Miru

For most of her life, Miru had been pitied by those around her, long before they knew anything about what she had endured.

She was well accustomed to the reactions of others when they saw her fire-marred face and body. Sometimes her scars invoked surprise, disgust, dismay, it made no matter. So attuned was she that she could almost always identify what someone thought when they looked upon her. Throughout all that time, it was their pity that she hated most of all.

Fools confused sympathy or empathy for pity, but Miru had long ago learned the difference. Pity came from a sense of superiority, and receiving pity had always made her feel small, weak, reduced to the worst thing that had ever happened to her. When she'd established the orphanage, she had determined to never make that same mistake.

She was reflecting on that resolution again as she watched Maester Lyman, who sat and listened silently before her.

Beside her, Jena also faced Lyman as she relayed all that she'd told Miru and Matthias earlier that evening. Miru interjected only briefly to add something which Titus had told her, but otherwise remained quiet. She kept her face wooden as she looked upon Lyman as his devastation and indignation grew visibly with each sentence.

They had returned to Maegor's Holdfast and found an unoccupied apartment. Lighting torches and candles, they sat together at the table, neither knowing nor seemingly caring what hour it was.

Throughout the tale, and for quite some time after Jena was finished, Lyman spoke not a single word. Miru felt a strong sense of restlessness building between Jena, Matthias, and herself, but none of them seemed willing to break the silence.

"All this time," he finally muttered in a choked voice. "All these years… my mother was executed for nothing?"

"No," Jena clarified miserably. "Not for nothing. For my sister's ambitions."

Lyman leaned forward and held his head in his trembling hands. At first, Miru expected him to burst into tears, but then his hands became fists and slammed down on the table. Miru gave a strangled cry and recoiled in her chair.

"How long have you known all this?" He demanded of Jena. He was no longer polite or mild-mannered; he seemed to have forgotten that Jena was a princess.

"By the time I found out, it was far too late," Jena urged. "Your mother was executed, your father was dead, and we had no idea what became of you."

Lyman was in no mood for excuses. "You did not try to find me? Was your hearth so full that you could not have taken in your nephew? Or did you think I was a bastard who deserved to be sent away?"

Jena opened her mouth to speak again, but then she closed it again and bowed her head.

For her part, Miru felt wretched. If he were wroth, shouting in a black fury, that would have been bad enough. Instead, his voice was low and made harsh by despair.

"It was seven years later that I learned the truth of it," Jena protested softly. "I was a wife and a mother, and a princess besides. Cassana was the Lady of Blackhaven, Titus had only just returned from exile. The Blackfyre Rebellion had happened, my husband and my sons had nearly died…"

Titus knew sooner, Miru thought with a shudder. She couldn't help but glance at her brother, who met her gaze with a deeply disquieted countenance. It was clear to her that he'd reached the same conclusion, even as Jena had done her best to protect her brother.

"And what about afterwards?" Lyman asked Jena. "Was I so easy to forget? Or did you prefer to dismiss me from your thoughts?"

Alarmed, Miru turned to look at Jena, who was visibly wilting before these questions. "I will not defend my sister, and I cannot defend myself. I can only apologise."

"Apologise," Maester Lyman echoed. He bowed his head again. "All my life, I have known neither father nor mother. I was taught to live righteously so that I might atone for my mother's ghastly crime. I was made to wear her guilt like… like this chain around my neck!"

Matthias was not looking at Lyman. His face was flushed, and his knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the table. Jena's face was pale, especially where the candlelight reflected against the tear-tracks across her cheeks.

For her part, Miru sympathized with Lyman; she had had her own disillusionment with the Faith, and she had abandoned it as soon as she'd left Westeros.

Slowly, the maester arose. "The hour is late. I must return to Lord Royce, if it please Your Grace."

Jena looked up at him warily. "Is there aught else you would have of me?"

"Aught else?" Lyman's gaze became baleful. "I asked for the truth, and with all due respect, this truth is enough for twelve lifetimes."

With that, he made for the door and left without another word, or a glance back at his newfound kin.

"Gods," Jena exclaimed softly; with Miru's help, she arose to her feet. "That was terrible, but it was well earned."

"Do you think it is finished, then?"

"I pray that it is," Jena answered grimly. "But I've lived too long to believe it will be. And now if you excuse me, I'm going to bed." Miru got up and held the door for her as she made her departure.

As she closed the door again, Miru felt Matthias' eyes upon her. When she turned around, she saw that he wore a stricken expression. She was surprised to see that he also looked ashamed. "Brother?"

"I've been such a fool," Matthias murmured.

"A fool? Why?"

"I've been behaving abominably," her brother lamented. "How could any bit of my suffering compare with that?" He gestured to the closed door through which Lyman had departed.

"Suffering is not to be compared," Miru reminded him gently. "Remember what the High Priest Pathik taught us about guilt and pain in the Temple of Love."

"Yes yes," Matthias mumbled. "We will never fly freely if we are anchored to the mud." He shook his head. "I doubt saying that to Lyman will do him any good."

A yawn unexpectedly left Miru's lips. What is the hour? Reflexively, she strode to the nearest window and opened it. Cool air rushed into the room, washing over her like a wave. The sky was black, and the city glowed from the light of a thousand flickering torches.

"Truth be told," Matthias spoke again, "I wish we'd never sought him out."

"We didn't seek him out," Miru reminded him. "He sought us."

"I don't mean that first time," Matthias clarified. "I mean we should have dissuaded Aunt Jena from speaking to him."

Astonished, Miru turned around to stare at her brother. "You would condemn him to ignorance?"

Matthias was surprised by her "If you could do it again, you would not? After seeing how he took our news?"

"Of course," Miru declared. "I would want the same if it was me."

"All fine and good for you to say, sister, but I daresay Lyman would disagree."

"He wouldn't know to agree or disagree if you buried the truth. By what right could you do that to him?"

"By what right did we destroy his peace of mind?" Matthias countered. "Were you not listening to him?"

Inwardly, Miru saw his point, but she would rather jump naked into Blackwater Bay than admit as much. "It doesn't matter. Why should the realm be content with a lie? That's the sort of thing I would hear from Lord Bloodraven!"

Her brother was visibly stung by those words. He slid off his chair and approached her. "That is unjust and you know it! We wouldn't be lying to him, we would simply be keeping a secret! What good is there to do with this knowledge? Will he take revenge on Jena? Cassana's children? Father?"

"I don't know," Miru admitted resentfully. "But at least now, he knows the truth. Whatever he does with it is his own choice."

It was clear to her that Matthias thought little of such rationalisations, but rather than argue further, her brother stifled a yawn and turned away. "I'm going to bed."

Miru felt sour; Matthias' words had struck a chord with her, particularly concerning Lyman's possible revenge, and so she went to Titus' apartment. Whether it was to warn him, or simply tell him what she'd discovered, Miru wasn't fully decided.

Much to her surprise, there was no reply, nor was there one when she tried knocking on Sadog's door. Where are they?

Tempted though she was to go and find them, she was as tired as Matthias, and she was unwilling to go on some wild goose-chase at a late hour. If I don't know where they are, Lyman certainly won't, she reasoned. Besides, we didn't tell him what Titus knew or when he knew it.

Locking the door behind her, she slumped onto her bed without disrobing. She lay there in silence, pondering all that had transpired. Suspecting ill of Lyman felt rather groundless, but she could not fully shake the notion that he would want to carry out some retribution. Had she not willingly pointed out Brodda's cronies to Titus when he presented her a chance for vengeance?

It was not vengeance, she reminded herself angrily. It was justice.

Before she could make up her mind on which it really had been, she fell into a troubled sleep with incomprehensible dreams. Lozyn appeared, weeping as she'd wept when Miru told her she was returning to Westeros. Barba was also present, though not as Miru remembered her. Two boys spoke to her for some time before Miru realised that they were some strange incarnations of Maric and Andrew. Brodda's head reappeared too, whispering evil words from its tongueless mouth.

A loud and aggressive knock jolted her out of sleep with a cry. The sun had not even finished rising, judging by the pink light streaming into the room from outside.

Her disorientation and panic quickly gave way to anger at the disturbance. With a curse, Miru sprang back to her feet and twisted the key. "Stop that," she shouted as the door rang with another loud knock. "I'm already awake!" With a furious grunt, she yanked the door open.

Sadog and Baalun stood before her, Baalun's fist was still raised mid-air as he recoiled from her expression.

"Sorry," Baalun offered sheepishly. "I thought you might sleep through it."

"You'd better have a good reason for waking me so early," Miru warned her youngest brother, even as she began to worry what that reason might be. "Is all well with Father?"

"Of course," Sadog answered. He raised a curious eyebrow at Miru. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Suddenly, the door beside her swung open; from out of his room stumbled a half-dressed Matthias rubbing sleep out of his eye.

"Excellent," Baalun grinned. "Good to see you're awake."

Not for the first time, Miru was unsure whether Baalun was being serious or not.

"Go jump in the shit-pit," Matthias snarled as he leaned on the door for balance.

"Enough of that," Sadog ordered, "both of you! We have important matters to discuss!"

"Well, don't keep us in suspense, brother," Matthias grumbled.

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"Aenys Blackfyre," Matthias declared in astonishment. "Aenys bloody Blackfyre?"

Miru shared her brother's aghast reaction. She had certainly heard her share of stories about Daemon Blackfyre. Many had been in favour of the man, if not his cause, but most painted him as a war-hungry usurper whose rebellion had brought death and misery to thousands across the realm. Her own grandfathers had both died fighting Ser Quentyn Ball - better known as Fireball - when he'd invaded the Westerlands and smashed every army sent against him.

"The very same," Sadog answered Matthias. "Father and Roya are off to see him. Until they get back, whatever they decide, we have to delay the council from making a final decision."

"Must we?" Miru demanded. "I thought they were stalled between Aegon and Aemon!"

"They were yesterday," Sadog affirmed impatiently, "but only because they spent most of the bloody day mulling over Maegor. Suppose that they make up their minds today? It'll be too late for Papa to propose Aenys' name, so it will."

Miru was still unable to process this new development. "How do we even know if he's going to endorse Aenys?"

"We don't," Sadog retorted bluntly. "Father told us to keep the council preoccupied either way."

"And pray tell us, how will we do that?" Matthias interjected.

"With your help," Baalun declared to Matthias. He seemed strangely nervous by all this talk.

As Sadog began to explain, Miru was dazed by the audacious idea. She suddenly recalled her private conversation with Leroya on board the Black Bolt, pleading for her help with Matthias.

"This is madness," Matthias exclaimed at one point. "The council won't stand for this."

"Yes they will," Miru replied reluctantly. "There is a precedent for such actions." She met Sadog's eyes as he smiled at her.

"You've been reading Archmaester Richerus," he observed approvingly.

Before all was explained and understood, it was time to break their fast. The conversation continued in whispers as they went down to the Great Hall and sat in a remote corner of the room.

Whilst they ate, Miru and Matthias filled in their brothers on what they had learned.

"Gods be good," Sadog remarked. He looked about the hall. "Where is this Lyman fellow?"

"Stop that," Miru urged worriedly. "Keep your head down!"

"Very well." Sadog leaned down to take another bite of his bacon. "Probably for the best that we avoid him. We cannot have this plan go awry." He turned to Matthias. "Can we rely on you?"

Matthias was visibly uncomfortable as he played absent-mindedly with the food on his plate. "This is madness," he murmured. He looked resentfully at Baalun. "Why can't you do it?"

"Is that a jape?" Baalun gaped at Matthias. "I'm not cut out for this sort of thing! You are! I saw you on stage, you spoke for three bloody hours!"

"Aye, and you remember how that went," Matthias rebutted scathingly. He turned to Sadog. "You know how to talk to these lords and ladies, why don't you do it?"

"I?" Sadog shook his head with an irritated noise. "How many times do I have to tell you? I am a neutral observer, and I am representing the Iron Bank! How would they react if they found out-"

"Shh," Baalun urged as a man of House Darklyn walked by. As they waited for him to pass, Sadog shot Miru a meaningful glance. Full of resentment, but resolute nonetheless, Miru turned to Matthias.

"Please, brother," she whispered. "You are the best man for this."

"No I'm not," Matthias snapped. "I'll just inspire men to laugh."

"Let them laugh," Miru suggested. "They won't be able to silence you. Spite them with your speech. See if you can't win them over to your side anyway. Consider that a challenge."

Matthias glared at her with a sour resentment. "Damn you," he cursed. "Why must I go through all that again? Ridiculed by pompous shit-sacks?"

"If that's how you feel about them," Miru pointed out, "are you really going to let yourself be intimidated by them?"

Matthias stared at her for a moment, then looked back down at his food. He did not refuse any longer, however, and did not object when Sadog resumed explaining the plan.

"I must go in alone," Sadog informed them. "Come in last, after the doors are closed and the council is underway. It matters not if you make a disturbance, we must catch them off-guard."

"And if we're arrested?" Miru demanded. "What will happen then?"

"They will not arrest you," Sadog assured her. "And even if they do, I will inform Jena at once, and she will have you released."

Thus it came to pass that Miru, Baalun, and Matthias sat together in some corner far from the others whilst Sadog made his way back to the Great Hall as if nothing was amiss. They stayed out of sight and spoke not at all; they simply listened to the chatter and hubbub of lords passing by them in the same direction.

When all went quiet, Miru judged the time to be ripe. She led her brothers back down the main corridor towards the large double doors of the main entrance.

Both doors were shut, and a company of goldcloaks and men in Targaryen livery lounged about. It was one of the goldcloaks who addressed them in a gruff voice. "Begone. This is a private council."

"We have business with this council," Miru declared, forcing herself to sound as calm and assured as possible. "We are here on behalf of our father, Lord Titus Dondarrion."

The guard snorted with laughter as he looked them over. "Your father, is he?"

"Aye, he is," Baalun snapped. "Is the family resemblance not obvious to you?"

Turning her face away, Miru shot Baalun a glare. When he shut his mouth, Miru turned back to the guards. "I demand you let us in, or we shall report you to our aunt, Princess Jena Targaryen!"

"Go ahead, then," came the sardonic reply. "I'll wait for the order to come from a Targaryen's mouth."

"No need for that."

Miru, who'd been about to tell Baalun to run for Maegor's Holdfast, turned to a nearby doorway. Beneath it stood a man whom she hadn't seen for twenty-seven years, and whom she'd never expected to see again.

Cayn was not tall, but he had maintained a trim figure. The dark clothing and black steel ringmail he wore did not fully hide the obvious strength of his thick shoulders and arms. His short hair - half brown and half grey by now - had receded from his forehead, whilst his cheeks were clean shaven. His thin lips were set in an unfriendly scowl as he stepped forward.

One of the Targaryen troops gave a hasty salute. "What do you mean, Captain?"

"Let them in," Cayn ordered. "I'll vouch for their parentage." He turned to Miru again. "But I do wonder why Lord Titus is indisposed."

"He is ill," Miru answered, delivering this rehearsed lie with as much sincerity as she could muster. "Some minor winter chill, we hope, but Grand Maester Piato has already administered a potion to help him rest. Braavos always suited his health better than Westeros."

"No doubt," Cayn drawled; despite his words, Miru was seized with a terrible suspicion that he did not believe her, and would hinder their entry into the Great Hall.

Moreover, in less time than it would take to describe, Miru felt a flood of emotions as she looked upon Cayn with her own eyes after so many years. Her own quest was forgotten as a hundred questions crowded their way onto her tongue, yearning to break through the boundary of her closed lips.

Cayn broke through her train of thought by turning back to the confused guards. "Let them in," he ordered, then stepped aside without so another word.

Relief surged through Miru as she nodded to Cayn. "Thank you!"

Cayn did not acknowledge her gratitude, but simply walked away. Miru might have hesitated - maybe even gone after him - but she had a duty to perform. Taking a deep breath, she entered the Great Hall alongside her younger brothers.

It was a daunting moment to say the least. Hundreds of men and women were seated at tables which formed a misshapen circle, with one side being flat and elevated to accommodate House Targaryen. Banners were raised above the tables to distinguish which great lords were represented, either in person or by their bannermen. Miru found herself staring at the black stag of House Baratheon, the sky-blue falcon of House Arryn, the golden rose of House Tyrell, the silver trout of House Tully, and the golden lion of House Lannister, and the red sun of House Martell. Elsewhere, the grey direwolf of House Stark and the golden kraken of House Greyjoy were also raised, though their families were absent. Higher and larger than any other sigil, the red dragon of House Targaryen rose proudly above the raised platform.

When the doors were first opened, there had been some sort of discussion. A rugged giant of a man was pacing the open space within the circle of tables, but now he stared at the new arrivals in confusion.

Miru felt a panic rising within her; she sensed similar fears from Baalun and Matthias. It was more for their sake than her own that she continued to put one foot before the other.

She aimed for a narrow gap between two tables, where she could see Sadog sitting at the end. He gave her an encouraging smile as she passed him by.

"What is the meaning of this?" The large man was one of the most imposing men that Miru had ever seen. He was black of hair, with a wild beard spilling down from his large face. His bright blue eyes were wide open and even beneath his hair, Miru could see the dark frown forming across his jaw.

"A just question, Lord Lyonel," called another. Miru turned to see who it was, only to shudder as she watched Lord Brynden Rivers arise from his seat. "Welcome," he called out in an unfriendly tone to the three newcomers. "To what do we owe the pleasure of this interruption?"

There was a smattering of laughter, but this was drowned by the murmurs and whispers. It seemed to Miru that an entire hall's worth of hostility was heating the air, so that she felt it difficult to breathe.

But breathe she did, and with a quick glance at an ashen-faced Matthias and a dumfounded Baalun, she faced the high seat of the Great Council.

"If it pleases this council," Miru declared loudly, "we have a new claimant for consideration."

The words had an immediate effect upon the assembled lords and ladies.

"A new claimant?" Lord Jasper Arryn arose to his feet, thunderstruck. His words were shouted to be heard over the hubbub around him.

Miru raised her voice to speak over them all. "I present Baalun Dondarrion, an heir to King Aegon Targaryen, the Fourth of his Name!"

Baalun puffed out his chest and stood as tall as he could. His effort was hindered by the explosion of noise which greeted Miru's declaration.

"This is outrageous!" Gerold Lannister was standing too. He shouted something else, but Miru couldn't hear him over the roar of Lyonel Baratheon. "This is unprecedented!"

"On the contrary!" Miru pulled a book from the confines of her cloak. "I present An Account of the Great Council, by Archmaester Richerus!"

Bloodraven held out both hands for silence. When the commotion died down, his red eye glared at Miru with a cold curiosity. "Aye, that is the book which you claim it is. But what of it?"

Miru took a moment to choke back the terror which threatened to cut off her breath before answering. "According to this book, claimants for the Iron Throne arrived as late as three days after the proceedings had begun! They were all permitted to present their case before the council." She held the book high over her head, praying that nobody could see how her arms were shaking.

"Aye, they arrived late. And then they were promptly denied," Lord Lyonel Baratheon quipped loudly. Laughter and jeers burst out across the partial circle.

Miru felt a sinking feeling. She turned to her brothers, but they looked as uncertain as she felt.

"Denied they were," a voice cried out, "but nonetheless, they were permitted to present their case!"

Once again, the court went silent, both out of surprise and out of respect. For her part, Miru was floored by who had chosen to speak.

Prince Aegon Targaryen had risen to his feet. He brushed several strands of pale hair from his face before continuing. "For my part, I will forgive the intrusion and permit this new claimant to speak. If nothing else, we must obey the precedent of great councils!"

"My prince," Lord Lyonel objected, "you cannot mean to entertain this farce!"

"Farce or not," Aegon replied calmly, "I will not have it said that this council was illegitimate."

He turned to gaze at the others who sat along the elevated platform. "However, I know it is not wholly within my authority to permit them. What say you? Is it not just that every claimant has their opportunity to be accepted or denied?"

Miru's heart was racing as she looked at the other members of House Targaryen. It was clear to her that nobody was thrilled about Aegon's intervention, much less willing to go along with it, but none seemed able to refute the fact that the rules allowed for Miru to present Baalun's case.

At last, Bloodraven yielded. "Very well, Prince Aegon." He turned to the assembled lords. "All in favour of rejecting Baalun Dondarrion, raise your hand!"

Miru almost cried out at the alacrity and unanimity of the rejection. It seemed as if every single person in the room had raised their hand.

"We were not finished with our presentation!" Miru cried out. With trembling fingers, she opened the book and tried to claw her way to the right page. "According to A-Archmaester Richerus…"

"You were permitted to present your case," Lyonel Baratheon overrode her. "And we are permitted to reject your case."

Once again, Prince Aegon intervened by addressing Lord Lyonel. "Peace, old friend! Grateful though I am by your wish to speak on my behalf, I would beg you not to spoil it with haste."

Lord Tyrell arose from his seat. "Is this some sort of ploy?" He asked accusingly of the prince.

"If it is, I have no knowledge of it," Aegon promptly answered. "I simply wish to observe that Maegor's representatives were permitted to speak, as were Princess Vaella's. I have heard nothing from Master Baalun's representatives beyond a mere introduction."

Baalun suddenly snickered at the notion that he was a master, before he quickly composed himself and tried to appear kingly.

"The vote has been cast," Lord Arryn shouted. "There is not even a need to take a record of this interruption."

"All the same," Aegon replied. "I see no reason to punish this claimant for the council's briskness." He turned to Miru and gave a respectful nod. "If there is no other interruption, I believe you have the floor."

"His Grace speaks with great wisdom," Grand Maester Piato declared. "Long has he proved himself a just man with a good heart!"

I thought he was on our side! Miru balked at this outburst, until she realised the old man's intent. His praise of Aegon made it utterly impossible for anyone to oppose his endorsement. Those in support of Aegon would be most unwilling to speak out against him, and would in turn shout down anyone who dared speak out.

"That will do, Grand Maester," Bloodraven interjected. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Go on, then. If this be inevitable, mayhaps it will at least be entertaining."

Miru felt too tongue-tied to speak again. She wanted to flee the hall and hide under her bed. She was still dazed at the notion that Prince Aegon of all men had defended her so thoroughly, and she had no idea how to proceed.

"Friends, nobles, Westerosi, grant me thine ears!"

Matthias had stepped forward. His strong baritone voice echoed loudly in the Great Hall.

"I come to you with a tale of everlasting love! Of a shining prince of dragons and his dark lady of the sea!"

There was some laughter at this flowery speech. Others were already looking bored. A few were curious. Lord Lyonel Baratheon, who seemed to be at least twice Matthias' size, walked back to his seat with an irritable growl.

Matthias stepped forward and spread his arms. "It was in the blessed summer of Blessed Baelor's rule, when seven suns smiled upon seven kingdoms. None could doubt Baelor's puissance, nor his wisdom and good heart. By his judgment did his cousin, the noble prince Aegon, embark on a sceptered mission of great import. To the Titan of Braavos was Aegon sent to treat, and put to rest any garboils which may yet rise on that easterly horizon."

Miru was amazed. How much of this did he invent and how much was taken from those plays he loves?

Ever since he was a boy, Matthias had always been enthralled by mummers and performers. He had briefly toyed with learning cartwheels and other tumbling tricks, but these proved especially difficult for a dwarf to master.

By the time they'd moved to Braavos, Matthias was old enough to see the plays put on by mummers. He'd begged their parents to take him to as many as they could, and for folios so that he might learn the lines himself.

It had been Miru who had introduced him to the mummer troupe that took him in as one of their own. He spent a few years playing comic parts as befitting a dwarf, but he'd always wished to do more than that.

"In this exotic locale, the prince was amazed," Matthias went on. "In Braavos, he beheld delights and dangers which no man of Westeros could imagine. Beneath the Titan's shadow, he ventured with a full heart. Though the Titan roared, and though his howl unleashed the ocean's waves, the prince did not quail. Onward he went, and plunged nobly into the waterways of a thousand promises. Wise indeed was Blessed Baelor to appoint his courageous cousin to cross words with the Sealord of Braavos, so that he might not cross swords with the Sealord's bravos!"

So stirred was her brother that he paced about, meeting the eyes of anyone who still regarded him. It seemed to Miru that many were unsure how seriously to take Matthias' speech. Some laughed, but others were stilled by the words which were spoken with such sonorous surety.

"But lo," Matthias cautioned, "this brave and noble dragon was not all invulnerable. Just as the great beast Vermax fell, slain at sea with a dart in his eye, so too was the dragon Aegon struck by a bolt. It was that black bolt who called herself Bellegere!"

How many of these men still recall this tale? How many are hearing it for the first time? She did not dwell on that, for she noticed her brother's voice was becoming dry. Miru hurriedly seized a goblet of water from Sadog's table and brought it to Matthias. He took a hasty sip and resumed where he'd left off.

"Ah me," he exclaimed with a smile to those in attendance, "was there any man of woman born who could steel themselves against such fair and tyrannous beauty? Could the light of sun, moon, or stars ever lift that prince from beneath her shadow? It was love for that dark mistress which made him groan, and love that made him forget the vows he once swore. She smiled as she trapped his heart in those dun hands, and happily she whispered lies and truth alike in his besotted ears. For what did it matter what she said, so long as she spake to him in that hour? It was the pale prince who lived and died at her mercy, who longed to worship the merest black wire that grew from her head!"

None of the scribes were copying down what was being said. Doubtless they thought it immaterial to these proceedings, but Miru saw that a few of them were transfixed nonetheless.

Matthias seemed entirely unbothered if his renditions were being met with apathy; if he felt angry or embarrassed, he hid it well, even from Miru's observation.

Instead, he went on and on. Miru regularly refilled Matthias' goblet as he wove a highly detailed picture of Aegon and Bellegere's love affair, from which three children were spawned. He spoke of Bellegere's ascent to the Black Pearl of Braavos, passing that title to her daughter, who passed it onto her own daughter.

Finally, he detailed how Bellaria had encountered Titus in the Summer Isles, leading to Baalun's birth.

"And so," Matthias heralded, "what man could deny the worth of he who is come to us from the Summer Isles, Valyria, Andalos, and Westeros? The blood of First Men, Andals, and Valyrians course through his veins! He is come to us from heroes innumerable! Of kings that sat upon a throne forged by dragon-fire from the swords of their fallen foes! Of brave warriors who safeguarded the Dornish Marches! Of sailors and explorers whose ships and bows have been unmatched since the death of the dragons!" With a dramatic flourish, Matthias forced his hoarse voice to shout again. "I present your king!"

Miru wept silently as she began to clap. Beside her, Baalun clapped louder, unable to stop tears from flowing down his own cheeks.

A handful of others joined in, though their applause was tepid at best. Most were looking more bored than ever, but at least there was no laughter. With no small effort, Sadog pulled himself to his feet and clapped wildly along with his sister and brother.

Another movement caught Miru's attention. Prince Aegon had arisen from his seat once more, clapping his hands together with a calm dignity.

Dozens of men hastily followed the prince's example. Miru turned this way and that, trying to take in the entire sight of this spectacle. When she halted, her eyes were fixed on Lord Gorlim Redfort.

He had paid little heed to Matthias, neither japing nor admiring him, but deliberately turning his head away during the performance. Now he was staring in astonishment at those who applauded, especially Prince Aegon. Miru turned to Matthias, who was also looking about the room. If he noticed Lord Redfort, he gave no indication. Indeed, whether by chance or by choice, her brother was keeping his back to Lord Redfort's table, just as he'd conveniently done for much of the day.

"A wonderful performance," Prince Aegon called. "Might we know the name of he who gave it?"

Miru watched with delight as her brother waddled closer to the high table and gave a bow. "Matthias Dondarrion, Your Grace. Son of Titus and Bellaria!"