celebration for one reason or another.

Corlys eyed the rest of the nobles, four scores of them, most of them of the Reach and the Westerlands. Daemon himself was presently speaking with the few Crownland Houses that remained whilst Alicent was speaking with her father, the Lord Hightower and the Lord of House Darry.

The two golden children themselves had been excused from attending this affair.

Perhaps that was a good thing too.

He spotted the lords around Viserys showing good laughter.

"Not one spoke of Aegon this eve." He remarked as he recalled the conversations.

"There isn't much to speak of. He is but still a boy of five." His wife said with tongue-in-cheek. He saw her glance around as she spoke "Shouldn't surprise you. They may speak of him elsewhere, but here?"

Corlys eyed Viserys with appraisal and contempt. "Your cousin manages pass off his obliviousness that no one has questions dearly wished to be asked, dear wife."

"My cousin now, is he?" his wife asked with amusement, focusing on that phrasing instead of his needling words about Viserys, showing him in her own way she was tiring of talking about Viserys.

He humoured her. "Not my favourite of choice of description, true, but I must at least keep up the appearance of seeming respectful, at least here."

This earned him a snort from her. And a look. "You're fooling no one, Corlys, that ship has long sailed. Mayhaps even sunken since word spread of your demands"

Demands were harsh terms. He merely put forward to Viserys terms of favoured treatment of his merchants and support from the royal navy in the Narrow Sea following Viserys' request for him to offer his aid, and blood and kin in Daemion and Vaemond in the delegation to be sent with Lord Celtigar, all done on the quiet and all done to force his own blood and kin back into control.

"Pah, their indignation and offence is no more deeper than a plum's skin."

Beneath it all, their jealousy smells as foul as their rotten tongues. Had they opportunity, and the means, they'd ask for far more than Corlys did.

"Besides" Corlys continued "He – or rather perhaps Lord Strong – knows that discretion is important in all of this. He knows that I can keep the discretion and accomplish what he wants, for when he wants. Yes, the more he is silent, the more tension lingers, yes, but also, the higher the payoff will be when he does 'suddenly' says what he needs to say." No doubt Viserys was going to get Aegon to return home and use his success as that of his own.

That Aegon was acting to fight against the aberration of slavery with the permission and approval of Viserys, effectively reducing if not eliminating the whispers of his…ill-compare to his younger brothers.

Horse shit, of course, but in the eyes of the common, the eyes of the realm at large?

The King need only be the one who caused, whether by sword or by deed, and Viserys was one who caused the Long Peace to be longer and Viserys would be the one who aided in the liberation of one of the greatest sins in the Faith of the Seven.

That would be enough, Corlys thought, to earn Viserys the reprieve he'd need in comparison to his brothers.

"Yes." His wife agreed "But I doubt Viserys really wants to."

"Aye." Corlys could agree to that. Viserys was prideful in his own way, stubborn too, and it must truly tear at him to need to go so far to exert any control over his youngest brother. Even Daemon was at the behest of Viserys, no matter how infuriating and inconsiderate Daemon could be to Viserys.

"I wonder what he'll do if Aegon still resists Viserys' call." 'Not yet least the call for fealty'

"If?" his wife said with a raised eyebrow.

"Mayhaps not the entire call, but he knows he can't exactly refuse entirely. He is, after all, still a younger brother and Viserys is his Head."

His wife looked unconvinced and Corlys was finding it difficult to want to try and to expand on his words. Had Corlys been in Aegon's shoes, would he bend to Viserys, knowing what he'd found, what he'd achieved, what he was accomplishing?

"What would you have done?" Corlys found himself asking his wife, genuinely curious. She looked surprised by the question, her brows knitting.

"I mean" he added "If you were in Viserys' shoes, if you faced circumstances such as this?" An ambitious brother that rivals even the most ambitious of men in fables, and another brother who seems hellbent to cause your reign into question?

Her lips thinned, her eyes meeting his gaze, and, when she spoke, and when he digested her words, he believed her. "I would never have let it get to this."

No…she wouldn't have let it come to this stage…or, he thought as he looked upon Viserys speaking with Alicent and her father, nor would she have let a great many of other things gotten to.

The eve grew into the night, his wife having departed for the dragonpit hours ago, and the lords and ladies began to make to retire. He made to retire too but he somehow found himself walking in the same direction as Otto.

He'd been content with a nod but it seemed Otto was not, who moved to stop him in his steps, waiting until they were entirely alone without anyone able to overhear.

"Congratulations, Lord Corlys, on the coming of your first grandchild." Otto congratulated, much to his surprise. "It is a blessing to see one's family grow."

Corlys smiled, wondering what Otto wanted from him. He had not spoken a lick of word to him in all of the times they'd been outside of the Small Council chambers.

Excepting, of course, that one time that they'd searched Otto for a 'favour'.

A favour he'd declined to give assurances about.

Corlys nodded graciously. "Yes, indeed it is." Corlys smiled through his beard "One can hope I can have as many grandchildren as you have."

"Ten grandchildren." Otto said with some satisfaction, reminding Corlys that the clan of Hightowers was a large one. "Though I fear I do have my favourites."

"I'm sure." There was pretending in Corlys' voice and he looked towards the exits, all too content to wait for the Hightower let know what he wished to speak of.

"It was unfortunate the way I was unable to help with your preferred marriages Lady Laena and Lord Laenor" Otto said with a regretful tone of voice and Corlys wanted to spit on the man before him.

He could believe that Otto may have tried to win the Faith over but he doubted he tried hard at all. No, Corlys was sure that Otto did not want for the Doctrine of Exceptionalism to be extended to House Velaryon, only slightly less than the Faith.

"I was quite surprised when I heard of the match between Lady Laena and Ser Daeron, given that there must have been no shortage of matches proposed." Otto remarked, beginning his customary ways of needling out what he wanted.

Otto may even had a hand in the offers that were sent his way, for both of his children, no doubt. The Lannisters were the only ones he could be sure had their own agenda. The Tyrells, mayhaps too but they too could have been in the web of the Hightowers to force him and his family into their web of alliance.

Corlys let Otto's words hang for a moment as he deliberated. He decided.

"They were fond of each other." Corlys decided to say. Otto might hazard to guess the real reason but he doubted the man would speak of it. "And Laenor's marriage with Lady Jeyne was advantageous enough for us to concede her to a love match."

Otto nodded serenely, grimace-smiling "I was only able to do that for only one of my children and unfortunately love can seldom be allowed to triumph over duty."

'Is that how you see duty? Duty for your daughter to whore herself to win a crown?' Corlys was not one to say that he was not of a similar…ambition. He fought to see the wrongs committed to Rhaenys and to his House righted, but he would never have demanded his daughter to compromise herself like Alicent did.

Corlys smiled accommodatingly, and he had the bit between his teeth as he spoke next "Of course, at times, duty and love can both be achieved…as it seems likely with the Crown Princess and Prince Baelon."

Otto gave no visible response much to Corlys' disappointment. "Yes, it appears so, the realm will be in good hands when Prince Baelon ascends to the throne."

Corlys raised an eyebrow at that and Otto gave a look of abashment. "Apologies, I mean Princess Rhaenyra. Prince Baelon, of course, is only to be King Consort."

"I would be careful of wordings such as that, Ser Otto, lest they find purchase in the ears of our dear King."

Otto chuckled quietly, his head bowed slightly as he spoke. "Of course, of course, an honest mistake in wording, I assure you Lord Corlys, I merely am tired of mind with all the talk about the future that I have been party to."

Corlys only offered a smile at the man, unwilling to bite to the provocation.

"I can understand that, Ser Otto, I too am tired of mind."

Otto bowed his head a little. "Of course…then I will part from you though, not without one question raised, merely out of curiosity, Lord Corlys, if you have considered the future, particularly that of your grandchild?"

Corlys took to look at Otto, his eyes hard as he met the snake of a man's eyes.

"What is it that you propose, Otto." His question was curt, accompanied by a look of unfriendliness.

"Our grandchildren will be close in age, Lord Corlys, and Alicent's children will be most suitable matches for your granddaughter or grandson, or any other children your son and daughter may have."

"It is far too early yet, Ser Otto, to make matches between those born and those yet to be born." Corlys said with a smile on his face as he began to walk. The smile was genuine. Otto was concerned. Desperate.

And that was something quite satisfying.

"I will extend your congratulations to my lady-wife, Ser Otto, for I doubt you will be here to provide it personally. I am sure you will have made journey back to the Hightower by the time she returns. Good eve, Ser Otto." Corlys said as he walked away.

And, as he walked towards his apartment, Corlys couldn't help but grimace. If Otto was making such a blatant move, then he wondered…what other blatant, normally ill-considered moves would Otto do to gain back momentum for the Hightowers?

-Break-

Late 112 AC – The Hinterlands Near Tolos

Lessela POV

Winds of fading afternoon bristled through her, a warm sultry touch, a foil to the harsh scrape that chipped and flaked below, below at the base of blackened cliffs, cliffs that seemed as if night itself was captured in stone.

She witnessed, perhaps only imagined yet no less real, a piece, a small piece of captured night break against the ramming raging waters, pulled and yanked and sunk into the blue abyss below the frothing white fury, lost to the depths where no eyes and no light would touch upon, a reminder that time was no mercy, even to that seemed eternal, that seemed unbreakable.

Long later, was she pulled out of her reverie, the sun hung lower from the last she braved it, when Heiqi came to find her. "The pavilion has been stood up, mistress."

She turned away from the blackened cliffs, the blackened stone, and gazed upon Heiqi, her bronze-skinned attendant. Thin of body, broad of age, he was. Grey touched upon his shortened hair and his brown eyes shined with a rare worldliness that was all too common in the Faithful.

She looked passed him, into the distance, where rows upon rows of distant tents and pavilions were raised high, a small city of leather and skin that breathed upon the necks of the city made of brick and stone.

They were mayhaps six leagues, perhaps as little as three leagues, away from Tolos, the next city to feel the burn of the sunset cause.

They walked in silence, upon craggy rocks and thin starved earth, back to the small city, the winds whispering, trembling, rolling over her and her curtained ears, lessening in warmth, lessening in touch.

The days were becoming shorter, she noticed. Winter would soon be upon them.

They made it back to the camp, well, the outskirts of it. Her pavilion was made some half a thousand paces from the nearest other tent or pavilion, the distant echoes of voices and hammers were strung along the smells of sizzling meats and spices that coloured the nose by the carrying whispering winds.

Though she and her attendants marched with the army and its 'volunteers' – blacksmiths and healers and whores and more – for the past few moons, they were no more welcome than a outburst of bloody flux to many of the Prince's men.

The other attendants, Saello, a towering man with wreathes of flame tattooed across his arms and on his face and neck, Lona, a whisp of a girl of uncertain origin that was oft forgotten until made to be seen, a mute girl who lost her tongue but never her voice, and Mazda, a woman with enviable beaty, rich brown skin and golden eyes that seemed to capture a fragment of the summer sun, welcomed her back in their little ways, bows and words and smiling lips and reverent eyes.

The mute girl and Saello were gifted to her by Qraesthor. The other two she picked up along with her from the Temple of Meereen, a burgeoning, growing temple.

The journey was long and though she never feared for her life, for she knew that R'hllor had plans of her, and the Prince wanted of her, she also knew would find no such want from his people, and so, she had decided that Faithful companionship was better served to have, than to need and not have.

Perhaps she could tempt some of the open-hearted into the True Faith, as Thoreos of Meereen suggested she do, but she'd heeded the wisdom found in the flames. It was not R'hllor's wish for her to create bastions amongst the sweeping pale fire.

Lest she burden want with suspicion.

After they ate from small bowls and drank from small cups, she retired into her pavilion, a wreathe of flame of campfire caught in her cusping hands, a red pearl centred amidst lily petals, her attendants following her like hungering little lambs.

She fell to her knees, in front of the gathering of parched and feeble wood, the words beckoning out of her mouth like breathing wind through new leaves on young branches "Lord, cast your light upon us and let it light our way out from the night."

The wreathe of flame jumped from out of her hands and into the parched wood, soaking and wetting the feeble wood with its dancing magnificence, blooming and flowering with the brightness of the Lord's Light.

The attendants, who had encircled around the fire, fell to their knees, their foreheads brought low onto the starved earth, whispers of prayer no louder than the crackles of the fire ringing from out of them.

Lessela herself prayed too, though her prayers were different, for the attendants prayed for R'hllor's comfort, and she prayed for R'hllor's wisdom.

A shuddering trembled out from her mouth, exultant ecstasy trembling into her, flickering flame melting into an array of reds, whites, yellows and black and blues, flickers and embers that combined to string brushes of coloured shapeless flame into forms, forms that began to twist and stretch into visions.

Visions flashed by in front of her black eyes, of red stones falling from black cliffs, of a pale violet gem in between a set of teeth of blinding light, of a scarred and rotting black dragon with bloody moving squirming teeth, of a shadow, the same shadow that haunted her dreams, veins of thicker blood and thicker size, hooking onto a dying marooned azure dragon.

More visions came, some she knew all too well, many she had not seen before.

Shadowed figures, of the same gleam in ways only hidden knives brought out into the open gleamed, rows of skulls and bodies bathing in blue pathed to a towering monolith that looked sickened and dying beneath a red field, hordes of horsemen that threatened to drown a red and brown sea.

The last vision that came, was the vision she knew the least of, a woman shrouded in crimson flame, her face unseen, hidden, beneath a mask of blood, and she was pulled out of her visions when this hidden woman seemed to reach out of the flames, with bloody fingers draped with dripping black blood.

Her black eyes were wide, staring at the now ordinary flame, its lustre from the Lord's Light lost. She stared for some time, uncertain.

She saw more than she expected.

More than she'd seen even in Meereen and Yunkai, despite both of the temples having taken advantage of the cities' fall to brighten the Lord's wisdom.

Her eyes closed, her thoughts swirling, centring, over what she seen, the sounds of crackling flame, the whispers of prayers, a comforting sound as she ruminating of what she had seen.

It was some time later, long after the prayers of her attendants stopped, and long after the never-dying flame consumed the feeble wood, that her ears picked up a rhythmic chime of clinking metal, discordant chimes that bled into each other, fast approaching, a collection of sounds that ill belonged in their proximity.

When the sound drew nearer, the chime grown more discordant and more profound, the others noticed too.

"Do not be concerned." She lullabied with the sweetness of a mother's care to her four attendants. Though the Prince's men had not raised a sword or hand against them, they spoke enough with the looks they gave her and her attendants.

"R'hllor has not forsaken us." Those words were enough to lessen the tension in her attendants, and the light smile she plastered did all the rest.

The opening flaps quivered as they were set aside, moved away to reveal a grim sweaty face, slanted eyes and a thin line for lips, a face attached to a once splendid suit of armour, tarnished by the beat of sun and the beat of flailing arms, no doubt.

Four more faces, two faces belonging to suits of armour and two others belonging to leather-skin armour. They strode into her pavilion, watchful eyes turning side to side, looking, yearning, for hidden threats, and she thought she might even seen a glimmer of disappointment in raised noses and the soft clench of jaws.

The light smile on her face never left as she stared at the guests that invited themselves. One of the men, at the back who held up the flap, called for the one she thought was the reason of all of this.

The men let an opening form, an opening through which Prince Aegon walked through, clad in his worn armour. It still bore the maroon and the azure colours, but the colours, even under the twilight of the day, looked faded and broken, dinks and slices breaking the paints on his armour. He held a tome in his hand, his gloved hands seemed to press deeply into the skin of the book, as if he was concerned he'd lose it at any moment.

She looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes, mismatching, the violet jewel and an emerald gem, set in sunken darkened skin, akin to a rusting crown with loosened gems, stared at her unblinkingly, almost…expectantly.

She turned away from those eyes with unbothered ease and instead looked upon her lost lambs. "Leave us, my faithful. It seems the Prince has a wish of discussion with me." Her attendants bowed to her, their eyes flickering warily at the men and at the Prince, before they slunk away in between the guards.

"My Prince." One of the men spoke, a suspicious glance sent her way. "We'll be outside if you have need of us." The Prince broke off his gaze from her, nodding slightly at his men before he strode forwards towards her, the men, his guards, slinking away behind the covers of the pavilion flaps.

"I would offer you guest rights, but I doubt you will find relief by such an act." Her words were light, the smile on her face deepening, her black eyes wide and staring.

"You would be right." Prince Aegon said without much fanfare as he glanced around, searching for something that was not there. When he seemed satisfied he eyed her, then the fire, before he took to take a seat on the starved earth, on her right.

He placed the tome, titled 'Gods of Old Ghis' in High Valyrian she noticed, on the ground beside him, and his right arm rested upon his knee.

"Curious how you got one of the better pavilions." He said as he flicked some fingers lazily, his eyes doing much the same.

"Was that why your men seemed to dissatisfied with my lodgings?" There was innocence in her voice, an innocence that forced the Prince to smile at her with a glint of amusement.

She wondered if that was signs of what was to come. A more…sincere interaction, one more so than the first – and the only until this eve – interaction she had with this favoured one of R'hllor. The second time she was in his presence, and the first time, she did not forget to notice, that he sought her out.

"They are unhappy for many reasons. Your lodging is not one of them."

She hummed.

"The Lord's temple of Meereen was generous." She answered his earlier question.

The Prince nodded to that, his eyes veering towards the flame. He moved one of his gloved hands towards the flame, his eyelids falling but not so as to close, and the flames flickered violently to the outreaching hand.

"I see." The Prince said with a soft thrum of voice, the words spoken carried with more meaning when his eyes fell upon her.

She had no reason to guess, no reason but to be aware that he knew that the flame was one of her making, a part of her flame. The blackened wood lost its life-fire hours ago, and the fire was sustained by her magic and her Lord.

That he understood that…

Her eyes went towards the closed flaps, where, just beyond the thin layer of cloth lay men who held a thin veneer of civility towards her.

"How hard was it to for your men to obey your orders for you to be here, alone with the Red Witch?" There was sprightliness in her voice, that was even genuine.

"Harder than it ought have to been." He seemed interested in meeting her in tone, in reciprocity, at least. "I doubt I'd find a similar resistance to even a hare-brained tactical plan of mine." She smiled at that.

"The unknown." She answered. "There are few fears like that of the unknown."

Even for these men, godless people, who lived in life without the feel of R'hllor's wisdom and presence, never knowing anything other than the unknown and uncertainty, her existence was an unknown that could only compare to the feeling of being on the cusp of death, the ultimate unknown for these godless people.

"You may have unknowns, but it is the knowns that worries them the most."

She tilted her head, her long black way flowed like silk off of her shoulder.

"Ah…my blood magic and foul ritualistic magicks." She recalled his words with a growing smile, one that was tainted with dark amusement, as she eyed him take to the flames, flames that danced to the movements of his fingers.

"Dire stories and grim warnings, such is told of the Red Priests, Priestesses, of the Red God." Prince Aegon said, his voice calm, bordering gentle, as if he held no such opinion. If he did, or did not, she could not tell, frustratingly. "They understand mine. My story. They understand dragons. They understand the fire that comes with it." He looked toward her. "They don't understand you. And the Faith and the God that comes with it."

"And you do?"

"No." There was a bell of truthfulness in his denial, and she could not be sure that there was not more. "I do not understand you. Or your Faith."

Her black eyes wide, unblinking, peering at him, silently studying him. "And the Lord of Light? You…understand him?"

"The end goal of humanity's survival is the extent of my understanding of your Lord and yet that understanding better than my general understanding of you."

"Then you understand me fine and well, my Prince." Was her answer.

For her Will was her Lord's will. For the eternal struggle between R'hllor, the one true God of Light and Life, and the Dark God, the Great Other, the God of Ice and Death and the Eternal End, was the only struggle that mattered, the only struggle could matter to anyone, to everyone. That mattered to her.

The reaction her words garnered was a near silent sound, the kind made in the back of a throat, sounding neither agreeing or disagreeing, more an acknowledgement than anything else.

It seemed as if it was all she would get, for now, so content he seemed to let the silence rest between them and she did not care to break it, not just yet.

He wanted something of her, that much was always clear.

The revelations he shared of himself, and of his family, revelations that spoke of a family knowing and preparing for the Long Night and the Great Other, revelations that cleared the mysteries of why her Lord favoured him, a heretic, she thought with disdain as she eyed the dim glint in the shadows of his armour, a glint of chain that bore his pagan icon.

He revealed secrets to an unknown, and none did so without meaning or purpose.

And, less importantly yet still significant, he allowed her presence, even when so many of his people would rather she die, and die gruesomely, for her witchery.

"What do you think" Prince Aegon broke the silence many moments later, his mismatching eyes turning away from the flame, his hand falling limp, and set upon her as he spoke further. "Volantis' reaction will be to…these events?"

He wanted to know about Volantis…

She did not answer immediately. Not out of uncertainty. Nor out of unwantedness.

But out of deliberation of how much she should reveal. "I am only a Priestess, Your Grace. I do not know the intricacies of the thinkings of the Old Blood."

"A Priestess you may be, but you are a Volantene, are you not, belonging to the Temple of the Lord of the Light, which sits below the Black Walls of Volantis. You must have some thought backed by knowledge and wisdom on my question."

"I doubt my thoughts will differ from the thoughts you have come to think on the matter." She said with a peering look. "They will be furious." She continues, voicing out the obvious and the almost certain. "And afraid."

In the face of the threat Prince Aegon posed, the polities of Volantis, fractious and raucous, would find little difficulty in coming to an hasty settlement for the sake of survival.

The Elephants have ruled for a nigh unbroken century, and though they were mercantilist, and adverse to war following the disaster that was the Century of Blood, a century that saw eventually saw Volantis, from the heights of power, cast down low to brokenness and depopulation from the wars that it fought and lost, they would see the dangers coming, and the dangers that could come from idleness.

"Afraid enough to act in ill-considered manoeuvres?" Prince Aegon asked and it a show of a question, one that she could sense was meant more to see what her answer would be, than the answer she would give.

"A wounded elephant is no less dangerous than a preying tiger, nor will it be impossible for the different beasts to fight in the same corner if they must."

Especially when the starving rats, untold in numbers, learn that they could sate their hunger on the carcasses of bountiful flesh.

The eyes of the Prince felt searching, as if he was looking to see what the meaning behind her words were, if the words said to inform him…or if the words were said to solidify what he already knew.

The Prince made a noise in the back of his throat, his eyes now looking onto the flames with studying intent.

She considered why he was interested in Volantis. Beyond the obvious. His actions would reverberate throughout Essos, all the way to the lagoons of Braavos.

His actions would come with consequences, mayhaps to this shadow that stalked, mayhaps it was not, but nonetheless, his actions would see resistance.

That was clear. But what was not, was what he would do afterwards.

After Tolos had fallen. After Elyria fell.

Her Lord gave her the visions that promised the flock of the Faithful rising in numbers in the bay of Slaver's, like a tide that knew only to rise.

Was there to be more, she wondered.

Did one of the new but vague visions her Lord sent her, mean something of Volantis?

"Volantis will not fall as easily as the rest of these Slaver's Bay cities." She broke the silence with words that rang with assured statement, hidden so was her prodding into his plans.

There was some truth of it. Volantis was not alone, not like these Slaver Cities. Volon Therys, Valysar and Selhorys were but the largest cities that Volantis could call upon, cities that had less of a slave population than Volantis did.

And, she mused, they would have the time to prepare, long before Aegon turned at their walls.

Aegon would come to face an army of a hundred thousand should Volantis and its daughters feel their existence threatened so.

His dragon was fearsome, powerful, but there were many ways to counter a dragon…and no man was safe from a hidden blade, even a dragonrider.

The Dragonlords of Old that found themselves adrift in Lys learnt that all too late.

"The Masters of Yunkai said the same. No doubt the Masters of Meereen thought the same." Prince Aegon said as he turned to look her, and she saw no arrogance, only a glint of surety that she oft only saw in the eyes of the Faithful.

"Though it is my hope that I have no such need to lay bare their shortcomings with my army marching in beyond their gates." Prince Aegon added, the fingers of his right rolling up into his palm, his thumb caressing the tops of his fingers.

"It will be difficult."

"Yes" the Prince said with a twisting smile. "I suppose it must be."

"Is that why you sought me out?" she asked, her head tilting, and it caused his eyes to veer towards her, watching her. "To learn of Volantis?"

"Partly." Prince Aegon said with a light smile, one that was lost as soon as it came.

"Partly." She repeated, rolling the word on her tongue. "Yes, I can see that" she said with an accommodating smile, and her arms spread lightly, as if to beckon him "ask your questions about Volantis. We may have time before night falls."

Mayhaps she would learn more of what the vague visions meant.

"Do any of the Old Blood keep to your Faith? To your Lord?" The curiosity was there, she could tell, so too could she tell that it was far from an innocent curiosity.

"An interesting question. Unexpected but perhaps it shouldn't have been."

"Well" Prince Aegon began, his mismatching eyes bearing down on her "You are rather right, I must suppose, that you are only a priestess. I thought it more apt to sate my curiosity in a matter you are more knowing of."

She smiled at him, a trace of genuine amusement showing. Her eyes sent towards the tome that lay beside him. "You do seem curious, though I wonder if it is an idle curiosity or one of questioning Faith." She said with put-on wry look.

She earned an amused smile, wider than any before. "Understanding the faiths of others allows one to understand what they value." Prince Aegon looked down towards the tome, his hand falling on top of the tome, his brows knitting closer.

'Dangerous' she thought, the way he thought. She could see the reason behind, understanding what the enemy values…if you know what they value, you would their weaknesses. Few would seek to go that far.

That he so willingly explained it so to her, made her suspicious that it truly did not matter that she was to know…no…most certainly, it was of upmost benefit.

He is dangerous indeed…

There was a moment of silence before he looked up. "It is what I wish to know of the Old Blood…if they are like you, like your Faithful, if they value what you value." There was cautiousness in his voice.

She deliberated over the words. There was no concern in his voice, but there was plenty in the way the words put together. He was asking if the Old Blood were faithful, or at least respectful of the Lord of Light, and thus protected against him?

That she and the rest of the Faithful would combat him, should it be needed?

Almost certainly, she arrived at.

"Our flock is most comprised of the Freeborn Volantenes outside of the Black Walls." She answered. He nodded silently, looking down at the tome.

"And the slaves?" he asked more than stated, a side glance sent her way.

A glance that looked unimportant but was all the importance.

"Most follow the True Faith." She answered.

There it was, her consent, effectively the Temple's consent, stamped on the execution decree of the Old Blood, should it ever be called out on loud.

She had not been deigned a vision of Volantis falling into the consuming Light of the Lord, but she was sure that should it happen, it would be part of her Lord's plan, just as it was part of the plan for to embrace Slaver's Bay into the faithful.

The Old Blood falling would leave the Temple the only meaningful power in Volantis. And with Volantis…would come all of its daughter-cities.

He nodded again and she thought it should have been heavier, like an axe falling onto the neck of the condemned.

"So they are faithless." He mused. 'So are you…' she thought. Worshippers of false gods were no different than the faithless, only better in estimation, if only slightly.

"I would say that they are faithless, not quite. They worship, or at least pretend to, the Old Gods."

"The Old Gods?" he asked and though he hid his curiosity, the forceful nature of his hiding had given away his curiosity.

"The Old Gods of Valyria." She expanded. His reaction was curious, she was sure she recognised a moment of relief in his eyes. Why, she was not sure. She set it aside, for now. "The Gods your own family abandoned for the Gods of the Andals"

He then raised his eyebrows at her. "Curious that you seem to chastise my ancestors for following another faith."

"I do not chastise, I merely seek to point out."

His lips twisted into a smile. "Perhaps." He said with a heavy nod "Though I wonder why the Old Blood still follow the Old Gods of Valyria, given that Valyria has died." Prince Aegon mused aloud, his eyes searching hers.

"One must wonder if they were unconvinced about the power of R'hllor."

Her black eyes met his, unfazed. "They pride themselves as the last of Old Valyria. Such pride leads them blind." The Old Blood would never follow a faith of the Common, never when the shadow cast by Old Valyria still loomed so large.

They thought themselves the inheritors, and no inheritor could follow the faith of slaves. Pride always blinded them, as it had in the past. As it would in the future.

A short future, perhaps.

Prince Aegon smiled thinly, never quite reaching his eyes. "And I suppose that prideful nature would also preclude them from signing a treaty to live in peace with a free Liberty Bay?"

She only offered a smile in response, a smile that was responded with an unchanging look. "I see…" He tapped atop the Ghiscari tome for a few moments before he brought his arm back to rest on his knee.

He was hard to read, she considered, even when he reacted.

His words were all she was given to decipher, to understand what he wants, and even that, she had to work at. He had an art of saying much but without obviousness, masqueraded as idle but full of meaning, showing he was deliberating never exactly what the deliberation he arrived at was, only that he was…reacting.

In this instance, she could only guess, that her words, and his own, meant that he was fully accepting of inevitable conflict with Volantis, a conflict that would not involve the Faith, when it happened.

She did not doubt he'd already arrived at the conclusion that it was almost a certainty that conflict with Volantis would come, one either instigated by him, or one instigated after he'd left for this Elamaerys, even if there was a treaty signed.

"Tell me of your faith, Priestess." The request surprised her, even more so when she saw the genuine curiosity that was in his eyes.

"Why?" she asked with a tilted head. He was a heretic that made it clear that he wished none of her proselytising of his people. Why does he wish to learn of her faith through her, a priestess of the one true God.

"Because I wish to learn of the God who holds the hearts of the people I wish Elamaerys to call ally when the Long Night comes." There was a heavy gravity to his voice, one that was punctuated with the sincerity of his eyes.

Sincerity, or eagerness. Likely eagerness. She wondered, did he want to know about an enemy, just as he sought to learn more of the Old Blood?

Or did he simply, truly, wish to know of the Faith that centred around the Lord that favoured him so?

She looked away from his eyes, and towards the flames, flickering, dancing flames, that carried a part of herself within itself.

"R'hllor is the Lord of Light" she began reverently, her black eyes wide and staring at the reddish-orange flames, having decided to speak. "He is the Heart of the Fire. Of all Fires." Her hand rose without her knowing, peels of flame drew out towards her, writhing around her wrist like a bracelet with the kiss of warmth and loving.

"We all carry a piece of Fire, His Fire, within us all. Life is Fire and Fire is Creation, Creation that makes and unmakes, destroys and rebirths, Fire is the epitome of all Existence, and at its very Centre is Our Lord, Our Lord of Light." The flame around her wrist slithered back towards the rest of the fire.

She turned her eyes, wide and as black as coal, towards the Prince, who gazed upon her with a look of intense study.

"The piece of Fire that we carry within us, yearns to return to the Great Well Spring of the Living Flame. The struggles of humanity, the struggles of life and against death, is immutably inconsequential to the eventuality of all of our fates, that which is to join with the Lord of Light, as we once were and as we will once again be." Like the moments of ecstasy she experienced in her visions, they would all live in eternal ecstasy when they rejoined the Greater Whole of R'hllor as a star amidst his overwhelming Light.

"The Soul is this…Fire?"

"There is no distinction" she answered with reverent surety.

Prince Aegon nodded seriously, his face unchanging.

"And is that why your faith sacrifices to the flames? To honour the Lord of Light…?"

Her black eyes sunk into the eyes of Prince Aegon. "No different than the sacrifices of entire families you have made in cause of Faith and retribution." It was a jibe, a prod, one that spoke of knowing of the accidents and chaos that consumed the vast bulk of the noble families in the three cities.

Thrice, after all, is no coincidence.

A soft whisper of air escaped his nose, the corners of his lips cutting up, his eyes unsmiling "They were not sacrifices. They were, in truth, no more than a man butchering a stolen goat." The Prince flicked his fingers up slowly. "I do not chastise, nor judge." His face returned to its unchanging coldness, a hint of unsmiling smile as he spoke. "That would only come at the cost of my people who do not, will not belong to you for sacrifice."

She smiled, just as false, continuing to explain, setting aside his defence, or lack thereof, about the mass 'accidental' deaths. "The Lord of Light understands that which is most precious to the earthly being. What is more precious than life itself, that which is given by R'hllor, only to be given back to join the Lord?"

"And the Lord of Light rewards you for it?"

"If he deigns me, or any of us, worthy of reward."

The Prince nodded again, seriously, his face remaining unchanged.

"I understand." He paused in his words. Only for a moment though, a moment long enough for her to consider that he'd never understand, never, not until he saw the Truth and followed the Lord and his Wisdom. "You said that R'hllor favoured me." He peered at her searchingly. "And you follow my army, me, because of this favour…because of your visions."

"I do not know why the Lord of Light favours you." She said in lie. She knew why the Lord of Light favoured him. Through his liberation, all of Slaver's Bay would fall under the Light of the Lord. And through him, the Dragons, shards of the Light's existence, would remained tied to her Lord…mayhaps more, in time.

Perhaps, she wondered to herself, her Lord had plans for Elamaerys too, to one day take root into the new lands, into these new peoples. For that, she thought it was no pain to suffer the presence of heretics that were unworthy of the Lord's protection.

"I will only know when the Lord shows me why" she said with a reverent smile. "I follow you because it is the most wise course I can take to find out why."

The Prince searched her for a moment longer before he nodded, satisfied with what she told him. She doubted he was satisfied, of course, but there was nothing he could do to gain anything else out of her, about her purpose around him.

She only told what she thought she needed to tell. He was dangerous, too dangerous, for her to be open and fully truthful.

"I understand what you mean…about fire…and its connection to life." He told her, his eyes peeling off of her and onto the flickering flames. "I sense it, in a way."

Her eyes bored into him. Yes…that didn't surprise her, nor did she really question. He was touched by R'hllor's Light and Flame, there was no question about that.

"Do all of your family have this…connection?"

He didn't at her look, nor did his body stiffen or move, save for the tightening around the edges of his eyes, but when he spoke, he spoke with a calmness that belied the tension she felt practically boiling off of him.

"I would appreciate if you would forget that I have family."

It was eerie, the calmness with which he spoke, the way he kept staring at the flickering flames as he spoke, after silence filled, and she could imagine, in this present moment, an alternate strange moment mirroring this present moment, of him looking at her with his mismatching eyes with visceral hatred and consuming rage, willing the world to bend to burn her alive for crimes unforgivable with his look alone, his hands a twitch away from driving the dagger around his waist through her neck should the world fail to bend.

"Do you sense this too?" he asked her, his voice calm and unserious, the tension bleeding, melting away like candlewax under hot humid summer-sun, so different from the moment before and she found herself answering quickly amidst the ember of uncertainty.

"I do. Most priests and priestesses do."

"Curious. I wonder if it is something that can be learnt, or of it must be a gift. From the Gods…from the God." He said with a side glance to her, all previous tension, all previous crimes forgotten…no, she thought to herself with guardedness, set aside rather than forgotten.

"R'hllor gifts those he deems worthy of his gift." She settled on. It was a truth, of a kind. Though it took her many years to learn the gift, it was nonetheless a gift.

A gift that some were more naturally inclined to learn…like this Prince. This Dragonlord. A gift that was long passed down the lines of the Lord's most favoured children. She wouldn't tell him that, of course.

"I wonder why I, a pagan, has such a gift."

"R'hllor works in mysterious ways."

He laughed at her words. "Aye, mayhaps your Lord does." There was no humour in his eyes when he laughed, or when he spoke. "I suppose your Lord does more than that, with how your Lord speaks to you through your flames" he paused, his eyes meeting her own "How does it feel? When he speaks to you?"

She smiled at him, feeling more like herself, her black widening "Describing how it feels would be like describing a dawn to a child born blind."

This caused an interesting reaction in him, more genuine than most she'd seen of him today. It was not quite surprise, this reaction of his. It seemed…more like he had expected her to say those words. Why, she did not know.

"Then show me." The words were followed with an intense gaze.

"You say your Lord favours me, despite my being a heretic. Partly because my actions in the Bay benefit your Lord and your Faith, and partly because he can see that we work towards the same ends, likely also for other reason or two I cannot deign to understand." He offered a thin smile, friendlier than the unsmiling ones of before but that was akin to saying that winter only just above freezing coldness.

"So show me." He tilted his head as he peered at her with a long look. "After all, you did say you came to aid in whichever way you could." He said, throwing back her words at her.

Aiding him in this was no better than feeding starving dogs fresh human flesh, and then expecting them to be good and noble guardians for children.

She found herself…uncertain of his reaction, if her refusal would have consequences that would make her fail in the purpose her Lord set her on.

If she was to leave, or rather forced to leave, and the Sunset Prince died to this…shadow, the consequences could be incredibly dire, even risking the inferno of the True Faith that her Lord wished to engulf all of Slaver's Bay in.

And it would make an enemy of dragonriders with mayhaps the same skill and potential in magic as this Sunset Prince.

Yet, she also instinctively knew that there was a good chance that this Prince was wanting a show, had moved the conversation to that direction, and she was learning that this man was dangerous in the ways he understood things.

Could he understand what took her years and the priests, priestesses?

It was heretical, to even contemplate it all, from even thinking of showing, of even deigning to think him capable of learning from a single glimpse.

…Yet the truth was, her Lord favoured him, and ultimately, if her Lord had gifted him to be able to learn from a single glimpse, then…

"It is curious, is it not" she began, her black eyes wide, staring into his, a creeping smile loosening at the edges of her lips "How you hold yourself to piety, to your Gods, yet you gleam with interest and want in the thought of seeing foul sorcery and witchcraft, two of the greatest sins any followers of your faith can perform."

She gestured towards his hands, and towards the flames "Wanting to see, wanting to learn, more of the same kinds of gifts your septons would see you burn for."

"They would be better suited to take my head." Prince Aegon said with a rich dark glower of a glint in his eyes. "You would be right however" he continued "If I was Andal, if my people were Andal, perhaps the…hypocrisy would be too much bear."

She smiled at that. "You do seem to have interest in those that share some heritage with yourself."

"A mere coincidence" he said with a calm voice accompanied with the slightest of movement of his brows, a facial expression of dismissive shrug, perhaps. "Nonetheless, what the Andals hate, is not what the Gods hate. Else, why would it exist? Magic, or sorcery, or witchcraft, however you put it, has a presence in our world. That is undeniable."

She nodded faintly at the rationale.

Her Lord deigned the world with magic, and did so freely, as he allows heretics and pagans to live and live freely in their ignorance.

"So to me, I am not a hypocrite, nor am I a heretic to my Faith, for the Faith is not bound to the ancestral hatred the Andals hold for magic, for what saw them expelled from Essos, their homeland, were those who practiced fully…"

A grim look passed across his face. "and most foully, true." He conceded and he wave his hand, as if to dismiss that point. "I've read the Seven-Pointed Star. Many times. Not once does it hold magic responsible for the evil in the hearts of men. It warns, true, it frowns, certainly, but never does it say that magic was evil."

A smile cut across his face, and for a moment she was caught in it, the way it seemed as if it was slipping through "Like a sword, like a dagger, it is the hand and the will, that determines fate, that determines all. Magic is no different."

She wondered if he knew how fate-filled his words were, of how Azor Ahai's hand was what would determine the fate of all. She disliked that she couldn't be sure either way.

There was a long moment of silence, one that was filled with both of them staring at the other, almost as if to see…

She turned her gaze towards the flickering flames, her hands rising, the fire dancing in redly in the black of her eyes, a prayer-spell under her breath as she weaved the flames to let the warmth and wisdom of R'hllor wash over her.

Wash over, it did, for flickering flame sunk her in, the harsh red and yellows fading away, light pulled and twisted into shapes, into visions that pulled at her, and visions flashed by in flickers, in the smalls of embers, the same visions she'd seen only hours before.

Red stones falling, teeth and a pale violet gem, rotting dragons and hidden knives, yet, for all of the visions she'd seen this day, new and old, when the visions died, and waning fire returned, she did not see the last, the visions to that shadow that troubled her so.

She glanced at the Sunset Prince, who surprised her with the way he looked, wide eyed, almost in awe…she narrowed her eyes. It wasn't awe…it was disbelief.

"You saw something." Her voice didn't carry an accusation, no, it was more of a statement, assured as she was that her Lord permitted him a vision.

He turned to look to her, his expression settling into bleakness. "I saw no-"

It was hard to describe all that happened, in a space of less than a breath's take.

Darkness filling the room, a darkness that pulled at the seams of light, like threads in the hands of a fetid seamstress, pulling from every corner, pulled close, the flickering flame that once been red and orange, now dulled into oily blackness, its edges, the only source of light, flickered with what she could only describe as hollow moonlight, and it moved.

Oh…it moved, it moved so horrifically – jarring sudden movement that clinked and ground and crackled, all combining, unifying, into a forbidding evil harrow – faces, and faces and faces, shadows of faces that carried silhouettes of days old dead human faces, hollow faces with hollows mouths, mouths that were agape like hungering pits whose sustenance was all the light the world could bring to bear.

Chimes of scraping metal raced to every corner, and in the bleak darkness, she saw and it filled her with terror like she never knew before.

She saw rot manifest, worms of black pestilence and wyrms of withered famine formed into facsimiles of fingers, lamentable fingers that dripped with acrid oily waste belonging to wretched heinous arms but that was not what truly terrified her, what seized her in a ghoulish stillness, no, it was the face to which the arms and it's the mephitic shapeless form belonged to.

A face, she saw, she recognised, seen so many times – a hidden face beneath a mask of blood – yet distorted in ways that could only be considered to be akin to a sacrilegious recreation of the divine and holy by the Great Other itself.

"LESSELA! THE DRAGONGLASS DAGGER! ON MY WAIST! NOW!" The Prince's words were no more than a distant ruffle. He was on one knee, the other struggling to pull him up, and holding off those dripping fingers with a mere dagger, held with both hands, yet for all that his words were short of lost in the loud shrieks the darkness scratched out in the room, she found herself acting on his words, moving out of her stillness.

"#%#%~###%####%%~#########!" the shrieks that evoked from beyond the depths behind the mask was otherworldly, demonic, shrieks that resembled vocal representation of all the things that lurked in the terror of night, combating with the sounds of chimes and scrapings of metal, with that the Sunset Prince's struggles.

She crossed the gap, small it have may been moments before but now it felt like a lifetime when she felt her hand searching around the waist of the Prince, finding finally purchase of the hilt of the dragonglass and with a swift shlink, a dull sound in the wake of deafening evil shrieks, she pulled out the dragonglass dagger.

The Sunset Prince must have heard it, or likely felt it, and screamed as he pulled himself up, the chimes descending into a bells that rang almost as loudly she heard any metal ring and without needing to be told, she wildly flailed the dagger at one of the arms of the creature, the feeling of her dagger cutting through feeling akin to turgid grease descending down her arms, and the shriek of the foul Agent grew terrible, the sound of its shrieks akin to the feeling of being thumped in the head by the foot of an elephant, so harsh and so beating was the shrieks that evoked from the foul Agent's maw.

When the flaps to the pavilion opened, shouts of alarm and anger ringing, the Prince had been mid-stride, driving forward with the dagger, and the dagger sank into mask of this foul creature, though the sounds of noxious scraping echoed throughout the now brightening pavilion, the shrieks of terror now reduced into dying shrieks, and the Prince moved again to strike at the beast but he came not unharmed for she heard the sound of flesh ripping as the black light burnt out into reds and oranges, a cried groan of pain escaping the Prince's lips, and at the same time she heard a great shrieking roar from beyond the pavilion, forcing her to look away from the last embers of the Great Other's Agent fading into nothingness towards the Sunset Prince.

She heard the swift sound of blades leaving their sheathes "No…!" the Prince bellowed, and again, she heard a shrieking roar though time it was closer, much closer, his voice still tainted with the sound of pain and it was then that he turned and gasps and cries of shock escaped from the mouths of the men.

There was a claw marks that dug deep into his suit of armour from the centre of his right breast to the middle of his stomach, likely having caught flesh, but that was not what caused the greatest of concern, no, it was the twin marks on his face, twin marks that seemed to have scraped down the right side of face, starting from the forehead down to the bottom of the eye socket, with the twin marks continuing at the bottom of his jaw, before digging into the right side of his breast.

She could see how the marks were made, now, the Prince must have been mid-stride, avoiding death by a hair's breadth.

But he was not in a good condition, she could see. Oh…she could see. Whatever that creature was, it was foul beyond measure, a creation of the Great Other. The wound on his face were a stench that made her shiver in disgust.

The claw marks on his armour too were tainted with the oily substance and almost certainly so too was that part of his body. He was dying.

"Don't…! She…she helped." His words were rasped out and the men arrived to hold him stead, his one eye, the violet eye, looked. "She helped me. Don't…Don't harm her."

"My Prince, save your strength!" One of the guards said panicked "Ser Jon! Go get the healer! Now!" she heard the flaps moving moments later behind her.

"They can't help." She said before she realised she was speaking.

"What do you mean, witch!" one of the guards snarled out hatefully and soon more looked at her murderously.

"She's….she's right." Prince Aegon stumbled forward, the blood and oily substance a savage look on one side of his face. "This…this they can't help with…I need…I need Mīsaragorn…help…" Prince Aegon gasped out pained "help me get out of this armour…" Prince Aegon began to pull at his armour and she walked towards him only to be stopped by the guards.

"Get me…out…armour…" Prince Aegon groaned more weakly than before as he forced the men to walk him out of the pavilion. The men did as the Prince bid, undoing the straps, the strings and knots. As the men worked to remove the gauntlets, and the chest armour, the ground was made to shake, a low threatening growl heard beyond the pavilion.

"Mīsaragorn….get me… Mīsaragorn" the Prince gasped out as she watched him walk out of the pavilion. She felt a strong hand on her neck, not quite squeezing but hard enough and she was pulled back and she found her eat wettened by a breath.

"If my Prince dies, you fucking die for it, you damned witch!" the guard threw her forward, almost making her fall but she caught herself, barely, and she turned to look at the guard, her face unbothered by the hateful snarl of a look she was granted. He was afraid, like a cub without its mother and lost in the dark.

She said nothing as she stepped out of the pavilion, and looked towards the dragon, who in the light of the dying sun, looked a very image of wrath, his teeth bared, low growls that trembled lowly the starved earth.

Her gaze went towards the three men, the Prince now without much of his armour and having lost his chainmail it seemed like, and the Prince stretched his arms and though she could not hear, she could tell what he was telling them, for they paused in their steps whilst the Prince did not, walking towards his death, towards his dragon.

She felt a great sense of anxiety fill her, the terror that struck still lingering strongly within too. What did her Lord show him? She wondered. Why the creature come from out of the flames? Why? Why? Why?

She thought again and again all of the things that she had no answer, some things she did not even had the right question to, and she thought she was very much watching the one who may have the answer walk to his death.

The dragon clawed closer to the Prince, who stumbled and looked like he could go no further. The dragon brought his maw low towards the Prince, and she thought hear sorrow in his growl.

She looked away, towards the crowd of men that looked shocked and fearful and lost, her attendants standing further away, and in the distance, she could men riding towards them.

They would not make it, she thought, as she looked back at the Prince. The dragon raised its maw and it opened its maw, and she flinched when a great bout of blue flame ripped out of his maw and onto the Prince, ending his life.

A wave cries and shouts of denial preceded the wave of burning hot air which streamed towards them, not so hot to burn them, but hot enough to greatly cause harm if the flames were to last.

However the dragon ceased its flame, its maw closing and the dragon to stare at the still burning ground and she found herself walking towards the flames, lost.

She did not know why she walked. Mayhaps it was because of sort of devastating grief she felt, grief that stemmed how badly she failed in her purpose to her Lord.

She misunderstood the visions. Terribly.

And, in consequence, she failed to stop the Great Other's Agent.

She failed to save the Prince.

She failed her Lor-

The dragon, who had been silent, moved and moved its maw to the dying flames, its maw opening and a gust of breath breezed at the dying flames.

"Impossible…" she whispered, her eyes widening and she quickly hastened her steps. The dragon, continued to breathe on the flames, its own attempts to kill off its flames, and she saw clearer now, what she saw, why the dragon was doing it was doing.

And, by the time the dragon killed the majority of the flames, the others must have seen it too for they were shouting and ordering with a sense of desperate hope.

They were right to hope for in the middle of the still hot ground, embers of blue flame still around, lay a pale naked body with hair the colour of moonlight.

She ignored the hotness of the ground as she fell beside the Sunset Prince, awed and more so that when she felt his skin, warm but nowhere as hot as the ground surrounding.

And, as she turned him, a breathless gasp escaped her, the horrific wounds, the facial wound, the eye, the wounds on his chest, the right of his breast, were scarred now.

Scarred and old seeming, as if years had taken place for the wounds to heal, no signs of being infected with Darkness to be found.

She placed her hand on his neck and a shuddering breath left her mouth. "He's alive…" she said with awe and wonder and, with a large intake of breath, did she shout…

"HE'S ALIVE!"