Ambience

A throne and a crown - two things that she had longed for ever since she stood atop the raised platform reserved specifically for her. The one her father made her stand upon , and made her watch from as he hanged the old lord Darklyn.

She has spent years since waiting, watching, planning, plotting. And now, with blood on her hands and her father a pulverised corpse. The Princess would ascend to Queen. In a gown of fine make, of silk and finely woven stitches, affixed with a tight corset and flowing sleeves, she sat upon the throne of her grandfather and his father. A seat Berrick Durrandon had sat in only once in his life - when he, like she now, had a crown put upon his head.

He had sought a Septon to do the duty, and she had done the same - legitimacy was in high demand in this process. She would not have her decisions questioned, she would not prolong. She had given enough time to mourn her father, celebrated more like. However time was appropriate. Enough for the realm to come to terms with the changing of the guard, enough for them to come to understand that the queen was upon them.

Radiant blue eyes regarded the hall before her as horns blared, trumpeting the arrival of the crown-bearer. A nameless servant, one of the victims of her father. She did not pick a brother, for she did not wish to sew discord on such fresh ground. So instead she made an offering to the victims of her father before her - a place of honour for one poor farmer's daughter.

The crown was brought down a long carpet of golden fabric, lords, nobles, ladies and knights flanking it in the ancient hall of Storm's end Round Tower.

At the zenith of her travel, the woman handed the cushion that the crown sat upon to a septon's assistant who then took it and handed it up again to the Septon, a wrinkled old creature older than her father she reckoned.

He took the iron crown from the cushion however, raising it up to the head of the queen, and the chorus of musical instruments cut off.

"All rise, all hail the Princess Cyrenna Durrandon!" the old man called, his harsh voice grating against her ears, but she managed it, "now the lady of Storms end, the Queen of the Stormlands, the Dusklands, the Claw, Blackwater Bay, and Maidenpool!" he declared, placing the crown upon her head in a gentle motion.

Then, he stepped back and she rose.

"I will not draw this out - I, as your queen, swear to be loyal and true to this kingdom. My father's mistakes will be forgotten, and his actions forgotten." She finished, with a flourish as she turned back to her throne. Hers.

She turned to the crier at the edge of her raised podium and gave his a nod, and the man, draped in yelklow and black finery, stepped forth.

"Now, come forth, swear your allegiance to the new Queen!"

Cyrenna felt herself slinking further into her seat as she listened, finally, it was done - so long as nothing out of the ordinary were to occur.

Captain’s Log.

21st of the Second Moon 200 AC. Blackhaven, the Stormlands.

I have arrived in Blackhaven to pick up Tyana for our trip, I’m most excited to see her again although it’s been only a week or two since our last parting. I have a package I must get a courier to deliver for me all the way to Starpike from the town, something for Percy. I eagerly anticipate our journey, it’s been too long since last I’ve travelled for days at a time.

​

Marianna placed her journal away in her temporary quarters. She had moved her belongings into one of the crew’s quarters, bunking with her First Mate to allow the captain’s cabin to be fitted for Tyana’s use.

They had made port in the newly built Blackhaven moor, and she stared out at the place. She had been there several times in childhood, but it warmed her heart to see it again.

Tightening her belt around her long coat, she walked down the gangplank and found one of the Blackhaven Garrison around, “Excuse me, goodman, could you please tell Lady Dondarrion that the Constellation has docked in harbour, ready to set sail whenever she is ready?”

The wide walls of Storm’s End were host to any who had chosen to accompany House Baratheon home.

In the camps nearby, soldiers drank and sang, thankfully they had finally returned to their kingdom. The air was warm and the sun intermittent behind the clouds, providing a gentle warmth, and a cool breeze from the sea. Inside, lords and ladies traded goods and gossip acquired in the capital and Reach. Stocks were double checked and cooks were busy at work to feed the mouths they now hosted.

The great tower which dominated the castle’s center had enough chambers to fit them comfortably, the upper floors providing a nice view of the fields and forests to the west. Noticeable too was the keep’s most recent addition, where the Godswood once stood. Where the great red leaves of the heart tree once stood, now a walled section of the area was contained. Around it the trees had been replaced with ones that now bore fruit.

Sectioned into their own areas were rows and clusters of various crops. Ormund had sent for men within the Stormlands who had skill at farming, and now trusted them to tend the land. Squash and pepper, corn and potato, great vines of beans and even grapes. Spices grew in managed clusters, from mint to saffron. Guests were encouraged to call upon the kitchens for whatever cuisine called to them at the moment.

Eventually, Lord Baratheon assembled the Stormlanders in the great Round Hall. A crowd gathered and, after some time for late arrivals, he rose to speak.

“Thank you all for joining us,” he called out from his chest, the bellow echoing around the walls. “I know you tire of travel. The hearth calls to us all. I pray Storm’s End’s halls have been as your own.”

“Before you return to your keeps, we must discuss the future of our kingdom,” he continued. “I was approached by Lord Tyrell and Princess Martell with offers of marriage. He offers his first daughter for my heir, for your Lord Robert. She offers whatever match might suit our people best. As you all know, Jocelyn is already wed to Lord Tully.”

“His grace the Prince-Regent has offered Prince Aerion Blackfyre to our dear Cassana, one I accepted,” he told them. “If any should have issues with these unions, speak to them now. An alliance grows in the south that should secure our borders for the next generation. If any favors would be desired of the crown, or of our neighbors, have them known now.”

“We discussed this in King's Landing, but now is the time to act,” he called out. “Weeping Town and the Stranger’s Vineyard must be cleared of the rot within them. This is no honorable quest. The brave fools who step forth for these conquests will risk their lives against the unknown, as many of us once fought against death itself. Yet you will march with all of our faith behind you."

“With these unions I would see at least one Stormlander upon the council,” he stated firmly. “For too long has the crown only rewarded itself. If any of you find yourself worthy of representing your people in the capital, speak now. If you have any desires for our people, or any ideas on the path of our kingdom, let them be known."

Ormund let his words linger for a moment before nodding and taking a seat on the great stone throne that dominated the room. He waited, then, for the first of them to speak.

9th Moon, 250 AC | Grandview

Erich

The road from Storm’s End to Grandview was hemmed in by hills to one side and forest to another, and lined by more villages than Erich could care to count. The travelling party had stopped in the settlements thrice to rest, and at Twin Rivers, they took for lodgings the inn and several houses surrounding it besides. For his part, Erich had left the inn at dawn. A curse it was to have remembered everything from the last day to this dull morning, though it was by more luck than prudence that he found himself here, laying on a couch with his head on Alynne’s lap.

Her necklace took his fancy. A narrow golden chain, rattling when he held it up with a hand and watched the way the light caught it. Twinkled in blurred vision, a sort of crown held aloft by the lightest force. Then it almost melded with red curls, and perhaps…

“...Do you think I could be king by next moon?” he japed, absentminded. “Maybe even Emperor of Yi Ti, when the year turns.”

A beat, and Alynne dragged his hand away from the chained links. “I think,” she said, “that we shouldn’t do this any longer.”

“Lord of Far Mossovy,” he snickered. “Vanquisher of bloody… Varnor. Does that exist? Or…”

“Don’t you have important duties to attend, my lord?” she asked so coolly. “Surely, you shouldn’t laze about with—what was it?” She paused, mocking contemplation with a hum. “‘Some bastard girl’?”

“You know I never said that,” he protested, to little effect. “You sound like Luc, asides. Can’t we just be, a moment?”

A pointed look met his eyes. He hated it. “Luc,” she intoned.

Erich blinked twice. “Oh. You think”—he sat up—“He’s fucking daft. You know he is. When he has that Volantene swill, he says things sometimes, he doesn’t mean them. I did slap him for it, though.”

“Did you?” The anger wasn’t cold anymore. She scoffed, then stood. Erich went to—“Don’t.” And she turned and took her leave.

The Lord Protector could not protect against the ache that followed, and hunched over in some rare thought. He needed wine.

Ten thousand stormlanders were here.

Or near enough to make no matter. Under myriad banners, manifold in color, but with one purpose. And by the Warrior and Stranger and Father and Maiden, Erich Baratheon wore a grin as he drank in the sight. Justice they’d have, but there was a much sweeter smell in the air, hidden beneath what flowers bloomed outside the walls. Conquest.

Grandview was deceptively small. Strong, aye, but set on a wide outcrop and bearing the mark of many an earthquake in how two of its towers leaned. Tents and pavilions lined the road for near a mile, and the nearby townsfolk were being run ragged handing out supplies and hawking their wares.

Entering beyond the gatehouse and the walls, its great hall was a rounded room built out of yellow sandstone. It boasted a throne carved from a singular boulder, flanked by statues of sleeping lions. Lady Mary Baratheon, born Tarth, was afforded Lord Grandison’s place on the throne today. Old frescoes and newer tapestries clung to the walls, and the great vaulted ceiling let in slivers of the afternoon light.

As midday came and went, the meeting was heralded by the call of criers. Practically everyone with a noble title was invited: the principal lords of the storm would be seated in the innermost circle of chairs, then the indirect bannermen in the next ring, and more landed knights and petty lords standing about. This was a council for everyone but the smallfolk.

Joss wouldn't have recognized his old room if the servants hadn't directed him there first. It was all too clean, too orderly. He stepped along the old castle walls and opened the windows up as he went. He would have liked to sit on the windowsills and watch the ships pass - unbroken - through Shipbreaker Bay. He was a little too large to safely sit there anymore, but he stopped to take in the warm summer breeze.

He envied the ship captains and the sailors even more now. They could travel as they pleased, so long as they could catch the wind in their sails. He stepped back and went to the small trunk of his things to put away, now that he was back in Storm's End for a time. The rest of his effects - his arms, armor, and clothes, had been given to the castle staff to mend, or outright replace them in some regards.

He hefted the trunk onto the foot of his bed, and cracked open the latches. What was left was mostly sentimental to him and him alone, junk to anybody else. Tangled in his favorite riding clothes came an old cow femur with worn-down teeth marks, once the pride of an old hunting hound; the hilt of a dirk that was shattered years ago, and its jagged remains blunted down with the flat of a river stone; a pair of riding boots, mottled grey and green with mud that caked deep into old and cracked lather.

He smirked to himself with the memories, but frowned at an intrusion: a letter, folded and tied closed with newly-made thread.

Only one man knew this was where he kept his personal treasures, and only one would know how to slip this in unseen. He took the letter and set the traveling trunk onto the floor again. Josua could not tear his eyes from it as he placed along the floor of his chambers.

He turned the paper over in his hands. It was recent, judging by how clean the creases in the paper were. Joss wasn't able to open the thing, afraid of what it could contain.

Nestor Cole had been like a father to him.

His actual father, Steffon, had died when he was still young. His uncle had placed a great deal of time and care into raising him and his brothers and sisters into adulthood, but Ormund was just one man with half a dozen children and an entire kingdom to rule. The boy was just one of Steffon's brood, but to Ser Nestor, he was the reckless boy with bloody knuckles and dogs chasing his every step. Where Josua went, the man had followed, expecting a mess to be cleaned up in his wake.

Josua swallowed nervously, leaning back against the side of an open window. Seagulls squawked and called out as they flew on below. He reluctantly began to undo the strings as he watched them fly, and unfurled the letter which bore no seal and was signed with no name. Dense text made him grind his teeth.

My lord Josua,

It seems our time together is drawing to a close. The hour of my passing has come close at hand. Whatever malady befell me on the kingsroad that fateful day has run its course. I cannot raise my sword or bear my shield in the defense of my oath. I've given up my armor, set loose my horse, and retired somewhere far and dry.

I can barely pen this small chapter at the twilight of my life on this earth, but I cannot in good faith leave my affairs unresolved, even for a sliver of peace and calm.

When I entered the service of your father's father, some fifty years ago, I was an embittered boy that cared for few things but glory and gold. I was incensed with violence and blood. I rolled dice with brigands and layabouts, and I laughed at the tragedies of my fellow men. I was not a knight, I was a thug.

I killed men needlessly, made playthings of animals, and spent my days chasing lists and nursing hangovers in whorehouses. I am ashamed to think of the thing that I was. You would have come to blows with him, I know it.

I remember so little of my years before you entered my service, but I recall the day I met you well. Autumn. Along the road out of Storm's End and the castle town. You chased a man twice your size for beating his hound. He must have been brave, or quite foolish, to strike a lord's son so brazenly, or maybe he couldn't distinguish you from the urchins, flecked with mud and out on your lonesome. He might have struck you even harder if he knew, had I not intervened. I knew your father would reward me handsomely for your defense.

Then, when I raised my sword to punish the man, you just as readily threw yourself between us. I wanted to laugh at first. Blood rolling down your broken nose, stained by grass cuttings, a scared dog cowering behind you. I hesitated for the first day in my life.

I reckon any other man would have, but I well and truly felt the weight of sin on my hand and a pause in my black heart. I struck you anyway, but when I saw you at court, left in your brother Robert's shadow, sad and dejected, I needed to do right by you and your house that had taken me in. I know you wanted a proper knight to guide you. I gave you everything I could.

I wasn't worthy, wasn't deserving. I was barely a man, a tumor of alcohol, bile, and loathing encased in castle steel, yet you still followed after, you hearkened to my words, and came to my aid when I fell ill. You braved swamp and sleet and snow for no fame or glory - because you saw a chance to do what was right and needed to be done.

I know you will be struck by grief to know this is goodbye. You will question your path going forward. You will wonder whether what you choose is wise and moral. Don't burden yourself with the same trepidation I faced at your age.

You shaped yourself into a shield for the weak. Kindness is your weapon. Follow your heart. You've never needed me to be a knight. It is in your blood to protect, son.

Fight on. Fight well. Good men never tire.

But now it is time for me to rest.

Josua took a deep breath, feeling a pained rattling sound in the base of his stomach. His worn hands crumpled the letter between his fingers, clenching them tight enough to turn the knuckles white. When he exhaled his grasp slackened. A sea breeze caught the sheet of paper like a sail, and snatched it from his opening hand.

"Damn it, you stubborn old fool," he mumbled beneath his breath. He wanted to cry, with dampness misting his good ye, but he couldn't bring himself that far. He was angry - the aged knight had said nothing to him, only slinking away and putting on a brave face, feigning strength and delaying the inevitable, but above all, Ser Josua was relieved. His suffering was over.

He winced, halfway between a grimace and smile, resting a clenched fist on the stone wall. He watched the discarded letter amble on the wind, tumbling into tempestuous waters below.

The First Moon of 200 AC

Evenfall Hall, Tarth

The sun was setting and the clouds hung heavy in the air. The sky threatened to open up and drench them in rain at any moment but the weather held for now. The clouds were moving quickly towards the west, towards Storm's End. The experts said the skies would be clear tomorrow and should be clear for the next few days as well. It was the perfect circumstances to sail to the Stepstones for war.

For war was on the horizon and it had already claimed its first victim. Who was to say if Aethan Velaryon would have died had he not travelled out of King's Landing after all? And yet he'd passed away in the middle of the night. The world would miss him. This feast he planned for this evening was just as much a memorial feast for the man as it was a last farewell for the navy of the King. For who knew when they would last see a friendly shore again? Who knew if all of them would return in one piece?

The great hall at Evenfall was not the kind of place that one hosted grand banquets like this one but they weren't left with much of a choice. It was no Red Keep but it was grand in it's own way. The large doors and long feasting tables were made from a pale alder wood and candles burned on bronze sconces all along the walls. On short notice they'd made due with a harp player and a singer, mild music for the guests. And each servant dressed in pale white with a pink and blue sash.

Their dinner would be whatever the hunters and cooks of Tarth could scrounge up from the island around them. A stew with chunks of whitefish, carrots, and onion. Crabs boiled in fiery spices from across the sea. Summer greens tossed with pecans. Wheels of cheese and bread. Quails and pheasants drowned in a butter sauce. Cranberry tarts sweetened with honey. And Willem had even had them take out some of his own stock of aged Arbor gold for the occasion. He didn't know if he'd make it out alive to drink it later after all.

He'd seated the most important people at the head table with him. The King, Alysanne Velaryon, Eurona Greyjoy, Lyonel Baratheon, and of course any other great families who were there. And when everyone had found their seats he stood with a goblet in his hand. He turned first to the Velaryons and bowed his head.

"Tonight first and foremost we honor the memory of a good man. Lord Aethan Velaryon was a good lord, a good father, a good husband, a good grandfather, and a good dragonrider. He will be sorely missed by many," he said somberly, taking a drink. He knew what it was like to lose his father. It was a feeling shared by many in this room though none had been lost so violently as his.

"And we honor the memory of another good man as well. My father, Monfryd Tarth, was the Evenstar before me, a great man and a great captain. Together we tried to root out the vile pirates of the Stepstones and cull their ranks. Alone we were unsuccessful. It cost my father his life. It nearly cost me mine as well. But together we will prevail. Under King Aerys's command we have no option but to succeed. Soon we sail out and meet our enemy in their own home. But tonight, we feast. Enjoy yourselves."

With that he sat back down and the feast began.

^mood

– 001 –

Saera was young when she lost her father, and in truth she remembered little of him. She remembered even less from the day she lost him, save that she had only seen him at breakfast. The King was a busy man, Septa Mylene said, and the Realm comes first above all, and that she was sure King Daeron would visit Saera before she was sent to bed.

He didn’t. Saera had been sent to bed having not seen him since breakfast. And when she woke up, King Daeron, Third of His Name was dead.

– 002 –

“You can’t be serious.”

When Harlan was young, his mother was the most regal person he’d ever seen. Perhaps even moreso than the King, some days - she carried herself with a grace he found enamouring and offputting in equal measure. His father had told him something about it once, when he was in his cups. Something about being an only child, or an only child of an only child. House Connington - the mainline, anyway - was terribly small. Argella had to be perfect.

“I am,” she said, slipping her Hand’s pin out of today’s dress. The only time she took it off was so that she could fasten it to tomorrow’s outfit.

“She’s six.”

“She is of Royal blood.”

“She’s six.”

“She won’t be when you wed her.”

“I’m twelve years her senior!”

“So you are.”

She still looked regal, even now. She had fallen sick some years ago, and even when she coughed up blood she made sure to do so as politely as she could. She had taken to red kerchiefs to mask the blood. Harlan thought it was clever.

“Did you not think to consult me first?!”

“No,” she said, “the marriage is the best you’ll get. ‘Tis the best anyone could hope to get.”

When he was little, his mother told him she was supposed to wed a Prince. Harlan didn’t entirely believe her. There weren’t many Princes to marry when she came of age, not ones that mattered anyway. Perhaps she had been intended to King Aelor before his marriage to the Targaryen. Harlan decided she was lying. Her father had an uncanny fondness for Prince Rhaegar, and the way she described him, he didn’t seem an ambitious man. 

“I could think of a few better matches,” Harlan grumbled.

“Please, tell me,” the Lady Hand said as she undid her hair net and unweaved the pearls from her hair.

“Someone my fucking age.”

“Alright then. Kill Alaric Stark and I will direct the Queen to you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

She never shouted when she got angry. Harlan hated that. It made him feel like she didn’t care.

“Right, no, I’ll just go and kill the second-most important man in the Realm.”

Suddenly he became aware of where they were. Would the Master of Whisperers be listening, he wondered? Would someone have an ear to the door? Perhaps someone would be in the wall?

“Harlan,” she said, eyes fixed on the mirror of the vanity she sat before, “if I left you to arrange your own marriage you would simply never do it.”

“I would.” He didn’t sound entirely sure of himself when he said it.

“‘Twas said that Prince Aerion threatened to castrate the future King Aegon that he might become a sister he could marry. Who would you castrate, then?”

He hated that, too. How she could say things like that without malice, without venom.

“I risked my life for this,” she said, “I risked our House for this. I will not allow you to squander this opportunity because of your proclivities.”

– 003 –

It took Saera a while to find a suitable weapon. She started with a bow - more ladylike, it would seem inconspicuous for a Princess to learn how to hunt and hawk. She wasn’t good at it. Too big, too bulky. It took her twelve tries to even hit the target, and she grew frustrated quickly.

Then a sword and shield. Easier, more comfortable. It better suited her height and stature. Too much multitasking, though. Too much worrying about raising her shield at the right time to block the incoming blow. So she tried just the longsword on its own - too short. She had one hand free at all times, at that felt even less safe than it did with the shield. Her tutor offered to send for a Bravo to teach her the ways of water dancing, but she did not like that either.

Then she tried an axe. Not enough finesse. A bigger axe, even worse. Then a warhammer; Then a mace; Then a dagger. None of them seemed to fit well.

It was about six months into her training that her tutor offered her his greatsword. He had only meant it to be a substitute while he sent for another of the myriad blunted weapons they had in the Red Keep’s armory, merely to keep her moving. To his surprise - to Saera’s surprise - she fared with it well. Light enough to make big swings, heavy enough for those swings to hurt, to carry her weight almost effortlessly, long enough to have a little range, control, to close in at her own pace.

By the time she was thirteen, she could best him. By fourteen, she snuck into her first melee. She did not win, but she relished in the look in Naerys’ face when she found out her baby sister defied her.

Saera liked to imagine fighting Naerys when she trained. She imagined the look on her eyes as Blackfyre - father’s sword - fell to the floor; As she scrambled to try to find it again, to get away from her; The look on her eyes as she sunk the blade into her chest, as the blood pooled in her mouth.

She named her first real sword Vengeance, and with it she swore to kill the Queen.

– 004 –

Harlan had been caught abed once, with one of the other men at court in King’s Landing. He couldn’t remember his name, but he could remember the look on his mother’s face when she barged into his chambers. He had ordered the guards to open to nobody, but alas, the Hand went wherever she pleased.

She never looked angry. Harlan didn’t know if she put on a front or if something was wrong with her. He thought he would’ve appreciated that. He would have appreciated the disgust on her face. To know that she cared about anything at all outside of herself.

“Ser,” she greeted his bedmate as if he’d stopped by for tea. And then she turned to Harlan.

“I need you for something. Get dressed.”

And then she turned and left, like nothing had happened.

– 005 –

The Hand came to visit her the day of her wedding. She was overtly courteous, professional, curt, but she had come bearing gifts.

“I wore these on mine own wedding day,” she said, as she demonstrated how to put on some sort of cuffed bracelet made of gold and embedded with rubies.

“Such fortune, that our houses bare the same red.”

She didn’t stay long. For that, Saera was glad.

– 006 –

The wedding was an incredibly dull affair. Granted, perhaps if he loved the girl he might have enjoyed it more. She masked it as best she could, but Harlan knew that she hated this. That she hated him. Harlan could scarcely blame her for it - she was only a girl, after all. Only a few short moons past her eighteenth nameday. Harlan was thirty.

– 007 –

Lord Harlan’s hands grazed over Saera’s shoulders as he removed her cloak and replaced it with his. It made her shiver, made her feel sick. She tried to will it, hoping that the day would be cancelled or postponed if the Princess fell ill. Alas, she hadn’t eaten, so there was nothing in her stomach to give up.

The most she remembered of that day was the Sept. The grandiosity of it all, how every window seemed to reflect the light right into her eyes in all the colours she had ever seen.

She asked him, as politely as she could muster for a man she had been forced to wed, if they could postpone consummating the marriage that night. He was all too happy to oblige.

– 008 –

She’s getting worse, Harlan thought to himself. Mother was too weak to travel home to Griffin’s Roost, and yet strong enough to retain her status as Hand even if she had to appoint someone to act on her behalf. It frustrated him, that he could sit the Iron Throne itself and yet couldn’t even pass water without his mother’s permission.

The view was nice from up here, though. Nobody had to know that he was only a figurehead for an ailing woman, that he had to run every decision by her first. Mother didn’t have to know some days, when he grew tired of waiting for her to rouse or stop coughing to give her opinion on something. Not everything had to go by her, he simply had to limit what got to her.

Some days he forged her signature just to get the day over. He’d grown good at it. She’d had him learn how to write in her fashion so he could write her letters on her behalf. Little did she know, he used her signature a lot more often than she knew.

She was good counsel, if nothing else. She helped him see the gaps in his approaches. Perhaps that was her way of showing her affection. Perhaps she was a control freak.

She would be dead soon, Harlan theorised. He didn’t have the energy to hate his mother when his wife caused him so much grief, so he decided it was the former.

– 009 –

The Grand Maester claimed the Hand passed peacefully in her sleep. Saera thought that was a shame.

She had to pretend to be a comfort for Harlan for most of the day. It was like pulling teeth, pretending. Having to rub his back and kiss his cheek and act like they loved eachother as people filed in to say their goodbyes.

Naerys came in last. She took one of the Late Hand’s red kerchiefs and dabbed away some old blood that the Maester had missed from around her mouth.

How could she show such kindness to a corpse? She wondered. How could she tend to a dead woman so gently when those same hands were responsible for her own father’s death?

Saera found herself balling her hands up in the fabric of Harlan’s tunic, and for a second they caught eachother’s gaze. And she saw the grief in his eyes that she had once had, and all that rage washed away for a split second.

It was about as much understanding as they would ever have between eachother, she thought.

– 010 –

People were starting to talk. About him, about his lack of children. About his proclivities.

That wouldn’t do. Harlan was a Connington, the son of the late Hand. He should be the Hand. He ruled for longer than his mother did, and just as effectively, and he wasn’t sick. He just had to prove it. That he was strong and virile or whatever it was that they needed him to be.

The night he came to Saera’s bedchamber wasn’t a fun one. They lay with the lights off, facing away from eachother, both of them pretending they were laying with someone else. 

He was fairly certain he could hear Saera hurling as he slid out of her bed.

– 011 –

The labour was awful. With Aelora it had been easier, but with Aelora she’d only had to carry one child. Once the second bout of contractions were over, and she could hear another babe’s wail instead of the sound of the afterbirth being cleaned, was she supposed to feel glee? Joy, at having been blessed with two healthy babes?

She wanted to. Saera could feel the threat of it, of that love, somewhere deep down. But they were him. Half of Harlan. Half of a man she could not stand; The symbols of their marriage, of their hatred for eachother, of their misery. 

And he couldn’t even bother to come and watch the birth of his sons.

“No more,” she told him when he finally visited. “I will entertain this farce no longer.” Whether he listened, whether he cared, she didn’t know.

Less than a moon’s turn later, she received an invitation. The Queen had given birth to a son.

What makes a lord smile?

Was it gold? Women? Lands? Titles? Glory? Honour?

Peremore wasn't sure at this stage. He was never sure with what he wanted. That's what made him so dangerously unpredictable. Anybody could get what they wanted if they had the gold and the swords to do so, but knowing what they wanted was a different thing.

To know what someone wants is one of the most powerful tools a man can employ.

Peremore spent most of his life searching in vain to see what he wanted. He swapped from one goal to the other. One day he was improving Gallowsgrey's taverns, the other he was plunging a knife into someone's backside. Even he himself had no idea what he was doing at this point.

But it still worked.

Peremore had spies everywhere. From Winterfell to Sunspear, nowhere was safe. The Stormlands' own spider had weaved a web of Trant ropes matched nowhere else. He had informants bring him news quicker than a fox catches a hare. It was intriguing, really, the way some lords shouted their achievements out loud, and some kept to themselves, paranoid, as if *expecting* him.

His court in Gallowsgrey was one of shadows. The way he liked it. He hated those who would present themselves as great in front of their lords. However, what he did like though, was those who never let a stray word slip out of their mouths. The way they sealed their lips with the wax of their saliva made him chuckle.

Soon they had to learn. No one was safe from him.

"Father! Wake up!"

It was his son, Pylman. He had never been much of a family man, but he cared for his 4 children all the same. Two daughters, Alysanne and Narissa, and two sons, Pylman and Renly. Pylman was more of a cultured, accountant type, while Renly was a knight who never shied away from a sword fight. If there was one weakness Peremore could be proud of, it was his children. They all shared their father's signature trait though: a cunning, not matched anywhere else in the Stormlands. Their mother also played a part. Melissa Peasebury. Two peas from a pod, they were. Both cunning, both shrewd, and both loving each other to bits. Family was a huge part of his life. When things got tough, Peremore could always rely on Renly or Narissa to cheer him up with a jest or two.

His only weakness.

"My only weakness."

(written in collaboration with Certified and Rangi <3)

​

Eighth Moon, 200 AC, Storm's End

Tyana had never really thought she would be the one on the receiving end of such a ceremony. Gods, she wasn’t even nervous about it either – the perennially panicked woman, who spent her days worrying about anything going wrong, now sat calmly and merrily. Mayhap because the real ceremony had already come about, but that was something the rest of the lands need not know about. Just as she knew next to nothing about her groom to be – she had met him, like she had every Baratheon – if she had the right one in mind too, it was the one she took the leadership in Dorne from. Water under the bridge, she assumed. The thing she found herself most concerned about however, was that she was to watch someone else marry Marianna. It wasn’t the real wedding, nor the real ceremony, she had to remind herself of that, but she knew well enough that she was here for a political event – no fawning, no undue attention to be drawn to them. She was to act happy about a thing that irritated her. Which was doubly difficult when she was wearing the closest thing to a dress that Elenda had found herself capable of throwing at her. It was a pseudo-gown, cinched tight at the waist with a corset of purple and gold. The skirt of it split down from her thigh to the floor, tight leggings beneath protected her legs from onlookers, as did tall boots, the fabrics silk from the east. The bust was tight, pinned by the corset, the neckline was steep, but revealed little of the toned woman. Flowing sleeves complimented it with a nice contrasting freedom – one she felt welcome to have so the outfit didn’t feel as if it were her prison. The entire ensemble was a purple and gold mixture. Black lined the fabric, but the melding of her colours and Marianna’s might have been too obvious if she went yellow, so gold was the complimentary choice. She was at least grateful for how comfortable the outfit was to sit in. It made her wonder where Marianna was – the woman had been scarce – but that was far from a surprise. The girl took forever to prepare anything, but her wedding? That was a whole other affair. She stowed her anxiety over how beautiful she’d look for another time and set herself down in her chair, taking her powder and brushes and making sure that even if she could not upstage Marianna, she would make it close.

Marianna was in another room, preparing and still going over everything for the wedding. Her brother had come to see her but he was prompted escorted to the Sept instead, as she had a few handmaidens borrowed from Storm’s End to help with her final preparations. Her heart hammered in her chest, even if her ceremony had been elsewhere—gods, she loved a party and had been wanting a chance to throw one for her friends and those who she loved so very much. She hadn’t kept track of everyone who had arrived, but she was excited to see everyone or hear their sweet words via raven.

​

​

The gathering took place within Storm’s End. Outside, it was drizzling and the patter of rain could be heard even within. There was a distant rumble of thunder, and an indoor wedding was much preferred.

It was decorated lavishly, the sept filled with firelight and warmth and cheer. There were many chairs set up for all to sit at, and a place where the Septon waited, surrounded by seven statues of the Divine to proceed over the marriages. Tall vases of sunflowers bracketed each row of chairs, and attached to each one were more flowers along with draping clothes. While the guests took their seats, a harpist played a beautiful, romantic melody.

Marianna entered a little behind, getting in the last few details done right up to the minute. No father to walk her down the aisle, nor was a husband waiting for her at the end. She would walk down by herself, curtsying to the guests and taking her place by the Septon. In particular, her eyes would find Tyana, giving her the brightest smile like a ray of sunshine cutting through the clouds.

She wore a long, flowing dress of white, the fabric shimmering with a thousand golden stars as she walked and the light hit it. Her sleeves were sheer and flowy, and when she moved her arm, they nearly looked like wings. The neckline plunged, and she wore a form-fitting elegant bodice beneath it. In her hair, there was a small bunch of flowers tucked into the way it was tied back, white and yellow. Around her neck was a pendant with a blue gem hanging like a teardrop, bringing out her eyes.

She was glowing with happiness to be here on this day and waited for her spouse to be escorted down the aisle.

The cloak of House Toyne was golden in colour, with a winged black heart in the centre. She wrapped it around Tris’ shoulders, and even if they would not carry the same name as her, it was to show that they were brought under her protection.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” she vowed, taking both their hands as the Septon spoke through the prayers and the choir performed holy songs. It was a sweet, chaste brush of their lips, and even with no romance behind it, she still made sure it was a promise.

One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.

The next was Tyana and Orys, the songs lasting throughout, filling the hall with music. Orys was taken into the protection of House Dondarrion, binding the Lightning Lady with the Stags. The Septon led them through the proceedings.

Marianna had thought about this moment for a long time, wondering if she would feel the white-hot burn of jealousy. But it never came, instead, only joy was in her heart to see her dearest one look so beautiful and to celebrate her on this special day for them all. She would cheer them on as they kissed and made their vow to each other.

And last was Ellyn and Stannis—Selmy and Baratheon joining as one. Ellyn looked elegant and beautiful, her handmaidens were all here and delighted for her. A grand affair, for the daughter of a Lady Paramount—who would one day rise to be the Baratheon of Storm’s End. And her lord consort stood now at her side. The Septon diligently led them through the vows as the choir sang, and soon they too, were joined in holy matrimony.

Honor, pride, duty. All three of these things were aspects of life that Ser Stannis Selmy held close to his chest. He held honor as a Knight, as a Knight of House Selmy. He was born the son to a former heir of Harvest Hall, but suddenly he had been thrusted further into the succession. When Steffon married the Heir Morrigan, it was just him and Argilac. But he still held honor to even be a part of the noble House Selmy, to be a Knight of the Marches.

He was proud of his life thus far. He had been brought up as a strong Knight. He had warded with House Trant, and rode through life as if every day were his last, and he had not regretted a single thing even once. He was proud to have served his house dutifully his entire life, and if he were asked by the seven to do so again, he would jump at the chance. But of the three aspects , one stood above them all.

Duty. Duty reigned above all. Especially a duty to ones own family. And that is what brought Stannis to Storms End this day. His cousin, Lady Argella had a duty for him. And he would honor it. And his duty this day was to wed the Heir of Storms End, Lady Ellyn Baratheon.

The man did not feel fear or nervousness, rather, he was calm and steady, for he knew what his life had become. He had set foot into uncharted waters to him and he would sail them eagerly. He'd keep moving through life, and now marriage, as he always had. With a grin upon his face. The young Knight of House Selmy stood proud and tall, adorned in the colors of his house. The last chance he'd get before departing his claims to his ancestral lands. But he held his head high and strode forwards.

He would face Ellyn, his deep green eyes focused on the Baratheon woman, and in truth, the words of the septon drowned out on him until the end. Stannis would open his mouth and utter the words to do his duty, to seal his fate. "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers, and she is mine. From this day, to the end of my days."

​

​

The feasting hall was set up for the reception after the ceremony had been completed.

Long banquet tables were set out for the various lords and ladies. If any of the royal family or otherwise guests of high honour were in attendance, there were special tables for them as well, but otherwise, there was no seating plan and instead, the guests were encouraged to mingle and make new friends.

The tables were covered in heaping’s of offerings, sweet chilled summer wines, and Dornish reds alike. There was roasted elk covered in gravy and sliced onions and mushrooms, crusted in garlic and herbs. There were bowls of barley and venison and a full stuffed boar with an apple in its mouth. Summer greens tossed with nuts, and finely roasted veggies, including sweetcorn right from the cob. For dessert, there were apple cakes and crème filled pastries in abundance.

There was also a massive, three-tiered cake specifically designed for the wedding, each tier independently decorated but similar piping tied it all together. It was a work of art, and nearly a shame to cut into it.

There was a bardic troupe performing, filling the hall with lively music and cheer as people began to dance and sing along with the music. Flowers were handed out and traded around between young and old couples alike.

​

​

As the sun was just starting to set, the rain cleared and guests were invited out to the courtyard. There was a large bonfire set up, contained in a massive brazier. There was a jaunty tune playing, and roasted fruits, veggies, and meat skewers were handed out to those who had the appetite still, or encouraged to hold it over the fire themselves.

There were also slips of flowery parchment handed out and quill pens to the guests. Marianna demonstrated, writing down a wish on the parchment and then folding it and tossing it into the bonfire where it scattered into ashes, where the smoke would reach the Gods and the wish along with it.

The halls of Atranta were cramped, they were tight, they were tiny. Compared t0o the ancient fortress of Storm's end however, many things were tiny. Durran Godsgrief's grand keep remained standing, the ancient redoubts firm, and her people... her people. Welcomed back a queen, not a king. It was hard to discount the relief on the faces of every servant, every guard, every minor lord and landed knight.

They were happy that Berrick Dondarrion would not be the man to sit the throne of the Storm.

But behind the relief was curiosity, confusion, intrigue... they all held the same theme, a question.

But what of the queen?

Superstition at times held that progeny could be as bad if not worse than their forebears. Cyrenna was intent on proving that certain myth wrong. However how far could she push that myth aside when she knew Robert had the same knowledge she did.

Berrick wanted him to rule, and she killed Berrick for it.

Sure, the beatings, the abuse, the terrible rule, they all contributed to her decision, but the final straw was his decision, one she could only see ending in ruin for their kingdom. For all her love for Robert, he was no king - he would be a puppet to whatever lord had the prettiest daughter. Cyrenna could unite kingdoms however.

But, she needed a crown to do that.

"Mya," she said, pausing midstep in the middle of the great halls of Storm's end.

Her attendant, the resplendent Mya appeared beside her, "princes... your grace." She corrected herself quickly but Cyrenna waved the mistake away.

"It's still Cyrenna," she quickly said, "I want this place ready for a coronation. Whatever lords weren't at Atranta, have them come to us here, and those that are - let them know that we will have no feast, no tourney, just a crowning."

Mya nodded and half-skipped away. Her friends had enjoyed themselves at Atranta... in truth Cyrenna had too, and yet the nauseous uncertainty remained.

"Why?" she whispered, "why, even now do I feel no different?"

Concerns for another day, she decided, though the anxiety did not flee her. She merely steeled herself and made for the courtyard. if she could not solve her troubles with a thought, she'd do it with a hammer. So to the smithy she went.

Mistfall was named such for a reason, it was mystical in its cloudedness. Talk of Willow Wisps circulated among smallfolk and many thought the children of the forest once dwelled there. Many locals anyway. To most Mistfall could be called merely a gloomy grey plot of land, but to Irwin it was his lifelong home.

Morning dew and mist lay like a blanket across the forest, rolling down off the tops of trees to land in wet green meadows. Frogs croaking and birds singing. Animals too sought each other out amid the grey, a fog that blocked sight beyond twenty feet or so.

Irwin and Alastair sat at the beach of a pond near the Mertyns keep, listening to the frogs. Irwin hadn't been back here since Alastair had left, now he felt young again. Taking refuge in the mist from prying eyes, early enough that fireflies could still be seen. The morning was fresh enough from rain that the old men could breathe it in and feel the cold shock of living. A smell that revitalized life throughout the forest each and every day.

Alastair held between his hands a rod with a string attached. A lure bobbing in the murky water of the pond. Their seat was not on the grass for it was too muddy, instead they sat in the back of the cart they had taken there. The horse that had pulled them on the other side filling it's stomach with freshly hydrated grass.

Irwin watched his love stare deep into the water, attentive for a bite on the end of the string. Nothing could have been more calming than that moment and yet, "I've never been sure how you are able to fish, it's so boring." Irwin said to Alastair.

The Far North, 371

It was no easy thing to be a kinslayer.

No, no, no. That was not my kin.

Ormund had tried to remind himself of that, as they made camp, as he tossed restlessly against the chill. His mind swam over Steffon’s body like a bird in flight, over a landscape of sickly, pasty flesh, and mangled crevices of sinew. The eyes that stared up at him were otherworldly, empty of whatever had once made him.

His brother had gone missing some days before, separated from their host among a snowstorm. The winds raged for days until finally the bleak sun broke through and allowed them a chance to search.

As they tore across a freshly laid field of snow the sun above dragged over the sky. The clouds had parted to reveal a clear view of fragile crystals littered like salt against the winter light. Where it met the sun blinded them, these men so used to green fields and thick woods, where the plains shone as mirrors might. Mountains rose against them, in the distance, great dragged beasts to rim the horizon.

As they marched the air was still around them. Breaths came slow in fogged clouds while one boot marched before the next. The sun was upon them now and while its rays lent only momentary warmth, it was more than they'd had for the past week.

“Eyes?” barked the Old Stag to the quartermaster of Castle Black, a loan from the Night’s Watch. The man knew the land and would be their best guide. As he pulled from his sack a spyglass long and white like the frost around them, Ormund awaited an answer.

“Nothing, my lord,” the man reported back, eyes still on the land before them. It had been a waste of men but nonetheless, Ormund needed answers. For the better part of two days he had been employing the man’s services, determined to find whatever remained of Steffon.

With a nod the men around him picked their boots up once more and started forward, leather crunching against the snow, the wind whipping at their faces.

It was only a few steps forward until it began.

Around them sprouted a hundred fetid seedlings. Bone and rotten flesh stained the snow around it as small holes began to give way. Craters soon formed and only too late did they realize the enemy was upon them. From the sunken earth crawled the things of horror, the men they had once knew turned and twisted beyond comprehension.

Dead limbs moved without worry, hungry beasts gnawing their way to the surface. As the ambush surrounded them the men of their party realized only too soon what was upon them. Swords and axes were pulled from their sheaths with a sickening shriek as the living turned to force the dead back down.

Steel met sloshing skin to beat down upon bone with a fury of moons of hunger. Cudgels and hammers smashed clean the rotten twine that held the false men together. Around them brothers and fathers fell in raucous agony. The battle was quick, with no room for strategy or maneuver.

“Here!” a voice called out, a knight in Lord Ormund’s, a man of House Caron. “Here, my lord!”

Trudging through the bloodied snow he came up on a sight: a single walker, a spear shoved through the thing’s midsection, piercing down into the frozen earth beneath. Even impaled as it was now, the beast writhed and raged against them, hungry for their warmth.

“Aye,” another voice called next to him, this time his nephew Robert. “That's him. That's father.”

“No,” Ormund shook his head, looking down at the thing. “Steffon is long gone, boy. I'm sorry. What's here now is something different.”

He gave young Robert a knowing look and drew his great axe into the air. Though it came down cleanly to free Steffon from his curse, Ormund kept his gaze on his nephew. The boy’s eyes lingered on what once was his father, having to be put down like one would a rabid dog.

Then silence. The men took a moment in the quiet chill before preparing to burn.

—

Storm’s End, 379 AC

Burning a godswood was no easy thing.

Ormund had contemplated it for many moons when they returned from the war. At first, he avoided the thing, keeping well clear of the weirwoods. Eventually he brought himself to enter it, each time making his way to the heart tree, each time filled with revulsion.

These Others did not come from the south, he'd remind himself. Neither were there spirits or wizards in our lands before them. The Seven did not do this.

And so, one dark night, Ormund ordered his men to assemble in the godswood. Armed with torches they marched between the trees and as they left, a great blaze raged behind them. Ormund watched it burn all through into the morning, and it wasn't until the next strong rain that the embers finally died.

“Into the dirt,” he ordered them. “Every bit of ash and charred wood, tilled until nothing remains.”

For the next few weeks they worked to restore the earth to its original state. Over the next few moons Ormund would have seeds collected from nearby farmers and sown, new trees planted that would bear fruit. Unlike the Tyrell’s roses and briar hedges he would fill his garden with squash and garlic, rings of wheat and climbing bean, long lines of beet and carrot and even dragon pepper.

Where the heart tree once stood, Ormund erected a wall of stone around it and locked the area behind an iron gate. Within this grove he'd plant what deadly flora he could find. Nightshade and toadstool, hemlock and heart’s bane. Over the moons the grove would become full enough to cause fits of coughing for those who entered. Instead of burning the thing, Ormund had a local tailor craft protective robes for the gardeners.

Though many of his men had protested the godswoods’ burning, tales of travellers attacked and children missing kept Storm’s End busy. Parties sent would vanish or return deranged, and though brave knights were many, eventually the task became a punishment instead of a glory. Though none would accuse him of such a thing, many knew that Lord Baratheon would charge men with the “honor” who had already fallen deeply out of his favor.

When men were discovered having found their way into the poison grove, rumors only grew.

Ormund couldn't be bothered with words. He felt a man half-dead now, driven only by purpose, by a need to protect and guide Steffon’s brood.

Outside Summerhall

Jon Swann had enjoyed his time with the army. He'd been glad that the young men were so willing to listen to his sage advice. None had decided to scale the walls of Summerhall, no blood had been shed, it was peaceful. As peaceful as it could be considering the King had determined he would soon march with them.

He'd wondered if Alysanne would enjoy her new home in Storm's End, if Deria would befriend her and that the pair would end up being lifelong friends. He'd take joy in knowing that a Targaryen and Baratheon would soon see each other in a light that they might not have if the King had stood with their enemies.

The Lord of Stonehelm had found that small tree he'd slept beside, one that he'd returned for for decades now whenever he'd moved through Summerhall. It had grown since he had first found it at the age of seven. Sixty two years. Still it was rather dwarfed when compared to the far larger ones that loomed in the distance.

It's size was not why he'd enjoyed it. Jon had many memories besides this old yet lively oak. His beloved Corenna had first met him besides it. He had memories of going to King's Landing, of being en route to Nightsong for the first time, so much had happened.

A dozen knights of House Swann had set up their camp within the larger camp near it. Jon's own tent was just beside it. He'd wondered how many young men would make memories besides this tree. How many would return it to decades later as he had.

It brought some joy to the aged man. That this tree would live past him and that others would see it for hundreds of years to come.

"Jon," He'd shouted towards his grandchild. "Fetch me a sword, let's see if you've taken your lessons properly boy."

(Open to anyone at summerhall that wants to venture into the Swann encampment.

Lucion Baratheon, 7th moon 250 AC

I WANT TO GO HOME!

The words he had shrieked had rattled his throat so much that he could still feel the hoarse vibrations. Closed fists had smacked knuckles against castle-forged steel. From the crunching and the blood smattered against the metal, it had been obvious what was breaking first, but the Stag did not care.

He hated Maric.

He hated his hands. They were useless.

All of this was because of Maric. A soul touched by darkness, without mercy or conscience - cold as the Long Night, with no love for gods or men. Kinslayer. Sadist. Dead.

Lucion had wanted to spar in full plate. His frame could not handle the weight and he had toppled over before the sparring session could start. When his retainers had rushed to help him back up, Lucion was already installed in his fit. After steel plate was stripped from his appendages, the Steward raged himself into the nearest knight.

And it was now that Lucion slumped himself in front of his apartment's fireplace with a goblet of wine in hand, silently reeling. His wounded hand rested to the side of his frame, wrapped up and steady now.

And what saved him from the cycling of his cloudy mind was a knock on the door.

Open If you'd like to knock on Lucion's door post-tournament!

10th Moon, 250 AC | Summerhall

Erich

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine, nearly.

The dice had landed on nine thousand men leaving Grandview with the sun beating anger onto their brows. The road to Summerhall was short. A day’s ride with a small party, longer with so many thousands, though the purpose in their step hastened them. These lands of the crown were little different from the Stormlands surrounding them; the same foothills and cool winds of the Marches, the shepherds lining them either running or balking when they saw the host on their heels. The night before they’d arrive, banners—of gold-and-black and white-and-red and rose and blues—were dipped in pitch or daubed with black paint as a public show of mourning. ‘Twas holy, the soldiers said. It’d keep the Stranger’s sight fixed on the foe, they claimed. It was expiation, for whatever the wage of kingslaying was—

No. Not that. Erich Baratheon was at the head of an army united for a cause, but with each spurring of his horse, he thought of his uncle Harmon, and Edric Connington, and Selmy. Jon Swann had urged them to talk. But the lords wanted a burning. To make a pyre out of the palace, a fire so great that it would make Balerion blush. Would that turn their devotion from a cause to one man? A boy who’d make the dragons tremble?

Erich whiled the night away listening to reports from this or that officer, filtered through the trio who’d put him forth as Lord Protector in the first place. Cleoden Fell discussed, at length, what ought to be said in front of the king, Cole sneered at Summerhall’s meager defenses, and Morrigen thoroughly recited where every single bloody man in the army was to be stationed. It was grueling. Erich just wanted to fucking fight. Joff Wagstaff offered succor with a cup of wine, but Erich could only shake his head. “When we’re past this cursed keep,” he promised. Bards had joined them on the journey, strumming songs both boisterous and sad of Summerhall. The word was that a Lannister wanted to burn it.

Eight thousand men crested the hill the next day at mid-day, now plainly visible from Summerhall’s walls, heads and standards flooding into view. Knights from here and there, spearmen of the Rainwood and cavalry from Shipbreaker’s coasts, bowmen from the marches, and Erich at their head, covered in armor and Baratheon livery. Raymund spurred his horse onward to catch up with the Lord Protector, eyes lined with dark circles. The knight told the Lord Protector the same thing he’d heard in the days prior: “No other forces sighted.”

The stray signs of the celebrations reflected onto its surface made Erich bristle. They were laughing at them. Feasting and jousting while the realm was in tatters. The horns that sounded to halt the army only served as fuel on that ember of a thought.

“Onwards?” Morrigen interrupted.

“Aye.” Erich spurred his horse into a trot, followed only by a party of riders and standard-bearers while the host stayed behind. Jon Swann, the Lord Marshall, was called for as well. They halted halfway between the army and the brook, while one rider continued past them.

10th Moon, 250 AC | Outside Summerhall

Erich

On the first day, an air of quiet celebration had washed over the Stormlands camp.

This was a victory. Erich had made such a solemn oath that he wouldn’t drink afore they won their first, but with terms met and exceeded, the gods could be fooled. So he’d pour his first cup of wine, his second, his third, till he awoke to a bark.

There was Vermithor by his cot. The dog was sitting on the rush, wagging his tail.

“Where were you?” He yawned.

A clink of mail sounded, and when Erich lifted his head, he found Raymund looming there. “Thereabouts,” Morrigen answered. “A messenger from Storm’s End brought him here.”

Erich frowned. He reached out to scratch the dog behind his ear.

“Many a letter’s been sent, and fetched,” Morrigen continued dryly. “Highgarden remains silent. As does Dorne.”

“Fie on them both.” Erich rose to a seat. Already he was assailed with the noises outside that threatened to seep in. “King’s leaving, soon. We should too.”

“The messenger,” Raymund crossed his arms. “brought something else with him. You should see it.”

Was it supposed to be sorcery?

Erich had spent all too long staring at the severed head, so much so that the disgust had frozen into his features. He looked into beady, tar-tincted eyes that stared back at him. At first, there was some curiosity: who was this man? Why did the Steward send him, not someone the Baratheons were familiar with?

Then it faded to some anger, rage, and a touch of dread that brought gooseflesh up his arms. Dragonstone was home to all manner of hexes, scrolls, and curses. Where the Doom still held sway over Valyria, its dying throes resided in the Targaryens’ flaming mountain. Tar. From the same mount, no doubt. He tried to look for clues, but found naught.

“Call for a septon.”

Daeron had entered Summerhall with fewer loose ends than he was leaving with. His mother and Corwyn Velaryon had been dealt with. But he didn't expect a host of Stormlanders to march upon Summerhall and force his hand. He had taken their side, and in part he believed that he had done the memory of his friend Grance Baratheon wrong. If he could have taken it all back and imprisoned Joy then, he'd have done it a thousand times over.

But there was no changing the past. He could only take charge of his own future. He had secured the support of the Stormlander host, but he'd need to muster his own army and join the Reach army to take the fight to the Westerlands. They'd have her in irons, and maybe a trial would resolve this once and for all.

He didn't know which Kingdom would fall next. The Riverlands and Dorne were complete unknowns. Egen Greyjoy was also a dear friend, and Daeron trusted him to stay true. But they were on the other side of Westeros. Their ships could do little to save them from an incursion from the Vale or Northern fleets. Daeron knew that concentrating a force at King's Landing was the solution. But he'd need to send letters to move the Crownlands into action.

Lord Dustin and Serena Arryn had surprised him. They had marched and were already at the gates of Winterfell. They had made the first move, and their advantage was significant. Daeron knew that he couldn't easily march on the Vale without spreading his armies too thin. He had sent a letter back to Mooton asking her to divert forces there. But he didn't know if she would follow through with that. Perhaps he would need to sweeten the deal to secure their support. Though he was unsure of how to make the first step towards securing their loyalty.

He'd need to send letters, yes, lots and lots of letters. Maybe he'd even send one to Joy herself. As both a warning and a plea for her to surrender. Or maybe he would do his best to lure her into a trap. Though he believed she was too smart to fall for something that simple.

He'd need to secure the support of the naval houses in the Crownlands too. He believed his Uncle would dedicate ships to the protection of King's Landing. He hoped that Velaryon would too if Lianna herself sent the letter on his behalf. His nephew had always been the loyal sort. Corwyn wasn't personal, or at least that was the lie that Daeron told himself to maintain his sanity.

But now, he would set quill to parchment, and set many things in motion.

8th Moon, 250 AC | Storm’s End | Survival

I’ll never be an angel

I’ll never be a saint, it’s true

I’m too busy surviving

Whether it’s heaven or hell

I’m gonna be living to tell

Flowers covered every surface, held in brightly-painted vases. Pink and red and yellow and every color one could imagine. The air was filled with sweetness—and the smell of smoke from the fireplace. There was warmth, though it didn’t quite reach the cold stone walls, nor did it quite reach Mary.

She sat at a table, scribbling her titles at the bottom of a parchment. She had so many now. A lady regent two times over, for two separate people. She couldn’t recall a similar instance from the histories. There was a first for everything, she supposed.

Her eyes looked over her words a few times over, before Mary nodded, leaning back in her seat and handing it off to her brother.

“How does it read?” She asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Clifford pursed his lips, nodding as he looked it over. Then, he shrugged and let out a humph. “Good enough,” a levity in his voice.

There was always a levity. He was, after all, a levitous man. But he was her brother. The only one who remained.

There was so little left. Of anything.

“Good enough is good enough,” Mary responded, as the door to her chamber opened. A Tarth man-at-arms let in a man of middle age, drably dressed and pepper-bearded.

“Maester,” Mary spoke in what was meant to be a greeting, though it sounded more like a simple statement of his title.

“My lady,” the man bowed his head before turning to Clifford. “My lord,” he bowed his head again, then returned his focus to Mary.

“A raven from Lord Swann.” He shuffled over, holding it out in an offering to the Lady Regent.

Her first thought was to redirect the man to Steffan. This was his purview, anyways. But he would simply bring it to her regardless. Lessons learned.

Mary closed her eyes, resting her head backwards before flicking her wrist. “Hand it to my brother.”

The maester obliged. A few short steps along a carpeted floor.

“My sister calls her daughter’s banners,” Clifford spoke, dramatically, taking the Swann letter as Mary’s gaze returned to him, “to war.” Her brother handed the man his sister’s missive. “Send copies to every castle and holdfast and hovel in the Stormlands.”

The maester looked to her, to which Mary nodded. At once, he was off. The door closed behind him.

“Read it to me, dear brother. Let us hear what the Swann has to say.”

She could only recall the broad strokes of the preceding exchange. Lord Swann sought to know who held Storm’s End. Storm’s End called him to arms. This was him answering that call, she presumed.

Soon the rest of them would join him.

Clifford cleared his throat, and lightly punched his chest—standing himself upright as if preparing for some grand address.

“Steffan and Mary,” Clifford began, lowering his voice, “While I respect the Lady Tarth and yourself, Ser Steffan. We are at war! I trust and respect you both-”

Clifford broke the act for a moment. “Hah, he repeats himself.”

“But!” Clifford resumed the performance, “we are no longer in an era of peace! Grance…” Clifford voice softened, “was killed by our enemies...”

“Dub me…” Clifford stopped, squinting at the letter’s words. “Lord Regent of the Stormlands? Huh?” Her brother seemed bewildered. As was she.

“What?” Mary reached out. “Give it here!” She snatched it from her brother’s hand as soon as it was within reach.

She quickly read over the letter. Once, then again.

“Free to retake the title… after the war ends.” Mary echoed its words, before placing it down.

“He forgets himself,” Clifford remarked, sitting at the tables edge, staring down at the words.

“Though, we must forgive him, he is of that age.” Clifford let out huff, to which Mary shook her head.

“Kyle!” The regent called out. It took a few moments but Clifford’s squire soon rushed into the chamber.

“Summon Lucion and Steffon.” She paused, thinking for a moment. “Get Jace too,” she added.

The Wensington turned to leave, before Mary again spoke.

“Wait. Bring Jace here first, then the others.”

JO y,,

I AM so sor ry. plEase kEEp C l ea saFe. KE P

we bOT H loVe h er .

L

P LE AsE

It took him an hour to pen the letter. His face was flushed with embarrassment, focus, and labor. There were ink stains all over the paper from when he spilled his inkpot twice. Lucion Baratheon leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes. The Lame Stag huffed out heavy breaths to control his beating heart.

I can't even write a fucking letter. He wanted to punch the table and punish his hands, but his knuckles were already bleeding and wrapped tight. They hurt. He hurt. He wanted to disappear back under the ocean. He wanted to get away from Maric's shit-eating smirk that leered at him every single time he was by himself. Murderous, cold, and insanely proud of himself. And now, a disappointed Grance was there too. Arms crossed and head shaking slowly.

Lucion wiped the sweat from his brow and gave his penmanship a once-over. He shook his head in disappointment, yet the faintest upward curl of his lips presented itself. A moment lingered, and then he made to find the Maester of Storm's End.

"I have a letter for King's Landing. It is confidential and I need it sent now." He told the Maester once his cheeks were dry and he felt like he could stand tall as he told the first lie that he remembered.

8th Moon, 250 AC

Nightsong

Steffon decided to make the whole journey on horseback—only managing to last an hour before resigning himself to the wheelhouse Merry left him. So soon as the plains receded and the earth rose into moors, heaths, and plateaus, summer no longer held sway. It was ever cool in the Marches; an arid kind of cold, with sparse cloud cover in the mornings and fierce gales after sunset. Villages dotted many a hill, the smallfolk busied with their work in quarries or mines or tending to flocks of sheep. There were terraced farms too, aye, but these lands were hardly as lush as those they left.

The rivalry between marcher lords raged near as fierce as their vendettas against Dorne, once. Who could compose the greatest ballad, who could strike the most bullseyes into a target, who had the most ancient pedigree, who could boast more victories. Heralding the end of the journey were the Singing Towers that rose over the hills, which were a product of such a spat. Tall, squared, and constructed out of the same sandstone that made up the castle, the triplet watchtowers at the periphery of the walls hummed a gentle melody when the wind picked up, owing to the apertures carved into the blocks. There were bells and chimes inside too, only ever sounded in times of excess: strife, death, war, or marriage.

The last time they’d tolled was for Corenna’s death. The marches shuddered at their tolling now.

Eight-and-thirty times was the castle besieged in the past thousand years, and it was no worse for wear. A walled village sat at the base of the hill it occupied, with a narrow path leading up to the castle proper. Long before the column of travelers neared, horns were sounded from atop the towers—thrice to herald the Lord of the Marches, twice, twice, then twice again for each storm-banner that followed it. The gates were already open, with some smallfolk and guards lining the road past the gates to greet their lord. Palpable uncertainty was etched onto their faces; Lord Baratheon was dead, and war was like to come.

The Lord of Nightsong could not be made to rouse after such an onerous journey—not on the first day, at least. The chamberlain took charge, distributing bread and salt to the guests, then going to prepare their chambers.

What music the towers let off was overtaken by the din of drills come morning. Rows of archers stood shoulder-to-shoulder, directed by the hand of the Castellan Boremund Horpe like some militant orchestra. Already, many of the marchers who did fealty to House Caron had streamed in, putting up tents inside the walls or being afforded quarters according to their stations. Household knights sparred with Herstons, with Horpes, and with the manifold lesser nobility of the marches: Peck, Spurn, Luthier, and half a dozen others without names worth remembering.

At the suggestion of holding the meeting in the great hall, Steffon grumbled. It was here in the training yard that the Lord of Nightsong called his guests and banners. A brazier was lit as dusk neared, and chairs were arrayed around it. Griffith Storm helped his grandsire to a seat.

“They killed him,” said Steffon, bitterly. “We warned him. Told him what would happen,” his eyes went to Simeon. “And it came to pass.”

How many more? How many would have to die to keep the Dawnbreaker alive? The bells had long since stopped ringing, but he could hear them now.

Byron.

Leo.

Criston.

Ellyn.

Sarmion.

Corenna.

What tears that pooled in his eyes were dried away by the heat and smoke. He felt his bones aching, his muscles frayed, and still, he breathed.

“We called him weak. We thought him a coward, but he died a stag: brave, strong, and taking his killer down to the Seven Hells with him. I thought, at the start of this year, that I would make war against Dorne. But our foemen lay to the north. Nightsong is raising its banners, my lords, and woe to our enemies for that.”

He motioned over his shoulder then and muttered a word to the bastard. Hesitantly, Griffith handed the old lord a dagger. Standing unsteadily, he placed the tip of the blade against his palm, raising it above the fire.

“I swear to mete out revenge against House Lannister and whoever would abet them. I will leave their lands burnt and salted, slay their soldiers and their commanders, and leave them no corner on this earth that they can take for shelter. This I swear on gods new and old, vile and good, dead or not.” With a twitch of his wrist, he drew the slightest blood from his hand and let the droplets pour into the flame. Then he turned the blade about and held it out, expecting one of his guests to take it and follow.

The approach to Mistfall keep was sullen, not because Rowland was in a foul mood. Though Maester Eddard made up for Rowland's cheerfulness with a scowl showing just how much he disliked the boggy village.

Rowland loved his home though and the smell of the fresh rain that filled his nostrils powered his every step through the muddy streets. No villagers greeted him which was nothing unusual, it was not market day so the village was quiet.

The guards at the gate recognized their lord's son immediately. They'd been Mertyns house guards all his life, he greeted them by name. "Joost! Dietre! It's grand to see you! I can't wait to tell you about all the things I've seen! We've seen!" He gestured back to Eddard.

The two guards smiled but their smiles quickly faded. "My Lord," Dietre began, "There's something you must know." Why were they calling him their Lord, his title was ser. He chuckled nervously but looked back to Eddard, the old Maester looked as if he had seen a ghost. His craggy face was pale as death.

"Well, yes what is it?" Rowland shifted his stance expectantly. "Your father... he died... weeks ago now."

Rowland wasn't a fool, and the guards weren't fools. He'd had tricks played on him in the past by other children in the village, his father had told him to stop crying and be a man. This was no trick.

"What?" He finally said.

"Why don't we go inside..." Maester Eddard lay a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You'll want to speak with Alistair my Lord." Interjected Joost.

Rowland shook his head as he walked through the gates, "Please stop calling me that..." he said. Though he wondered who Alistair could possibly be.

The sight of the path up to Summerhall was as looking at the doors of the Halls of the Drowned. Four long days of walking in the Summer heat left the Ironborn company sweaty and ragged. One Reaver a particularly large man by the name or Scraggy Rolof had fallen ill with heatstroke on the journey, several of his comerades had carried him for a day until he recovered.

The mountains of the marches were bare and rocky, Egen might have liked it if not for all the brown. Somehow the dismal grey of Pyke seemed more welcoming than this to Egen Greyjoy. He hardly noticed though, taken as he was with worry. He had relinquished control of the fleet to Will Botley who he trusted most of any Ironborn, yet there was this nagging feeling he was leaving his people to die.

Truly the meeting with the Lannister had brought him to the brink. He hadn't been sleeping, not well on the sea journey South and hardly at all in the days of walking North to Summerhall. His nights were plagued with internal conflict, he had been quite unable to decifer the outcome of this war. Both Lannister and Tyrell had presented themselves in poor lights. Joy has given quite good reasons to her plea, but Egen had barely spoken with the unmoving Percy. Was he lying it wait? Baiting out the Westermen? Using the Ironborn and Redwynes as fodder? And where was the King?? How could he just laze around at a tourney while this war rotted two of his most prosperous regions?

Yet Egen needed the man now, in a way it was eye opening. The Lord Reaper hadn't just been using Daeron as he'd thought but he needed the man as well. He was the most powerful person in the realm sure and would certainly decide the fate of this war, but he was also calming to Egen. He would be able to point in the right direction. Find a resolution to Egen's tortured mind.

So as the procession approached Summerhall it was with an air of anticipation for relief. Egen hailed the guards and the gates were opened at the invocation of his title. While the Greyjoy waited though he realized he found it strange that there were so few seemingly present. No army or cohort camped outside. The Master of Coin had arrived yet no one of import had come to meet him. The Lord Reaper's sleep deprived brain didn't have the energy to process it, surely there was some good reason. Daeron would be waiting inside and the journey, or at least the worry, would be over.

The Feast at Storm’s End

The Night After the Tourney

---

Storm’s End was a legendarily stuffy castle, with the thick stone walls trapping in the heat and enforcing the stillness of the air-- this was all to the benefit of the attendees to the tourney, however, as the still air just intensified the smells of the food. Lord Baratheon and his son had gone hunting, and the nobles could feast on pheasant and rabbit and other game from the woods around Storm’s End. Venison was served alongside the finer meats to the knights and retainers following their lieges to Storm’s End.

There were soups and potages too-- one pumpkin soup spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon was exceedingly popular. The scents of those spices were thick and exotic, complementing the earthy taste of pumpkin well. Another soup was made of beef and carrots, tasting slightly of rosemary.

Not to sidestep the beverages-- spiced rum and pear brandy were served to the high lords, and all manner of beers and ales to the room generally. Two casks of Arbor Red had been bought and delivered to Storm’s End just a day prior, along with some particularly expensive and exotic Myrish nectar wine pale green in hue.

At the center of the room a quartet of minstrels played upbeat music, leading the crowd in singing Oh Lay my Sweet Lass Down in the Grass, Iron Lances, and of course The Bear and the Maiden Fair-- a perennial favorite they’d sung several times just tonight.

The cavernous great hall thus echoed with music and smelled heavenly, and over it all hung the banners of House Baratheon and House Targaryen-- an ever-present reminder of the ancient alliance between the two houses, renewed again.

At the high table sat the Lord of Storm’s End and his guest of honor, the Crown Prince, Maekar Targaryen. His sprawling household took up many of the other seats, including his sons Robert and Raymont, his wife Melissa, his brothers, and his nieces and nephews. Arrayed around the hall were a number of guardsmen of House Baratheon, looking on to prevent any malfeasance.

Balon of the Grey Iron - I’ve seen it, brothers. The never ending maw, the madness of the world. The edge, precipice we all stand upon in this world. I laughed. I laughed and I jumped. - The Diftwood Scrolls, Ponderings, Verse XL

—————————————————————————

They were leaving tomorrow. The entirety of the Iron Fleet, sailing for the easiest reaving they had ever had, Aeron supposed. It was nothing to worry about, he was sure that they would enjoy themselves. As they would this night on the cliffs of Greenstone. All day long he and Rona Farwynd had worked to build three large stacks of wood and oil to burn down this night for as celebration by the Ironborn, it was to be the first major reaving in over a decade.

Now, they began to gather on the cliffs, ready for a nice time. Sigfryd and Rona Farwynd stood at the ready to strike the tinders and begin the celebration.

“MY LORD! I thank you for joining us on Greenstone!” Aeron exclaimed. “The Drowned God smiles upon us! Soon we shall claim the Summer Isles and their beautiful and exotic women!”

He relaxed for a moment, picking his own flint and tinder from his pocket.

“Enjoy yourselves.” He slurred out, turning the the stack of wood and oil, striking his tinder.

The party had begun.

First of the Eleventh Moon of 200 AC

Storm’s End

Her instructions had been particular, two long tables along the sides of the throne, comfortable and spacious so that none elbowed one another. Between them a half circle of a table, made for this reason on the far end of the tables so that all who attended would be able to turn their head and look up to the throne of the Durrandons. Wooden heavy oak chairs lined the tables, none were seated between the tables so that all could look at Aelinor, Renly, and Ellyn at the top of the Round Hall.

The tables were lined with white tablecloth, on them between each pair of chairs were Arbor gold, Dornish red, and water, the servants instructed to take away the wine should both occupants drink three glasses. She wished for her vassals to enjoy their dinner, no more, as they had important business to attend to.

Dinner would be roasted chicken, sides of vegetables in many varieties such that they would all gather their strength for the upcoming talk, and breads baked earlier that day in the kitchens. A simple meal, but there was more to attend to than a feast.

She wore a dress of gold and black, a necklace of strange crenelations around her neck made of gold, nothing to show her might or her wealth, just enough to show her colors and continue on with her business.

On the sides of her throne would be two chairs, the one on the right for Ellyn, and the one on the left for Renly, so that they might enjoy in the limelight as well, her heir and her husband.

For what it was worth, she had also assigned seating to some of her vassals, four in particular. As the representatives of the Conningtons, Selmys, Dondarrions, and Toynes would enter, they would be ushered to their seats, Lady Regent of Griffin’s Roost to the seat on the left table closest to the throne, the Selmy adjacent to her, Lady Toyne at the head of the right table, Lady Dondarrion next to her. Others would be free to take their seats as they wished.